#from cold/antagonistic to teasing to something almost feeling romantic

[tinderbox210]

after you

[total-drama-brainrot]

Thinking about the fake dating AU again. 🤯

What if, during his segment on the Aftermath, Noah plays off his 'cheating' as something so emotionally detached it makes him look almost psychopathic, in an attempt to make himself as unlikable as possible?

The 'cheating' was simply strategic, is all. It wasn't his fault the two of them had to go and catch real feelings; Noah was just playing the game. Nothing more.

What? You thought he had feelings for them? Don't be ridiculous, Noah felt nothing for either of them- they were just there to carry him through the competition.

(He doesn't anticipate the ache that twists through his chest after that statement. It isn't true in the slightest, yet even just pretending to not care about his partners is physically painful.)

At first, both Geoff and Blaineley commend him for enacting some long overdue karma/vengeance on the antagonistic duo, but the more Noah intentionally digs himself into a hole- the more hateable he makes himself- the more people actually begin to pity both Heather and Alejandro. Which was the plan from the beginning, so Noah fully commits to it, playing off every interaction as just another cog in his manipulation machine; he's the 'High IQ', after all, of course he planned it all.

And he hides the nausea writhing in his gut from the blatant lies he's sprouting under a carefully blank, uncaring mask of indifference. Every claim he makes is said in the most casual tone- as if he's commenting on the weather instead of admitting to masterminding the heartbreak of two strong competitors- and that's somehow worse than if he would at least seem smug about his achievement. Because at least then he'd (appear to) care.

So, when the Aftermath finally ends, Noah becomes persona non grata. No one wants to even look at him- who knew the little snark could be so ruthless? So uncaring?

And Noah, knowing that he can't confide in Owen (who can't keep a secret to save his life) or Izzy (who's too unpredictable to trust- and who also 'leaked' fake information about him to Sierra during her time on Celebrity Manhunt, so who knows what else she's leak?) turns to his friend Eva, who promptly decks him in the face.

"I'm not friends with cheaters."

And when he tries to explain himself, clutching at his quickly bruising face and hoping that she'll see reason or at the very least afford him some decency, she throws his actions back in his face (actions have always spoken louder than words with Eva). Claiming that, if he's willing to lead on two people romantically, who's to say he isn't also faking their friendship? How can she trust anything that comes out of his slimy mouth?

It hurts. Every accusation is like a wave of searing heat against his already blistered heart, and yet Eva's eyes are so cold as she looks at Noah like he's the scum beneath her shoes.

So he flees to his hotel room.

And, for the first time in years, he weeps.

.

Given the informative finale of World Tour, the Aftermath crew were given the go-ahead to host one last hurrah, to properly question their finalists about their scheme, and to clear Noah's name.

Their audience was practically frothing at the mouth for an update.

During their interview segment, Blaineley (in an attempt to stir up some drama- she's always endeavouring to stay on brand after all) plays clips of Noah's callous 'confessions' on his Aftermath segment post-elimination, hoping to cause some trouble in paradise for the lovely throuple by sewing the seeds of doubt in their minds.

To her surprise, both Heather and Alejandro start laughing at the clips as if they're the funniest thing they've ever seen, huddling closer to Noah as they poke and tease him. Noah, in turn, sinks in unto himself, red-faced and mortified.

"What? How can you be alright with him saying that?" Cries Blaineley, scandalised that her attempt at brewing tension somehow didn't work.

"Because he does not mean it." Alejandro explains. To his side, Heather nods in agreement.

"How can you be so sure?"

Heather points to the screen, where past Noah is lying his ass off for the world to see, stoic save for the barely noticable twitching of his fingers and the occasional jump of his leg.

"He's lying through his teeth! It's so obvious- you weren't even trying to hide your tells, and after all the practice we did!"

"I didn't need to. Neither of you were there to call me out on the bluff."

[397bartonstreet]

Hey @johnny-and-dora this is for you for the fall fic exchange!! This prompt I wrote for was “autumnal walk in the park” I’m really sorry a pre-series, pre-relationship undercover case is probably not what you asked for but it’s what came to me. Hope you like it!

Also thank you @b99fandomevents for organizing this. These types of things always strike excitement and activity in the fandom during the hiatuses. You guys are awesome!!

About a month ago, Detectives Peralta and Santiago made a huge bust of one of Brooklyn’s most prolific drug rings they’d been investigating since the early summer months. And it was awesome. They smashed into the doors of an abandoned warehouse straight out of an 80’s cop movie. All the men and women inside scattered and refused to go down without a fight, but they were no match for the Nine Nine. There were gunshots, screaming, kicking, punches, all the shebang that make these kinds of events extra epic. They got every single one of those sick, surprisingly attractive bastards. And Jake walked out of that place holding two handcuffed men in slow motion, with an ambient orchestra, an explosion behind him, and wearing sunglasses at night. He looked so cool.

Except they missed one dude. The leader of the drug ring. A fearsome man having hundreds of thousands of dollars to his name, elusive in records, and several deaths on his hands. His name… is Frank Smith.

Jake is still bitter about that.

The day before, Jake got a tip that this Anatole Kuragin (he refuses to call him Frank Smith) would be exchanging information with another dealer in plain sight at Prospect Park in the middle of the day. Jake guesses he understands the logic, no one would expect such a wanted criminal prancing around in daylight. But if he were truly smart, he wouldn’t risk it. And you can never tell if strangers walking through the park are also hiding in plain sight, waiting to catch you in the act and arrest you.

