#folk my beloved <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[littlehenrikehd]

Det är samma energi som ett skolavslutnings uppträdande, men den är jävligt mysig ändå <3

[nvr-pass]

i love that they invented folk music

[iooiu]

playing around with future donnie’s design and all i can say for sure is this:

1) lose an arm gain three

2) dies

[danishphoner]

first thing that the announcement of an oasis reunion made me think was the possibility of an updated version of “miles and alex all over each other rocking out to ‘supersonic’”

[sophsun1]

Queer as Folk – 5.02: Back in Business

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

✨ Jude Duarte ✨

[romance-rambles]

modern* cael | a guide to handling your girlfriend's amnesia

Whilst attempting to recover your memories of your father, you end up losing your memories of the past few years instead—including the part about how you're on your way to be the future Mrs. Anselm.

8.1k, mostly fluff + slight angst + some suggestive stuff, flashbacks + amnesia, takes place sometime after hot springs event, reader is mc, series: none

"WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF I lost my memories?"

A question, innocently asked. Cael thinks nothing of it at the time—thinks nothing at all, actually. The sky is blue, the grass is green, you love him, and he loves you. Therefore, there's only room for one answer, the same one as yours.

"I'd help you get them back," he says. Gently. Patiently. Though you seem to have come to terms with the fact that the amnesiac Cael you saw was your own doing, the experience seems to have to left you clingier than normal. "I'd tell you about all that we've seen and done together. The good, the bad, and—"

Even in the darkened room, he thinks he can see you grin.

"And the weird?"

He chuckles softly. "It sounds like you have ideas."

You start exactly where he expects you to, with the man who was once Darya's lover. An orb-shaped third wheel that gave relationship advice—and pestered Cael every chance he got. When it came time to part ways with him, you were rather sad.

As if, to you, Darya's lover was no different from a friend you made on one of your own journeys.

Next on the list is the time they both spent in White City, as beautiful as it was when it stood tall and proud. But rather than the cleansing ritual that demanded all travelers leave their negative emotions behind, or Darya coming to destroy the city, having lost her mind after the loss of her lover, what sticks out to you is—

"And you were so young! And this tall." you exclaim, gesturing in the dark. A dreamy sign gives way to a fit of giggles. "You were so cute."

Trying to fight back a smile in your presence is a fool's endeavor. It spread across his face anyways, warm and fond—and though you likely can't see it either, he feels as if you simply know. You snuggle closer and hum in satisfaction.

"I see," he says, amusement dripping from every syllable. "So, in your eyes, I'm no longer cute."

A muffled protest escapes your lips, though undoubtedly half-hearted. From your voice alone, he can tell you're pouting, happily unhappy—an oxymoron, if he's ever heard one—that he's derailed the conversation.

"You're always cute," you murmur, and he takes his victory with a faint laugh.

MEMORIES ARE A FICKLE THING, fragile yet everlasting—it takes great skill to painstakingly manipulate every element of someone's past to offer them a coherent illusion. To this day, Cael isn't sure how his senior managed to wipe your memory so thoroughly that no traces of your father remain. Even he, arguably an equally skilled prefect, cannot manage such a feat.

And yet, here he is, against his better judgement, fiddling around with your memories in hopes that he can undo Prefect Crimson's finest work.

Fitting for such an endeavor, a pile of notebooks containing information he compiled on the subject sits nearby, on the floor beside your bed. The pillow cushioning his knees, though unnecessary, deflates as he stands up, wiping the sweat of his forehead awkwardly. You insisted upon it, though he's half-certain you were teasing him for his age, and he found he couldn't deny you in that moment.

The thing is, one hand rests on top of your forehead, though the ritual has long since concluded. The other hand holds onto yours, having never given up your warmth for even a moment. Even when he felt his ponytail loosen, he merely gritted his teeth and soldiered on.

As he watches your peaceful form, he can't help but sigh.

When you brought up the possibility of re-tampering with your memories, he'd been hesitant. You did not remember the times your heart could not forget Godheim, but he did. And from then on, he simply had no reason to mess around like that.

All this to say, he, Prefect Silver of the Thousand Empires, is afraid of messing up—not for the first time, in these past few months.

"Cael…?" A groan—and the faint squeeze of your hand—draws him out of his thoughts. You blink blearily, your free hand coming to rest on your forehead as well. "What…"

"That's right," he says, squeezing your hand back, "How are you feeling?"

"My head…" You complain. "Where exactly did I fall from?"

Almost immediately, you attempt to sit up. Cael presses down on your forehead gently, quietly reminding you to rest for a bit longer. You comply, without complaint, though a frown tugs faintly at your lips. In his heart, he harbors no doubt on whether you consider him fussy; still, he accepts your silence gratefully.

"Cael—" After a few minutes have passed, you call his name again. "—where are we? This doesn't look like my room. It doesn't seem like a hotel either."

And with that, his heart drops.

If you aren't pulling his leg, it means something definitely went wrong. The fact that you remember him at all is a good sign. That narrows the amount of explaining he'd need to do by a lot. There's also the simple fact that he's not sure he'd be able to keep a straight face if you forgot him.

"What's the last thing you remember doing?" he asks.

You frown, watching him as though he's the one who's lost his mind. "We were about to go to France for the summer. For Van Gogh, remember?"

"What year do you think it is?"

"2022…?" This time, you actually do sit up, your hand removing his own before he can make a move. It goes back to where it sat on your forehead, your grimace saying much about the state of you. "Did something happen? You look…pale."

Cael bites back a grimace.

"I'm fine," he says reassuringly. "I simply…wasn't expecting that answer."

Raising one eyebrow at him, you joke, "How hard did I hit my head? What is it, 2035?"

Somehow, it manages to pull a weak smile out of him.

YOU'RE STILL A GIGGLY MESS, by the time you let him go.

And if someone is to assume that phrase implies that his limbs are no longer bound, they would be incorrect. Though his hands are now free, you waste no time in throwing your legs over and in between his own. He thinks he should snap a photo of this moment, for the next time you complain that Beanie feels more like his cat than yours.

Like owner, like pet seems to ring true in this situation.

"You know—" The words come out with a gasp, a brief prelude of silence before you devolve into another fit of giggles. You're laying on your back, and the start of your next sentence is marked by the sound of your hand hitting the mattress. "—I think the first thing you should do is tell me that we're dating."

He quirks an eyebrow, well aware of your motives. And though you can't see his expression, he knows you've read him correctly when you shift your head onto his shoulder. Your hair is soft, and tonight, it smells the same as his own.

These days, he can understand your shy mood during hotel stays when the two of them would use the amenities offered, instead of bringing their own.

"After all, I used to write Mrs. Anselm on the margins of my notebooks."

Cael snorts, shifting his arm to accommodate the way your hands insist on wrapping around it. "And now you scribble it every else."

And he does mean that.

He's seen his last name traced on napkins at a restaurant and on the base panel of your laptop. On the fabric of your tights underneath a table—and on the smooth pages of your textbook during class. Your phone case is not immune to the treatment either, and by now, half the student body must be convinced you're in a tragic love that will never be reciprocated.

"Well, it's not like we can let anyone know!"

The vision of you, with your lips pulled into an angry pout and your cheeks puffed, comes to him easily. It becomes the catalyst for his laughter, soft and gentle—enough to disarm you completely. Yet, by then, you've already pinched the inside of his arm.

You rub at the spot gently, as though a pinch from you has ever left him wounded.

"In a few years," Cael promises.

CONTRARY TO YOUR WISHES, CAEL does not start with the part about their relationship.

Understandably, you have questions, and many of them center around your college of choice. From the day you learned of his workplace, St. Shelter Academia became the school of your dreams—you were hardly subtle about it, and perhaps you never intended to be.

