#gritting my teeth. my job cut my work hours in half severely and i admit its kinda been shitty but gah. everyone got cut its not just me

[bingobongobonko]

maybe i shouldnt have. er. bought glasses but like i went for the cheapest option too so im mad as hell that i barely cut it w rent this month still -_-

[manikas-whims]

Turmeric Milk

A sequel to my other Kanej fic Holi

[Read on AO3]

Ship: Kaz Brekker X Inej Ghafa

Summary:

Modern AU

Kaz had told his neighbour Inej that he'd call up his doctor friend to get his wounds treated but she stills decides to check up on him.

And with a weird drink at that..

Note:

I've decided to turn this Modern AU into a series.

Hope you enjoy this one as well ♥

Kaz rouses from his slumber due to the noise of the cellphone buzzing and sits up, accidentally hurting the wound on his chest. He represses a hiss and looks around, finding himself on his living room’s couch. The wall clock that his eyes land on, make him realize its past seven at night. Great, sleeping at odd hours. Pushing off the duvet, he scrambles to his feet, a jolt of ache shooting through his bad leg. Immediately, he seeks purchase in the arm of the couch, taking deep breaths to help himself endure the ache.

His phone buzzes again and he picks it up in annoyance. ‘W. Van Eck’, the screen reads and Kaz sighs, receiving the call.

“What happened?” He grunts out.

He can hear a loud huff from the other end. “You know Kaz, those shouldn't be your words to initiate a phone conversation.”

He rubs his eyes, trying to bite back the string of colorful words at the tip of his cursed tongue. “What do you want, Wylan?”

There’s a long pause. “Jes and I wanted to check up on you.”

“I’m doing quite alright.” He grits out as calmly as possible.

“Listen Kaz, if you need–”

“I’m not a child Wylan. I can take care of myself.” Kaz reminds him. He likes his crew because they do their jobs perfectly well but thats all he expects of them. His health and personal lifestyle is none of their concern.

“..kay, I understand. Rest well.” Wylan mumbles and disconnects the call.

With that, Kaz tosses his cellphone to the couch and limps towards his bedroom. Its about time he takes a much needed bath and orders his dinner.

By the time he’s done, he changes into another pair of trousers and lets his towel dangle around his neck. There's several drawers in the side rail of his bed. He crouches down to open the middle one and rummages out a first aid kit from within.

Grabbing his cane from the mattress, he walks out to the living room. Immediately his eyes take note of the duvet falling off his couch and the half-filled bottle of brandy but he chooses to ignore them. He’s not in the mood for tidying up. He simply picks up his cellphone and places an order for hutspot from the Kooperom, a diner nearby. It should take around twenty minutes to arrive and as such, he decides to address his injuries.

He sits heavily onto the couch, placing his cane in his lap and pulls out a roll of gauze and a flask of liquid disinfectant. Dousing a cotton pad in the disinfectant, he starts swiping the cut that trails diagonally from the right side of his chest down to his navel, just like he'd done earlier in the morning. That punch to his face had blinded him for a moment and another Razorgull took advantage of that. The teeth of that man’s knife tore so callously through his skin that Kaz winces several times during the whole cleansing. Finally as his hand reaches for the gauze roll, the dinging sound of the doorbell interrupts him.

The food delivery guy can’t make it this quick. A single father and his son run the whole diner by themselves. The thought makes Kaz gaze uncertainly at the door.

The bell rings again and this time Kaz stands up with his cane. He takes slow steps, snaking out a revolver from behind a painting next to the door and then turns the knob.

“Ohh God!” a feminine voice shrieks, making Kaz flinch.

His deep, coffee irises clash with a pair of dark brown ones and he scowls. Its none other than his next-door neighbour— Inej Ghafa. She’s forgone her shimmering traditional garbs and is sporting a set of faded blue silk pajamas. Her long, flowing hair has been pulled together in a single braid. And she has a small jar full of something yellow in her hands.

“The hell!?” He grits out.

She flushes at the sight of his bare torso as she speaks, “I just came by to check up on you.”

Really? Kaz lets out an exasperated sigh and glares at the jar of the unknown yellow. His lips curl in memory of that excessively-sugary Indian sweet that she had shoved in his mouth this morning. He’s not falling for her words again.

Her own eyes follow his and she smiles, lifting the jar higher. “Ah yes! I brought turmeric for you.”

He scrunches his nose in suspicion. “I don’t think I need it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Says the man with a gun.”

Exactly! And she must be scared of this sight. Not strike jokes about it. But he has to admit he’s quite pleased that she’s mentioning the gun instead of commenting on the cane in his other hand. She doesn't even flash a single pitiful glance like the others who come across him do.

“Anyways, may I come in?” She waits patiently.

“For what?” He asks.

“To make you a glass of turmeric milk.” She states, as if its the most normal thing to do for a neighbour.

“Again, I don't need that.” It feels like arguing with a saleswoman.

“But its good for health.” She informs wisely and her eyes stray towards his chest. “And it'll help you heal faster.”

He quirks a brow incredulously. “Fantastic! Just what I needed. Give me the jar and I'll make it myself.”

“Just like you said you'll call you doctor friend?” Her eyes rove pointedly over the injured state of his chest and she shakes her head. “I think I should do this myself.”

Kaz gulps. He knows he will regret this later. Yet something tells him that rejecting her hospitality will only make her more persistent. And its not like his significant belongings just lie around the house. She won’t be able to figure-out anything about him. Yeah but what kind of a sane guy greets a neighbor with a gun? He dismisses the thought instantly. Maybe she’ll just make her energy drink and leave. Maybe she won't consider him a sociopath at all.

“Come in.” He slides the gun in his pocket and opens the door wider.

Inej neatly puts her slippers in the shoe-rack before following Kaz into the living room. While he resumes his task of bandaging his wound, she watches quietly, making him feel self-conscious for the first time since he was fourteen. Now that he isn’t focused on interrogating her, he is unable to be as nonchalant as he had been minutes ago.

“Your job sure keeps you entertained.” She remarks. “I thought your line of work didn’t allow action to this..severity.”

Kaz regards her curiously. He isn’t sure he’s aware of what she’s talking about. Is she a spy from another rising gang? Is she vaguely suggesting she knows about his position in the Dregs? His hands twitch as they tie the gauze.

“You are a Private Investigator, afterall.” She adds.

Oh. Kaz nods in relief. Of course she's talking about his cover job. She probably learnt this as well from the building management.

“Ye-Yeah..things do get messy sometimes.” He confesses imprecisely and starts returning the disinfectant, cotton pads and the remaining gauze into the kit. He needs a shirt. He's never felt so nervous in a woman's presence.

Thankfully, she ends the awkward moment for the both of them. “I..I should start on that milk. If your apartment has the same layout as mine, the kitchen should be the next room from the gallery?”

He nods once and picks up his cane, heading ahead of her in the direction of his bedroom.

Upon his return, and with a shirt on, he notices the absence of his brandy from the table. A package with Kooperom's logo sits in its place. His duvet has been folded neatly, resting on one end of the couch. And his neighbor is standing in the center of the living room, a glass of yellowish, creamy liquid in her hand. He’s assuming its the “turmeric milk”.

“So uh..a delivery man came by just as you left.” She gestures to the package and continues, “I’ve put the turmeric jar on your kitchen counter. Just add a spoonful to your milk daily and you'll be back in shape in no time.”

She strides towards him and pushes the glass into his free hand. “Goodnight, Mr. Brekker.”

And just like that..she’s gone. What’s with her swinging by and departing so abruptly?

Kaz locks the door and sits by his folded duvet. Its interesting how she managed to clean this room within the few minutes he was gone.

He unpacks the food, picks up a fork and takes a bite of the meat from the hutspot. Fulfilling as ever. He takes another bite and looks at the glass in his hand. Reluctantly, he brings it to his lips and takes a sip, bracing himself for another weird experience. To his surprise, it tastes alright. And strangely enough, his muscles do ease a bit. Maybe having neighbors isn't all that bad.

Hutspot: a traditional Dutch dish of potatoes, carrots and onions. Sometimes meat is served as a side dish with it.

Turmeric: a spice regularly used by Indians in their cuisine. Its said to be a natural antiseptic.

Turmeric Milk: drinking milk with turmeric is good for health. even gargling with turmeric water (hot) is good for throat.

Anyways, hope you enjoyed reading this..:3

.

Read more Soc Fanfics, Headcanons & AUs here

(divider by @firefly-graphics)

[loveburnsbrighter]

Like a Blushing Rose

Written for a lovely anon who requested little embarrassing moments :) read it on ao3

"What was that?"

David freezes.  Maybe if he stays really still, Patrick won't be able to see him.

"David," Patrick says with a huff of laughter.  "I can still see you, even when you stand really still."

Okay, fuck that plan, then.  David relaxes.  "What was what?"  He says as breezily as he can manage.  (Nevermind that he's not breezy at his best.)

"David," Patrick says again, in his patented teasing voice.  "Did you belch?"

"Okay, firstly, that's a gross word and I hate it," David clarifies, because Patrick's vocabulary, as it turns out, is atrocious.  "And secondly, no, I did not.  That's a disgusting thing to do in public."

"Is it technically public if it's just us two in here?"  Patrick cocks his head, a show of innocence that's so full of shit, and gestures at the admittedly empty shopping floor.  

David bristles to hide the little shiver that just us two gives him.  "Please don't remind me that we're quiet," he snaps instead.

Patrick just laughs at him.  "Told you the cafe's Super Burrito was a bad idea."  

"You know what, this isn't a discussion we're having," David announces.  He hates how out of control he feels.  He hates that Patrick is having fun humiliating him.  He hates that he actually doesn't hate either of those things, that Patrick's savant-level ability to press all of his buttons with  complete accuracy gives him a little thrill that he's chosen not to poke at thus far.

The thing about the beginning of a relationship is that there's no way of knowing how the other person will react as you slowly become a little more accessible to them, a little more human.  In the scant few weeks they've been dating, David has tried to stay at his filet mignon for Patrick, and now he's unwittingly exposed himself at his Super Burrito.

"David, it's okay," Patrick says gently.  "There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"Oh my God."  David tosses his hands up.  "How are we still fucking talking about this?"  

He cringes, expecting Patrick to be cowed by this, but he should know better at this point.  Patrick is smiling at him, endeared by David's harshness rather than repelled by it.  "Would it make you feel better if I burped, too?"

David's jaw actually drops in horror.  "No, it would not.  Literally at all."

"Okay," Patrick says, holding his hands up in surrender.  "But I just want you to know that there is really nothing to be embarrassed about.  You can't always control your body, right?"

David really doesn't know how to handle Patrick's blend of teasing and gentle sincerity right now.  Humiliation wars in him with his desire to let it go, because for some reason Patrick hasn't turned away at him, even after doing something as disgusting as — he has to swallow a gag at the thought — belching in public.  Finally, he sighs and looks at Patrick.  "Can we just drop it?  And never bring it up again?"

Patrick's eyes soften, though the teasing smile doesn't slip completely off his face.  "Consider it forgotten," he says.  And when he scrubs a firm hand over David's back, David lets himself think, maybe.  Maybe this, the first guy to still want to touch him after seeing his body betray him, maybe this one will work out.

There's a wet spot on David's shirt.  

It takes him a moment or two to orient himself — they're at Ray's, and Ray is out with a client.  It's their day off from work, and they're on the couch, and they must have fallen asleep watching TV.  Patrick's head is resting on David's chest, and his mouth is slightly open, and… 

Drool.  Patrick has drooled on his shirt.

David is first horrified by the drool on his shirt, because ew, and then he's horrified because in equal measure to his horror, he finds that he's finding this whole thing endearing.  And a bit relieving — finally, a tangible physical flaw, a little imperfection to prove that Patrick is a real person, who apparently drools in his sleep.

It's endearing enough that instead of leaping up and spot cleaning his shirt immediately, David finds himself petting a hand over Patrick's hair.  Patrick snuffles, and David does it again, encouraged.  When he runs his fingers between the shorn strands — not tugging, just seeing how it feels — Patrick sniffs and shifts and blinks awake, and David tugs his hand back guiltily.

"Mm," Patrick says, voice thick, not lifting his head from David's chest, "How long was I asleep?"

"About an hour and a half," David says, petting his hair again.

Patrick groans, wipes his mouth and lifts his head, and then he pauses.  "You got something…"  He points to the wet spot on David's shirt, and then stiffens.  "Oh my God," he says, and covers his face.  "David —"

"It's okay," David assures him, because for some reason it really is.  Because it's Patrick, and David has learned over the past several months that he'll make a lot more allowances for Patrick than he ever could have thought.

"It only happens when I sleep during the day," Patrick says from between his fingers. "I'm so sorry, I'll pay to have your shirt cleaned —"

"Hey," David says, pulling at Patrick's fingers.  "Don't touch your face, it's bad for your skin."  He succeeds in prying Patrick's hands away from his face, which is bright red.  David can't help but touch it; the warmth radiating off Patrick's skin is intoxicating, which is a thought he's interested in chasing down the line — but not right now.  "It's fine, Patrick."

Patrick chances a look up at him with the biggest set of puppy-dog eyes David has ever seen on an adult.  "But your shirt!  You're not mad?"

"I'm as surprised as you are," David tells him with absolute sincerity.  "But I guess…it's kind of…," he takes a long pause, looking for a word.  "Endearing."  He cringes, waiting for Patrick to react.

Patrick reacts by blushing harder, which David thinks is very fun and adorable of him, the bloodrush painting his ears, his neck.  "Okay," he says.  "I'm…really embarrassed," he admits.

"Mm, shocking," David can't help but tease.  "It's okay, Patrick.  I promise."

"Oh, you promise?"  Patrick shuffles up, eyes dropping to David's mouth.

"Mhmm," David says, smiling into the kiss Patrick offers him.  He pulls back and leans his forehead against Patrick's, and he can't help but think that maybe, at this exact second, everything really is okay.

They're driving home from a conference when he sees it.

David generally doesn't attend these sorts of functions, but this one was a one-day affair in Elmdale, there and back without having to stay in a dusty motel (Patrick had hit David with the driest expression in his repertoire when David had expressed this point), and there was a workshop called "The Power of a Cohesive Aesthetic," so David had agreed with what he considers to have been a very modest level of bitching.

The radio is on low and Patrick is relaxed, one hand on the bottom of the wheel and the other on David's thigh, chattering about the Greater Elms Business Association panel he attended, and David can't really be blamed for letting his attention drift a bit; watching Patrick's face move through his excitement is simply much more fun than actually listening to what the CFO of Elm Glenn's premiere laundry facility had to say about bargain buying.  They will not be applying that to the Apothecary, thanks so much.

David lets his gaze drift down Patrick's profile — the slight curl of the hair at his neck that says he's overdue for a cut, the stiff collar of his teal shirt, the strain of the fabric where he's rolled his cuffs up, the long, transparent sticker that reads XL XL XL XL down his chest — 

Wait a second.

"Um, Patrick, honey?"  David says delicately, completely disrupting whatever Patrick was saying about cheaper office supplies — although, actually, if Patrick wants to cut costs, carbon paper and premium colored ink are surely the places to do it.  "Is that a new shirt?"

"Yeah."  Patrick glances at him for a second, one eyebrow raised almost imperceptibly.  "You were with me when I bought this.  Do you not like it?"  He frowns.

David does remember — after being coerced into Kohls on the promise that he wouldn't have to try anything on himself, he'd actually quite enjoyed the little fashion show Patrick had given him, and it had gotten him into slim-fit jeans (he didn't buy them, but, baby steps).  And he remembers thoroughly endorsing this color on Patrick — it brings out his natural coloring a bit, so that even under the harshest fluorescents he doesn't look cadaverous.  That assessment is what probably led Patrick to wear it to a conference at a university, with its stupid economical lighting and paint jobs.

"I love the shirt," David says emphatically, because he doesn't want Patrick stuffing it in the back of his closet, never to be seen again.  "Um, it's just.  You've got a price tag..?"  He reaches over and delicately plucks at a corner of it; it separates from Patrick's chest with a soft ripping sound.  

"Oh my God," Patrick says; his eyes are on the road, but his ears redden considerably.  "Do you think that was there all day?"

"Um.  I don't think it magically appeared there halfway through the day.  So."  David cringes, trying to be sympathetic but unable to imagine leaving the house without checking over his clothes first. 

Patrick's face only flames further.  "I talked to so many people today!  David, I had a whole conversation with the president of the Greater —"

"Greater Elms Business Association, I know," David says, pained that he's in love with a man who cares about the opinion of the Greater Elm's Business Association's president.

"They must have thought I was an idiot," Patrick says miserably, shaking his head at the road.  "Damn it, and I really killed them with that joke about British accountants…"

David grits his teeth over that one.  "I'm sure they didn't notice.  I mean, I didn't notice, and I think I pay just a little more attention to your clothes slash body than the average person?"

Patrick's mouth twists.  "I guess that's true."

"Um, you guess?"  David paws at Patrick's shoulder playfully.  "When we get home I'll get you out of this shirt and prove it to you."  He tries for a sexy growl, knowing the effect will be more goofy (he's not really the growling type) and that it will make Patrick laugh.

He does laugh, just a little bit.  "I know what you're doing, David," he says, smiling sideways at the freeway, "and if you try to distract me now I will send us straight into a guardrail."

David pulls back.  "Wouldn't want that."  But Patrick's blush is almost gone.  "So…what else did you learn at your panel today?"  He knows he'll regret asking, but as Patrick lights back up and launches into a detailed description of whatever it is (so he's already zoning out, can he be blamed?) he's glad that he did.  He laces his fingers with Patrick's and watches his expressions shift and change, and humoring Patrick, pleasing him, lifting him back up is so easy and feels so good that David thinks he could do it for the rest of his life. 

[sher-soc-the-famder]

Two Truths and A Lie

Summary: Roman wanted to do some grand romantic gesture. Logan wanted to make it clear just what they wanted. Somehow, Deceit misses both intentions entirely.  Or maybe he side-steps them while lying to himself because if anyone manages to be worse than Logan at emotional vulnerability, it's Deceit.

Word Count: 4825

Pairings: Loceit, Roceit, Logince, Loginceit

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Misunderstandings

Notes: So uuuuh not quite the fluff that was requested? I did how ever get both mentioned ships, plus a bonus Logince and it ends fluffy! So I hope you enjoy it anon!

Read On AO3

My Dearest Deceit,

I apologize for not saying this to you in person, but whenever you turn to face me the light catches on your scales, and I find myself speechless. Within my kingdom I hold unimaginable wealth, jewels of untold worth. Yet, the pale in comparison to you. Your beauty strikes me, matched only by one other, and I lose the courage that I so pride myself on when it comes to speaking with you. If I could perhaps find the words that matched the feelings that overwhelm me-

When the first one arrived, Deceit almost missed it entirely. If he took a rare moment to be honest with himself, he would admit that he never expected any of the other Sides to know where his room was, let alone go out of their way to leave something at his door. Not that he would ever let anyone know that he tripped over the box left right by his door as he entered his room.

Deceit stumbled, righting himself before he hit the ground. He spun on his heels, shoulders already rising in defense. His eyes landed on a small, now somewhat dented, cardboard box sitting by his door. Peculiar.

He gritted his teeth and reached out to prod it carefully with his foot. He skittered back. Nothing happened, and Deceit eyed the box warily. Either Thomas’s mind had conjured something for him- unlikely- or someone had left it for him. The thought made almost less sense than Thomas making something for him, even unconsciously.

Deceit knew exactly how he stood in the Mindscape. He was fine with it. It better helped him do his job. Affection wasn’t needed to protect Thomas.

Deceit crouched down and poked at the box again. Only when it still did nothing, did Deceit pry the top open to see what sat inside. He stared, mind going blank at what he saw. A bright yellow bouquet of flowers, lined with purple ribbons sat inside. His colors. And on top, with Roman’s elegant scrawl, an envelope baring his name.

Deceit slammed the box closed. He took a deep breath. A trick. It had to be a trick or a prank of some sort. Roman most likely had gotten bored, and thought up something to amuse himself. Deceit pressed a hand to the top of the box. This though, seemed almost thoughtlessly cruel. Pretending to hold affection for amusement seemed to run more up Virgil’s alley than Roman’s.

Deceit tapped his fingers on the box. A small worm of doubt wriggled through his thoughts. What if it wasn’t a trick?

He hissed through his teeth. He didn’t have time for this. Whatever Roman wanted, Deceit refused to humor him. Not when it already ached to watch the way he curled up with Logan in the common room. Deceit wasn’t Virgil. He knew a hopeless situation when he saw one, and he could move past it.

He stood up stiffly, the box gripped tightly between his hands. He strode robotically to his closet, shoved the box into the farthest corner he could and slammed the door shut. He stood in front of it for a long moment, hand resting on the wood. He took a deep breath and turned away.

He had work to do.

Deceit,

For an innumerable amount of time, I have held a firm belief that the emotion known as “love” transpired simply because of a chemical reaction. This still holds true, however, perhaps, a chemical reaction could mean something more. I will not ignore the situation between Roman and I, but such as a chemical is formed by several molecules bonding together, I feel as if there is something between us all-

Logan’s head rested on Deceit’s shoulder. Deceit breathed slowly, and inched his way out from the pile that Roman and Logan had dragged him into. He gently laid Logan’s head on Roman’s lap and walked towards the television. He flicked the screen off, the music from the movie’s title screen cutting out and dousing the entire room in silence.

He flexed his fingers, curling them in and out of fists. He didn’t know why Roman and Logan sought him out each day. All he knew was that it tore at him, clawing at his chest. He could fake it, could smile as if having their relationships shoved in his face over and over again didn’t hurt. It was better, easier than losing the fleeting precious moments that he got with them.

He was selfish.

God, he was so selfish. He’d tear himself inside out if it meant that he got to see them smile one more time. Had they not been in love with each other, maybe Deceit would have fought for them. He would have pulled out all his charm and grace to pull the object of his desire to his side. Only-

Only he wanted them both happy, and they were happy with each other.

Deceit reached out and brushed the hair out of Roman’s face. He could hear Patton still shuffling about, and felt safe in conjuring a blanket to tuck around the sleeping couple. They’d all assume it had been Patton in the morning that way. No need to worry about anyone thinking he had gone soft.

He straightened, throwing his shoulders back as he made himself leave the room. They wouldn’t want him there come morning anyways. He told himself that he didn’t want to be there either. It would be too warm and Roman would probably elbow him in the ribs and Logan would get them up at an ungodly hour in the name of a healthy sleep schedule.

Deceit slunk back to his room, keeping half an eye out for Virgil or Patton. Virgil had been strangely quiet lately; it set Deceit on edge. He hated the feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Anxiety and Deception pushed and pulled at each other too much for Deceit to feel like Virgil had just dropped their feud out of nowhere.

Patton on the other hand, had flipped from a wary distance to trying to mimic Roman and Logan and pull him into everything.

He didn’t know why. The thought itched under his scales. If he didn’t know their motivations he couldn’t act the way that they wanted. The villain or the anti-hero. Not only would it affect the tenuous relationships he had with the rest of Thomas’s mind, but it would make his job that much harder to do.

He fiddled with the edge of his cape, footsteps echoing down the empty hall. He froze. His eyes on a single envelope taped to his door. His name written on it again, only this time in Logan’s careful, clear script.

He couldn’t breathe.

Deceit snatched the envelope from the door, and stormed inside.

He hadn’t thought that Logan of all people would stoop to do this too.

My Dearest Deceit,

Do you remember the first time that we started to get along? A moment that has long been etched into my bones and filtered through my lungs. I’ll never forget the way my view of you changed, the blood tinted glasses I had seen you through shattered so thoroughly that I had to pick them back up to arrange them into stained glass instead. And oh, what a display you make. One day I hope you can see it-

They didn’t stop.

Deceit gritted his teeth each time he found another box with a gift inside of it. Chocolates, a new cape, a weighted blanket that must have been Logan’s idea, a chess set and more joined the flowers in the back of his closet. He wanted though, god he wanted it to be that they were truly putting that much thought into him.

His hands itched to pull the gift- objects, they weren’t gifts not really- out and put them to use. Sleep under the comforting weight of the blanket, to see the way the flowers would brighten up his room without clashing, to drink from the mug shaped like a coiled snake. He wanted to soak in the second hand love they offered him. He could pretend it was more than that.

The letters on the other hand, the letters stacked up on his desk. The envelops of the few that he had read sat scattered along his floor. He fiddled with the latest gift, a simple chain necklace that he could slip under his clothes and no one would ever have to see. Another comforting weight that could make going through his days a little bit easier.

He ground his teeth together and wished that he had the fangs Roman had accused him of having once. Perhaps then they wouldn’t feel comfortable enough to play this sort of game with him. He slammed the box closed and threw it at his closet, trying not to care when it collided with the door.

Paper crinkled in his hands as his fingers curled around the letter. He just wanted to know their motivations . How it would end if he didn’t keep them happy. When it would end, once they got what they wanted. They hated him, or at the very least didn’t trust him, which meant something had to have set this off.

He breathed out slowly and smoothed out the letter. His eyes scanned over the words written there, almost against his own common sense. Reading whatever the others were saying to him wouldn’t help at all.

His eyes caught on a simple line.

- if one were to compare us to a balance, then you would be the fulcrum in the middle, bringing the balance to us all-

Anger rushed through his chest. Deceit remembered a similar line in one of Logan’s letters. Something about being the middle ground between them, a much needed mediator. They wanted someone to help them with their relationship, nothing more. They probably didn’t want to bother one of the other two with it, so they had resorted to bribing him into it.

Anger felt so much easier to swallow than pain.

His fingers curled around the letter. He growled under his breath and crumpled the whole mess into a ball. He stomped over to his desk, sweeping the rest of the letter into his arms before dumping it all in his trash can. He refused to be used like that. If they wanted help, they could go to Patton.

He snatched the necklace up from off the floor and stuffed it into the back of his closet with the other untouched presents. Deceit sneered at the pile, viciously glad that he hadn’t used any of them, not if it meant falling for their tricks.

He slammed the closet door shut and resolved to find someplace to lock the trash up.

He didn’t think about the fact that he still didn’t want to simply throw it all away.

Deceit,

It has not escaped my notice that you have not been properly taking care of yourself. Proper nutrition, hydration and rest are necessary to perform at optimal capacity. Something we have noticed is of grave importance to you. I appreciate that you put Thomas first so rigorously, but I wish that you would take care of yourself in the same manner. You getting hurt is the last thing that we want-

Deceit tried to avoid them. It hurt somewhere deep in his heart to ignore them at all, but if there was one thing he had learned it was that no one would look out for him other than himself. He would keep Thomas safe, even from himself. From everything and everyone.

“Deceit.”

It took a concentrated effort not to react to Logan’s voice. His shoulders inched up fractionally as he strode past Logan without a second glance. He could see Logan’s frown out of the corner of his eye as tried to focus on heading to his next job. Thomas couldn’t lie to himself on his own.

It didn’t stop Logan from following along at his heels. Deceit fought off a frown of his own. He wanted Logan to leave. He wanted to pull Logan closer and never let go.

“Deceit,” Logan said again, sharper, and Deceit gave in to the ache of his heart just a little. He turned too smoothly to be completely human and felt disappointed when Logan didn’t flinch the way that he used to. He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at the other Side.

“Ah, Logic, I didn’t see you there.”

“Lie,” Logan said stiffly, his shoulders thrown back. Deceit tried not to care about the exhausted way that Logan held himself. He bit back the need to tell Logan that he’d take care of everything for a while, even if it was a lie. Logan wouldn’t call him on it and Deceit could work knowing that Logan was resting-

He shook his head of that thought, and stared at Logan instead.

“Ah, and here I thought that I was supposed to lie,” Deceit mused, studying his nails instead of Logan’s face.

“Actually, deceptions as you are based around is more than simply lying.” Deceit shoved down the warm amusement that curled around his chest at Logan’s lecturing tone. Logan didn’t care about him that way, if at all. “In fact there would be times in which speaking the truth would benefit a deception more than a lie-”

Logan cut himself off. Deceit watched him reach up to fiddle with his tie and then his glasses in clear nervousness that Logan would normally avoid showing. He didn’t want to feel proud that Logan felt like he could show emotions around him.

“You’ve been avoiding us,” Logan said bluntly. Deceit didn’t flinch but it was a near thing. “Why?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Deceit lied blandly, already turning to leave. He could call Logan on the game he’d been playing with Roman. The thought of it made Deceit’s stomach roll, and if he never asked, he’d never have to taint the few bright memories of them he had. He could keep lying to himself.

Logan’s hand shot out and wrapped around his wrist. Deceit jerked back in surprise but Logan didn’t let go. The warm touch seared against Deceit’s skin. He struggled against the urge to lean even closer to Logan’s body warmth and instead looked at Logan once more.

“Lie,” Logan said quietly, his frown almost etched on his face. His grip on Deceit’s wrist tightened. “Past data shows that you were fine with spending time with us until only a few days ago, at which point your usual behavior changed drastically. We were unable to puzzle out the catalyst that caused the changed, and agreed that I should approached you about the situation.”

Deceit rolled his eyes.

“Maybe I want some time to myself,” he said sarcastically. “I’m still doing my job. There’s nothing you have to worry about. I’d be a moron to duck out like Virgil. Go back to be a loving family without me or whatever.”

“Ah,” Logan said carefully, “You believe that I am speaking about all of the other Sides.” Deceit tilted his head to the side in confusion. “Come,” Logan tugged on his arm, “It would be more expedient to show you rather than explain.”

Deceit thought about refusing. All he had to do was tug his arm out of Logan’s grip and disappear. He was good at that. If he didn’t want the others to find him, they would never manage it. Logan’s grip felt warm against his skin, and something in Logan’s voice pulled him in the direction that Logan wanted.

They stopped in front of Logan’s room. Logan let of of Deceit’s wrist and his eyebrows twisted as he focused. Logan stumbled as a tray of mugs appeared in his hands, and Deceit shoved down the urge to help him balance. Logan nudged his door open, gesturing for Deceit to enter.

A lump laid wrapped up on Logan’s bed.

“Roman,” Logan called out and the lump groaned.

“I’m heartbroken,” Roman said back, a distinct whine in his voice, “Leave me alone to wallow and die in my pain. There’s nothing you can do for me, my love, he’s rejected us-”

“Roman,” Logan interrupted him. “I brought tea and Deceit. He thinks that all of us missed him for not doing his job.”

Deceit blinked, only to stagger back as Roman’s weight slammed into him. Arms wrapped around his waist and dragged him towards Logan’s bed. A fragile hope bloomed in his chest. He tried to ignore it even as Roman all but shoved him into the bed and curled up into his side.

“Falsehood! Lies! Blasphemy!” Roman shouted, gripping Deceit tight enough that his breath caught. “You’d better have told him-”

“I did,” Logan finished, settling in on Deceit’s other side with a smug look on his face. He handed Deceit a mug. Deceit took it robotically, trying to process everything that was happening. Logan’s shoulder pressed against his and Roman plastered himself against him even more than he already did. “It may take some time for it to register however.”

“Fine, we’ve got all the time in the world.” Roman’s voice ghosted over Deceit’s throat as he slung a leg over Deceit’s effectively trapping him in place. Not that Deceit wanted to move. Logan cracked open a book at his side and Roman hummed against his chest. Deceit opened his mouth to say something, anything, only for them both to shush him gently.

“Cuddle time is quiet time,” Logan said.

“Cuddle time is quiet time,” Roman parroted and Deceit caught Logan’s lips twitching upwards out of the corner of his eye. He felt lost, treading water he couldn’t see through but he didn’t dare disturb the moment. He leaned back against Logan’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

He thought about pulling their letters out of his trash can.

He thought about letting himself hope again.

My Dearest Deceit,

Your passion burns like a fire untamed. It lights up my life with flickering energy and a heat that I dare not shake. Your eyes turn to molten gold, such that I wonder what you could mold with them. Could you reshape the world? You have certainly reshaped mine. The way you debate with Logan shakes the foundation of the room and I wish for nothing more than to watch your resplendent figures clash for the rest of my life-

Anger coursed through Deceit’s veins and he ground his teeth together. He straightened as much as he could, trying to loom over Logan despite them being the same height. Logan glared right back at him, tapping his foot. A part of Deceit wanted to reach out and shake Logan until he saw sense.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Logan snapped at him. Deceit snarled at him. Logan looked down his nose at him. “Thomas loses nothing by telling the truth. Admitting to an honest mistake means that he can accept help and learn-”

“His reputation,” Deceit hissed back. Frustration licked at the back of his throat. He had thought- hoped- that talking to them more would help them see his side of situations like this.

“-and learn,” Logan spoke over him, jaw set stubbornly, “what he should do in such a situation next time around. He cannot do that if he doesn’t-” Logan flipped through his flash cards and held one up, “-‘come clean’ about the encounter.”

“He can learn it on his own,” Deceit countered. Frustration itched under his skin and he wanted to run. Run until he didn’t feel anything anymore. Until he could go back to trying manipulate them into what he wanted without guilt blocking the way. The thought of doing that now made his stomach curl up into knots. “He can learn and maintain his reputation at the same time.”

“He won’t learn as well!” Logan’s hands curled into fists. Any other time Deceit would have admired the storm in Logan’s eyes and the cut of his jaw. Now it made him want to scream. Logan took half a step forward. “Feedback from peers is scientifically proven to help improve new expertise in a skill. Thomas would learn more efficiently and reliably with help from others.”

