#he cracks one open like an egg and slathers all over his face like it's aloe vera

[steakout-05]

i found a gif i made in paint.net around a year ago that i used for an old carrd and i think you should see it

it's a parody of one of those old scam ads you'd see on sketchy third party news sites!! i like how ominous "LEARN THE TRUTH NOW" sounds in the context of Spamton. it just sounds very... off even for one of these ads. it's a little too sketchy.

[moonpiepig]

Love-struck - Chapter 6

On the surface it was cold and the first few rays of the morning sun exposed a light, ivory mist that rose from the damp ground after a long night of rain. Far below, bright candles illuminated winding passageways, rousing sleepy inhabitants from their cosy beds. The air was electric with muted conversation as crowds of famished villagers were herded into the dining hall, eagerly awaiting thick slabs of streaky bacon, crispy hash browns, and fried eggs piled upon chipped plates. 

Y/N awoke sometime mid-morning, bleary-eyed, as the makeshift door scraped harshly against the stone floor. Whispers of slow shuffling and hushed cursing disturbed the peace as Laxus squeezed himself through the doorway, trying desperately to not wake her. She caught a glimpse of him clutching two steaming mugs, with a squashed loaf of bread under one arm and a cutting board under the other, before closing her eyes and pretending to sleep. Forcing deep, slow breaths and concealing a smile, she listened to Laxus gently place some of the breakfast items onto the coffee table by the entrance and the scent of freshly baked goods filled the room. He stood still for a moment,  not making a sound, contemplating what to do next. 

The pallet protested as he perched by Y/N’s side and took a moment to observe her. His hand, warmed from the coffee, brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen across her face. She fluttered her eyes open and displayed a convincing act of awakening, before focusing on Laxus and the large, clay mug he extended towards her. 

“About time…” he teased, his mouth curling into a smug grin. “Morning is almost over. I had to fight an army for this breakfast.”

She took the mug, feeling the soothing warmth burn her fingers, and mumbled thanks. She hadn’t slept so deeply in over two years and the built-up fatigue lay heavy in her muscles, pulling her back under the blankets. Laxus brandished a bunch of grapes and removed cutlery, smoked cheese wrapped in a faded patterned cloth, and a jar of apricot jam from his pockets. He reached for the bread and tore off a chunk, slathered it with jam and handed it to her as her stomach growled with anticipation. They ate without conversation, savouring both the food and the quiet intimacy, clinging eagerly to the remnants of the night before.

It didn’t last long. It couldn’t. An uncomfortable shroud fell over them after they had finished eating. Laxus cleared away the mugs and the cutlery, the chance to discuss what was on their minds fading quickly. Y/N brushed some crumbs off the bedding and straightened her back just as Laxus inhaled deeply, unable to meet her gaze. 

“Listen Y/N… About last night-”

“Laxus… We should talk about-”

A loud knock on the door startled them and a tall, well-dressed man with tousled hair and a faint stench of body odour stepped inside, eyeing them nervously. 

“The… Um… The mayor would like to see you both,” he stammered.

Y/N looked at Laxus. His cheeks were still faintly flushed from the words he had been unable to speak, his eyes a little bloodshot from lack of sleep, but his face gave no inkling of what he was thinking. The discussion of the previous night’s events would have to wait. Whether she felt she and Laxus could wait long was another thing entirely. She waved a hand dismissively at the man and informed him they would be on their way soon. He scurried away and they prepared their things, falling back into a more agonising silence.

***

They strode down a long, empty corridor towards the mayor’s office. It wasn’t hard to find, what with it being the only cavern underground that resembled a fully finished room. A large ornate door, clearly scavenged from a church or some other grand building, stood tall, keeping a watchful eye on all visitors.   

The entrance was cracked open a little and they could hear the mayor's gravelly voice inside, muttering to himself. As they drew closer, a few words drifted from the office, freezing Y/N to the spot, her hand poised, ready to knock. Laxus noticed her hesitation and raised his eyebrows in question. She shook her head dubiously, her wide eyes unable to focus on her surroundings. Surely she had misheard the mayor’s words…

“May Lord Zeref return.” 

A shiver ran down her back and she flinched as though stabbed with a poker as Laxus leaned over her and rapped sharply on the dense wood. The short, elderly man answered at once. He stepped back with his arms spread open in welcome. Catching her horrified reflection in his glasses, Y/N painted a kind smile on her face and extended herself to her full height before stepping inside.

“Welcome! Good morning to you both,” he boomed. “I thought I’d check in and see how things are going with that blasted beast.” He sank into a grand, leather chair behind his desk and rested his chin on his palm, giving them his full attention. If he is an old member of the commune, Y/N thought while taking in his suede suit with thick brass buttons, he certainly didn’t live a similar lifestyle now. Laxus clearly had his own opinion on the man and the mayor’s eagerness wavered momentarily when he snorted in disgust and crossed his arms.

“You know, I don’t remember agreeing to help in the first place,” he sneered, eyes locked onto the wrinkled face.

Y/N thought she saw a flicker of annoyance harden the mayor’s gaze, but his smile grew in reply and he nodded sympathetically. 

“You are right,” he said softly, his face forlorn. “I speak on behalf of all the citizens here when I say I sincerely apologise for the way we treated you when you arrived. As I explained to your companion, we are tired of living in fear of the beast, and being unable to fight, back since none of us have any real magic talent, has made us quite desperate.” 

“Fine,” Laxus held out his hand after a long pause and the mayor took it. “I agree to help on the condition that we get the money you mentioned to my… companion. Oh, and if you try anything I don’t agree with, I will make everyone here pay the price.” An amber spark shot through his fingers, and the mayor flinched, quickly releasing his grip. 

Not waiting for any more pleasantries, Laxus regaled the details of their attempt to confront the wyvern yesterday and Y/N took the opportunity to closely examine the interior. The natural cavern walls were hidden behind large bookcases stuffed with famous titles, moth-eaten tapestries and a large variety of aged paintings. The mayor was seemingly a collector who took pride in the facade his objects offered him. She strolled around the bookcases, scanning the musty contents. Laxus gave her an inconspicuous glance as she completed the full circle, ending up back by his side and letting out a small sigh of relief. There were no apparent links to her past here. No demonic statues. No black books.

“Well, I wish you luck,” said the mayor, pulling Y/N from her thoughts. “I do hope you can help us. A word of warning before you go, some of these buildings are old and unstable. Best to stay on solid ground if you have a choice.”

He regarded her with a fixed grin, his eyes narrowing as if he could read her thoughts. She nodded at him in farewell before following Laxus out into the passageway.

***

The monstrous beast glided in circles around the decrepit church tower, its beady eyes transfixed onto the glittering, gold bell within. Y/N and Laxus clambered out the entrance to the caves below and took shelter in a shallow doorway behind the church, hidden from view. 

“Okay, let’s think of a plan,” said Y/N, her eyes glued to the massive, winged creature as it perched on top of the tower roof. “I say we-”

She felt the air shift next to her and whipped around just in time to see Laxus rush into the street, golden energy crackling menacingly around him.

“Glad to see you came back for round two!” he yelled as he rushed forward into the wyvern’s path. The lightning coursed up his right arm and grew in intensity and he slammed his fist into the wyvern’s side. Y/N clamped her hands over her ears, barely filtering out the deafening screams from the beast plummeting to the ground and scattering clouds of dust across the village. Laxus turned to check on Y/N and she cried out as the beast’s head burst forward with unnerving speed, sharp teeth bared and strong jaws prepped to grab onto an unguarded limb. Laxus dodged left. Y/N sprang into the air in a streak of dark energy and hurtled downwards, crashing into the top of the beast’s skull with a crack. She felt Laxus’ reassuring warm hand on the small of her back as she created some distance between herself and the beast, preparing for the next move. The wyvern scrambled away. They both lunged forward to grab onto the spiked tail and Y/N recoiled as Laxus’ boot came into contact with her stomach, nauseating her and jolting her off course. She heard him curse before he was quickly dragged away, leaving her behind. 

Sprawled on the ground, she coughed a mouthful of dirt and mentally scanned her aching body. Nothing broken. She hoisted herself up and took a moment to watch Laxus being swung around like a rag doll, leaving her with a twinge of satisfying justice as she clutched her aching abdomen. After a few minutes, he regained his balance and dug his heels into the ground, leaving a deep trail in the dirt and slowing the wyvern. Violent yellow light danced through his body and along the creature. It jerked and twisted, clawing at the source of its pain and Laxus bellowed incoherently as the lightning grew stronger. The beast gave up fighting and started to inch itself towards the church, its roars rattling Y/N to her core. Its eyes fixed unwaveringly onto the shimmering bell.

“Laxus, wait!” Y/N called out. Laxus, unable to hear her over the chaos surrounding them, released the tail and moved closer to the creature’s head. Y/N sprinted towards him, hand outstretched and shouting so hard her throat turned raw. He raised his arm to give the final blow, energy surging around his clenched fist and she crashed into his back, redirecting the lightning towards a collapsed library.      

“What are you doing?” Laxus roared, inches from Y/N’s face, and rage lit his eyes. She shrank away and he stumbled backwards once her face came into focus and the light around him extinguished immediately. She furrowed her brows and took a deep breath before pointing towards the bell tower. 

“It was trying to get to the tower.”

Laxus turned to the direction she was pointing in and eyed the wyvern warily but it lay still in the dust. It heaved a giant sigh and its gaze remained fixed on the bell. Laxus grunted, acknowledging the peculiarity. 

“Did I hurt you badly when I kicked you?” he asked, his expression hidden from her view.

Y/N snorted. “It’ll take more than your boot to take me down.”

They stood in silence for a moment, recovering their strength and composure. The morning’s unspoken words hung heavily above them. Y/N stepped by his side and took his hand. Eventually, Laxus faced her and grinned widely.

“Looks like we’re a bit out of practice,” he said. “We’ll end up killing each other before nightfall.”

Y/N laughed and squeezed his hand gently. Still cautious around the frozen beast, they made their way to the church ruins and climbed the tower. Y/N heaved herself over the edge and gasped. Laxus, not as agile and therefore a bit slower at scaling the wall than she was, called out questioningly and began to pick up the pace. Underneath the bell sat a crate containing three large, shimmering eggs covered in jade scales. 

“Well that explains a lot,” Laxus muttered behind her. 

Y/N peered down at the unmoving creature. “Wyverns lay eggs in nests, usually caves. There is no way they ended up here naturally.”

“So someone took them? Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “It has to have been one of the villagers. Wyvern eggs are quite valuable but even so, surely they would have said or done something once the attacks started?”     

Laxus sighed and ran a hand through his unruly blonde spikes. “I’ll hunt them down and make them talk when we get back but in the meantime, we can’t leave these here.”

After much contemplation and some bickering, they decided to create a basket using the debris littering the town square and attach a rope thick enough for the wyvern to curl its talons around. The creature watched them approach but stayed still, accepting their presence with a sharp exhale. Y/N placed the basket beside the wyvern's head and extended the rope before joining Laxus on his way back underground.  

***

Once Y/N reached the bottom of the ladder, Laxus placed his hands on her waist and drew her closer to him. 

“So listen… As far as I’m concerned this is a job well done,” he murmured. “You tell the mayor, I’ll pack the bags and we can be on a train by sunset.”

“Deal. I’m sure he can find the thief without our help.”

He kissed her forehead before parting and she watched him until he disappeared around a bend before walking in the opposite direction. A smile played on the corners of her lips and she felt lightheaded as she thought of ideas for their next destination. The snowy mountain tops in search of the best strawberries in all of Fiore? Sailing down a river in Margaret Town together or perhaps relaxing in the hot springs at Pegasus Village? She reached the mayor’s office, rapped a short rhythm on the door and stepped side to side as she waited for a response. Several minutes of silence passed. Eager to head back to the room to help with packing, Y/N gently opened the door and slid inside. Her breath caught in her throat, choking her as she noticed the mayor standing poised like a statue in the shadows of the room. 

“Wha-?” she exclaimed, startled and taking a step back.

“I see you found the eggs,” he said quietly. “I believe I hired you to kill the wyvern, NOT to snoop around and give away what isn’t yours.”

Realisation dawned too late and Y/N balle her fists tightly, ready to fight. “You stole her eggs? But why?”

The mayor stepped towards her, tutting, his expression hard and menacing. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand and cupped her chin, closing the gap between them, the damp sweat on his skin making her shudder.

“You really are like your mother,” he whispered, stale breath caressing her face. “I do hope Zeref can forgive us for her mistakes.”

[selfproclaimedunicorn]

Yorick bit back his look of disgust, keeping his face completely neutral as Dragonstone's staff continued to busy themselves with serving the visiting royal family’s morning meal. Blackberry oatcakes slathered with the last of the winter's preserves of the very same fruit, roasted lamb that smelled strongly of nutmeg and ginger, thick slices of bacon fried until crispy, plums and blood oranges, mushrooms cooked in butter, slices of bread, and eggs.

Yorick stared at his plate, the two yolks seemed to look back at him, confronting him with memory. They needed to go.

The bright yellow juice of the yolks bled out onto the plate as Yorick’s fork bit into the eggs. Even though they were cooked, seasoned with herbs and black pepper, the dream memory of buttery slime on his tongue and going down his throat seemed to overpower the reality of what was truly in his mouth. He had to force himself to swallow, revulsion and divine ecstasy fought over the thought of the uncooked dragon egg he had watched be devoured and dreamed of fondly. What was on Yorick's plate was better but it was worse, he was disgusted but ravenous. The last bit of runny yolk sopped up by bread tasted like heaven and ash, all at once perfectly cooked and far too well done. Yorick let out a soft, shaky exhale through his nose as he looked down at the empty spot on his plate, filled only by the crumbs of bread like little echoes of the cracked open, opal colored shell.

Larys's withdrawing room was near stuffed to bursting with books and papers, every flat surface containing a tome or scroll or stack of parchment. Even the small table by his chair had some collection of his scratchy writing under the tray of tea and berry tarts.

...

"I appreciate your apology, Rhaella…you may have one of the tarts, if you like. I won't eat all of them." Ella grinned, and grabbed one of the sweets from the tray. Evyn made a point to avoid making eye contact as she came close, and he only followed her and Yorick out of the room at the urging of Martyn. [...] She plucked a particularly red raspberry from the top of the tart still held between her fingers. Ella held it out, and continued, "a peace offering." Evyn snatched the berry from her outstretched hand and popped it into his mouth, swallowing before he spoke.

...

From the corner of his eye, Yorick saw Ella take a bite of half the berry tart as she nodded. [...] Ella offered Yorick a bite of her sweet as they walked, and he leaned over to take more than she had been willing to offer. She pouted as he brushed the crumbs from his lips, and then stuffed the rest into her mouth while making purposeful eye contact. Her offense did not last long, the pair of them talking comfortably and laughing when they finally came across Laena and Laenor.

In the center of the room sat a large table, a roasted boar being basted by kitchen boys was atop it. Servants came to and from the center table, carrying trays filled with bits of meat carved off the animal to the tables where nobles sat.

...

Yorick and Ella joined them at the table laden with food to supplement the boar at the center of the feast hall. Large loaves of braided bread, whole wheels of cheese with hunks of the same kind placed atop them, steamed clams cooked in white wine with lemon and butter and garlic, parsnips and beets roasted and served with a thick sauce that smelled of pepper and cardamom, honeyfingers, grilled leeks, platters of figs and apricots, hand pies filled with mushrooms and mince and onions, salad of spinach and sweet grass with salty cheese and olives, and cream cakes colored bright yellow with saffron. "Oh, honeyfingers!" Ella grabbed one of the long, thin pastries dripping with sticky honey before any of the other offerings at the feast. "They are mother’s favorite," Shireen said with a smile, "she said that, when she still lived in Pentos, she would go to a merchant who had a Tyroshi wife that would sell them a dozen at a time." "I want to meet that merchant's wife," Ella said as she sucked the honey from her fingers.

...

Plates were piled high with boar as servants came to and from the center table, and drinks flowed easy and bountiful into goblets. As more cider was poured into Yorick’s cup, the doors opened again allowing Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon to enter the feast hall.

-Yorick 3: Black And Bronze

I am really on my George shit with this fic. I have described (at least minimally) food in every chapter so far

[panda-noosh]

taste test {kaz brekker x reader}

   there are guests today.

    little information was given to you, but you don’t mind; you’re not here to entertain anyone. you’re here to do your job and move on. who the king associates with is honestly none of your concern. 

   you’ll leave the assassins to the royal guards.

    you wake on the day to witness the palace in hysterics. chefs bustle around like headless chickens, maids and butlers ironing uniforms that have not had a crinkle in them since the war. the scent of food - a cacophany of it - rises to the surface, making you crinkle your nose at the onslaught of different options. all you want is a slice of toast to prepare you for the day, but the thought of walking into that kitchen has you cuddling up in bed for a few minutes longer.

    you’ll have to eat that food pretty soon. just a small bite, just enough to get a taste. a hint. 

   you close your eyes.

    the peace doesn’t last long, because it never does. a knock sounds at your door, startling you from your reverie. you roll over, not even bothering to cover yourself when you call out, “come in!”

    a palace guard - rico - peaks his bald head round the door and raises a brow. “still sleeping?”

   “clearly not.”

    “good. you need to be up and at your post in thirty minutes; we have guests today.”

   you pull the quilt over your head. “don’t remind me.” you peak an eye over the top, raising a brow. “who are the guests?”

   rico narrows his eyes. “you haven’t been told?”

   “well, no. i never really asked.”

    “then i’ll leave it as a surprise.” he claps his hands, like you’re some kind of dog. “get ready. i don’t want to come back up here again.”

   “then don’t,” you reply, but he’s already disappeared.

    you drag yourself from bed to do as he ordered. there’s no point arguing with the palace guards - they seem to think they own the place, even though they live basically under the thumb of every other individual walking the grounds. even you, the lowest of the low, can manipulate them into doing what you want if you just try hard enough. a few sweet words and a confident tone, and they’re like putty in your hands.

    but the truth is, you don’t care enough about todays events to put on that confident tone. you pull your clothes on, fiddle with your bow tie, and head downstairs to see what the day has in store for you.

    breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

    a risky day ahead.

    you’re required to be at the kings side long before the guests arrive. you’ve never questioned it. the rules of the palace have never made any sense to you, but you go along with them, because you don’t want to get into any more trouble than you already have. that’s why you find yourself stood by the kings side in silence, hands clasped in front of you, trays of delicious breakfast foods being delivered by hasty, sweaty porters.

    the dining room is swathed in beautiful decor. banners hang from the ceiling, red and gold colours matching the grand wallpaper all around. the fancy carpet has been rolled out, tucked beneath the long, mahogany dining table and stretching all the way to the double doors ready to greet the guests. 

   even the king is dressed well for the occasion, which is another surprise. though the king hardly looks like a peasant, he makes a point to put in as little effort with his appearance as possible, just to show people that he can get anyone to fear him from personality alone. his riches and fancy fabrics have nothing to do with his power.

    but today he wears his finest silk coat, the buttons straining against his round stomach. his beard has been freshly trimmed, and you watch his hand rock back and forth amongst the hairs. a few stray ones float from his chin to the table, and you quickly swipe them away. the king doesn’t even notice; he continues staring at the doors, one dark skinned knuckle tight around the arms of his throne-like chair. 

     finally, after what feels like forever, the double doors up ahead are pushed open. two palace guards dressed in red hold them in place, and a man is ushered in.

    a man you recognise immediately.

    he’s got a cane now, which is different. there’s those gloves on his hands, the sides of his head still shaved, with that shaggy, dark mess still perched on top, a school boys haircut that looks most out of place on someone with blood on his hands. he’s frowning, because that’s what kaz brekker does - the king shows his power through his booming voice and cruel choices. kaz brekker shows his power through his expressions. 

    you don’t meet his eyes, though you don’t look away. kaz has his gaze on the king, not even noticing you standing at his side, and for that you are thankful; you don’t think you want to look into those blue eyes again. you promised yourself you wouldn’t, not before the nightmares disappear.

    the king slowly stands. he rubs his beard one final time for good measure before saying, “you’re late, kaz.”

    “call me mr brekker,” kaz replies, before gesturing to an empty seat at the end of the table - the seat farthest from the king. “shall we sit?”

    you swallow; you’re familiar with this attitude from him, but you’ve been in the kings presence too long now to pretend kaz isn’t on thin ice. 

    the king, however, is clearly in a docile mood, as he nods and sits down. the food in the centre of the table goes unnoticed for a while as the two stare at each other, waiting for the other to crack and begin the conversation. you fiddle with your fingers, uncertain whether kaz has seen you, whether he recognises you, whether he’s just keeping a straight face because he’s kaz, and he’s a professional.

    finally, the king clicks his fingers at you. “stack my plate. you know the drill.”

   you burst into action, bustling round the table, scooping up different assortments of breakfast foods you know the king enjoys; he’s got his bacon, and his eggs, and the bread, pancakes on the side. you slather beans along the rim of his plate and place a single hash brown in the residue, just as he likes it.

   and then you sit down, and pick apart the entire thing.

    you can feel kaz’s eyes burning into you as you work, but you pay him no attention. you have to focus, because this is kind of a life or death situation. you sniff the food first, though this very rarely shows you anything you might need to worry about. it’s too fresh, still warm in your fingers when you lift it to your nose. you can smell only the warmth of it all, but you take the precaution anyway, just to show the king you know what you’re doing.

    and then you nibble the edges, heart thumping with nerves rather than poison entering your body. that’s what you’re looking for - poison, an assassination attempt. even in his own palace, the king is paranoid. his own staff have turned against him before. you’re not entirely surprised.

    you chew, swallow, pause, repeat.

    “all clear.”

   you hand the plate back, tuck your hands in your lap and look down at the table at kaz. he’s staring at you, an eyebrow raised, and you understand immediately that he recognises you, probably knew you worked here before he even entered the premise.

   was he here for you?

   you banish the thought and look away. you wait until the king has started digging in before excusing yourself and exiting, your job for the morning complete. at lunch, you will have to repeat the process, and again at dinner, but until then, you have the morning to yourself.

    you walk through the gardens, because fresh air is all you need right now. your heart is hammering, and you curse yourself for it - kaz brekker has not been in your life for months. he shouldn’t have a grip on you. he shouldn’t even know you are here, and yet he does, because of course he does. kaz doesn’t step foot anywhere until he knows the ins-and-outs of the entire place. he keeps his ducks all in a neat row, and you were a fool to believe you had escaped it.

    it’s not like kaz is a bad man. he’s evil, certainly, with horrible actions under his belt, but you can understand his reasoning. he kills a man, and maybe that’s an overexaggeration, but the man was also seconds away from traumatising a poor woman walking home from work. kaz takes a life, saving the day in the process. it’s how he works, how he’s always worked for as long as you’ve known him.

   and you’ve known him for a while.

   you haven’t been by his side in months, but someone like kaz brekker is someone you never forget. once you know kaz, you never stop knowing him, which is a curse more than anything else. oh, how you wish you could wipe the slate clean, pretend you never got involved with him and his gang in the first place. but that was your decision - your stupid, careless decision - and you need to face the consequences.

    having him here, at your place of work, was a consequence.

    you sit down by the stream just outside the palace grounds. a duckling struts past, paying you no attention whatsoever. a stray lilipad floats gently through the water, spurred on by the tiny breeze ketterdam has for you today.

     you like to come here sometimes, just to clear your head a little bit. nobody else bothers with the nice scenery and the nature; they think it’s a waste of time. if it wasn’t for the gardener, this place would be a wasteland, left to shrivel and disappear into shadow. you’re thankful it’s been kept pleasant, though - it’s a good place for someone who wants to have no thoughts for a little while.

    you lean down and run your fingertips along the water. it’s cold, and a weed gets tangled between your fingers. you lift it from the water with a wince, flicking your wrist to get it off-

    a cane clamps down on your fingers, shoving your hand into the grass.

   you inhale sharply, straightening up but not turning around.

    “so easy to startle,” kaz hums. “you’re losing your touch, y/n.”

    you twist your hand and catch the bottom of his cane, using it to pull yourself to your feet. kaz doesn’t stumble, but you never expected him to; kaz doesn’t stumble. he’s much too stubborn for that.

    you whirl around, and there he is, that frown on his face, his head tilted like he’s analysing you even before you’ve said two words. a heat festers in your belly. you don’t know if you want to hug him or slam your fist into his nose. 