For the you facing him now, the thought of them going their separate ways may as well have be a nightmare. One carefully concocted to attack your worst fears, head on. So, Cael softens his tongue the best he can, hovering somewhere between the man he is now and the man he once used to be, and you look at him as if he hung the stars and the moon.

And in the middle of his detailed explanations, which he suspects you've half-tuned out, you notice something tucked away in your desk drawer.

You've been fluttering around the room in a daze for a while now, thoroughly enraptured by the design sense of your future self. It was only going to be a matter of time before the topic began shifting towards Godheim—and all that entails.

"What is this?" you ask, flipping through the pages of volume three of your manga. The curiosity in your eyes dims the more you make sense of its pages, until you look upon your creation with dread. "Is this…my manga? Why is the heroine with the emperor?"

Cael is sitting on the edge of your bed, his legs crossed neatly at the ankles. He lets you run through your thoughts out loud. Some of them are borderline conspiracy theories, and others make his smile falter, though not enough for you to be able to see his grimace.

His favorite one, in a dark humor sort of way, is mind control.

You—the one from 2025—would find it quite funny.

"No to all of those," he cuts you off.

You've been pacing around the room, with your hands in your dark hair. They form little pigtails, the kind you always complain you can never get right. He worries for your hair. For you, and the headache you'll have later.

"Quite a bit has happened in between," Cael says calmly, as the memories of that time flood his mind. What he remembers most is that meteor shower, the moment when the cracks seemed to begin repairing themselves. "There was a period of time when you and I did not speak to each other."

You bite your lip.

"But we're fine now." There is no question in your words. Only a statement, spoken in a distressed tone. And the answer you seek is a resounding yes. "Or you wouldn't be here."

As if sensing his owner's emotions from downstairs—or perhaps Beanie is simply tired of being excluding—a meow sounds from outside the door. A question, and the sound of his paws scratching at the door.

Let me in, a voice that sounds remarkably like your rendition of the cat's human voice yowls in his ear.

"Is that…a cat?" you ask. Your earlier worries seem to have disappeared, replaced with pure, unadulterated excitement at having a furball of your own. "Do I get a cat?"

With an exasperated sigh, he opens the door for Beanie.

The spoiled cat walks in, rubbing his chubby cheeks against Cael's leg. To him, the scene feels not unlike the first time you met Beanie. You crouch down beside the cat, eyes sparkling in delight. This time, Beanie does not spurn you.

Instead, he merely looks at you curiously, as if he can sense that you aren't quite the same human who feeds him every day.

"Hi kitty," you whisper, your hand hovering in the air, above his fur.

"This is Beanie." As he introduces to you the second love of your life, Cael mimics your sitting position and smooths over Beanie's fur. "He's yours."

FOR A FEW MINUTES, THERE is silence.

Then, the discussion begins once more. The subject, this time, is Beanie. A long-running joke in their relationship is that Cael happens to be the favorite parent—and you are simply someone who feeds Beanie every so often, with startling regularity.

Every time you bring it up, he becomes more and more convinced that it's perhaps rooted in an actual insecurity. Like now.

"Do you think Beanie will still like me?" you ask, a yawn interrupting you halfway.

Cael suppresses his instinct to mother you in favor of answering your question. Telling you to go to sleep has never actually worked—he's not so much of an idiot that he can't figure out why you're always tired in the morning, even when he's not staying over.

"I don't see why not," he says sincerely, remembering how despondent the little guy was when you were in the infirmary for three days—all thanks to Cael's most obnoxious colleague. "He adores you."

"Mhm, I know." Your voice is soft. He thinks you might be thinking of the same thing, or the other times you returned from your long journeys. "I won't make him worry."

The silence that follows tricks Cael into thinking this is the end, once again.

But you still have more to say, and he wonders how much of your own worries have yet to be revealed. You must've worried about how to break the news to Beanie—that perhaps Cael wouldn't be in his life in the same way as before.

"I won't make you worry either," you promise.

His gaze softens. "I know."

WHEN YOU REPEAT HIS WORDS back at him, it becomes easy to see why you're skeptical of the truths he's revealed to you. The first time around, when he informed you of your mother, you had already witnessed the depths of his cruelty and learned of his mission. Your travels through Godheim—through its past and its future—also lent him much credibility.

Right now, Godheim is simply the nameless otherworld of your manga. And its trio of protagonists—the maiden, the emperor, and the knight—exist only in its pages, as a mimicry of the love triangle that actually existed.

Or, from the perspective of someone stuck in 2022, the love triangle that will one day exist.

"So, you're actually an alien," you repeat slowly, as though it may make him reconsider his words. It's the same tone he used on you when you mixed up the laundry detergent with dish soap. "I'm also an alien, but only half. And I tried to stop you from destroying the world?"

Unfortunately, as he happens to be very correct, it does nothing to hinder him. Rather, he feels a childish part of him that once went dormant with the fall of White City quietly urge him to be, in your words, a smartass.

"A world," he corrects.

You shoot him a withering glare before proceeding to match—and perhaps exceed—his energy. "Right. A world. The world of my manga, which I wrote."

Cael nods thoughtfully, ignoring the way your glare transforms into the most incredulous of expressions. "That sounds right."

"I'm starting to wonder if you're the one who hit your head."

"LET'S SAY THIS DOES HAPPEN, and you do lose your memories," Cael says, pressing his lips into a thin line. "Would you believe me if I told you about what transpired in Godheim?"

You've wrapped yourself around half of him like an octopus, in such a way that the only comfortable place to put his other arm is over you. The digital alarm clock to his right reads 1:00 AM, but the only symptom that can be attributed to your sleepiness alone is your vaguely nonsensical declarations.

Like the one you shoot off in response to his question, one paired with a snort and, he imagines, a roll of your eyes.

"If I can land you as my boyfriend—" Taking a moment to nuzzle into his shoulder, you pause. "—aliens kind of seem…more realistic, don't they?"

Raising an eyebrow, he parrots your words back at you, in a tone that makes it plainly obvious what he thinks. "Aliens. More realistic?"

To the average human living on Earth, aliens are fantastical creatures of all shapes and sizes—some with, and some without, the intelligence they themselves possess. The most common are colored green, with a penchant for shapeshifting. And if not, then it means they usually do not possess a humanoid body.

Cael, as someone who might be considered an alien himself, would argue that you getting a boyfriend is a far more realistic option for a girl who knows nothing of travelers and prefects—and the empire they belong to.

"Trust me on this one," you say, your voice half-muffled. "It might come in handy one day."

He thinks of his own devastation in Godheim, when the timeline would renew, leaving only the memories of a past that no longer existed in his mind alone. That must be the closest to what you felt when the Cael of your own creation could not recognize you. If he never witnesses such a thing again, it might still be soon.

"I hope not," he mutters.

You laugh. "Me too."

There's a joke at his expense waiting to be made. And you're hardly one to disappoint. Your voice pitches higher, taking on a distinct quality that can only be described as baby talk. You let go of his arm and lay your head down on your hand, propped up by your elbow.

"Can you imagine forgetting about the cutest—"

The positions flip.

As he pins you in place, you giggle, unaffected by the implied threat. It takes kissing you—on the lips, on the cheeks, on your eyelids, and anywhere else he can find—to get you to abandon your train of thought, but even so, his hard-won peace is only temporary.

The moment you pause to catch your breath, undoubtedly smiling up at him with a mischievous grin, is the moment it goes away.

"Sometimes, he even gets jealous of himself."

AFTER FORCEFULLY CHECKING FOR ANY bumps on his head and finding nothing at all, you observe him suspiciously. Beanie has already left by now, having realized that there's nothing of importance for him in the room. It's just the two of them, and whatever dialogue that must be going on in your mind right about now.