Just get rid of me then why don’t you? Deceit bit down on the words that wanted to drift past his lips. Bitterness turned the normal excitement of a debate with Logan into something unshakably negative. Just like he was apparently. He tried not to think of Logan’s speech denouncing him, the one given before they had started to get along.

What if Logan’s thoughts on him and his function hadn’t changed at all?

“Deceit,” Roman tried to cut in, a hand coming up between the two of them. Deceit shoved it down, desperation fueling his actions. If he wasn’t heard now, when would he ever be?

“They’ll judge him,” Deceit grasped at straws, well aware that he sounded like Virgil in that moment. “They won’t ask him for help as much, which will affect his relationship with them and set Virgil off. He’ll lose standing with them, and then everything will fall apart.”

“You are allowing cognitive distortions to get in the way of your thinking,” Logan pinched the bridge of his nose and adjusted his glasses. Roman glanced between the two of them hovering awkwardly. “You’re smarter than this Deceit, on moment of honesty about a mistake will not ruin his life.”

“No but he’s always honest about his mistakes,” Deceit hissed. His chest ached and a part of him just wanted to beg them to understand. To listen to him. “Honest about his thoughts and his feelings. Honest about his mistakes and his actions. Honesty is the best policy, is it not?”

“Perhaps there is simply no use in lying,” Logan said, so simply that Deceit flinched back as if Logan had struck him. His heartbeat roared in his ears, muffling any other sound. He took a deliberate step back and looked away from the way that Logan’s eyes widened.

“Fine,” he said, amazed that his voice remained steady even when his hands shook so hard he thought his gloves were going to fall off. “Fine then. I can learn when I’m not wanted.”

Deceit tugged his cape tighter around his shoulders and sunk out before either of them could protest. He didn’t want to hear anymore of their lies. He would have felt almost proud of what they had pulled off if he wasn’t trying to hold himself together by the seams. He stumbled as he landed in his room and hated that he wanted to pull out the blanket they gave him to curl under until the whole world went away.

He wouldn’t duck out though. He wouldn’t do that to Thomas, and he would much rather find a way to shove their cruelty in their face than run away. He would make them regret their choice, just as soon as he figured out how.

Deceit’s eyes landed on the letters on his desk. He stormed over and swiped the neatly stacked pile into his arms. Heartbreak and anger and hurt mixed together and he didn’t think about his actions as he sunk back out of his room and into the kitchen.

Logan and Roman’s heads snapped up in his direction, but Deceit slammed the letters down on the table before they could say anything.

“You can keep your games to yourself,” he snarled at him. His hands stung from the force he had slammed the letters down. His heart ached from assumptions and hopes that had been broken. He should have known better.

Deceit slipped out before they could try to trick him once more. He didn’t go back to his room, instead he slipped into the shadows of Thomas’s mind. He wanted to get lost in them until he felt numb again. He never wanted to see either of them ever again.

Deceit,

At times, our functions clash. Deception is not always logical I realize, and perhaps that it why you are so fascinating. Roman once described it as looking through a fractured mirror, though what cosmetic furniture has to do with this I do not know. You are, almost frustratingly, incredibly intelligent. Thomas would be lesser without you, and in the end, my own life would be lesser-

Deceit didn’t know how long he curled up in the shadows. He backed himself into a metaphorical corner and tried to feed the flames of anger with his hurt. Mostly he just felt tired. He missed the days when what the others thought of him didn’t matter.

There were jobs that someone had to do, ones that would make kinder people balk. Deceit did them gladly, if it meant that Thomas would be happy. Patton would certainly never do it. Virgil might have before he became obsessed with being liked. Roman was too caught up in good versus evil. Logan would end up following the rest, by choice or not.

Which left Deceit.

Slow footsteps approached him.

“I’m not sorry,” he muttered, voice muffled by his arms and legs. He didn’t move to look up at them. He didn’t even twitch. He wanted to stay in the darkness between his legs and his cape, carefully covered by his hat.

One of them sighed.

A hand plucked his hat off of his head. The absolute dark around him lightened to something closer to grey. Fingers combed gently through his hair and scratched at his scalp. Deceit didn’t lean into the feeling no matter how good it felt.

“I am, however,” Logan said quietly, somewhere to Deceit’s right. A hand brushed against his arm, “I apologize for the way that my words came off earlier. Lying and deception, you have uses regardless of the morality involved.”

The hand in his hair slowed, and Deceit felt someone press up against his legs, shin to thighs. Roman’s broad shouldered form pulled him forward, into an awkward hug. Deceit didn’t fight him on the action, slumping into the hold. Warmer than his little ball, even if it would leave earlier.

“Beautiful darling,” Roman murmured, his hand in Deceit’s hair drifting down to caress his cheek. Soft against his scales. “Would you explain to us what you mean by our games?”

Deceit rolled his eyes.

“I’m not a moron,” he muttered to Roman’s shoulder. “You wanted someone to mediate your relationship, or to see who could woo someone else better. I couldn’t figure out which.”

Roman made a wounded noise in the back of his throat, and Logan’s hand rested against his arm. Deceit blinked as they all shuffled and he found himself sitting on Roman’s lap. Logan leaned against them both and and gently took Deceit’s hand in his own.

“Roman,” Logan said slowly, “has been singing your praises non-stop for weeks. It is enough that I am beginning to long for the return of the Disney anthology.”

“Logan!” Roman cut over Logan’s voice and Deceit felt something warm unfurling in his chest, “Spent those weeks looking up moral philosophers about lying and researching snakes because and I quote ‘I’m not going to lose just because he has pretty eyes and knows what he’s talking about.’”

“What we are trying to say,” Logan said quickly, and Deceit felt his lips twitch upwards at the flush on his cheeks, “is that courting you was never a game to us.”

“We love you!” Roman declared, hugging Deceit even tighter. Deceit carefully leaned back against his chest, wondering if he should trust them. They didn’t sound like they were lying. Logan’s eyes stayed steady on his face as he murmured.

“We wanted you to be happy.”

Deceit swallowed years of pain and bitterness. He clung to the hope that they brought with them, to the warmth that they offered. He wanted. They were offering, and trick or not, Deceit knew that he was too selfish to turn down what he wanted when it was right in front of him.

He twisted his hand so that he could grip Logan’s, and tugged the collar of his cape up with his other one.

“Well, you two have a shit way of showing that,” Deceit muttered, trying to hide his grin.

“Lie,” Logan said, something warm and bright in his voice.

And yeah, that one was a lie.

Dear Deceit,

We have discussed our feelings with each other and this much is clear: we love you. So much. You are an angel brought to us on high. You bring us a previously untold happiness. We hope, one day to show you just how much we care. Roman insists that we won’t give up, and I am inclined to agree. If you would have us, we’re yours.

Forever with love,

Logan & Roman

Idiots,

My room. Tonight. Disney and podcasts for cuddles. Or whatever. It’s a date.

Love,

Deceit

[alvaar-aldaviir]

Wondrous Tails: First “I Love You” (replacement) / Bandaging Wounds

("First "I Love You"" is a replacement for "Going on a Cruise")

Time Frame: Post Canon (years after Shadowbringers(?)), Minimal Spoilers for 5.0 end. Notes got long so they are under the cut.

Notes:

I continue to refer to Alphinaud as a Scholar instead of Academician for no reason but laziness and bad habits.

I understand the ‘time bubble’ issue of MMO’s, but for writing I subscribe to time actually passing between expansions. I don’t keep a hard and fast rule, but sort of lean toward roughly 1 year per expansion if not longer. Otherwise everyone would be mired under so much PTSD I don’t know how the Scions would get anything done, and please let my WoL breathe?

Somehow, someway, Alvaar has gotten the better of me and it’s eventual committed relationship polygamy with the Leveilleurs up in here. After actual months of telling myself no, I give up. If you hate that, pass on my stuff and have a great day.

Just for posterity, there will never be twincest. I don’t have a personal stance on people’s fiction about fictional people, but it just doesn’t make sense for the twins to me.

   The first time Alphinaud hears Alvaar utter those words, he’s seventeen. Seventeen and full of fire and determination to help right the wrongs of a thousand-year war and maybe redeem some of his own foolishness.

Seventeen and half scandalized to catch his Warrior of Light buried against Lord Haurchefant’s chest before they readied to infiltrate the Vault after Ser Aymeric.

It wasn’t as if he’d gone looking of course. Such things would have been kept a better secret behind a closed door and not front and center to whomever strolled into House Fortemps expecting an audience. But romantic subtly wasn’t... exactly Lord Haurchefant’s forte and neither was it Alvaar’s. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t known when it was the talk of Camp Dragonhead and the house servants anyway.

But it is perhaps the first time the Arcanist had seen any hint of the word “love” meaning something beyond dutifully repeated and expected phrases. Spoken as if it’s some personal secret, or more of a promise than just a response. Something alive and wild instead of the light and flippant ways he’d heard it used in Sharlayan and among nobility.

There’s a weight to those words that’s like aether humming in an incantation.

It means something when Alvaar says it and the Lord’s sharp features soften as he nuzzles into blond hair, and it means even more when Haurchefant answers in kind and some of the tension in the Bard’s shoulders ease. There’s a thousand words held in that phrase, like pages and pages of information distilled in a single line of arcane shorthand. History condensed into a lone footnote.

He never had to ask why Alvaar’s wails of pain as he’d held his dead lover mere hours later sounded like a heart breaking in two.

    The next time he hears them, it’s not quite the same.

He’s twenty (or was it twenty-one?) and farther from home than he’d ever dreamed. Fresh from facing off against Emet-Selch as they’d fought to save the First from destruction. Twenty and exhausted and content to doze quietly in the newly returned night alongside the beds two other occupants, arms draped over Alisaie and Alvaar both. He remembers feeling Alvaar’s knuckles brush his cheek, tiredly meeting the Bard’s gaze in the dark and hearing those words again.

They don’t mean the same thing, but it doesn’t overly bother him after the torture Alvaar had endured for the worlds. After the last several months Alphinaud had spent fighting sin eaters, stubborn short-term mindsets, and bitter loneliness in Kholusia.

Being called family, being called ‘home’ had only echoed what he’d felt too. The Scions, his Sister, and Alvaar, were what felt most like home. Not a large but empty feeling manor back in Sharlayan, cut off and indifferent to the world.

It’s a different kind of love but it doesn’t mean any less nor is it remotely insincere.

And even if there’s a faint disappointment in his heart he would never admit to, it’s fine. More than anything he’s simply happy that they’re still together. Still alive. Still able to fight and produce another miracle for the people of the First and the Source.

    He’s twenty-two and he knows Alvaar loves him deeply. He’s said it in every other conceivable way. Let poetry and sweet words fall from his lips or sent the meaning across in those brushes of familiar contact. Had the feeling burned into his body and mind more times than he could ever hope to keep track of...

But Alvaar hadn’t ever said it.

It’s silly and he knows it. He has no reason to doubt Alvaar and truly he knows the way the Bard feels for him isn’t anything less than his previous lover. That there was room enough in that gentle heart for all three of them. Jealousy is a terrible thing after all, so he convinces himself it doesn’t matter. Comforts himself and chides Alisaie gently when she inquires on it herself. Alvaar had been through a great deal of hardship and pain. And as they both didn’t doubt the depth nor truth of his feelings, the specific words should hardly matter.

    He’s twenty-three, and when Alvaar finally says them he barely notices. There’s too much blood, and Alvaar’s laugh is too weak and lilting from it. His mind is too busy on spells and incantations to register it as he works quickly.

Alvaar is fine. He’s always fine. He comes back beaten and bloody and smiling and laughing and visibly delights in being doted upon and taken care of. A routine scouting of the border wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near as deadly as the hopeless situations he’d been sent into before. He’s fine.

The Scholar is internally utterly terrified of course, but he knows from too much firsthand knowledge that there’s no room for panic as a healer. If he panicked, things would quickly turn into ‘not fine’ and neither of them had time for that.

So for right now, spells and aether humming in his veins, it’s fine.

        “Did you get a haircut recently?” Alvaar asks, letting Alphinaud clean, tape, and bandage his wounds. Magic had healed the critical damage and stopped the bleeding, but it would take time to heal the rest and a few more applications of white magic tomorrow. Cleaning and bandaging would ensure a smoother transition through the process, so it’s a step he takes anyway, perched on the edge of the medical bed while the Bard sits propped up against pillows.

“You should be taking this more seriously,” the Scholar returns flatly, pushing Alvaar’s hand away from his hair gently so he can keep working.

“I am. But I’m just so... very happy,” Alvaar murmured, a smile stretching across his exhausted face. “I made it back this time, I’m here, and you’re here, and it will work this time.”

It’s said with such offhanded confidence it makes the Scholar blink. “What? Alvaar you’re delirious, stay still.”

A hum of agreement rings in the Bards throat as he nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re done and listening. He said I didn’t say it enough... That when I made it back to be sure to tell you something.”

He wants to pay more attention to Alvaar’s curious words but there would be time for it later. Though he was comfortably stabilized and would no doubt make a full recovery in a matter of days with the Warrior of Light’s sometimes obnoxious recovery speed, it’s never something he likes to leave to chance. If he overlooked something now, it could be disastrous later.

“He?” The inquiry slides off his tongue in a distracted manner, during which his moonstone carbuncle chirps with interest where it’s bedded down along Alvaar’s legs.

“Don’t worry about it,” Alvaar replies, glossing over it as his attention shifts back to the carbuncle eyeing him expectantly. “Can I have my hand back now?”

Another deft turn of the roll of bandages, a swift snip of the medical shears, and a tidy tie off had him releasing Alvaar’s arm with a nod. “Sure. Other arm if you would.”

Swapping obediently, Alvaar quickly settled his freed hand into plush white fur, grinning brightly. “Hey Carbi... I missed you too,” he cooed, chuckling at the fond chirp and purr he got in answer. “You’re the best summon ever aren’t you?”

Snorting under his breath, Alphinaud keeps at his work until he’s finished, letting his summon keep up its job of distracting Alvaar’s focus from pawing at him so he can work in peace. Alvaar was always a good patient, but woozy with blood loss he sometimes got sillier than was helpful. It made his moonstone carbuncle an utter lifesaver, and there were few helpers he would rather have working beside him. Though he had long developed more potent summons, Alvaar’s preference and the sheer number of revisions and intricacies of its design had left moonstone as one of his masterpieces. The patient bedside manner and attentive nature had made it a nursemaid second to none, and given the way it was currently cozied into Alvaar’s side and subtly keeping him quiet and still as it soaked up affection like a sponge, it remained a staple of his repertoire for good reason.

Inspecting the last of his work, he gives a satisfied nod before starting to pack things away. After almost seven years of chasing Alvaar’s shadow and tending to his wounds, his first aid is as neat and tidy as an experienced chirurgeon. A far cry from his fumbled and panicked work the Bard had coached him through with grit teeth in Coerthas. It’s only once he sets the supplies back on the shelves that he finally gives himself leave to think about anything but healing.

He’s seated back at Alvaar’s side before he realizes he’s made the steps, a bandaged hand curling warm at his jaw and pulling him closer until they bump foreheads together. It’s a movement that he’s long used to, a familiar gesture that helps to quiet the panic that had boiled over in his chest if not the emotion that threatens its place.

“I would appreciate it if you would refrain from frightening me like that again,” Alphinaud murmured softly, a faint tremor in his voice but refusing to cry. Alvaar was fine! There wasn’t any reason to overreact!

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Was the best I could manage,” Alvaar replied in the stilted way he picked up when he was exhausted. Given how much harder he was leaning into the Scholar, none of it surprised him.

Making a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat he leaned the faintest bit back into the Warrior of Light, soaking up the steady warmth that wicked off him and the silent reassurance he was still there. “Just... be more careful next time. For now you should focus on healing.”

“Thank you for saving me Alphi,” Alvaar whispered with a heartfelt gratitude.

It was enough to make the Scholar flush. “I... Any other healer would have done the same.”

“Maybe. But any other healer wouldn’t be worth me dragging myself back to. Sides, Alisaie was too far,” he joked fondly.

Alphinaud tutted under his breath, pulling back to grip Alvaar’s face in his hands and press a featherlight kiss to his brow before burying his nose into soft golden strands. “Jokes aside, thank you for coming back. If scaring me half to death means that you’ll pull through, then I would take that burden every time.”

There’s something about the way Alvaar relaxes into him, the faint breath of a sigh before tension eases out of his neck and jaw, that has always meant the world to him. It was too many emotions to articulate clearly, but it always made his heart feel warm. Reminded him that even if he wasn’t able to command the same fear and awe as the Warrior of Light, to be a brilliant blade that cut through the dark and evil that threatened them, the rallying cry that brought their forces to victory, what he could do was no less important.

All great hero’s needed a home to return to, else they would eventually feel they had nothing left to fight for.

“Alphi?”

“Yes Alvaar?”

Pulling back enough to regard him a moment with scrutiny, the Bard leaned in with a purposeful ease, lips brushing against his chastely for a moment before murmuring something against his skin.

This time he heard them. Felt their movement and the warmth of them against his lips and burning against his skin. Poetry and promise and providence all in one.

“I love you.”

It was no big deal. It was a sentiment he’d always known from 1,001 things Alvaar did all the time. Something he had long convinced himself didn’t matter. A phrase used over and over until it’s meaning was practically lost.

But oh.

Oh...

How those words shook him to the depths of his soul and cut him in two regardless.

    He’s twenty-one again for just a moment. Full of questions and a heart fuller still with longing, listening to Alvaar speak of love he’d known with that easy and sincere air of his. Brutally honest as ever.

Love was ruinous. Love would destroy you in ways you didn’t think were possible. Love was thirst and hunger. And all your days, when you’d known the taste of true love, of something that clutched past your heart and into your soul, you would always want for more of it.

In the present with his face buried against Alvaar’s shoulder, tears welling over and soaking into clean white bandages, he feels like a beast half starved.

“I would really like it if you stayed,” Alvaar murmurs, still running his fingers along the Scholar’s back soothingly. He’s infuriatingly casual for having just reduced his lover to tears. If he hadn’t just spent an hour healing and bandaging him up, Alphinaud would probably have swatted him.

Instead he just nods.

He’d never been very good at refusing that particular request anyway. Even when he was the one chastising Alvaar on why sharing a medical bed was in poor interest of his health.

But it’s late, and he’s tired, and nuzzling into the warm muscle of Alvaar’s shoulder he doesn’t want to leave anyway. So, he pulls himself up onto the bed fully, curling up beside him and keeping his cheek settled against the Bard’s shoulder that’s free of bruises. He knows he won’t sleep well but the situation is unfortunately familiar enough he knows that he’ll still get plenty of rest for tomorrow’s troubles.

“Alvaar?” he asks softly after they’ve both settled into the pillows, sheets, and each other accordingly.

“Yea?”

“You really need a shower.”

It has Alvaar laughing enough to make him wince, “Brat... don’t make me laugh that hurts.”

Alphinaud just smiles softly and hums an amused note as Alvaar settles further against him.

“Alvaar?” he asks again after a few minutes, getting a soft grunt of acknowledgement.

Shifting enough to study the soft and unguarded profile he’s sketched a hundred times before from memory, he presses a brief kiss to the Bard’s jaw and settles in for sleep.

“I love you too.”

[ryder-s-block]

Jaig Eyes (Ch 52)

Jaig Eyes (52/?)

Summary:

Kida, a former slave who now thrives as a bounty hunter, finds herself sucked into the war she advised Jango Fett against. Now that she’s involved, she has to finally mourn the loss of Jango, seeing his face in the clones that man the GAR. What happens when she allows herself to get attached to one, not for his resemblance to her former mentor, but for his heart?

————————-

Chapter Fifty-Two: The Lightsaber

“Ah, welcome,” Bendu’s voice echoed as I made my way across the coral-like plains of Atollon. My ship’s engines were barely even cooling and he already sensed my presence, greeting me as I descended into his pit. “A new person approaches me this day,” he commented, sitting back on his haunches to regard me. “You are far less loud.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at my friend. “I’ve spent some time thinking about what you said. And had some experiences that better helped me understand.”

Bendu smiled gently. “You’ve listened to your crystal. I hear it now. It no longer screams as it once did.”

“No, but it’s still broken.”

He regarded me with his deep gaze. “Are you? Still broken, I mean.”

I breathed slowly, considering. “I have my scars, I’ll admit. And I’m sure I’ll get more. But no. I’m not broken. Not anymore.”

“Then it’s time your kyber was the same way. Are you ready?” He leaned back, gesturing to the cave I’d already entered once before.

I closed my eyes, drawing out my pistols and putting them on the ground. Pulling forth my ancestor’s lightsaber and the new kyber hilt, I clipped them both to my belt. “Yes. I’ve reassembled this countless times,” I breathed, touching the saber at my hip. “I can do it with my eyes closed.”

“Forget all you’ve read,” my friend suggested, shocking me. “Forget all you’ve studied. Your saber must be your own. You will be tested. Trust only in the Force.”

“I will,” I assured gently, walking into the tunnels with as much confidence as I could muster. 

The air was stale. Potent with the scent of decay I knew came from the spiders. They were ancient. Maybe even as old as Bendu, who I knew had watched empires rise and fall. I couldn’t sense them, but I felt their eyes on me. Heard their pinchers clacking with curiosity. I walked on, letting the Force guide me into the tunnels.

Aware of Bendu’s thoughts following me through my journey, I focused on keeping myself centered. Now understanding the creatures that lurked here, I knew they would react as I did. Fear wasn’t an option.

I walked for likely half an hour beneath the surface of the deserted planet before I felt drawn to a particular junction. It was parted five ways, with a long wall on one side. It was almost...reflective.

I stepped up to it, feeling it calling for me to sit before it. Kneeling and ignoring the hiss of the curious spiders that were blocking my exits, I drew out my lightsaber and new hilt, placing them on the ground before me. Closing my eyes, I let the Force take over, feeling the pieces lift and separate in the air, revealing the broken kyber crystal.

It hummed with pain. Loss. And hope.

I felt a whisper of the Force, opening my eyes to see my crystal floating before me. Further, in the reflection of the wall, I saw a shadow that looked nothing like me. The shoulders were wider, but the stature shorter. I looked boyish.

I was drawn to this unknown shadow, both by blatant curiosity and the gentle nudging of the Force. My fingers reached past my suspended crystal, the shadow mimicking me. As the pads of my bare hands touched the reflection, the other hand met it, the reflection clearing from a shadow to an image.

The boy before me was likely eight or nine, his skin tan and hair cropped short. He was wearing Jedi robes, some frost sticking to the edges. 

I pulled my hand away sharply, the boy I recognized as a young Remulus Dreypa doing the same. We stared at each other, our shared crystal floating between us. I shoved down my fear and emotions, feeling the spiders behind me reacting.

Stilling myself and my whirlwind of a mind, I reached back out, prodding Remulus to do the same. Pressing my hand firmly against the wall, I could almost feel the heat of his hand against mine. And then his fingers curled, growing longer and stronger, emerging from the wall to link with my hand roughly.

I tried to pull away again, on instinct, as his face warped to grow older, his eyes turning a menacing yellow. Gritting my teeth, I felt the spiders hiss in anxiety, edging closer as I pushed down my panic. I closed my eyes, feeling the pull of the mirrored wall as it tried to drag me into what I feared most.

I steadied myself, turning my free hand to be palm up, resting easily on my lap. I stopped pulling from Dreypa’s grasp, letting him hold me and glare through the wall. I looked him in the eyes, steeling myself.

“I do not fear where I come from. Nor do I fear the past. My gaze lies ahead now,” I announced to the room, the spiders stilling as I spoke calmly. Clenching my jaw, I dared him, “Do your worst.”

He only smiled at me, his grip becoming less severe as image faded to a slightly lighter complexion, his eyes turning a warm golden color.

“Rex,” I whispered, earning another silent smile. Behind him, I saw the image of Qui-Gon. Yilria. Jango. Boba. Fives. Echo. Obi-wan. Anakin. Padme. Ahsoka. Merl. Rouva. Cody. Hardcase. Jesse. Kix. 

My family. 

I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth they brought me, even though they weren’t here. And when I opened them, they were gone, the wall a dark stone, rather than reflective. And my crystal was glowing. Fractures ran through it like veins, but it wasn’t cracked anymore. It was healed.

Scarred, like me. But no longer broken.

Concentrating in my meditation, I let the Force guide the pieces, ignoring how I’d once put it together when I practiced. Lifting my hands to better guide myself, I turned the mechanism over as it came together, watching the kyber slide into its place eagerly. The sleeve slid over the finished version, sweat beading on my brow as I allowed the Force to guide everything into its perfect position.

I felt the click in the Force more so than I heard it.

Standing slowly, I reached out to take the hilt from where it floated, feeling eyes on me in the darkness. The saber felt...right...in my hands. Strong. Powerful. But peaceful. Hopeful.

I thumbed the activator, the blade igniting to life. It shined a brilliant white--a symptom of a healed crystal, Bendu had told me--illuminating the cavern.

As I held my blade high in the air, I was shocked to find there were no spiders near me at all. It had been my worries. My fear.

When I let it all go in the reflection of the mirror...I let them go, too. And now I could get to work.

------------------------------------------

The blade came to my hand easily when I called for it through the Force, igniting in its blinding white brilliance. I spun it in my grasp, slicing my cuffs, before holding it at the ready.

Dooku glared at me through the holoprojector. “Kill her.” I thrust out my hand, throwing Sobeck backwards and into the projector, cutting off the count. The special units leapt into action, but I deflected their bolts easily, rolling sideways to slice two of them in half before deflecting the last two back at the final ones.

I would’ve stuck around to finish off Sobeck and take down the Citadel from the inside, but the command droid was already calling squads our way. I could even hear the destroyers rolling down the halls.

So I bolted, hurrying from the room and sprinting down the halls, saber in hand. I made my way to an elevator, calling the button to bring me back up towards the holding cells, where I assumed Obi-wan and the others were being taken again.

Break-out...take two. 

The lift doors hissed open, revealing a squad of unsuspecting battle droids. “Hey!” one of them yelled as I smirked before them, lifting my lightsaber for them to see. “Blast her!” They didn’t get the chance as I surged into the lift, slicing them down easily.

In reality, Piell was right. A lightsaber really was so much more effective.

The lift brought me up quickly, opening to reveal even more droids. Oh boy...this wasn’t going to be very easy.

Still, the bounty hunter that still resided in me revelled in the chance to finally use this weapon in the open. I recalled what the armorer had said. “Swear to wield this weapon with the honor of a Mandalorian...Use this weapon wisely, young Fett.

I gave the blade a little flourish with an easy smile. “Hi guys,” I said, earning the attention of the dozen droids there. They all turned with fright, but had little time to react as I leapt forward, dodging through them easily. 

The longer I wielded the blade, the more at ease I became. I felt myself connect with the Force...flow with it. I knew where to put my blade. To deflect a shot. To sweep through a droid. I knew where to step. To dodge. To deflect a shot. To get in close.

It wasn’t until all the droids had fallen that I became aware of my knelt form, lightsaber thrust behind me. I panted, finally feeling fatigue from the use of both my body and my mind. Disengaging the saber, I hooked it to the front of my belt easily to assess the room. The droids were scattered in pieces--something I’d achieved with ease with my use of the Force. Maybe I should consider implementing the lightsaber and the Force when I worked my usual jobs. It certainly made things easier.

Then again, maybe it made things more dangerous, too. Higher stakes. Higher prices. Higher threats.

A comm beeped from one of the droids, drawing my attention. “To the hangar! To the hangar!” a droid cried through it. “The prisoners have escaped!”

Ah. So they didn’t make it to the cells after all. I glanced around, grinning when I spotted a window at the far end of the hall. Conveniently, it was in the direction of the hangar.

Just what I needed.

I raced towards it, leaving the droid parts behind. The sound of destroyers echoed down the far hall, moving to cut off my escape. Well, I wouldn’t allow that, especially considering I could hear the beginnings of a battle outside. As they rolled into my way, I grounded my stance, pushing my hands towards them.

And with my hands, the Force shoved forwards, launching the destroyers backwards and through the window. Yay. No glass shards in my face this time. I followed them shortly, leaping down onto a platform above the landing pad. Turrets were firing endlessly into the hangar below--likely at my fellow escapees.

Without even thinking, I rushed forward to the blinding shine of the spotlights. Igniting my lightsaber, I slashed through the base of the turret closest to me, spinning away as it sparked and slid forwards to crash into the hangar.

As much as taking out a turret helped the plight of my friends, it only drew attention to me. The next turret turned in its base, aiming at me. “Uh oh,” I muttered before leaping backwards, barely dodging the twin green blasts it shot at me. 

With the closest turrets turning to aim at me, I knew there was no more I could do up here but be killed. I turned and left the death trap behind, leaping into the hangar to join the others. Droid squadrons began to enter the area, emerging from the hallways of the Citadel, as I raced around the corner of the shipping containers.

The clones in 212th yellow nearly shot me as I came around, all seeming shocked at my escape. My lightsaber wasn’t ignited anymore, but it was still easily seen hanging from my belt.

Piell eyed me as I joined them, giving me a small grin. “Nice to see you didn’t need a rescue.”

“Never,” I smiled back, peering around the corner to see our situation only getting worse as more droids joined the fray. “Though you seem to always need one.” I received some looks from the Kenobi and the clones alike, but Piell only chuckled at my teasing. 

Shots sounded from behind us, a familiar tremor rippling in the Force. We turned, seeing Anakin’s group racing over the rocky surface of Lola Sayu. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw Echo and Fives, as well as Rex and Ahsoka, all doing well and fine.

Perhaps the sense of dread I’d felt while saying goodbye to Echo and Fives had only been my paranoia, rather than the Force.

“Sorry I’m late,” Anakin joked as he joined us at our cover.

“How nice of you to join us,” Obi-wan responded easily with equal sass, earning a smile from his former padawan. Ahsoka moved beside me where I was looking out at the hangar, Tarkin kneeling as well.

“The ship is surrounded,” she announced, clearly getting tired herself.

“We need to launch a full scale assault and take that vessel!” I turned slowly, already knowing which worm was talking. Tarkin.

“I thought you were a renowned military leader, Captain,” I bit, earning some looks from the others present. Notably...Rex. “Take a second to take in your battlefield. Rushing out there will get us all killed with those turrets up there.”

“She’s right,” Obi-wan allowed, though I could sense his distaste at my bitterness. “If we don’t take them out, they will use them to destroy the shuttle and prevent our escape.”

Tarkin threw up his hands in exasperation. “Which is precisely why we should get aboard that shuttle and use the weapons systems to decimate those droids!”

I was going to say something back in a snarl, but stopped when Anakin rose to his feet. “Whatever we’re going to do,” he said, sounding as annoyed as I was. “We better do it fast.” He lifted his hand, pointing in the direction his squad had come from. I followed his line of sight, seeing a squadron of droids on STAPs, heading our way. They open fired on us, everyone diving out of the way. I rolled to the next container, joining Fives and Echo as they worked to take down the droids storming the hangar floor.

Aiming my wrist gauntlet skyward, I fired the fibercord at one of the oncoming STAPs, watching it wrap around the battledroid’s leg. I pulled hard, putting my whole body into it, before smirking as the droid was pulled from its mount and sent hurtling to the ground.

While the Jedi took care of the rest, I drew my lightsaber, getting in front of the brothers to help defend them. “Nice to see you again,” Fives joked while he joined my side and fired his blaster at the oncoming droids. Echo moved out from cover right after him, throwing a detonator under one of the approaching spider droids.

I grinned at them both as the droids went down, only for the hangar doors to hiss open again. Sobeck’s special units, equipped with shields, emerged from the interior hallways, heading right for us. “Stay behind me,” I ordered, crossing my saber in front of my body, creating a ready guard.

As I deflected the incoming fire, Echo through another detonator. Unfortunately, while they did well against battle droids, these commandos were sturdy. They were flown backwards, but quickly found their feet again.

We ducked behind the crate again, my energy beginning to sap with all the Force use I’d been putting in that day...not to mention all the running.

“As helpful as that thing is,” Fives muttered to me as we pressed our backs to the metal container. “I don’t think it’ll be enough.”

“We’ll figure it out,” I assured him, breathing heavily as I examined the landing pad. Our odds were pretty grim. Especially since I spotted a commando droid climbing up to one of the turrets they’d shot a droid out of earlier.

“General Skywalker,” I heard Echo say into his wrist comm behind me. “A droid is manning one of those turrets. They’re gonna blow up the shuttle, sir.”

We looked up as the turret’s hydraulics hissed and groaned, aiming skyward. That didn’t make sense… the shuttle was-- 

Anakin and Piell were both on a STAP together, zooming at top speed towards the turret. “Get ‘em, General,” Fives whispered as he and his brother peered around the corner with me. It was said almost like a prayer, rather than an encouragement.

Whatever deity he was praying to wasn’t listening. 

The turret caught the STAP in its front, sending both Jedi tumbling to the ground, their ride destroyed. We ducked behind cover again as the commandos began to advance on us again, Anakin and Piell racing for cover as the turret’s blasts followed them across the hangar. 

“This is our only chance,” Echo said beside me, taking my place at the corner. “We’ve got to stop him.”

I steadied myself as Fives nodded, stepping out after his brother, who was scooping up one of the shields a commando had dropped. As I turned to stop them, connecting myself with the Force, I was struck with a vision.