Captain Holt gave the orders for Jake and Amy to disguise as a married couple simply taking their child on a stroll through the park. Which is where they were now. Casually walking through Prospect Park pushing a clunky stroller they found in the precinct and wearing probably the dorkiest outfits Jake has ever worn on a case. He’s dressed like a father in suburbia, not a dope ass detective about to make a dope ass arrest.

“This is the worst. How am I supposed to look cool when I’m wearing a sweater vest and khaki pants?” he grunts toward his partner.

“Jake, this is not about looking cool, it’s about making the arrest and making the community a better place,” Amy says haughtily.

“This is like, the 20th case I’ve done with you and every single time you say something lamer and lamer,” he responds.

“I’m not the one keeping count.” Jake ignores her and instead makes his first survey of the park. They were told that the perp would be wearing a golden chain around his wrist to be easily recognized, but so far he sees no intimidating assholes wearing the friendship bracelet. Everyone here seems to be teenagers totally not smoking pot and families that look just like they do right now. They blend right in.

“The tip said that the exchange would be near the bridge. Let’s casually walk over there and take a ‘break’ on the bench and we’ll wait there,” Jake whispers to her.

“Ooh, it’ll give us time to enjoy the view. New York parks in Fall are the best. Everything is all colorful and beautiful, it’s like one of the only good things about this state,” Amy says. Jake switches his view from the people to the trees. It is beautiful, if he took casual strolls - which, who would want to be alone with their thoughts for that long- this would be the perfect time to do it. It’s picture perfect, with the way the leaves steadily drizzle down like rain, and the cloudy sky seems to bring out their vibrant colors. And the slight chill causing a want for warm drinks and comfy sweaters. It’s romantic, and he almost wants to pretend he’s not here for a case, and instead just take in the view. With his earphones in of course, he meant what he said about being alone with his thoughts.

“It’s a shame we’re working, I’d totally challenge on you who can make a bigger leaf pile,” she says with a smirk and he’s pulled out of his thoughts to cast her something impish.

“Oh, you’re on. We’ll come back tomorrow, I’ll even bring a pumpkin pie because I’m going to cream you,” he smirks. They reach the agreed bench to wait out the perp, and Amy struggles a bit to align the stupid stroller when she sits.

“What? That made literally no sense,” she says as he sits down beside her.

“Of course it does. What do you top pie with? Whipped cream and I’m going to whip you into cream, title of my sex tape.” Amy cringes and he can tell she’s resisting the urge to punch him in the arm.

“That’s disgusting, and if you have to explain the comeback then it wasn’t a good one.”

“Whatever,” he says. “Alright, back to business. You watch this way and I’ll watch that way,” he says and points in the opposite directions. All playfulness immediately leaves Amy’s demeanor and she’s back to being completely professional. It’s one thing Jake can admire about her, she’s incredibly dedicated at her job. She can flip the switch from casual to focused in a second, he can’t even do that.

Jake blinks away his thoughts, turning his attention back to his side. A comfortable silence falls between them, the only noise being Amy rocking the stroller back and forth and her shushing at the doll inside.

He’s trying not to show that he’s definitely staring intently at the man sitting alone on a bench, when he feels a sudden weight on his thigh. He looks down to see Amy’s hand opened expectantly. When he turns to her, she’s still just scouring the scene.

“What?” Jake asks. Amy turns back to him and flexes her hand in gesture.

“Hold my hand,” she says impatiently, as if this is just another everyday bit of police work.

“Hold your hand? For what?” he’s incredulous when he asks this, but he still places his hand on top of hers and Amy grips back.

“Because we’re supposed to be married,” she says.

“Isn’t the giant stroller in front of us indication enough that we’re straight smashing it?” Amy flashes him a glare.

“A stroller only goes so far, we won’t be very convincing if we’re stiff as boards.” She has a point, but of course he’s not going to say that out loud. Instead, he tightens her hand around his and pulls it closer to his lap. Out of instinct, of course, because that’s what couples do.

He can’t help but note that it feels kind of nice, her hand a cold contrast to his warm one. He tends to overheat, even in the Fall weather, and her hand provides some nice relief. He doesn’t dwell on that though, he has a case to solve, and it’s the last time he’ll ever hold Amy Santiago’s hand anyway.

Jake tries squinting as discreetly as possible at the wrists of those in his line of sight, trying to spot the golden chain. There aren’t many men lurking around the park, and none of them seem to be wearing any bracelets. Except for one guy, who has his hands behind his back. Jake keeps an eye on him.

“Are you cold, Patricia? You need mommy to give you another blanket?” Amy says loudly so anyone around them can hear.

“Patricia?” Jake asks.

“What about it, Jake” she groans, bracing herself for a round of teasing.

“That’s what you would name your daughter? Patricia?”

“It’s just the first one that popped into my head okay,” she hisses. “What would you name her?”

“Me? I’d probably name her something badass. Like Rogue, or Rebel,” he says, nodding his head.

“Rogue sounds like the antagonist of an awful racing movie,” she laughs. “If I had a daughter, I would probably want to name her something that’s kind of meaningful and touching. I’ve always thought about naming my daughter Carmen, after my grandmother,” she says.

“Aw, that’s actually really nice. Then I’d call her Caramel. Caramel Carmen. Giving your daughter nicknames is Peak dad.”