At some point, the two of them had swapped positions. You sit on the edge of the bed now, and Cael stands nearby, one hand in his pocket. Every so often, you remember to kick your legs in the air aimlessly.

In this way. an eternity seems to pass.

Cael waits for your verdict with all the eagerness of a man heading out to the battlefield, one wrong move away from losing a limb. He's taken back to the months when the two of them were only cordial, hardly as close as they once were—and definitely not as close as they are now.

Finally, you seem to reach a consensus with yourself.

"What else?" you ask, with a sigh. "I've never known you to pull my leg. Any other riveting stories you have for me?"

By his calculations, the next time that he can fix his mistakes will be a week from now. The cooldown has nothing to do with any energy exerted on his part, but rather, what your body is able to handle. In theory, the procedure itself should be a quick fix.

And, well, he did promise you he would tell you about your relationship status, if you ever happened to forget.

"You have a boyfriend," he says carefully, keeping a close eye on your expression.

"Oh," you say, sounding disappointed. He wonders about your reaction to his next words—if you'll perk up like a dying flower exposed to magic. "That's nice. I'm sure he's nice."

"It's me," he adds.

The current expression on your face speaks much about the state of your mind. You blink rather forcefully, and your tense smile seems to be permanently frozen onto your lips.

"…It's not nice to pull someone's leg like that, Cael," you chide him. "Aliens, I can believe—"

He quirks an eyebrow. "You can believe aliens?"

"But this is—" Sputtering, you begin to gesture wildly in the air. "Is this April Fools' day?"

Your words from before echo in his head. Aliens kind of seem…more realistic, don't they? To think you would be right about that—Cael watches the current you comb through your hair and wonders, not for the first time, about your priorities.

By now, you've started searching for your phone. It occurs to him that perhaps you weren't joking when you asked him that. But, by the time he opens his mouth, you've already learned that it's actually March right now.

"It is not," you mutter, sounding shocked. You don't even seem to have the strength to point any more. "You—we—we're dating."

"That's right," he says gently. "If you're curious, I—"

"Prove it." You cut him off, all of a sudden, your words carrying an intensity he doesn't often see. "If we're dating…then you've probably kissed me before, right?"

"HAVE I EVER TOLD YOU that you're a good kisser?"

"A few times," Cael says, sounding faintly amused. "What brought this on?"

You have your arms wrapped loosely around his neck. From where his hand rests just below your shoulder, he can feel your chest rise and fall. Every so often, a small exhale escapes your lips, when you remember that holding most of your breath in is bad for you.

You shrug. "I was just thinking, if lost my memories, I wouldn't know you were a good kisser."

He waits for you to continue your train of thought. But you offer him nothing more in regards to your stray thought—instead, you're oddly silent. Still, he knows better than to assume the discussion's end.

Burying his face in the nape of your neck, he waits.

"I think—" Your hands assume a more comfortable position on his back. "—that might be the first thing I check."

Cael raises an eyebrow. "And nothing else?"

It's said that a person's personality is often tied to their memories. So, upon losing their memories, it's entirely possible for them to act like a different person. Assuming the premise of the situation you've put forth involves you entirely forgetting him, he can't help but doubt the validity of your claim.

If you retain your memories of him, however—that may be a different story.

"You can be the responsible one." As you giggle, your hands curl into fists. And as you begin to count, you put down a finger for each number. "One kiss. Maybe two."

"I can't imagine that an amnesiac faced with a man claiming to be her boyfriend would be so quick to jump into my arms," he says dryly.

You hum one of the love songs that have been playing everywhere recently. It's your politest way of telling him that he may be correct, but he is also very wrong. On his back, your thumbs and index fingers form the shape of a heart, after a few clumsy attempts at drawing one instead.

"Why not?" you say finally. "As I recall, someone else we know seemed to really like me."

Cael can point out that it was his adult self, with his adult self's feelings, all he wants. The truth is, he isn't really sure if that's the case. It's evident that there's much he doesn't know about his life before the Empire—and then there's the complicated matter of you traveling back in time to meet him.

If the day comes where it turns out his younger self was somehow involved with you, Cael doesn't think he'd be surprised.

"I think I'd really like you too," you murmur. "If there's such a thing as soulmates, I'd like to think that's us."

LUNCHTIME SEES HIM IN THE kitchen, his hair still tied up and an apron tied at his waist.

Yesterday, you said you would want something unhealthy and easy to cook. Something greasy and fried, so thoroughly awful for your body that it would help you cope with what you'd lost. So, he bought a frozen pack of fried chicken and french fries—and he decided against getting buns, just to keep things simple.

He's in the middle of frying the first batch of chicken—having gotten himself out of the previous situation by half-jokingly instituting a one kiss per day limit—when you poke your head into the kitchen.

"So…boyfriend." You step out from behind the wall. "Can I help in the kitchen?"

The gleam in your eyes only promises disaster upon him. It's almost as if you never lost your memory at all. Muscle memory prompts you to tie your hands behind your back and lean forward, the very picture of innocence—in a few minutes, he suspects your arms will be wrapped around his waist.

Your definition of helping tends to be loose at times, but you've spent enough time in the kitchen that he feels comfortable assigning you to the chopping station.

It is then he remembers once more that this simple moment of domesticity is all too new to you.

There's a smile on your face, giddy and uncontrollable. Ordinarily, you'd feign a pout. Insist there are other ways you can help—ones that involve holding his hand, leaving you to grab whatever is he can't at the moment.

His lips thin into a straight line, a compromise to the frown that wants to come out instead.

You don't notice. You're already reaching for your designated apron. Once you've tied it around yourself, you flash him a bright grin, and he can hear your thoughts—the very same words you said the first time you wore it.

We match.

A week, he reminds himself.

Soon, lunch is fried. The unhealthy aroma of frozen fast food wafts through the first floor of your house, and he suspects the same is true for half of the second floor. He did make sure to close all the doors in the house so the rooms, he figures, should be fine.

And as he's setting up the table, you seat yourself in your chair and stare. More of that muscle memory, Cael thinks. He's used to being stared at—you've never hidden your thoughts on his beauty.

And yet, somehow, a simple compliment leaves him at a loss.

"Have I ever told you," you whisper, as he walks away to grab something, "that you look beautiful with your hair tied up?"

There's a lump in his throat. It stops him from offering you a snarky Often. So, he smiles faintly at you and hopes you don't notice what it's meant to hide.

EVEN WITH GREASY FAST FOOD in front of you, you can't seem to take your eyes off of him.

There's something almost reverent about the way you watch him. It takes him back to a time when you knew nothing—and believed wholeheartedly that Cael would always be there, no matter what.

Enough time has passed that the knowledge of how the next week will play out has begun to settle in. Part of it still feels like a dream, as though he might wake up and you'll chase the faint ache in his heart away with a steady stream of kisses.

When he vowed to be his most authentic self in front of you, you had already seen the worst he had to offer. The only place to climb, at that point, was to climb up.

In the present, Cael isn't sure how much of the world-destroying alien part of his explanation has stuck.

"Cael," you speak up suddenly, setting down a half-eaten piece of chicken down on your plate. "Are you really my boyfriend?"

Upon finishing up the piece in his own hand, he asks faintly, "Is it that hard to believe?"

You snort. "You've seen yourself in the mirror, right?"

At the end of the day, you are his girlfriend. It isn't so much of a surprise that the you in front of him and the you locked away in your memories are so painfully alike. Even down to the way your gaze changes, a hint of incredulousness swimming in your purple eyes.

He regrets not asking what he should do if you remember him—just not as your boyfriend. It should be fine to treat you normally, right? You've only lost your memories, and nothing else.