I didn’t see much, but I was struck with the same sense of dread I’d felt when I’d said goodbye to the brothers. When I’d feared I wouldn’t be there to protect them. My body turned cold, my breath hitching in my chest. 

I saw a scorched clone helmet.

“Echo, look out!” I heard Fives call from only a few feet in front of me. Echo was rushing forward with the shield, making his way onto the gangway. 

“Fives,” I said urgently, grabbing shoulder pauldron and turning him away. “Move!” We dove backwards as the turret’s blasts struck the shuttle, blowing it….and my friend...to pieces. I was nearly blinded by the amount of brutal grief I felt from the clones. And Skywalker and his padawan. 

“Echo!” Fives screamed beside me as he found his feet. I looked over my shoulder, lightsaber hilt in hand. Echo’s helmet laid on the hangar floor before us. Scorched and destroyed. Just as I had seen in my vision.

“We have to go now,” Obi-wan commanded from behind us, lightsaber still up to deflect oncoming shots.

I swallowed past the emotion I felt not only from those around me, but from within myself. I touched Fives’ shoulder, glancing at him. He didn’t look at me for a second, before his head finally turned. I saw my own teary eyes reflected in the black visor.

He pivoted with me, shoving down his grief as I did, before running to catch up with the others as they raced towards somewhere to hide within Lola Sayu’s deadly landscape.

----------------------------------

Author’s Note:

I know a lot of you wanted me to save Echo. However, I chose against doing that, not only because Echo’s death plays an important role in Fives’ arc, but also will tie into the next season coming out.

I don’t want to lock myself out of potentially having Kida in the new season one day, if I mess with canon TOO much. 

As always, likes/comments/reviews/shares are always appreciated.

-Ryder

[ricky-corderbro]

Raindrops keep falling on my head || Ricky & Orion

In which driftwood is collected, thoughts are scattered, and everybody get too wet for their own good. 

Ricky was, by his very nature, a social creature (literally). He loved being around other people, loved feeling that energy, but even as social and extroverted as he was, there were still moments when he just needed to be by himself. Which is why after his morning run he’d found himself down at the beach near his house. Since Harris Island catered to the upper crust, the beaches were generally deserted in the morning, since it was more of a “martini lunches” kind of community. It gave Ricky ample opportunity to prowl the beach in search of some driftwood he could use in his art. People online paid what was truly a ridiculous amount of money for driftwood sculpture and “conversation pieces” and Ricky found a decent enough supply of it on the beach outside his home to keep his bank account pretty nicely stocked. It helped his state of mind that the February morning was cold, with a decent wind tousling his hair. He naturally ran hot, because of Selkie biology, and he preferred being outside in the cold, feeling the cold sand between his bare feet and the wind against his bare arms, only clad in the tank top he’d done his morning run in. He sang softly to himself as he gathered up the wood the storms had tossed on shore, an old lullaby his mother had sung to him when he was young. “A leanbh mo chléibh go n-eirí do chodhladh leat. Séan is sonas gach oíche do chóir.” He was not that close to on key, but, he’d never been a strong singer, bad hearing prevented that, but as the wind carried the soft words of his song away the crashing waves also served to stop him from hearing someone else approaching on the sand.

Orion was avoiding his family. He had slept at the abandoned Scribe Headquarters the night before, something that had become more and more frequent. His family barely even questioned it anymore, buying the all nighter at the library excuse because honestly, what else would someone like Rio being doing? As far as they knew, he didn’t have any friends. He barely did. As long as he showed up for training and lessons, they didn’t seem to really care where he disappeared to. So while he had some time to kill before he had to be back at the Quinn household, Orion avoided his home by strolling down to the beach on Harris Island. During the summer, this place would fill up quickly and stay busy for the majority of the day. But this was the early hours of the morning in February. The wind blowing off the water made it feel even colder and Rio clutched tried to sink deeper into his hoodie to shield himself from the morning air. He had expected the place to be completely empty but was surprised that someone had already beaten Orion to the beach. The closer Orion got, the more details he could make out about the man. For how cold it was, the man was barefoot walking through the sand with nothing but a tank top and skinny jeans to provide shelter from the winds. He didn’t even look cold. Orion was already curious about the man before he could got close enough to get a better look. The man was… really attractive, for lack of any coherent thoughts that Orion seemed incapable of forming at the moment. Maybe it was for the best if Orion forgot about the beach and just went ahead and headed home. He could grab a shower before training. Unfortunately for Orion, he had been too busy staring at the stranger that he hadn’t been looking where he was going. His fought caught against something on the ground, and with a yelp he felt face first onto the cold, frozen sand.

It wasn’t until someone tripped and fell flat on their face that Ricky’s terrible hearing told him he wasn’t alone on the beach. He turned to see someone trip and hit the hard sand and tossed his bundle of of driftwood to the side “Oh shit!” Running over he offered a hand to the young and admittedly cute as hell man to help him up, “Definitely not the kind of weather you wanna be rolling in the sand in. Warm sand is better than icy sand for sure.” The guy looked vaguely familiar, and Ricky couldn’t quite place where he knew him from, racking his brain as he waited for the guy to grab his hand, “Definitely thought I’d have the beach to myself this morning. Usually people avoid it during the winter, so it’s the best time to wander it.” He did a quick once over to make sure the cute brunette hadn’t cut himself on something before offering up his most glittering smile, “I’m Ricky, by the way. Welcome to the wonderful world of getting sand outta your hair!” 

Orion should have known that he couldn’t get out of the situation without finding a way to embarrass himself. Though he wished he could have done it less painfully. The sand was cold and hard, packed so tightly together that it refused to budge when Orion’s face collided with it. Even worse, the man had witnessed it happen and ran over, handing out a hand as an obvious offer of help to Orion. Up close, the man was even prettier, which made Orion want to bury his face back into the sand. Orion sighed deeply, trying to avoid driving himself into complete panic mode, he grabbed onto the man’s hand and let him pull Orion back up onto two feet. “It’s not as soft.” Orion agreed, wiping at his face to try to wipe away any grains of sand that may be sticking there. At least there were some perks to face planting at a beach in winter. The frozen sand made less san stick to his face, and the cold air made it less obvious how hard Orion was blushing. “Um. Same here. It’s a little…” Orion took stock of the man standing in front of him, probably about half a foot taller than Orion himself. He was barefoot with a tank top on. Not exactly February attire. “Uh cold. Aren’t you freezing?” Orion was freezing in a long sleeve shirt, hoodie and track pants. “Ricky?” Orion questioned, immediately picturing his online conversation with the master of self-confidence, “Like, three nice things in a mirror Ricky? I’m Orion! Or Rio. Uh… we talked online. About self-confidence.”

Feeling his smile grow even brighter by several orders of magnitude, he nodded vehemently, loose curls flying around his face, “Three things in a mirror Ricky! And you’re my fucking favorite constellation dude! Are you saying the nice things? Do I need to pull my Ricky magic and just fucking teleport and make you say them?” Rio’s hand was shockingly warm as he dragged him back up to his feet. He wanted to brush some of the sand from the other man’s hair, but, remembering the difficulty with which Orion had even agreed to saying nice things about himself, Ricky thought that physical contact was probably a big no. “Huh?” He looked down at the torn black jeans, tank top, and bare feet and realized that to a normal human, like Orion apparently was, and not somebody gifted with Selkie biology and body heat, he looked like a crazy person. “Not really. I love the cold. If it’s too hot I just feel gross and lethargic. Cold always perks me up. It’s like my gramma always says, craiceann fuar, aigne gear… cold skin, sharp mind.” He scratched idly at his shoulders, fingers tracing the whorls of the tattoo that poked out from under his shirt without really thinking about it, “Do you need something to wipe the sand off your hoodie? You can use my shirt. I promise I put it on right after my shower this morning, it’s not like gross or anything.” The smile stayed bright, if a little less manic as he beamed down at the shorter man, “What brings you to my beach this blustery day?”

“Oh uh that’s me! I’m saying them, I promise.” Orion laughed nervously. He had been trying, truly. Though usually he could only think of basic things, like ‘your hoodie looks nice’ or ‘good job surviving training’. But it was a start. He was mostly surprised that Ricky had actually remembered him. As the two talked, Orion casually wiped at the sand that had stuck to his hoodie and pants. Orion understood preferring the cold to the heat, but there was still a line to be drawn. But he figured that was Ricky’s business, not his own. Orion couldn’t quite catch the words spoken until Ricky said translated them, but the foreign language made Orion perk up. “I love that! Was that… Gaelic?” He guessed, unsurprised by the fact that a foreign language was what could work to break Orion out of his shell. But Ricky offering the shirt off his back was just enough to shove him right back into said shell. “Oh uh no, no! I don’t want to do that. It’s fine it’s just sand.” Orion shrugged and chuckled through gritted teeth. His arms were bad enough, he didn’t need the whole package to have to avoid staring at. As things were now, Orion was trying to focus on a particularly dark patch of clouds drifting towards them instead of making eye contact. “I was just killing time before heading home. Nothing exciting. You?”

“Good. Nobody wants to see me in the mirror behind them in the morning…. Well…” Ricky scratched the stubble on his chin thoughtfully, “They do… but not like that.” he had to admit he was a little surprised that Rio could pick Gaelic up by sound alone. Most people forgot that it was an actual language, “It was! My mom was from Ireland so I grew up speaking it, and since my dad’s from Venezuela I grew up speaking Spanish at the same time. Son of two immigrants I’m just like the walking American dream.” Rio’s body language and tone took a sharp turn after he’d made the offer of the shirt, and Ricky quickly pivoted the conversation, “Collecting driftwood.” he gestured to the pile left abandoned behind him, “Got some orders to fill. Middle class folks just love driftwood home accessories. GIves them that whole ‘on this is only my summer home’ vibe and they’ll pay well for it.” He felt his eyebrow raise a little before chuckling, “Killing time on the beach in February. Sounds like a damn cold escape. But it is nice to see a friendly face out here.” 

Orion’s eyes widened at the obvious innuendo and a nervous laughter escaped his lips. He had to admit that the self confidence was impressive. After Orion was done laughing, a genuine smile rested in its place. The confidence was endearing and not something he was used to. Except on Athena, where it was not nearly as appealing. “I love that! That’s so cool. I’m really interested in learning about different languages. Spanish is actually on my list. I mean they’re all on my list. But since I can’t feasibly learn all the languages, I have a top five that I want to start with.” He realized that he was rambling now. Something he tended to do when he was nervous or overexcited. In this case, both. “Orders to fill?” Orion asked curiously, eager to shut himself up, “Oh? For the art? I think it’s really cool that you make things for others and sell them. That’s impressive.” Orion gripped at his hoodie, scratching at his arm nervously and eventually crossing his arms to stop himself from fidgeting. He couldn’t help how awkward he got around people, especially attractive people, but he had practiced ways to make him appear a little less awkward. Or at least he hoped that it did. “What? No! Not escaping at all. Just uh wasn’t ready to go home yet.” Orion was back to laughing nervously, searching for something else to say. Anything else to say. “Homework! Once I get back to the house I gotta start on classwork and I’m avoiding that like the plague. But I agree! About the friendly face.  Oh and thanks for helping me up by the way… I don’t think I said that before.”

“Well hey! If you ever need someone to practice your Spanish with, I’m around!” It was nice to see what appeared to be a genuine smile come to rest on Rio’s face, “It’s also cool that you have a top 5 list of languages to learn. I just speak like…. three and a half and I think that’s probably where I’m gonna stay.” Ricky chuckled a little as he started to pick the pieces he’d left on the sand “yeah. People need their decorative driftwood candle holders or side tables. Though it’s not nearly as impressive as you’re making it sound. It’s just what I do. Some people teach. Some people are scientists. I’m just a dude in a workshop playing with some wood… which came out wrong I’m so sorry.” Rio practically radiated a nervous energy, which wasn’t what people usually were like around Ricky. It was a little unnerving, and a little upsetting if he was honest. So much of Ricky’s energy and life was spent making the people around him happy and comfortable, not being able to do that here made his brow crinkle slightly. “I don’t fucking miss homework. God. I’m almost done with my masters and it’s mostly practical assignments now. If I ever have to write another paper again I’ll cry. I was…… not a strong student. Shall we say. Pretty much the opposite. School was always super hard for me.” His laugh cut through the wind and the waves brightly “you don’t gotta thank me for that my dude. Just what I do…” the thought trailed off as he looked up and saw some pitch black clouds he hadn’t noticed before coming in very fast from the East, “huh……. that’s…… not great”

“Really?” Orion asked, a bit of wonder apparent in his voice. There was no faster way to learn a language than immersing himself in the language and culture. He started in baby steps, listening to the music, changing the languages on movies to the language he was learning. Eventually working up to changing his phone and laptop languages to his language of choice. But having a practicing partner would be even better. “I would love that. And three and a half languages is super impressive. Uh- What other languages do you know? English, Spanish… Are you fluent in Gaelic?” Orion asked, immediately excited. Certain languages were pretty common around the area now, so seeing one of the rarer languages was incredibly exciting. “Don’t sell yourself short. I bet your art makes a lot of people super happy. Their days are better because of the art you make. That’s gotta be pretty cool.” Orion’s breath caught at the accidental innuendo and he scratched nervously at his neck. For how cold it was outside, his face was surprisingly warm. The blushing must be intense, but he hoped that Ricky just assumed it was the cold air on his cheeks that was making Orion flush. “Schooling isn’t easy. I think having a good professor makes a huge difference on the level of difficulty a class is-“ Orion was interrupted by Ricky’s statement, noticing the dark clouds rolling up against them. The wind had picked up as well, and Orion could tell that rain wasn’t too far behind. Scratch that, just a few moments later Orion felt the first few drops against his skin. The rain was here now.

“Oh yeah dude. I mean half the time I talk to myself in not-english and I talk to myself a LOT. A partner wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. At least somebody would be talking back. He fiddled with the bundle of wood in his hand as he listened to Orion ramble, which he seemed to do a lot. Ricky wondered if it was nervousness around a stranger, nervousness around a hot stranger, or just a general state of being, “I am. I’m fluent in Gaelic, Spanish, and English… and I’m like…. Moderately passable at ASL. I’ve got pretty terrible hearing, and I can read lips really well, but one of my other friends who’s also hard of hearing uses ASL a lot and I’m trying to get better at it for her.” He couldn’t help but laugh at Rio’s incredibly earnest compliment, opting for a gentle shoulder punch as the safest form of physically expressing his thanks, “That’s real sweet of you, Rio, but this shit doesn’t make people happy. They just feel momentarily fulfilled because they bought something and they can brag about it being artisanal. Some of my stuff makes people happy. When I make someone a piece of furniture. Or carve them a box in the shape of a weeping willow that they put pictures of a loved one in because they’d spent a lot of time together under a tree like that. Something make people happy… just not driftwood shit.” When Rio started talking about professors and helping make classes easier Ricky had been about to interject that no, he was just legitimately not that smart when he felt the first drops. “Fuck.” Before the word was even fully out of his mouth the gentle hiss of a drizzle on sand had turned into the sound of full-blown torrential downpour, interjected with peals of thunder and flashes of vivid lightning. “My workshop is right up the bluff!” He pointed towards the stairs leading back up, and the peak of the roof just barely visible over the edge, “We can wait this out there if you want!” Without really waiting to hear Rio’s response he started running towards the safety of the workshop, and the warm dryness it represented. 

Orion was so excited to be talking to someone that knew so many languages that he was actually passionate enough to talk to this complete stranger. The rambling wasn’t exactly ideal, but it was better than the alternative. Curt responses and stuttering. A staple of Orion’s conversations and one of the many reasons that he spent most of his time hiding out in a building that had been abandoned for forty years. He was even more excited to hear that Ricky was also learning ASL. He briefly wondered if the friend he was talking about was Skylar, but she had mentioned that multiple people had expressed interest in the language to her. Maybe there were just a lot of ASL users in this area. Regardless, it was exciting to know someone else that Orion could practice with as well. Though, he didn’t like hearing about Ricky’s theory about the furniture. Regardless of the source, whether it was driftwood or the weeping willow box. It all sounded beautiful. But Orion didn’t get much of a chance to tell him that, since the rain came rolling in way faster than expected. Ricky shouted something about a workshop and then took off across the beach, Orion following behind as quickly as he could. The rain pelted against Orion’s clothes hard enough to bruise. Ricky was just a blur in Orion’s eyesight, but Orion followed behind, leading up to the workshop and rushing in with Ricky. Despite what must have been only a minute or two out in the rain, water poured off of Orion’s body as if he had suddenly decided to hop into the shower fully clothed. He was shivering, the mix of cold and the pelting rain turning hands almost a purplish color, he could only imagine what the rest of him looked like. But after getting over the initial shock of the sudden change in weather, Orion finally glanced around the workshop. It was filled with art, works in progress and some that looked completed, or maybe they still had some work to go as well. But it was all incredible. “Holy… woah.”

It was…. Slightly uncomfortable having somebody in his workshop. Even Winston hadn’t seen it for the first month they’d lived together, and they lived together. Inviting someone who was a total stranger into it made Ricky nervous and as someone who didn’t get nervous… he was uncomfortable with the situation. “Uh… sorry about the mess.” He quickly turned on the space heater in the corner; while his ongoing curse meant he was cold as the grave constantly, he could see Rio’s hands literally starting to turn so pale it was worrying. He rooted around on a shelf in the back and pulled out an old sweatshirt proudly emblazoned with UMaine’s mascot, Bananas the Bear, and the words “Swim Team Captain” and “Cordero” on the back, “Here. you can put this on til your hoodie dries. You’re gonna freeze to death if you keep that thick wet thing on… like legit.” He awkwardly squeezed water out of his curly hair and shuffled his feet on the ground, “So uh…. Yeah. Workshop.” It almost felt like Rio could look directly into his soul. This room didn’t just house the things he made for others, it also housed the things he made for him. The schematics for his new hopefully-unsolvable-by-genius-draugrs puzzle box were scattered about a table, meticulously labelled. An unfinished sculpture of a man carrying a giant torch sat on the back bench. It was all, frankly, a little much.

The change in attitude was almost immediate from the moment that Orion walked through the door. The Ricky here in the workshop was a completely different person than the one that Orion had talked to online and the beach. He seemed nervous and a little more stiff in his movements. Orion got the impression that wasn’t used to others being inside his place of work, and didn’t seem to like it much either. Orion didn’t take it personally, of course, but decided that it would probably be best to leave as soon as possible. A loud crack of thunder from outside made Orion second guess himself. He would leave as soon as the weather cleared up. Soon, Ricky was handing off a shirt, way too large for Orion himself, and telling him to change into it to get into something dry. The shirt was from the college and had Ricky’s last name embroidered on the back, which he remembered had certain implications in high school that Orion would choose to ignore. But Ricky expected Orion to… change into this? Now? In front of him? Orion immediately stiffened up and felt dizzy. “Oh uh – Thank-thank you.” He laughed nervously, though the laugh came out more pathetic than he had hoped, “Do you uh.. have like a bathroom or some place that I can change into it?”

If Ricky was uncomfortable with having Rio in his studio, at least the other man looked just as uncomfortable. When he mentioned changing into the sweatshirt Rio’s entire body language and tone suggested he hadn’t had a high school experience filled with locker rooms. When he asked about the bathroom Ricky couldn’t help but smile weakly. “Uh not in here. Sorry. I just converted the garage. But um… “ he quickly scrambled for something. Rio couldn’t stay in the wet hoodie. It might legitimately be the death of him. “Oh!” He perked up slightly as his brain prevented what should have been the immediately obvious solution, “I’ll go outside!” He had a hand on the door knob before it clicked that this would mean leaving Rio alone in his workshop. With his art. His secret art. That he never showed anyone. And would probably burn before anyone saw it. But Rio was seeing it. Before he could burn it. Fuck. “Just like. Uh. There’re towels on the shelf there. If you wanna dry off. Use the ones on the shelf. They’re clean. Ones on the bench probs have varnish or stain on them. Just like, holler when you’re done.” Before Rio could object, which Ricky was sure he would, he dashed through the door, standing back in the brutal downpour. 

Orion was perfectly fine with freezing to death in his hoodie, rather than change in front of Ricky. And yet, the idea of Ricky willingly walking back out into the rain just to let Orion change in solitude was even more embarrassing. How selfish did Orion have to be to make Ricky do that? He tried arguing against the man, but Ricky was already fumbling with the door knob, yelling about towels and rushing out into the rain. As if it wasn’t just as dangerous for him to be out there, barefoot in the freezing rain. Orion sighed... it was too late now, he supposed. Orion grabbed one of the tells Ricky had pointed out before making his way over to stand by the space heater. Even alone, Orion was uncomfortable getting changed in this small space. But slowly, he peeled off the soaking hoodie, followed by the long sleeve shirt underneath that refused to unpeel from his skin. One strip pulled against a fresh bruise and Orion winced in pain but remained careful not to make any noise. The last thing he needed was Ricky rushing back in because he thought Orion had hurt himself. Once both were off he patted gently at the skin with the towel. As he did so, a couple of pieces from across the room. Charcoal sketches of Ricky, as well as a sketch of a child with a woman. Maybe Ricky and his mom? A chessboard that Orion had noticed when he first walked in (as a fan) but was just now realizing that it was a board that Ricky had built himself. There were also a few sketches of people that Orion wasn’t familiar with around the room. He finished dabbing at the cold skin and crawled into the sweater. It was massive on Orion, who was practically swimming in the material. The sleeves hung past his hands and the shirt went down to his mid thigh. But it was dry and warm and comfortable, so Orion couldn’t complain much. He was walking back towards the door when he stopped at the torch statue. From afar, it was a pretty immaculate statue. But closer it was even more beautiful. He could see the man rising from waves and tears falling from his face. It was hauntingly beautiful, a surprisingly sad sight coming from someone as confident as Ricky. Speaking of, he realized that he had spent too long snooping through the man’s personal art and leaving him alone in the rain. “Uh- Hey you can come in.” Orion yelled out towards the door, hoping it was enough for Ricky to hear him.

The rain was cold, so cold it almost felt like burning, in a weird paradoxical sense. But then again, that could have just been Ricky himself. The curse had stretched on for over a month now, and there hadn’t been a moment’s respite or warmth the entire time. Morgan had said that they were close to breaking it, and he believed her, it was just a little hard to see the silver lining when his very core felt frozen to listlessness. The garage lacked eaves, and therefor any way of protecting himself from the rain, but the force of the deluge was such that he honestly didn’t think it would matter. His teeth began to chatter, and all he could think to do was just start talking. Ghosts were real, maybe his mom was listening. “Not really a fan of leaving him in there, ma. But. Man’s clearly got some body related issues and far be it from me to judge any of those.” He continued his conversation with the empty air, fluid Gaelic slipping in and around the interruptions of the thunder until he heard Rio yelling from inside. Quickly ducking through the door he stood just inside, shutting it behind him and dripping onto the floor. The sight of Rio drowning in his hoodie was…. honestly a lot more adorable than it should have been, but Ricky quickly pushed that thought from his mind as he shot the other man a crooked smile. “Uh. Hey. So. I’m gonna take my shirt off. Because it’s cold and wet af… I just wanted to like…. forewarn you or something.” Turning back towards the door so his back was to Rio, Ricky stripped off the sodden tank top and let it fall to the floor. He knew either side of him that faced Rio there’d be things to raise the other man’s eyebrow. Ricky had a fair number of scars on him from misadventures in the ocean, it was just a matter of which ones he was showing off. “So……….. yeah. I’m gonna be honest with you man. I’m at a bit of a loss as to what to do here.”

Orion couldn’t help but feel miserable watching Ricky walk back into his own workshop dripping wet from the storm that Orion had inadvertently sent him back out into. Orion grabbed another towel from the stack and began walking towards Ricky, freezing when Ricky warned him about taking his shirt off. “It’s fine. It doesn’t bother me.” Orion claimed. He was only partially lying. An attractive guy taking his shirt off in front of Orion was bothersome, but not nearly as bad as the idea of Orion himself exposing his body. He could survive as long as he stayed clothed. Ricky turned his back, pulling the tanktop off. Orion went to look away, but the sight stopped him short. There were scars lining his back, not unsimilar to the ones on Orion’s. His head tilted curiously, focusing in on the wounds and wondering how Ricky had gotten those scars. But Ricky speaking finally snapped him out of the spell and Orion quickly looked away from Ricky’s body. “Uh, I grabbed you a towel.” Orion threw the towel over to Ricky and realized that though he was technically here by invitation, he wasn’t quite sure he was welcome. Orion wanted to talk about Ricky’s art, tell him how cool and beautiful it was. How talented Ricky was. But wasn’t sure if that was the right move considering it hadn’t been Ricky’s intention to show the place off. “Uh – Thanks again for letting me come over and wash it off. I don’t think the rain is that bad anymore. So I can probably head out now. Thanks again.” Orion awkwardly grabbed for his soaked hoodie and long sleeve shirt and then began heading towards the door.

As soon as Orion mentioned that it didn’t bother him if Ricky took his shirt off he could immediately tell that it did. Which was unfortunate because Ricky had been seriously considering ditching his jeans too, but it seemed like the sight of a guy only in some black boxer briefs might be more than the nervous young man could handle, “Uh huh…” as he slipped out of the shirt he couldn’t help but call Rio out on what was obviously a lie. “Thanks for the towel.” He turned to face Rio and catch the thrown towel before using it to dry his still sopping hair. When he was finished he draped it over his shoulders, using it to cover as much of himself as he could. Jagged scars stood out bright white against the darker skin he’d inherited from his father, and some of them involved stories he couldn’t really tell. Luckily, he didn’t feel the need to explain as Rio made some motion to start heading out into the deluge. Before Ricky could respond, a crack of thunder shook the small building and he looked through his damp curls at the other man, “Bullfuckingshit you are, Orion. It hasn’t let up a single goddamn iota and if you think I’m letting you go out in that you have another thought coming. I will strip goddamn naked and stand in front of this door to stop you but you’re definitely not leaving yet.” His inborn protective streak overrode his nervousness at having someone in his most secret sanctum and he tried to give what he hoped was a reassuring smile, “Do you like tea? I’ve got an electric kettle out here. And some really fucking dope lapsang suchong that I got from town the other day.”

Orion was being threatened, so apparently he wasn’t leaving the workshop. Not until the rain actually let up. Orion held his hands up in surrender and backed away from the door. He supposed he could hang out here a bit longer. “Uh sure, tea is fine.” Orion didn’t have much experience with tea, his family preferring coffee to anything else. But he could give it a try. He wasn’t sure that either of them were particularly comfortable with the choice, but it had been made. So Orion awkwardly set the wet tops back down and awkwardly strolled around the place as Ricky worked to get the tea ready. This time, he tried to be more subtle, not full out gawking at the art. He didn’t want to make Ricky uncomfortable. But he decided that if he were staying any longer than it was worth the risk to at least tell Ricky how great his art was. “Um…” Orion spoke aloud but couldn’t quite find the words to say. Instead, he began talking with his hands, putting together a few words that he had learned in sign language. I think your art is really beautiful. Suddenly, he realized that Ricky had said he just barely knew ASL. So he finally spoke, “Um… I think your art is really beautiful.” Orion repeated himself, speaking slowly and signing the words again as he spoke.

“Tea is always good. You’ll like this. It’s smoked over pine needles so it smells literally like a cup of campfire.” Ricky turned on the kettle and pulled two mugs down, carefully spooning the loose tea into a steeper. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Orion made his orbit around the room, obviously looking at everything. It couldn’t be helped; he knew he was at least passably talented and he’d invited the man in, but when Rio turned and signed out that he thought his art was beautiful, for some unknown reason Ricky felt a lump in his throat. He chuffed a laugh and nodded gratefully when the other repeated his phrase out loud, Thank you. He signed back, But beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I think I see more flaws than you do, you might be...  his knowledge failed him for a moment as he tried to remember symbols “Claonta.” he finally muttered out loud, his brain having to click through several languages to get his meaning across, “Biased.” He poured the water over the tea leaves and offered a mug out to Rio, “you should let it steep for five or so minutes, but it’ll be nice to hold. Warm you up. Plus it smells good.” 

Luckily, it seemed Ricky could recognize Orion’s signing. He signed back towards Orion, the boy being pleasantly surprised that he was able to follow the conversation. He was picking up quickly on the language. “Claonta” Orion mumbled to himself, wanting to hear the word from his own lips to get a feel of the language. Orion assumed that it was Gaelic. He would need to consider adding the language to his current list. After all, a lot of history behind Fae fell within Irish and Scottish mythology. If he was going to protect the creatures from his family, it couldn’t hurt to learn a language that some of them may still comprehend. At the very least, he could use them to help translate some of the older journals in the Scribe library. “I don’t think I’m biased at all. I don’t even know you.” Orion claimed, walking to Ricky to gently grab the cup from his hands. The mug was hot, but Orion welcomed the warmth, maybe it would give some color back to his skin. Not that he had much to begin with. “If anything, I’d say you’re the one who is biased. Spend too much time on something and you begin to obsess over every little flaw.” As he waited for the tea to finish steeping, he listened towards the walls, waiting for the rain to let up. He had bothered Ricky enough. Now it was time to go. “Are you selling any of this stuff? Or is it just for you?”

It brought a smile to Ricky’s face to hear someone, even somewhat clumsily, speaking the language of his heart, “That was surprisingly not terrible.” Their fingers brushed briefly as Orion took the mug, and Ricky found the somewhat strange and unwelcome thought in his head that he was sad he was still cursed, because he couldn’t actually feel what they felt like. That was absolutely not where his mind needed to go right now. “It’s my livelihood. I have to obsess over every flaw. If stuff starts going out flawed then… I’m up shit creek.” He took a slow orbit around the room, tea abandoned on the table as he looked over what Orion was seeing (not that he could even feel its warmth anyway). “It’s a little bit of both. Some commissions. Some just... “ His voice fell uncharacteristically silent, because it wasn’t used to speaking about these pieces. His hands haltingly rose to finish the sentence, Working some things out. He tried not to look at what was very clearly a self portrait in wood and metaphor but his eyes glanced over it quickly, “But. Enough about me. My heart’s pretty clearly and embarrassingly laid out here. Tell me about you. Why such trouble with being nice to yourself in the mirror?” 

Flattered by the comment, Orion scratched at the back if his neck nervously, “I’ve been told that I pick up on languages pretty quickly. But I am familiar with Gaelic a bit, so I know about the pronunciations.” Orion shrugged, trying to not make much of it, “Some of my favorite pieces of history come from mythology, and European mythology has all kinds of fascinating folklore, so I’ve come across Gaelic a few times while learning about those stories.” But the last thing Orion wanted to do was bore Ricky to sleep with boring history crap. And clearly, the last thing Ricky wanted to do was talk about his art, as he changed the subject pretty quickly. Message received. Even if Orion had no interest in talking about himself, he would bite. He was the guest after all. “Um, honestly I’m pretty boring. Nothing super exciting about me.” Orion started, finally taking a sip of the tea. The taste was a lot stronger than he had expected, but not hating it. It had an earthy taste to it that Orion couldn’t exactly pinpoint. “I’ve lived here my whole life. I live here on Harris Island with my parents and twin sister. Uh, and I’m in college right now. Double majoring in history and computer science. Honestly, there’s nothing else even remotely interesting about me. I just have never had a ton of self-confidence. What do you want to know?”

“That’s beyond impressive. It’s one of the harder European languages. Maybe I’ll have to recruit you to be my language buddy. I can teach you some Gaelic so I don’t have to call my gramma for a decent conversation.” Rio seemed to have a mean investigative streak if he was reading deep enough myths to need any sort of scrap of Gaelic knowledge. Listening to Rio talk about himself was, in a way, painful. Every statement was colored by some caveat about how he was boring or uninteresting and Ricky couldn’t stomach hearing it. It hit some deep part of him, something inherited from his mother and her bottomless capacity for good, and he wanted to help fix it. “Surprised we haven’t run into each other on the beach before. I’ve lived on Harris Island since I was ten after… yeah since I was ten. But history and computer science is really cool dude. That’s like… Jesus. That’s way above my intelligence level. Like. Miles above it.” He took a sip of his own tea. “Here’s your first Gaelic lesson. Repeat after me. Taím cliste. Táim suimiúil. Is fiú a bheith ag caint faoi.” It might have been a dirty trick. But. It wouldn’t be the first time Ricky had conned someone into being nice to themselves. 

“Oh! I’d love that.” Orion agreed a little too quickly. “I mean, if you’re serious. I am always interested in learning more about languages.” Not that he didn’t have enough on his plate already, but it was just another language. What could be so bad about learning the basics? Besides, if he befriended Ricky then maybe Rio could convince him to help translate some of the journals at the Scribe headquarters. He would just need to figure out how to explain that to him. “Yeah, that’s crazy. Small word I guess.” Rio of course knew why they hadn’t run into each other. Orion’s childhood was filled with training, studying and school. No time for distractions or useless hobbies. It wasn’t until just a few years ago that they were granted a few new freedoms. But that didn’t matter, not anymore. “It’s not. I mean, it’s-“ Orion cut himself off. He wanted to say the majors were nothing special, but he couldn’t say that without Ricky defending Orion’s honor or something. Better to just ignore it and speak some Gaelic. Orion repeated the words back to Ricky slowly, knowing enough to understand that Orion was saying something about himself. “Wait… what did you just make me say about myself?”