    “so this is where you ended up, is it?” he glances at the grand gardens, the glistening lake, the ducklings swimming past. “you’ve surprised me, i gotta say. i never thought you’d be into such grandeur.”

   you fold your arms over your chest, cheeks heating up. you will admit, the palace is certainly not the place you thought to find yourself, either; after living in the barrel your entire life, you had grown used to dirt stained clothes, weeks without washing, hunger pains. this was different. this was a different type of hell, a hell in fancy clothes.

    “cat got your tongue?” kaz continues, swinging that stupid cane back and forth. “shame. i think we have a lot to talk about.”

   “why are you here?”

   “ah, asking the right questions now!”

   “just tell me, kaz. tell me, and then we can go our separate ways - just like you wanted.”

    his expression falters for a moment, so quick that it’s clear he doesn’t want you noticing the power you still have over him, even just a little. 

    “fine,” he says. “let’s walk.”

   you do just that, hands tucked into pockets, head tilted down. it’s easier to talk to him when you’re not subject to his facial expressions, too - handling both of them is too much. 

    “you want to know why i’m here,” he begins. “i’m here looking for you.”

    your stomach drops, even though that was kind of what you were expecting. 

    he pauses, giving you a chance to fill in the silence with your own thoughts, but you don’t even look up.

    he barrels on. “we had a tip-off from someone that you were working here now. no one else believed it, but me? i know you a little better than them. i was surprised, but i could picture it. you’ve always been irrational when you’re desperate.”

   you wince. “you don’t know me at all, kaz.”

    he smiled at the sky in response, like you had walked into his trap.

    “i hope you didn’t come here thinking you can coax me back to the barrel,” you continue. “that’s not going to happen.”

    his jaw clenches, head still tilted towards the sun. his skin is a little darker now, a little more tan. he’s probably been out and about, you think, causing havok in the sunshine, ruining people’s holidays because he can.

    “i thought you would say that,” he says. “so i’m bringing the problem to you.”

   you nearly stumble. “what?” freezing in the middle of the path, you grab his arm and whirl him around, forcing him to look at you. “what have you done, kaz? what problem?”

    “she asked for you.”

    “kaz-”

   “inej is sick.”

    your breath falters. those words, so simple, yet so . . . unexpected. inej ghafa - the wraith, your best friend, the girl designed to be indestructible. that’s why kaz picked her. that’s why she worked alongside you. that’s what made you the best damn crew in ketterdam.

    “sick.” 

    kaz nods, shrugging his arm from your grip. “sick. ill. not well. poorly. whatever you want to call it. she’s not doing good, and the only person she’s asking for is you.”

    “so where is she?” you whirl around. “is she here?”

   “not walking alongside us, no.”

   you scowl. “i mean at the palace, kaz. is she at the palace?”

   “she will be.” kaz pulls a golden watch from his pocket. “in about three hours. that should give your employer plenty of time to set my room up and make some space in the hospital wing, don’t you think?”

   you close your eyes, trying desperately to steady the thumping of your heart. he could be lying, and you know that, but what if he isn’t? what is inej really is on her death bed, and you never even got to say goodbye?

    the thought terrifies you to the point your hands begin to tremble. when you open your eyes, kaz is staring at them, and you’re almost certain there is something close to pity sparking there.

   you quickly snap your arms behind your back and nod. “fine. okay. i’ll see her. but once i’ve done what i can, you leave. both of you.”

    kaz studies your face. the fire in your stomach burns even brighter, forcing you to look away and keep walking.

    kaz follows, all soft footsteps. “i’m not here to bring up the past, y/n. i hope you know that.”

    “you can understand why i find that hard to believe.”

   “well, yes. but i’m serious. what we had, it means nothing now. you’re a different person, and so am i. we can let it go.”

    you swallow the lump in your throat, trying to pretend those words are exactly what you wanted to hear. but a knot twists in your heart, almost to the point of pain.

   you take a deep breath and glance at him over your shoulder. he’s only a few steps behind, but his presence is so large, so there that you nearly trip. 

   and then you say, “we never had anything, kaz. remember that.”

----

   it’s like you’re trying to hurt each other.

   that’s how it’s always been between you and kaz, but at one point, it felt natural. it was a bit of fun. a few snide remarks here and there, followed by kaz confessing he thinks your eyes are a very pretty colour. a bit of sparring, followed by you telling kaz he’s the most important person in your life. 

   this time, however, the mere sight of him is a torment, one you don’t find fun in the slightest.

    the king tasks you with leading kaz through the palace. this was a job you fully expected to be given, but it doesn’t make it any easier. kaz stops to examine every little thing, tracing his fingers along artefacts you would be murdered for touching.     

   you swat his hand away when he reaches for a bust of the kings father. “stop it. if you knock that over, he’ll have you hanged.”

    kaz raises a brow before touching a gloved fingertip to the stone. you groan and march off, trying to ignore the butterflies at the sound of his soft, hidden chuckle echoing behind you.   

   you show him his room, a beautifully decorated space much grander than any room the king has ever given you. kaz whistles when he walks in, looking at the wine bucket on his chest of drawers, and the freshly made bed with the thick linens, and a view to die for.

    “spoiled,” he says.

   you roll your eyes. “i’ll leave you to get comfortable.”

    “or.” he whirls, catching your arm. his fingers slot in the crook of your elbow, the leather of his gloves sparking unwanted familiarity within you. “you can stay, and we can talk some more.”

   “i have things to do, kaz.” you rip your arm from his grip. “the king will be having lunch soon, and i need to be there.”

    kaz scoffs, slowly sliding the knot out of his tie and slipping it from beneath his collar, like undressing in front of you is no big deal. “so you can do what? potentially die? you know, y/n, i once thought you were a tough son of a bitch, but the longer i’m here, the more i’m realising just how weak you are.”

    ouch.

   “we’ve all got to make a living somehow,” you reply. “you murder people, i keep the king safe.”

    “the same king you wanted to assassinate a few months ago?” he tilts his head, pursing his lips. “what a drastic change of heart.”

   “go to hell, kaz.”

    he raises a hand. “wait for me outside; i’ll come to lunch with you and your king.”

   you pause. “has he invited you?”

   “i don’t need an invite.”

    “you’re not permitted to be there-”

   “i’ll be there.” he starts unbuttoning his shirt. “i want to watch you in action. you’ve always been very good in action.” he smirks, and you know he’s just teasing you, trying to get a reaction. your cheeks heat up, but you quickly turn on your heel and scurry out before he can notice. 

    you don’t wait on him outside. instead, you hurry to the dining hall, where the king is already seated. he looks up when you enter, fingers already tangled in his beard. his wife sits beside him, grand and tall and everything a queen should be. she scowls when you enter, but you ignore her, immediately taking your seat by the king and fanning a napkin over your lap.

    “sorry,” you say. “kaz brekker kept me.”

    “it’s mr brekker,” the queen snaps. “have some respect for our guests.”

   “y/n can call me kaz.”

   you close your eyes, listening to the thump of his feet and cane against the carpet. 

   “y/n can call me kaz,” he repeats, lowering himself in the chair at the head of the table. “mr brekker is a little too formal for them.”

     “mr brekker,” the queen exclaims, fanning her reddening face. “i wasn’t aware you would be joining us for lunch!” 

   you nearly roll your eyes at her flustered state - okay, so kaz is attractive. he’s also half her age.

    kaz leans back in his seat, tapping his fingertips together. “oh, no, i’m not eating. i’m just here to observe.” at the confused silence, he shrugs. “i have nothing better to do, and i’ve always been fascinated with the hobbies y/n takes on. such a talented soul they are.”

    you’ve never heard kaz speak so formal before, and you have half a mind to laugh. instead, you glance over to see his own lips trembling in his attempts to keep a straight face - he finds this just as amusing as you do. messing with the royals, it’s all a game to him. they are the fools. 

    “do you two know each other?” the king asks, handing you his stacked plate.

   “no,” you snap. kaz grins behind his glove, staring at you over his fingers as you hasten to add, “no, we don’t. i just met him today.”

    the king nods slowly, not quite sure whether to believe you or not. you don’t give him a chance to doubt any further before picking up your knife and fork and cutting a small chunk from a slice of tofu. you go through the usual routine with everything on his plate, but all the while, kaz stares. you feel his eyes like a fire sinking into the side of your face, putting you off from paying proper attention. you pop the cut-off’s in your mouth and chew, turning to meet his gaze, as if making eye contact with him is some kind of power move. however, he actually looks a bit. . . worried? concerned? you’ve never seen that expression on his face before, and it makes your stomach flip as you swallow the food.

    you give a final nod, handing the plate back to the king. you repeat the process with the queen before standing, straightening your trousers and excusing yourself.

    kaz’s chair screeches as he stands.

    “mr brekker, would you not care for some lunch?” the queen asks.

    “no.” he turns and follows you out the dining room, catching your arm when you try and run. “what the hell?”

    you spin, snatching your arm away. “can you stop grabbing me?”

    “what happens if their food actually has been poisoned?”

    “then i get poisoned.”

   he raises a brow, skin paling. “and do they have someone on hand for if that happens?”

   “on hand to do what?”

   “don’t play stupid, y/n. on hand to save your fucking life.”

   you scowl; it’s been a long time since you’ve heard kaz curse, and it shames you to feel the same thrill run over you. 

    “i get sent to the infirmary,” you reply. “but it’s never happened before.”

    “never happened-” he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “this is the kind of life you want to live? you left the barrel for this?”

    “no life is as bad as the barrel.”

    kaz’s lips tighten, eyes fluttering closed for the briefest moment before he opens them again and says, “you left the place where people loved you, cared about you, and you came here. to this shit hole. you’re risking your life for them, and you have the nerve to tell me this life isn’t as bad as the barrel?”

    even to you it sounds ridiculous, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. 

    “the barrel wasn’t a life,” you say. “the barrel was a beginning for me, but i’ve moved on.”

    “you don’t move on from that.”

   “maybe not mentally, but i can damn well get away physically.” you lean in, lowering your voice. “i just wish you’d let me.”

    his eyes scan your face, drawing attention to just how close you are to him. his breath fans your cheeks. you can make out every line on his lips, every crease in his face. you could lean forward if you wanted to, close that distance.

    you step back, once again straightening your trousers. “tell me when inej arrives and i’ll come meet her in the infirmary.”

    kaz doesn’t say anything. he watches you leave, and part of you - a retched, traitorous part - is disappointed he doesn’t follow. 

   ----

    inej really is sick.

   “so it’s true,” you say, sauntering into the infirmary. “the wraith has been beaten.”

    you’re trying to jest, but there’s little humour to be felt when she looks like that. her dark skin is pale and sickly, warm drops of sweat clinging to her forehead and rolling down her neck. she’s dressed in only a thin night gown, revealing collar bones and stretched skin where her muscles once were. 

   she looks up, bloodshot eyes meeting your own, and even in sickness, she manages a smile when she sees you. that’s enough to have you breaking. you rush to her bedside and bundle her in your arms, nearly sobbing with relief at the feel of her pressed against you, her hands in your hair, her mouth inches from your ear.

   she whispers, “it’s you.”

   you pull away, nodding. “yes. it’s me.”

    “what are you doing here?”

    you pull a chair over and sit down. “that’s not important.”

    “yes, it is.”

   “i’ll explain later.” you lean forward, pushing a strand of hair away from her face. “you talk first; what’s going on?”

   inej coughs into her elbow; something rattles in your throat, and you try desperately to hide your wince. “i just got sick. i fell in the brig a few days ago, and i don’t think the water was very healthy.”

   “of course it wasn’t,” you grumble. “it’s the barrel, you stupid girl. what did you expect?”

    “i cleaned myself pretty well afterwards,” she defends. 

   “clearly not well enough.” you place a hand to her cheek. “has anyone come to see you?”

   “some man in a coat,” she replies, nuzzling down in the pillows. “he checked my temperature and my blood pressure and all that stuff. said he’d be back soon.”

   “and he didn’t seem . . . concerned?”

   inej shrugs. “i didn’t look him in the eye. men like him don’t sit right with me, y/n. i let him do his job, but i’m not looking at him. i’m not giving him ideas.”

   you nod. there is a silence, but those are okay between you and inej. 

    finally, you reach over and take her hand. her palms are clammy, cold, but her grip is strong. 

    “i’m sorry i wasn’t there to help you.”

    her head snaps around, eyes widening. “y/n-”

   “i know you always say you understand why i left, but it’s just. . . i don’t know. i feel guilty about it. i feel selfish sometimes, and you’ve had to travel all the way here whilst you’re in this state all because i wasn’t there to-”

    “has kaz been making you feel guilty?”

   your mouth snaps closed. “i don’t. . . i don’t think so?”

    inej sighs, head dropping back into the pillows. “don’t listen to him. i understand why you left; i always have. kaz just. . . i don’t think he ever got over it when you disappeared. it was like a part of him went with you.” she shrugs. “a part of him did go - you.”

    silence again, because you have no idea how to respond to that. kaz was hurt when you left, and you know that, but he’s kaz. he’s tough. he’s been through everything a person should never have to go through. the thought of his final straw being you is almost laughable to think about.

    “he loved you,” inej continues, even though you don’t want her to. “he really, really loved you.”

    “past tense,” you whisper. “not any more.”

    inej smiles sadly, and that’s all you need to see to understand you’re right - he’s moved on. he’s here with you now, but that means nothing in the grand scheme of things. he’s here on business. he doesn’t care about you, and he said it himself - whatever the two of you had is gone, non-existent. you thought you had come to terms with that, but seeing the confirmation on inej’s face makes you feel suddenly exhausted.

    “well this isn’t about kaz and i,” you say, pulling your shoulders back. “come on. tell me what’s been going on since i left.”

   ---

    you’re trying to sleep when you hear the bang.

    trying being the key word. always. every night, you put your best efforts into drifting to sleep, but it never seems to work how you want it to. you toss and turn for hours on end, drifting in and out of your associative state, but not really falling asleep. time just passes, and then it’s day time, and you’re working again.

   tonight is no different.

   the bang is loud, just next door to your room. your ears immediately prick - the palace guards aren’t moving towards it. you’re already awake, so you may as well see to it yourself.

   you swing your legs out of bed, grab your dressing gown and walk into the hallway. glancing back and forth, you see nothing out of the ordinary.

   the bang sounds again.

   you narrow your eyes, walking further down the hallway. turning a corner, the bang sounds one final time before a pair of shoes flies at the wall and crashes to the floor in a heap.

   you rush forward, eyes wide. “what the-”

   kaz spins, another pair of expensive shoes already in his hand. “oh. did i wake you?”

    dazed, you snatch the shoes into your possession and toss them to the floor. “what the fuck are you doing, kaz? people are trying to sleep!”

    “i was also trying to sleep,” kaz replies. “i am one of those people, so why are you yelling at me?”

   you rub your eyes in frustration - sometimes talking to him is like pulling teeth.

   “oh, come on,” kaz says. “i was just doing a bit of late night cleaning. this room is a fucking shit hole.”

    you raise a brow, sighing. “what are you on about? this room was pristine when you came.”

    “yeah, well, i thought so too. and then i found this.” he motions for you to enter the room, and though you know it’s a bad idea, you do so. he hooks his foot around something beneath his bed, and pulls out a box overflowing with expensive shoes.

   you narrow your eyes. “what’s the problem?”

   “rich men shoes,” he says, like that explains everything. after knowing kaz as deeply as you do, it kind of does make sense.

   you sigh again, kicking the box back beneath the bed. “go to sleep, kaz.”

    “i can’t.”

    “try.”

   “you know i can’t.”

   you pause, overcome with a sudden chill. you wrap the dressing gown tighter around your body, trying to refrain from looking at him - he’s still dressed in the fancy clothes he wore this morning, but the top button is pulled loose, and his hair is a mess. his eyes droop a little, evidence that he really wants to sleep, but genuinely just can’t.

   and you know why.

   “i’m not asking you to stay with me,” he continues, grabbing a pair of socks from the floor. “i’m just saying - you have no right telling me to sleep when you know what it’s like.”

    “are they bad again?”

    kaz purses his lips. “they’ve been bad for a while.”

   a while. that’s how he always phrases it. when he says it’s been a while, he means it’s been a while since you left the crows, left him. 

    you swallow, looking to the ceiling like the intricate design will give you clarity. “i can get you tea or something. a fresh blanket. whiskey.”

    “trying to get me drunk?”

   “kaz, i’m serious.” you meet his eyes. “you look terrible.”

    he laughs, a sly sound that reeks more of danger than amusement. “thank you.”

    “let me get you something.” you turn, but he catches your elbow. you glance back just as he drops his hand like your flesh has burned him, an uncharacteristic redness adorning his cheeks.

   “didn’t mean to touch you,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “but i’m serious; i don’t need anything. it’s useless anyway.”

    everything is useless. every remedy he’s ever been given has never worked. the only remedy for insomnia that has worked for kaz brekker is you.

   but you can’t do that to him. you can’t do that to yourself. 

    “okay,” you mumble. “just. . . stop making so much noise, alright?”

   “did i really wake you?”

    “i couldn’t sleep either.”

    you stare at each other. it’s like you’re waiting for the other to break. you hate that you kind of want him to break.

    his adams apple bobs. “make yourself some tea, then. i’ll be a bit quieter.”

    you nod. “thanks.”

   “how’s inej, by the way? did you see her?”

    “i did. she seems. . . okay.” you shrug. “the doctors are going to do everything they can to help her get back to normal. then you can go back to the barrel.”

    kaz nods, though his movements are slower this time around, shoulders a little more slumped. neither of you say anything else as you walk out, tugging your dressing gown a little tighter around your body. 

   you don’t take his advice. you don’t need tea, or whiskey, or a fresh blanket; with kaz’s words and his expressions and him, you know there is no way you’re getting to sleep any time soon, no matter what remedy you use.

    ----

     “good morning, royalty.”

    the king looks up from his breakfast, the very breakfast you have just tested for poison. it sits weirdly in your stomach this morning; after a sleepless night, your appetite has deserted you, but you have no choice besides eating.

   kaz strolls into the room, dressed in a suit. his white shirt sits against his chest, and his sleeves are rolled up to reveal the crow tattoo on his arm. you awkwardly rub your own crow tattoo, suddenly very aware of how permanent it is.

    “good morning, mr brekker,” the king says. “again, you surprise me with your presence. we weren’t expecting you for breakfast.”

    “i am just full of surprises.” he sits down in his usual seat and meets your eyes. “how are you this morning, y/n?”

    “y/n was just about to leave,” the king replies, as you knew he would; he likes hearing your voice as little as possible. 

    kaz, however, keeps his eyes on you. “i asked y/n. not you.”

    you stare straight at him, a silent warning. “i’m good, mr brekker. well-rested.”

    “you can call me kaz.” he leans back, grinning. “i’m glad to hear it. maybe you and i can take a walk amongst the duck pond again later on.”

   there he goes, putting on that god awful formal accent that he thinks is so funny. 

    you scowl. “i’m a bit busy today, mr brekker.”

   “kaz.”

   “he asked you to call him kaz, y/n,” the king snaps.

   kaz nods. “i asked you to call me kaz, y/n.”

   you bite your lip, pushing back the retort that so desperately wants to rise. he’s just sat there, grinning with no shame. the king is looking straight at him, and he doesn’t even care.

    “any duties you’ve been given today can be postponed until later,” the king says. “mr brekker is our guest, and if he wants your company, your company he shall receive.”

    kaz’s grin gets wider, and oh, you want so desperately to punch him square in the face. instead, you force a smile, turning to the king to tell him just how honoured you would be to give kaz brekker your company on this fine morning.

   and that’s how you find yourself strolling through the gardens with kaz, yet again.

    “you’re unbelieable,” you mumble, arms folded over your chest like a school kid having a tantrum. 

    “i’m good,” he replies. “you know i’m good, y/n. i don’t know why you act surprised.”

    “he’s the king, kaz,” you hiss. “can you not tone it down a little?”

   “tone what down?”

   “the-” you gesture vaguely, though the only word you can conjure is flirting, and there’s no way in hell you’re letting that slip into the conversation. “the shit. tone down the shit!”

   “i’m not scared of him. i know you want me to be, but i’m not.”

    “oh yes. how could i forget? kaz brekker isn’t scared of anything.”

    kaz scoffs. “kaz brekker is scared of plenty of things - men aren’t one of them.”

   such a kaz thing to say. the most frustrating bit about it was that he was telling the truth.

    “i told inej what your job is here,” he continues after a moment of tense silence.  

   “oh?”

   “she understands. says you’ve always been one to do anything to survive.”

   you shrug. she’s right. 

    “that worries me, you know.”

    “nothing worries you, kaz.”

   “the thought of you in danger does.”

   you shake your head. “don’t start this now. you said it yourself; what we had was nothing.”

    “why can’t i worry about you without it having to mean something bigger?”

    “because everything you say means something bigger.”

   kaz falls silent. he knows it’s true, and so do you. kaz has never been able to speak his full extent, always letting people think less of him so he can take them by surprise when the time is right. you have learned first hand how frustrating that can be, but it was also a part of him you grew to love. it was what made him so intelligent, so cunning. it was what made him kaz. 

 “are you not ever worried you’re going to get unlucky one day?”

   you glance over. he keeps his head ducked down, one hand curled around the head of his cane, the other tucked into his pocket. “i know what i signed up for. getting poisoned was kind of part of the risk.”

    “since when did you even know how to identify poisons?”

   your lips twitch. “jesper taught me.”

   kaz rolls his eyes skyward, running a hand through his hair; the sun glows against his tan skin. “of course he did. honestly, the shit you two got up to when i wasn’t around-”

    “we had fun,” you say. “we could only do that when you weren’t hovering over our shoulders.”

   kaz glares. 

   you look to the floor, afraid to smile at him, afraid to open this conversation into something even mildly pleasant; if you can get through this entire visit without thinking of kaz fondly, maybe it will make all of it a bit easier. maybe you’ll be able to trick yourself into thinking you’ve moved on, grown stronger since your time in the barrel.

        “how is jesper?” you ask, because you suddenly feel like you can’t help it.

   kaz shrugs. “how jesper always is.”

    “worse?”

    “for a while. he didn’t take you leaving very well, but he straightened himself out.” kaz tugs on his lapels. “he always does.”

    “yeah. he does.”    

    you wonder about jesper sometimes. it hurts to know he took your leave badly, though you should have known; jesper has never been one to handle his feelings well. that was your job on his behalf. you would often sit with him at night, just to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. you once handcuffed him to his bed post to stop him heading out into the gambling hall of the hotel you were staying in.

    he was the only one you could ever really properly speak to about what was going on between you and kaz. inej understood kaz, but jesper was kaz’s right-hand man. he was the one kaz would go to about things like that.

    “does jesper know how to make your brew?”

    there is no moment of confusion, like he was expecting the question. “i’m sure he does. i never ask him to make it, though.”

    your nostrils flare. “kaz-”

   “listen, the nightmares aren’t going to disappear,” he says, raising a silencing hand that you swat away before he can think it works. “i don’t need some special brew helping me sleep.”

   “no, you’ll just stay awake until you drop dead.”

   kaz grins, sharp as knives. “that’ll be the way to go, won’t it?”

   you shove his shoulder, suddenly furious. he looks over, still grinning, because kaz has always found your frustration amusing. he used to say you looked like a chipmunk who just got their nuts stolen.

    “for someone so smart,” you hiss, “you’re pretty stupid.”

   “because i won’t indulge in your famous sleep remedy?”

   “because you’ll let yourself suffer before asking for help.”

    his smile fades. “i only ask certain people for help, y/n. it’s not my fault those people keep leaving.”

    your heart drops; there he goes again with the impersonal little jabs, knowing he’s cutting you so, so deep. you don’t even humour him with a response, instead quickening your pace until you begin to feel like he isn’t even there.

    but that’s impossible, because he’s kaz brekker. he’s yours. even when he truly isn’t there, it’s like he’s walking right beside you, and you’re beginning to get very annoyed by the attachment. it’s not fair on you, and it’s not fair on kaz, but neither of you seem able to help it.

   you continue walking until the cold gets a little too much. then you head back to the palace in silence. 