And in the event that he can't get your memories back, it might be a good idea to start getting used to this.

"You're beautiful," Cael offers, his longing evident in every syllable of his confession.

Scarlet blooms across your cheeks. Suddenly, you're a bit shy, tucking a strand of dark hair behind your ear. For a moment, normalcy seems to return to the household.

Coughing politely, you mumble, "I wasn't fishing for a compliment."

The thanks that follows your words comes out as a whisper, almost imperceptible, if not for the fact that he knows you so well. He feels himself relax a bit as he bite into a singular fry.

He's not giving you enough credit—you've already proven you're willing to love his flawed self. More than that, you seem to take an immense amount of glee in finding out that he is, in fact, not perfect. Even now.

And then, you open your mouth, and it's enough to startle him into forgetting what it is he was worried about.

"Does that mean I get an extra kiss?" you ask eagerly, your earlier shyness having vanished in only a moment.

Almost automatically, in a bland tone, he answers, "Ask me tomorrow."

"Okay!" you reply cheerfully, as if you didn't believe, for a moment, he'd say yes.

WHEN NIGHT FALLS UPON HARP island, and you begin to yawn, it becomes increasingly obvious that they must discuss living arrangements. And the opportunity comes when you rest your head on his shoulder and close your eyes.

For most of the day, he helps you familiarize yourself with your current friends and acquaintances—and lets you mourn the loss of your old ones. And then, there's the matter of your tstudies. You deliberately chose a weekend after your midterms, when your load would be the lightest.

But you need to know where your classes and what they're for, with only a day in between today and Monday.

Needless to say, you're incredibly spent.

If the expression on your face is not enough to sell it, the way you cling to him does.

Affection has always come easy to you. And when your walls are at their lowest, it comes pouring out of you, aimed at the nearest you hold any ounce of affection for. When Cael first properly entered your life, he deduced that allowing such a thing would increase your trust for him.

So, for you, his only boundary was meant to ward off any romantic pursuit.

It worked spectacularly—that is to say, not at all.

"Cael…" you mumble. "I'm sleepy. Can we stop?"

The clock reads 11 PM. Though you act differently, he's aware that this is perhaps the earliest you'll be sleeping in a while. Holding back a sigh, he turns off his laptop, then turns to you.

"You've had a long day," he says, finally, his tone gentle.

"Mhm, can you carry me up? And…" You yawn, cutting off his exasperated response. "Can you stay?"

Cael wonders what might be going through your mind right now. Without his deduction abilities, he feels oddly vulnerable—a notion he hasn't related to in months.

"Alright. It might be good for you to have someone familiar with you tonight," he says, painfully aware of how much he misses his own version of you. "I'll sleep on the couch. So, come get me if you need anything."

"No…" The noise you make vaguely resembles a whine. You wrap your arms around his neck, hands grasping at the fabric of his collar. "Stay. A little longer…"

He can only smile weakly. "Just for a little bit."

"Mhm…I'm not gonna—" A yawn cuts off your words. "Don't wanna wake up."

In the end, Cael must concede to you and your vice grip.

When he sets you on the bed, you cling to his shirt and refuse to let go. You've done this before a few times, mostly after you began dating him—and he, a Prefect of the Thousand Empires who could easily remove himself from your grasp, has never had the heart to escape.

In the week that follows, all his nights happen to follow a similar pattern.

HERE ARE THE FACTS: CAEL goes to sleep with one girlfriend and one cat. He wakes up with one of them laying on top of him. Given their distinctly human-shaped form, it is definitely not the cat. In addition, he locked Beanie out, in case it could be overwhelming to wake up to that.

Therefore, Cael's girlfriend is, for some reason, laying on top of him, their legs tangled together and her intense gaze boring holes into him.

"Good morning." You've stacked your hands on top of each other—and on top of him—which is the base upon which you rest your chin. "…boyfriend."

Bleary violet eyes blink up at the woman trapping their owner in place. Cael's arms, however, are the only part of him that can freely move. And move they do, of their own volition, gingerly wrapping around your waist as they do every morning.

"Good morning," he croaks out, vaguely aware of the troubles awaiting him for the next week. Liore will almost certainly know that something is wrong with you, as will the paragons. That, however, is for future him to worry about. "Go back to sleep."

You ignore him, and the very clear message his closed eyes send. Poking his cheek, you tell him, "Let's go on a date."

Cael cracks one eye open. "Right now?"

"I have to get used to things at St. Shelter, don't I?" Your eyes are sparkling. They're beautiful, like amethysts in the sun. You're beautiful. He wants to sleep. "You're the only one who can help."

He has to be responsible.

With a sigh, he opens his eyes. "I'll make breakfast. Give me a minute."

The world immediately goes dark. Cael is, of course, aware of the dangers of leaving you unattended when you're brimming with energy. Tiredly, he drops a kiss on your forehead and tightens his grasp on you.

Not another word escapes you for the next hour.

THE CUP OF COFFEE IN HIS hand is still warm, by the time the two of them find a bench to settle down on. To call the whole experience a date, in Cael's opinion, is pushing it—interrogation is, perhaps, the better word for it.

For example, on the way to the park, you asked him about how he slept in today.

In your memories, he wakes up as the sun rises, and he's at your house before you even wake up. You once told him that you sometimes pretended he stayed the night. That if you came down at 3 AM, you would find him snoozing on the couch.

You never did, because he never stayed.

In some ways, at that time, you were a nine-to-five and he wasn't keen on working overtime. And when it did become appealing, he justified his distance with the impending goodbye. Wendy would soon no longer need Peter Pan.

Another thing you seemed to be curious about was his suddenly snarky personality. He was still the same gentle Cael you remembered, but different. Even now, as Cael analyzes your words, it seems clear you didn't mean different in a bad way.

Just different.

"So, what else do we usually do on a date?" Although your coffee is already on the cooler side, you still blow air into the cup. "Lunch?"

"Sometimes," he says. "Maybe a movie that's playing right now."

You hum. He wonders if you're remembering the time you tried to scare him by taking him—or, more accurately, begging him to take you—to a horror movie. What happened instead was that Cael had to check the backyard for any serial killers and groggily comfort you at 4 AM via the phone after you woke up from a nightmare.

"That movie would never have scared you, huh?" you ask.

He grimaces, thinking of all the inaccuracies he could've pointed out back then. "I've seen much worse."

At this point, the only horror story he can't tolerate is the thought of losing you. Not through a break up, or even in this way, with you having lost your memories, but through death—something so permanent he would have to take over the Empire to bring you back.

He thinks you—the 2025 you—have caught on, especially after the fiasco that was Spirit World.

You bob your head up and down rather seriously.

Birds are beginning to gather near their bench, likely recognizing you from all the times you've fed them before. Before leaving the house, Cael made sure to grab some breadcrumbs for your bird friends, knowing how you tend to be. Even before coming to Harp Island, this was a habit of yours.

Having taken a sip of his coffee, he's about to start digging through his bag when you ask a different question. Predictably, one that he chokes at, already anticipating how you might tease him.

"Am I the only girlfriend you've ever had?"

BARRING A FEW INCIDENTS, MOST of the week goes by quietly.

The threat of being possibly exposed leaves you hesitant to leave the house more than strictly necessary. So, although Cael went through the specifics of an average week in your life, you make use of approximately a quarter of that information.

You pass half the time by going through your stuff. The other half is devoted to pestering him for dates, usually in remote places, where the chances of running into someone are nil.

You seem to really like Greece.

You tell him it'd be nice to have the time to hunt down a flight and sit tight for hours—and there's a wistful tone to your words when he allows himself to scrunch his nose. It makes you laugh too.