“Your daughter? Are we having this baby together,” Amy snorts, a mischievous glint in her eye. She absolutely knows that pointing this out will make him squirm, and Jake hates that she’s right.

“What? No! It’s just… the undercover situation that’s all… stop looking at me like that” he says and doesn’t wait for her reply, just puts his attention back to the mission. Thankfully she doesn’t press, just lets him continue the surveillance. What he sees is lots of people that look like them, but then again not really. There’s at least one parent with a kid around them or pushing a stroller as awkward as theirs. And in the park, with the autumn leaves falling around them, and the kids making piles and kicking at them. They’re real, natural, unlike they are.

He remembers having that with his own mom. Whenever his mom found time and wasn’t working, she would take him to the park. And in the autumn months, he’d do exactly what that little kid with the chocolate curls and Ninja Turtles beanie over there is doing. Shoving pine cones into his pocket and then chucking them into the arm to see how far he can throw them. Looking back to his mother for praise.

If he was a dad, he’d be throwing pine cones with him.

And for a moment, he doesn’t know why, he lets himself imagine what it would be like if this was real. If he was sitting in a New York park during its peak season, with a stroller in front of him holding a baby, a real baby that would be his, that would grow up to be like that little boy over there. The hand he’s holding in his lap would be his wife’s, a woman he actually loved. If it were his wife, he thinks, he wouldn’t just hold her hand, he’d lace their fingers together. He does just that, changing positions to demonstrate how he’d do it. He would also stroke her thumb softly, and he gives the hand he’s holding an experimental caress. He looks up at Amy, who is still rocking the stroller and her eyes still focused on what’s in front of her. If Amy were his wife, he’d playfully tug on that strand of hair that’s gotten loose from her ponytail- he stops. If Amy were his wife?

He blinks several times, pulling himself back to earth and away from whatever just happened. He even shakes his head a little for good measure, to rid of whatever the hell kind of intrusive thought that was. Amy would be the last person in the entire world he’d marry. He’s known her for a year now and the only non work related thing he’s ever heard her talk about was a seminar for perfecting the art of nonverbal communication. Which is like the nerdiest thing he’s heard anyone ever say. If anyone were to be his wife, it would be the hot, flirty, movie ticket seller that’s always giving him eyes.

He looks down at their hands to see that they’re still joined. Not only joined, but laced together. Not only laced together, but his thumb is still slightly caressing hers, and he quickly lets go like he’s burned himself. Amy doesn’t even seem to notice his internal struggle, or acknowledge the way he let go suddenly. She just puts the hand on the handlebar to aid the other.

Well… he guesses Amy is pretty in that pre-makeover nerdy type before the transformation that makes her popular kind of way. Not that he watches those movies.

But not for him, no way. Not Amy. He doesn’t even know why he’s still thinking about this.

“You want to yell at me for being stiff? You look like an animatronic,” he teases, hiding his awkward cough through a laugh.

“Shut up Peralta. I’m just trying to do my job here,” she says. A shiver suddenly wracks her body. “God, I need this guy to hurry up, I’m freezing.”

“Seriously? You’re wearing a scarf and gloves.”

“I get cold easily, leave me alone,” she says, and another shiver chatters her teeth a bit. It makes him feel kind of bad, the only reason they’re out here anyway is because he didn’t go for the ring leader first like he normally would before getting away. The boss is always the biggest collar, and in the excitement he didn’t think. So, before he can think about it too much, he’s shrugging off his leather jacket.

“Here, take this,” he holds it out for her.

“Oh, no, I’m fine man, I’ll just-“

“It’s fine, you wearing my jacket will add to our undercover look and make us less suspicious,” he says with a lowered voice. Amy purses her lips in contemplation for a moment more before taking the jacket and sliding into it, shuffling a little to make sure her badge, gun, and handcuffs are still easily accessible.

“Thanks,” she says, her voice betraying some shyness and embarrassment, she’s about to say something more when something catches her attention, her brows furrowing and lips pursing. “I found the guy. Gold chain on his wrist in plain sight.”

And just like that they’re back in the zone. Two detectives lurking about twenty feet away from the bastard they’ve got their eye on.

“Alright you get left, I’ll get right. Rosa is waiting for us in a black van over there so we have to grab him and take him to the car. Remember, be as quiet about this as possible, we don’t want to scare anyone.” Amy says. Of course with cases like these they can never be too quiet, but the quieter it is, the less panic there will be.

They both stand and walk the stroller towards the perp, Amy going left and him going right like instructed. Away from the bench they were sitting on, and away from the happy children and parents enjoying the daylight. Away from the little boy with the Ninja Turtles beanie that reminds him a little too much of himself. Away from the fathers he’ll probably never be.

And sure, maybe he won’t ever be a father, or have a wife to have autumnal strolls with. But right now he’s got what he does best. And he gets to do it right now, take down a badass crime boss in… maybe not the most badass outfit. You win some you lose some.

Being a detective is all he’s ever wanted, and he’s totally good with that.

He really is.

He swears.

[salavante]

Aesop 29 or the Helmsman

(I’ve drawn his floating head a lot, so here’s him with his hood up, which I draw less) Also formal apology because I think like maybe no more than four people who follow me play Destiny, so a couple things may sound a little esoteric. I’d suggest checking out the Ishtar Collective (links to offsite) if I refer to something unfamiliar. 