----

    final meal of the day. you will make sure it’s not poisoned, and then you will go to bed.

    kaz is there, as per usual. the king and queen don’t even act shocked any more, simply welcoming him into the dining hall. oftentimes, he’ll stroll in by your side, his cane clicking against the marble and that smug little smile playing on his face. you always ignore him, even though the king says it’s disrespectful to do so. 

   tonight, you do just that. you take your seat beside the king, gather up his food and start the process. the beef is smothered in gravy, making the scent test a little difficult, but you give it a go anyway, because it’s protocol by now. 

   kaz watches from afar, one finger pressed to his lips. he’s lounging back like he’s comfortable, like sitting in a palace is what he does every day. his eyes are narrowed, focused.

    you pop the beef into your mouth and chew; nothing.

   you move onto the potatoes. nothing.

    finally, you dip your fork into the sweetcorn and raise it to your lips.

    kaz slaps the fork from your hand. he makes no noise. one minute he is sat at the head of the table, and the next he is by your side, grabbing your shoulders and pulling you from your seat.

   the queen shrieks as the fork flies directly at her, sweetcorn and all. a glass of wine tips over when kaz pulls you to your feet, your knee slamming against the underside of the table. palace guards run inside, but none of them know what to do - nobody in the room shouldn’t be there, and so they stand by the door, glancing at each other.

   your eyes, however, are trained on kaz.

   “what. the. fuck?” you hiss under your breath as the king tends to his startled wife.

   kaz meets your eyes dead on. “you really need to get better at your job.” he grabs your arm and starts for the door. the king hollers after him, demanding to know what is going on, but kaz pays him no attention, and you have no idea why you’re not fighting any of this. your heart is hammering in your chest at a million miles per hour, and you have so many questions, but it’s just reflex by now to trust kaz. 

    he drags you through the halls until reaching his room, where he pushes open the door and leads you inside. it is only then, when it is just the two of you, that you come to your senses, replaying that scene over and over in your head.

   you whirl around, yanking your arm from his grip so harshly that you stumble back. “what the hell was that, kaz?”

    “how much training did they actually give you before throwing you in to risk your life everyday?”

   “why do you care?”

   he starts pulling his tie loose, not even looking at you. “just tell me.”

   you fold your arms over your chest, trying desperately to keep your attention away from the way his gloved fingers tug and pull at the knot on his tie. “i did a course at the start where i could identify all the different types of poisons.”

   he quirks an eyebrow. “that all?”

   “it was enough.”

   “if it was enough, y/n, you would have noticed the soft spots in the sweetcorn.”

    your head snaps up. soft spots?

   he hums, despite you saying nothing in response. “wilde yolk makes food go soft in certain places. it also kills people in about ten seconds if consumed in even the tiniest amount.” he looks up, flicking his tie off completely. “did you not learn that in your course?”

   you bite your lip and look away. you were so distracted at that dinner table these days, focusing mostly on kaz brekker at the end of the table. you had no idea he was examining your food just as much as you should have been. you had no idea he was keeping an eye out for you.

    “so is this experience enough to get you to move back to the barrel?”

   your eyes snap up. he’s staring right at you. he doesn’t even look fazed by his question.

   and that makes you so, so angry. in seconds, you have gone from grateful to furious; only kaz can elicit that response from you.

   you step back, glaring. “so that’s what this is then? you came all the way here to drag me back to the barrel?”

     “well, no. i came here to get inej help, but she seems to be healing up pretty well with all the goods your people are giving her.” he shrugs, bottom lip protruding. “so i thought i’d try my hand at this.”

     “you are unbelievable.”

   kaz raises a brow. “are you getting mad at me?”

   “you are unbelievable!” you want to throw something at him. you want to break down and cry. you kind of want to go with him. “it’s like you haven’t listened to a word i’ve said. are you that self-centred, kaz?”

    “you know i am.”

    you close your eyes, trying to steady your breathing. maybe you’re overreacting. maybe you really are better off in the barrel, where you were born and raised, where you learned everything you ever knew. but here, with kaz being the one to drag you back - it reminds you so harshly that you’re his. you are his, and that is all anyone will ever see you as, and that thought. . . you don’t know how to feel about that thought.

     “this isn’t the life for you, y/n,” he continues. “you know it isn’t. once the barrel has you, it doesn’t let you go. we’ve all learned that the hard way.”

   “is that what you are?” you spit. “the hard way?”

   he shrugs. “you should be grateful it’s me and not someone worse.”

   “there is no one worse, kaz.”

   his lips twitch, the only sign that your words have actually struck a nerve. “you mean that, do you?”

   “don’t act like you’re the good guy. you know you’re evil. you’re proud of it! that’s why i had to leave. that’s why i’m in here risking my life every single fucking day! i wanted to get away from you!”

   and oh, saints, this isn’t going how you wanted it to go. the words are spilling from your mouth before you can stop them, mind racing too quick for your mouth to catch up. his face continues falling with every word, but you don’t stop. 

    “saints, kaz, when are you ever going to grow the fuck up? you walk around pretending you have everything under control, that you own the place, but you’re nothing - nothing - without the rest of us. you would be dead twenty times over if it wasn’t for that little crew of yours, the people you have under your god damn thumb.” you step forward, teeth gritted. “kaz dirtyhands brekker can’t even take his own fucking gloves off.”

    “is that what you want?” he steps closer, so close your chests are almost touching. his face is red, a line of sweat glittering upon his upper lip that only ever shows itself when he’s furious, out of his mind with anger. “you want the gloves to come off? fine.”

   and then he plucks the gloves from his hands and throws them on the floor.

    his hands. the hands you have seen only twice in the years you have known him, the hands that have never touched your bare skin. suddenly they are in full view, free reign to do whatever you want with them, but all you can do is step back, one hand covering your mouth as you try and process what you’ve said, what kaz has done, how the situation could have taken such a harsh, grim turn.

    but kaz isn’t finished. kaz is never finished. 

    “is this what you want, y/n?” he demands. “you need me to bear myself completely for you to believe i’m in love with you? or is this not enough?”

   “kaz-”

    “what else is it going to take, huh? tell me.”

   “kaz, i’m-”

   “what about this?”

   he’s crazy. he’s crazy, and making mistakes, and you know this because he reaches forward and cups your face in his bare hands, flesh against flesh. shock ricochets through you, eyes widening as kaz lets out an anguished groan, his own eyes slipping closed. you feel his fingers trembling upon your skin.

   you wrench away from him, gasping.

    he immediately spins around, clutching his hands to his chest. he groans low in his throat, pressing his head against the wall. sweat trickles down the back of his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. you catch a single tear run down his cheek that he can’t wipe away because then his fingers will be touching his skin, and he hates that. it kills him. you know it does.

    you rush forward, placing a hand safely on his jacket-covered shoulder. his breathing is ragged and shaky.

   “kaz,” you pant. “oh god, kaz, i’m so sorry. i’m so, so sorry. why did you do that?” you whirl around frantically. “your gloves. where are your gloves?”

   he doesn’t reply. you’re talking to yourself at this point. you spot his gloves on the floor and grab them, immediately handing them back without so much as a brush of your fingertips against his. he’s hurried and distressed when he tugs them back on, clenching his fist over and over again, as if to ensure his hands are safely hidden beneath the leather.

   he doesn’t turn around. you stand behind him, one hand pressed to your chest, eyes swimming in tears you didn’t even feel rising to the surface.

   “kaz,” you whisper. “i’m. . . i didn’t mean. . .”

   “you got what you wanted, didn’t you?” he mumbles, straightening up. “i’m not asking you to return to the barrel with me so you can serve me, or whatever you think this is. i’m asking you to return so i can have you there. so we can be together again.” he glances over his shoulder. “as it should be.”

   you stare at him, wanting to respond, wanting to tell him to go to hell, but you can’t lie. never before have you been able to look kaz in the eye and lie, and maybe that’s why you say nothing. he’s right in every sense - you and him are meant to be by each other’s side, no matter what. barrel born and raised, nobody understands you quite like he does.

   but admitting that, throwing away every barrier you have worked so hard to put up . . . you can’t do it.

    kaz waits a moment longer before laughing half-heartedly, sounding more exhausted than anything else. he lowers his head, black hair falling in his face before he swipes it out of the way, looks at you and says, “get out.”

     “kaz-”

   “stop saying my name.” he turns, tossing his tie onto the bed. “get. out. inej and i will be gone tomorrow.”

    you swallow thickly, pushing away the tears. and then you do as he said, because standing in his presence for much longer is going to send you into a spiral you don’t think you’ll be able to crawl out of again. you’ve been down that road before, and it took everything in you not to be consumed.

    ----

    “why do you look like you’ve been crying?” inej asks. she’s sat up now, a tray of soup perched on her lap. the colouring has come back to her skin, and she stands up whenever she wants to. whatever the palace medics did for her is working wonders, which you suppose is one thing you should be grateful for.

    you lean over and dip a slice of bread in her soup. 

   “are you checking if it’s been poisoned?” inej jokes, and when you don’t respond, she sighs. “you and kaz have a fight?”

    you wince, which is answer enough.

   “what about this time?”

   “he wants me to go back to the barrel with you.”

    inej pauses, eyes still cast to her soup. you look at her, stomach curling in sudden realisation.

   “wait,” you say. “did you know that was his plan this entire time?”

   “no,” she replies, though she looks sheepish. “i genuinely was sick. kaz just. . . came along for the ride when he heard you were here.” she looks up and groans. “you can’t act surprised, y/n. what were you expecting? for him to just walk out and leave you here?”

   “that would have been the right thing to do, yes.”

   “well,  you know kaz better than that. use your brain.” she waves a hand in your direction. “pass me another slice of bread and tell me about this argument.”

   you don’t want to. all day you have been thinking about the feel of his hands on your face, his flesh against your own, the anguished groan ripped from his throat. he put himself through that to prove - what? that he loves you? that’s what he said, but it was only a few days prior he was claiming what you and him had was nothing. it was forgotten, and you were happy about that for the briefest moment. if kaz moved on, you could too. 

    but then he took the gloves off, and it was just. . . messed up again. you were left confused and guilty and pining, and you hated yourself for it. it was as if all that hard work you had put in to forget about kaz had been thrown out the window - trust kaz to come in and ruin everything.

    “i can see what you’re thinking, you know,” says inej suddenly.

   “can you?”

     “take it from me,” she says. “kaz is never going to get over you. he’s never going to let you go. he’s never going to stop trying for you. he’s a stubborn bastard, and a stubborn bastard is even worse when they’re in love - which kaz is. disastrously, madly in love.”

    “he said we were nothing.”

    “he’s a stubborn and prideful bastard.”

    you close your eyes, heart thumping. “i don’t know what to do, inej.”

   “well, do you love him back?”

   your eyes fly open. “what kind of question is that?”

   she shrugs. “an obvious one, but i want to know the answer.”

    you know the answer. your brain screams it at you. you have felt the answer in your bones every day since you left the barrel, and yet speaking it aloud feels like a betrayal of yourself from yourself.

    so you look away, and as inej always claims, she can see exactly what you’re thinking.

    a soft chuckle slips past her lips. “the barrel never leaves a person, y/n. and apparently, neither does kaz brekker.”

    “what are you suggesting?”

   inej shrugs. “kaz and i are leaving for ketterdam in the morning. there’s definitely room for a third person.”

----

   you don’t sleep that night. neither does kaz.

   you can hear him pacing back and forth in his room, no doubt replaying the days events over and over in his mind in the same way you are. his hands against your skin, his eyes piercing your own, those words he spoke that left you tingling all over.

    even now, laying in bed, you can’t get over what he said. i love you. that was the jidst of it, and though you had heard that confession from him a few times in the past, it was different this time around. it was kaz trying to prove himself, which he never did before. if someone didn’t take kaz at face value, he wouldn’t bother. 

    and you have to admit, hearing him say those words was like a shot to the chest. they are the very words that have been on the tip of your tongue for months now, spoken only in dreams when you finally allow yourself to sleep. you can say them to no one else - just kaz. always, always just kaz.

   and maybe this realisation is the reason you find yourself getting dressed at six in the morning. maybe this realisation is the reason you pack all your things into the ruck sack you came to the palace with. maybe this realisation is the reason you tip-toe to the courtyard, avoiding the eyes of the staff who all look at you like you’re some kind of prisoner escaping your cell.

    it’s still dark. the grass is wet beneath your thin shoes, the jacket you have pulled on doing little to protect you from the icy winds coming from the ocean just feet away from the palace’s front door. hovering on the banks is a boat, a boat you recognise as The Mast, one of the many boats kaz has won from different people around ketterdam.

   you nearly cry at the sight of it.

   you don’t waste time waiting on kaz and inej - you don’t want to have this discussion with either of them until you’re safely on the water, until you can’t change your mind. 

   you clamber onto the boat, giving a sheepish smile to the stunned crew member - Daryl, you think he’s called - as he stares at you approaching. he offers you a hand when you finally reach the deck, his eyes never leaving your own.

    “morning,” you say. “i’m y/n.”

   “i know,” daryl replies, before tipping his hat. “it’s wonderful to have you back on board.”

    you smile awkwardly, unsure how to respond; how much do the crew actually know about what happened between you and the crows? how many people bore witness to that god awful aftermath?

   you decide not to wait around to hear the answer. instead, you tell daryl you’re going down to the cabins, and he doesn’t argue. you disappear beneath the deck, finding the first room with a bed and immediately claiming it as your own; despite the lack of sleep, you are not tired in the slightest. you can’t get kaz out of your head, how he is going to react when the boat eventually docks and he sees you strolling off of it, greeted by that rancid ketterdam air. back in the barrel.

    you lay down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. you will fall asleep eventually. you’ll trick yourself into it.

    and then the door opens.

    your eyes snap open with it; you must have fallen asleep eventually. groggily, you lift your head and look at the intruder - and your heart immediately falls.

   “kaz.”

    he looks crazed, hair stuck up, eyes wild. behind him stands inej, grinning from ear to ear, though the minute kaz steps into the room, she disappears into the shadows, leaving you and dirtyhands alone.

    his eyes never leave yours as he approaches. he marches to your bedside, grabs your hand and pulls you up.

   “kaz-”

    he shoves you against the wall, gun pressed to your temple. you inhale sharply, though you can’t claim to be surprised or scared. you stare into his eyes, watching his own trace your features, looking for any sign that you are here in bad company.

    “kaz,” you whisper, because it’s always his name that fights past your lips. “it’s me. i’m going home.”

    his grip slackens. the gun crashes to the floor, and before you can say anything, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into him. you are careful to rest your head upon his shoulder, not touching his flesh, but feeling him nonetheless. tears spring to your eyes, dribbling down the bridge of your nose and soaking the shoulder of his fancy suede jacket - one he stole from the kings wardrobe, you notice.

    but you don’t pull away, afraid to go without his touch for another second.

    “is this what you want?” he asks, voice muffled by your hair. “is this really what you’ve decided?”

    “yes.” you pull away, hands sliding down his arms. “you’re right, kaz. the barrel is . . . it’s a shit hole, but it’s where i belong. it’s all i know. and you and me. . . we have to do this thing together.”

    he narrows his eyes. “what thing?”

   “everything.”

   the corners of his mouth twitch. you can imagine kissing those lips, drawing him close and embracing in that way lovers often do. however, you’re content, happy even, with the way things are. you hold his gloved hands, and he says he loves you. you confide in him, and he confides in you, and sometimes you fight like children, but in the end, he will have your back no matter what.

    “everything,” he repeats. “yeah.” he slips his gloved hands into the sleeve of your jacket, tracing his fingers along your crow tattoo, the one he matched, the one everyone matched when they decided to let the barrel take them over. you shiver, biting your lower lip. “you still have it.”

    “i could hardly get rid of it,” you reply. kaz looks up, and you sigh. “i would never get rid of it, kaz. no matter what.”

     he nods, rolling your sleeve back down. he pulls it over your wrist, covering your fingers before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the soft, rain soaked fabric. 

    he looks up at you again. “yes. no matter what.” 

[charlettebffxiv]

Prompt #19 Hungry (Extra Credits)

Gurgling guts are gross, and annoying. If Charlette could silence hers forever, without starving, she would. But as biology would have it this was never going to happen. Instead she had to close her book, get up from her comfortable chair in front of her lovely desk and the small, window-framed view of the village outside and go to the pantry. It was a hassle, eating. Would that she could learn to survive off of aether alone like in the legends of monks in Ala Mhigo or Doma. But no, here she was, collecting eggs to feed into her fleshy construct in an effort to keep going. It’s ilms from being a paradox: spend time making food, so you can have more time doing other things. Well, there is the benefit that food is wonderful, especially this favoured snack of hers.

Scrambled eggs on toast was not just something she learned to make because Charlette spent as little time in the kitchen as possible. Yes, the fact it’s so easy to make a partially reanimated corpse could master it, and that it was one of the quickest meals to prepare, did play a role in her making it almost every sun. But it’s also, you know, really really good. Three eggs, two slices of good, fresh bread lightly toasted in a pan with a small knob of butter. No milk or anything to add during the beating, just a handful of chives. Yes, that’s a lot of chives, but no one else was eating this but her, so damn that opinion. It’s what breath mints were made for anyway. It goes right in the same bin as the idea of ‘creamy’ eggs do. If Charlette wanted to eat bird snot, she would throw pepper in a chocobo’s face and stand ready to catch it with her plate. Disgusting. If you can’t stab your fork into it, it’s not bloody cooked. The very thought of it was getting to her, as she scraped the crumbling treat from the pan, onto her toast. You could tell by how she was hitting the pan hard enough to attract some attention. “Hungry, Bluebell?” Algernon Bellamy peaked around the doorframe of the kitchen, his slate-grey face looking a little concerned when regarding his daughter's furious cooking. “Not going to snap another pan handle, are we?” Charlette gave her father a withering glance “No, and that pan already had a crack in it. This one is fine.” two long strides and he stood next to her, looking down at the simple meal. There’s a thing he did, when he was trying to sum up a gentle way of letting someone know what he thought, his eyes became very narrow and his lips very frowned. “You are done? With this?” he waved a hand over her lunch, a flick of a wrist and a downward glance not hiding his worry that she might say yes. “Yes, it is done.” oh he frowned so much more, you would think she had cursed his mother’s ashes. He held up a finger, swung it toward her “One moment.” and strode over to the pantry. Algernon never half-did anything, not his tailoring, not his posture, not his dress, not raising his daughters and certainly not food. His or theirs. It was insufferable. “Eggs on bread, darling, is not a meal. It’s curdled custard. An aborted cake. The lazy woman’s aioli.” Charlette’s stomach rumbled as she waited for him to get to his point. “I quite enjoy a good, aborted cake on toast.” his head shot out of the pantry, disappointment open and over-acted “How dare you.” and he was gone again. But not silenced. “If you insist on shoveling that gross fare into your beautiful face, then at least cover it like you would a pimple on your chin. With the food equivalent of make-up.” Charlette was standing at the doorway, just about ready to walk off and leave her father to his preaching. “You want me to slather base onto my eggs? Are you sure you still remember how to cook, ‘elder’.” he finally returned, holding three items. Half a cheese wheel, small enough to hold in one hand, a jar of pine nuts and a sprig of rosemary. “Don’t call me that, now set that plate down before I ground you, you little shit.” No, you never stop being your parent’s little one, no matter how tall or old or wrinkly you get. Charlette laid her plate down, and enjoyed this comforting fact by hiding it behind an impatient frown, and a gentle sigh. “It is inevitable, Bluebell. A Bellamy will always prefer the finer things. Do not fight it. Now.” he held up the cheese, then placed it down. “A sharp pecorino, grated over the top.” He snatched the grater from the wall, and handed it to her. “I’ll say ‘when’.” And Charlette went about it. The soft, white flakes of the slightly stiff cheese falling over her perfectly good meal added a light dusting over the top, just enough warmth within to make them wilt, and shine with a gentle melt. “When! Add a few pine nuts, not too many! A little salt, a little pepper.” Algernon grabbed a pinch of each and sprinkled them across the cheese-capped mounds. “And just a little crushed rosemary.” he plucked several leaves from the sprig, placing some in the palm of her hand, and holding some in his. Pressing his thumb into them, a soft crunch sounded out. Charlette did the same, Algernon spreading his over one eggy-slice, with a little flair of a lifted elbow, pinched fingers, but a raised pinky and ring finger. Charlette mimicked him, but lacked the confidence. “And there! I present to you, my sweet child, the miracle we have created. It is called food.” Charlette was aiming to be back at her books within minutes of completing that meal. But perhaps making them wait a little longer wouldn’t be the worst thing. After all she was busy enjoying the end to annoying hunger by sharing a slice of what was now her favourite snack, with her dad. “You really never saw me eating that before?” she asked him, her final bite having just been finished. “Of course I did. But you were not ready yet, to have your mind changed. Your stubbornness needed to age a little, get nice and lazy and lax with its duties.” Argument was on the tip of her tongue, but then she just let it go. How strange, she thought. “I suppose it did, in more ways than one.” He actually looked surprised. It was perhaps the best flavour she got to savour that sun.

[twiistedgalaxies]

Genesis: Chapter 1: Schoolyard Days

Summary:  How two brothers can take two opposite paths. How a man can be made into a monster and how the other must pay the ultimate price to save everything he knows and loves. Or, alternatively: The origins of All for One and One for All.

A/N:  All for One is Midoriya Hisashi, but this isn't super relevant since this fic takes place a couple hundred years before canon. This fic is heavily inspired by a lot of other fanfictions that I've read, including the amazing story "Family Secrets" by WinteryFall, which I highly recommend. That fic in particular is why I headcanon that the original holder of OFA was named Tomura, and that Tenko was named after him to satisfy AFO's overinflated ego. In this chapter Hisashi is fifteen and Tomura is eleven.

Sunlight streamed into the room from the crack between the large, thick curtains, causing motes of dust in the air to glow softly before they reached the plush carpet. The room was small, cramped. The walls were plastered in movie posters and dirty laundry formed piles on the floor. Every flat surface had knick-knacks and toys strewn upon it, tossed hastily aside in favor of something else. There was a bunk bed wedged into the corner, blankets and sheets just as messy as the rest of their surroundings. Upon it slumbered two boys. On the bottom bunk lay Tomura Shigaraki, his long white hair splayed out on a stained pillow, framing his cherubic face like a halo. His face was peaceful, relaxed. A thin line of drool was stuck to his chin, and with it, a few strands of hair. His palms faced the sky, arms outstretched and torso covered by a thin cotton blanket, the rest discarded at his feet to stave off the summer heat. On the top bunk was his brother, older by a few years, Hisashi Shigaraki, he was curled up into a tight ball, tense, with blankets nestled at his back. His hair was shorter than his brother’s and stuck up at odd angles as the result of a restless night.

    The wooden door opened with a soft creak, as their mother, Hana, poked her head into the room, a fond smile on her face as she prepared to wake them. The sweet smell of pancakes filled the air, and she could hear the faint whistle of the kettle in her kitchen. She cleared her throat, causing Hisashi to stir, “Boys,” she began, “It’s time to get up.”

    Hisashi groaned, grabbing his pillow to cover his head and ears. Tomura mumbled something incoherent, and shifted slightly. Both clearly were unwilling to get out of bed and face the torment that was the first day of school.

    “I made pancakes,” She said, voice light and teasing as the boys woke with a start, practically tripping over each other in their efforts to get to the kitchen. Hana had to press her back against the wall to allow them to storm through the narrow hallway of their apartment.

    “Hisashi!” She heard Tomura shriek as they entered the kitchen. The offending teen’s hand was wet and poised to flick more water at his little brother’s face. He wore a shit eating grin at Tomura’s expense.

    “Hisashi, stop tormenting your brother,” Hana said, making her way into the room.

    “But mom,” he began to protest, only to be cut off.