And, three days before the deadline, Cael is in his office, preparing a few things for his next lecture, when a familiar ring tone cuts through the silence. Right now, you should be on your way back from your last class of the day.

The contents of your call could be anything from being "kidnapped" by Lars to actually being in trouble to having no explicit purpose at all.

"Hello?" he answers, glancing distractedly at the email from his TA about a question from one of the students. "Is something—"

"You're Emerald?" a familiar voice half-shrieks in his ear. "The award-winning artist Emerald? My favorite artist ever, Emerald?"

As usual, he lets you run through your thoughts out loud. Your chatter serves as the backdrop to his prep work. He catches the words idol, boyfriend, and dream crop up a few times. It's only when you drop Liore's name that he pieces together what might've transpired.

The local art gallery is hosting an event where they'll be showing off some of his newer works, post-hiatus. It isn't for another month, but the tickets for it were given to him in advance—a fact that you mentioned to the older woman when she offered to buy you the tickets.

You did, of course, exclude the part about it being a date.

"It slipped my mind," he responds apologetically. "I'm sorry."

And it was, in fact, a genuine mistake on his part. Given that his identity as an artist rarely cropped up in his day to day life—unlike, say, the fact that he was a Traveler—he hadn't seen the need to bring it up.

You're silent for a few minutes.

"I'll forgive you," you finally respond. "But only if you give me another kiss."

"You know I made that up, right?" he asks, unable to contain his amusement. Cael pulls his phone away from his ear. "You don't have to barter for a kiss."

Your silence soon turns into sputtering.

That's the only response he gets out of you for the next five minutes.

SOON, THE PROMISED DAY COMES, bringing with it a light drizzle.

You settle down on the bed, eyes closed, with all the bravery of a soldier going to war. Your only request is a kiss—and whatever thoughts are swirling in your head, you don't say. And as for holding his hand, you don't ask; your fingers simply grasp his hand tightly, like they had week ago.

The next time you open your eyes, Cael gets a sense of deja vu.

"Cael…?" You blink blearily, your free hand coming to rest on your forehead—where, once again, his own hand sits. "What…"

Squeezing your other hand tightly, he asks, "How are you feeling?"

"My head…" You complain, attempting to sit up. Once more, he gently forces you back down. "Where exactly did I fall from?"

As you grumble about being able to sit up and that you're absolutely fine, Cael breathes a sigh of relief. At the very least, you still remember him. And given how freely you can complain about him, he suspects that you might've recovered all of your memories back.

"What year do you think it is?" he inquires carefully.

You look at him like he's an idiot. Cael doesn't budge on requiring an answer. Instead, he squeezes your hand encouragingly, the expression on his face quietly asking you to humor him. A long-suffering sigh escapes your lips—and that's when any doubts about your memories wither and die.

"It's 2025. We were—" As a realization dawns on you, the blandness in your tone transforms into disappointment. "It didn't work."

"What do you remember about the last week?"

The expression on your face implies much about your thoughts at the moment. You open your mouth, undoubtedly prepared to give him the wrong answer, and then you seem to realize something.

Eyeing him warily, you ask, "What happened last week?"

It's as good a confirmation as any that you don't remember losing a few years worth of your memories. Cael settles down on the edge of the bed and recalls how clingy you were in that time.

As it so happens, you often tend to be all bark and not bite—until you're so used to the action in question that it becomes instinct.

"Well…" he starts, a faintly amused smile on his face. "For starters, you really liked calling me your boyfriend—"

THE NIGHT BEFORE IT ALL ends, you ask him a question—one he suspects you've been holding onto for a while.

The two of you are lying in bed, separated by the eternal third wheel that is Beanie. And if ever there's a reason to stop sneaking him treats, it would be for this. But, for a destroyer of worlds, as you like to point out often, Cael is surprisingly soft-hearted.

One distraught mewl, and it's game over for him.

On the bright side, you no longer have the twin bed he prepared for you, back when you first moved into this house. After the first couple of sleepovers, it became evident you needed a bigger bed, especially if Beanie would keep crawling into bed halfway through the night.

So, you went out and bought yourself a bed—and when Cael came over the next time, the layout of your room had changed drastically.

Never let it be said that feeling shy about something has ever prevented you from doing said thing.

"Cael…" you whisper, and rustling sounds ensue. In your attempt to shift onto your side, he hears your elbow hit the backboard. "What if—what if my memories don't come back?"

His gaze is fixed onto a point in the never-ending darkness, where the ceiling should be. In the silence, he can clearly hear your soft exhales—small reminders that you seem to have forgotten how to breathe. He shifts onto his side, and sure enough, his hand finds yours, curled loosely into a face on top of your pillow.

"Then you'll still be my girlfriend," he says carefully, then pauses. "Just—with a few holes in her memory."

Cael has pondered that same question as well. Many times, in fact; whether over a cup of coffee or in the middle of a lecture, the reminder that you've lost your memories has a tendency to creep up on him.

How will they explain it to everyone, knowing that you haven't left Harp Island in quite a while?

What would be the easiest way to help you relearn the basics of your life, knowing that you nearly fell asleep the first time?

Going forward, will living together—as addicting as it is—be the new normal? Should he start looking for an apartment the two of you can share? How would they explain it if anyone asked?

And sometimes, a little voice creeps into his mind, and it asks, What if you change your mind?

But you haven't yet. In fact, Cael suspects those same thoughts have been running through your head as well, down to the little insecurities that he can't seem to shake.

"More than a few," you murmur softly, squeezing his hand.

He closes his eyes and squeezes your hand back. "Hopefully, not more than right now."

"I think you'll be fine," you say, your words succeeding a nervous giggle. "You have a very pretty face."

A sense of deja vu washes over him and, along with it, a familiar kind of sadness. He's reminded of your previous predictions—and of the way he has to remind you of them. For as long as their relationship grows, the number of inside jokes they accumulate will grow as well.

But the ones they already had might be lost.

He can't imagine his mocking impressions of his past self will land quite as well. This, in a nutshell, perhaps describes perfectly the answer to your next question.

"What's it like to have someone forget about you?"

"Strange," he says, condensing his rapid fire thoughts into only a single word.

It is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. Except it is a bad thing, because this whole fiasco occurred due to his mistake. But that's not your fault. If anything, the blame lies with him. But if he said that, you would deny until your face turned blue.

When you ask him to qualify his single-word statement, Cael naturally struggles to describe his feelings—in a way that won't make you feel bad.

Eventually, he settles on:

"You still remember who I am, don't you?"

In your voice, he can hear the slight downward curve to your lips and the way they flatten every so slightly into a straight line. And with a sigh, you flop onto your back loudly, sending a shockwave through the mattress. Your hand slips out of his grasp and makes room for its twin instead.

"I'll put that down as 'undecided'," you say, and sigh #2 soon follows.

But silence does not.

You call his name once more, still in that fretful and plaintive tone. "What if I get my memories back, but I don't remember this past week at all?"

"Then I'll tell you all about it," Cael answers easily.

For a moment, you ponder his words. If he could look into your eyes, as though the room was illuminated by the lamp in the corner of your room, what sort of emotions would he see?

"Okay. Don't let me forget about it, okay?" you tell him sternly. He's about to ask what that entails, in a teasing tone that's sure to have you reaching for a pillow, when you add, jokingly, "I can live without the embarrassing stuff."

He smiles and lets his silence do the talking.

You acquiesce to your fate rather easily, with a sigh. "Then, let this be the last time we have to deal with any memory shenanigans…"

"Indeed," Cael says, and hopes for it with all his heart.

— happy (very belated) birthday to the local caelmc art dealer, @nekonyaniii!