“I’m absolutely serious. I can only handle hearing someone ask me why I don’t have a husband yet and when I’m going to adopt her some grandkids so many times before I seriously consider throwing myself off the bluff outside. Someone who can talk to me about other things in my native… well… at least what I consider my native tongue, is always welcome.” Ricky returned to his tea, holding it loosely in one hand as he listened to Rio, enjoying the smell of smoke that wafted off the warm liquid, “Though to be fair I think I’m a couple years older than you, and I spent a lot of my time out in the woods being sullen and a grump and one eyeliner pencil away a poster child for behavior issues. Didn’t really take the time to get to know the rest of the island.” It was actually legitimately impressive that Rio could even pick up that he was talking about himself. It indicated more than just a passing knowledge of the language, “you know, sometimes affirmations work better if you don’t know you’re saying them. But, you were saying that you were smart, that you were interesting, and that you’re worth talking about. Which are all incredibly valid statements.” 

Orion gulped at Ricky’s statement. Had he just said husband? That was a twist that Orion hadn’t necessarily expected. He had just expected the muscled, ridiculously tall and attractive man was straight, like everyone else. But Orion needed to get a grip on himself before he ended up having a panic attack or passing out on Ricky’s floor.  “Uh- yeah. Well I’d be honored. I love having someone else to practice with.” He took small sips of the tea to avoid it burning his mouth. “Yeah well, I didn’t get out much. So I guess it makes sense that we missed each other.” Orion wasn’t sure how much older Ricky was than himself, but wondered what it might have been like if the two had met each other years prior. Maybe Ricky would have been able to force his self confidence on Orion back when it could have actually fixed him. “Wow. Cheap trick dude.” Orion laughed, cursing himself for actually saying the word dude out loud. To another person. Jesus he was awkward. “Is this what practicing languages will be like? Just you trying to trick me into compliments?”

It didn’t seem like Ricky could make a statement without Rio looking like he was about to pass out from the shock of it, and somehow it seemed like the revelation that he was gay was another thing added to that list. Ricky didn’t think it was a homophobia thing, he’d seen some of the glances the other man had given him when he’d taken his shirt off, but either way, it probably wasn’t a good look if a near-stranger passed out in his workshop. “I think it’s easier. My gaelic got rusty after my mom died, and it wasn’t until I went over to Ireland to meet her family and see the village she grew up in that it really got strong again, and that’s because they prefer to speak Gaelic. Gramma legit refuses to speak English.” He almost snorted tea out of his nose when Rio called him dude, if only because it seemed like the most out of character terminology for the man to use, “Is it a trick if I’m just getting you to speak the truth in a different way?” He sat at one of the stools in front of his workbench and pulled a piece of paper towards him, idly sketching as he talked, “We had to read The Picture of Dorian Gray in high school and like, oof, not my fav, but, at some point someone says something about how an object of beauty can’t ever truly appreciate itself because it can’t accurately grasp the entirety of its own beauty. Think of it that way. I’m just like… filling you in on the beauty you’re missing.” 

Orion hadn’t expected to hear that Ricky’s mom had passed. He supposed Ricky had seemed too positive for something like that to have happened to him. Though the fact made a few of the art pieces around the room make a bit more sense. The portraits of his mother and himself, never past a certain age. Orion could only assume that those pictures were from around the age that his mom had died. It also helped explain some of the sadness that emanated from the torch statue. “My parent’s don’t see the point in learning another language besides Latin. Which they only made us learn so we could read the bible.” Orion blinked a few times after saying it, surprised by himself that it had come out of his mouth. “But my sister and I both love them. Of course, she’s better than me at it. She’s fluent in quite a few languages already.” It was too late now he supposed. He was careful not to expose too many secrets about his family. Too dangerous for all parties. “It’s definitely still a trick. Regardless.” Orion giggled. “I can’t believe I just got compared to an Oscar Wilde character. I mean, that’s like every literary college student’s dream.” Orion’s hunter hearing picked up on the changes outside, the pounding of the rain against the workshop lessening, the sounds of thunder further and further away. He scratched at the back of his ear instinctively. “Uh, sounds like it’s finally letting up. So I can get out of your hair soon.”

As far as sentences that made it sound like you were raised in a cult went… revealing that your parents only allowed you to learn Latin so you could read the bible was right the fuck up there, “Well…” Ricky attempted to be as tactful as he absolutely could, which was a stretch for the normally blunt if charming seal, “There’s certainly something to be said for reading the classics in their original language.” Which was technically going to be Aramaic or something along those but Ricky certainly wasn’t going to split semantic hairs like that. He was just going to take this victory and keep on going. “Never really had much religion when I was growing up. I think my dad was raised Catholic, but my mom wasn’t, so it really wasn’t around much. Then, you know after she… and then he left… so not really much church going in my childhood.” The series of truncated phrases had left an awkward feeling in the air that Ricky quickly attempted to cover up as he scrambled through one of the drawers looking for something, “Well then I guess I’m just going to have to start reading a lot more, if that’s the key to getting you to accept compliments.” When Rio made the comment about the rain letting up, Ricky laughed, straightening as he found what he was looking for in his desk, “Well, this isn’t Phantom of the Opera, Rio. I’m not holding you captive in the catacombs, you’re welcome to leave whenever you want, though you being here definitely isn’t you being in my hair. My hair is way too nice for that.” Not strictly true, he was still about ten seconds from an anxiety attack with Rio seeing all of his art, but Ricky had a feeling that if Rio knew that there’d be an explosion of mutual anxiety. “Well. Here’s my card.” He held out what he’d been looking for in his desk, one of the many cards he’d had made when VistaPrint was having a sale. “Ricky A Cordero, Woodwork and Restoration” Printed in bold font in bronze on a black background. It looked far fancier than Ricky himself was, but, it had definitely gotten him some business. “I’m serious about the language thing. I can teach you Gaelic if you want, and I’m down to practice Spanish whenever you get a handle on it.” He also grabbed the piece of paper he’d been sketching on, folding it into quarters and passing it over to Rio, “Open it when you’re out of the rain. But. To help with the mirror affirmations in the morning. You know, I’m really glad that we got caught in the rain together.” 

Orion wanted to tell Ricky that he wasn’t religious either. To have something in common. That he could never feel the pain of losing a parent, let alone both. But he could relate to parental issues in an entirely different way. But Orion had already said way too much. He had an image to uphold. His family was too dangerous on their own, and Orion wasn’t strong enough to stop them. Not yet at least. So, for now it would have to be left at that. He could read between the lines of Ricky’s statement. He knew what it had meant. “There are a lot of books I’d love to be able to read in their original texts. Just to see how much the translations differed.” Ricky was being nice obviously, offering Orion the chance to stay as long as he wanted. But Orion could tell that he was still on edge about someone he didn’t know well being inside of his workshop, so Orion decided it was time to take his leave and ease both of their minds before one of them lost it. But Ricky won a laugh out of Orion for the laughed at the hair joke at least. “Thanks. It’s fine. I need to get back soon anyways.” He grabbed the card from Ricky and inspected, noting the number on the card. Was Ricky just giving Rio his number? Definitely no time to explore that without freaking out, so Orion moved on. “I will definitely take you up on that! Once I get settled with my other classes.” Orion awkwardly took the scrap of paper and glanced at the outside of it, stuffing it into his jean pocket when he couldn’t make out any of the details from the outside. “Uh – yes. You too! It was nice meeting you.” Orion didn’t know how to take anything about Ricky’s statement, and was too afraid to think any deeper into it. Not right now at least, so he finished off his tea and handed the mug back off to Ricky before walking towards the door and giving one last awkward wave, “Welp. Bye then.”

When Orion got home, he went up to his room and immediately dug the paper out of his pocket and set it on his dresser. He began changing into different clothes but stared at the folded piece of paper the entire time. He slipped out of his soaked track pants and into a pair of dry joggers. Then he gently took off Ricky’s hoodie and folded it to add it onto his dresser next to the folded-up piece of paper. In Orion’s mirror, he examined the scars and bruises that riddled his body. Though not very similar to Ricky’s own scars, it was strange seeing someone else with their own wounds. Like the two shared a connection, even if Ricky couldn’t know about Orion’s. Orion was not brave enough to show the world what Ricky was willing to. He slipped on a short sleeve shirt, the training coming up being the only time he was willing to do so. The shirt would end up getting torn anyways, so no need to waste a long sleeve shirt. Before heading down, he finally grabbed onto the piece of paper and began unfolding, unsure of what to expect. But of all the ideas, he certainly hadn’t expected the portrait of Orion that Ricky had drawn. He recognized the stance as the constellation and he recognized the hunter’s face as his own, but other than that there were so many differences between Orion and the portrait in front of him. The hunter stood tall, not slouched as Orion so often did. The look on the hunter’s face wore confidence and determination, something that the anxiety ridden Orion did not have. ‘To Help with the Mirror Affirmations in the morning’ Ricky had said. A view that Ricky had wanted Orion to see for himself. Jesus. What did that mean? Orion had stared at the picture for a long while before he finally heard a voice yelling from downstairs. “Orion! You’re late. Let’s go. Practice is about to start. Athena is already in the guest house” He could hear from his mom’s tone that he shouldn’t make her wait any longer. He folded the paper back up and stuffed it into his top drawer. “Sorry! Coming now.” He yelled back down, before rushing into the hallway and pulling the door shut behind him.

[kumeko]

winter’s end (monochrome)

 Character/Pairing: Phosphophyllite, Antarcticite

A/N: written for the Antarcticite zine, Words Lost in Winter! I love Pho’s and Antarc’s relationship (the cute, the angst, the lingering pain).

Summary: Antarcticite could run a clock by Phosphophyllite’s complaints—the morning shovel, the afternoon ice-breaking, the midnight cleaning. Somehow, the already long list of chores felt never-ending in Phos’ company.

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“Why is this so hard?” Phosphophyllite complained, their voice the only sound in the empty plain. Even the wind had died down, as though to listen in. With each word, they slowly dragged their feet forward, the snow crunching as they carved a path forward. A hand plunged into the snow and with a grimace, they shook it clean. “Every single day, we clear a path and every single day it fills back up. There’s something wrong here, right?”

 Antarcticite ignored them. It was almost a daily thing at this point, as consistent as the sun rising or the ice flows gathering. A pattern or even a spectacle. They were half convinced that Phos just liked to complain—despite their words, Phos never backed down from any of the tasks and that couldn’t be out of any love for the job.

 Phos puffed their cheeks, a pout in the making. Gathering a ball of snow, they threw it at Antarcticite. “Hey! Are you listening?”

It was a good thing gems couldn’t feel temperature. The snow slid down Antarcticite’s arm and they brushed the particles off distastefully. Babysitter. That was what they were, a glorified babysitter, and for a brief moment, Antarcticite wondered just who did this during the summer. There was no way anyone let Phos run around unsupervised. Casually slinging their sword over their shoulder, Antarcticite looked back at them. “You can just sleep.”

 Far behind them, dozens of gems were asleep, swathed in white as though the snow had buried them as well. Most life had the common sense to hide when winter came, the bright flowers and cheerful birds of the summer long gone by now. Not that Antarcticite would know much about it, their world was a monochromatic one, broken only occasionally by the black of the night sky or sensei’s uniform.

 Or now, for the first time, by Phos and their green eyes. Maybe the grass looked a little like that too, but it had been a long time since Antarcticite had seen spring, the small shoots of plants and budding flowers slowly growing after a particularly harsh winter. The memory of colour didn’t last long, fading within a hundred years until it was just another white memory.

 Though, even if they did forget Phos’s colour, it’d be impossible to forget their behaviour. As though on schedule, Phos sighed, taking a small break as they flopped onto the snow and considered the offer. “You think so? My pillow is really fluffy.”

 “You won’t disturb the others by joining them,” Antarcticite added. After a week, despite Phos’ stubbornness, they were useless in almost every task. Breaking ice flows, clearing paths, fixing things after sensei’s naps; the only thing that they could do was run and that was if there was as clear path. Of all the gems to stay awake in the winter, of course it was the most incompetent one. Antarcticite could just sigh at their bad luck. “And I’m sure Sensei would feel relieved.”

 “I didn’t really get to wear the clothes Red Beryl made.” Phos cast a baleful stare at their headquarters before taking a deep breath and returning to the vast, white expanse ahead of them. Slowly, they got up. “I can already see Morganite’s expression.” Eyeing the snow distastefully, they cringed as they started to plow through it again. “I. Can. Do. This.” They walked forward several steps before sighing and planting their face into the snow. “Probably.”

 “Really?” Antarcticite looked back the path they’d come. It was funny how different their two paths looked, one clean cut and the other a jagged line. There had been a time when Antarcticite had longed for other gems, a time long ago when Antarcticite had actually worked with others. Clearly, they had been wrong, it was far better to be alone than to deal with this. “We’re only 500 steps from home and you’ve already taken two breaks.”

 Phos frowned. “500 long steps. I worked hard, you know.”

 “That is debatable.” Antarcticite frowned. Running through their mental checklist of daily tasks, they started tallying the work left on their fingers. Ice flow cutting, snow cleaning, checking up on the gems, repairing any damage in headquarters. And they’d managed 500 steps. “We’re behind schedule.”

 “The schedule is wrong,” Phos declared, brazen and confident.

 They were heading to the ice flows now, it’d be easy to lose Phos and never recover the body. Sensei would understand. Eventually. “And the schedule still exists—keep walking.”

 “Aye, aye.” Phos mock-saluted before trudging forward.

 In the distance, something cracked, as loud as thunder. The earth vibrated under their feet and Antarcticite crossed their arms. Well, it had been unusually silent for the past hour and Sensei, despite their words, got terribly sleepy. It’d be easier on them if they just rested with the others.

 It was a day that Antarcticite never wanted to come. “I hope Sensei will sit down this time.”

 “I hope they didn’t break the table again,” Phos muttered, an annoyed look on their face. They glared back at the building as though Sensei could see or hear this conversation. “I just fixed it!”

 Terribly, Antarcticite didn’t add. Tapping their chin, they considered the sound. “I think it’s a support column this time.”

 “That’s…bad right?” Phos cast a worried look behind them, as though they expected their home to collapse any moment. Which, to be honest, could happen; this wouldn’t be the first time that Antarcticite had to make any emergency patch after Sensei had accidentally destroyed something important. Maybe they should have moved Sensei to a safer room before they left, somewhere close to the pond or the outer boundaries of the building.

 They both stared back at the building, waiting to see if something would happen. After a moment, when not so much as a dust cloud appeared and it was apparent nothing would happen, Antarcticite shook their head and continued to march forward. “We can move Sensei when we come back.”

 “That’s it?” Phos chased after them and if Antarcticite had known it would take curiosity to move Phos, they would have done it long ago. “We’re not going to check?”

 “Nothing’s falling apart, it can hold up till we get back.” Antarcticite ploughed adamantly forward. This was their world, they knew every sound for what it was. “Sensei didn’t break anything important.”

 Phos frowned, not entirely buying it. “What were you going to if it was? If…if the building had collapsed?”

 “Go back and fix it with Sensei.” Antarcticite shrugged. When Phos opened their mouth, ready for another argument, Antarcticite rolled their eyes and added, “It wouldn’t just collapse, we’d have enough time to repair it before that.”

 “How do you know—?” Phos paled, realization dawning. “That’s happened before, hasn’t it? I knew that Bort didn’t fix the hole they made!”

 “Either way, it’s fine for now.” Antarcticite cut them off, sensing a long rant. “We’ll deal with it later.”

 For all of five seconds, that shut up Phos. They actually made it another ten steps before Phos realized exactly what that meant. “Wait, that’s even more work.”

 “It’s not like we’re on vacation,” Antarcticite pointed out, a little fed up by now. Silence. They missed the silence that matched the white, scenic expanses. Or maybe it wasn’t silent so much as quiet. The slash of a sword, the crack of ice, the crunch under their boot, all muted as though the white snow reflected sound as well as light.

 “Didn’t look that way when you talked with Sensei,” Phos said slyly, a coy smile on their lips.

 Silence. Quiet. Alone time with Sensei. Private alone time with Sensei. Antarcticite was a gem with few desires, but Phos was destroying every single one of them. Gritting their teeth, they ground out, “That. Is. Different.”

 “Is it?” Phos waggled their brows.

 “It. Is.” Antarcticite hoped the cracking they heard was from the snow and not from their own body breaking in anger. It’d be hard to explain to Rutile or Sensei, though they had a feeling they’d understand.

 “If you say so.” Phos started to make another snowball, throwing it into the distance as they walked. “But seriously, this is really boring and really tiring and really lonely, how do you do this every year?”

 “You get used to it.” Antarcticite shrugged. “Besides, it’s not that boring. There’s a lot to do.”

 Phos looked at them like they had two heads. “You’re just saying that.”

 “Sensei agreed with me,” Antarcticite muttered, cross. There wasn’t just shovelling and protecting in the winter; beyond the chores, there was a world that only Antarcticite knew. A world of snow drifts and specific weather patterns, a world that changed in only the smallest ways.

 Unlike Phos, who’s every emotion and idea showed on their face like a beacon. It was easy to read them; right now, the twitches of their brow were a timer counting down the next syllable uttered. Another thunderous crack echoed in the air, breaking the countdown as Phos jumped.  “How do you get used to that?”

 “Time,” Antarcticite answered honestly, ignoring the face Phos made. Ahead of them, ice flows jutted into one another and they’d arrived. Finally. The walk felt so much longer with Phos. More interesting as well, but they’d never admit that aloud. Phos would just get a swollen head. “Ready?”

 “For another break?” Phos suggested, a hopeful smile on their face. It was astounding how they could ask the same question over and over and expect a different result every time.

 “After we’ve done our work.” Antarcticite pulled out their sword, swinging it high above their heads. Strength, power, mobility, the cold gave them many things, making up for what they lost in the summer. It even gave them a position that no one else could take.

 “How about we just do half of the work?” Phos yanked out their sword awkwardly, still not used to the size and weight. “My sword is worse than yours, I have to work harder.”

 “I think that’s more of an efficiency problem,” Antarcticite rebutted dryly, watching as Phos swayed with the weight.

 They almost fell over before regaining their balance. Swinging it a few times in the air, Phos glared at the weapon. “No, it’s just worse than yours. I need a better one next winter.”

 “Fine, fine.” Antarcticite conceded the point, rolling their eyes. It was sometimes easier to just agree and shut up. “I’ll ask Obsidian to make something better in the spring.”

 “Ohhh. I finally get my own!” Phos’s eyes lit up and they bounced on their toes before dropping their weapon. “Oops.”

 “…maybe they should make something small. Like a dagger.” Antarcticite winced as Phos narrowly avoided cutting off their own legs in an attempt to pick up the sword. “Or a needle.”

 “I’m not that bad!” Phos triumphantly raised their sword, a proud smile on their face as though they’d actually done something instead of just picking up their weapon. “Next winter, you’ll see.”

 “Right, right, next winter.” Antarcticite stopped cold there. Next winter. They’d never really considered ‘next’ before, each winter a repetition of the last one. Clearing snow, watching sleeping gems, tidying up after Sensei.

 Working with Phos. Something new. Something to look forward to. ‘Next’ winter.

 Perturbed by their thoughts, Antarcticite leaped forward. “Let’s go.”

 “Ugh, you’re a monster,” Phos complained, charging at an ice flow despite their words. “Take this!”

 As Phos bounced off the ice, Antarcticite resisted the urge to smile.

[artificialqueens]

Five Times People Caught Adore & Bianca: Behind the Scenes (Biadore) - doctor bitchcraftt

Companion to the full Five Times People Caught Adore & Bianca, explaining what the two of them were *really* up to when they were discovered.

Read the original stories: Season six, Courtney Act, Michelle Visage, Shangela, Alyssa Edwards

A/N: As the situations and explanations grew continuously more ridiculous, the explanations had to be almost completely mundane.  Let me know if you’d like to see me write these for Courtney and Michelle’s chapters.  Xoxoxoxo, bitchcraftt

********

Black and White Drama - Season Six

Walking back into the workroom, Bianca took one look at the confab taking place in the corner and made a neat 90-degree turn to her alcove instead.  While she wouldn’t mind talking with Darienne and DeLa, the last thing she wanted to deal with was the oncoming bout of drama Laganja was doubtless going to stir up.

The rhinestoned evening gloves went back into their mesh bag, followed by her bracelet and heavy earrings, then her wig separated back into sections (most definitely not thrown into a pile like some of the other queens).  Rubbing the indent on her shoulder, she unclipped the oversized sculpted bow, leaving her in just the bodice and ballgown skirt.

A quick glance around didn’t produce anyone who could help her out of the gown.  All of the other girls were still across the room focused on the lipsync surprise.  Adore was the only other one in the process of de-dragging, but it looked like she was too busy untucking to bother.

Bianca pulled the stuffing out of her bra cups before sucking in and twisting her arms to reach for the hooks and zipper.  The bodice came undone with a bit of effort and she started in on the skirt.  After hours on stage and in the lounge, she would be more than happy to have its weight off her padded hips.

The zipper slid down a couple of inches before getting stuck, and she rolled her eyes.  Of course.

Turning her back to the mirror, she could see where the zipper was hung up on the crinoline hoop.  She lifted the entire skirt far enough to slide her fingers under the catch, hoping to work it loose by feel.  It seemed to be snagged on several layers of fabric, which meant she was probably going to need help to avoid ripping any seams.

“Well shit,” she muttered, hiking up the skirt again to give it another try.  

She repeated the process again; this time when the zipper came back up, it caught on part of her corset lacing.  Giving a frustrated tug only resulted in pulling the lacing further, cord caught between the zipper teeth and hoop casing.  The sudden constriction surprised her into to dropping the skirt, its momentum yanking things even tighter.

Bianca gritted her teeth and made another attempt at getting free, but everything was too tangled at that point.  

“Ah…” Her voice came out thin and breathy.  Cursing silently, she leaned out to see if Laganja was done with her moment.

Nope.  Maybe Satan was actually here today.

Instead of wasting air to yell, she grabbed the nearest small object (a box of bobby pins) and lobbed it across room.  It bounced off Adore’s back and she jumped in surprise, looking left and right, but didn’t turn around.

The next thing to hand was a large sequined flower, which tangled itself in Adore’s wig.  She finally looked in her direction in confusion before responding to the urgent ‘come here’ gestures, tights halfway down her legs.

”Why’s your neck all blotchy and stuff?”

Even in her current predicament, Bianca had to fight the urge to roll her eyes.  

“ ‘M stuck,” she gritted out, pointing at her lower back and trying to stay calm.  Never let a bitch see you sweat.  “Can’t breathe.”

Adore immediately reached for a pair of scissors, but Bianca shook her head.  Comprehension dawned (thankfully) and Adore stepped behind her, trying to untangle the snag but only succeeding in making it worse still.  Bianca groaned, then grabbed her arm and lifted the front of the skirt.

”Hoop’s caught…underneath.”  

Adore dropped to her knees in front of her, frowning before sticking her head under the skirt, pushing aside layers of tulle until her hands met at the bottom of Bianca’s corset.  

Bianca's ears were starting to ring, and she dropped the skirt to grab Adore’s shoulders for support, breathing in shallow pants.  Sweat dripped from her hairline, and she really hoped that the skirt wouldn’t require a repair job.  

”Oh god, hurry up,” she forced out.  There was no way she was going to create reality tv drama by passing out on camera - particularly when the operators were all too busy filming in the corner to notice.  So much for safety on set.

“Think I’ve got it?” Adore’s voice was muffled by tulle and organza.  Whatever she did next loosened things enough for Bianca to draw in a little more air.

”Yes, almost there…I can feel it.  Watch the teeth,” she added as Adore tugged on the zipper.

“Chill, girl,” came the response from somewhere near her right hip, “I know how to use one.”

The tension in her corset eased all at once, and she heaved a huge breath.   Considering how little she knew about dress construction, Bianca had to give Adore credit for persistence (and not calling the other girls over to laugh).      

Right as the skirt came loose accompanied by a wave of relief (or maybe that was the blood rushing back into her midsection?), Laganja, DeLa, Darienne, and Joslyn tumbled to the floor less than ten feet away with a loud exclamation.  

Bianca really didn’t want to ask.

********

My name is Adore Delano and I’m a messy slut  - Shangela

The door swung shut after Katya, who called out something in Russian and was off in a cloud of blonde hair and eyeball-printed polyester, following Violet, Detox, and Alyssa.

Bianca added a couple more pins to make sure her wig was secure and gave it a last blast of hairspray, eyeing the arrangement of curls with a critical eye.  Beside her, Adore was frowning into the mirror as she dug into her bag of lipsticks.  Several tubes were laid out alongside opened lip liners, but she tossed the last one down with a groan.

”Something wrong?”  Bianca spoke around the bobby pin between her teeth.

”None of these are right.“

Once she could see the other side of Adore’s face, Bianca paused to take in the whole picture.  A series of roughly oval shaped blotches of lipstick covered the side of her neck, in no apparent pattern.  Combined with her red-smeared mouth, she looked like a vampire movie gone wrong.

”Crime scene realness?”

Adore slumped even further in her chair.  

“See, I had this idea for photos.  Like how I’m always saying I’m a messy slut?”

”…right.”  She raised an intrigued eyebrow, not sure where this was going.

”I wanted to make it look like the morning after.  You know, one of those nights you wake up after and don’t remember what happened until you look in the mirror?”

Bianca considered her glum expression in silence for a minute before giving into the urge to try and make her smile instead.  

“Want me to give it a shot?”

Receiving a shrug in response, she grabbed a makeup wipe and reached for a lip liner.  Unfortunately, a few minutes of experimenting with different colors and products left them with only marginally better results.

“None of it looks real enough,” she admitted reluctantly.  “Too bad Katya isn’t here, she’d probably bite your neck for free if you asked.”

Adore paused in scrubbing her neck clean for the fifth time.

”I dunno if the lipstick would show up anyway.  Guess I’ll have to do something else.”

Bianca hated the look of defeat, no matter the cause.  The colors all went on well enough, but it seemed impossible to reproduce the distinctive lip-print texture.  

“Hang on.  What if - let me see -”

She reached out to steady Adore’s chin, dusting her neck with loose powder to create an even surface.  Applying a fresh layer of lipstick, she leaned in and quickly pressed her lips to the freshly powdered skin, ignoring the bitter taste of makeup mixed with remover.

Adore eyed the results in the mirror and perked up. “Huh.”  

”Not bad, actually.”  Bianca had to admit it looked far better than their best attempts at drawing.

”Looks real.  I mean it is real, just it shows up pretty well.”

Bianca nodded and scrutinized her own face, checking for smudges.

“You know…”

”What?”

”Wanna do the rest?”

“Seriously, queen?"  Bianca fixed her eyes on Adore’s best hopefully innocent expression in the mirror.  "The things I do for you.”

Several coats of lipstick later, Adore’s neck was decorated with enough red lip prints that it resembled a Valentine’s Day card.

”That good?”  At this rate, she would have to redo her lip liner.  Again.  

”It needs more, but I dunno how to make it scream ‘messy slut’ to the camera.”

”I thought that would be obvious without the makeup.”

”Fuck all the way off. Although,” Adore tilted her head in a way that usually spelled trouble, “what about hickeys?”

“For real?  I swear I’m gonna go get Katya.”    

“Please B?  Just pretend I’m-“

“Finish that sentence and I really will cut up your wigs.”  

Bianca gave her a dead eye stare, receiving only a pleading pout in response.  

"Fine.  Up,” she pointed at the vanity table, “if I’m doing this right, I can’t lean down that far.”

“You’re the best, B!”

With one more long-suffering huff, she picked a spot over Adore’s collarbone and pressed an open-mouthed kiss onto the skin.  Deliberately not thinking about what it would look like if anyone walked in, Bianca bit down carefully.

Half a second later, she reeled backwards, stars exploding behind her eyes.

“What the fuck?"  Bianca gingerly touched the bridge of her nose where it had collided with Adore’s shoulder when she flinched.

"Sorry!"  Adore sounded simultaneously apologetic and trying to fight off giggles.  "That tickled bad.  Promise I won’t do it again.”

Gripping Adore’s arms firmly to anchor herself, Bianca leaned back in.

“Try not to break my nose this time?”

“Can’t help it, it’s a big target.”

“You’re lucky I love you, bitch, because this is just weird.”

********

The Naked Truth - Alyssa Edwards

Bianca didn’t so much wake up as be bludgeoned into consciousness by the headache.  She might have been able to ignore her throbbing temples if they hadn’t been accompanied by the feeling of her brain sloshing around inside of her head.  Her chest felt horribly heavy, and the sheets might as well be a sauna.

There was a reason she liked to stick to wine.  This felt like the mother of all hard alcohol hangovers.

Opening her eyes didn’t help much, because all she could see was a mass of dark hair that seemed to be covering her entire face.  Last night was a slightly blank spot, and Bianca closed her eyes again and tried very hard not to move.

Did she pass out before de-dragging?  It didn’t happen often these days, but it was always a possibility.  That might explain why she was having trouble breathing, except the constriction stretched unevenly from just under her collarbone on the right down across both hips.  

A low groan directly into her ear made her flinch hard enough that her head started spinning.  

Shit.

What was most definitely not a corset resolved itself into an arm and leg rather effectively pinning her in place, at least until the hangover wore off enough that she could pry the limbs off.  

Bianca tried to turn her head to see who might be sharing her bed, feeling stubble brushing against her cheek.

At least it probably wasn’t a woman.  That would be even more awkward.

Whoever it was had their face pressed against her shoulder, breath fanning hot over her throat.  Another groan that sounded more alert was followed by lips pressing purposefully up the side of her neck and the hand starting to slide teasingly across her ribs.

Great.  A morning sex person.  After whatever night she’d had, that was firmly off the table.

Bianca glanced down her own body and silently thanked whatever deity watched over drag queens as the MEOW tattooed on the hand currently roaming her torso swam into focus.

Identity panic resolved, Bianca set about trying to get free.

”Ahh-“ The name caught in her dry throat, and she tried again.

”Adore.”

”Mmmmm….whuh?”  Adore nuzzled the skin behind her ear.

”Do you mind?”

The fingers stopped mid-caress, and Bianca relaxed when the lips pulled away from her neck.  She’d tease Adore about mistaking her for trade after the hangover wore off.  

“Sorry.”

Her sense of relief vanished as she suddenly became aware of two things.  

One, Adore was naked.  That in itself wasn’t an unusual state of being, although she always wore at least underwear to bed if they were sharing.  

Two, and more distressingly, Bianca realized that she was too.

Frozen in place, she met sleepy green eyes with a look of dawning panic as Adore pushed herself up on one arm and raised the other hand to her face.  Glancing down their bare bodies, she voiced Bianca’s sentiments perfectly.

”Oh fuck.”

****

Being a drag queen meant viewing your sisters in various states of undress with the same disinterest as when they were clothed.  The ABCD shared dressing rooms often enough that most of the time, no one even bothered to go into the bathroom to tuck, and Adore was notoriously unselfconscious about standing around in a skimpy thong or nothing at all.  

A drunk Adore was handsy and flirtatious, and being drunk with Bianca tended to erase their already barely existent sense of personal space.  They’d fallen asleep together countless times over the years in any number of locations (tour buses, taxis, Courtney’s living room floor), to the point that waking up tangled around each other was the closest thing to normal.

None of that made waking up naked in bed together any less awkward.

Bianca yanked the sheets around her waist as Adore scrambled back with what was probably an identical expression of shock.

”Ummmm.”

Adore frowned around the pillow she had clutched to her chest.  One eye still had a mostly intact winged liner and streaks of dried melted mascara ran down her other cheek.  Bianca turned to her own reflection in the mirror above the desk, cringing when it revealed actual raccoon-like eyes from the mess of dark eyeshadow smeared up her forehead.

They stared at each other for a few seconds longer, until Bianca thought she could keep her voice steady.

“Do you remember last night?”

“Uhhh…we did a show.  At that club?"  Adore moved the pillow to her lap and tilted her head in thought.

”…yeah.  After that,“ Bianca groaned.  "Also, where the hell are our clothes?”

“Oh.  Here?” She leaned across to the other bed, lifting a pile of pleather and mesh that squelched unappealingly, water dripping onto the carpet.  “Think yours is over there?”

The sequined mini dress she’d worn to perform in was laid on a towel across the table next to the sections of her wig, tights draped over the back of one of the chairs.  She lifted the dress, ignoring the cold air hitting sensitive body parts.

“B?"  Adore had come around the bed and was standing on the other side of the table, wringing water into the wastebasket. “What are you doing?”

Bianca raised her head from sniffing at the dress fabric.  “Smells like bleach.”

“Is it cum?”

“For fuck’s sake Delano, how much cum would it take to soak an entire dress?  I’m not that much of a whore.  And it looks like water.”

“…actually, mine does too.  And I am that slut.”

“Not helpful.”

Her heels were underneath the chair, one on its side and slightly damp.  The other was upright with a small puddle of water still inside, the smell even stronger than her dress.

Sitting back down on the bed, Bianca felt more pieces slide together in her brain with an almost audible click.

“Alyssa bought us shots.  We walked back after, pretty sure we weren’t breaking any public decency laws.”

“Being naked is natural.  People are uptight.”

“Still not helping."  