    “Besides, I can’t give you two pancakes if you’re standing in the kitchen, now can I?” She continued with a wry grin. Hisashi let out a huff of defeat and made his way to the kitchen table, Tomura in tow. Hana carefully deposited the pancakes onto three plates, slathering them with butter. The pancakes were a newer tradition in the Shigaraki household. Several years ago, when Hisashi was just five and Tomura a toddler, they had emigrated to the United States from Japan after many long years of waiting for citizenship. The flight to the large country was a long one, and the first meal they ate in this foreign land was in a Denny’s at some unseemly hour. They had pancakes, eggs, and hashbrowns. Hana spent her time trying to understand just how Americans can have such ridiculous portions, whilst her husband and son dug into a stack of sickeningly sweet pancakes.

    The two siblings continued to hassle each other at the kitchen table, resulting in peals of laughter and the occasional shout of offense. As wonderful as it was to see them in such high spirits, Hana couldn’t help but wince, pitying their neighbors who were trying to get some sleep. She drowned one of the pancakes in syrup, Tomura’s, while leaving the others untouched. Hisashi had grown to inherit her disdain for things overly sugary, especially after the stomachache he had from the Denny’s fiasco. Hana set the plates on the table in front of her sons, “Now, what did I tell you about going to school again?”

    “Make sure I take my medicine and visit the nurse’s office,” Tomura chirped. She nodded and ruffled his hair fondly, “And remember to give her your doctor’s note, it’s in your binder in your backpack.”

    “Don’t pick fights with the other kids,” Hisashi said, not seeming happy about his parents’ command, “though the brats deserve it.” Hana leveled him with a stern glare, but didn’t say anything. Her eldest knew damn well the consequences of brawling with his peers. Last year, he had gotten into a particularly legendary scuffle that put two kids into the hospital and nearly got him expelled. It was only his high grades, the top in his class, that spared him from that fate. Instead he had a month of suspension and several more of being grounded. He was on thin ice, and Hana really didn’t feel like having to transfer him to another school in the middle of his high school career, especially since the school in question was so close and integrated with Tomura’s middle school to save space.

    “Also try to avoid taking the main roads,” Hana said, sitting down to eat, “I heard there’s going to be another protest today, and I don’t want you both caught up in that mess.”

    “Yes mom,” the two chorused, though their words were muffled by the pancakes in their mouths. 

    Breakfast continued without event, they talked about their hopes for the new school year, and soon the boys were off. Hana hugged each of them close before they departed, and if they noticed her embrace went on for longer than usual, neither chose to comment on it.

-@~*^*~@-

    Tomura clutched the strap of his backpack, nervously stroking his fingers on the scratchy fabric. The doors of his middle school seemed large and intimidating. A steady stream of students poured into the hallways, parting around him in careful avoidance as he stood on the concrete steps. “It’s just middle school,” he muttered under his breath, leaning on his cane, “Not that much different from elementary school, just a bigger place, with scary teachers and much scarier students and-” He cut himself off, swallowing nervously. It would be fine, probably. He entered the school and made his way to the nurse’s office. The chatter of students and the squeaking of shoes on linoleum floors was deafening. His heart rate picked up, and he felt the familiar weight of anxiety in his chest as he pressed himself to the locker lined wall in an effort to avoid being trampled.

    The nurse’s office was sterile, white, and smelled like expired antiseptic. The school nurse was an older woman, her face marred with wrinkles and her gray hair thin and straw-like. She was slightly overweight, and wore a colorful, floral print blouse. When Tomura entered the room, she was looking at something on her computer, chewing on the eraser end of her pencil. “Hello?” Tomura said after a long while of awkward silence, he stepped towards her cautiously, like one would a wild animal. This woman would be responsible for his frail health in the next few years, and would hopefully be less short-tempered than the last nurse he had the misfortune of dealing with.

    She looked up, surprised, and peered at him over her half-moon glasses, “Yes dearie?”

    “I- My name is Tomura Shigaraki, I have some medicine I have to take every afternoon and I uh,” he pulled his backpack off his back and set it on his floor, digging around inside it, “I have a doctor’s note and everything.” He pulled out the slip of white paper, upon it was a school issued forum with a lot of technical medical stuff. He’d be excused from PE, among a whole host of other accommodations. 

    The school nurse looked it over, a thoughtful expression on her face, “EDS?”

    “Yes ma’am,” he replied, nodding hurriedly, wincing at the crick in his neck that it caused.

    “What’s that?” She asked, looking through her desk drawer, likely a filing cabinet of some kind.

    Tomura felt his eye twitch with mild annoyance, but he quashed it down, “Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome,” he paused, searching her face for a reaction, “It’s a connective tissue disorder.”

    The nurse gave him a blank look, clearly not understanding, “I see, well Tomura, my name is Ms. Bell. It says here that you need to take anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxers each morning.”

    He nodded, “Yeah, EDS makes me hypermobile which causes the muscles around my joints to freak out and makes my tendons inflamed.”

    She nodded and wrote something down on a separate piece of paper, using the pencil she had been mercilessly chewing on earlier. 

    “Uh, my joints also tend to dislocate a lot, it’s why I’m wearing this leg brace. I might have to come in because of that too.”

    Ms. Bell raised an eyebrow, her expression doubtful, “It can’t possibly be that bad.”

    Tomura chuckled mirthlessly, “I wish.”

    “Well,” Ms. Bell began, waving her hands towards the door dismissively, “You should probably get your schedule before the bell rings, I’ll see you before lunch.”

    He nodded hurriedly and scooped up his bag, careful to keep his joints from sliding out of place. 

    The rest of the day went relatively smoothly, he had an extra elective to make up for the lost PE credit, and had it right before lunch. It was an art class, the one he was most excited for other than math, and he had to leave five minutes early to begin his long trek across the school to the nurse’s office to take his medications. Throughout the day, kids gave him a wide berth, clearly trying to size him up. Sadly, this meant he ate alone at a small table, directly in the searing sunlight. Whispers followed him in the halls as students gossiped about the new cripple. Tomura hated it, but was relieved that whispers were all there were. For now.

    His math class was at the end of the day, and he made sure to show up a little bit early, before passing period, to give his teacher the same speech he had to give all the others earlier that day.

    “Hi,” he began.

    His math teacher, a young man in his mid-thirties, looked up from his lesson plan, “Hello.”

    There was an awkward silence. This conversation was off to a great start. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m disabled and will be absent pretty often.”

    The teacher blinked, “I can see that.”

    “Er, on my 504 it says I can ask for deadline extensions and the ability to make up work,” Tomura wrung his hands together nervously, “My mom told me to give all my teachers a heads up about it so uh, here it is.”

    The man hummed, “I’ll keep that in mind. Your seat is at the table in the back corner, there should be a slip of paper with your name on it.”

    “Thank you,” he replied, face flush red with embarrassment. He made his way to his seat and rummaged through his backpack, pulling out the materials listed on the white board as the bell rang and students filed into the room. The teacher introduced himself and went over the syllabus. Everyone tuned him out and the classroom was filled with hushed chatter as students got to know each other. Tomura found himself sitting on the sidelines, observing rather than participating in conversation. Socializing was never his strong suit, he’d always left that to his older brother.

    Soon the math teacher, Mr. Burns, had the class do an ice breaker, something that Tomura had never really cared for, even when he was younger. He had much preferred the online learning that the pandemic a few years ago brought, at least he wouldn’t have to play 20 questions with a bunch of people who probably didn’t like him at best and despised the exercise even more than he did. The students had to go around the room and ask each other questions to fill out a bingo card. He hovered awkwardly at his desk, frozen with anxiety. A warm hand on Tomura’s shoulder made him jump, he whirled around to see a young boy his age. He had ginger hair and his face was covered in a smattering of freckles. “Heya,” the boy said, holding out his hand in greeting, “My name’s Zach, what’s your name? Why’s your hair white? What’s that weird thing on your leg? Why do you have a cane? Oooh are you secretly an old dude? I like your Captain America shirt, do you like superheroes? Marvel or DC?”

    Tomura just stared in shock as Zach barraged him with questions, some intrusive and some friendly. He held out his hands in a placating gesture, “Hold- Hold on a second, okay? I can’t answer that many questions at once!”

    “Sorry, sorry, You just seem really interesting!”

    “It’s fine,” Tomura ran his hands through his hair nervously, not used to the sudden attention, “Let’s just start with the questions on the bingo sheet.”

    Zach’s face lit up, and the two talked for the entire time allowed for the ice breaker. They both really loved comic books, and while many of Zach’s questions were intrusive, Tomura could tell that unlike most of their peers, there was no malice behind it. Once the icebreaker ended the class watched a short film about math with a bunch of classic Disney characters. The two boys sat next to each other through the whole thing, making eachother crack up as they quietly made fun of the cheesy movie, much to Mr. Burns’s dismay. Their conversation continued until after school, arguing about comic book franchises all the way to the school’s front gate.

    “Do you want to walk home together? I live pretty far away but maybe we can talk some more!” Zach suggested.

    “Where do you live?” Tomura asked.

    “Oh, I live about half an hour’s walk that way,” Zach gestured to the opposite direction of where Tomura’s house was.

    “I’m sorry, I can’t,” Tomura replied, shaking his head regretfully, “My apartment is on the other side of town, besides, my brother and I usually walk home together.”

    “You have a brother?”

    “Yeah, he’s in the high school next door.”

    “Cool!”

    “Well, I had fun meeting you Zach, do you want to eat lunch together tomorrow?” Tomura asked, shuffling his feet nervously.

    “Sure! I should probably get going before my dad gets upset,” Zach’s expression grew a little grim at the last part, but Tomura shrugged it off.

    “Bye!” Tomura said, as Zach headed off.

    “See ya!”

    The loneliness that followed his new friend’s absence was much more crushing and all-encompassing than it was this morning. Tomura sat down on the curb and pulled out his phone while he waited for his brother. He opened his browser, his homepage was stuffed to the brim with various news articles speaking of political instability, economic downturns, and conspiracy theories that had grown in popularity over the course of the past few years. Ignoring the day to day prophecies of doom the headlines foretold, Tomura directed Chrome to his favorite comic website, and dug into a new webcomic he had found the day before. It was Lore Olympus, a retelling of the kidnapping of Persephone, written by Rachel Smythe. He found the characters compelling, and the modern spin put on such a classic tale interesting. However, he’d never admit to reading something so girly as a romance comic, which is why he jumped about a foot in the air when he heard his brother call his name.

    “Hey,” he said, voice cracking as Hisashi approached from behind.

    “What are you reading?”

    “Uh, nothing!” Tomura replied as he shut off his phone, hastily shoving it into his pocket. He stood up, hands clutching his backpack straps like a life line once again.

    Hisashi smirked, sensing his younger brother’s discomfort like a shark to blood, “It doesn’t look like nothing,” he teased.

    “Shut up.”

    “Come on, there’s no harm in telling me is there?” His eyes widened in mock surprise, “Or is it something you aren’t supposed to be reading?”

    “No no no, it’s nothing like that! I’m not even into that stuff,” Tomura’s face grew beet red as he tried to hide his face in his hands, “I’m only eleven!” He speedily began walking towards their apartment, which was a few blocks away.

    Hisashi clicked his tongue, trailing behind him, “Oh mother would be so disappointed.”

    “It’s just a webcomic!”

    “Sure, sure, if you say so.”

    Tomura let out a groan of frustration and distress, which just made his older brother break his cool composure and laugh. They both rounded the corner, walking through a strip mall that held a gas station, deli, and used electronics store. The latter of which displayed a myriad of TVs in the shop window, all of which were playing the news.

    “Here to talk about the strange increase in birth defects and mutations in newborns is Dr. Garaki, a specialist from Japan.”

    Hisashi stopped in front of the shop window, it seemed like that little snippet had caught his attention. Their parents didn’t play the news very often. Between their father’s juggling of several minimum wage jobs, and their mother’s job in a nail salon, they were barely able to keep afloat. According to their mom, they didn’t want the extra stress in the house. Tomura could understand why, even social media stressed him out. Hisashi thought it was stupid. The man onscreen was stout, wore round gleaming spectacles, and had a cartoonishly bushy mustache, which was the only hair on his head. He wore a lab coat, and Tomura couldn’t help but think he resembled Dr. Eggman from the Sonic cartoons. 

    “Well, you see, I believe this to be the next step in evolution for humanity. These are not defects, but rather mutations in genetic code. We still have yet to see where this goes, but when you look at the genome sequences of these newborns..”

    The scientist kept rambling in jargon Tomura couldn’t really understand, he glanced at his brother, who looked absolutely enraptured by the interview.

    “As for why there’s so many sudden mutations and why children have started presenting odd abilities? Perhaps it is the pandemic that swept through the world not so many years ago, the virus may have altered our DNA. Or perhaps it’s what we put in our water and food, studies have shown that..”

    “Hisashi,” Tomura interrupted, “We should head home, we’re really close to the main road and mom told us not to go on those.”

    His brother opened his mouth to protest, but as he did, they heard commotion from the street that ran parallel to them, where most of the shops were. It seemed like the protest had begun. “Fine,” he sighed, looking torn between the story that caught his interest and his little brother’s pleading gaze, his lips twitched, “but you’re telling me exactly what it is you were reading.”

    The boys started walking again, “Are you ever going to drop this?”

    “Nope! I just want to know what my kid brother’s up to.”

    Tomura reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, keeping his head down as he opened up the web comic. He began to ramble about Lore Olympus as his brother listened fondly, making the occasional teasing remark. The walk to their apartment building seemed to go by quickly after that, and before Tomura knew it he heard the familiar jingling of keys as Hisashi began his daily battle with their faulty door knob.

    He struggled with it for a little while, frustration worming it’s way onto his face when Tomura piped up, “Do you need help?”

    Of course, it was in that moment that the door chose to finally give in. “No,” Hisashi responded, deadpan.

    They were greeted by the familiar sight of the empty apartment, as both parents had left for work by then. Hisashi made a bee-line for the living room couch, searching the room for the ever elusive TV remote. In contrast, Tomura went into their room, excited to sift through his ridiculous collection of comic books so he could trade with Zach tomorrow and show off his evidence that Marvel quite clearly made the superior comics (and movies, but that was neither here nor there). 

    Tomura found himself sitting on the messy carpeted floor, with sorted piles of comic books scattered all around him. In his hands was an old Amazing Spider-Man comic, worn with folded corners and yellowing pages. It smelled of the dusty, now bankrupt comic book store he had bought it from for what was, in his eyes, an absolute steal. In his favorite panel, Captain America is looking down at Peter Parker, broad and imposing during their darkest hour. He gives the young hero a pep talk, saying words that Tomura would find ringing in his ears years later.

    Doesn't matter what the press says. Doesn't matter what the politicians or the mobs say. Doesn't matter if the whole country decides that something wrong is something right. This nation was founded on one principle above all else: the requirement that we stand up for what we believe, no matter the odds or the consequences. When the mob and the press and the whole world tell you to move, your job is to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth, and tell the whole world — "No, you move.”

A/N:  This first chapter was fairly fluffy, but the next one will be much darker. These first few chapters will be slice of life so that I can set the stage for Plot To Happen. If I'm inaccurate in how I write EDS please tell me, and I'll do my best to fix it. Feel free to leave a comment!

Ao3

Next Chapter

[vannahfanfics]

From Time to Time

Category: Friendship Fluff

Fandom: Noragami

Characters: Kofuku, Daikoku

“Daikoku~” Kofuku keened as she waddled up behind where he was standing at the kitchen counter lazily flipping through a magazine. Her fingers hooked behind her back as she impatiently stood behind him. Daikoku grunted, not turning towards her as he was too engrossed in the reading material. Not one to be ignored, she boosted herself onto her tiptoes. Of course, even with the few extra centimeters in height, Kofuku had no hope of clearing the grand climax of his broad shoulders; thus, she shuffled a little bit of the left and cocked her head so she could peek around his large arms at the publication he was perusing. A great big smile split her face when she realized it was a cooking magazine. 

“Daikoku~” she cooed once more. “Daikoku, I’m hungry.” 

“You’re a centuries-old god,” the large man challenged brusquely, adding a disdainful sniff that made Kofuku’s bottom lip poke out in a sour pout. “You are capable of cooking for yourself.” Kofuku whined and began pawing at his button-up shirt. He knew perfectly well that Kofuku lacked cooking skills; he’d lived with her long enough. 

“Daikokuuuuuu, you know I can’t cook! I burn everything because of the misfortunnnne,” she whined, dragging her fingers into the cotton fabric of his shirt. From her angle, she could see the rugged line of his jaw tense, belied by the beginnings of a smile curling at the edges of his lips. He had long since ceased flipping pages, instead avidly scouring the article detailing a recipe for shrimp fried rice. Kofuku pressed her squishy cheeks into the muscle of his arm and batted her salmon-colored eyelashes for good measure. “Pleeeeeease?” 

Daikoku released a deep sigh, dropping the magazine down on the tiled countertop. Kofuku cheered with delight, however, as he reached up to pull open the cabinets level with his head. 

“Such a needy thing,” he tutted, rifling through the dishes with his eyes closed for he knew the placement of everything in the kitchen by heart at this point. Kofuku giggled and hugged his waist, barely able to loop her fingers together due to his bulk. She blushed elatedly as he flashed her a warm smile. 

Kofuku kept her arms snug around Daikoku’s waist, tottering behind him like a duckling, as he strolled around the kitchen. He was very much used to her childish antics, so it didn’t even faze him that she adhered to him like glue. When he opened the refrigerator to retrieve the eggs, vegetables, and shrimp, Kofuku wrinkled up her nose from the cold air blasted into her face. Daikoku bundled it all in one arm, balancing the packages and ingredients precariously as he used his free hand to swing the appliance shut. He then returned to the counter, pushing the recipe to the side to dump all the ingredients into his workspace. Kofuku wedged her head underneath his right armpit so she could watch him prepare the food. 

Kofuku loved it when Daikoku cooked, primarily because he simply worked wonders with food. He handled the kitchen knife with expert precision, chopping the vegetables into little chunks without even really concentrating. He could be reading three steps ahead on the recipe while his hands still maneuvered the blade and half-cut carrot or onion or leek, cubing with rapid tak-tak-tak-taks. Kofuku found it so amazing. Despite her looming misfortune blighting people wherever she went, Daikoku never suffered any mishaps while in the kitchen. She wondered why that was, but never wanted to investigate too far lest she ruin the apparent good-luck spell. 

Kofuku loved it when Daikoku cooked, but she always felt some sadness too. I can only watch. I can never help. Kofuku had never tried to cook with Daikoku, but she knew the result all the same; Kofuku couldn’t cook for herself. All manners of comedic accidents destroyed her efforts- lighting spontaneous fires, dropping bowls and splattering things all over the floor, tripping and slathering a finished dish all down her front. Before Daikoku, Kofuku had suffered every tearjerking cooking disaster in the book and then some. 

Kofuku’s violet eyes trained on his large hands skillfully deveining the shrimp. If she thought too hard about it, she would cry, and Daikoku hated it when she cried. 

“You’re awful quiet,” he quipped suddenly. He did not look up from his work; he didn’t have to. He could carry on a full conversation even while preparing the ingredients. Kofuku pressed further into his warm body, feeling comforted by the gentle heat enveloping her front. It chased the cold sadness away, even if only a little. Kofuku wasn’t quite sure why the melancholy had gripped her so tightly in its sharp, cold claws tonight; it was a wily beast, sneaking up on one when they least expected it, she supposed. Sighing, she pushed her cheek into the meat of his side until she could feel his ribs and her teeth clacking together. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Daikoku stopped moving immediately. 

“Sorry?” he echoed. 

Kofuku felt the cold flush of shame push through her arteries. Instead of meeting his gaze as it flickered down to her, she focused on the lumps of shrimp piled on the plastic cutting board. The silver knife flashed as he lowered it. When he wiped his hands on her apron, she knew it was in preparation to cup her cheeks, and she hurriedly pressed her face into his side to shield it from his affections. 

“Hey…” His deep voice rumbled through her person, bringing warmth to battle the raging cold swirling inside her body. He lifted his arm to gently push her form until she was standing in front of him. Her face skidded along the curve of his ribcage to press into his sternum. She couldn’t see his expression, not compressed into his shirt just before the point of suffocation, but she could just tell he was gazing down at her with a bemused smile. “Hey,” he repeated, resting his hands first on her shoulders. They soon slid down to gently hold the point of her arms just below. “Talk to me.” 

Kofuku squeezed him tightly. She’d gone from happy to sad to embarrassed, all in a matter of minutes; the emotional rollercoaster left her brain jelly, unable to control any of her nerves. Her tongue flopped like lead in her mouth, heavy and useless. Finally, she managed to force herself to speak. 

“I shouldn’t make you take care of me like this… It’s not fair.” 

“Kofuku.” A cringe jerked her body at the pain in his voice. Tears sprung to the corners of her eyes, but she could only stand there, rooted to the floor, as he pried himself away from her iron grip to crouch down in front of her. His hands slid back up her shoulders to hold her neck for a moment. He could probably feel her blood pulsing through her carotids; could he feel the guilt tainting the red liquid, killing her from the inside out one poisoned cell at a time? When they slipped up to hold her cheeks gently, big thumbs sweeping over the lines of her jawbone to catch the tears rolling over them, she released a small, involuntary moan of despair. “What brings this on all of a sudden?” 

Kofuku poked out her bottom lip again and slowly swung her hips from side to side, suddenly bashful. 

“I just… I dunno,” Kofuku evaded. Her purple eyes shifted to fix momentarily on everything but his face. Her unfocused gaze flitted to the seam of his shirt sleeve, the kitchen bar behind him, the clock on the opposite wall, the houseplant glistening with water droplets from where she’d watered it not thirty minutes ago. When her eyes landed on her feet, hyper-focusing on the little flyaway threads wisping from the toes of her socks, she mumbled, “I can’t help you do anything because I mess everything up, so I just dump all the work on you. It’s not right… I’m horrible-” 

Her voice cracked with the last word as a fresh wave of guilt crashed over her. Kofuku released a broken sob and reached up over his arms to rub at her red, tear-filled eyes. “Th-this is not how a god sh-should treat her R-regalia… I should kn-know better, but…” As she faltered, she felt Daikoku’s knuckles softly ghost over her cheek. The sweet touch made her pull her hands away from her eyes to flutter her lashes. His kind, smiling face appeared within the mosaic formed by her tears. 

“But…?” he pressed. Meekly, Kofuku dropped her hands to hold onto his biceps. 

“But… It makes me happy… Watching you do all the things I can’t do for us,” Kofuku admitted quietly. She expected him to laugh, or snort, or even grow angry at her inconsideration for his feelings. Instead, Daikoku’s smile widened, and he leaned forward to press his forehead against hers. 

Though Kofuku’s cheeks had always flushed from her crying spell, they darkened still, shining the rosy hue of her hair as his face rested so close that she could feel his hot breath puffing over hers. It smelled vaguely like mint, and just like the herb, it spread soothing calm through her frayed nerves. 

“If you are happy, my lady, then I will gladly do those things for the rest of time.” As Daikoku purred the words with a broad smile, Kofuku could not help the tiny grin that began to tug the corners of her lips up. “You don’t have to worry about me,” he chuckled. “I’ve long since accepted taking care of you. You are the one who gave me this life. The least I can do is make you some fried rice from time to time.” Kofuku wanted to argue his liberal use of from time to time. However, Daikoku was already rising, pulling her hands away from his arms by her wrist. She squeaked as he maintained his grip on them to manipulate her body like a puppet, deftly spinning her on her toes to deposit her against the counter. 

“Daikoku, hey- Oof!” All the breath forcibly expelled from her body as he smooshed her between the counter and his solid build. His laugh thundered against her back, making her puff out her cheeks indignantly. “Is this your form of payback?” 

“Maybe~” he sneered, flashing her a wink and a roguish smile before retrieving his kitchen knife. His tall form enclosed around her as he leaned in to resume his preparations. “You like to watch me work, yeah?” he hummed. “You can see much more up here.” 

Kofuku’s face burned hotter than the oven ever could now. Still, pressed between the marble and Daikoku’s sturdy frame, she wasn’t going anywhere. Resigning herself to her fate, she reclined back against his muscular chest and allowed her eyes to follow his skillful movements. A serene smile soon spread across her face. Really, it wasn’t a bad spot to be in; she could see so much more up there, and with his warmth wrapping her up like a fresh-spun cocoon, it was almost impossible for the crushing doubt to creep back in. 