Full Name: Aesop-29

Gender and Sexuality: Male and Homosexual.

Pronouns: He/Him.

Ethnicity/Species: Exo, from the little crop of Destiny fancharacters that I have.

Birthplace and Birthdate: Unknown factor. But Aesop was found by his Ghost in the middle of nowhere, in a southwestern state that I have not chosen yet. Arizona, Texas, Colorado and Southern California are all candidates. Aesop has just a little bit of a Texan accent. 

Guilty Pleasures: Aesop is trying to learn how to play guitar and is really bad at it, making him very shy and nervous about his attempts. Similarly, Aesop enjoys singing, but usually does it when no one else is around - because no one else has really heard him sing before, it is a well kept secret between him and his Ghost that he’s actually pretty good. I personally like to keep the list of music that he likes to the 50’s-60’s bracket to match the kind of retrofuturistic style that the Golden Age tech in Destiny has. We the viewer read it as being ‘old’, even if it’s much, MUCH older than we realize because the setting is far future. That’s really all that matters, that we recognize it as being antiquated. His favorite of the very small pool of albums he has access to are Marty Robbins’ “Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs” and Nancy Sinatra’s “Boots” and “Sugar”. Sojourn teases him about it and has thusly introduced him to the feeling of shame. He also likes drinking alcohol even if it doesn’t actually make him drunk. Sometimes he does it out of spite. Someone you don’t like? Pound his drink right in front of him and walk away.

Phobias: Aesop’s kinda agoraphobic - he feels trapped and panicked in enclosed areas with lots of people, can be overstimulated by large groups of people talking/making a lot of noise. This makes him mostly useless in large-scale conflicts. He has managed to curb some of this by being accompanied by Sojourn or Calico to areas or situations that are high risk (whether that means a combat scenario or just going to The City), but this can get squirrely because Calico doesn’t have a ghost anymore and if killed would die permanently, and Sojourn has a tendency to get worked up in a fight and leave him behind on accident. If everything goes well though, Aesop is perfectly functional fighting in the small group that is his fireteam - himself, Sojourn (exo warlock) and King (human titan). His ghost, Chanticleer, can also sometimes talk him down if he’s starting to spin up into a panic attack. It’s something that he wants to fix, but, existing within the confines of your anxiety is a cold comfort that he indulges in. In general, he’s a very anxious person with a lot of existential dread, but he puts on a clownish, brazen act and hopes people don’t notice.

What They Would Be Famous For: Honestly, probably something very mundane, like breaking a dopey Guinness-style record or something like that. The entire point of Aesop is that he is very average in his skills in a world of blisteringly powerful space wizards and the like. I find his challenges are more about what goals he sets for himself and if those goals conflict with the status quo. Does his worth need be defined by how good he is at killing things vs. is the pursuit of personal wellness and happiness selfish in the context of a world fighting for its survival. Can these things coexist. etc.  

What They Would Get Arrested For: Probably something relatively benign done for the sake of pulling a dangerous stunt in the name of fun or looking cool. If he was a regular ass human in a normal modern setting, probably taking a nice vintage car for a joyride.

OC You Ship Them With: Aesop will have a love interest in the comic canon, but I’m gonna keep that under my hat for awhile yet. It’s not Cayde though, Cayde is dad. If Amanda Holliday was a man, he’d be utterly and entirely in love, but, alas. He’s still infatuated with her platonically though, and thinks she has pretty much the coolest job in the world. A promise of visiting her is a good way to entice him into going to The City.

OC Most Likely To Murder Them: When death is not a factor, this becomes less of an issue, hah. Aesop and his bff Sojourn have killed each other a number of times in training, to an almost nonchalant degree. Aesop has also been killed much more in training, by his fireteam’s resident titan, King. Aesop will also find a rival in a local Fallen pike gang, the leader of which has the placeholder name of Easy Rider. I also have a Cabal villain I am throwing around and trying to decide if they’ll stick, but I need to do a lot more work and research on that. They’re my least favorite enemy type mechanically, but I think they could make perfectly acceptable antagonists in a narrative. 

Favorite Movie/Book Genre: Aesop does not read. He can, he just doesn’t. I think maybe, MAYBE, someone could get him to read comic books, but those aren’t very sturdy and I feel like the amount of intact physical copies at this point would be almost nothing. The pool of movies and media that he has available to him are very sparse, but he absolutely drowns himself in spaghetti westerns, and would probably also like trashy action movies if they were available to him. I also think he would like Grease, HAHA. It has cars and guys in leather jackets singing in it. He’d also probably like any kind of rustic, western themed musical. And anything with cars in it would have his immediate interest no matter how bad it is, but he’d zone out in any parts he doesn’t like. 

Least Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: To be honest I think most of the time, movies are a little too long for him and lose his interest partway through. He has a really short attention span and anything too long, complicated or artsy will lose him and he’ll start being fidgety and chatty and start making his boredom everyone else’s problem. Even if there’s a movie he likes, if there’s a part that’s boring to him, he zones out. He probably watches the same 2-3 movies over and over again, which is fine because his available library of media is probably really small. I like to think that they probably have movies in some kind of archive that they put up publicly in The City every once in awhile, like they have a projector that puts it on the side of a building and people just bring chairs and shit. Aesop has an aforementioned fear of crowds but he probably does some hunter parkour bullshit and perches somewhere at a healthy distance to watch from afar, as long as it’s something he thinks he would like. If he doesn’t he gets up and leaves.