[vaguely-concerned]

I don't know what I love more, the fact that as rook you can make a statement in NO uncertain terms that you are NOT responsible one way or the other for the theological implications of the shit you're discovering in the 'regrets of the dread wolf' memories. not my jurisdiction. quite simply none of my business. not my chantry circus not my chantry monkeys. irrelevant to the matter at hand here we'll kill that god if we get to him he can get in line. or if the best thing about it is seeing the lone little 'lucanis approves' that pops up right after choosing it. corvid with a knife about to commit deicide keeping it real and sensibly, pragmatically, wilfully agnostic with me here in this magical lighthouse today

[zuzu-draws]

4-armed Sukuna Appreciation post!! These were my favourite OG Sukuna panels from the latest chapter.

[linkedin-offficial]

🌾 feels like brooklyn in the summer

[balladetto]

hh...hii.

[a-wondering-thought]

Would you mind telling me about Lucy Dacus please? I don’t know much about them :))

yes!!! of course, i'd be happy to!! :D

so shes a singer, songwriter and guitarist and just super talented all round, her vocals are amazing, ahh shes in a band called boygenius which i rambled told you about remember, she has three great solo albums(my personal favourite probably being Home Video), her music videos are all so mesmerising (also if you catch me crying at the hot n heavy mv... no you didnt)(also technically a bg one but TRUE BLUE MV IS AGHHHHH!!!! i love it sm) and all the visuals of them are all so amazing and the songs are all such incredible storytelling and then she makes these mv's which just put even more depth and story into them and yeah its so incredible, shes also sapphic and yearns for women in a painfully relatable way, but also explores that in her music creating songs that just reflect sapphic experiences so well, shes also just yk the most beautiful woman ever

[lloydfrontera]

while i do like the idea of rakiel sticking around the magentanos for a while i also like the idea of him just quietly slipping away one day and starting to travel around the world with damian, becoming a sort of wandering doctor, setting small clinics anywhere he goes and staying only long enough to make sure things are running smoothly before leaving again.

it's just easier. to not stay in one place for too long. to leave before the pass of time becomes evident in everything but them. to pretend that whatever he leaves behind can stay as untouched by time as they are.

he likes to believe that if he ever were to go back, he would find familiar faces welcoming him again. that he would find friends that never leave and remain exactly as he left them. he knows he won't, but as long as he never goes back he can pretend otherwise.

[halfacenturyhigh]

Phil Ochs on the A&M lot in Hollywood, 1967

📸: Michael Ochs Archives

[bucketsofmonsters]

The Shapeshifting Detective - Part 7

cw: parental death, grief, referenced murder, allusions to sex work, slow burn, more tags will be added as the story continues

male shapeshifter x fem character

word count: 4k

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Kate had been awake for what she was certain must have been hours, just lying there. Too afraid to break this sliver of peace she’d stumbled upon. 

The steady rise and fall of her chest naturally mimicked that of Vincent's as she felt it against her side. 

The quiet couldn’t last forever. He shifted away from her with a groan. She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d just awoken or if he’d been basking in the moment like she’d been. 

“C’mon,” he said, his voice soft. “We gotta go, just follow me.”

She let him pull her to her feet without protest, following quietly behind, the lingering peace of sleep still blanketing her in a calm that she desperately needed. 

As she followed behind him, one hand clasped Vincent’s while the other still carried Anne’s dress, cradling it close to her chest as he led her through the streets. 

“Where are we going,” she finally asked, feeling disoriented by his route. She was used to main streets and grand entrances, not the back alleys that she was being pulled through now. 

“Somewhere safe,” he said plainly, and as her drowsiness began to fade, the evasiveness of his answer struck her. 

She was on alert once again and although the streets weren’t ones she was used to, it didn’t take long before some of them became eerily familiar. 

As soon as she realized she stopped in her tracks, staying firmly planted in place as Vincent attempted to tug her onwards. “What do you mean somewhere safe? You said she was dangerous.”

“She won’t hurt you, don’t worry,” he tried to reassure her, but the fact that he’d attempted to hide it overrode the sincerity in his tone. 

“I don’t even know what she is!”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, but I need to find somewhere safe to bring you and Evelyn is one of my only options.”

A few days ago that wouldn’t have been nearly enough to convince her but a few days ago she had a lot more freedom. “Fine, but you have to tell me what she is. No more vagueness and secrets, I want to know.”

“Do you promise you won’t freak out?”

Kate nodded solemnly.

“Alright, well the closest thing you have in human lore is a vampire.”

Kate gasped, her eyes widening as her hands flew to cover her mouth. “She’s a vampire? Hold on, vampires are real?”

“You promised not to freak out, this looks like freaking out.”

Her mind was already darting through the implications. “Wait, so how many of the creatures in folklore are real?”

“I don’t know, most of them. Can we talk about this later?” he asked as he glanced around. 

“That’s wild, that’s… you know, in hindsight, I think I should have seen that coming, she fits it perfectly. She isn’t doing much to hide it, is she?”

“No, she most certainly is not. Can we please go now?”

The new information hadn’t done much to soothe Kate but she let Vincent pull her along once more. She’d already decided to trust him, if he said she’d be safe here she knew that it was true. 

Or at least that he believed it. 

It was much easier to enter Evelyn’s home through a doorway. Not that she would have had the option. She noticed with a twinge of misplaced pride that all the windows that had previously been left open to air out the rooms were now firmly closed and locked. 

Vincent walked in ahead of her and she let him take the lead. As eager as she’d been to run into situations head first, this seemed like one where it was wise to stay back. 

She heard the clicking of heels and a familiar voice said, “I swear to god if you’re bringing me another unconscious human I am going to…” 

Evelyn stopped in her tracks the second she laid eyes on Kate, her expression shifting from that of vague amusement to a distressed sort of fury. 

Vincent gave her an apologetic smile. “Well, she’s not unconscious.”

Her eyes flitted back and forth between you, the moment of angry panic fading back to her practiced lazy confidence. “Vincent, I swear to god, you cannot keep doing this.”

“She needed help!”

“Odd, feels like you can’t seem to stop running into people who need help. I don’t know how I seem to keep missing them. Actually, maybe I prefer it this way. You’re getting too trigger-happy lately. At least this one seems like she’s been invited here, although why you’d do such a thing is beyond me.” 

“For the record, I am not trigger-happy. The Daniel thing wasn’t even my idea! She’s the one who knocked him out!” he said, gesturing vaguely in Kate’s direction. 

That seemed to pique Evelyn’s interest, her gaze shifting for the first real time, to Kate. No longer was she regarding her like a stray dog Vincent had brought, now she was looking as if she was a real person standing before her. 

“Did you?” she prompted, looking Kate up and down, making her squirm a little under the unrelenting inspection. 

“I needed to. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

That earned a wry chuckle from her. “Well, at least this one’s more interesting than the last one. She’s got more bite to her. Maybe we will get along.”

Kate winced at the word bite. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Kate hadn’t thought that Evelyn could get any more irritated with Vincent but in that moment she was genuinely concerned for his wellbeing. 

“Now why would she think that’s a joke,” Evelyn asked through gritted teeth. 

It was his turn to squirm as she glared at him. “We may have discussed some of your… proclivities.”

Her jaw tightened as she stared Vincent down. “And what else might have you discussed?”

“On the bright side, you don’t need to worry about calling them humans when she walked in. There’s no more game to give away, use all the weird language you’d like.”

Evelyn did not seem to view this as the positive Vincent was attempting to spin it as. 

“I am counting the days until you either figure this shit out or give up and frame someone. I can’t even get gray hairs but I swear every time we talk I get closer.”