“Daikoku…” 

“Hmm?” 

She snuggled into him, eyes lidded with contentment. 

“Thanks.” 

Daikoku grunted, too absorbed in reading the magazine recipe once again. He had to get it just right for his lady, after all. 

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[nachtgraves]

Fic: Lotta’s Boys

Started this when episode 3 or 4 came out and got my shit together to finally finish it. It is... much longer than I thought it would be.... woops.

Read on AO3

Pairing: Jean Otus/Nino Word Count: 8.500 Warnings/Tags: G. Post-canon, sick fic, lotta’s pov, fluff, obvious and oblivious boys. Summary: Lotta loves her brother and his best friend, she just wishes they weren't so oblivious.

Lotta loves Jean, she really does. He’s a good brother, and a hard worker even if he complains about how his transfers never go through. He always brings back presents from the other districts, delicious treats to make up for the time he’s away.

She also loves Nino. He indulges her in exploring bakeries and restaurants and he gave her candy when they first met. He watches out for Jean when Lotta manages to ask him for a favor first.

She loves them both, dearly. If only they weren’t so stupidly oblivious.

Lotta’s making breakfast when Jean stumbles out of his room and into a chair at the kitchen table. Eggs and sausages sizzle in the pan and the toaster is set to go off in another minute.

“Morning,” she calls to him. “Did you sleep well?”

Jean nods but he looks exhausted. He’s been away again for work, ACCA in a bit of a mess after Furawau’s secession, and only returned late last night. At least he has the day off, and even if he didn’t, one call to Owl would make sure he did.

“What do you want to drink?” Lotta asks, moving easily between the stove, toaster, and fridge. She has a system and when the toaster goes off, she is ready with a knife slathered with butter, jam standing by on the side. “I can start a pot of coffee, or we still have some of the tea you got from your last trip.”

“Coffee,” Jean mumbles. He rubs his face and stands up, bracing himself on the kitchen table. “I’ll make it, you want some?”

“Sure, thank you!”

Before long, breakfast is ready and plated. Lotta sips at her coffee and watches Jean eat as he skims the paper. His posture is lax and his eyes are glossy and droopier than usual and she wasn’t blind to the way he stumbled around the kitchen nor deaf to his attempts at covert sniffling.

“Jean, how long have you been sick?” Lotta questions. She sees the moment Jean tries to deny the accusation, but he’s learned in the past few years and only sighs.

“Not long. I think it’s just exhaustion and I should be fine after some rest,” he concedes. “I’ll be good to go back to work tomorrow.”

Lotta isn’t having it. “Well that’s tomorrow. Today, and right after you finish eating, you’re going right back to bed.”

Jean smiles and shakes his head in amusement. “Yes, ma’am.”

He doesn’t manage to finish his plate, barely able to do more than nibble on the toast and sip at his coffee. The eggs and sausages are barely touched. Lotta ushers him back to bed when he can’t make himself eat much more.

“I’ll make some porridge and see if we have any cold meds.” She brushes his hair from his face and worries her bottom lip. “You’re a little warm.”

Taking her hand in his, Jean links their fingers. “I’ll be fine, Lotta. I just need rest. There’s no use in you worrying yourself sick.”

Lotta pouts but she sighs and agrees. “Let me know if you need anything. I’m going to find medicine and make that porridge.”

Or so was the plan, but Lotta discovers that they’re out of any sort of cold medication. Lotta could pop out to grab what she needs but she doesn’t want to leave Jean home alone. He doesn’t fall sick often, but when he does, he falls hard.

“Ah, what to do…”

Her thoughts and contemplation are interrupted, however, by the buzz of a phone, her phone, sitting on the kitchen counter. She picks it up and sees that Nino’s sent her a bunch of photos. They’re all of a cat with gold fur. It’s asleep in the first picture but Nino must have woken it up since he catches the moment it blinks open blue eyes and yawns. Then it looks bored and unimpressed, but in the next picture something out of frame catches its attention. Its head is tilted and its tail is up and looks loose, not tight and puffed out in fear. Its blue eyes are wide and it stands facing Nino head on. In the next photo it’s munching on a small piece of bread, eyes shut in pleasure and Nino’s fingers rubbing its tiny head.

If Jean were a cat is the only accompanying text. It makes Lotta laugh because it’s far too accurate, and then she realizes her current dilemma is easily solved, and she can move on the solution to another one as well.

She calls Nino and he picks up almost immediately.

“Nino! Are you free right now? I need a favor.”

The doorbell rings and Lotta makes sure the chicken and ginger porridge won’t burn while she gets the door. Nino has perfect timing.

“Nino, you’re a lifesaver!” Lotta grins up at the photographer.

“Hi, I got some other things as well,” he says, holding up bags from the pharmacy. “Some energy drinks, pudding, jello. And some fever patches, because you know he runs high whenever he’s sick. They’re also good for headaches. And…what? Why are you looking at me like that.”

Lotta shakes her head, “Nothing! Nothing. You’re a really good friend, Nino.”

“Ah, thank you?” he replies.

“Thank you,” Lotta says. “Oh! Almost forgot about the porridge. I’ll take these, could you go check on Jean for me?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, taking the bags out of Nino’s hand and hurrying back to the kitchen. She quickly checks the porridge before putting away Nino’s shopping, noting he got all of Jean’s favorites, smiling when she hears Nino knock gently on Jean’s door and low murmurs follow.

Lotta’s just finished putting everything away and stirring the porridge when Nino comes out of Jean’s room. “Smells good.”

“I made extra if you want to eat with Jean,” Lotta says. She dips a spoon into the porridge and tastes it before frowning and adding a bit more salt. “It’ll be done in another five minutes. How’s he doing?”

“He’s definitely got a fever and needs a box or two of tissues within reach. If he tries to get out of bed, I’d suggest tying him down, duct taping if you don’t have any rope. There’s not a chance he’s going to be well enough to work tomorrow.”

“I know. The only person Jean is fooling is himself. I was going to call Owl later.”

“Good thinking,” Nino laughs. “You and Owl are the only people he’ll listen to.”

“He listens to you,” Lotta says casually, keeping her smile down when Nino scratches his cheek and looks away.

Nino clears his throat. “That’s debatable. You’re his beloved sister, Owl is like his second father, even if he doesn’t realize it yet.”

“And you are one of the closest people in his life,” Lotta says. “And if you say anything less, you don’t get any porridge. Speaking of, get me two bowls. Oh, and there should be a tray in that cupboard over there.”

Nino does as bid and Lotta ladles porridge into the bowls while Nino fills up a glass of water and grabs the medicine he bought. Lotta puts everything on the tray and hands it off to Nino. “I already ate and have a couple things to do. Take this in and keep Jean company? There’s nothing worse than being sick and having to eat alone.” For good measure, she looks up at Nino with with a slight pouty frown.

Nino takes the tray from her. “As you wish, your highness.”

Lotta lightly smacks Nino’s arm. “Hush. Go feed your prince.” When Nino’s cheeks pink, Lotta has to turn her back on him in a pretense of being busy cleaning up to not give anything away.

She hears him walk away and the low murmurs pick up as he elbows Jean’s door open to walk inside. Lotta can’t help herself, far too curious and very invested. She sneaks over to the door and peeks through the crack. Nino’s got his back to her, bent over Jean’s nightstand to set the tray down. Lotta catches him smack Jean’s hands away with a spoon.

“Food first. And then you get two pills.”

“I’m not hungry,” Jean sulks, and if he’s being so openly pouty he’s definitely running a fever. “I want drugs.”

Nino laughs and Lotta presses her hand to her mouth to keep herself from being noticed. Jean’s turned towards Nino, all of his attention on the blue haired man.

“Just have a few bites. For Lotta, at least.” Nino puts one of the bowls in Jean’s hands and settles on the edge of the bed with the other bowl. “You’re not getting any drugs until at least a quarter of that is in your stomach.”

Jean huffs but he spoons a bite. “Don’t you have work today?”

“Being my own boss means I can take the day off whenever I want,” Nino replies. “Lotta called me and I know how you always overdo it when you’re sick. Lotta will guilt you into resting, but I have no qualms about manhandling you into bed.”

Jean’s flush becomes more pronounced and Lotta sees the moment Nino’s words registered to his own ears. His ears go pink and he freezes, back ramrod straight and tense. Even Lotta feels her cheeks grow warm at the easily misunderstood declaration.

“To force you to rest,” Nino hurriedly tacks on, clearing his throat. “You’ve got at least another day or two of bed rest with the state you’re in.” He swallows down a few bites of porridge while Jean just stirs his. “Your confinement will only be longer if you don’t eat something, Jean. No food, no drugs.”

Jean rolls his eyes. “I forgot how mean you are when I’m sick. Aren’t you supposed to be nicer?”

Lotta wishes she could see Nino’s face when he says, “What? Want me to feed you or something?”

Jean’s however, she sees clearly. Even his fever can’t explain how red he gets in the face, up to his ears, and his jaw drops, eyes wide. But he picks up his jaw by shoving porridge into his mouth and chewing, choking out a, “No.”

Lotta has to back away from the door so her barely restrained laughter doesn’t out her eavesdropping.

Lotta’s trying to work on an assignment for one of her classes on the couch when Nino comes out of Jean’s room.

“Nino!” She hops up, maybe a bit too eagerly. She looks for any sign of, she doesn’t even know what. Just a sign of something. She almost wishes she had continued to eavesdrop at the door.

“Lotta,” Nino returns, brows furrowing in wary confusion.

It’s incredibly hard to control her expression. She nods towards Jean’s bedroom, trying to change the subject. “Did he eat all the porridge?”

Nino gives her a suspicious look but doesn’t press. “Yeah. Once he started, he managed to get it all down. I gave him the pills and he was asleep by the time I finished stacking the bowls. ”

At the mention of bowls, Lotta goes to reach for them. “I can take those.”

Nino lifts the tray out of her reach and walks on to the kitchen. “It’s fine, I got it. What were you working on?”

“Readings for one of my classes.” Though she had kept looking up at Jean’s door and didn’t get much done. She follows Nino to the sink and despite his insistence grabs a bowl he finishes washing and dries it before putting it away.

“You have class tomorrow?”

“Yeah. My first class is at 11 and I’m usually gone through lunch until just before Jean gets home from work. I’ll just make something easy for Jean to grab and eat while I’m gone.”

Nino lingers with the spoons under the faucet. “I can come over again, if you want,” he offers. “I can cook and keep an eye on him, make sure he eats and doesn’t try and go to work while you focus on school.”

“But you’ve got work, don’t you?”

“I have two memory cards of photos to go through and then editing,” Nino says, dryly. “And you guys have a better coffee machine than I do.”

Lotta laughs. “If you don’t mind, that’d be great, Nino.” She wraps her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against his chest as she squeezes him tight. “Thank you. I don’t know what Jean I would do without you.”

Nino hugs her back and ruffles her hair. “Don’t know what I’d do without you two, either.”

The next morning, after showering and getting dressed, Lotta checks in on Jean. She finds him out of bed going through his closet. Over his arm is a familiar black and red jacket. He’s reaching for one of his ties when Lotta clears her throat. He freezes and turns to meet her frown.

“I was going to shower?” he says and sniffles.

Lotta stares him down with her hands fisted at her hips until he sheepishly moves away from the ties and puts his jacket back on its hanger.

“I’ll call in sick,” Jean concedes. “But I’m still taking a shower.”

“Nino said he’ll be by in an hour,” she says, satisfied. “Do you want to eat in bed or in the kitchen?”

“Kitchen,” Jean answers. “Am I allowed coffee?”

“If you’re good,” Lotta teases and leaves to start a pot.

When Jean comes out of the shower, he’s dressed in lounge pants and an old shirt that swallows his frame. Lotta rewards him with a steaming mug of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal with chopped strawberries and blueberries. His appetite’s improved and he even asks for some toast and jam as Lotta makes some for herself.

“You know, I don’t need a babysitter,” Jean says once Lotta’s settled at the table, spreading jam on her toast.

“Maybe,” Lotta replies. “But it’s nice to have someone take care of you when you’re not feeling well.”

Jean smiles into his coffee. “Yeah. Nino’s been taking care of us for a long time now.”

“Mhmm.” Lotta peeks up at her brother. “When I was a kid, I thought I wanted to marry him.”

Jean startles, so surprised he starts coughing, and Lotta’s glad she waited until he had swallowed his coffee before throwing that at him. Even though it might be a bit of a test, it was true. She’d thought herself in love with her brother’s best friend who charmed her with candy when they first met and helped them through the loss of their parents while dealing with the loss of his own father. And even knowing the truth of how Nino came into their lives, Lotta is grateful for Nino’s presence. He might have been assigned to watch over them, but it was easy to see that his feelings went far beyond an assignment.

Lotta hands Jean a glass of water and Jean takes a few steady swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He clears his throat. “And, uh, do you still?”

“Oh no.” Lotta is quick to shake her head, laughing. “Not at all. I quickly realized I don’t love him like that. I love him like I love you.” She pauses, looks down, and adds casually, “But I do wonder who Nino would ever get married to. I’ve never even seen him in a relationship before.”

With perfect timing, the doorbell rings. Lotta all but bounces to the door to let Nino in and Jean mull over her words.

Nino’s running a hand through his hair, almost as if he were fixing it, when Lotta swings the door open. In place of his usual camera bag is a laptop bag slung over his shoulder, and he’s got a plastic bag from a nearby convenience store in hand.

“Morning. Jean ate all the jello yesterday so I bought a few more,” he says. “They had a different flavor I thought he might like.”

Lotta just beams at him. “I’m sure he will. He’s in the kitchen finishing up breakfast. There’s extra oatmeal and fruit if you’re hungry.”

“I already ate, but thanks,” Nino says, toeing off his shoes before following Lotta to the kitchen to where Jean waves as Nino approaches.

“Morning.” Nino reaches over and puts the back of his hand against Jean’s forehead. Jean closes his eyes and sighs at the touch. “Your hand’s cold.”

“That’s because you’re burning up. Finish this and back into bed,” Nino tuts.

“Yes, sir,” Jean mocks, but he doesn’t move away from Nino’s hand and Nino lets his hand continue to rest against Jean’s skin.

Lotta hurries to put her back to the two so they don’t see her pleased grin.

When Lotta has to go, Jean’s convinced Nino to let him huddle on the couch with some jello instead of in his bed and Nino’s on the floor in front of him, laptop on the coffee table and the TV turned on to a baking show, the volume low.

She comes back several hours later to playful arguing in the kitchen. Jean’s wrapped up in a blanket at the kitchen table and Nino’s at the stove with his sleeves rolled up, heating up leftovers from their lunch. She’s just in time to be the tie-breaker on the matter of which bakery had the better tomato bread.

Neither boy is even close to being right and when Lotta provides the correct answer, they move to argue but pause, thinking, before admitting that she may be right.

“Of course I am,” she says, before coming around to kiss Jean’s cheek and see what Nino’s cooked because it smells delicious. They eat together, the boys filling Lotta in on what they did and Lotta talking about her classes. There’s laughter and smiles around the table and Nino and Jean keep looking to each other when they think no one else is watching.

Jean seems to be doing better the next day, but he’s still running a fever and overfilling wastebaskets with snot-filled tissues. Lotta’s only class is in the evening but she says she has a group project meeting during the day and Nino offers to come by again. She feels a little bad about lying but it’s for a good cause and is only validated when the doorbell rings and Jean insists on getting the door.

Lotta tiptoes after him and watches on as Nino’s expression softens as he greets Jean and Jean sways into Nino’s touch when Nino checks his temperature with his hand like the day prior. Nino’s face turns pink at Jean’s sigh, his smile soft and affectionate. “You seem better than yesterday.”

“Lotta won’t let me go to work though.”

Nino chuckles and brushes Jean’s hair back. His hand lingers before he takes it back and stuffs it into his pocket. “I said better, not fully recovered. Going to let me in?”

Lotta hurries away to not get caught and greets Nino when he’s passing the living room where she’s finishing up packing her bag for the day.

“What’re you two going to be up to today?” she asks.

“Finish a show we started yesterday?” Jean suggests, looking to Nino who makes no objections. “Will you be home for dinner?”

“I might be a little late, but yes,” Lotta answers. “But you don’t have to wait up for me if you get hungry.”

“I can cook something again. Save some for you when you get home so you don’t have to either,” Nino offers.

Lotta beams. “That would be great, if you don’t mind. We owe you, really.”

Nino shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Now you better get going or you’ll be late.”

Lotta pushes down the touch of guilt that spikes up. She’s just going to be going to a cafe near her school that she’s been wanting to try out with a few friends. But it’s for a good cause. “I’ll see you both tonight, then. Listen to Nino, Jean!”

She closes the door on Nino’s laughter and Jean’s mock-indignant shout that turns into hacking coughs and Nino’s worried alarm.

When Lotta gets home, she walks in on Nino coming out of the kitchen, which isn’t unusual but for the fact that he’s carrying Jean, one arm under Jean’s knees and the other supporting his back. Jean’s asleep, head pillowed against Nino’s chest.

“He fell asleep at the kitchen table,” Nino says quietly. “Just taking him to bed.”

And that’s all fair and innocent. It’s not the first time Lotta’s seen Nino carry Jean, especially after their nights out drinking since Jean’s never been able to hold his liquor well. But Nino’s ears are red and he isn’t meeting Lotta’s gaze, and he’s never carried Jean like this before.

“I’ll get the door,” is all Lotta says and she leads the way to Jean’s room, holding the door as Nino maneuvers through it sideways so Jean’s legs don’t hit the door frame.

Lotta hurries after to pull back Jean’s sheets and Nino gently lays Jean down. They both freeze when Jean grumbles, rolls onto his side facing Nino and grabbing onto Nino’s arm. Nino almost falls on Jean but catches himself against the headboard, braced over Jean who shifts around, ends up hugging Nino’s arm to his chest before he’s finally content and relaxes.

Lotta bites her lip to keep from giggling. Nino looks like he can’t pick between being panicked and thoroughly endeared.

Nino waits a beat before he slowly wiggles his arm free. Jean frowns, whines in the back of his throat but Nino frees himself and Jean doesn’t wake up. Only grumbles before turning over onto his other side and nuzzling into his pillow. He looks upset for a moment before his face smooths out in sleep.

Lotta and Nino quickly and quietly leave Jean to it, Lotta closing the door behind them with a quiet click.

“I’ve never seen him do that,” Lotta says innocently, glancing up at Nino.

Nino scratches the back of his head, his cheeks dusted light pink. “He’s just sick.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of the matter. Lotta doesn’t do anything to help.

Day three of Jean’s cold he’s doing a lot better. His coughs aren’t as harsh and his sneezing and sniffling has reduced considerably. He’s still feverish and tired though but will probably be well enough to return to work by tomorrow. Lotta’s somewhat impressed he didn’t fight so much to go to work earlier but she has a feeling she knows the cause.

Nino comes over again in the afternoon with a bag of the best tomato bread in Badon and a sheepish smile. Lotta had only had a morning class and Jean had still been asleep when she got home. There weren’t any plans for Nino to come over and help again, but like with Jean, she isn’t all that surprised.

“How’s Jean?” he asks, following Lotta to the kitchen so she can cut the bread and make some tea to go with it.

“Much better,” she replies. “Oh can you get me a plate? And a small bowl? But yes, his fever’s almost completely gone.”

Nino grabs a large plate and Lotta arranges the sliced bread on it. She goes into the fridge and grabs what she needs to make a quick salsa to go with the bread. Nino helps, getting olive oil and salt and helping her chop the vegetables. They work together and Nino asks about her class that morning and Lotta asks after his work and any upcoming assignments for the newspaper he’s freelancing for.

He’s talking about a work trip he’s going on next month to Dowa and then Suitsu, in the middle of promising to bring back regional specialties, when Jean stumbles into the kitchen. “Lotta, have you seen my—Oh, Nino?”

“Hey, J—!” Nino cuts himself off with a bitten back curse. Metal clatters and alarm blooms on Jean’s face.

Alarmed, Lotta turns to check on Nino and the first thing she sees is blood. It’s all over Nino’s fingers, the cutting board, and the cilantro he’d been chopping. She quickly ushers him to the sink and tells Jean to go and get their first aid kit. Luckily, the blood had made the cut look worse than it actually was and doesn’t look like a trip to the emergency room.

“Hold this to the cut,” Lotta says, handing Nino a paper towel. She has him sit at the kitchen table just as Jean returns with the first aid kit.

“Here.” Jean sets the kit on the table and opens it up. He takes out the packet of antiseptic wipes and a box of waterproof bandages, pulling out a strip and removing the wrapping.

“You’re sick, why are you running around with wet hair and no shirt?” Nino doesn’t look at Jean.

“I was looking for the flannel shirt you got me a few birthdays ago.”

Lotta knows exactly which shirt Jean’s talking about. It’s the softest thing he owns because of how often he wears it. It’s about two and a half sizes too big and always sliding off one of his shoulders. Nino’d offered to exchange it for a size that fits but Jean said he was happy with it as is. And he has been. He’ll always wear it when he’s not feeling well or wants to have a comfy, lazy day. Lotta’s also noticed he tends to pull it out when Nino’s away for work and they don’t see him for a while. She’s not sure Jean’s aware of that particular habit.

“It’s in the dryer, I haven’t had a chance to fold up the laundry yet. Take care of Nino, I’ll go find it.”

Jean’s in the middle of saying no but Lotta’s already up and heading to their laundry closet, leaving Nino with Jean. She finds the shirt quickly, shaking out the wrinkles, before returning to the kitchen. She hides for a moment at the corner before revealing herself.

Jean’s taken her seat and is in the middle of applying a bandage to Nino’s finger. Nino’s looking everywhere but at Jean, or at least trying to. His flushed face is angled to the side but his eyes keep drifting back to Jean bent over carefully applying the bandage.

“There.” Jean sits up and Nino takes his hand back.

“It’s really not a big deal, I could have taken care of it myself,” Nino says. “Seriously, where’s your towel, you need to dry your hair. And put on a shirt.” There’s a hidden please, tense, just shy of desperate.

Lotta makes her appearance then, brandishing Jean’s shirt. “Found it. Here. And Nino’s right, you should to dry your hair. It’s still dripping, Jean.”

“Okay, okay.” Jean takes the shirt. “I left my towel in the bathroom.” He heads back to his room while tugging the shirt on.

Lotta and Nino share a fond, commiserating look at Jean’s behaviour. There’s no one else he’d behave spoiled and childish in front of, whether he was sick or not.

While Jean dressed and dried his hair, Lotta returns to the almost finished salsa. She cleans up the bloodied cilantro, staring Nino back into sitting when he tries to get up and help. They still have plenty of the herb left and Lotta quickly chops enough to finish up the salsa, adding a squeeze of lemon as a finishing touch.

Jean returns with his shirt buttoned up but the neckline hangs low on his sternum and the sleeves inch just past his fingertips. His towel is hanging around his shoulders and while his hair looks more ruffled than it had been, it’s still visibly damp.

“Oh come here,” Nino says. He pulls the towel from Jean’s shoulders and shepherds him to a chair, sitting him down and standing behind him. He drops the towel on Jean’s head and starts properly drying his hair.

“I’m sick, not a child,” Jean grumbles, but he laughs and he tilts his head to make it easier for Nino and Nino’s got a smile of his own. Lotta finishes the salsa and heats slices of the tomato bread for a few seconds on the stove, just to lightly toast them before setting them on a large plate around the bowl of salsa.

Nino’s done with Jean’s hair when she sets the snack on the table. “There we go. Oh, what do you boys want to drink?”

“Sit down, Lotta,” Nino says. “I can make a pot of tea for all of us.” Lotta goes to argue, but Nino folds Jean’s towel over the back of Jean’s chair and rounds the table to gently guide Lotta into a chair, his hands on her shoulders. “I cut my finger, barely. Just, relax.” He goes to fill up the kettle and pull out three mismatched mugs, Lotta’s favorite, Jean’s favorite, and the one the Otuses bought specifically for Nino. “How’s that project going?”

“Oh, uh, good.” The question catches her off-guard, takes her a moment to remember the little lie from earlier. She busies herself from the lie by helping herself to bread and salsa. “We’re pretty much done.”