"Ummmm.” Adore paused with her tongue poking out of the side of her mouth.  On anyone else, it would have looked ridiculous.

“Hey, I remember!  There were hot guys in the pool.”

“…chlorine.”

“Oh.  Oh!  Right.”

“Bet you went in fully dressed.”

Adore fumbled on the other nightstand for her phone, scrolling to the camera roll, then burst out laughing.

Bianca snatched it from her unresisting fingers and blinked in surprise.  The last photo was a selfie, with a grinning Adore in a sopping wet wig, makeup running down her face.  Next to her, a much less amused and equally waterlogged Bianca, normal pouf of curls hanging limp across her shoulder and eyelashes missing.

“I’m not going to ask how I ended up in the pool, but I’m willing to bet it’s your fault.”

“Hey!  That’s not fair.”

“It’s usually your fault.”

“…true.”

Someone knocked on the door, startling them both.  Bianca checked the clock - 10:30 am.  Probably one of the other queens wondering where they were.

Alyssa’s voice came through the door, loud and clear, and she sighed.  Shifting, she checked for something to put on, but other than the still-wet drag, there didn’t seem to be anything else to hand.  The knocking became more insistent, and Bianca called back a reply.

She looked at Adore, who shrugged and stood up to start digging in her suitcase.

“Great,” Bianca muttered, grabbing a pillow off the bed.  “the Haus of Edwards is going to have a field day over this.”

[wolfhuntsmoon]

New Stucky fic! Fic under the read more.

Title: Tell Me Like It Is Link: On AO3 Square Filled: N5 - Voice Kink - 1st square!! :) Ship: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Rating: Explicit Major Tags: Romance Hand Jobs Voice Kink Light Dom/sub Enthusiastic Consent Snark i love you but damn you're a bastard Humor Grumpy Bucky Barnes

Summary:

Turns out, romancing Captain America is pretty hard.

Word Count: 1882

Created for: @mcukinkbingo - thanks so much for all your hard work guys, this is so much fun!

Bucky glances around the room one last time. It’s as perfect as he can make it: curtains pulled, candles glowing, table laid with their best crockery and crisp, starched linen. All he can do is wait, but the heavy feeling in his gut has him prowl back and forth between the table and kitchen island, agonising over whether to alter the place settings, or to adjust the vase of roses he’s bought, or whether he should just sweep everything away into the bottom of their closet and pretend he hasn’t spent the past several hours panicking over tonight’s surprise.

The scrape of the key in the lock jolts him out of his panicked musings, and he lunges for the door. A sharp twist of the knob allows him to yank it open first, and Bucky gasps out a breathless “Hi!”

Steve’s face morphs from surprise to pleased amusement, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Hey Buck.” He steps in, crowding Bucky back against the wall, running his nose along the side of his neck. “You smell good. What’s the occasion?”

Buck flushes violently. He hadn’t thought Steve would pick up on the aftershave he’d dabbed on earlier, an afterthought at time. But now he can smell it too; clean and sharp with traces of amber darkening the scent. It smells like a guy who wants to impress, wants to luck out and end up in bed with his fella. Steve mouths over his throat, cutting off all Bucky’s higher brain functions as he does so, the bastard.

“Date night!” He grits out, voice closer to a squeak than he’d ever admit out loud. Goddamn Steve with his stupid face and warm chest, hands that feel as if they could cocoon Bucky. They make him want to forget all about the dinner in the oven.

“Date night?” Steve pulls back, confusion creasing his brow. “Since when do we have date night?” He raises a questioning eyebrow.

Bucky grins. “Can’t handle a little romance Rogers?”

“It’s been so long since I experienced any I’d forgotten you knew the meaning of the word.” Steve says, dry as the Sahara desert.

Bucky gasps, clutching at imaginary pearls and raising his other hand to his forehead as if he’s about to faint. “Steven Grant, are you accusing me of failing to woo you?”

Steve still looks stern as he speaks, but laughter draws out the broader vowels of his speech. “Is it an accusation if it’s already acknowledged to be true? Just yesterday you told me to knock off that, ‘lovey-dovey shit’!”

Bucky sniffs, spreading his arms wide, and looking through his lashes at Steve. He pouts a little, for maximum effect. “Because you were doing it wrong. Thought I’d give you a lesson.” He slides the tip of his tongue to the top of his lip, tracking the growing darkness in Steve’s eyes as they trace the route it takes.

Steve’s voice drops a whole octave when he next speaks, a bass rumble in Bucky’s ear as he leans forward to capture his mouth. “I’m listening, Buck.”

That rat bastard. Bucky can feel his well laid plans unravelling already, the liquid tones of Steve’s voice weakening Bucky’s knees. The kiss starts light, tongues tracing the bow of his lips, Steve’s nose nudging his, the hot press of his palms against Bucky’s back a brand sparking a fire in his gut. Steve deepens the kiss, and it’s all Bucky can do to stay upright. He moans, ragged. Heaving a breath in, he attacks Steve’s mouth, shoving forward to wind his arms around Steve’s neck, curling his fingers in the blond’s hair. All too soon he has to pull back and drag in badly needed air, clutching at Steve’s shoulders.

Steve’s by no means unaffected by all this, but the sly son of a bitch knows he’s got the upper hand in this game they’re playing, and knows how to keep it too. Which he proves when he drops his head to murmur against the shell of Bucky’s ear. “You look so good baby doll, in that sweater. All soft and homey. Like a little pet, waiting for me, hoping I’ll pay you some attention when I get back.” Steve’s breath is hot and damp on his skin, tickling the fine hairs there in the most maddening of ways which shouldn’t turn him on. But does anyway. Because it’s Steve.

Bucky isn’t interested in pretending to be a dog, or cat, or rabbit, or any of the other myriad animals he knows people on the internet include in their sex games. He really doesn’t give a shit.

Except when Steve’s voice, dark and sinful, breathes thoughts like smoke through him, wrapping around his mind, enveloping everything in a hazy cloud, obscuring everything Bucky thought he knew about his preferences. He whines, low in his throat, and sucks a mark on Steve’s exposed collarbone in revenge. It won’t last more than a few hours but it’s the best he can do under the circumstances, the circumstances being one Captain Smug Bastard steamrolling over every well laid plan Bucky’d concocted for tonight with the raw power of his lips and tongue and teeth.

“What’s that baby?” Steve’s voice grows rougher, a rumble rolling out the ends of his words so they slur together, and Bucky is going to have a heart attack if this doesn’t stop soon. He realises that he’s hard, and pressing against Steve, hips shifting in small, jerky motions, seeking relief.

“I-” He begins, gives up. Bites Steve’s shoulder again resentfully. No-one can shut Bucky Barnes up except this punk, and boy does the big lunk revel in it. Steve chuckles, and the viciousness of it has Bucky rolling his hips harder. “You!”

Steve grins against his skin, hands running down his back to fondle Bucky’s ass and tug him further into the cradle of Steve’s hips.

“Shh, I know baby, it’s okay.” Steve drops his tone to a velvet whisper, the rasp of the sibilants sending a shudder up Bucky’s spine and further removing his legs from his conscious control. “Let go and let me make you feel good. Romance, right?”

The brief flare of outrage Bucky feels deep, deep in his soul at this palooka’s commandeering of his carefully laid plans is eclipsed by the bass gravel now emanating from Steve’s chest. It’s like drowning in syrup, so sweet and sticky that Bucky can’t move but doesn’t want to anyway, content to stay and suffocate so long as he gets more. He chokes out Steve’s name, and some wretched cry that’s not even half a word because Steve shushes him again before he’s done. The soft susurrations tremor against his lips as Steve closes in for another kiss, gentler this time but no less devastating.

“You’re so good for me Buck, so pretty and thoughtful.” Steve breathes as he draws back, letting Bucky grind against him, eyes rolling back in pleasure from the electric contact between their groins.

“My perfect boy.” Bucky closes his eyes, Steve’s speech winding down his spine and twisting in his gut, uncompromising steel behind the honeyed waterfall of sound. He twitches his hips faster, chasing the gathering heat in his belly. “So beautiful, when you can’t hold it together anymore.” A hand unzips his jeans and tugs Bucky’s cock out into the cooler air, the shock of the temperature change making him whimper.

“That’s it, there we are, good boy-” Bucky cries out at the twin sensations of Steve’s hand around both their cocks - when had the sneaky son of a bitch managed that? - and the raw desire he can almost taste in Steve’s tone.

“Feels good, doesn’t it Buck? God, you’re so gorgeous for me like this, so good, letting me do what I want…” The careful control Steve maintains of his accent slips now, letting the Brooklyn tough peek through, and Bucky can’t get enough of it, clawing at Steve’s back as he continues stroking them both, heavy and insistent. “I swear on all the saints, Buck, you could turn the Devil himself, the way you look.” His voice is more strained now, new notes of urgency bleeding through as they writhe against each other, but every syllable winds Bucky higher. He’s beyond words now, keening high and thready in the back of his throat, bared for Steve to pepper kisses on between the streams of praise falling from his lips.

“Never want anyone to see this, never want anyone to know you’re so sweet for me, that you’re mine, my good boy, my perfect boy...” The cascade of words sweeps Bucky away, has him crashing over the edge with Steve in a blinding fit of pure pleasure, unspooling the coiled tension in his stomach that’s been lurking there since he started getting ready.

They pant together, inches away from the front door still. Steve kisses the damp patches on Bucky’s temples, grabs a tissue from the dresser and wipes them both down. Bucky groans, oversensitive and still turned on, wanting to flinch away but also pounce on Steve and tumble him to the floor for round two immediately. Only the thumb drawing featherlight circles on his cheek distracts him enough that Steve’s done, tucking him back into his jeans, expression proud and pleased and possessive all at once. It makes Bucky feel like a whole mine of diamonds, hidden and precious. No-one gets to see Steve like this except him. No-one gets to have this part of Steve, the part that looks at him like a wolf looks at a deer, starving and wanting.

Bucky draws a deep, shuddering breath; wills his legs to support his weight again. The chime of the oven timer interrupts his internal pep talk, and he wobbles from the wall to extract the casserole from the main shelf.

Steve stalks him, hunter after prey. “Smells good,” he offers.

The echo of earlier sends heat to Bucky’s cheeks. “It’s as close to your ma’s recipe as I could get,” he mutters.

Steve’s inhale is audible behind him. Hands snake around his waist and a ridiculously square jaw comes to rest on his metal shoulder. “Thank you baby,” he says, slow and serious, “you’re so good to me. So thoughtful.”

Bucky sighs, lets himself be turned to face Steve, accepts the sweet kiss the blond presses to his lips. “My good boy.” The weariness and care Steve tries to hide is in full view now, weighing down his words, but the warmth of his delivery has happiness fizzing in Bucky’s chest. Steve’s let go for once and for all now, no hiding, just as Bucky wanted.

“Come on Stevie. Pull up a chair and take a load off.” Bucky says, deftly serving them both the stew in big bowls, thick slices of wholemeal loaf perched on the side. It only take a moment for them to be seated, the pristine white of the tablecloth a perfect backdrop for the vibrant colour of the meal. Steve hums in delight with the first mouthful, and Bucky feels utter contentment then, sinking deep into the marrow of his bones.

Steven. G. Rogers might be a sly, scheming, silver tongued bastard, but he’s Bucky’s bastard.

And Bucky wouldn’t change a single damn thing about him.

[welllpthisishappening]

Happy new year! How long do we say happy new year?! I hope you had a great one. Prompt: I want to see Pegs birth and the terrifying ordeal Emma alluded to

I’ll gladly accept your happy new year on a perpetual loop anon. And return you your own happy new year here on January 18th. So I wrote this a couple days ago, there’s some angst and the Vankalds are heavily featured and the Google Doc name was “DRAMATIC BABIES.” That’s about all there is to it. If you missed the set-up for the aforementioned “DRAMATIC BABIES” it’s here, with Emma and Killian and hockey laces. 

“If you don’t stop staring at me and then pretending you’re not actually staring at me, I may scream.”

Anna flushed, eyes widening to a size that would have been comical if Emma weren’t certain several different parts of her spine were in the process of staging open rebellion against the rest of her body.

“Told you,” Elsa mumbled, digging the heel of her foot into Anna’s outstretched leg. “And, Emma, you can’t yell, that’s definitely not soothing.”

Emma exhaled loudly, letting her head loll back on the couch in the brownstone living room. She could dimly make out noise from the kitchen, a variety of doors opening and closing and footsteps padding across the floor. And, honestly, she wasn’t really all that surprised.

She was as unsurprised as a 38-weeks pregnant human female with an overly interfering family and on-the-road hockey-playing husband could be.

So, not a lot.

Like none. At all.

“Did he leave a handwritten list of instructions?” Emma asked, not bothering to take her eyes off the TV in front of her. “Or just generic threats?”

Elsa scoffed. And they’d dropped the puck in D.C. “Both.”

“We told him he was being an idiot,” Anna added. She leaned forward, grabbing a bowl of something that Mrs. Vankald had given them before and that didn’t surprise Emma either.

There was enough food in that brownstone to feed several armies of expectant mothers. And two quasi-sisters who suspiciously showed up in New York several days ahead of schedule.

Emma hummed noncommittally, doing her best to move without making it obvious. It didn’t work. She hadn’t really expected it to – but she still didn’t appreciate the quick glance Elsa and Anna shared, far too knowing and far too obvious and Killian hit somebody into the boards.

She gasped.

She hadn’t meant to do that.

Elsa and Anna moved at the same time. The chips nearly ended up on the floor.

“Mrs. V will be frustrated if you get crumbs everywhere,” Emma muttered, well aware that it was a lie. Elsa’s lips twitched.

“Please, she’ll still thank you for being here.”

“I’m not sure that even makes sense.”

“I’m not sure anything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours has made much sense,” Elsa admitted with a shrug and a smile. “Particularly the amount of nonsense KJ has spewed over text message since they landed in D.C.”

“Idiot,” Anna repeated. Her gaze was fixed on the game though and Emma wasn’t sure if it had something to do with that and the very obvious turnover in the neutral zone or the impending arrival of their second kid and it could not have been good for her spine to keep feeling like this.

Elsa grabbed a handful of chips. “She means that in a nice way. And she promises to stop staring at you. Trust me, it’s making us all uncomfortable.”

Emma wasn’t sure what sound she made – her own scoff and a bit of laughter and maybe a hint of frustration because the Rangers had already missed the net wide left twice. She felt her lips quirk up anyway though, more footsteps coming from the kitchen and several bags near the bottom of the stairs because Mr. Vankald absolutely refused to hear even the suggestion of Emma and Matt staying uptown.

It was overprotective.

It was interfering.

It was nice.

Killian had definitely told Elsa and Anna to come home early.

“You didn’t have to fly here to be babysit me, you know,” Emma said, slumping further into the corner of the couch and grabbing the nearest pillow to hug against her chest.

Elsa glanced at Anna again – different than the almost too clear worry it had been before. It was more...Emma wasn’t sure what the word was, and if her spine hadn’t felt as if it were twisted into several different knots, she probably would have been concerned by her inability to come up with descriptions for anything except the Rangers offensive attack.

It looked a little protective.

“Please,” Anna objected. “This is not babysitting. And it wasn’t really much of a conversation.”

“He barely even got the words out,” Elsa added.

Emma blinked. And tightened her hold on the pillow. “Wait, what?”

Another pointed glance, more footsteps and the puck stuck against the boards in the zone.

“Didn’t…” Emma continued, snapping her head back and forth between either Vankald sister. They both reached their hands out to stop her. Nice. Honestly, nice was the best word. “I’m very confused.”

“And pregnant,” Elsa grinned.

“Were you worried I wasn’t aware of that?”

“No, no, but—ok, it’s not like KJ didn’t suggest that we—“

“—Babysit me?”

“Can we stop using that word?” Anna asked. “It’s really not. Gina is babysitting. That’s the correct usage.”

“That’s true,” Emma admitted, well aware of a schedule that included the Museum of Natural History and dinosaur bones and, likely, far too many onion rings already.

“It’s not babysitting,” Elsa promised. She leaned into Emma’s space, tugging lightly on the few inches of pillow that weren’t already being twisted with a hint of nervous energy.

It was probably because of the game.

Not the kid.

They were ready for the kid. Just—maybe, after the game.

“Did you offer to come here?” Emma asked bluntly, eyes darting towards Anna when she all but cackled. “El, don’t you have a job?”

Elsa grimaced, squeezing one eye shut and Anna’s laugh got louder. “State government basically shuts down in December.”

“Basically.”

“Basically.”

“And you—“

“KJ was freaking out,” she said, waving both hands as if that was an explanation and Emma’s smile didn’t feel as unnatural as it probably should of. “I’m honestly surprised he didn’t break, like—“

“—At least twenty-seven sticks, trying to shoot out his frustration,” Anna cut in.

“And that’s low-balling it, really. So, well, he didn’t really ask, but we didn’t really—“

“—Give him a chance.”

“Anna, I swear, if you don’t let me finish...”

Anna grinned. “It was El’s idea,” she whispered, another handful of chips and a flash in her eyes that every person who grew up in that brownstone was frustratingly good at doing.

Emma felt her jaw drop, smile morphing into something that still wasn’t really surprise, but might have been closer to gratitude and a bit like being checked into the boards. Or scoring. That was a better analogy.

She wished the Rangers would hit the goddamn net.

“Was it?”

Elsa shook her head, ignoring whatever sound Anna made in the back of her throat. “I mean—not entirely. It was kind of a joint effort from all of us and—“

‘’—wait, wait, all of us?”

“You’re as bad at interrupting as Anna is.”

“God, I feel like you’re going to ground me.”

Anna laughed again. “We talked about it,” she said. “You know, in detail. And Liam couldn’t leave early because the Avs had some prospect coming in they wanted him to look at, but, like I said, it was totally El’s idea. Also, KJ totally wouldn’t leave otherwise.”

“What?”

Elsa and Anna stared at her. “Are you kidding me?” Anna balked, jumping off the couch.

“It’s early,” Emma reasoned. “We’ve still got—like, a week and a half and it’s—everything is fine and nothing is going to—“

She cut herself off, teeth finding her lower lip at the same time she squeezed her eyes shot. And everything felt like it stopped and started, all at the same time, an impossible moment of slow and fast and good and bad and—

“Fucking, fuck,” Emma hissed. “That is…that is so goddamn, fucking…stupid.”

It was honestly disappointing she couldn’t come up with a better word.

Emma took a deep breath, eyes still closed and she could hear the sounds coming from the game, doing her best to time her pulse up with the announcers. It absolutely did not work.

It hurt like hell.

A week and a half early.

“Damnit,” she grumbled, not letting go of her lip and that was a mistake. She could taste blood in her mouth. “We should, um—do you guys know where my phone is?”

She opened her eyes.

Elsa was already moving – a picture of mom-like efficiency and experience, shouting for Mrs. Vankald and bags – while Anna’s fingers flew across the phone in her hand. Neither one of them answered Emma.

“Yeah, yeah,” Elsa said distractedly, grabbing a different phone out of somewhere and pressing it to her ear. “Well, get him of the ice!”

“Who is she talking to?” Emma asked. No one answered her. She growled, the sound scratching at the back of her throat, but that was partially from frustration and mostly because she was in goddamn labor and Anna yelped when the pillow collided with her back. “Who is Elsa talking to?”

Anna picked up the pillow. “Ariel. Who was on—El, what did we call it?”

“Make sure KJ gets off the fucking ice when he has to duty.”

“That’s not what we called it.”

Emma’s laugh turned into a groan far quicker than she wanted it, gritting her teeth and trying to keep oxygen flowing to several major organs. Mr. Vankald appeared in the living room, coats draped over one arm and his right shoulder and there was a bag in his left hand.

And they all froze when Emma whimpered.

“Oh shit, that hurt,” Emma breathed, twisting again to try and dig her hand into the small of her back.

She’d done this before – at an entirely inopportune time as well, but she couldn’t remember it hurting quite that much or quite so suddenly and Killian was in Washington D.C.

“Shit,” she said again. The floor creaked when Mr. Vankald moved, an impossible shift of the several thousand things he was holding to brush his thumb under Emma’s eye and there was a tear there.

“We’re going to get a car,” he said. “We’re going to get to a hospital. Killian is going to get off the ice. And everything is going to be fine. Understood?”

Emma nodded, not sure there was another choice. And, for a solid, forty-two minutes she absolutely believed him.

For a solid forty-two minutes there was no reason not to.

Until the doctor walked in and she hadn’t talked to Killian yet and they needed to figure out where Matt was going to stay and—

“What do you mean breech?”

“The baby is still—“

“—Still?”

The doctor didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, which was almost unnerving since Emma couldn’t seem to stop blinking and Elsa hissed when she gripped her hand too tightly. “Oh, shit, shit, sorry, El, that’s—“

“It’s fine,” Elsa promised, squeezing back slightly in something that was probably supposed to be comforting. That, however, was proving more and more difficult to trust when the Vankalds kept sharing one phone, muttered curses and increasingly pointed commands and Emma was having a difficult time breathing.

“Ok, ok, you said still?” Emma asked, clicking her teeth when the doctor nodded. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means, unfortunately, that what we talked about at your last exam will—“

Emma hissed again, Elsa’s response turning decidedly non-English. “What happened at the last exam?”

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said, shaking her head and that was fair. She’d probably never faced the collective wrath of a professional hockey team and its extended family. “You are..”

“Emma’s sister.”

“Oh, that was nice, El,” Emma mumbled. She’d closed her eyes again.

“And true. You’re totally ours now.”

“In a way that does not sound as creepy as that,” Anna said, taking a step into the room with a phone held loosely in her hand and a self-satisfied smile on her face. “I come bearing terrified husband.”

The doctor looked stunned.

“Emma!”

“Oh my God, KJ, you can’t actually jump through the phone.”

“Shut up, Banana.”

She rolled her eyes, twisting around the still-stunned doctor and the beeping machines and Emma’s lungs appreciated the oxygen she provided them as soon as her fingers curled around the phone. “Hey,” she muttered, and it was probably wrong to appreciate whatever his face did at that.

“Are you ok?”

“Just bypassed cordiality completely, huh?”

“Emma.”

“That’s a yes.”

“I’m serious,” Killian said. His hair wasn’t damp, which gave her pause, but not nearly as much as the background of wherever he was calling from.

“Where are you?”

“Some terminal.” Emma tilted her head. And blinked. And squeezed Elsa’s hand when another flush of pain rushed up her questionably in-tact spine. “Swan,” Killian snapped, eyes wide and terror practically palpable. “What’s going on?”

“Where are you?”

She paused between every word for emphasis – and possibly because the lingering twists of pain in between her hips made it difficult to do anything else, but Emma was not gong to admit to any of that and she was impossibly stubborn.

Killian thought it was a girl.

She hoped it was a girl.

He’d probably lose his mind over a girl.

“Terminal C if you want to be specific,” Ariel answered, pushing into the frame with an authority that was the least surprising thing that had happened all day. “We’re in a terminal. And waiting.”

“Impatiently,” Killian grumbled.

“We’re setting records for impatience, honestly.”

“A terminal seems good, doesn’t it?” Emma asked. She’d blame labor for her lack of comprehension. And the word breech flashing in front of her gaze.

Ariel hummed. “We’re on our way back. Or, well, at least trying. It’s just—not a lot of options and I think we’re going to have to fly to Philly first.”

“We’re just trying to get out of here,” Killian said. “But there’s—“

“—It’s snowing and our choices are limited.”

Killian sighed, soft and defeated and Emma’s heart lurched. That hurt too. Everything hurt.

They were supposed to have a week and a half.

“What’s going on, love?” he asked, ignoring Ariel’s half-hearted protests when he turned the phone back.

Emma licked her lips, far too dry because, she assumed, hospital air was a lot like airport air and everything felt recirculated and a little fake. She assumed that would be different if he were there.

What a sap.

She was going to use labor as the excuse again.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen yet.”

That was not the answer Emma had planned on. At all. That was the opposite of the answer because she knew that answer would only end in guilt and disappointment and she wished someone put the game on.

She hoped they were winning.

“I’m sorry, love,” Killian said, another endearment that only inspired more sighing and licked lips.

Emma did her best to smile. It didn’t work. “Not your fault.”

“i didn’t want to go.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“How long did it take for them to give me up?”

“Few seconds after puck drop.”

His answering laugh lacked any bit of humor, but Emma’s lips quirked anyway and that was as close to a smile as she was going to get. “Did you talk to the doctor yet? Is there—“

The doctor coughed pointedly, leaning forward like she was waiting for her cue. “Uh, is that Mr. Jones?”

Emma nodded. “He’s in D.C. now, but—“

“On our way,” Killian finished, and Elsa gave Emma’s hand another squeeze. “What’s…it should only be a few hours, what’s going on?”

“Well, I’m afraid we don’t have that much time.”

Emma dropped the phone.

“Swan!”

Elsa gasped at the vice-like grip on her hand, but didn’t make any more noise, just grabbed the phone and widened her eyes at Killian. Glared, that was the word. “That’s not helping, KJ,” she said.

“What is going on?”

The doctor coughed again. There were not enough pillows on that hospital bed. “As I was telling Mrs. Jones, unfortunately the baby is breech, as we saw at the last ultrasound and that hasn’t changed.”

“Was it supposed to?”

“It happens naturally sometimes and we did try a few things in the last few weeks, but, as I said, unfortunately…”

“Oh my God, can we stop using that word?” Emma yelled, drawing quick stares and a quiet chuckle from D.C. that absolutely wasn’t Killian.

He was far too busy staring at her anyway.

“It really is kind of foreboding,” Anna mumbled. She walked further into the room, dropping onto the edge of the bed with a confidence that didn’t feel forced. “You’ve got to blink, KJ, otherwise your eyes will fall out.”

“I don’t know that you’ve got the science to back that up, Banana.”

Anna shrugged. “There’s a doctor here. Who I’m sure will agree with me as soon as she tells us what has to happen next. Right?”

The doctor startled under the force of Anna’s gaze – demanding and as unblinking as Killian’s had been a moment before. “We’ll have to deliver cesarean,” she said. “And we’d like to get Mrs. Jones in the operating room as soon as possible.”

Killian dropped the phone that time.

That put them on even ground. Or, ice. Elsa absolutely was not speaking English, texting someone with her left hand that Emma only kind of hoped was Regina.

“The baby is full-term,” the doctor continued, seemingly unperturbed by the stunned silence around her, “and healthy, so there shouldn’t be too many risks, but it is surgery and…”

Emma didn’t hear the rest, the buzzing in her ears too loud. She swallowed instead, doing her best to sink back into the pillows, like that would make any of it easier or help her invent technology that could help impatient and worried NHL players teleport across several thousand miles.

“It’s going to be ok, Emma.”

“You might want to try that again if you want me to believe it.”

Killian exhaled, that same flash to his eyes when he glanced up from under his lashes. “I don’t know why I don’t know how to fly a plane.”

“I wouldn’t want you to do that in the snow.”

“I may walk there.”

“Impractical.”

“It’d take too long anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Emma said, nearly laughing. “I really, really want you here.”

“I really, really want to be there.”

“I know that.”

And she did – with every bit of her and every cell that was absolutely, positively ignoring the doctor because whatever the doctor was saying was vaguely terrifying.  Killian’s lips twitched, free hand in his hair. “Red may strangle half a dozen league officials. Took ‘em forever to get me off the ice.”

“Absolute assholes,” Ariel added.

Emma nodded, not sure if it was an actual agreement or, simply, an attempt at misplaced confidence. “This is totally normal. Right?”

“For us?” Killian asked.

“And the medicine.”

“The medicine is fine, love,” he promised, but it felt a little hollow again. Emma felt a little hollow. The word surgery freaked her out.

“We’d like to get you prepped as soon as possible, Mrs. Jones.”

Emma swallowed, nearly pulling her lips into her throat in the process, and the doctor did look confident. That helped. Probably. Hopefully.

The lack of teleportation was disappointing.

“Ok,” she whispered. Elsa and Anna were exchanging meaningful glances again. “Ok, ok, um—I love you.”

Killian smiled. Not huge. No entirely confident. But it was there. And Emma knew he’d walk to the city if he had to.

“I love you too, Swan. I’m going to be there as soon as I can.”

The next few hours passed in a swirl of florescent lights and anesthesia, heavy eyelids and sluggish muscles and Emma didn’t remember being rolled back into her room, but she did notice the shadow slumped in the nearest chair.

It took less than a full second for her eyes to flutter shut again.

They’d tell her eventually, there’d been moments that were less-than-perfect, incisions and more blood than they expected, but Emma could still feel the wave of exhaustion lingering over her and when she woke up, again, there was barely any light in the room, just beeping machines and a baby that she dimly remembered crying very loudly as soon as she came into the world.

Emma groaned, twisting against the hospital mattress and the shadow moved. Jumped, rather.

He jumped up, nearly knocking the chair over in the process and she didn’t mean to laugh.

She didn’t really laugh – was far too sore and far too tired, but it was a valiant attempt because Killian was wearing a shirt that absolutely wasn’t his and team-branded sweats and—

“How long have you been here?”

He exhaled again, like he was only remembering how to breath, ducking his head and pressing his lips to her hair. “Not long. Are you—God.”

The next breath stuttered out of him, shaky and worried was not the right word. Terrified. He sounded terrified, a sheen to him that wasn’t a product of less than a full period on the ice.

Killian’s whole body shuddered when he moved again and Emma couldn’t actually move her arm much, but she let her fingers brush over the back of the hand gripping the sheets. “I love you,” Emma whispered. “We’re ok.”

“We?”

“We. Did you talk to Mattie?”

“For a few minutes. He went home with Gina. They’ll—they’ll be here tomorrow and Mary Margaret’s been calling me non-stop. David wanted to come down here, but Leo’s been coughing and—“

“—El and Anna were here,” Emma interrupted. “I was ok.”

“Are ok,” he corrected, and it felt important. Like he had to keep saying it.

“Currently. Still.”

Killian took another deep breath, burrowing a bit closer to Emma’s ear. “I shouldn’t have gone.”

“We were supposed to have a week and a half, you had to go.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“I know that too,” Emma promised. “I wasn’t by myself. It was—“

“—Do not tell me it was fine, Swan. It was not fine.”

She scoffed, but that edge was back in his voice and she was a little concerned he’d actually walked there. “Did you drive here? Is that what happened?”

“Swan.”

“Killian.”

It took, by her admittedly exhausted, just-had-a-baby account, precisely, one inhale, three blinks and two brushes of his lips over her cheek before he responded. “Red did her best to intimidate several ticket agents for a variety of major airlines. But, well, it’s snowing here and there were delays and it’s ridiculous because we looked up flights out of Dulles and Reagan, but…” He kissed her again. “God, I was terrified. Yeah, we drove her. Probably in record time.”

“Do you think Ariel’s blood pressure will ever return to a normal, human level.”

“I’m not sure mine will, honestly.”

Emma tilted her head up, not at all surprised when she felt his answering smile press against her mouth. “I’m glad you didn’t walk.”

“I considered it.”

“Doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“Is—everything, with—“

Killian trailed off, leaning back and Emma didn’t entirely understand. That lasted less than one slightly dramatic gasp. “Oh, oh, yeah, she’s…”

“Presumably perfect.”

“They didn’t tell you?”

He clicked his tongue. “I was a little one-tracked and I wanted to make sure everything was ok and everyone just kept promising that it was.”“I hate to tell you this, but it doesn’t seem like you believed them.”“I wanted to make sure.”“We’re ok. This time it’s me promising and she’s got very good lungs.

And that smile was all right and more, some kind of metaphorical light and willingness to walk thousands of miles and Emma swore she could almost see the tension fall off him, bits and pieces landing on the hospital floor next to the wires for machines that were only kind of terrifying.

“I love you,” Killian said, muttering the words against her skin and behind her ear. Ghosting them over her hair and the jut of her chin and it lasted too long and not enough, the threat of sleep tugging at the back of Emma’s mind again.

“Go to sleep, Emma,” he continued. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn’t. And when she woke up again, her own lungs a little more human and eyes not quite feeling like weights, the shadow in the chair had changed clothes, his hair a little damp with a baby in his arms and a family waiting at the other end of the hall.

[thedevianthunterrk800]

Bouquets (Captain Allen x Reader)

For @connorshero‘s writing challenge!  Sadie, I hope you enjoy!

Prompt: “Then maybe it’s best if we didn’t see each other for a few days.” //  “Fine with me.”

Fandom: Detroit: Become Human

Warnings: none except some good ol’ angst.

Word Count: 1854

Happy Holidays, guys!!! <3 

9:57 PM

He’s late.

He’s more than just late, actually. It’s been almost an hour and a half since he was supposed to come pick you up—or at least call—and yet nothing.

The first time you finally have a date to the annual holiday party at your workplace and of course said date is nowhere to be found.

You’ve already gotten several messages from your coworkers asking when you’ll be coming, if you’re even coming at all, and you don’t know how to reply to them because David is still not here.

The night has been quiet. You doubt he’s out on any secret, life-threatening missions right now. 

So why isn’t he returning your calls?

The clock strikes ten and you throw your coat on. You grab your Secret Santa’s present by the door before you hurriedly walk out of the apartment, shooting Allen a message that you went ahead without him, wherever the fuck he is.

Not that he cares, apparently.

You’re fuming on the drive over, cursing yourself for expecting so much from a man you’ve only been seeing for a month. You understand that his job is time-consuming to say the least, and that he barely has time to see you during the week, but you really, really like him.  