That perked him up. “About the figuring it out situation…”

Kate cut him off. It was her decision now anyways, he didn’t need to flounder in an attempt to explain. “It’s done, my mother confessed. She hasn’t been arrested yet but it’s only a matter of time.”

“You solved it?” Evelyn asked, giving Kate a once over as she did.

She nodded. “Should’ve done it sooner. It’s my fault it even took as long as it did. But this case will be closed soon, I will make certain of it, do whatever it takes.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow at her statement. “Whatever it takes, huh?”

Kate nodded, her absolute determination refusing to waver. 

Vincent cut in, adding, “Also, everyone might currently think Kate did it so that’s a minor roadblock we need to handle. In related news, I’m just gonna leave her here for a couple hours. Just like… 12 hours. Maybe 14.”

Her attention snapped back towards him, losing whatever interest she’d had in Kate. “Vincent! I have appointments tonight, what am I supposed to do?”

“Postpone them?”

If looks could kill, he would be long gone. “You aren’t doing this. I know you aren’t. What has gotten into you? You said you figured it out! That’s it. It’s done, case closed, just go arrest her. We can all celebrate no longer being murder suspects and you can take Kate along as you clear her name.”

“I have to figure some stuff out first.”

She rubbed her temples. “Vincent, I went along with your stupid little plan to unravel all of this instead of just pinning it on someone, please don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t. Just give me a few hours, that’s it.”

“14 hours is not a few hours.”

“You’re the best, thanks!” he called back, already heading towards the door as Evelyn continued to scowl at him. 

She spent what felt like an eternity just glaring at the door that was slowly swinging closed with a squeak that seemed deafening in the otherwise quiet room. 

Finally, with a huff, she turned her attention back to Kate, saying, “I know this isn’t your fault but I think I might blame you anyways.”

Kate managed a weak smile. “Shame, I thought we could both blame Vincent.”

“I might take you up on that when he gets back. He’d rather listen to his human of the week than me anyways.”

Kate wanted to press that statement and learn more about Vincent but it seemed wise to leave that particular topic alone, at least until Evelyn calmed down. 

“Who were you going to pin it on?” she asked instead. It took massive amounts of restraint to not tack a ‘was it me?’ onto the end of her question. 

“I couldn’t have cared less. You were at the top of the list until Vincent started fawning over you. Your little fiance was a close second.”

“He’s not my fiance. And the motive isn’t there, it wouldn’t have made sense.”

She rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t matter if it makes sense, just matters that it’s not me.”

“Speaking of my non-fiance, where are they? Him and that detective?” Kate asked as she glanced around, looking for any signs of a makeshift prison. 

“Blindfolded and handcuffed to a pipe in a closet. They’re very annoying to take care of, I wanted nothing to do with the matter but the alternative was Vincent taking care of them and I wasn’t about to let that happen.”

“Because they would have escaped under his watch or because he would’ve let them go?”

She waved the question off. “One or the other, impossible to know with him. Although those two don’t really seem like his type, especially not after he met you.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t help but wonder what would it have been like if he’d met one of them first. Maybe he would’ve been by Daniel’s side instead. The thought made her feel a little sick, though she couldn’t fully place why. Pushing it aside, she continued on with her neverending questions. 

“What appointments are you missing?”

“I’m supposed to be drinking people’s blood, dear. Amongst other things. Why all the questions, are you interested?”

She smiled and Kate couldn’t tell if she was flirting or teasing her. If she had to bet, she’d put her money on both.

“Do you… kill them?” she asked hesitantly. 

“God, you’re so dramatic. No, I don’t kill them. You’d be surprised how many people are ready and willing to participate.”

“You get men to willingly sign up to get their blood drunk?”

“Did I say men?”

“Just any old person then?”

She shrugged and gave Kate a knowing smile. Every smile from her felt almost antagonistic. Like it was meant to be a little frightening, an active attempt to make herself as offputting as possible. “I don’t discriminate. Bloods blood, after all, and a humans a human.”

One thing was missing from her menacing smile though. “You don’t have fangs. Don't vampires usually have fangs?”

The question seemed to catch her genuinely off-guard, reeling back a little before regaining her composure and putting on her imposing little performance once more. “I did. They got filed down, it’s standard practice nowadays. Hurts like hell but they say it's better than being so recognizable, that there are less suspicious ways to draw blood. It’s a shame, I wish I still had them. Fuck what the humans think, I can fend for myself.”

“Wouldn’t that just make everything harder? I imagine the clothes do,” she said, looking down at the intense black that even Kate couldn’t match in her funeral garb. 

“It does. I don’t give a shit. We’ve hidden for long enough if you ask me.”

Kate couldn’t help but smile at the thought. She’d spent her whole life hiding and lying, not knowing there was any other option. And then these monsters, these creatures of honesty and bravery appeared and it somehow felt more foreign than anything else they ever could have shown her. 

It was overwhelming, being faced with people with so much to lose being so much braver than anyone she’d ever seen, than anything she could ever do. 

Now when she thought of returning home, back to normalcy, it wasn’t just dread of the inevitable that filled her. There was something else sneaking in, this sense that she would be choosing this, that she could escape the endless lies and the hiding. After all, they did.

Her breathing got shallower and her chest felt tight right under when she was holding Anne’s dress. 

Looking down at it, she came to a decision and the tension dissipated. The dread and the grief couldn’t catch up with her if she just kept moving so that's what she’d do. 

“I’ll get out of your hair,” she said with the politest smile she was still capable of. “Do you have somewhere I can change?”

“Where ever you’d like, I don’t mind.”

Kate got the distinct impression Evelyn wouldn’t have minded if she started stripping right there and then but still she wandered off until she found an empty room. 

It had a bed in the center with some suspicious stains on it that she tried not to think too hard about and dozens of mirrors lining the perimeter of the room. It wasn’t exactly ideal but it would do for the short time she’d be here. 

She had absolutely no intention of staying put, but she knew she couldn’t show up as she was. Even now she wasn’t that reckless.  But Vincent had unintentionally given her a disguise and she’d be amiss not to use it. 

It was a good bet, no one really noticed the servants, especially if she stuck to herself. The hardest part would be getting out without Evelyn stopping her. 

Her attempt to get out of her mourning clothes was not going well. She hadn’t noticed how much she was shaking until she was face to face with the buttons and lacing of her dress. 

A familiar, looming presence arrived in the doorway. 

Kate could feel her gaze even before she turned to meet Evelyn’s eye.

“It’s polite to knock,” she said, not allowing the woman’s presence to stop her from attempting to free herself of the endless black clothing.  

She watched, an amused look on her face as she watched Kate struggle to undo her clothes on her own. 

“You need help with that?” Evelyn asked, not even attempting to hide her smile. 

“I’m fine,” Kate replied with a huff. 

“Seems like it.” She watched as shaky fingers struggled to untie a bow for a few moments more before pacing over and swatting Kate’s hands away. 

She pushed Kate’s tensed shoulders down and added, “Relax a little, I don’t bite. Well, I do but that’s beside the point.”

Somehow that didn’t add to Kate’s trust in the woman. 

She continued on, barely paying any mind to the rising tension of the girl below her fingertips. 

“What do you think of him,” she asked as Kate felt the garment loosen. 

“I don’t know. He’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, I guess. Haven’t had much time to think about anything at all lately.” That wasn’t quite true but she was sure Evelyn didn’t want to hear about the neverending flurry of thoughts that plagued her. 

Evelyn guided the dress down her arms, the corset loosening around her a few moments later. 

She kept talking as she worked. “That boy has a real bleeding heart. I try and get him to loosen up and have some fun and he brings home a handful of strays with sob stories.”

“Is that what I am?” she asked, trying to get a good look at the woman behind her through the mirrors. “One of his strays?”