Jean’s watching her from across the table, a brow slightly raised. “What’s it about again?”

“Just something for my poli-sci class.” Lotta takes a large bite of bread so she can’t talk anymore. Jean’s eyes narrow slightly and Lotta widens hers innocently.

When Nino joins them, tea brewed and made to each person’s liking, he looks between the two siblings. “Did I miss something?”

“Just the bread. Told you it’s the best tomato bread in the city,” Lotta chirps. She doesn’t respond to Jean’s suspicious look over his mug.

With the exception of a few sniffles and the odd cough, Jean makes a full recovery and is back to work by the end of the week. He could have used up another sick day and just gone back in on Monday, none of his coworkers or Owl would mind and in fact encourage it, but as much as Jean complains of his transfers never going through, he’s got his fair share of workaholic tendencies.

Lotta’s preparing dinner when Jean gets home.

“Hey! Wash up and help me with dinner. I’m making pasta.”

“Hey, yeah, give me a minute,” Jean replies. His gaze drifts around the apartment, looking for someone, and Lotta can tell it’s an unconscious action. She doesn’t say anything until Jean’s swapped his uniform for comfy pajamas and is by her side grilling chicken.

“Got used to having Nino around,” she says idly. “Reminded me of the past.” Even though she has ulterior motives, it’s an honest comment. Nino and Jean were attached at the hip when they were in high school and even through college despite their different departments. Granted, Nino had an agenda, but the relationship he forged with her and Jean and even their parents was authentic.

Jean laughs. “If Nino wasn’t over, I’d be at his.”

“And he always brought me treats or sent you back home with them.”

Jean hip checks her gently. “So easily bribed by baked goods and sweets.”

Lotta checks him back. “At least I get something in exchange. Nino just has to smile at you and you’ll do whatever he says.”

It may have been too direct, but Jean flusters and nearly flings a piece of chicken breast into the wall. He composes himself, or at least tries to. “That’s—he’s my best friend.”

Lotta could continue to press, but fast-tracking a decade of mutual pining and obliviousness is a delicate matter and she can’t push too much too quickly. “We should do something to thank him, though, for helping out this past week.”

“You know Nino’ll brush any thanks off.”

“Yes, but we could treat him to dinner or something. It’s been a while since we all went out for a nice meal anyway.”

She can tell Jean’s considering it, more than considering it. His hesitation is from trying not to seem too eager, but his unconscious smile and excited energy betray him.

“True.” His lips purse in thought before he seems to recall something. “He mentioned a hotpot place near the park he wants to try. Early dinner on Sunday?”

“We haven’t had hotpot in forever! I’ll invite him.”

“No!” Jean rushes. His ears warm as he collects himself, “I mean, I can tell him. I was the one he, and you, had to deal with. Let me handle everything.”

Lotta bites back her grin. “If you insist. Why don’t you call him now? I can finish up here.”

Jean hesitates for a moment but hands over the spatula and goes off to get his phone. Lotta lowers the heat to medium and keeps her ears open when Jean’s call connects. She stifles a laugh when Jean’s voice cracks at his first attempt at hello.

“No, I’m fine,” he says after a pause. Lotta can imagine him rolling his eyes by his tone. He clears his throat. “Actually, I was, uh, well, Lotta and I were wondering if you were free Sunday night, say six? It’s been a while since we went out to eat together and you said you wanted to try that hotpot place. Yes, I know. Doesn’t mean I can’t want to thank you anyway. Let me—us—treat you to dinner.”

It’s almost painful listening to Jean stumble and stutter and correct himself while doing something he’s obliviously done for years, but all Lotta wants is to hear Nino’s side of the conversation. She can imagine he’s doing no better than her brother.

“We’re treating you, Nino, whether you like it not.” After a pause, Jean’s voice softens. “Yeah, see you Sunday.”

Lotta and Jean walk up to the hotpot place to find Nino already there by the entrance. He’s in his usual turtleneck and jeans, but his combat boots have been swapped out for shiny leather loafers and he’s thrown on a fitted blazer. And he’s not alone. There are two girls giggling around him. Nino doesn’t seem as interested in whatever their conversation keeps glancing at his phone. Jean starts slowing down.

Lotta is not about to have silly misunderstandings detract or even slow down her progress with the two boys, especially when they’ve been doing so well. Jumping up and waving, she calls out, “Nino!” and hurries over. Nino’s face lightens in a sincere smile and he excuses himself from the girls.

Lotta runs into Nino with a full bodied hug, wrapping her arms around Nino’s waist. She peeks around him to the girls who are looking on in disappointment and barely holds back from sticking her tongue out at them as they turn around and walk away. She looks back up at Nino. “Did you wait long?” They aren’t late, but they’re not early like they usually plan to be. Jean had a crisis over what shirt to wear, though he won’t admit it. But the shirt Lotta helped him pick brings out his eyes and accentuate his waist and Nino’s eyes are fixed on him.

“Just got here myself,” Nino says almost absently. Lotta pulls out of the hug and waits for Jean to catch up to them. When he does, the two just stare at each other after saying quiet ‘hi’s like they’re high schoolers on their first date. Lotta considers pretending to have an emergency and have to leave the two alone for dinner. But they’ll have plenty of time for dates without a little sister third-wheeling in the future. Besides, she read the reviews for the restaurant and had been looking forward to trying several dishes all weekend.

“I’m starving,” she chirps, jarring the two out of their little world. “Let’s go in? I looked them up and they have rolled ice cream.”

The two laugh at that, Nino ruffling Lotta’s hair. “That’s how I heard about this place. A client recommended the matcha.”

“Let’s have dinner before we start thinking about dessert,” Jean says. He leads the way into the restaurant while Lotta shares a knowing look with Nino. They never leave without ordering dessert, even if they have to take it home for later.

They get a booth against the wall, glossy black with cushioned benches. Nino takes a seat on one side, Jean slides into the other, and Lotta beside Jean. Nino tries to keep his orders simple and towards the cheaper end but Jean orders all of Nino’s favorites for him, Nino glaring from across the table and Lotta laughing at their antics. They end up with a spread that’s more than enough for three, maybe even four. Nino takes charge of cooking until both Lotta and Jean bat his chopsticks away and Jean threatens to confiscate Lotta’s to preside as designated hotpot cook.

At first, there’s visible awkwardness between Nino and Jean, the two taking turns at being flustered and sneaking glances when the other isn’t looking. It’s adorable if ridiculous. But eventually, conversation flows smoothly as they argue over when a vegetable or meat is done and Jean forgetting to give himself food once it’s ready. Jean gripes about trips, talks fondly about the new addition to his team even though the new kid makes Jean feel like he’s a hundred years old.

“Imagine that,” Nino says with wry grin.

Jean kicks him gently under the table. “You could pass for being younger than me.”

Nino laughs like it’s a joke, but Jean’s right. Ever since he revealed the truth, he’s stopped hiding the signs of his age but Lotta still thinks he looks of an age with Jean, and not nearly a decade older. He’d looked closer in age to Lotta when he spiked his hair and hid the creases around his eyes. Even the bits of silver coming into his hair didn’t age him much. Jean’s grays were just better hidden in his blond hair.

They steadily eat and soon there’s nothing but the broth left. Nino finishes his glass of water and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “That was great. Thank you both.”

“This was our thank you,” Jean says, “So no thank yous from you tonight.”

Nino rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling wide enough his crows feet he’d worn glasses to hide make an appearance.

Lotta leans back and sighs happily. “I’m so full. One of you will have to carry me home.”

“Too full for dessert?” Jean teases. But when he flags down their waiter to ask for their bill, he asks for three orders of their rolled ice cream to-go.

When they step outside, Nino walks with them to the curb to flag down a cab. They catch one fairly quickly, it was still early enough in the night on a Sunday, and Jean slides in first, Lotta right behind him.

“What’re you doing, get in,” Lotta says when Nino bends into the open door and tries to say goodnight. She lightly shakes their bag of take out. “We’ve got ice cream to eat.”

Nino seems to hesitate but he looks past Lotta’s shoulder and his mouth quirks into a reluctant smile before he gets in and closes the door behind him. Lotta looks up and catches Jean’s expression in the rear view mirror, a pleased little grin, as he tells the driver their address.

When they get home, they make their way to the living room to enjoy their dessert. Lotta hands out the three plastic boxes—strawberry for Jean, chocolate for Nino, and matcha for herself—and the packed plastic spoons and get settled along the couch. Lotta takes the corner and grabs the TV remote. She puts on an episode from a food documentary series she’s been watching after Jean and Nino say they’re fine with anything and gets comfortable.

The three watch the episode, which takes place in Rokkusu, and eat their dessert in a comfortable, cozy silence with occasional commentary on something the show covers. Nino recognizes an area in one of the b-roll footage from a freelance job a while ago and Jean asks someone to remind him to check out one of the places the show mentions the next time he’s in the state for work.

They lose track of time, or at least Jean and Nino do, ending up more invested in the series than Lotta, her scheming aside. Ice cream long finished, empty containers left to be dealt with later on the coffee table, the two had sunk into the couch, and, as time went on, seemed to drift towards one another. Nino’s arm is stretched along the back of the couch, a hair’s breath from Jean’s neck and Jean’s drawn his legs up, knees directing his body towards the photographer. Neither seem to notice the way the space between them has been gradually diminishing. Lotta almost doesn’t want to disrupt the moment, but it is a Sunday night. Besides, there’ll be more nights.

About a quarter of the way through a third episode, Lotta yawns and stretches, and makes startled noise when she makes a point to check the clock on the wall. “I didn’t realize it had gotten so late.”

Nino looks up. “Oh wow. You’re right. I should get going.” He sits up and pulls away from Jean, starting to clean up.

But Jean stops him, reaching out and catching Nino’s arm. “It’ll be even later by the time you get back to your place,” he says. “Stay the night.”

Nino starts to shake his head. His eyes flash down to Jean’s hand curled around his bicep and he wavers.

Lotta goes for the second of weakness. “You’d have to wait for a cab and everything. Here. I’ll take care of that. Jean, get the blankets and prepare the couch and find something for Nino to sleep in.”

Before either can say another word, Lotta sweeps up the take-out containers to dispose of them in the kitchen. When she walks by the living room on her way to her room, Jean’s got an armful of blankets and Nino’s arranging pillows and cushions. She hides around the corner, just to observe.

Jean drops the collection of blankets on the coffee table, says, “I can sort this. Grab something of mine and take my bed tonight.”

“I’m perfectly fine with the couch.”

“It’s not good for your back,” Jean counters.

“Couch isn’t any good for your back either.”

“But you’re much older than me, remember,” Jean teases. Nino throws the pillow he’s holding at Jean, who catches it just before it hits him in the face. He’s grinning as he lowers it and hugs it to his chest. “But really. We dragged you out and brought you here.”

Nino walks over and reaches for the pillow. “I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to,” he says softly, Lotta almost can’t make out the words. Louder, her says, “Now give me that. One night on the couch won’t kill me. Besides, your couch is comfortable.”

Feeling guilty, like she’s intruding (she’s aware she’s being nosy and spying already) Lotta quietly makes her way to her room to get ready for bed.

An hour or so before her alarm is set to go off, Lotta wakes up, thirsty. She considers just going back to sleep but gets up and shuffles out of her room to go grab a glass of water from the kitchen. All the lights are off, only the faint glow of the sun rising bleeding through the drawn curtains lighting the apartment. She gets her water and makes to head back to her room to read for a bit before getting ready for the day, makes a slight detour to check in on whoever ended up taking the couch for the night.

She’s careful to tiptoe as she nears the living room but notices a distinct lack of blankets and middle-aged man on the couch. The bathroom door is cracked open, lights off, unoccupied. Frowning, she detours to the front door but all shoes are accounted for, Nino’s loafers lined up neatly next to Jean’s.

Confused, she walks back to her room. The boys will turn up for breakfast. As she passes by Jean’s door, it quietly swings open and Jean comes out, already dressed for work, coat folded over his arm. His eyes widen at seeing Lotta and he closes the door quietly behind him. “Morning,” he whispers. “You’re up early.”

Lotta shakes her glass of water, matches his quiet tone. “Thirsty.” She doesn’t point out that he’s up and dressed earlier than usual as well. “Where’s Nino?”

To Lotta’s surprise, Jean’s ears turn bright red and he glances off to the side. “He’s, uh. We argued about who would take the couch last night. Comprised and shared my bed.” He adds, almost a little defensively, “It’s big enough. He’s using my bathroom.”

Lotta does her absolute best not to betray her thoughts on her face. Jean’s bed is big enough for two, but only just. Especially when the two people are men over 180cm. “I was thinking pancakes for breakfast? We have chocolate chips, I think. I just need to wash up.”

Jean seems relieved that Lotta doesn’t comment on what he’d revealed. “ I got it, you go get ready for the day.”

“Okay, thanks. Start some coffee too, please?”

Jean nods with a smile and ruffles her hair before heading off to make breakfast for everyone. When Lotta’s done getting ready, she comes back into the kitchen to Jean pouring pancake batter into a pan and Nino nursing a mug of coffee at Jean’s side, looking down at her brother with the softest, fondest expression as Jean talks too quietly for Lotta to make out the words.

She quietly tiptoes back to her room. She can take a little longer to get ready.

The next week or so go by with nothing too unusual. Jean ends up appointed to staff a recruitment table at a local high schools’ career fairs for the next week or so with the new kid and ends up coming home earlier than usual. Nino’s out of town for a job and swinging by Jumoku to get some photos of a local festival that will coincide with his travels. And Lotta prepares for her upcoming exams. She spends more time at school or the library, her food science class has a standing study group session twice a week before the final, coming home late enough that Jean’s taken charge of meals so Lotta can focus on school.

After the last study session that had ended up running later than usual since they all decided to treat themselves to dessert crepes as a reward for all their studying, Lotta cheerfully makes her way home. She can’t wait to tell Jean about the food truck, knowing he’d love the strawberry cream with lemon drizzle option and Nino the double chocolate brownie.

“I’m home!” Lotta calls out, closing the door. She toes off her shoes and puts them away, noticing a familiar pair of boots. “Nino, I didn’t know you—!”

Clapping both her hands to her mouth, Lotta stares at the scene in the living room, lit by the soft golden late-afternoon sun, doing her best not to make any further noise.

Cuddled up together on the couch are Jean and Nino, fast asleep. Jean’s wrapped up in his favorite blanket and curled up against Nino, using Nino’s shoulder as a pillow. Nino’s got his arm around Jean, his cheek resting against Jean’s head, his breath gently fluttering Jean’s hair with each exhale. In the late afternoon glow, they look soft and peaceful and Lotta’s grateful she didn’t accidentally wake them up.

She means to quietly leave, go back out and kill some time at the bakery or a cafe. Let the two continue their nap, wake up without interruption, have some time to themselves. Knowing Jean, knowing the both of them, really, if Lotta were home, any further progress would be halted if not undone.

But the scene is too sweet to not capture for the future.

Doing her best to be as quiet as possible, Lotta digs out her phone from her bag, wincing at every little sound that seems to echo ten times louder than usually. She quickly pulls up her camera app and lines up the shot, zooming in to frame the two men perfectly. She takes the photo and freezes in horror when she realizes she forgot to make sure her phone was on silent as the shutter sounds.

For a long second, Lotta holds her breath. Jean’s forehead creases in a frown. His nose scrunches up. But he turns his head, snuggles further into Nino’s and his expression smooths as he lets out a light snore and his chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths. Lotta closes her eyes, breathes a sigh of relief.

When she opens them, she meets Nino’s gaze.

Lotta fumbles her phone but just manages to catch it and hug it to her chest. Nino’s lips quirk into a held back laugh. In his arms, Jean shifts and mutters a quiet groan. To Lotta astonishment, Nino murmurs to her brother, words too quiet for her to make out, and lifts the arm that’s around Jean’s shoulders to stroke Jean’s hair. Jean smiles, mumbles something back but it must get lost in Nino’s shirt. When he’s settled again, Lotta’s heart is full and she can’t help her smile even if she wanted to. Nino looks up at her and there’s a light flush on his cheeks. He brings his other hand up, holds his index finger to his mouth. Lotta returns the gesture, grinning wide, and tiptoes back to the door.

Lotta is all smiles when she goes to her favorite cafe. She just shakes her head, lips sealed, when asked if anything happened by the familiar cashier. She orders a slice of her favorite cake and drink and fights the urge to text her grandfather, Owl, and Maggie. She can’t wait for Jean to tell her. Wonders if Nino will tell him Lotta saw them.

Almost an hour later, she gets a text from Nino asking if she would be fine with curry for dinner. He was spending the night and wanted to cook for them.

Lotta is more than happy with curry, and tells him so. She also says she’ll bring dessert. When asking for her check she asks for a to-go order of one of their small chocolate cakes that’s easily shared between three people, though Nino could polish off more than half on his own if he let himself.

Looking forward to it. See you soon, he replies. He also asks if she can send him a copy of the picture she took.

Nope! she replies, without any explanations. She’s already decided to get the photo printed and framed as part of her engagement gift to them. Hopefully that doesn’t take another fifteen odd years.

[the-headbop-wraith]

3_ 44  Mending Fractures in Clock Faces

  It was one of those days where she didn’t feel capable enough to get every little detail in order, before heading out to tackle a day. The day itself wasn’t especially meaningful, aside from one meeting at the college Though she wouldn’t typically fret over a conventional brief to slog off materials, she had reasons these days to be a little more cautious about approaching individuals outside her close knit circle of friends.

 Vivi finished applying some contours and shade to her face, and afforded a little shade of blue tint around her eyes. She and the boys were usually in and out of places in such a whirl, she didn’t go for a full slather of makeup. It was maintenance and she had better things to spend her money on, such as rare and illusive books that the Tome Tomb would pay a good percentage for. On this day however, she wanted to conceal the grayness of long nights and short bouts with sleep; though Uncle Lance knowing her, the rouge would be a dead giveaway she’d been a workaholic lately.

 A soft whine and delicate scritch-scritch tumbled through the lower space of her door. “Give me two seconds,” she hailed back. Edged back from the mirror, she made a face by squinting her eyes and tilted her head under the phosphorous light. It would get her through the day, which is all she needed.

 The sultry aroma of a warm breakfast assaulted her upon exiting the bathroom. It was warmer in the living room than it was in the freshly steamed shower.

 “Ooh, that smells scrumptious.” She stepped aside, while Mystery nudged by and entered the bathroom. He kicked the door shut rather rudely, once she was out. “Sorry.”

 “Wow, that’s a record for you,” Lewis croaked. He was in the small kitchen, a dishtowel draped over one shoulder while he worked the stove. With a graceful tilt, he platted the pan-fried toast and eggs onto an awaiting blanket of the napkin. “But Mystery sure appreciated it. He’s a bottomless pit.” He set the plate on the bar and went rummaging around for the silverware. “Though it gave me a chance to practice. Cooking, it’s not so easy when temperatures are all… eugh.”

 Vivi examined the breakfast collage set before her. She bought all microwavable stuff, fast and easy for a pinch, but Lewis being Lewis insisted he dedicate to the stovetop method. “You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble. And… shouldn’t you be good at this, isn’t fire your element or something?” She didn’t mean for it to be so blunt or insensitive. “You’re made of fire, aren’t you?”

 “Only my unbridled passion for you, mi corazona azul.” Lewis swept up a tea pot and poured the steaming water into a mug, with a little strainer chain dangling off the side. “It’s the least I could do for crashing at your place. What am I gonna do, watch you work all on your own?” He set the mug beside her plate, along with a fresh bottle of honey purchased the other day.

 Vivi bobbed the steeper and began cutting at her breakfast. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve done enough. You could afford some time off, save some energy. Whatever you need. MMm! This is really good.”

 “Is that a new hairband?” Vivi frowned. “What? Just asking.” He turned off the burner, and began tidying up the counters. Eggs went back into the fridge with the pre-cooked sausage.

 “I wanted to look a little more… put together, when we go in for our review at the college. Regarding that… case.” At the fridge door, a wash of mist engulfed Lewis as he lingered, edging around to peer at Vivi with the corner of a burning fuchsia eye. “It’s a standard brief, but ya remember what I said – the Demonology Department is a little hung up that the case went so ‘smoothly’ as they put it.” She did finger quotes… then licked her fingers of the butter and grease.

 Lewis shut the door and turned away, pretending to examine the dirtied dishes on the stove. He gave the back of his head a rub, a very human gesture and completely reflexive.

 The bathroom door opened and Mystery emerged, looking fluffy and bright. He strolled over to Vivi and gazed up imploringly, eyes big and beseeching. You gonna finish that?

 “We’re gonna go through and give the evidence media another review,” Vivi insisted. “Make certain you didn’t interfere with a photo or vid clip. No offense, but whenever you photobomb you always have this… ominous aura, and that’d contradict our reports about passive spirits.”

 “It’s not that,” Lewis chittered. The oven light flashed, causing him to flinch as if this never happened before. “I guess what is bothering me, is if I wasn’t there. To meet the family. What would… I don’t know. What would the college have opted to do?”

 Vivi took a bite of egg and looked at Lewis’ eyes. “You need to remember, it wasn’t the call of the department to… how should I say…?”

 “Escort?”

 “Escort’s good. You did the escorting, I guess.” She set her hands on the bar and straightened up a bit more. “The point is, I didn’t rightfully care about the Hershey’s. They weren’t worth it, we were there for them but they didn’t require us. See? They could’ve gotten anybody, to deal with that family – locked in the memories of their home.” She sighed, looking aside wistfully. “Anybody else could have torn them apart, tormented them. It wasn’t warranted.”

 Lewis held his smoldering eyes with her clear blues a moment longer, before giving a rasp and withdrawing. “Yeah. You have a point.” He took the skillet and set it in the sink, BUT first he took a napkin and began wiping it out.

 “You’re invited to come along, if you’re curious?” she posed. Honey went into the tea and she gave the mug an experimental sip. “Mmm. Maybe not a flashlight, this time. Or you could do that invisible thing… can you turn invisible?”

 “Ah, yeah,” Lewis muttered. “If it’s the same by you, I’d feel fine just sitting this one out. Demonology Department and Paranormal Investigations? Investigation being a keyword here. We wouldn’t want someone seeing shadows, and suspect of all things you were followed or something.” He cracked a grin. “That would be awkward.”

 “I always wondered how astute those people are,” Viv admitted, while pressing a bent finger to her chin thoughtfully. “But you’re right, it’d be better not to risk it. I won’t be back for a while though, just so you know. The college isn’t our only stop, Art and I have to dump supplies and get the van in for the exterior overhaul.” She turned the bare plate over and looked down at Mystery.

 “All gone. See? Why are you even begging, that’s so unbecoming of someone like you.”

 Mystery huffed and stamped a rear foot. I’m a growing boy!

 “I won’t be in for a while. That’s the deal.”

 Lewis pursed his lips and gazed upward, giving it serious consideration. “I would prefer helping you, and let Arthur have the time to take it easy and catch up with his work.”

 Vivi shrugged. “He has to be present for the brief.”

 Lewis ran water in the sink and began scrubbing the skillet. “I do kinda need a break from people for a while. Ya feel me? Lo sie— Sorry, that I won’t be able to help with squaring away our stuff. I know that’ll be a massive pain for Artie.” The whole… possession thing was rough on the both of them, though he didn’t want to say that aloud. This was the first chance he was able to put up distance with Arthur, since he rose from his hibernation. There was still a lot of sensations and spite boiling inside him, a lot he didn’t quite have defined words for. The way Arthur was so lost and out of his mind with utter desperation shook something to Lewis’ core, while at the same time; it rekindled those old memories which sustained him during his existence before the surviving trio stumbled upon the catacombs of his resting place. A place he wanted buried away and secluded from the world, for all the damage it had done.

 “Lew? You okay?”

 He jarred and gave Vivi a look, then, followed her gaze to his arms… the water in the sink bubbling and scorched. Vivi was leaning back, clearly uncomfortable with this turn. Lewis pulled backwards, careful not to slosh the scalding water. He patted at the dish towel hung over his shoulder and focused on snuffing out the heat.

 “That must be some water heater,” he sputtered.

 “Are you really… okay?”

 “Yes, really.” He offered a wide grin. The crisis averted, he ran some cold water in the skillet pool. “Well that suckers sterilized.”