Talents and/or Powers: Aesop seems to have an interest in vehicles, but due to a bet with his mentor, Calico, he has not actually been taught how to drive a Sparrow and so pines for them from afar. As said, he’s learning how to play an instrument, and if we want to be technical, is a Gunslinger speced Hunter with the Golden Gun super. He is very bad at being stealthy, as he is very impatient and is also a little bigger than the average exo. He’s just kinda tall and wide and tends to clunk around. If his Ghost Chanticleer wasn’t as clever as she was, Aesop would probably be perma-dead by now.

Why Someone Might Love Them: He’s kind of a dumbass and a space cadet but has the potential to be very sweet, and the people he cares about, he latches on to really hard. Similarly, when set to a task he cares about, he does not quit. Unfortunately, many of his goals are unresolved, but it does not mean that he will stop trying. If he were to, say, become romantically interested in someone, he would go to great lengths to connect with him, even if it meant doing things Aesop himself may not like. In specific circumstances, Aesop may find that he has a great capacity for nurturing and bringing out the best in other people, a talent Aesop himself undervalues. Though he’s not all that intelligent, Aesop is very reflective and existentially inquisitive, and thinks about a lot of big picture stuff that other people might push aside in an era of crisis. Though he may not understand science or the way the world works in a mechanical sense, he is awed by it, and is a great appreciator of natural beauty. He’d cry at a particularly beautiful sunrise, if he could cry. I’d say he could be described as having a romantic soul.

Why Someone Might Hate Them: To be honest, Aesop has trouble establishing empathy with people he doesn’t know very well, and so is less invested in Earth’s plight than he probably should be (it would not be hard for Dead Orbit to sway him to their views). This makes some people think that he doesn’t take his charge seriously, and they also usually assume that he’s a slacker because he’s plateaued in his abilities so early. Really, Aesop is acutely socially anxious, can have panic attacks in large crowds, and generally prefers to stay away from The City unless he needs to go there, and so has a big emotional disconnect from it. Calico and Chanticleer have tried to get him more accustomed to groups, but has been thusfar mostly unsuccessful. His insecurity and anxiety also cause him to pull odd, dangerous stunts to prove his worth, making him unreliable and impulsive. He can bungle social interactions rather spectacularly, and is easily goaded into doing really stupid shit. Really, he is a person who may just be “too much” for some.

How They Change: Oooooghhh….I can’t talk about this. I forgot how frustrating it is to not be able to talk about things because you’re going to make a comic out of it. Suffice it to say he’s gonna change a lot.

Why You Love Them: I think Aesop encapsulates a lot of anxieties I have post-college. Aesop is a person in transition who is unsure of his future, knowing only that he can’t quit now, because quitting means failure and failure means death. Because he is in transition, he is anxious about forming relationships with people, worried that either he will be left behind by them, or that they won’t like him when he’s “finished” becoming a person. I think he has a complex relationship with his personhood and sense of self. I dunno, I think that’s an interesting anxiety for a protagonist to have. I am also interested to see what Aesop will end up contributing to his society/organization and his interpersonal relationships, and if he’ll be happy with it. I’ve put a lot of work into him, the ‘original Aesop’ I had in mind might as well be a completely different character now. Aesop was originally a little cameo that I did in our TTRPG game, Godslaughter, because my boyfriend had put a dunmer cameo character into our game and I wanted to return the favor. Then he made a sheet for him. Then I decided to keep him around, then I decided to play Destiny 2, then I decided I loved it, lol. There is still a version of Aesop in the TTRPG but he is so incredibly different, they may as well be different characters. We refer to him as “Bad Aesop” but should probably call him something more dignified (we won’t).

[highqueenofprydain]

Opening Doors

"This sword I forged in the workshop of Hevydd the Smith."

Armed with her bauble's warm, familiar light, untroubled with the moody unpredictability of the torch Gurgi carried, Eilonwy found it first.

Lying askew amidst the heap of weaponry Magg's guards had dumped in Smoit's armory, it glinted dimly, drew her eye. Taran's sword. She picked it up and studied it, ignoring an odd sensation that she was spying on him by doing so, and laid it aside, separating it from the other weapons stripped from the companions. She and Gurgi, tasked with their recovery, left the gear in a neatly organized pile in the chilly sunlit courtyard of Caer Cadarn where their owners might find them. But Taran's sword…she hesitated, weighing doubt against shrewdness, mixed with something that felt uncomfortably manipulative. Finally she tucked it under her arm and went in search of him.

Manipulative or not. At least he couldn't avoid her if he wanted his sword.

Avoid…it wasn't quite the right word, was it? Crossing the courtyard, she kicked savagely at an inoffensive pebble and listened to its satisfying scuttling retreat across the flagstones. Avoiding was something you did, like hiding behind walls, not something you didn't do, like not speaking to someone or…for goodness' sake, not even looking at someone more than you could help it. And not acting like yourself, or even the self you were two years ago if you couldn't manage more. She had spent that two years, after their parting on Mona, expecting…well, much, upon their reunion; certainly not to be standing forlorn before a guarded, locked-up gate where an open door should have been.