He’s funny. He’s sweet. He may look cold and gruff on the outside, but you swear nobody gives you warmer hugs.

And when he kisses you? Holds you in his arms and gently lifts you off the ground while his lips mold against yours?

Out of this fucking universe.

Naturally, you’re a little surprised he stood you up like this.

David Allen is a good man, no matter what everyone says. If he wasn’t, you wouldn’t have agreed to a second, third, or fourth date. You thought everything was going fantastic, that maybe the two of you would soon move in together or something.

Obviously, that isn’t the case.

You must’ve misunderstood something along the way, or perhaps he simply changed his mind without letting you know. Regardless, the two of you have a lot to talk about the next time you—

Hold. On.

“What the fuck?” you hiss, almost slamming the brakes when you catch sight of his car parked outside what appears to be a bar. You quickly make a U-turn at the next light, narrowly missing the curb, before speeding down the street and pulling up behind his fucking sedan.

Jimmy’s Bar.

“You’re fucking dead, David,” you grumble to yourself as you climb out of your coupe. Squaring your shoulders, you march into the dimly-lit bar, which is unsurprisingly crowded with several members of the DPD, the SWAT team included. It doesn’t take you long to find him at one of the tables in the corner. You weave through the crowd, your eyes never leaving Allen’s slightly-flushed face. When you get closer, your stomach drops as betrayal floods your system.

He looks so fucking happy and you hate him for it.

How dare he?

How could he abandon you on the one night you begged him to spend with you? How could he promise you that he’d be there, that he wouldn’t miss it for the world, and then blow you off so he could get drunk at the bar with the people he sees every fucking day?

You see each other once a week if you’re lucky, but even that seems to be too much for him.

Without really thinking, you approach him, place your hand on his shoulder, and grit out, “Having fun?”

He jumps slightly, turning to you with an astonished expression that quickly morphs into amusement.

“What are you doing here?” he asks with an easy grin, wrapping an arm around your waist. To his surprise, you shove him away before spinning on your heel and marching in the opposite direction. He calls your name but you don’t respond, simply wanting to get out of there ASAP.

Allen catches you outside, gently grabbing your arm. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You round on him then, and he takes a half-step back at the look of pure fury on your face. “Do you know what today is?”

“Er… Friday?”

“Right. Friday.”

He stares at you, calculating. You glare back at him and it takes him all of thirty seconds to realize that something is horribly, horribly wrong.

“Check your phone,” you suggest in a clipped tone that has him wincing. However, he does as he’s told and his eyes widen at the wall of notifications that are no doubt covering his screen.

He sees your first message and blanches. “Oh fuck.”

“Yep.”

“I forgot,” he admits shamefully, and you almost laugh at how pointless that realization is right now. You shake your head as you turn around and walk towards your car. As much as you want to go home right now, you don’t want to leave your Secret Santa without their present. Just because your night is ruined doesn’t mean someone else’s should be, too.

He speeds past you and presses his back against your car door, preventing you from climbing in. You pinch the bridge of your nose, your patience wearing thin. “Dave, move.”

“We can still go,” he points out, offering you a smile that you don’t return. That clearly unnerves him because his smile falters and he looks at you nervously. “Look, I know I fucked up—”

You laugh then, shaking your head and he has the audacity to scowl as though you’re the one in the wrong.

“It’s an honest mistake,” he snaps defensively as you roll your eyes at his pathetic excuse.

“Mistake? You’ve known about this party for weeks. I reminded you this morning, but you couldn’t be bothered to check your phone, could you?”

“I was busy. Sorry I don’t check my phone every fucking second to entertain you.”

You recoil as if you’ve been slapped. What, so this is somehow your fault? Him forgetting an important date is something that is miraculously your own doing?

“You could have called,” you whisper, your voice sounding distant even to you. Allen doesn’t respond for a while and when you glance up, you see him staring off to the side, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

“I was at work,” he eventually grumbles, still not looking at you. “I don’t… I don’t always have time for shit like this.”

...shit like this, huh?

You grit your teeth. Fine. Fucking fine. If he doesn’t want to make time, then why should you?

Clenching your fists beside you so hard that your fingernails leave crescent indents on your palm, you snarl, “Then maybe it’s best if we didn’t see each other for a few days.”

He doesn’t even blink. “Fine with me.”

And with that, he shoves himself off your car and stalks back into the bar without even throwing you a backwards glance.

With shaking hands, you get into your coupe and drive away.

::

“Flowers for you,” a pleasant voice says, and a bouquet of roses is unceremoniously thrust in your face. You accept the flowers with a stammer of thanks. The Android receptionist beams at you before returning to her desk.

The card attached reads, ‘It’s been a few days.’

There’s no name, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who they’re from.

Your first instinct is to throw the damn thing away, but you can’t find it in your heart to waste something so beautiful. Instead, you walk around the office handing each and every one of your coworkers a rose until you’re only left with the plastic wrapper that once held the stems together.

You don’t call him that evening either.

The next day, he sends over a large teddy bear with no note. You give it to your pregnant coworker who squeals with glee at the sight of the adorable giant plush that you want nothing to do with.

The day after is December 23rd, two days before Christmas and an entire week after that fateful night outside Jimmy’s Bar. You initially planned to spend the holidays with him, but, well, life doesn’t always work out the way you want it to.

With a sigh, you wonder what nonsense he’ll send you this time. Whatever it is, you hope it won’t be as obnoxious as the others, which have gotten you more attention from the office than you need or want.

At around noon that day, you get a call from the reception desk about another delivery and you roll your eyes.

You expect Allen to have sent something obnoxious, maybe five more bouquets of flowers, and you’re only partially correct.

You have indeed received some flowers, but just one bouquet.

The delivery man is the true surprise.

“Hey,” greets Allen, holding out the red and white carnations for you to take. Hesitantly, you do so and you don’t miss the way his hand brushes against yours.

“What are you doing here?” you ask in lieu of a greeting and he only sighs.

Scratching the back of his head, he mutters, “Just wanted to see you.”

“Right.”

“Look, let me take you out to lunch and—”

“I’m busy,” you retort without missing a beat, only feeling slightly guilty at the way his face falls at your immediate rejection. Before you lose your nerve, you add, “I don’t always have time for shit like this.”

He lets out a small laugh and holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright, I deserve that.”

“You really do,” you agree. Then you bite your lip. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.”

“How can you forget?”

“I’m a dumbass,” Allen admits readily, as though he’s been thinking it all week. You don’t know this, but that’s exactly the case.

You smile a little, and his eyes soften at the sight. “You are.”

He reaches out and takes your hand. You subconsciously move closer and he grins. “Can I make it up to you?”

It’s so difficult to stay mad at him, especially when deep down you know you’ve missed his sorry ass terribly. It doesn’t help that he looks and sounds so damn sincere and apologetic. It would be infinitely easier to stay pissed if he hadn’t spent the past few days sending you apology gifts and now, visiting you and offering to make things better.

Wordlessly, you walk over to the reception desk to deposit the flowers. Allen follows you worriedly, already promising that he won’t ever forget another date, but you quickly cut him off with a deep, indulgent kiss that leaves him speechless.

You pull away just as he begins to return the favor and he growls a little when you block his lips with your palm.

“I’m off in two hours. Be ready to sweep me off my feet.”

With bright eyes, he nods eagerly and presses a soft kiss on the palm still covering his mouth.

The two of you spend the holidays together, and on New Year’s Eve, he asks you to move in.

One year later, he proposes right there in front of the reception desk.

[freaoscanlin]

Kaleidoscope Heart Chapter 3

Laurel raised her wrist to the light, her chest tightening. A bruise would have faded to green and yellow by now. If it truly was a soulmark, it could only be the stuff of dreams and fairy tales—two of the farthest things from her reality.

Laurel gets a soulmark and discovers several things she knew about herself to no longer be true. A love story in three parts.

Read on AO3.

Rated PG-13, Laurel/Felicity, tw for recovery and addiction, grief, injuries. After a long delay on the part of the author, Team Arrow races off to Nanda Parbat to stop Ra’s and Felicity’s timing, as usual, is terrible.

It was an unbearable flight to Nanda Parbat.

Every part of Laurel burned with shame to be sharing a jet with her sister’s killer. Knowing that they needed Malcolm Merlyn’s help, that they couldn’t save Oliver or the city without him, didn’t bank the fires at all. Knowing that he was their only chance to save Nyssa from whatever her father had in store for her.

Because of this, Laurel took the seat on the jet farthest from Malcolm. The others gave her a wide berth until Felicity plopped down in the seat next to her and unceremoniously tucked her legs under her. She rested her head on Laurel’s shoulder. “If I stare at my tablet for another minute, I am going to throw myself off the plane. Please talk to me so I can stop playing the ten thousand things that can go wrong in a loop in my head.”

“I’m not sure I’m good for conversation right now,” Laurel said.

Felicity grimaced. “Oh, sorry. I can leave you alone.”

“No, it’s fine. Please, stay.”

Felicity seemed to think it over for a minute. She shifted in the seat, getting more comfortable.

Obligingly, Laurel forced herself to relax. These little displays from Felicity had become almost commonplace after Diggle’s wedding. In the past few months they’d gone from hesitant friends and teammates to instinctually supporting each other—with a great more affection. Felicity was usually the one to initiate things, bumping her elbow into Laurel’s side, hooking their arms together while they walked, or simply hugging her in greeting. And Laurel, cut off from her father with her sister gone and mother long ago having abandoned her, found that she was practically starved for casual touch. It was almost pathetic how needy she sometimes felt.

So now when Felicity cuddled up to her, Laurel pushed some of her bad mood aside and absently reached up to toy with her friend’s hair. Felicity tilted her head, almost imperiously, toward Laurel’s hand. Laurel almost wanted to laugh as she stroked Felicity’s hair. She could be so much like a cat sometimes.

“What’s that smile for?” Felicity asked.

“No reason.”

They faced impossible odds when they landed. Several uneasy allies against an army, one possibly led by a man close to all of them. Laurel had no idea what to expect—had Oliver truly lost his mind? Would they be able to stop the plane? Would the League simply be waiting to kill them, as the “Assassins” in their title would indicate?

She pushed the fear aside. “You should get some sleep,” she told Felicity. “It’s still a long flight.”

“You should, too.”

“I—can’t. Not with him here.” Laurel pasted on what she hoped was a brave smile. “But no reason for both of us to suffer. Get some sleep. Use me as a pillow, if you want.”

Felicity popped up the armrest between their seats. She curled up—again like a cat—and settled in with her head in Laurel’s lap. After a few seconds she grumbled and repositioned herself. “I need lazier friends. All of you are hard muscle. It’s not comfy.”

“So sorry for my rocking bod,” Laurel said, and Felicity laughed.

Before long, Felicity’s breath evened out and she went lax. Laurel carefully stretched and wrangled a blanket over her, making sure not to wake her. Across the cabin, she met Malcolm’s eyes. He raised an eyebrow at Felicity sleeping in her lap then at Laurel herself.

Laurel glared, and turned her attention back to the window, fury burning in her chest. She’d brokered deals that gave repugnant criminals sentences far more lenient than they deserved. That injustice—for the greater good—had led to so many restless nights. And it had nothing on the self-loathing coursing through her now.

If Sara could see her now, all but breaking bread with her killer, she would be so disappointed.

Felicity made a noise in her sleep and wriggled to get more comfortable. She groped around until she found Laurel’s hand—which she tucked under her chin like a security blanket. It was, to put it frankly, adorable. She had her fingers wrapped around the leather cuff, with absolutely no idea what lay underneath.

In the time Oliver had been away, leaving the team to carry on without him and find their rhythm again, the circuit board feather had grown more intricate. Maybe it was because she’d stopped fighting against the idea that Felicity could be her soulmate. Maybe it was because they’d been through hell together lately and that had tightened whatever bonds existed. Either way, she didn’t mind.

The guilt, however, gnawed away at her. The mark might be on her skin, but it belonged just as much to Felicity. Felicity, who’d probably spent countless hours daydreaming about soulmarks. The longer Laurel put off telling her, the worse it would be when she inevitably found out.

But every time Laurel moved to share, her courage withered. This was entirely new territory for her, and Felicity was fresh from a relationship with Ray. It made sense to take her time and make sure. Maybe the increased contact was simply a touch-starved Felicity replacing what she’d lost with a close friend. Or maybe the soulmark wasn’t one-sided. Either way, all of this was now to Laurel. And Felicity’s friendship mattered more than ever, so she really, really did not want to screw any of this up.

Besides, there was a strong chance they wouldn’t even survive the next twelve hours. If they didn’t stop Ra’s al Ghul, it wouldn’t even matter.

Cold comfort, at best.

Half an hour before they were due to land, Felicity woke up and began the final checks on her tablet, barely sparing Laurel a glance. Laurel let her work in silence—or as silent as Felicity, who tended to mutter to herself even during an intense hacking session, could get—while she steeled her own nerves for the upcoming fight. At the fifteen minute warning, she picked her way to the private cabin to change into her armor. She pulled on the first layer, leaving the jacket on the bed, and held a staring contest with her mask and the wig. The entire League of Assassins had to know who she was by now. What did it even matter?

She had just stuffed the wig back in her kit bag when a soft knock sounded at the door. Felicity poked her head in. “Tatsu says we’ll have a hike when we land, so I’ve been sent back to remind you to put on sunscreen and—what’s that on your arm? Did you get a tattoo?”

Laurel jolted, her gaze snapping to her wrist. The cuff had been pushed up her arm so that the edge of the soulmark peeked out.

Casually, she nudged the cuff back into place, hoping her hand didn’t shake with the cold terror suffusing her. “It’s a feather,” she said. Not technically a lie.

“Why is it covered up? Can I see it?” Felicity asked.

“I—” Laurel cast about for an excuse. She was about to blurt out that the tattoo artist had done a terrible job, but she was saved by Diggle showing up to let them know the plane was about to land and that he needed Felicity to confirm a few last minute details for him.

Felicity followed him out, though she did cast one quizzical look at Laurel as she left.

Laurel pulled on her jacket and buckled into her armor, but she had to admit that the nerves weren’t entirely to blame on the battle ahead.

* * *

By the time they were escorted into the main chamber of Nanda Parbat, Laurel’s left arm felt as though she’d plunged it straight into a brazier of burning coals. She walked toward the back of the group, teeth gritted, arm tucked close to her midsection. If the guards noticed dripping blood, they didn’t comment.

She’d peeked at the wound a few times on the forced march into the headquarters, but she didn’t dare get a better look. One of the assassins had sliced the back of her arm when she’d followed Felicity to provide cover. Though she’d managed to winch some of the buckles on her sleeve closed to apply pressure, she could feel the warm slide of blood down her arm and onto her wrist, right over the soulmark.

When Oliver—god, his eyes were so empty of the Oliver Laurel knew—looked at in the line, Laurel slid her arm behind her back. She did let out a hiss of pain when a guard grabbed her by the elbow to march her into the cell. She covered by demanding to speak with Nyssa.

No answer, of course. At this point, she wasn’t even sure the guards could talk. Laurel kept her teeth gritted, hoping her friend and trainer was safe.

In the cell, her vision went briefly white when they clapped manacles around her wrist. Laurel hoped she seemed casual as she took a seat on one of the stones, but it felt like more like collapsing. She needed to tend her arm, she knew. It was growing worse by the minute.

But the cut sliced near the soulmark and no way in hell was she letting Malcolm Merlyn see that. Laurel angled her body away and applied pressure to her arm. She gritted her teeth harder.

“I can’t believe Nyssa would agree to marry him,” Felicity said.

“I don’t really think there was much agreeing,” Diggle said in a bitter voice.

“We need to focus on getting out of here alive,” Merlyn said.

“Is that…even a remote possibility?” Ray asked nervously.

Laurel tuned the rest of them out. Her hand shook as she unbuckled some of the straps on her sleeve.

“Wait a second,” she heard Felicity say. “Laurel, what’s wrong with your—”

The door to the cell slammed open. In short order, Diggle was taken off by one set of guards and Malcolm—shouting in Arabic—by another. Laurel kept her jaw clenched and her wound out of sight of the guards.

The minute Malcolm and the guards had vanished, Laurel cleared her throat. “So, funny story, I got sliced pretty bad.”

Felicity dropped an oath Laurel hadn’t heard since law school and scrambled over. “Oh—oh, damn, that’s a lot of blood. Laurel—hell, there’s so much blood. And you’re really pale.”

She reached for Laurel’s sleeve, to push it back, and Laurel instinctively tensed and pulled her arm away.

This was not how she wanted Felicity to discover the soulmark.

But Felicity actually tsked at her, like she was Oliver or something. “Laurel. You’re obviously hurt. Just let me look.”

There was, Laurel saw, absolutely no way of hiding it. And her arm hurt so badly. So she held her arm out, and waited.

“God, they really got you,” Felicity said in a rush. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“It’s not deep,” Laurel said.

“Help me with her sleeve?” Felicity asked Ray, who’d been hovering worriedly behind her. “You don’t have a first aid kit on you, do you? Laurel, stay with us, please don’t pass out.”

“I’m not even dizzy, Felicity. It’s fine.”

“Still, this looks bad. Seriously, you should have said something!”

“Let’s maybe patch her up before the guards come back,” Ray said. “That’s who you’re worried about noticing, right?” He looked at Laurel, a line between his eyebrows.

“Not exactly,” Laurel said, and she grimaced as they ripped her sleeve. That would take forever to repair. She would have to send Cisco an apology fruit basket if they made it out of this in one piece—though things weren’t looking too hopeful at the moment.

Felicity continued to scold as they applied as much first aid as they could to Laurel’s arm. She didn’t seem to require an actual response, and Laurel figured it helped her to have somebody to berate, so she let her attention drift in and out. In the end, they tore off strips of Felicity’s hoodie for makeshift bandages, layering those on while she gritted her teeth and did a few breathing exercises she’d picked up at the single yoga class she’d managed to attend in the past few months.

She didn’t dare look at her wrist, where she could see a good inch of the soulmark that wasn’t hidden beneath the manacle.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Felicity asked again. “That could’ve been super serious, Laurel. It still might be, if we don’t convince the guards for basic supplies allowed to us by the Geneva Convention.” She raised her voice for the last bit, directed at the cell door.

“I don’t think these guys follow the Geneva Convention,” Ray said. “My nanotech could clean that right up. If we get out of here.”

“Th-thanks,” Laurel said, carefully moving her arm.

“Nice ink, by the way,” Ray said. “Seriously cool design.”

Laurel’s stomach dropped. “Thank you,” she said what she hoped was a casual voice. She knew he was just being people-pleasing affable Ray, but she kind of wanted to kick him.

“Ink? Oh, right, your tattoo!” Felicity perked up slightly in spite of the worried pall across her face. “I didn’t get to see it earlier. May I?”

It took every ounce of willpower Laurel had left not to yank her arm and wrist behind her. Instead, she gave in to the inevitable and held out her arm.

Ray eagerly leaned in closer. “The feather’s because you’re the Canary?”

“Seemed fitting,” Laurel said, using the excuse of blood loss to lean back against the column.

“The colors are really pretty,” Felicity said, sounding genuinely impressed. Laurel swiftly stole a look at her; Felicity had her fingers resting lightly on the manacle, and her face didn’t portray any sense of understanding. She patted Laurel’s thigh.

She thought it was just a tattoo.

“I’m going to go ask the guard for a first aid kit, or whatever the Nanda Parbat equivalent is. God, I hope it’s not leeches,” Felicity said, and Laurel grimaced.

As Felicity climbed to her feet and walked toward the cell door, Ray—after glancing at Laurel for permission—gently lifted her arm. “What’s this pattern? It’s really intricate—oh, circuit board. Neat. Bringing the Canary into the digital age?”

“That’s definitely one interpretation,” Laurel said.

She saw Felicity’s shoulders tense, and the woman stop in her tracks. She looked over her shoulder with a puzzled frown.

And the cell door slammed open, making all of them except Tatsu jump. As Diggle stumbled back into the cell and Felicity shouted at the guards for medical supplies, Laurel leaned back against a column and closed her eyes.

This truly was it. Felicity was a literal genius, and it didn’t even take one of those to see why Laurel might be evasive over a tattoo. Why she might not want a sworn enemy to see what was supposed to be a simple bit of ink. What a circuit board feather might mean.

Where did that leave them now? Laurel had no idea.

She heard shuffling on either side of her. “How is she?” Diggle said.

“I’m fine, though this stings like a bitch, so if you’ve got any grand rescue plans, now would be a great time,” Laurel said without opening her eyes.

“Sorry, I left them in my other coat,” Diggle said.

And then Laurel felt the manacle on her wrist move slightly. She opened her eyes to see that Felicity had eased it down so that it hid the soulmark from sight. Surprised, she met Felicity’s gaze, which seemed to radiate alarm. Her eyes had gone almost comically wide, and her throat worked.

Tatsu, Laurel noticed, was regarding both of them with interest. Laurel braced for the questions to come.

But Felicity just turned to Diggle. “Please tell me Oliver has some plan to get us out of here.”

Diggle only shook his head, grimly. All hope had faded from his face.

“Fine. That’s…fine. We’ll just have to do it ourselves.” Felicity met Laurel’s gaze, not looking away. “We’re going to get out of here. And when we do, this team needs to talk. About a lot of things.”

Then she turned away, leaving Laurel in utter confusion.

* * *

Dying sucked. Dying and knowing that she’d been betrayed by Oliver was even worse.

Worst of all, Laurel had time to think as she collapsed to the ground in a coughing fit, feeling the virus seize her muscles, was that she hadn’t told Felicity ages ago. She should have taken the chance, and damn the consequences. As black overtook her vision, she curled up, clutching her wrist. Her last vision was of Felicity, chained up on the other side of the cell, meeting her eyes before they both passed out.

* * *

On the flight back to Star City, Felicity stayed on the other side of the plane. Not once did she look at Laurel, who spent the flight ineffectually stitching up her sleeve and worrying over Nyssa. Any calls she placed to her father went straight to voicemail. Not that she expected that to work, but it burned. After the third, she nearly threw her phone at the seat opposite in disgust.

“No luck?” a quiet voice asked, making her jolt.

“God, warn a girl, will you?” Laurel released her death grip on the arm rest. “I don’t really want to die of a heart attack.”

“Sorry.” Felicity gingerly sat down next to her—keeping a healthy distance this time, Laurel noted with a sinking stomach.

“It’s fine. We’re all a little on edge.”

“Um…” Felicity’s gaze flicked down to Laurel’s wrist, which she’d once again covered with Sara’s cuff.

Laurel instinctively glanced toward Malcolm, who was once again meditating near the front of the plane.

Puzzled, Felicity peered that way as well—and then understanding seemed to dawn. She leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “I guess I see why you weren’t in a hurry to tell us you’d nearly sliced your arm off.”

“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? It’s a fairly shallow cut,” Laurel said, frowning.

“Still—”

“It worked out. I didn’t want him to know.”

“Yeah, he’s apparently not alone in that, is he?” Felicity frowned.

Laurel winced. “I don’t think now’s a good time to get into that.”

“Or ever, apparently, as it really didn’t look like you were going to tell me at all.” Felicity scowled. “But never mind that, we have other problems. I wanted to check over your arm.”

“It’s fine. I already cleaned it up earlier with the medkit. It barely even hurts anymore.”

“Even so—”

“Felicity, it’s fine,” Laurel said, scowling back at her. “Also, it’s my arm, I think I would know whether it’s okay or not.”

She wasn’t entirely talking about the cut on her arm, she realized.

And Felicity seemed to know that, for she held Laurel’s gaze for a long, simmering moment, clearly annoyed. Then she rolled her eyes and stalked off, muttering about how vigilantes were all alike. Laurel wasn’t sure she liked that much, as being compared to Oliver tended to rankle, but at least Felicity had retreated to the other side of the plane, giving her some much needed space.

If this was any sort of victory, it felt like a hollow one. Laurel sagged back against the seat and stubbornly returned to work on her sleeve. She did not look Felicity’s way even once.

God, this was a mess.

* * *

And of course Oliver wasn’t a traitor.

An asshole? Sure. That much was obvious from the way Diggle nearly laid him out flat. But secretly he had been on their side all along. The helter-skelter plans he had devised with Malcolm Merlyn showed just how much Ra’s and his men had backed everybody into a corner. Laurel could appreciate that much. But now that everything was out in the open, she could admit his betrayal still stung. Hope also didn’t seem to be in great abundance among the team. They’d been outsmarted by Ra’s: fractured by broken trust; Roy had faked his death; Nyssa had lost her heritage. And there was no way in hell they could physically fight a pathogen.

But why let a little thing like semantics stop them?

“Can you talk to your father?” Oliver asked her directly. He was considerate enough to wince, but not thoughtful enough to send anybody else on his task. “We’re going to need police backup to canvas all of Star City.”

The last thing she wanted to do right now, with everything so raw, was confront the man who she’d hurt—and who had lashed back at her in turn—for months. But Laurel nodded and pulled on her jacket. “I’ll do my best,” she said, as she knew better than to promise anything where her father was concerned.

“Good, then everybody has their orders.” Oliver looked at each of them in turn. Laurel wasn’t the only one who glared back. “Good luck.”

Laurel exchanged an eye-roll with Diggle and turned away without glancing in Felicity’s direction. Since their tiny dust-up on the plane, they’d avoided each other.

She wasn’t surprised when Nyssa fell into step next to her. “How’re you doing?” she asked her friend, quietly.

“I have had better days,” was Nyssa’s neutral reply.

She’d always had a thing for well-crafted understatement.

“God, I need a drink,” Laurel said, and Nyssa’s face radiated alarm for a split-second. “But I’ll settle for a burger on the way. You hungry?”

“I believe the term Americans would use here is ‘starved.’”

“Works for me. I need to get my car keys from my locker, so—”

“Laurel! Wait up!” Heels clicked along the tile in the hallway as they both turned to see Felicity hurrying along toward them.

“I shall wait in the car,” Nyssa said.

“Okay. The combination on my locker is—”

“I do not require it.” And Nyssa sauntered off.

Laurel had only a second or so to wonder if Nyssa worked at it or if being that unsettling came naturally to her, before Felicity arrived, a little out of breath. She nearly careened into Laurel in her hurry, and possibly would have fallen over if Laurel hadn’t grabbed her arms with an alarmed, “Whoa! What’s the matter?”

“Matter? Huh? Oh—oh, nothing.” Felicity flushed and stepped back out of reach. She looked at Laurel’s wrist and away just as quickly. “I just—I didn’t want what I said to you on the plane to be the last thing. Just, like, in case. Not that I don’t have the utmost faith in you, I totally do, but as this year has more than proved, bad stuff happens and you can never really know, you know?”

“Know what?” Laurel asked, as the words had tumbled out on top of each other in a rush.

“Just know.” Felicity’s flush darkened. “None of this is coming out right, which is the story of my life. Look, just—we have so much to talk about. Just be safe out there, okay? Um, don’t die.”

And Laurel found herself jerked into a hug that was as strong as it was short. She blinked and Felicity was scurrying away, the back of her neck bright red.

“Hey!” she called back before she could stop herself. Felicity turned, still walking. “The same goes for you, too, you know.”

“Thanks!” The grin Felicity flashed at her as she vanished around the corner could light up entire city blocks.

* * *

Eight hours later, Laurel gritted her teeth and lowered herself into an ice bath. It turned out literally saving the world didn’t even factor in: injuries sustained in the fight hurt just as bad after saving thousands from a killer virus as they did after a humiliating loss.

Which was downright rude, but not much she could do about it.

She blew out her breath at the cutting shock of cold before she deliberately relaxed her muscles in the frigid water. The city was safe. Nyssa was safe. Even Oliver was safe. Ra’s al Ghul had been defeated, things with her father somewhat aired out if not entirely fixed. She’d earned this chance to kick back and tune out and deliberately not think about anything.

Easy enough to do when she had the base to herself. Diggle had gone home to Lyla and Baby Sara, Thea had vanished somewhere to brood—Laurel planned to track her down later—she had no idea where Felicity had vanished to, and Oliver was packing to leave. He had asked Felicity to go with him so maybe she’d changed her mind and was packing.

Laurel didn’t really want to think about that.

Using the ice machine to fill the base tub seemed like way less work than stopping to buy ice on her way home, so Laurel had done that. She let her head rest on the back of the tub and half-closed her eyes. The slosh of water and ice lapping against the sides of the Jacuzzi tub lulled her into a doze.

“Uh…how naked are you in there?” Felicity’s voice from the doorway made her lift her head, and smile in spite of herself. Felicity had her hand over her eyes.

“Per the base’s ‘no nudity rules,’ I’ve got a sports bra on, and shorts,” she said. “If you can’t handle the sight of naked abs, you picked the wrong team.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Felicity hovered in the doorway for a long moment, hand still over her eyes, and Laurel watched her seem to literally decide whether to stay or go. Not that Laurel blamed her: Laurel’s own stomach had suddenly tied itself in knots.

Evidently, the more courageous part of Felicity won, for she lowered her hand and picked her way across the base. She’d traded her Nanda Parbat attire for a cute pencil skirt and a polka-dotted top. Only when she drew closer did Laurel see that the polka dots were actually butterflies. She hesitated and took a seat next to the tub, her eyes on the wrist that Laurel had left uncovered.

Later had arrived.

“May I?” Felicity asked.

Laurel, not sure she trusted her voice, nodded.

It felt different than Ray or Nyssa observing the mark. For one thing, the mere brush of Felicity’s fingertips triggered tiny electrical pulses through her arm and shoulder. While Ray had looked intrigued and Nyssa coolly interested, Felicity seemed more awestruck.

“You know, I really thought I had hallucinated it,” Felicity said, tracing a finger along the feather’s spine. Laurel shivered, and tried to blame the ice bath. “It was pretty dark in that dungeon. It’s circuit board. Just like you said at the wedding, only you weren’t talking about Oliver.”

Laurel nodded again. “It had already come in by then. Not…as detailed.”

“God, and these colors.” Felicity shook her head. “I guess this means you’re my soulmate.”

“Well, you’re certainly mine,” Laurel said. “I don’t know if it goes both ways.”

“Can it?” Felicity finally met her gaze and smiled, and Laurel promptly forgot to breathe. “I’d really like it to.”

“I—ah—” Her brain suddenly refused to cooperate. “What about Oliver?”

Felicity blinked. “What about him?”

“You—he—” Why were there no words? “Look, there were some very pining looks thrown around. It was not subtle. At all.”

A slow grin began to spread over Felicity’s face. “Were you jealous?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Because you sound jealous. Just a little bit.” Felicity tapped a finger against her lips, looking contemplative. “You know, it’s probably a little mean to be flattered, but I think I am.”

Laurel groaned and contemplated ducking her entire head under the water. “Sure, be flattered. You know, these last few months have been…confusing. I didn’t even really believe in soulmarks and then all of a sudden, I’ve got one. For my best friend—another woman. I’ve never been attracted to women before, but my soulmate is a woman, and now I don’t even know if I’m gay, or straight, or what. I don’t know what I am.”

Felicity pursed her lips. “Are you sure?”

“I just told you I’m not.”

“Hmm. I think your soul might be.” When Laurel gave her an exasperated look, Felicity laughed. “I’m not trying to be all mystic or whatever, I swear. It’s just that your soulmark happens to be the colors of the bisexual flag.”

“Bisexual? Like Sara?” Laurel asked. She lifted her wrist to frown at the soulmark. Months before, the thought of being anything but straight had nearly sent her into a towering panic. But now, perhaps, she shared an identity with Sara, one more little connection.

“Of course,” Felicity said, “no one really knows how these marks work. The colors could be coming from me.” Laurel’s gaze cut to her, and she smirked. “What? You didn’t suspect anything? Not even when I kept accidentally hitting on everybody, no matter their gender?”

“You’re magnetic. It’s a kind of magic with everyone you meet,” Laurel said. It was one of her favorite things about Felicity, actually. “I guess I just thought that since you and Ray—and you and Oliver…”

“Huh. Yeah, I can see that. Oliver and I did have something, once upon a time. It literally blew up in our faces.” Felicity shrugged, and Laurel froze as she scooted closer, her eyes sparkling. After the last few weeks of sheer misery, it felt like a light in the darkness, and she didn’t know whether to trust it. “Maybe I could have had something with Oliver again, but see, there was this stunningly gorgeous teammate of mine—you should see her, she is seriously cute—who just kept popping up in my life with food, and making me laugh, and debating things—”

“Arguing, you mean,” Laurel said.

“She’s a lawyer, it’s part of the charm. And she always made me feel special, even when she was exposed to the genuine horror that was my goth phase.”

“That picture was incredibly cute, though.”

Felicity let out a put-upon sigh. “I do occasionally question her taste.”

Laurel flicked water at her, and she yelped, holding her hands up in a time out gesture.

“I didn’t make you feel special,” Laurel said. “You are special. The sheer force of you made a fancy magic doodle manifest on my skin. That’s talent.”

“What can I say? I’m magnetic.”

“You are.” And damn if self-confidence didn’t look amazing on her. Laurel wanted nothing more than to play along, to smile back and just flirt—she’d missed this so much—but the sinking feeling in her stomach refused to go away. “Are you still mad I didn’t show you? I know you love soulmarks.”

“Are you kidding? Soulmarks are terrifying. You’re literally wearing your heart on your sleeve with absolutely no guarantee the other person feels the same way. I’m impressed you didn’t take off running when I figured it out.”