 “Can you be honest with me?” When Lewis raised his gaze, she went on, “Is it… Arthur?”

 “No. Not at all. Okay-okay, the truth is I need a break from him. But it’s nothing personal, I get the feeling it’s mutual.”

 Vivi squinted one eye, but the topic she didn’t pursue on. “I feel better that you told me, so, I’ll keep that in mind. Whatever you two need.” She downed the rest of her tea and handed mug with plate, over to Lewis. “We need to get a move on. I don’t want us rushing Arthur, if he’s had another rough night.”

 Mystery yapped.

 Slipped off the bar stool and moved around the room. Collecting the few bags and notebooks left strewn about – off the couch and end-tables – she jammed everything into a backpack. “Do you want Mystery and I to check in, after we get the meeting out of the way? That’ll be three hours, give or take.”

 “I’ll be in fair shape,” Lewis assured. “Unless you need a break from Artie, too. Don’t worry about me… unless, you don’t wan me haunting your place?” Vivi laughed.

 The last of the folders and the laptop went into the backpack, and she secured the zipper. “That’s tots cool, just don’t set off the fire alarm, or scorch the carpet. Uncle Lance won’t let go the tragedy of the vans ceiling. When did that even happen?”

 Lewis shrugged. “Estoy tan perplejo.” Vivi passed into the kitchen and took Lewis by his faux ascot, pulling him down enough to give him a peck on the cheek. A little fluff of ember flashed from his hair but dispersed on the air, harmlessly. She bid him a final goodbye, and called Mystery to hurry along as she ducked out the entry. “Ella hace eso a propósito, pero me gusta.”

 The door shut and like that, he suddenly felt very alone. The small apartment quiet; the heater wheezed gently throughout the unit, electricity whistled in the walls with its somber hymn. Somewhere out there, people would be getting along with their lives, normal as can be. Mundane routines, venturing here or there on private quests to fulfill minor roles of the day before the sun set, some even extending activities into the night when the world turned serene and quiet.

 By a cruel swipe of fate, Lewis was expelled from that. He had no place to be specifically, no one was expecting him to arrive, he was not due somewhere or needed to be in a particular space of time. Aside from Vivi’s apartment, which was not an extensive or an endless mansion; or, Kingsman Mechanics where there was areas to move through or depart from.

 Some minor files and notebooks remained on the couch, for Vivi’s personal archives – most of it handwritten messy notes, sometimes amusing or unflattering doodles decorated the pages. He gathered these into neat stacks and set them beside the lamp on the end table. It was much too quiet, prompting Lewis to drift over by the radio player and set his hand on the front panel. With a spark and nudge of his persuasive heat, the player chattered to life. The digital dial tallied through the various stations, voices and electrical instruments bombarded through the speakers, volume rising and then dipping as he set the device to a familiar old favorite. Passive tunes played through, affording some atmospheric warmth to the space where he was set to dwell.

 It grieved him to admit that he didn’t want to be around Arthur – let alone anyone, for a time. Why was that? It was difficult to convey. Before, he was never like this; that he was certain of, or he wasn’t Lewis Pepper. Outgoing, confident in his own right, yet now, he needed solitude. Sometimes in Vivi’s passionate forwardness he forgot these things, forgot how much he missed the silence, the isolation. When did it begin, he wondered? Where was the break in the timeline – certainly not when he awoke. The heat that burned through him was vivid and unforgettable. The betrayal, not only of what… occurred, but what followed. Left behind and forgotten, for so-so long. Endless halls, doors one after the other, candlelight to comfort his wanderings. Seeking but internally lost, bound to that place by sensations and emotions he couldn’t shed. Nothing to ponder through, aside from the echoes of recollection and what ultimately led to his current state.

 And the ever-present thrumming of his locket, aligned to a silent beat he no longer possessed. That was loneliest of all. The conviction and irrefutability of his reality. Lewis Pepper no longer was. It had all ended, and the world left him behind.

 The dust atop the radio player was disturbed, but only slightly, when Lewis drew back his hand. He chided himself, but Vivi was very busy and when she was home… well, she only barely returned home. It would help him maintain focus and pass the time, if he did something productive. Where was the cleaning supplies? Did Vivi have cleaning supplies, at all?

 One of the cabinets in the kitchen had suitable gear and cleanser substance, which allowed Lewis to at least get the hard surfaces in order. The kitchen itself didn’t have a great well of culinary space, and most the stuff Vivi bought was either fast meals or condiments, and one cabinet dedicated to teas and coffees. He didn’t have a specific cleaner for the cabinets, but some dish soap and a good rag would suffice to remove sticky substance or whatever else was left on the panels. She didn’t even line her cabinets, Vivi, what the heck? His parents would lose it if they saw the state of her stove; not that it was filthy (see Vivi-s preferences for meal planning), but it could use some attention.

 Having worked in a restaurant for his life, it was no issue getting the space freshened up ceiling to floor. The one thing Vivi did have was a mop, in the bathrooms towel closet. He suspected that was more for random spills than the actual task of cleaning, but he scrubbed the small patch of hard floor and called the apartment a better living space.

 Lewis put on his sunglasses before checking out the window, facing the small thicket below. He wasn’t worried anybody might see him at this height, but the sun would forever and always irritate him. The hour was still early, though he couldn’t recall what else Vivi needed to toil with before she should call the day well and worn past usefulness.

 On the shelf above and below the radio player, there lined up numerous volumes on the spiritual and legends. Some of the books appeared aged and frayed on the spines, while others didn’t look older than a year; with glossy covers or crisp pages. He took one of the elder books, a text about ‘ghosts’, spirits, and phantoms. The book was not very detailed, but included photographs from the 1900s all the way to the more modern era, showcasing dreaded orbs and shadow people. He put the book back.

 The next book, he decided to go through an older volume and try to decipher the nonsense. He eased back as if reclining on a chair of air, with his heel braced on the floor. There was included inspiring observations about residual haunts, and speculation that spirits are a substance of none substance, capable of easing through solid and immovable surfaces. Yadda-yadda, however, he did have issues when complicated obstructions such as cabinets or interior wiring was involved. He flipped through the book, further exploring insightful passages, such as manipulation of electrical devices or digital media. Boring. Did any of these books have any insight on how to be less spirit?

 After returning that riveting intuition of publication manifesto, Lewis went next to a book of meditation. There were a few volumes along the same genre, and it made sense that Vivi would have them in her collection. She had a thing for channeling good energies, or chacra, or whatever; an important asset, he had come to learn. He hefted the book up and gave the front and back cover a quick inspection, before settling up into a float. The whole mind over matter deal might be more insightful than books of shadows, perplexities, and speculations.

 __

 The Mystery Van thundered as its engines heaved it up into the parking zone, for arriving vehicles of the Kingsman Mechanics. Typical of his ways, Arthur wasn’t even up when Vivi arrived, but she had anticipated this and thus showed up early in order for Arthur to get his bearings in order. After speaking with Uncle Lance, Vivi propped open the back doors and sifted through the packets of files and folders. At this point it was organization, pulling credible and intriguing information to the forefront while leaving lesser interesting portions to the bottom of the barrel – sort to speak.

 Once more, Vivi thanked Arthur for lending her the van. She knew home much the vehicle meant to him.

 Arthur checked through the backdoors, as he hauled up with an additional duffle of spare equipment rented by the university. Vivi noted he had opted out of his arm, though it didn’t seem to slow him down. “It’s us today,” she offered, with meaning. “Just us.”

 Mystery padded around on the seat beside her and pushed his face against her shoulder. She gave him a soothing scratch beneath the dog chin, which compelled an appreciative whine from the pseudo canine.

 “A self-care day,” she added, as Arthur slung the backdoors shut. “Go on, Mystery. No more scratchies ‘til later.”

 “Self-care day,” Arthur repeated. He wound up on the passenger side, but upon seeing Vivi’s new placement, he sighed and made the long trip across the front of the van to the driver side door. He situated himself in the seat an pulled the belt across his chest. “Okay. Are you… sure?” A quick fix of the side mirror, and he turned the ignition switch. “Or are you saying that to make me feel better?”

 “Lying to you wouldn’t make you feel better.” Vivi rebuked. While she relocated further into the passenger seat, Mystery plodded over her lap.

 “Mystery!”

 Arf!

 “Mystery wouldn’t lie to you, would he?” she smiled.

 Arthur had to stop the van at the exit chute, and get the dog under control. This ended, by him wrapping one arm around Mystery and hugging him tightly to his side. “Now, no more. We’ll cuddle war later.” Vivi assisted by snatched Mystery away, and hauling the withering pupper to her side. “I finished formatting the files. Are you wearing makeup?”

 “Are you implying something?” she glared Arthur’s way.

 “No! Not at all!” Arthur put the van into drive and eased forward.

 Once they arrived at the city where the college was stationed, Vivi insisted they hit up a drive thru and grab breakfast, since she was ‘in such a hurry, and left without a goodbye.’ Those were her exact words. Arthur ordered some breakfast burgers and a tea. However, Vivi pulled an uno reverse card when they reached the campus, and insisted Arthur eat one with her and Mystery. Playing traitor was Mystery, sitting entirely too clos to Arthur while he worked to transfer files and simultaneously nibble on the burger, all with one arm between them. Mystery’s pleading whines sounded so mournful, it was near impossible to drop his eyes from the hound to do anything productive. Unless it was put a sandwich in his mouth. Then, Mystery would go quiet, his expression would change to an air of optimism, and he’d lick his lips. Or, shove his cold muzzle under Arthur’s chin.

 Arthur hissed, “This is why you can’t hang at my place.”

 Meanwhile, Vivi was doing a second browse of the files Arthur worked on, just in case. “Though that is under debate, if you don’t take better care of yourself.”

 “Uncle Lance is keeping tabs on me.” He jammed the burger in his mouth and held it there, while he did some swift type up on the laptop. “All you people! I have a very slow metabolism.” Mystery licked his chin. “No one’s impressed with you.”

 “I think you ignore your metabolism.” Vivi packed up the laptops, and reorganized the files for submission. Everything went into a large satchel made of canvas, with a two large buckles.

 “No, but let’s get a move on anyway.” He shut down the laptop and disconnected the external hard drive. “Get this out of the way, so we can move on to more important things.”

 “I hear ya.” They locked up the van and gave the doors one last go over, insuring everything was secure and that the beaten vehicle offered no enticing lures for the would be prospective vandal. It was a time like this, Vivi would have appreciated a certain spirit to keep watch other their things. Computers and other essential equipment was damn expensive.

 The meetings were not too terrible, but they were mandatory and time consuming on some cases, especially with a group that had gone to such lengths to ascertain that none of the content was ‘out of place’, as Vivi referred to it. Paranormal Investigations, Forensics, and the Demonology Department were all located in the same section of building, in a structure that better resembled a sanitarium than an education department. It was in among the sparkling new or freshly refurbished halls of Business and Financing, and arguably out of place, though mysteries and criminal activity went hand-in-hand with such divisions. Through their work of investigating mystery cases and unexplained events, their correlation was aptly relevant among these industry’s trends.

 In a certain crescent shaped room, a desk sat with stacks of files atop, alongside USBs, and an external hard drive. Among these items an Ouija Board lay, wrapped in a loose, clear plastic bag. In two chairs across from the table, Vivi and Arthur sat, as they directed their attention to the desk wherein a figure was typing into a desktop computer.

 “A few more seconds. I appreciate your patience, as with your punctuality.”

 “It’s no problem,” Vivi replied. She gave Mystery’s shoulder a rub; the dog left his head resting on her lap. “The assignment was very cut and dry. Mrs… Her, er, Hirstein, was very theatrical of the paranormal activities.”

 The tapping stopped momentarily, and the figure moved out from behind the computer to browse the collected files on the desk. “I see…” she hummed. She took a tab of stickers, wrote on one of the pieces then pealed it off. “Will you elaborate on these theatrics, as you have transcribed it?” She returned to the desk and resumed typing, but at a bided pace.

 Vivi shared a look with Arthur, and gave a nod. He began, “It was all completely blown out of proportion.” Arthur winced, when the typing accelerated, “The spooks we encountered were not hostile at all. A lil creepy, but not malicious. Not like some of our other cases where things, uh… kinda get out of hand. Y’know, with people terrorized, families harassed, angry, hostile, peeved ghosts….” He shuddered.

 “They were displaced souls,” Vivi took over, “who didn’t realize time had moved on without them. Like residual, but sentient within a projected facsimile that included bystanders.”

 The Department Head looked to Vivi. “From your tone, I anticipate you had some sort of experience?”

 Hesitantly, Vivi nodded. “There’s an included recount… in the files. Arthur and I both had experiences, of some form.” Arthur shifted in his seat and looked aside. “There was no repeat or predicted frequency, is was a… temporal interjection, or hallucination projected.”

 “Hallucination?” Arthur snapped.

 “Hallucinations are not all bad, or indicate something is wrong with your head,” Vivi declared. “It’s merely a case of some event or visual portrayed through subliminal suggestion, and is sometimes the cause by, or enhanced, by outer extremities.” Then, she returned her attention to the Department Head:

 “On that note, we performed extensive studies of the homes internal applications. The wiring checked out, appropriately insulated as per code standards.”

 “And actually— Oh!” Arthur glanced from Department Head, and back to Vivi. “Should I say?”

 “Go for it.”

 Arthur indicated the files, “The wiring and furnaces on the first and second story received a complete overhaul, given the incident that… resulted in the ghosts, being unaware that they had passed. Spirits, I meant to say spirits.”

 The Department Head took up one of the files, and flipped through the printed pages. “And there is paperwork, as evidence and relevance to the claims?”

 Arthur leaned a little forward from the chairs back. “There’s no available paperwork, but I did snap pictures of the installation serial along with dates listed on the machines. That’s standard procedure for installations.”

 The Department Head set aside the folder, then, reached for one of the USBs. “My only concern is that this assignment did not reach it’s expected timeframe – in fact, an extension was expected.”

 “Is that somehow a problem?” Vivi inquired. “It wasn’t as difficult as Mrs…Hirstein insisted, and we were able to guide the spirits to their final path.” She pulled her hands off the needy Mystery, and gestured the table. “I have no reason to believe they will have further issues with lost spirits, if the children stay away from obscene board games.”

 The Headmaster set aside the folder, and took up the Ouija Board. “It only becomes a problem, with clients such as the Hirstein’s. One client with false expectations isn’t the issue, but mishandling one or more clients can have negative impact on our future studies into the paranormal and occult. Studies go nowhere without funding.”

 Vivi tilted her head sideways. “We understand. On the topic of professional relations, I did not appreciate the Hirstein’s treatment of my team, or their attitude to the situation. But our interactions with them remained civil, and we conducted ourselves with the utmost respect.”

 Ruff.

 The Department Head flipped the Ouija Board over. “The Hirstein’s?”

 “Evidence.”

 She set the board aside and clasped her hands together. “My department will keep your history with the Hirstein’s in consideration, for our eventual follow-ups. Is there anything else either of you wish to add regarding this assignment?”

 “No… not really,” Arthur admitted. Mystery boofed.

 Vivi stood from her seat, first glancing to Arthur. “I wanted to take the time to recap, that my team runs strict investigations. We’ll bring evidence, media, give our play-by-play reports, document eyewitness claims, but that is what we signed up for.”

 Arthur reached up to his vest collar and tugged at the plush material. Mystery inched his way over and set a paw upon Arthur’s knee, and whined at him.

 “Of course,” the Department Head acknowledged. “Your group is persistent and invested in the depths of lore, which you explore with grand vigor. I assure you, there will be no changes unless you first submit a request. On that note,” she looked to Arthur, “I spoke with Uber Jiver, with Engineering and Technology, and there is expressed interest in your participation with some of the advanced programs. Would you find it beneficial to your primary work? It could aid in new techniques, and perfecting a better model.”

 Arthur grimaced. “That’s really swell, but the whole… building a better arm gig is something I kind of practice in my…personal time.” He reached down and gave Mystery the scratch he deserved. “And I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.”

 The Department Head clapped her hands together. “That’s quite well. Once again, thank you both for your quality of work. We’ll be in touch.”

 That concluded the entire meeting, for the day at least. Mystery’s claws tapped on the polished tile floor as he trotted between Vivi and Arthur, making the long march through the open halls. A few students stood out or about, passing on their way. The trio trekked out the large, glassed doors to the exterior sidewalk, interwoven among the division of academia. Arthur let loose the most dramatic sigh:

 “Damn longest fifteen minutes of my life.”

 “I think it was more like thirty,” Vivi mentioned. “Mystery, don’t run through the bushes! I just brushed you!”

 “I lost an extra fifteen?” He capped a hand over his eyes and groaned. “Do you ever get this impression, y’know, the sort where she doesn’t believe? In what we’re saying. She’s head of Demonology and forensics, but she’s got some harsh skepticism game.”

 Vivi held up a finger. “First rule of paranormal investigations, debunk or err on fantastical claims. Trust no one, until the relevant evidence is presented fully and truthfully.”

 Arthur raised his palm off his springy hair. “That’s a mouthful, even for a fortune cookie.” Mystery padded over and ran around both Vivi and Arthur twice, before siding up alongside Vivi. “I know that. You know that, Mystery sure as hecken knows that.” Mystery yapped. “But I get this vibe she doesn’t particularly like us, like, it’s personal. You get me? I’m not alone in this, right?”

 Woof!

 “We go in her office, and it’s sort of special – ‘Ah, there you three are. Trying to sell me ‘ghosts’ in designer sheets again, I see.’” He bent his arm and put a fist to his hip and tilted sideways, “Pictures of shadows in places where shadows shouldn’t be? Tsk-tsk, that’s not how the school documents.”

 “People always wanna make a buck off the rare and unusual. Haven’t we learned that?” She reached down and gave Mystery a pat. “It went a lot better than I expected. I guess the Hershey’s were satisfied with all the shenanigans, though I never once doubted Lew.”

 “Oh really?”

 “Really. Zilch doubts.”

 Arthur kicked at some leaves along the sidewalk. “I give a dang, in only that they don’t seem to give a flunk. All bark, less ‘cAn I SPeAk toO yOUur maNaGER?’ I hate dealing with clients like that. Worse than the culty fanatics, and their sinister dark gods of cheese sauce, children of the corn, or whatever.”

 “The most absolute worst.” Vivi adjusted her glasses and peered up into the overcast sky. “But even if there are problems, it doesn’t reflect poorly on our performance. And, we’re not gonna take their case again, even if it doesn’t close. We washed our hands of that, no worries. Chill.”

 Arthur jammed his hand in a pocket. “Until the next clan of Hershey’s,” he sighed. It would be inevitable. “It’s only ‘cause we can’t get rough with assigned clients. OoOOhh, the school wouldn’t approve of our curbside services.”

 Bark!

 “What?” Vivi snapped. “We represent the prime cut of paranormal investigators.”

 Mystery sighed and rolled his eyes.

 __

 The next order of business was clear the van of all supplies and work essentials, not only the electronics. Gear such as essentials for documenting paranormal activity, would go to Arthur’s shop for quality assessment. Everything else went to a small storage shed, rented not far off from the college zone. It was better described as a large atmosphere-controlled closet, for outdated files, along with other non-essential equipment; camping gear, and larger artifacts that wouldn’t fit at an apartment – and were kinda creepy or maybe a little cursed.

 It took some time to walk all the supplies from the parking lane into the inner building, a task made more time consuming due to the process of sifting through which would go into the shed and what would be left temporarily at The Shop. It wasn’t an issue of hauling every last and overflowing box to the shed, but cataloging what was going into the shed. There was a trolley available for customer use, avoiding the issue of heavy lifting, and Arthur made good time with Mystery’s help. A good bulk of files and obsolete tools went to the shed, and one blue bike was hauled out. For Vivi’s use.

 From there, it was a return trip to Kingsman Mechanics to drop off what remained of the equipment, plus whatever else didn’t get shipped out at the shed. It was Arthur’s continued role, to navigate the van through the wrap around of the carport. While Vivi was in the back hauling out equipment such as sage and spices from cuvees, and organizing the tech among rolls of spare blankets that hadn’t been moved out yet. The van easing to a stop spurred Vivi to pause in her work and check the front of the van. The interior alit considerably under the pressing glow of the central lights within the garage.

 “There? Already?”

 Arthur hummed, as he put the vehicle in park. The pop of a walkie-talkie snapped off, “Uncle Lance? Yo?” He slung around in the seat and tumbled into the back of the van, the whole affair made awkward by the fact he didn’t have a second arm.

 The scratchy reply came back through, “Yer?”

 “Vi and I are here. We’re dropping off some shit, and getting’ the spare truck.” He released the toggle. A few seconds later, the garbled reply came:

 “Say over.”

 Arthur sighed, “Over.” He scrambled on to the back doors and cracked them open. “I’m gonna borrow a flat cart and salvage boxes from parts, and park this stuff out of the way. We’re kinda in a hurry.” He paused outside the van, surveying the garage. “Over.”

 “I read yu,” the reply crackled. “Lemme know if y’need anything. Over.”

 “Thank yew, over.” Arthur darted off, out of sight and view for a short period of time. When he reappeared, it was hauling two large boxes one handed. He deposited them on the back, and Vivi began packing them with the equipment divided up.

 “How many you reckon?”

 “Hmm,” Vivi folded back and fitted her chin on her palm. “Seven, at most. Some of them I can’t fill all the way, though there won’t be shortage of space.” She grabbed Mystery by the collar, before the dog could attempt vaulting over the displaced equipment. “Hang tight for a few, would’ja? You’re gunna jar the merch.”

 With a very doggish grumble, Mystery tumbled to his side and lay there dramatically.

 Five more trips, and Arthur had supplied eight boxes for Vivi to work with. The rattle and grind of wheels bulldozed to the bumper. Arthur sided up to the back and used his hip to brace one box and gripped it around the side with his one arm, carefully, he crouched down to set the first box on the flat cart. This method was repeated for the five boxes, and once they had been set securely on the flat cart, Arthur used his foot to keep it steady while lining them up. While Vivi finished finalized the last box, he scooted up into the back space.

 “Could I trouble you to nab some coffee, and see if anyone dropped off snacks in the lounge?” he posed, innocently. “And I’ll grab the keys for the backup truck.”

 For the most part, Vivi was stunned. “Um, sure, I can do that. I gotta give the van another sweep before shutting the last box.”

 Arthur motioned with his hand. During this, Mystery insisted on hopping up into and out of the van, impatience in his eyes. “I’ll go through the cuvees. Ooh, and don’t forget the books in the floor compartments, too.”

 Vivi’s eyes lit up. “Shit! I completely, almost did!” She pushed the partially packed box aside, and fumbled for the seamless latch in the panel. “I doubt they’d go missing, but it’d peeve me off if I remembered I didn’t put them up someplace safe.”

 Arthur patted a space on the flat cart with his foot. This enticed Mystery from leaping off the bumper, onto the flat cart. “We’re gonna catch up with Gala, and I’ll take a few of these up to the room.” He swung away and snagged the handle, bracing to angle the stubborn cart. But Vivi called out:

 “You’ve been going overboard with the work, Mister.” She climbed from the vans back and straightened her skirt. “We’re not in a hurry, we just hafta park the van. Sit down for a bit, and I’ll go nab those refreshments.”

 Arthur pouted. “And Galahad?”

 Vivi sighed. “One thing at a time.” As she strolled by Arthur, she spun around and aimed an accusing finger. “And you’d better be here when I get back, or at the very least, not fighting those boxes up those stairs. Mystery, stay here and don’t let him get up to no good.”

 The ears perked on the little dog, and his bob tail waggled.

 It didn’t really mystify Vivi a whole lot, about Arthur’s eagerness to get the work done. At least work that didn’t involve specters or weird creatures, or whatever kooky stuff. He could focus and barrel onward with minimal resistance, equipment and engines could only have so many defects, and so many solutions. Such is the same of mathematical equations demanding straight answers, to unchanging numerals following unyielding laws.

 Leaving the van at the body shop wouldn’t hasten repairs, but she figured Arthur was done with staring at the unsightly scar in its side. And maybe, he wanted some time to himself to work on his arm.