“I don’t know. Usually, he moves them along pretty quickly, tries not to get too attached. With you, well, I think it might be too late for that. Good luck getting rid of him now, I certainly haven’t had any luck with it.” 

The last remnants of her mourning garb fell to the ground and before Kate could protest that she could take it from here Evelyn was already helping her into Anne’s clothes. 

“Are you trying to?”

“Not really. But don’t tell him that, I have to keep up pretenses. I would ruin my brand if people found out I wasn’t a heartless bitch.” 

“Don’t worry, I don’t think there’s any danger of that.”

“Be careful. What is it they say about glass houses?”

As Evelyn finished, Kate looked at herself in Anne’s clothes in one of the many mirrors lining the walls, but Evelyn didn’t seem interested in leaving. She hovered just behind Kate, eyes roaming her without so much as a care about Kate’s feelings on being inspected. 

Her head cocked to the side as if trying to get a new angle on Kate. “Your mind is elsewhere. What’s going on up there?”

“I need to go back.”

“I know. That’s why you’re getting dressed, isn’t it?”

“Vincent wouldn’t want me to go,” Kate blurted out. 

Evelyn looked around the room. “Huh, I had no idea he’d snuck back in here. Making decisions for you before I could even lay eyes on him, how does he do it? Go. Do what you need to do. If he comes back early I’ll handle it.”

“Promise?”

“In regards to you sneaking out? Sure. I make no promises about anything else you might do. I have evidence of how easily you get carried away tied up in the other room, I’m not that foolish.”

“Thank you,” she said, and she wondered if Evelyn could hear her sincerity or if she’d gotten so used to faking it over the years that no one could tell any longer. 

Getting home was easy. She lived in this city her whole life, lived there for so long, she could find her way home from anywhere. 

It filled her with unease the second she laid eyes on it but the emotion didn’t feel out of place. It had always been there, bottled up with every other emotion. 

She managed to make her way past people of various stations as she slipped inside, avoiding eye contact and keeping her head down as much as she could. 

She was so set on keeping her head down and out of trouble that she didn’t even see her coming until she heard the faint gasp. 

Her head rose to see Anne backing away from her, hands raised in a quiet surrender, like she was a wild animal who could pounce at any moment. 

“Kate,” she said quietly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She hadn’t been certain why she was coming back until this moment, with Anne in front of her. Before it was just the need to keep pushing forward propelling her, sending her back again. But now, staring down the person who’d been her only friend, she knew exactly why she was here. “I needed to come back.”

Anne kept backing slowly away, edging towards the door. “No, you didn’t. There’s nothing left here. Now I know we didn’t leave off on the best terms but you shouldn’t do anything rash.”

“I didn’t… you’re scared of me.” The observation felt like a punch in the gut, all of the air being sucked out of her. 

“No, I’m not,” she said too quickly in a voice a little higher than it should’ve been. 

“Please don’t do this. I’m still Kate, I’m still…”

But was she? She wasn’t even sure she could recognize the Kate that Anne knew anymore. For so long, that was the closest to honesty she’d gotten, and yet now that girl felt like just as much of a stranger as everyone else did with their own unique set of lies. 

“Yeah, of course you are,” she said, in a desperate attempt to placate her. 

There was nothing she could do to fix this. Not this version of her, not this person who Anne didn’t know. Kate had pushed her away at just the wrong time and now Anne was scared of her and there was nothing she could do to change that. 

Anne finally seemed to decide she’d edged close enough to the door, turning heel and running through the doorway. 

A few moments later, a familiar detective walked through the door, presumably retracing Anne’s panicked steps. 

Worry creased his brow as he laid eyes on Kate. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, rushing to her side. He pulled her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his in an attempt to ground her. “You shouldn’t be here. I’ve got this, you’re going to get yourself hurt.”

“No. I… I needed to be here.”  

He glanced nervously behind him as he spoke. “Alright, we have bigger problems right now. Is she going to tell someone you’re here? Do we need to run or can you just hide?”

And she didn’t know. She has no idea if her best friend in the world was turning her in as they spoke.

The most she could manage was a shrug and then they were off, Vincent dragging her behind him. 

This time there were no arguments as he took her back to Evelyn, shouting, “I told you to keep her here,” as soon as he entered. 

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “She wanted to leave, what was I supposed to do, lock her up?’

He was wide-eyed and disheveled, looking more frustrated than Kate had ever seen him before. Evelyn stood as confident as ever.

Kate just let them bicker, Vincent furious and insisting she could’ve been hurt while Evelyn tried to remind him that it wasn’t his choice to make. 

“What were you even doing there?” Kate finally asked, cutting off their fighting in an attempt to make sense of as much of this as she could. 

“Talking to your mother, trying to get her to recant her statement. To give you an escape route, if you needed one. I think if you let me try for longer, I might be able to-”

“Please stop.”

He shook his head, “No, I really think it’s possible.”

He didn’t get it. She had to make him get it. “And who then? If not her, then who? What innocent soul are we sacrificing if it's not my mother? “

“I don’t know, we’ll figure it out.”

“No, let’s talk about it right now. Maybe Evelyn, what about that? She’s an easy target.”

He looked like a kicked puppy but she couldn’t stop. She needed him to understand. “You’re not being fair…”

“Okay, not her. Blame it on one of the staff then. They had easy access, I’m sure we could come up with a motive. I’ve got an easy one, just say it was Anne. Everyone knows we’re close, it would be an easy sell.”

“Stop it.”

“I can’t. I can’t stop until you understand.” She got more and more frantic the more she spoke. “ It has to be her. She did this. I know she’s my mother and I know you feel for her but I also know that we can’t just leave this be. He’s dead and she did it and that has to be it. I need that to be it.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay, that’s it then.”

“That’s it?” she asked, and she hated how small she sounded.

“That’s it. Your call.”

She expected to have to fight harder but he backed down. He’d been telling the truth, she supposed. It was up to her, her choice to make. 

She opened her mouth to thank him but before anything could be said, a knock on the door echoed through the room. 

Kate and Vincent turned to look but Evelyn sprung right into action. She manhandled Kate into the closest cupboard, shutting the door after hissing at her to stay absolutely quiet. 

She held her breath as she stood in the wooden box that was barely big enough to fit her. The front door swung open and Evelyn alone greeted the people at the door, Vincent off somewhere. Maybe he was hiding in some other equally cramped space. 

Her blood ran cold as she heard a few words through the door, muffled talk about warrants making its way to her. 

The police were here. If they found her she would be arrested but worse than that, there were two kidnapped people in this house, kidnapped people who knew far too much. 

If they found and freed them, that was it. Evelyn would be arrested and what would Vincent even be able to do? Harvey and Daniel would hear tales about all the things they managed to do despite having been kidnapped and they’d all know. Vincent would have to just go, leave the two of them at the mercy of the law, or worse, he’d try something stupid and all three of them would get hurt. 

Kate did the only thing she could think of. She took one final, deep breath as she stepped out of the cupboard  

“I’m in here,” Kate called, praying she could convince the police that Evelyn had no idea she was hiding here, that at the very least she could protect someone. 

It certainly got their attention. Barely a moment had passed before she was being restrained and hauled towards the door. 

On her way out she passed Evelyn, giving some sob story to the officer in front of her. 

In one fleeting moment of eye contact, as Kate was pulled out, she saw a gleam of acknowledgment in her eyes, a quiet thank you that turned to fear once more before any of the officers even had time to notice. 

It was in Evelyn’s hands now. Kate was shoved into the back of a police wagon as she sent a silent ‘good luck’ to the pair she was leaving behind. She had a feeling they’d all need it.

[sophsun1]

Queer as Folk – 4.01: Just a Little Help