She was sure it had not been his intention, either – at least if his eagerness upon their meeting again at Caer Dallben had been any indication. The glow in his face, the joy in his voice…the question bursting behind his eyes. She had even thought, alarmed, that he was going to ask it right there, in the cottage in front of everyone, and had begun a frantic mental hunt for an excuse to pull him outside when the door had burst open.

And with one door flinging wide upon a wounded prince, every other had apparently slammed shut. She hadn't realized it at first – too many other, more urgent predicaments had presented themselves at the time, and it was hardly the moment to lament over lost romantic opportunities. Then again, she thought, twisting her mouth wryly, perhaps the possible impending End of Everything was exactly the right time to mourn certain things left unspoken, undone. Nevertheless, she could not begrudge him his silence in that regard, had it not spilled over into every other. Day by day his distance had dawned on her, distance even in the everyday, practical details that shouldn't have held any significance at all. Finally she could no longer shrug it off as the paranoid product of unfulfilled imaginings, and was forced to admit that since the journey had begun he had scarcely spoken a dozen words to her, and rarely met her eyes. That, Eilonwy decided, her mouth set in a grim, thin line, was something she would no longer stand.

Though what exactly she was going to do about it was taking its time coming to her.

She found him in the stables, currying Melynlas, blessedly alone. The horse whickered a quiet welcome, and Taran turned his head; his smile, when he saw her, hitched and wavered uncertainly. She winced, acutely aware that it was their first moment alone together since reuniting, and smarting that his reaction to it should be so lukewarm.

There was a pregnant moment while he looked at her and said nothing, then with steady deliberation traded his currycomb for a brush and resumed attentions to Melynlas. Because his eyes resolutely followed his hands, she found that hers did as well, sliding along the planes and valleys of the horse's muscular shoulders, curving over haunches, dipping into hollows. Black earth, reminders of Rhun's recent internment, still lined his fingernails. The sound of the brush, softly rough like the stroking of velvet against the nap, whispered a hypnotic rhythm against the silence.

It made her want to scream. She hated his silence. It seemed crammed full of all the things neither of them were saying, beating against her like caged birds flailing their wings against the bars. Moreover she hated how helpless she felt against it; she had never felt so, with him, before, and to flounder about now – now when there were actually things worth saying – Llyr, it was maddening. Like picking up your favorite book, and finding you'd forgotten how to read.

"I found this in the armory," she said, and was immediately irritated at the loudness, the brassiness of her own voice breaking the stillness like an alarm bell. She held up the sheathed weapon. In the dim stable his eyes sparked. "My sword."

Something like jealousy curled in her gut at his use of the possessive, and she impulsively moved the sword away from his outstretched hand. "Ah, it is yours, then. I was almost sure, but I never got a proper look at it." Stepping into a large square patch of light slanting from the open door, she drew the blade in a swift motion, conscious that he had left Melynlas's side to step toward her. "You made it yourself, I think you said?"

"I did," he affirmed quietly, and she prickled at the world behind his words, so alien to her. Tell me. You would have done it, years ago; you'd have talked about making a sword until I wanted to pitch it into the nearest river. Why won't you tell me now? She felt his eyes on her, and cleared her throat, trying to draw the moment out, to come up with something relevant. "It's…ah…well, it's…"

His sudden laugh broke like a burst of sunlight into shadow. "Go ahead, you can say it. It's hideous." A weight, as of a mass of ice, slid from her shoulders at the warmth in his voice, and she looked up to see him wearing the kind of expression he had been wont to wear – before. Humor, affection, and wry self-deprecation, and so utterly him as she remembered that she nearly dropped the sword in a wild impulse to throw her arms around him, to make sure this breach in his invisible wall stayed gaping open.

"I wasn't going to say that at all," she protested, face warming, failing to hold back a smile. "It is, perhaps, not the most elegant weapon ever seen, but…" She held it parallel to the ground, bounced it experimentally on two fingers. "The balance is good. The edge is true. I'm no expert, but it feels like a good blade." She grasped the pommel, and swung the blade in a slow arc, watching the wan light gleam on its edge. "It's a bit odd, when you think of it, that we call any swords beautiful, considering what they're for. But after all, there are plenty of handsome things in the world that turn out to be weak and useless on the inside. Perhaps it's best for a sword to be the other way 'round."

His eyes met hers openly for the first time in days, and his mouth took on a vague, rusty form of the teasing smirk she adored. "Did they teach you that kind of diplomacy on Mona?"

"Pssh." She grinned. "Diplomacy is when you say what you don't mean to appease people you can't defeat, and I'm terrible at it. No, that was truth worthy of Dallben. I shouldn't be surprised if there's a line in the Book of Three about it somewhere." The blade slid back into the scabbard, and she flipped it around and held it out to him, hilt-first. "But I still don't understand why you needed a new one. What happened to your old, the one Dallben gave you?"

The one I girded on you? She did not speak the thought, but his eyes caught hers knowingly, and she remembered his face, glowing and flushed with boyish pride, that day in the scullery. He was so different now, she thought wistfully; so unfathomably more, and she had loved him even then.

Taran took the sword from her, a shadow crossing his face, his posture suddenly stiff. "It was…taken from me," he muttered, "in a forced duel in which I had no wish to participate." He seemed to struggle for a moment before continuing. "The less said about the villain involved the better – to speak his name is more honor than he deserves." She watched his fingers tighten around the pommel, and her own hands twitched in an aching impulse to cover his, caress the tension out of them, even as hot indignation toward the unknown antagonist flamed in her chest. An irrational yet vivid wish to meet him herself and enact some sort of justice crossed fleetingly through her mind.