“Manacles,” Laurel said.

“Even so.”

“Massive blood loss, too.”

“Oh, if you’re going to be pedantic about it.” Felicity wrinkled her nose. “I really am sorry about what I said on the plane. Like, I thought about it and I realized: I might not have showed you ever if it had been me. So I totally get it. Not that brave either.”

Laurel eyed her. “I don’t know. You seem plenty brave right now.”

“I have literal, colorful, and very detailed proof you like me.” Felicity grinned. “It gives me a little bit of an edge.”

But as much bravado as she projected, Laurel could still see the way Felicity’s thumbs twitched, never stilling, and how her chin trembled just slightly. Felicity was as nervous as she was. That, more than anything she had actually said, sent a wave of sudden calm through Laurel.

“Hey. Come here.” Laurel reached out with her dry arm.

Felicity immediately wrapped her fingers around Laurel’s wrist, thumb tracing the spine of the feather as she leaned in. Compared to the icy water, she felt like a furnace. The kiss was slow at first, both of them hesitant, until Felicity changed the angle. She slid her fingers into Laurel’s hair, tugging a little. Amused—and ridiculously turned on—Laurel kissed her back with just as much fervor. She touched Felicity’s cheek—

Felicity jerked back with a yelp. “Cold! Gah!”

“Uh.” Laurel looked down at the bath and shook her head to clear it. She’d completely forgotten about the literal ice water. “Sorry,” she said with a wince.

Felicity clapped her hand over her mouth to unsuccessfully stifle a giggle. “Wait, did you forget where you were? Got a little carried away, did you?”

“You started it.” Laurel flicked water at her, laughing when she shrieked. “It’s not that cold.”

“Yes it is, and I am staying decidedly out of range of you and your icy fingers of death.” But Felicity laughed as she scooted back. “Which is not to say that I am opposed to what we did, and in fact I would like to do so again, but somewhere decidedly less frigid.”

It came out, Laurel noted, like a question. The hesitance seemed to be creeping back.

“We should.” Laurel folded her arms over the edge of the tub. Her grin was probably dopey as hell, but she didn’t care. “Tomorrow night? Now that we don’t have the end of the world to worry about for at least a couple weeks, we should maybe go to that new Thai fusion place on Main. Seven o’clock?”

“It’s a date, soulmate.” Felicity closed her eyes in horror as Laurel cracked up. “Oh god. Let’s both pretend I never said that. In fact, I’m just—gonna go. While I still have a modicum of cool left. And sense, too, because, like, you’re all wet and you like me and—okay, bye.”

And distinctly bright red, she scurried off without a second look.

Left alone in the base once again, Laurel waited until Felicity was definitely out of hearing range before she indulged herself and ducked under the water to let out a happy scream—one from which she surfaced with a gasp and a great deal of swearing. Elated or not, she was still in a literal ice bath. And enough of that, really. She’d deal with the aches on her own later. She climbed out, trembling.

Even freezing, she couldn’t stop smiling. The rest of her might have felt cold, but her wrist burned with warmth. She held it up to the light, flexing it as she admired the colors. For the very first time, she saw the mark as neither a trap nor even slightly cursed. Felicity knew and she felt the same way. Things with her father were…better. They’d saved the city. Maybe just this once she was entitled to a shred of happiness, Laurel thought as she dressed to go home and face-plant onto her mattress and stay there for at least twelve hours.

No, she determined. She had a date with her actual soulmate. The soulmark was permission to be happy.

And damned if she wasn’t going to take it.

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

PROM IN BLACK

"This is ridiculous," Des said.

Shadow stared at her thoughtfully for a minute before agreeing. "You're right. The train is far too long, you'll be tripping over yourself all night. Sutsam!"

Sutsam came forth from where he had been lurking in the corner, bobbing and scraping. Shadow pointed to the foot of Des' dress, and the ghostly tailor set to it with needle and thread, performing some sartorial sleight of hand that managed to vanish half a foot of cloth. Des sighed.

"Not that," she said. "Though that is better. I mean... this whole thing."

Shadow frowned. "What, the dress? We've spent a good amount of time designing it, but I supposed Sutsam could probably whip something up --"

"No," Des interrupted, to Sutsam's visible relief. "I mean, holding this... prom, just for the three of us. I know it's all the rage in the Realm, but... we're hardly Dynasts." She laughed sadly. "If we're counting by blood, I suppose I am technically royalty, but still."

Shadow's softened, then hardened. "Don't think of that," he admonished. "This isn't about showing off or performing social maneuvers. This is just... fun."

"Fun," Des repeated. "With all due respect, Shadow, you're hardly an expert. I don't think you've ever had fun in your life."

Shadow raised an eyebrow. "For your information," he said drily, "I once had a riveting conversation with the former Magnus about the nature of Essence. I was positively lightheaded." He kept a straight face, but Des laughed until Sutsam pleaded for her to stay still. "But seriously," Shadow said, and she subsided. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but... you three are young. Even Star. You all deserve the joys of young adulthood, its attendant rites and ceremonies. Not... not to have to hide your face and wrestle with darkness." Shadow's face was averted as he spoke, watching Sutsam's work, but Des detected a quiver in his voice.

"Like you did?" she asked softly. "What was your prom like?"

Shadow had Awareness 3, so there was no excuse for him not to have heard, but he acted as if Des hadn't spoken. He stepped back and surveyed Sutsam's handiwork. "Perfect," he said. "The boys will never know what hit them."

+++

"This is ridiculous," Seal growled. He rotated his arm as if feeling his shoulder. "I can barely fucking move in this. First punch and I'm gonna dislocate my fucking shoulder, or maybe just rip the damn thing in half."

"You're not gonna get in a fucking fight," Leo said through gritted teeth. He was helping the boy struggle into his tuxedo, a black-and-white getup that made Seal look like a clown. As far as Seal could see himself in the tiny bathroom's mirror, anyways. And it was too fucking tight.

"You're one to fucking talk," Seal retorted. "Didn't you fuck a guy up at the last party you went to?"

"Hey," Leo snapped, rising to his feet and staring Seal in the eyes. "That's out of fucking line."

A heated glare passed between them for a few seconds before Seal broke it off and rubbed his neck awkwardly. "Sorry," he muttered.

Leo closed his eyes and breathed deeply, visibly composing himself. "It's alright," he said as he moved back around Seal to adjust the collar. "I deserved that one."

"Any advice?" Seal asked. "Besides 'do what I say, not what I do'?"

"Well, for starters," Leo said, "don't get smashed and punch the worst guy in the world." He met Seal's eyes in the mirror and they chuckled. "For real though, you don't have to worry about any of that tonight. No paparazzi, no drama, no mess. Just some kids having fun."

"I'm not a fucking kid," Seal growled, quieter this time.

"Yeah, you are," Leo said. "Oughta be hanging out at the schoolyard, menacing all the sorcery nerds or whatever."

"I'm eighteen," Seal countered. "What were you fucking doing at eighteen?" Leo was silent, so Seal pressed his advantage. "You weren't going to fancy fucking parties in full dress," he accused. "Why the fuck should I?"

Only after he said it, at usual, did Seal feel bad. He saw Leo's lips pressed together in a thin line, his eyes in some distant place. After a while, Leo looked back down at Seal's collar. "We're not talking about my life," he said roughly. "We're not even talking about yours. We're talking about what life is supposed to be like. Kids are supposed to have fun, not -- wrestle hellboars or be soldiers or what the fuck ever. It's fucked up that I didn't get to, and it's fucked up that you don't get to."

Seal felt his eyes heat up. Motherfucker. He pressed the back of his hand to his eyes angrily.

A hand pressed itself to his shoulder. "Hey," Leo said quietly. "Listen. I know your whole deal is shitty, and everything feels like it's gonna be fucked up forever, but... you should at least know what a normal life feels like. So, someday, you can start working your way back towards that."

Seal blinked rapidly, wiping a little blood away from his eyes. "I still look like a fucking idiot," he muttered, but without heat.

Leo chuckled. "A little, maybe," he admitted. "But it can't be worse than Star."

+++

"Thisch isch fucking ridiculousch," Star said.

Pho frowned around the bobby pin in his teeth. "Hold ftill," he said. "Allllmoft got it."

Star looked up at the ceiling of the kitchen. Various stains overlapped across the tiles, some more threatening than others. He considered using his new Investigation Charms on them, but decided against it -- he didn't really want to know what Harv got up to in here. At his neck level, Pho was fiddling with a bowtie, the most ridiculous garment in the universe.

"Thish kinda schit never happened in Shkullschtone," Star complained. "Not that there'sh that much fanschy partiesh there. But I got to juscht wear my polische uniform whenever that happened. It wasch cool," he preened for a second.

"Not my ecfpertife eifer," Pho agreed. "There. Got it." He stood back and took the bobby pin out of his mouth. "Now let's get that hair."

"My hair isch fine," Star said defensively, backing away. "It'sch purple and fluffy. No problemsch here." Pho considered him for a moment, then shrugged and put the bobby pin away somewhere in his armor. "What did you wear to your fanschy partiesh?" Star asked.

Pho shrugged again. "Never really had any," he said. "Lived on the road, mostly. Bounty hunter work with my ma. Circus stuff before that. I guess a circus is kinda like a party," he allowed.

"Whatever happened to your ma?" Star asked.

Pho frowned. "She died, and then the Mask turned her into chains for me. He was kind of a bastard," he said. Star stared awkwardly at the top of Pho's head. "Then I got out and turned her into an axe, and we kicked Mask's ass. Then the Sun set her free. It's a long story."

Star coughed. "Yeah," he said. "That'sch, uh.... that'sh rough, buddy."

Pho gestured vaguely. "Old news," he said. "Tonight is for all you kids, not old fogeys like me."

Star couldn't help bristling a little. "I'm not exshactly a kid," he said. "I'm twenty-one. I can drink in Shkullshtone."

Pho raised an eyebrow, a perfect imitation of Shadow's expression. "Well, you won't tonight," he said. "No alcohol at prom. It's the rules. Besides, you can't exactly say you had a great childhood either."

Star leapt to Skullstone's defense. "It'sh pretty good, actually," he said. "Free schchooling and shtuff, a plasche to live, food to eat. Lotsch of plashesh have lessh. And a job I'm pretty good at, if I do shay sho myshelf."

"And how much of that childhood did you spend playing?" Phoenix countered. "Getting drunk and doing dumb shit with your friends? From what I hear of Onyx, that shit doesn't exactly fly." Star was silent. "Listen," Phoenix sighed, "I'm not criticizing the Prince or whatever. I'm just saying, live a little. Uh. Pun not intended."

Star sighed and ran a hand through his hair, which was indeed purple and fluffy. "Schure," he said. "Guessh I'm not exshactly gonna turn down free food."

+++

There was food. There was mood lighting. And there was music.

The Sanctuary had been transformed into a dance hall worthy of the shittiest teen dances. It was dark, and colored lights strafed across the walls (cast from will-o-wisps Shadow had captured himself). The table that usually held coffee and donuts was now laden with various cookies, cupcakes, and at one end was an enormous punch bowl filled with blood punch (Hours' secret recipe, which amounted to "punch someone until you can take their blood"). All the couches and chairs were cleared away to make an open space for dancing.

Where the TV cabinet usually stood, there was instead a podium where Harv was directing a spectral quartet; the ghostly organist bent over a keyboard while the singer moaned about a burning mercy seat. Harv himself was wearing what appeared to be suspenders cut from tuxedo-grade silk, in black and white, with a bowtie at his neck. And on the dance floor, several zombies were shuffling around aimlessly, hands held out in a vague attempt at dancing.

Simultaneously, the doors to the bathroom and kitchen opened, and two of the Shitheads shuffled out.

Pho was wearing his full armor, since it counted as fancy dress; and he was escorting Star, who was in a ruffly silk tuxedo. The spikes of his arm had been artfully incorporated into the tuxedo, each one poking out from a different design; it looked almost as if it had been intentional, an artistic choice. And on his neck, a perfectly tied bowtie. Seal almost choked when he saw how good Star looked.

Seal himself was in a suit, tightly cut in black and red. A little golden pin shone on his lapel, a concession to Glorious First Light. Behind him was Leo, wearing much the same thing, though at least he got to wear sunglasses. "Go talk to him," Leo suggested, pushing Seal forward a little. Seal stammered, but Leo was already off to the food table, so there was nothing to do but push forwards through the zombies.

"Hey!" Star greeted him cheerily. "Check all thish schit out, huh? Guesh Harv thought we needed more danschersh at thish dansche."

"Fucking weird," Seal agreed. "Look at them. I think that one's trying to do a jig." They watched the zombie jerk up and down for a while, its foot dangling from its leg where the tendons had been cut or rotted away. "Anyways," he said, breaking the reverie, "where the fuck is Des?"

As if on cue, the zombies parted. Sensing the mood, Harv quickly switched the musicians over to some kind of military march. The door to Shadow's room stood open, and there they were. Shadow himself was dressed in his finest regalia, good enough to peacock around at a Dynast ball (minus all the arrow holes, maybe), but he didn't hold a candle to Des, and he stood like he knew it and was proud of it.

Des smirked, soaking in all the attention, and advanced slowly. She was wearing a glittering black dress with thorns embroidered all down its length. They grew more numerous as they neared her shoulder, where an enormous rose bloomed, red so dark it was nearly black. Her gloves were of the same color, mimicking her anima and complimenting the dress, and Bloodthorn hung at her side, held by a loop rather than a sheath: present, beautiful, and ready to kill.

Seal's jaw just about hit the floor; he didn't know shit about fashion, but he was pretty sure Des was wearing all of it tonight. Beside him, Star was similarly gaping. Des' smirk turned into a grin as she came near them, dress trailing on the floor behind her like a pool of night. "Hello, boys," she said, extending an arm to each one. "Ready for prom?"

Star, at least, knew what to do; he knelt and kissed her hand, fully mock-chivalrous. "Milady," he said, struggling not to giggle. Seal was too busy staring. "Holy fuck," he said. "If I wasn't gay my dick would be through the fucking roof right now."

"Don't be gross," Des said, swatting him, though she was visibly pleased with the compliment. "Come on, let's dance already."

Seal frowned. "Yeah, but this music sucks. Hey, Harv, this music fucking sucks!" he shouted over the music, which had returned to something rustic and melancholy at best. Harv was conducting like his life depended on it, though, and didn't hear -- until Hours loomed over him.

"Make vay, leetle man," the Dusk growled, and Harv obliged meekly. The musicians leaned closer to see what Hours was going to ask for, but instead the man pulled out a balalaika and started tuning it. Then he let loose a lively tune, and the musicians shrugged and took it up on their various instruments.

"That'sh more like it," Star said, grinning. "C'mon, Scheal, let'sch fucking dansche."

Well, when he put it like that, Seal had no choice but to dance.

+++

They danced for hours.

Des knew some kind of complicated three-person waltz that let her spin Seal and Star around herself in dizzying counterpoint, so fast that Star accidentally gored a zombie on his way through. But it was, somehow, incredibly fun, as long as Seal didn't try to think about where his feet were going and just kept dancing. He'd never thought dance could be fun, not without any swords or anything.

After a while, though, they were starting to slow down; Seal was dipping into his Essence to keep going, and all their castemarks were starting to show. Des' was burning brightest, so he expected her to step out soon, but what he didn't expect was the sudden maneuver that brought Seal and Star face-to-face while Des stepped back. "I'm going to get a drink," she said, flashing a treacherous smile at Seal. "You two have fun."

Bastard bitch son of a snake, Seal thought venomously at her, but Star shrugged and stepped up, holding out his hands. "Might ash well," he said. "Care to dansche, mishter Scheal?"

Seal sighed and stepped into his arms, taking Star's hand in one and nearly impaling the other before landing safely on Star's shoulder. Right on cue, the music slowed to something meandering; Seal looked over to see Harv ushering Hours from the podium, balalaika torn to shreds. Star hummed for a moment then started moving, forcing Seal to follow his footsteps. "I learned thish one at the academy," he confided. "In cashe we had to infiltshrate a fanschy party or shomefing."

They stepped back and forth for a while. In the distance, Seal spotted Shadow and Harv slow dancing, so he tried to copy them. Anything to avoid the sheer awkwardness, to not have to look Star in the eyes. Shadow and Harv weren't look at each other either, though as they rotated Seal caught the same look of contentment on both their faces. Ugh. Disgusting.

"Scho how do you like your firscht dansche?" Star asked, drawing Seal back to himself. "I'm guesching you didn't exshactly do a lot of dansching in Fortitude or whatever."

Seal shrugged, hoping that Star could see or at least feel it. "It's fucking weird," he said. "It's... fun, I guess. I thought I'd hate it."

"Way better than the danschesh at the academy," Star agreed. "That wash all formal and shtuff. Thish ish nische, though. Jusht ush and our friendsh. And a doshen schombiesh, I guesh, but thoshe don't count."

"Yeah," Seal said. "Just us kids."

+++

A few hours later, the Sanctuary was empty. Forlorn decorations littered the floor, and the refreshment table looked like it had been stampeded. Shadow sat on a folding chair as the zombies slowly picked up the remaining detritus of the dance. Suddenly a shadow loomed -- well, not over him, since Shadow was taller than Phoenix even sitting down, but in front of him.

"Hey," said Phoenix, removing his spiky helmet and setting it on the table. "I think that was a success."

Shadow smiled wearily. "Yes," he said, "I think so too." He raised an eyebrow at Phoenix. "I didn't see you on the floor, much. What's the matter, shy?"

Phoenix chuckled a little. "Dancing's not really my thing. I can shuffle, kinda."

Shadow rose to his feet. "Well, we can't have the kids outshining their teachers, or we'll all lose face. Would you give me the honor of this dance, sir Phoenix?"

Phoenix looked around skeptically at the zombies sweeping up and the lack of music, but he followed Shadow out onto the floor. With a sweeping gesture Shadow banished the zombies to the edges of the room, took Phoenix's hand and set it on his waist, hummed for a moment, then imperiously stepped forward.

Shadow had learned the dance a long time ago, and it was buried deep in his muscle memory: designed to be an easy one for the follower and a difficult one for the leader, though he knew both parts. A memory flashed into his mind, of dancing it with a different partner, and he sighed. "So young," he murmured.

Phoenix grunted in agreement. "Seal was thirteen when he exalted. Just a kid."

They revolved slowly on the spot for a moment, Shadow's feet dancing lightly around Phoenix's. It was a while before either of them spoke again.

"When I was young," Shadow said, "I watched the other children. They were pampered, I thought. They slept on soft beds and ate delicious food and played for hours at a time without any worry in the world. It was an unimaginable luxury."

Phoenix sighed. "That's what kids need," he said. "Safety, comfort, they need to know that things are okay. They deserve happiness. It's not their fault they never get it."

Shadow nodded sadly. "Sometimes," he said, "I think about dropping it all -- the quest, the burdens, everything -- and just... living with them. Taking care of them. Making sure they never have to go through what we went through, or even what they've been through already."

"I tried that," Phoenix said. "Rescued a whole damn buncha kids from Dowager. You heard about Sachi, right?" He shook his head. "That kid's gonna be an adventurer no matter what I do. Gonna get into all sorts of trouble." Resignation mixed with pride in his voice.

"Perhaps that's true," Shadow agreed. "Perhaps all we can do is... make them secure in themselves, to weather the storms that must come."

Phoenix sighed. "That's all you ever can do," he said. "Can't fight everything for them, even if you want to. I mean, big things, sure. But they gotta learn for themselves, too."

Shadow nodded. "Nevertheless," he said, "I wish they didn't have to." He looked down and saw Phoenix grimacing.

"Me too," Phoenix said. "Me too."

[mosylufanfic]

Prompt: something involving Cisco and Caitlin vs. either Ammunet or Warden Wolfe? please?

I started this last weekend and hoped to have it done within a few days, but it just kept getting longer and longer and longer . . . until I looked up and it was 8k words and your very long week was almost at an end. Hope this helps anyway. 

Also, I wrote this entire thing before I went to check the Flash wiki for something and remembered that Warden Wolfe died at the end of "True Colors." Ooops. But let's all assume that this is the reality where he somehow escaped, and go on our merry way.

Cisco on the Inside

On the other side of the bulletproof glass, against the dour grey walls of the Iron Heights visiting room, Caitlin stood out like a sunbeam in her light summer dress and yellow blazer. She looked like she should be having brunch or something, not visiting a prison.

But damn, he was glad she was here.

Cisco picked up the handset and felt his whole body relax when her voice said, "Hey," in his ear.

"Hey," he said.

"How are you?" Her anxious eyes scanned his face and chest, presumably looking for gaping  wounds.

"It hasn't been my best couple of days ever," he admitted. "But would you believe it hasn't been my worst, either?"

She made a face. "Really, how is it?"

"Food's bad, wardrobe's pretty dismal." He plucked at his orange jumpsuit. "But other than that, it's actually sort of okay. I figure I can hang in here for awhile."

She bit her lip. "That's good. Because the preliminary hearing's not set yet."

"What's taking so long?"

"I don't know," she said. "I can't believe you're even in there. I can't believe you couldn't make bail."

"That'll teach me to blow my savings on a fixer-upper Corvette off Craigslist."

"Don't make jokes. This is awful."

"Well, I mean, I did build the cold gun for Snart. And he did do a lot of crime with it. And none of his gang are around anymore, so I guess someone had to be the fall guy."

"You weren't an accomplice, you were coerced!" she said fiercely.

"We'll get it all cleared up in front of the judge," he said.

She fiddled nervously with the silver crescent moon pendant she wore and glanced over her shoulder at the guard standing against the back wall. “Are they treating you okay?”

He shrugged. "Nobody’s beaten me up yet.”

She looked horrified.

“Kidding! It’s fine. I've been able to stay off the warden's radar, so that's a good thing. Right?"

She worried the crescent moon again. "Right. Yes. Just - just keep your head down, okay?" She lowered her voice. "Don't use your P-O-W-E-R-S - "

"Shhh," he hissed as one of the guards on her side looked over at her. "Christalive, Caitlin, they're not toddlers. They can spell!"

"I'm just saying," she mumbled, cupping her hand over her mouth as if she thought they might be able to read lips, too. It was about as subtle as a brick to the head. "Don't use them."

He scowled at her. "Fine," he said. "I won't. I'll keep my nose clean and my head down and I'm gonna have a totally uneventful stay in Iron Heights."

"You promise?"

"Cross my heart and hope to - "

"No," she cut him off. "Anything but that."

"I promise," he said instead. He ran his finger along the steel-wrapped cord that connected the handset to the wall. "So, uh. How's everybody? How are you?"

"Not great," she said. "But we're not the ones in prison. We - "

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he winced. "Time's up," said a guard's voice.

Cisco wanted to slap that hand off his shoulder, but he'd just promised that he'd behave himself. Instead, he twisted around. "I thought we got half an hour."

The guard shrugged. "Warden says your time is up."

He gritted his teeth, then turned back to Caitlin. "So, I gotta go," he said.

"Now," the guard said and took the handset out of his hand and hung it up.

"Jesus," he hissed between his teeth, but he got to his feet. Caitlin was watching through the glass, her eyes wide. Come back, he mouthed.

She nodded. He let the guard shove him toward the door to the rest of the prison, but as he went through it, he looked over his shoulder again.

She was still watching him, face pale, fingers wrapped around the crescent moon pendant.

The door shut between them.

One of the worst things about being in prison was the unbelievable boredom. The inmates were told when to sleep and when to wake up and when to shower and when to eat and when to go outside and when to come in and how long to do all of those things. But within that structure, there was very little to actually occupy his mind. No machines to fix, no music to listen to, a severely limited choice of TV.

In the yard, he saw one of the other D-Block guys sitting at the picnic table, reading a book. He tapped him on the shoulder, and a guard barked, "No touching!"

Cisco yanked his hands back, holding them up, until the guard looked away. He'd forgotten about that rule.

The reader hadn't looked up. But he said, "What."

"Just, uh, wanted to know if I could borrow that when you were done."

Without looking up, he asked, "What'll you give me for it?" in a way that didn't suggest please was what he was looking for.

Cisco recalculated very, very swiftly. "Actually, you know what, I think I've read it. So never mind."

The reader grunted and turned a page.

He fiddled with the cuffs of his jumpsuit and asked another D-Block inmate, "So, when is our library day again?" They got an hour in the prison library once a week.

"Friday, but you're not missing anything. They won't give us anything good. No Playboy, no Guns & Ammo. Not even nasty lady-porn books. Just fucking Martha Stewart and cat mysteries and shit."

"You dissin' on Martha?" a third guy growled, and Cisco pretended he wanted to go use the hand weights because even on his third day, he could tell when someone felt like fighting.

Barry had filled him in on a lot of how prison worked, from his dad's experiences and his own time in there, but Cisco was also a lifetime watcher-of-currents, and he knew how to avoid sharks.

Or if he couldn't avoid them, at least he knew how to swim alongside them so peacefully that they didn't think about eating him.

He nodded at the other guy doing curls. His name was Brixton and they'd sat at the same table for dinner the night before.

"Hey, man," Brixton said under the noise of the scuffle on the other side of the yard, and the guards rushing in to break it up. "How's the tat?"

Cisco rolled his shoulder a little and rubbed his chest through the jumpsuit. "Still sore. Little itchy." Two days before getting arrested and put in prison was probably about the worst time to get your very first tattoo, but he hadn't exactly had a choice in the matter.

"You wanna take care of those." Brixton pointed at a star inked just below his elbow. "When I got that one, it got infected."

"Eeesh," Cisco said. "Looks okay now, though."

"My lady put witch hazel on it until it healed up. Worked like a dream."

"You think they'll give me witch hazel in the infirmary?"

"That's a dream too," Brixton said, picking out his weights. He did a few curls with a weight the size of Cisco's head, as the yard went quiet again after the fighters had been taken away. "Saw you got a visitor today."

"Yep," Cisco said, picking up one of the available weights, testing it in his hand. He glanced around, set it down, and picked up the next largest size before settling in for his first set of bicep curls.

"She was fine. Was that your lady?"

“Don’t have a lady.” The pang he felt at saying it was starting to dull. It had been three months since he and Cynthia had called it quits, after he’d turned down Breacher’s job offer in the spring. "The woman who visited - she’s just a friend."

Brixton smirked. "Can't seal the deal?"

"Never tried. Like I said, friends." He started doing curls, counting out the Fibonacci sequence in his head.

He snorted. "Sure, whatever."

Cisco gritted his teeth, focusing on his counting. Was he on the five set, or the eight set?

"Those buttoned-up types always get me," Brixton said dreamily. "Makes you wonder what she'll do when you rip off those buttons. You think she's a screamer? Ahhhh, even if she's not, I could make it happen."

Cisco lost count and switched arms. "You remember the part where she's my friend?"

"Relax, man, I'm just speculating."

"You're talking about her like she's a piece of meat."

"You telling me how to talk now?"

He dropped the weight to the cement yard with a clang and stood. "I'm telling you to talk more respectfully about a human woman, is what I'm telling you."

Brixton dropped his weight too, with a much louder clang, and unfolded himself to a much greater height than Cisco. "Say that again."

Cisco stepped to him, clenching his jaw. "Shut your face. About my friend."

Brixton punched him. Or he tried, anyway. Cisco ducked and tackled him around the waist. it was like running into a slab of meat. And then it was like the slab of meat picked him up and flicked him four feet away.

He landed on his ass, skidding across the cement in a way that promised road rash later on, when his adrenaline had burned off. He looked up to see Brixton charging, and he instinctively flung out his arm and threw a blast.

As Brixton reeled backward and guards charged in, he said, "Oh, shit."

Warden Wolfe sat across the table, stone-faced and silent. Behind Cisco’s shoulders, the guards stood with the same expressions.

Cisco sat in the middle, sore from the fight, his head hanging. "Look," he said, picking at his thumbnail. "Uh, I'm sorry. And I won't do it again."

"Prison regulations state that metas cannot be held in the general population.” Warden Wolfe flipped through the file in front of him. “You didn't disclose your meta status upon arrest."

"I didn't think it was relevant!"

Wolfe gave him a hard look.

Cisco swallowed. "I mean, it didn't have anything to do with what I was arrested for. Sir."

"Failure to disclose meta status is a misdemeanor."

"Oh, that's not bad. That's, like, community service? I'll build houses or something."

If possible, the warden's face went harder.

"Come on, it doesn't have to be a thing. Sir. I swear I'll stay away from that guy, I won't use them again - "

"Them?"

"It," Cisco said hastily. "It, singular. I just have the one. Just one meta ability."

Wolfe eyed him coldly. "One or five or fifty, it doesn't matter. Prison regulations state that metas are to be held in the meta wing." He jerked his chin at the guards, who grabbed Cisco by each elbow and pulled him to his feet.

“Wait,” Cisco said. “What about - do I get visitors?”

“Warden’s discretion,” Wolfe said, making a note in his file.

Caitlin turned away from the prison door, pulling out her phone. “He’s been in the meta wing since last night,” she growled to the person on the other end of the line. “I hope you’re happy.” She listened for a moment, and said, “No, I wasn’t able to see him. They said maybe tomorrow. Give me a moment.”

She walked around the corner to where her car was parked, as close to the prison's north wall as permitted. She stood looking up at the high walls, the barbed wire, the merciless guard towers. “Please be okay,” she whispered, twisting her moon necklace in her fingers.

Cisco regretted ever complaining about boredom in gen-pop. Shit, gen-pop had been a never-ending pachanga compared to the meta wing. Their food got delivered to them on trays and they got half an hour of yard time a day, each of them with a guard looming over them and power-dampening cuffs on their wrists. Otherwise, they were confined to their cells. No library privileges or weight room time.

“Warden’s discretion,” was the only answer he ever got when he asked about visiting hours. But from the little sneers and snorts that he heard from the other cells, he gathered that hardly anybody got to see their visitors.

When he found himself doing push-ups in his cell to pass the time, he understood how dudes got so jacked in prison.

It was a different set of guards in the meta wing, too. The gen-pop guards were okay. Still prison guards, obviously, so it wasn't like they were anybody's best friend. But they could be friendly and they would call you by your last name, at least.

The meta-wing guards were harder-faced, and called everyone "inmate," and spoke mostly in orders. When Cisco asked a question or made some comment, all he got was a one-word answer or a flick of the eyes in response.

If they responded at all.

It was a full day before he saw Warden Wolfe again, and when he did, he jumped up from his cot so fast, he got dizzy. "Hey!" he yelled through the bars. "Hey, Warden! Did I get any visitors? Hey! It was visiting day, did I get a visitor?"

"Yes," Wolfe said.

"Why didn't I see her, then? I get a half an hour on visiting day, up to four hours a month."

"That's gen-pop," the warden said. "You're in meta wing. Visitors are at my discretion only."

"I want to see my visitor," Cisco said. "I want to see her next time she comes. And I want to get a library book or something, I'm bored as hell."

Wolfe turned his back and left the meta wing.

Nothing daunted, Cisco kept it up whenever he saw a guard, or the warden, asking to see his visitor, asking for something to read or write or do, asking for more time in the yard or a chance to go the weight room.

The way the cells were arranged, he couldn't really see and barely even talk to the other metas confined with him. He did see them in the yard, during their half hour. Mostly they all kept to themselves, but one day, one of them gestured at him. "Mijo, come here."

Her name was Fabiana Duarte. She was plump and middle-aged, with streaks of grey in her black hair and comfortably wrinkly skin a shade or two darker than his. She gave off the general air of a daycare teacher.

He was kind of sure she was the one who'd stolen thousands and thousands of dollars by lifting people's bank cards and reading their minds for the PINs.

But she looked like one of his aunties and her dampener cuffs were brightly lit, and their guards were sharing a cigarette in the shade, so he went.

She started to put her hand on his arm but a guard barked "No touching" and they stepped back from each other.

"Mira," she said. "I'm going to give you a hint for your own good. Knock it off with the asking for stuff."

It was pretty sweet of her to try and save him from himself, but he said, "No, no way. That's all, like, basic stuff. It's my right as a U.S. citizen to - "

She snorted. "You're not a U.S. citizen anymore. You're an inmate of the Iron Heights meta wing."

"Well, we should still have rights. Like, to more exercise than walking around this yard, or to get stuff from the library, or - "

Thoroughly exasperated now, she said, "Are you stupid or do you just like pain?"

He blinked at her. "What do you mean?"

A bell rang, and all the guards started gathering up their charges.

"Hey, hey," Cisco said in a low voice as their guards started toward them. "What do you mean, Fabiana?"

She let out a grunt of exasperation. "Just behave yourself. And shut up."

Yeah, just like his aunties.

He ignored Fabiana's warning, and kept asking for anything and everything he could think of, top of the list being his visiting hours.

"She's here, I know she came," he said."She promised she'd come every day. I want to see her, okay? I just want to see her."

He couldn't see the occupants of the other cells, but he could hear them, letting out groans as he wheedled and pestered. Even occasionally a bellow of "Shut the fuck up!"

It was hard to blame them. He was annoying himself, even. But he kept it up, stubbornly, using the time he lay staring at the ceiling to think up new and ever-more-obnoxious ways of pestering the prison hierarchy.

The third evening of his stay in meta wing, Wolfe came after dinner..