Taran looked up at her, clear-eyed. "Yet when I met him again, it was this-" he held up his self-made weapon, "that saved my life." She sensed rather than saw the change in his bearing; the strength, the straightness. "He attacked me with my old sword, and it shattered against the new."

Shattered. Eilonwy sucked in a quick, cold breath as the word struck; she felt it in the soles of her feet, in the base of her spine, with such icy clarity that for an instant she saw shards glittering, scattering, arcing away through empty air. Of course, that was the word; that was what she felt; her image of the boy he had been, all his impetuosity and bravado and well-meant blundering - gone, shattered against the stark reality of who he now was. No wonder she floundered; his very familiarity mocked her; it was no more than a memory, a thin veneer over a mystery she could not fathom. It left her hollow, hungry, impatient; the memory had sustained her but it was empty now, now that the man stood before her and would not let her in. She wished suddenly that she hadn't returned his sword; it seemed the one thing about him she had, briefly, possessed.

She felt the child in her wanting to shout, to shake him, to berate and storm and do all the things she would have done years ago in an attempt to provoke a reaction – any reaction, so long as it broke through his reserve. But she had changed, too, and was wise enough to know the futility of that route, yet not enough to know what to do instead, apparently. Here she'd come to press him into speaking with her and she found herself with nothing to say – or perhaps, too much, too brimful of simmering longing and frustration to let words spill over, lest the resultant eruption drive him further away.

Wildly she thought she might be about to burst into tears; Belin, not that, not now, please…better to leave with some shred of dignity. Now it was she who could not meet his eyes, but cleared her throat, said "well, then…" in a hollow voice, and turned to the stable door.

"Eilonwy."

It brought her up short with her hand on the doorpost; when was the last time he'd said her name? She didn't remember…nor did she remember that the sound of it had left her breathless before. Her fingers tapped nervously at the rough wood as she struggled with herself and gave up; fear of what he might see in her face kept her from turning. She willed him silently to continue. Speak. Just keep talking so I can keep breathing.

"There is…" a breath, measured. "There is something that doesn't quite satisfy me about this sword."

Curiosity broke the spell; she faced him, mystified and wary. He was holding the sword in both hands, parallel to the ground, like a sacrifice. His gaze upon it was fond, almost wistful, and he shifted it at slight angles, watching the light play on the scabbard. "You see, I never had it properly girded on." His eyes met hers then, green fire blazing beneath black brows, and a rush of warm comprehension broke upon her.

Here was an open door indeed, and yet, damnable irony, she hesitated to walk through it; why did it feel so much like surrender? Heart pounding, she retreated instinctively, searching for the security of the banter that was familiar territory. "Hmph. Were there no young ladies in the Commots? I seem to recall someone once implying that one was as good as another."

Taran cocked his head at her shrewdly. "I never said that, though I'm sure what I did say was just as foolish. And yes, there were plenty of young ladies in the Commots." At her sudden, involuntary frown he grinned, and she realized she'd just given him a perfect target.

"Taran of Caer-" She swallowed the rest, whirled around on her heel; ostensibly in annoyance but really to give herself a moment to reign in a burst of unbridled happiness so intense it threatened to pulverize her self-possession into dust. He was teasing her; nettling her deliberately in a way he had not done since before Mona, and she wanted to sing with the joy of it.

"It's not done this way, you know," she chided, turning back on him with dancing eyes. "You've already been wearing that sword for months. I learned the ceremony at Dinas Rhydnant, but I also learned all the rules involved. And it wouldn't be proper to do it now."

He quirked an eloquent eyebrow upwards. "Hm. You care about propriety, do you? Mona has changed you more than I thought."

She bristled; this really was annoying, the dare in it less so than the realization that he instinctively knew the right words to disarm her. How dare he be so mysterious himself and then see right through her?

For a long moment she faced him, gaze level, a trifle irritated, until she realized that all trace of jest had disappeared from his face. In its place was an intense expression she had seen once before, and for a moment she smelled salty air, heard the crash of surf, felt the blood rush warm to her face and the breath swell heavy in her chest. It was an expression she had dreamed of often in the intervening years, though there was more in it now: the wisdom of experience, the refinement of suffering, the joy of hope renewed, the frustration of dreams deferred – yet at its core it was still a yearning, waiting question, one that now, as then, everything in her rose up to answer, to assure.

She stepped forward, closed the gap between them, took the sword from his hands. His fingers grazed her wrists in passing; she glanced at the battered battle horn that hung from his waist, remembering.

The blade rang from the scabbard again, and she held its naked edge up before her, stark in the space between them. Focusing on his face glowing behind it, she pulled the words from the recesses of memory.

"A warrior's sword is his constant companion."

She shut her eyes, reliving tapestry-hung halls lit with smoking torches, the smell of stone floors, the bright colors of regal raiment. Opened them upon a stable in various shades of gray, dust motes glittering in the sunlight, Taran's face before her, and thought it more noble than any of the faces of Mona's court.

"With it, he guards his life, his king, his country."

She saw the same face, years previous, grimy from the dirt of Achren's dungeons, white with grief at the supposed death of Gwydion, yet set and determined as he declared his intention to travel to Caer Dathyl and warn the Sons of Don of the coming attack.

"Wielded with valor, it brings honor in battle, justice to the wicked, and vengeance to the traitorous."

His face again, etched with terror as he threw himself between her and a giant, horn-crested shadow; wracked with pained resignation as he agreed to Ellidyr's self-serving demands; blazing with helpless fury as Magg leered from the shadows of Caer Colur.

"Wielded with wisdom, it brings liberation to the oppressed, protection to the weak, and fulfillment in the service of others."

The same face, weeping openly as he cradled the head of the dying Adaon; lingering regretfully over an iron brooch before it disappeared into an old crone's gnarled fingers; glowing radiant in the light of the Peledryn as it woke her from a walking nightmare.

"I charge you to be thus; a warrior worthy of his sword."

It occurred to her, somewhere deep in the back of her mind, that he had already fulfilled most of the charge without using a sword at all, and she thought not many could make such a claim.

The flourish of the blade as she saluted him came at the expense of an hour of Teleria's longsuffering instruction, but the kiss she placed upon the hilt needed no prompting. Deftly she sheathed the blade again, gathered the belt in her hands and looked at him expectantly.

When he did not move she cleared her throat. "Raise your arms."

Taran blinked, as though shaking off a dream, and raised them. She hesitated for a heartbeat, then leaned in, willing her hands not to tremble. He was slim, but it still took the full span of her arms encircling his waist to find the end of the belt, and for a moment she was surrounded by the earth-and-woodsmoke smell of him, his warmth, his solidity. His chin brushed the hair at her temple, and her fingers, abruptly clumsy, fumbled and almost dropped the belt.

"I thought you said all those things didn't apply to Assistant Pig-Keepers," he murmured, his breath feathering on her cheek like the brush of a butterfly wing. She breathed in once, slowly and deliberately, and leaned back from him, with a sensation a little like relief, to fasten the buckle. "I suppose I'm as guilty of speaking foolishness as you, then. But in any case, I think you are more than that now."

Finished, she straightened, looked him in the face. His arms lowered; his hands caught hers and curled them to his chest, and her own pulse throbbed audibly in her ears. "If you believe that," he whispered, "then I will try to become so."

"But you don't have to try," she answered, laying her palms flat against the thick wool of his jacket, as though to push the words into his heart where he would believe them. "You already are; I can feel that much, but I don't…I don't know yet how much. You're like…like that sword, all plain and rough on the outside, but worth more than a thousand more refined underneath." Frustrated at the insufficiency of words, she dropped her forehead to his chest, staring unseeingly at his feet, searching inward for the right thought. Once again the faint scent of woodsmoke rose around her - applewood; they always burned apple at Caer Dallben when they could…

Without warning she pushed herself upright, realizing with regret that the arms he had just begun to curve around her shoulders fell away in the process. That could wait, however; she had to make him understand. "Do you remember what I told you, about climbing the apple trees? How every year they are new, and you have to learn them all over again?"

A fond, reminiscent smile curled the corners of his mouth, drawing her eyes, irresistible; she swallowed hard and continued. "You're like that, all made over and grown new, and I…have to learn you again." She pushed at him slightly for emphasis. "And you haven't been making it easy."

Taran's eyes clouded; she felt the swell of his chest as he sighed, "Eilonwy," and was silent for a long moment, until she thought he was not going to speak again. Then – "I have no wish to cause you pain." He spoke earnestly; his hands gripped her shoulders, compelling her to listen. "If I have been distant, it has been to spare you my own…worries, my uncertainties. I can..." he paused again, took a breath. "I can make you no promises, and it seemed better to speak little than to say that which might bring false hope, or…disappointment. Perhaps I have been mistaken." There was self-doubt in his face; anxiety, but a wan smile broke through it. "You may think me more now, but where you are concerned, I fear I am still a dense and blundering Assistant Pig-Keeper."

She laughed, and pressed a fingertip to that alluring corner of his mouth. "Well, at least that gives me a familiar place to start."

Eyes kindling, he snatched her hand, pulled her into his embrace. She thought swiftly of Mona beach, colliding noses and the salt on his lips, the fluttering awkward sweetness of it, but no…this had changed, too; now it was a mingling, melting away into crimson and gold, blood and fire…and it's about time, she laughed to herself, silently, but he felt it in the changed shape of her mouth, and broke away to look at her, his breath broken against her face. "What is it?"

She sighed, and settled herself more securely within the circle of his arms. "Just…when you do decide to communicate, you're remarkably eloquent. For an Assistant Pig-Keeper."

He threw his head back in a real, honest laugh, the first she had heard from him since the journey had begun. A sounding of the bell from the guard tower interrupted him; she counted the peals and frowned. "Bother! That's a summons for the whole castle. Smoit must have an announcement."

His arms tightened one last time and released her with obvious reluctance; the air felt colder when he stepped away and she wrapped her own arms around herself; but she was warmed within, and her smile was content. Missing her at the stable door, he turned, and she studied his profile, the tall, straight shape of him, dark against the light. He cleared his throat. "Aren't you coming?"

"Yes. I was just thinking," she explained, "how much that sword suits you."

He glanced down at the blade hanging anew at his side, and rested his hand comfortably on the pommel, as on the shoulder of an old friend. "You were right, you know. We are alike, it and I," he observed. "Only now, it lacks nothing, and I…" he raised meaningful eyes to her, worlds behind them. "I am still waiting."

Taran held out his hand; she took it, and stepped with him through the open door.