Cisco sat up on his cot. This was unusual. Wolfe had a schedule and he stuck to it. Instead of speaking to the guards or looking in on any of the other metas, Wolfe walked directly to his cell and stood there, just outside the bars. His arms were crossed and his face unreadable.

"Hey, Warden," Cisco chirped. "Any news on my asks there? How about visiting day? Tomorrow's visiting day. My friend'll be here. I wanna see her. Am I going to see her?"

"You're going to stop asking for things, inmate," Wolfe said.

"Uh, no, I'm not because these aren't that big of a deal, honestly. Seeing my friend and getting something to read and getting a little fresh air, why is that such a big deal? I think it's very reasonable, don't you?"

The warden nodded once, his face as blank and hard as ever.

Then the pain hit.

It was like all the muscles in his body had suddenly decided to play tug-of-war with all the other muscles. He felt like pork in the process of being pulled, like he was being put through a blender and then run through again.

Then it was over, and he collapsed, gasping, against the wall.

The warden watched him with shark eyes. Flat and cold. "There won't be any more requests, Inmate."

"Wha - what was - what did - "

The hellish pain hit him again, like his skin being peeled away and his bones being hammered into dust from the inside.

Someone was screaming, very far away.

Then it was gone again, and the wall was there, hard and cold, but cold was good because he felt like he'd been lit on fire and holy Moses, what kind of hell-spawned meta power was that?

"I said, there won't be any more requests, inmate," Wolfe said again. "Will there?"

"Nnnnnooo," Cisco mumbled through trembling lips. His throat felt raw. He wondered why.

"I didn't hear you."

At the words, he tensed up, anticipating what came next. If anything that made it worse. He writhed helplessly on his cot, fingers digging into the blankets as his body tried to tear itself apart at the molecular level.

As it subsided, he figured out who'd been screaming.

It had been him.

"Will there be any more requests, inmate?"

"No!" he shrieked, a high thin noise. "No, no, no, no, no - "

"That's what I thought," Wolfe said, and left.

Cisco wheezed against the agonized twitching of his muscles, feeling cold sweat run down his face and spine and collect in the bend of his joints. Whimpers escaped his abused throat and he was helpless to stop them.

Every little pain and nagging stiffness he'd had before had been ratcheted up to eleven. The occasional soreness in his shoulder from breaching, the knee that he'd twisted last year and still sometimes got stiff, even his bruised tailbone from Brixton tossing him across the prison yard, were all magnified to horrific proportions.

His tattoo beat like a drum against his heart.

When he tried to lay down, his stomach revolted, and it was dumb luck that he managed to vomit up the bland prison fare over the side of his cot onto the floor. When there was nothing left but thin, acid bile, he collapsed, face buried in his pillow.

From a few cells over, Fabiana called out, "You alive in there, fool?"

He made some kind of high-pitched keening noise in response.

"I tried to tell you," she said. "He's been holding off on you - "

"And us," another voice grumbled.

" - because you're a short-termer and he didn't want you getting out and blabbing." She snorted. "But you just had to be that annoying, didn't you?"

With a herculean effort, he pushed himself up far enough to pull his face from the pillow. It was smudged with sweat and tears and snot and drool and bile and even a little blood. It took him two tries to flip it over, and then he collapsed again. He groaned as random muscles twitched in the memory of pain.

"Yeah," the second voice said. "He's probably learned his lesson."

With his face buried in the cool, coarse material of his pillowcase, Cisco mouthed, Gotcha, you rat bastard, just before he passed out.

One week ago

Silence fell in the cortex as Joe finished telling them about the meta who'd come to him, secretly, and told a story of torture and punishment in the meta wing of Iron Heights.

"What kind of horrible power is that?" Caitlin breathed.

"What kind of sick fuck uses it?" Cisco added.

"You guys, this is on us," Barry said.

"We didn't know this was going on," Caitlin objected.

"That doesn't matter. We arrested them, we put them in there, and now Wolfe is hurting them. Because he can."

"Why didn't he do anything when you were in there?" Iris asked.

"Didn't want to damage the merchandise, probably," Barry said. "But now he's not selling them to Amunet Black, so he can do whatever he wants."

"What do we do?" Cisco said. "Can we bust in there? Prison break?"

"We put them in there for a reason,"  Iris said. "They don't deserve what Wolfe is doing to them, but they can’t just be let go, either. Some of them are dangerous."

"We need to remove Wolfe," Joe said. "Legally. He needs to be convicted in a court of law and imprisoned."

"That'll be hard to prove," Caitlin said. "There's no injury site, their description is very nebulous, and we've never encountered him as a meta."

"He's smart," Joe said. “Only using it on people that most of society doesn’t care about, who aren’t going to tell and who might not be believed if they do.”

Iris frowned over the report. "What exactly is he doing to them?"

"It's hard to say from the testimony offered," Caitlin said. "They didn't report an entry or exit burn, so it's not electrical in nature. He could be stimulating the pain centers of their brain. It could even be a kind of bio-kinesis, where he can temporarily control their muscles."

Cisco shuddered. "Gross."

Barry's eyes narrowed. "Hard to prove what he's doing, hard to prove it's even him unless we can actually record the dark matter activity."

Cisco reached over for his tablet. "Well, I've got something that might help. You know that dark-matter scanner of yours, Caitlin? I've been tinkering with it so we can wear a small version out into the field and detect the kind of surges that accompany meta powers.."

Her eyes lit. "Pair that with a biometric scanner so you can cross-reference the pain reaction with the dark-matter surge, and that's proof he's causing it. Yes, that could work!"

"No," Barry said. "It won't."

Cisco scowled. "Hey, my tech always works."

"I know, but we can't get it to any of the metas on the inside. Everything that comes to any of the prisoners from the outside is thoroughly searched. Even if it did get past that, nothing would be safe from theft or guard searches unless it was implanted under the skin. And even if we could somehow manage that, who would agree to intentionally provoking Wolfe into using his powers on them, unless we gave them some kind of immunity or amnesty?"

"What are you saying?" Joe said, frowning.

"We need to send somebody in."

Now

Cisco spent most of the day after Wolfe's visit trying to find a comfortable position for his sore carcass. He was stiff all over, like someone had poured cement into his clothes. Sometimes he could doze, but mostly he stared at the wall or the ceiling.

He'd gotten the proof of Wolfe's torture. Now he just needed to make sure it got back to Star Labs, and then they could get him out before they arrested Wolfe.

Please get me out of here, he thought.

He tugged painfully at the buttons on his jumpsuit, and slid his fingers under the orange cloth. Pressing on his chest through his cheap prison undershirt, he could feel the three little hard spots under his skin. Biometric scanner, dark matter sensor, wireless transmitter. He chanted them like a prayer.

They'd painted that tattoo on him to explain any redness or swelling from insertion. It was henna, though, and it would start to fade soon. If anybody noticed, they'd know something was up.

After he got the proof, before he got out safely - this was the most dangerous part of the sting.

He heard his meal trays clang onto the floor and left them where they lay. His stomach hurt too much to get it to accept food. But when yard time came, he dragged himself to a sitting position, and then to his feet, and then forced himself to take slow, stumbling steps toward his cell door. With his guard at his back, he made his way to the yard. All the other meta inmates and their guards followed at his pace, complaining that they were losing out on yard time.

The sun blazed down, beating on his shoulders and the top of his head. He let it bake him as he took a slow, shambling lap around the yard, coaxing his body to move and wincing as it fought back. He'd become the opposite of Barry, he thought sardonically. Slowest Man Alive.

He made it halfway around, and then just leaned against the north wall. Caitlin had sworn to him she would be there every day, parked just on the other side of that specific wall. With the dampener cuffs on, there was no way to tell if she was there right now, but he pictured her there, waiting for the signal from the device in his chest.

Please let the transmitter work.

Please let the range perform like it did in tests.

Please just get me out of here.

Too soon, the bell rang and they led him back inside. When he got back to his cell, he dropped into his cot and was asleep almost before the lock on his cell door engaged.

He dreamed that Wolfe came back and hurt him until his heart shorted out like a bad connection.

He dreamed that Wolfe somehow knew about the sensors and had them cut out while he watched with that non-expression and Cisco screamed.

He dreamed that Wolfe didn't know about the sensors, but that they shorted out anyway from whatever Wolfe did to him.

He dreamed that he'd somehow been forgotten, and he spent the rest of his life in the meta wing of Iron Heights prison, alone and hurting and desperate for an escape that never came.

When he woke, sweating and shivering and hoarse from shouting, someone from one of the other cells said, "Bad dream?"

"Uh-huh," he mumbled. He couldn't tell who it was.

"Yeah, I got those too, after the first time." There was a creak as if his faceless, anonymous comfort had rolled over in his cot. "You get used to them."

When he woke again, it was morning. He didn't know that by the sunlight or the clock, neither of which were present in the meta wing. He knew because when he opened his eyes, the tray that had just clanged onto the floor had a blob of scrambled eggs and a triangle of toast on it.

He considered it. Although the soreness had eased up some, he felt wobbly and weak even though he was still lying down. Probably because he hadn't eaten a thing yesterday. He had to get some calories in him, even shitty prison calories.

He managed to choke down about half of the cardboard-tasting eggs before they came back for the tray, and that helped him get to the shower when that time came. The hot(ish) water helped more. He tugged his fingers through his wet hair, wincing. Crappy lowest-bidder shampoo - he didn't want to think about what it looked like.

Remembering his dream, he peered down at the tattoo high on his chest, cleaning it carefully and gently. The sun with its squiggly rays was only about three inches across and done in simple reddish-black lines. The swelling and redness had mostly gone down over the past few days. It hurt, but everything hurt.

He shifted a little so his arm blocked his motions from the rest of the shower room. He ran his fingers around the edge of the sun and felt three tiny, hard bumps under the skin, evenly spaced around the perimeter.

Biometric scanner. Dark matter sensor. Wireless transmitter.

Yep. Still there.

After showers came the long, dull stretch until lunch. He lay dozing on his cot, trying to escape his aches and pains. They weren't as bad as yesterday, but he also wasn't about to go out and run a marathon.

A shoe scuffed outside his cell. He rolled over to see who it was, then flinched backward. The warden stood on the other side of the bars.

His stomach churned. He hadn't seen Wolfe since two nights before, and the memory of pain jittered through his body.

"Inmate," Wolfe said. "On your feet."

So you can hit me with that power again? Watch me fall on the floor instead of writhing on this bed? It all ran through his mind, but his tongue wouldn't let it out.

"I said get up."

Cisco swung his legs over the edge of the cot and hauled himself to a standing position. He winced as he straightened up, and some flicker of expression crossed Wolfe's face for a split second.

Like satisfaction.

Or pleasure.

Distantly, he noted that there was a guard behind Wolfe. What kind of a sign was that? He hadn't noticed any guard the other night. Would Wolfe whammy him again if there was a witness?

Of course, he hadn't had any trouble doing it in front of the other metas.

Wolfe unlocked the cell door, and Cisco took a step back. But the warden didn't come in. Instead, he said, "Come out here, inmate."

It wasn't yard time. Visiting day had been yesterday. But Caitlin had promised to come every day whether it was visiting day or not. Maybe Wolfe had decided that he could see her today.

Maybe Santa Claus existed.

(His brain whispered, Maybe you're going home.)

"Come out here. I won't say it again."

Cisco stepped out of the cell. A pair of dampener cuffs wrapped around his wrists and clicked closed. A hard hand nudged his shoulder - not Wolfe's. The guard. Wolfe, as always, stood and watched.

Cisco crossed the meta wing. Possibilities waterfalled through his brain. Some horrifying, some wonderful. None of them felt entirely real.

The door to meta wing shut behind them, and Wolfe stopped. Turned.

Cisco had to tip his chin up to look Wolfe in the eye. There was a camera up in the corner. There were always cameras in the hallways, in the gen-pop halls, in the yard and the weight room and the dining hall and the commissary.

The only place without cameras in Iron Heights, besides the showers, was the meta wing.

The eye of the camera felt like the only thing between him and . . . something. He didn't know what.

"You're being released," Wolfe said.

It took the words a moment to sink in. He said, "I - what?"

"The charges have been dropped. There's no reason to hold you here anymore."

He blinked a few times. "Oh."

The warden stared at him with those flat shark eyes. Cisco stared back for a split second, and then looked down, hunching his shoulders.

When he looked up again, that flicker of satisfaction, or pleasure, was just leaving Wolfe's face.

He glanced at the guard over Cisco's shoulder. "Take him to discharge." He turned away, down another corridor, and the guard gave Cisco a nudge in the small of the back.  

He stumbled forward, caught himself, and started walking, the guard right on his heels. The corridor seemed to stretch out forever

Occasionally the guard said, "Right" or "Left" or made him stop while he badged through a door. The walking went on forever, and Cisco wondered how deep in the bowels of Iron Heights the meta wing actually was. How thick the walls were. How impossible it would be to get any kind of signal through it.

His stomach trembled.

Was he seriously leaving? Or was this something else Wolfe was doing to him? Or maybe the paperwork was through, the charges really were dropped, but all his cowering hadn't fooled Wolfe into thinking he didn't need to worry about Cisco. Maybe he was supposed to suffer a mysterious accident on his way through these endless corridors. Maybe they were going in circles.

He counted cameras, checked live lights, calculated blind spots, and held his breath until he was through each and every one of them.

They stopped in front of one last badge reader next to one last door. Unlike the others, this one actually had a window, a skinny pane of glass with wires cross-crossed through it. Through the glass, he could see the room where he'd gotten signed in to Iron Heights - what, a week ago? Was that it?

Amazing how long seven days could feel.

He thought, Maybe I really am leaving.

Behind him, the guard said in a low voice, "You're going to tell them something."

"Tell who? What?" Open the door already. Open it and let me out.

The guard's breath stirred the hair at Cisco's temple. "Warden never touched you," he said.

He stared at the window, focusing on the wires embedded in the glass. "What?"

"The warden," the guard repeated. "Never touched you, did he? Never laid a finger on you."

". . . no?"

"So that's what you're going to say," the guard said. "The warden never touched you."

"Say to who?"

"Say it. The warden never touched you. Did he?"

". . . no," Cisco said.

"No, what, inmate?"

"No, the warden never touched me."

"Good," the guard said. "You're going to say that whenever anybody asks. Or that ginger who visited you is going get a visit from us."

He went stiff. "No. Please."

"Skinny thing, isn't she? Breakable, those skinny chicks."

"Don't hurt her. I'll say anything you tell me to say. To anybody you tell me to say it to. Just don't hurt her."

"You don't have to lie, inmate. Nobody's asking you to lie. Just tell the truth. The warden never touched you."

Cisco shook his head hard. "No, he never did. Never laid a finger on me."

"That's right," the guard said, and opened the door.

Cisco walked through.

It seemed like being released from prison should be a triumphal thing. Trumpets, choruses of angels, et cetera. Instead, it turned out to be more paperwork, under the apathetic eye of one of the regular prison guards. The one who had threatened him had left - back to terrorize more metas, presumably.

He had to turn in his orange jumpsuit and everything issued to him by the prison. After a search of his naked body to ensure that he wasn't smuggling anything out - he stared at the wall and thought about sunlight and Big Belly Burger and his own bed -  he did get his own clothes back, the ones he'd been arrested in.

They smelled institutional, like they'd been run through the prison laundry along with a hundred other guys' clothes and cheap, harsh laundry detergent. He put them on anyway and decided that when he got home, they were going in the trash can.

He filled out forms that attested he'd gotten his clothes back, his wallet, his phone. The latter was dead, of course. It had been sitting in a box for a week, running the battery down.

He signed everything they told him to sign, his hand shaking a little.

The release officer shook his hand and said, "Someone's waiting for you. Lucky. Not everyone gets that." He badged Cisco through the last door.

Caitlin was in the waiting room, clutching her purse to her stomach. When she saw him, her face lit up, and then he was in her arms.

He shut his eyes and soaked in the feel of her. The familiar smell of her shampoo and the iron-band tightness of her hug, like always when she'd been distressed for a long time, and how soft she was against him.

Getting released was slowly starting to feel real.

But she was also here, in the prison. He couldn't stop thinking about the guard who'd mused about her breakability, just a few walls away.

"Get out," he muttered against her ear. "Out, out, out."

"Yes," she whispered, and pulled away. He grabbed her hand, unwilling to not be touching her.

"Is that everything?" she asked the release officer.

"Yes, ma'am, you're free to go."

"Good." She pushed open the last door and the sunlight hit Cisco like a hammer. He flinched away from it, and from the vastness outside the door. No walls. Outside felt way too big.

She squeezed his hand - he hadn't realized he'd tightened his grip - and said brightly, "I'm parked right over there. Close. Let's go. Everybody's waiting. They want to see you."

They crossed the parking lot. Still no walls, so big. Cisco felt like a bug on a tabletop, waiting for someone to smash him. Them.

"Faster," he said, trying to lengthen his stride, but he was still just a little too sore to go any faster than he was. She made soothing noises.

They got in the car - he had to let go of her hand - and the enclosure of the vehicle around him felt safe, even as she pulled out and drove through the gates.

She hit a button for speakerphone and when the call was answered, said. "We're out. We're driving away."

The reply sounded brisk and official. "Copy that, ma'am."

She ended the call. He reached out and took her hand again. She held it and drove one-handed, her face tense.

The road to the prison was long and empty, but a few minutes later, two cars roared by them, going the other way.

Caitlin turned a corner into a convenience store and parked next to a plain white panel van. They hopped out and immediately the back door of the van popped open to reveal one of CCPD's mobile command units inside, and Iris and Joe.

Joe helped him up into the van and Iris hugged him hard. "How are you?" she asked.

"Eh," Cisco said, hugging her back. "I'm out, so."

Joe looped his arm around Cisco's shoulders and pulled him in for his own hug. "It's almost over, son." He reached behind him for a pair of headphones. "You want to listen in on the big moment?"

Cisco had thought he would, picturing this in his cell all those dull hours. Warden Wolfe, you're under arrest for torture and abuse. You're going to jail forever, you sick fuck.

But he shook his head. Suddenly the idea of hearing Wolfe's voice again made him want to heave.

Joe nodded and put the headphones on his own head, turning to some screens.

"I'm sorry it took so long," Caitlin said.

He scootched over next to her, and as if she knew what he needed, she slipped her arm around his waist. He leaned into her body, ignoring the way Iris's brow quirked up.

He hadn't realized it until her first hug, but the week undercover in the prison had left him touch-starved. Having hands on him - kind hands, that didn't want him to move or stop or turn, that didn't shove or nudge like they were trying to get a farm animal to change direction - felt like a big bottle of cold water after crossing the desert.

"I was worried you didn't get the last data drop," he said, reaching out to touch her moon necklace. "I spent my entire yard time yesterday just hanging out on the north wall."

"Oh, I got it," she said grimly. "And it sealed the warrant on Wolfe."

"But regulations state that releases have to happen in the morning," Iris added, "and we couldn't push that without tipping him off. Otherwise we would have had you out last night."

"That's okay," he said. "I wasn't in great shape yesterday and besides, he left me alone."

She gave him a quick, concerned look, and he shook his head. "Just the aftereffects. Soreness."

Caitlin grabbed her purse, dug in it for a moment, and handed him two ibuprofen. "Enough for now?"

"Yeah," he said, swallowing them and drinking deeply from the bottle of water she gave him next.

She pulled a tablet over and tapped a few buttons, lips pursed. She reached up and took off the moon necklace, touching two stones. The tablet beeped and the screen filled with data from the biometric scanner, transmitted to the necklace and then uplinked to Star Labs servers.

He looked down at his own scanned body on the screen. "See?" he said to Caitlin. "All there."

"Full checkup later," she told him. "No arguments."

"Wasn't gonna," he said.

Joe let out a triumphant grunt, and they turned toward him. "They got him, Dad?" Iris asked.

"In custody," he reported. "Being transported to Central."  

The last knot of tension in Cisco's chest snapped, and he sagged where he stood, letting Caitlin's arm hold him up for a moment.

This was no guarantee of anything. He might escape; he might get off. They might be hearing a lot more of Gregory Wolfe. But for right now, he wasn't hurting or killing any more metas under his care at Iron Heights, and that was enough for Cisco.

A moment later, a knock sounded on the back panel, and Iris leaned over to open it. Barry climbed inside, flushed with victory. "Got 'im," he said. "It's over. We did it."

“Cisco did it,” Caitlin said.

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah. You did it, man.” He stretched out his long arms and pulled Cisco in for a hug.

Cisco hugged him back, but pushed away after a moment. "Hey, Bare?"

"Mmmm?" Barry was peeling his cowl up off his face. His hair stuck out all crazy.

Cisco steeled himself. "Don't ask me to do something like that ever again."

Barry's face scrunched up a little. "Hey, man, I'm sorry, I know it must have been rough. But it had to be you. Wolfe and the guards knew me and Iris, and Caitlin doesn't have any powers anymore, so she wouldn't have gotten put in the meta wing."

"I know," he said. "I know all that. I'm glad Wolfe is going down and I'm glad I did that. But I'm still saying, don't ever ask me to do that again."

Barry's mouth opened and closed a few times, and finally he nodded. "Okay," he said in a subdued voice. "Never again."

"Good." Cisco brushed his hair behind his ears, suddenly self-conscious. But that had been running through his mind in all those hours staring at the ceiling, too. "So, uh, what now?" He looked at Joe. "You need my statement or whatever?"

"Not right away," Joe said, looking at him keenly. "Lot of stuff for the cops to do first."

"Good," Caitlin said. "That means there's time for a full checkup back at Star Labs."

Barry offered to run them back, but Cisco wanted to test out his breaches, after a week of exposure to power dampeners. They felt a little sputtery at first, but Caitlin put her hand on his back and the breach spewed open, the same as it always had. They jumped through to the comfort and familiarity of Star Labs.

She checked everything she could think of, and he let her, smiling a little as she fussed. When she checked his back, she frowned. "There's some bruising."

"Yep," he said. "Not from the warden. From when I had to get caught using my powers so I'd get transferred into the meta wing."

She eyed him. "You don't bruise in response to your powers."

"I do in response to another prisoner trying to kick my ass."

"Cisco! You were in a prison fight?"

"It's fine!" he assured her. "Funny story, actually. First night at dinner, I run into this guy I went to high school with, Andy Brixton. We were in a bunch of AP classes and the GSA together. Anyway, he agreed to scuffle up with me in the yard so I had an excuse to use my powers out in the open."

"Cisco - "

"I know you had fun being extremely unsubtle and trying to tip the guard off during your visit, but the warden wasn't noticing me. It's okay. Andy didn't hurt me, not really. He's always been a good guy." He thought of what he'd vibed when he'd managed to touch Andy's shoulder. "One who made some bad choices in life, maybe. But a good guy."

She shook her head. "Prison fight," she muttered.

"It worked," Cisco said. "I saw what I needed to see in gen-pop and then got transferred into the meta wing and got right on Wolfe's shit list. Three birds, one stone."

"How was he in the general population?"

"All the guys I talked to said he was a stickler for rules but otherwise ignored them. I guess he just wanted to hurt metas."

"That says something about him, doesn't it?" she said.

"Nothing good."

She had to numb his skin with cream before she took out the sensors, but when she had, that was the work of a few moments with scalpel and forceps.

"Biometric scanner," she said, dropping the tiny device into a sterile dish with a clang. "Dark matter sensor - " clang "- and wireless transmitter." She smiled at him. "All out."

"Yay," he said. "Officially not a cyborg anymore."

She cleaned the small wounds, put a stitch in each of them, and taped sterile gauze over his chest. She stripped off her gloves, but instead of telling him he was clear, she pulled a chair over. “How are you really?" she asked.

"I'll be better after some Big Belly Burger," he said. "The food was seriously shitty. And such small portions!"

"You lost seven pounds in there," she said absently. "So yes, Big Belly Burger it is. But I mean you. No jokes, please. How are you doing?"

He met her eyes and found he had to look away. He picked at a fray in his cords and said slowly, "I keep waiting to wake up again."

"Again?"

"I had bad dreams last night. Being out - it feels like a good dream that's about to turn bad."

He reached out for his hand and she let him take it. He held it, feeling the softness and warmth of her skin, her thumb rubbing soothingly over his knuckles.

"It's not a dream," she said. "You're out, and you're staying out. And in case nobody else says it, going in was the bravest thing I've ever seen you do."

"I went to prison," he said. "People do it every day."

"You went to a place where someone was going to hurt you. Where you had to make someone hurt you. And then you had to wait on us, until we could retrieve you. And you had to do all of that without your powers. I can't imagine the number of times you daydreamed about breaching out."

"Like, thousands."

"But you went. And you let him hurt you. And you stayed." She squeezed his hand. "I've always known you were one of the bravest men I knew. This just confirms that."

He swallowed. "Thanks."

She smiled and squeezed his hand again before letting it go. "If you want to go home right now, there's a protective detail waiting for the word to go to your apartment."

His stomach sank. "Shit."

"What?"

"You'll need one too. A protective detail. One of Wolfe's pet meta-wing guards - he threatened you. Right before they released me."

She drew in her breath and let it out.

"Nothing concrete," he said quickly. "All very plausible-deniability. But he was talking about how if I blabbed, they'd have to pay you a visit and stuff. Their boss getting arrested had probably got them mad enough for . . . stuff."

She nodded. "Okay."

"Okay? Caitlin, I know it doesn't sound like much, but these were bad dudes, they - "

"I know," she said. "I'll ask Joe for protective detail. Or maybe I can stay over at your place tonight and share yours."

He squinted at her. "You're taking this well." Almost too well. "Caitlin, this is -"

"Scary," she said, and her voice shook. "Serious. I know. I get it. But I always knew it was a possibility I'd be targeted, being your contact on the outside. None of us thought Warden Wolfe would be happy about getting arrested. So, yes, I've been prepared for the idea pretty much since we came up with this sting." Her mouth worked. "Alongside being scared for you."

"But you agreed to be my contact anyway."

"Of course I did. We needed the data to take to the judge and get a warrant."

"Barry could have run by the prison every day," Cisco argued. "You didn't have to be my visitor."

"I wanted to. Even though we only got to see each other once. I wanted you to know I was coming, every day. I didn't want you to be all alone in there."

He studied her a moment, then smiled. "I wasn't."

This time, she took his hand. He held it and they leaned together.

It was good to be home.

FINIS

[justwritingscibbles]

The entity rule

Chapter 1,2,3

Chapter 4

………turning his head to get a better look at you peaceful facial expression ‘looks like I’ll be reporting back sooner than I previously imagined’… ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dark kept his smirk as he arrived behind natemare he cleared his throat to announce his presence to him. “Oh, dark” natemare exclaimed turning around to face dark “how are things going?” “Well” dark replied “recently I acquired a first addition copy of-” natemare cut him off with an unimpressed laugh “that’s funny dark, really, but I meant them.” Natemare’s forced smile dropped as dark responded with “well I’ve just checked in as per your request and they seemed quite content, next to antisepticeye.” Natemare couldn’t even make a sound as dread filled within him, he couldn’t even get dark to explain before dark walked away. After he re-found his bodily control he almost dropped his phone as he went to check it. 40 MISSED CALLS! 'oh my god they have to be okay, please god tell me they’re okay, I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to them because I wasn’t there!’ all of these thoughts consumed natemare as he took one second to take on a less physical form and travel home. Natemare opened his eyes to see your back and anti’s face which had changed from laughing to a look of horrified shock as natemare leapt and tackled the laughing man to the ground, and once he was straddling him proceeded to snatch the knife he knew would be in the entity’s belt but before he could pull it to his throat the bottom entity was able to throw natemare off. And they stood mere inches from each other, breathing heavily, fingers twitching in anticipation of a fight, growling loudly at each other angrily. Until you physically pushed yourself between the two of them, with your hands on natemare’s chest and your back to anti who in turn took a step back so as not to squash you, you looked up at your boyfriend who refused to look back, with coal black eyes he was glaring at the man behind you, you couldn’t even imagine what he would have done if he found the two of you in bed together, you gulped at the thought. You of course didn’t notice when anti broke his glare with his enemy to look down at you but natemare did and with another growl as he stepped towards anti he didn’t want you hurt in the process and proceeded to grab your wrist and pull you behind him. “Hey!” You shouted worried, you’d never known natemare to be possessive or hostile but suddenly feeling his unforgiving iron like grip around your wrist and staring into his coal black eyes only to get no response, you wondered how much you really knew him. “Get. Out.” He hissed at anti. He knew you were scared, he’d grown accustomed to your telltale signs for certain emotions and refused to let that rat stay here for another moment. “You have a nerve” anti taunted “you want to run that by me again?” “At least I was here when they were in danger!” anti threw back and suddenly both entity’s attentions were turned to you. You saw mares eyes change and heard the knife he still held clatter to the floor as he softened and his hands moved to cup your face, moving it around quickly as if to check for some sign of damage he hadn’t seen before. His voice was less soft that his face would have you believe. “Danger! What happened?” He panicked. You gently rose your hands to bring his down from your face, you gave them a squeeze as you whispered “I’ll tell you later” and you both turned to look at anti. “Welp” he exclaimed clapping loudly, more animated than you had seen him that day which kind of confused you “I’ve caused trouble so my job is done!” And with a quick wink which no one in the room missed “I’ll be seein’ ya.” And he glitched, teleporting somewhere else. That meant you had to deal with the other entity, the less happy one. It’d only been several minutes but you were seeing a dark side of natemare you hadn’t seen since the two of you started dating. “HOW COULD YOU LET HIM IN?!” He shouted at you from across the room. “HE’S DANGEROUS Y/N YOU HAVE NO IDEA, STAY AWAY FROM HIM!” “How many times do I have to tell you! HE SAVED ME!” Natemare scoffed at that notion “I’d have rather it been anyone else” he said under his breath but you heard. “Who, like dark?” He looked down at the ground guiltily. “Why do you trust dark more?” You pressed. “He owes me a favour” natemare admitted quietly, it was your turn to scoff, and still, you continued “you know, I think you’d find that anti and yourself aren’t so different.” 'That’s what she said’ natemare thought bitterly recoiling at the memory. “Why were you even back so early?” You questioned. He was angry once more upon hearing that, as if you wanted to spend time with that monster and he’d ruined it for you. “I ordered him to look in on you. That was his favor. Looks like he didn’t look in at the right time though otherwise all of this could have been avoided” your anger too surged upon hearing this “you had someone spy on me? I don’t need a babysitter natemare, God!” You shouted, refusing to even face him now you were so disappointed. That was the last straw for him and you turned around when you felt him disperse into smoke and leave you, so you sat on your couch and did anything but let yourself cry. It was now 11 at night and you had managed to distract yourself the whole day, right now you were on level 27 on some random app you had installed for the purpose of denial of any emotions you had held in that day. You hadn’t even made a noise for the rest of that day, unintentionally, but you gasped in surprise as you felt someone grab your ankle on the other side of the couch making you lie perfectly horizontal on top of it. You looked up and became disinterested as you saw the form of natemare sat on your lap, knees on either side of your body. You turned your head back to your phone. You expected a growl but heard nothing and thought he’d just lay there until you paid attention to him, but were proved wrong as his nose glided from your belt, to curve into your belly button, it dragged up the centre of your chest then slowly up your upturned neck and it booped your chin “mare, stop, I’m angry at you” you said through gritted teeth. he stopped and looked at you whilst you said this but slowly his eyes rolled back to the bottom half of you face, he proceeded to kiss the tip of your chin, his lips left your skin to rejoin at the bottom of your jaw, then moved upwards to plant a soft kiss on a mix of you cheek and the corner of your lips… you rolled over to shove him off of you and he toppled onto the floor. You could feel his eyes on you. You were angry at him and knew if you looked at him you would feel immensely guilty and immediately let him back in, so you placed your legs on the floor in a sitting position and continued working on your phone. It had been an hour and he now felt stable enough to talk to you. “I’m tired” he whined, an open invitation to let you two be close again and sleep off your anger, it had worked before but you two had never had a fight like that before. “Then go to bed.” You replied in a monotone voice, still refusing to look at him and it made his chest tighten. His confidence kind of increased though as he heard your voice and decided to continue this game with you. “Not without you” he replied hoping it would change your mind but you just sighed, he couldn’t tell if you were growing annoyed with him or were just too emotionally exhausted to find a response, so he decided to lay himself against your legs on the floor to rest and serve as a reminder for you to go to bed. He did so slowly so as not to disturb whatever you were working on which 'must be important’ he had convinced himself and he also didn’t feel like being kicked away by you again tonight. He didn’t even realise he had fallen asleep until his eyes opened and could sense that it had been at least an hour. He was afraid you had gone without him but smiled as he found himself able to nuzzle into your calf, it meant you had let him be at peace with you for a little while, you weren’t planning on abandoning him! But his relief turned into annoyance when he realised how late it must be and that you were still awake. With a sigh he quickly stood up, so quickly in fact you didn’t even have a chance to realise he’d woken up until you ended up in his arms bridal style with him walking towards your stairs “mare-” you grumbled sleepily. He threw you, literally launched you, onto the bed and as he anticipated you trying to get up he actually lay on top of you. It surely couldn’t have been that comfortable, he smothered both of you with blankets and you were cheek to cheek as he immediately fell to sleep on top of you, and since you were stuck you felt you might as well sleep, you didn’t want to admit to him but you had almost nodded off yourself a few times, even before he appeared, but now warm and comfortable you found yourself following his lead and drifted to sleep…