 Someone brought in fresh muffins and cupcakes, likely from a local bakery. She went through the boxes, scavenging for something Arthur might like that was super sweet and bad for him. The coffee available in the pumps was stale and cold, so Vivi took it upon herself to fix up a smaller pot to brew some fresh. While the coffee brewed fresh and hot, she tucked two cupcakes in the microwave and just gave them a few seconds to warm up – not enough to melt the icing but to soften them. A trick she learned from Lewis. For a ghost, he knew a lot about making the best of boring foods.

 It was hard to get Lewis to talk about things like that. She remembered, the people she met back when Arthur was in the hospital. The confusion and wrongness felt, when they tried to connect with her. They knew her from somewhere, and if she was honest with herself, she knew who they were – like, knew them from somewhere, an acquittance, but that was it. That was about it. The history she had, before the accident, she didn’t fully grasp. The whole event frightened her, because she recognized something critical was missing. Something from her, between them, which connected them all together. Arthur knew, but he was too crushed to admit anything other than regret.

 What really stuck with her, was how much she cried. She didn’t understand why it hurt so much to stand before those people, and insisted she didn’t know anything. They asked questions, so many questions, and the tears wouldn’t stop.

 She snapped back when the buzzer went off on the microwave. Fuck, the icing was all runny. She tossed the cupcakes and tried again, this time setting the timer to five second increments.  

 Armed with a spare cup of sugar, one coffee, and three gently warmed muffins, she returned to the back closest of the garage for shipments. Arthur was nowhere in sight, but Mystery was still upon the flat cart awaiting patiently with his chin between his paws. Vivi inched up and set one muffin on his paw, and Mystery began nibbling at it politely.

 “Where’s Artie?” she pondered aloud. Someone was in the van, fumbling around. “Art?” Something within thumped or whumped.

 “Oh, you’re back! That was fast.” Arthur emerged at the back doors, rubbing his ribs under his left side. “S’that fresh coffee?” The communicator in his vest pocket began gargling about something undercarriage, up until Arthur reached in and flipped the volume down.

 Vivi cast a careful eye over to the flat cart, unmoved. Then, looked past Arthur into the van, and saw the boxes undisturbed. She handed the muffins over when Arthur leaned over. “How much sugar you want in your coffee?”

 He sat on the bumper and began digging into the first muffin. “Just pour the whole thing in.”

 Vivi bit on her lip. “You sure? There’s half a cup here, and it’s… two cups of coffee or less. You were really hungry. Everything all right?”

 “Famished,” Arthur gasped. “Maybe half then?” He glanced back into the van, then looked to Vivi. “It’s looks supe- hot.”

 The sugar was cool and by the power of science, would lower the heat in the coffee. Not by a lot, but maybe enough he could sip it. Vivi dumped a portion of the sugar into the little cup and gave it a stir. “Did you manage to scrounge up the rest of our gear?”

 “Mmm, no. Yes. I got distracted.” He set the coffee aside, and lifted up the disposable plate. “Look, no food. I ate it. Happy?”

 Mystery nodded.

 “I’ll finish going through, then.” Vivi climbed in past Arthur, and went to the slots nearest the back doors. “You’ll still need to give it a last pass, just to make sure.”

 “Right.” Arthur appeared stiff, or put off by something. “I’ll… wait ‘til you’re finished, so we don’t overlap.”

 She stopped and glanced his way. “Are you okay?”

 “Never better.” Arthur slipped off the bumper. “I’ll check the front, and maybe clean up a bit.” A few moments following Arthur’s voice fading out, the driver side door opened. Noises of fumbling and supplies shifting, items – obviously rubbish – scattered, or rebounded through the space beneath the bench seat.

 After some time, when Vivi was finalizing her scrutiny of the cuvees and organizing a few last mediocre bits of supplies – such as spare sage or graphite packets – Arthur vanished from the front seats. Vivi doubted he did any cleaning.

 Shortly after, the harsh grind of a flat cart wheezed its way to the back doors.

 “I just need that last box,” Vivi mentioned. “There are a few odds and ends, but I checked everything just to be sure.”

 “Yeah,” Arthur mumbled. He stepped back beside the right-side door and looked at the boxes. “You wanna take these up to the workstation? I need to put the other two boxes on here – they have cameras too.” He dug around in his pocket, until he produced the key ring.

 “Is something up?” Vivi took the key as she plopped out. “Just let me know, and I’ll help. What it is.”

 Arthur blinked and raised his brows high. “No, nothing’s up. I didn’t sleep well last night, and it’s kinda catching up.” He leaned around and took up the coffee, for a sip. “It’s gonna be a bummer, bein’ van-less for a few weeks.”

 “Yeah.” Vivi positioned herself behind the flat cart and began swinging the rear wheels, lining them up with the large doorway adjacent to them. “But at least the van can get repaired. And, it’ll be sort of like new. There’s a bright side to this.”

 Arthur groaned, and took another sip of his coffee. It was almost completely gone. “It could have been worse. I’ll give it that much, but no more.” He tossed the cup onto the plate and climbed back into the van. “Not like this’ll be the last time something….” Vivi didn’t hear what else; something about roasting or toast. Arthur probably wasn’t wrong.

 “Wanna ride, Mystery?”

 The flat cart could maneuver all through the receptionist’s area, and back into the employee area behind the wall that shielded off the stairs. Mystery lightly drifted off the cart, then galloped up the steps to the upper work area. Hauling boxes up wasn’t a grand ol’trial, foremost they were not heavy, and second they were not large. The containers served to separate the equipment, and one of the boxes Vivi transported to the room was full of parts for Arthur’s arm. She didn’t leave that at the work room, and opted to cart it to the private quarters where Arthur worked on designs and unique projects.

 Mystery was keeping constant company, and nearly underfoot at every turn in the narrow corridor. Vivi went ahead and opened Arthur’s room, just to make sure she put his essentials where they needed to be before they got misplaced. She paused beside his work desk and looked over the different schematics and sketchy designs, shapes and cogs in uniform colors. There was no sign of Arthur’s current arm, though he might’ve placed it somewhere safe. Unless there was an evident issue, or he seemed to be in visible pain, she wouldn’t ask. He might even provide an easy excuse, or might’ve provided an earnest but dismissive reply. Regardless, it wasn’t her business, not until it began to gnaw on Arthur, then and only then would she make it her business.

 Upon returning to the shipments, she found Arthur going through the cuvees. However, it was apparent he was distracted and unfocused with the monotonous task. He didn’t react as she stood there, watching him for five full minutes. Beside her, Mystery leaned forcibly into her knee and raised his doggish eyebrows.

 “I know something’s up, ‘cause you ate food without me bitching.”

 Arthur yelped and crashed sideways with a hollowed Thunk!

[ericsonclan]

You're My Home Part 4

Summary: Now that they live together, Violet decides it's time: she invites Prisha to come with her to meet her mom.

Read on AO3:

Notes: Many thanks to @violetineprompts for the inspiration for this fic!

Violet sat in bed thoughtfully, her fingers playing with the sheets covering her. Prisha lay beside her, still sleeping. Violet wondered how soon it would be until she woke up. There was something important she needed to ask her. The clock beside their bed read 5:47 AM. She still had a little while. Crawling out of bed, Violet headed into the kitchen to make breakfast. As she finished preparing the eggs, bacon and toast, she heard her girlfriend stir and come out of the bedroom.

“Making breakfast, love?” Prisha asked, still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

Violet smiled shyly at the term of endearment. Prisha was especially affectionate whenever she was sleepy. “Mhm. I made plenty, so grab as much as you want,” She sat down across from her girlfriend, watching happily as Prisha began to eat.

It only took a moment for Prisha to realize Violet wasn’t joining suit. “You made all this and you’re not hungry?”

Violet shook her head, her eyes on the table. “Visiting my mom today,”

Prisha froze in the midst of biting into a piece of toast slathered in marmalade. “Oh. I see,”

“I want you to go with me this time,”

Prisha’s eyes shot up at that, studying Violet. In all the time they’d been together, neither had met each other’s parents. In Violet’s case, there was the added factor of her father’s violent mood swings. Prisha had never pushed the issue of Violet continuing to visit her mother once a month, even though the first time she’d learned of it had been through seeing Violet with a black eye. To be asked this now… Prisha wondered what had brought it on.

Violet seemed to read her thoughts. “I know it’s not something we ever really talked about. But I would like you to meet my mom. I- I want her to know that I’m happy,”

Prisha’s heart swelled at those words. “Violet…” She reached across the table to grab her girlfriend’s hand. “Of course I want to go. I would be honored,”

Violet’s eyes widened before settling into a bright warmth. “Shit. Ok then. We’re actually doing this,” She squeezed Prisha’s hand gently. “You good to go after breakfast?”

Prisha nodded. “I’ll be finished in a few,”

---

It didn’t take long before they were ready to head out. There wasn’t really anything to pack, just the monthly check that Violet set aside for her mother. Once that was written up they headed down to Prisha’s car, driving in relative silence. The only sound was the gentle lilt of Louis’ piano playing on the CD he had given them a few weeks earlier.

As they approached the old trailer park that Violet had once called home, she felt her gut twist inside her. Prisha had never been out here before. Violet had been honest about her past and more open with Prisha than she’d ever been before, but still, would seeing the dilapidated trailer in person somehow change things between them? Shut the fuck up - you’re being stupid, Violet scolded herself. Prisha’s not like that. It wasn’t like any of her other friends had abandoned her because of her shitty home life. Still, it was a feeling Violet simply couldn’t shake.

Pulling up to the correct trailer, Prisha parked the car and silently exited. As Violet approached, she reached out her hand to intertwine their fingers. They walked up the few steps to the broken screen door hand in hand. Violet rang the doorbell. They waited in tense silence until the main door was opened up a crack. As soon as there was recognition, the door opened wider. Violet’s mother stood before them, looking at the two girls through her screen door. The light inside the house was dim compared to outside so Prisha could only pick up vague details: long, thin blonde hair pulled back in a low ponytail. A thin, wiry frame similar to Violet’s. And dark eyes that looked out with a sort of jaded indifference.

“You gonna let us in, Mom?” Violet finally asked, breaking the silence.

Her mother pushed the screen door open without a word, allowing the girls to slip inside. They were immediately within the living room. A small TV stood against the far wall with a worn-down sofa and armchair facing it. The kitchen was to their right, the sink cluttered with dirty dishes and the smell of burnt food lingering within the air. Violet quickly guided Prisha over to the table where they sat beside each other, looking up at Violet’s mother.

“Tea?” she asked softly. There was a wispiness to her tone that reminded Prisha of Violet’s voice. They both nodded and Violet’s mother headed into the kitchen to get the water heater started. It gave off a high-pitched, faint whistle even as the water within was far from reaching boiling point. Violet’s mother sat down across the table, still observing the girls silently. There was something world-weary within her deep brown eyes. It was clear life had not been kind to her and was far from done with her either.

Violet slid over the check, tucked within a plain white envelope. Her mother pocketed it without a second thought, rising quickly afterwards to get out mugs for tea. When she came back, she carried three mugs steaming with chamomile tea: a pale purple one with a rainbow sloppily painted upon it – clearly a school art project of Violet’s from days gone by; a cracked white mug with a red logo that read Reggie’s Eats upon it and a black mug with no sort of decoration whatsoever. She handed the purple mug to Violet, the black to Prisha, and took a sip from the white mug herself. “You’ve never brought someone over before. Even growing up you wouldn’t,”

Not much to see here and plenty to avoid, Violet thought to herself, but she knew this wouldn’t be an appropriate answer. Not knowing what else to say, she kept things simple. “Mom, this is Prisha,”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Miller,” Prisha said, lowering her mug.

Violet’s mother nodded faintly. “You’re a friend of Violet’s?”

Violet and Prisha shared a look. Violet could feel her throat closing up from the pressure within. It was now or never though. Giving Prisha’s hand a final squeeze, Violet looked up at her mother. “Prisha’s my girlfriend,”

Violet’s mother stopped mid sip. Placing her mug down on the table, she looked off into the middle distance, seeming lost in her own thoughts. It took several seconds before she spoke. “I should’ve figured as much. What with you never dating, never even talking about boys,” She sighed, taking another sip of her tea.

“Violet’s a truly wonderful girl,” Prisha blurted out, her grip on Violet’s hand tightening. “I’m lucky to have met her,”

Violet’s mother gazed at Prisha, her gaze slightly narrowed, as if she wondered what Prisha’s angle could be in saying such a thing. “How did you two meet?”

“At work,” Violet replied. “Prisha works as the bartender at Ericson’s Diner,”

A slight puff of air left her mother’s lips, almost as though she found Prisha’s particular occupation at the diner ironic. She ran her fingers across the top of her mug absent-mindedly. “You know, I always thought you and Louis might end up together someday. Lord knows the two of you spent enough time together. But you said he's dating one of the waitresses, didn’t you? That pretty one in the pictures you’ve shown me,”

“Mom,” Violet’s jaw tightened, her gaze firm. “Prisha and I have been dating for over a year and a half now. We live together,”

Her mother seemed surprised at those words. She looked back and forth between the girls in shock, her eyes growing as large as Violet’s did in moments of surprise.

Violet continued on. “I love Prisha, Mom. That’s why I wanted to bring her here, for better or for worse. I wanted to show you that I’m happy,”

Prisha’s eyes sparkled at Violet’s words, her thumb gently rubbing her girlfriend’s hand as she smiled over at her with pride.

“You have to go,”

The words made Violet’s stomach sink. So her mother wasn’t going to accept her after all. “Mom, I-”

“No, you need to leave,” Violet’s mother wasn’t looking at her. She was looking out the window. That’s when Violet heard it: the rumble of her father’s truck.

Violet sprung to her feet at once, eyes flying round the room in search of an exit. She knew full well it was wishful thinking: the only exit the trailer had was the front door and her father would head up those steps any second now. Seeing her and Prisha trying to sneak out the front would only heighten his suspicions and lead to a confrontation. Should they hide then? But if he was home, he’d likely be here for hours, sprawled out in front of the TV. Would they seriously have to wait until he passed out to safely slip away? Pulling Prisha towards her old bedroom, Violet froze as she heard the screen door creak open. They were out of time. Instinctively she pulled her hand out of Prisha’s grasp.

“I’m home!” her father declared loudly, clearly already inebriated. His eyes took in the room lazily, widening in surprising when they fell upon his daughter and a stranger. “Violet,” he spoke bluntly, his eyes narrowing. “Haven’t seen you here in a long while. Who’s the beaner?”

Violet’s lip curled in disgust at her old man’s presence. “Prisha. We were just leaving,” She stepped forward but her father still blocked the exit.

“Leaving? But I just got here. Sit down!” he yelled suddenly before his expression changed to a lazy smile. “Please,”

Violet wasn’t sure what else to do. Shaking slightly, she returned to the seat she had recently vacated, Prisha beside her. This was bad. Maybe if they had to, they could make a run for it seeing as they were in the chairs closest to the door. But could they start up Prisha’s car before her father reached them? Violet wasn’t sure about that.

Her father sat down in the chair beside her mother. His hand lay open on the table as though expecting something. “Beer,”

Violet’s mother bit her lower lip. “I don’t think we have any-”

“I said BEER!” he roared, causing Violet’s mother to scurry and find some that she’d clearly hidden away in one of the cupboards. Popping it open, she handed it to her husband before sitting back down, her eyes on the table.

Violet’s father took a long swig before turning back to his daughter. “So, to what do we owe the pleasure?” he asked, waving his arms in mock grandeur.

“I just came to see Mom,” Violet replied, her eyes hard but turned away from him.

Her father snorted. “No love for your old man? I see how it is. I only fed and raised you, but do I see a penny or a word of thanks for any of it? Never,”

Prisha was fuming. Her hand rested upon Violet’s seat, balled up into a fist.

Though she remained silent, Violet’s father seemed to pick up on her body language, sending a sneer her way. “Got something to say, girlie?”

Prisha shook her head. “Nothing at all,”

“Prisha is Violet’s roommate,” Violet’s mother jumped in, sharing a quick look with Violet. “We were just getting acquainted,”

Violet’s father snorted. “Figures,” He turned toward his daughter with a frown. “Don’t you ever make friends with any white folks? I thought after hanging around Mason’s boy for so many years he might finally introduce you to some well-off white boys, someone you could shack up with. About time some of that wealth rubbed off and came our way. Don’t you work with that boy now?”

Violet simply nodded, remaining silent. The less her father knew about her life the better.

Finishing his beer off with one final swig, Violet’s father lazily dropped the empty bottle to the floor before motioning for another.

“I- we… that’s it,” Violet’s mother’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

“Bullshit. You’ve always got more hidden away. I know how you are,”

“I’ve been busy with those double shifts these last few days. I figured I’d have time to run out and buy some more before you got home, but you’re earlier than expected and-”

“So what, this is my fault?” Violet’s father’s voice rose in anger as he glared over at his wife. “A man should be able to expect a cold beer in his hand whenever he comes home. Is that so much to ask?”

“No,” The answer was faint.

“I said is that so much to ask!” Violet’s father rose from his chair, towering over his wife threateningly.

Instantly Violet was on her feet as well, her purple mug grasped firmly in her hand. The impromptu weapon shook slightly in her hand as she glared up at her father who chuckled darkly at the sight of his daughter.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Back away from Mom,”

“Or what?”

“Violet, I-” her mother began only to be met with a hard slap across the face.

“No interruptions!” Violet’s father bellowed, raising his hand to strike again.

“You piece of shit!” Violet screamed, tossing the mug at her father’s head. It broke against his temple and crashed to the ground, causing him to turn toward her with eyes full of rage.

“What did you say?” Her father circled the table, heading toward Violet when suddenly a whistled sound cut through the air and he staggered back in surprise, a hand held to his cheek.

Prisha stood in front of Violet, breathing heavily, arms spread. In one hand was a long, thin silver rod. It looked like one of those retractable pointers teachers used in a classroom. Prisha’s tone was grim as she extended her hand, pointing the rod threateningly. “Don’t you dare lay a fucking hand on her,”

Violet’s father narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” He strode toward the table again only to be slashed by two quick hits, one across his legs and the other cutting the side of his face.

“My name is Prisha Chakyar and as I live, I will not let you take one step closer to either your daughter or your wife,”

“Raising a weapon against me in my own home? No one does that! No one dares-” His words and rampage were cut short once more as Prisha continuously delivered a volley of attacks across his form, her aim precise and merciless. Reaching out to block the weapon with an angry roar, he received a slash upon his knuckles that left them bloody. Violet’s father attempted to charge forward through the pain only to be met with a slice directly across his face and a kick to the groin that left him staggering against the back of the armchair and falling to the ground.

Prisha flicked the steel pointed free of blood, keeping a steady eye upon the hated man. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her car keys and threw them to Violet. “Vi, start the car. Take your mother with you. I’ll be out shortly,”

Violet nodded, circling the table and grabbing her mother’s arm.

“Violet, I-”

“For once in your life, will you just fucking listen to me, Mom? We’re leaving!” Violet’s grip was firm as she guided her mother past her father’s glowering gaze and outside the trailer to the safety of the car. As the screen door slammed behind them, she could hear her father speaking once more.

“You think I’ll let something like this stand? I’ll sue you, take you for all your worth,”

“I highly doubt that, Mr. Miller. Considering your current financial status you’re unlikely to be able to afford a lawyer to begin with and there are years of evidence to prove your claims to the contrary. I’ll be leaving now and if I ever see you coming anywhere near Violet, I’ll do far worse than what you witnessed here today,”

As Prisha exited the trailer, Violet hurried to get her mother into the back of the car and circle round to the passenger side. Tossing the keys to Prisha as she sat down, Violet noticed her girlfriend’s hands were shaking. The rod lay at Violet’s feet now, still tinged with her father’s blood. As they sped out of the trailer park and back onto the freeway, Violet reached out for Prisha’s shoulder. Prisha flinched initially at the touch, but relaxed into it as she glanced over at Violet, a small smile on her face.

---

They dropped Violet’s mother off at the restaurant where she worked. Giving her mom all the cash she had on hand, Violet told her to find a motel for the night then left with Prisha. The drive back to their apartment was silent, tense once more, but a different sort of tension than they’d experienced on the way there, the silence of processing what had happened rather than what was to come. It wasn’t until they were inside the apartment, the door locked firmly behind them, that Violet turned to speak to Prisha. “Prish…”

Her girlfriend stood before her, the metal rod still held within her hand. Her eyes were full of emotions, such a depth and flurry of them Violet couldn’t tell which were which.

Violet wrapped a hand around her arm, looking at the floor in shame. “I’m sorry,”

“Vi…” Prisha dropped the rod upon the floor, rushing forward to wrap her in a crushing hug. The pair stayed frozen within that moment, clinging to each other, breathless, until Prisha pulled away, a hand coming up to cup Violet’s face. “Thank God he didn’t reach you. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to stop him in time,”

Violet’s lower lip trembled, tears beginning to run down her face. “It was awful. I never wanted you to see that. I swear I had no fucking clue he’d be back. My mom said he had work today, and-” she choked, her words getting caught in the buildup of tears and snot within her.

Prisha brought Violet’s head to her chest, rocking her back and forth gently. “We got out safely and we grabbed your mother too. That’s all that matters,”

“My mom,” Violet pulled away, looking up at Prisha with wet eyes. “I thought she’d take it better. I mean, I hoped. Shit, I figured she already fucking knew. I should never have taken you there. It was a mistake,”

“It was a calculated risk,” Prisha replied, gently guiding her girlfriend towards the couch. “Sit down. I’ll make us some chamomile tea,” She paused, glancing back at Violet. “On second thought, hot cocoa,”

Violet sat upon the couch in a daze, watching Prisha bustle back and forth within their kitchen. How was she still standing? After what they’d been through, Violet felt as though her legs couldn’t support her weight a second longer even if she tried.

Prisha came back in a few minutes with the two mugs of cocoa, setting them down upon the end table before reaching out for Violet once more, brushing a strand of hair out of her face then pulling her close. As Violet’s head rested upon Prisha’s chest, she could hear how fast her girlfriend’s heart was beating. The encounter had shaken her too. Prisha was just showing it differently. Prisha sighed, running a hand through Violet’s hair repeatedly as though making sure she was still there. “Well, it’s safe to say that we won’t be taking on the challenge of visiting my family anytime soon either,”

“They can’t be worse than mine,” Violet muttered. “Racists, homophobes… abusers,”

“Nevertheless, I believe we’ve earned ourselves a break,” Prisha rested her cheek upon Violet’s head, letting out a shaky sigh. “I’m so thankful that wand didn’t break,”

“What the hell was that anyway? It looked like something you’d use during a Powerpoint presentation,”

Prisha chuckled. “I actually have used it for that purpose over the years. My father bought it for me, for self-defense purposes. I’ve had it since high school. Never had to use it till today though,”

“Do you always carry that with you?” Violet asked, looking up at her girlfriend in disbelief.

“Not often these days. I have the bat stored under the bar if things ever got out of hand at the diner. But I didn’t want to bring something like that to my first meeting with your mother – I figured that would send the wrong impression. So I snatched up the wand instead and tucked it in my pocket, a sort of last resort,”

“One we had to use,”

“One that kept us safe,” Prisha stroked Violet’s hair one last time before pulling away slightly and looking her in the eyes. “Violet, you never have to say you’re sorry to me when it comes to your family. Where you were born isn’t your fault and what happened back there isn’t on you,”

Violet buried her head against Prisha’s shoulder. “Still, you didn’t deserve to go through that,”

“Neither did you,” Prisha placed a hand upon Violet’s shoulder. “I think you know already how precious you are to me, Violet. I hope that one day you see yourself as I do too without all the years you spent in that hellhole dragging you down. You survived, Violet. You’re the strongest person I know. Stronger than a person should ever have to be. But you don’t have to feel like you have to keep that strong face on even around me. Because that altercation terrified me,” Prisha’s voice became shaky, tears beginning to escape her eyes. “And since I’m crying before you, you can cry before me for as long as you need,”

Violet reached up, brushing a tear away from her girlfriend’s cheek before sobs overtook her own throat once more. Leaning against Prisha, she let herself cry. Tears for all the nights she spent in fear of her father’s wrath, the days she’d avoided the house in order to be safe from him. Tears for all the cuts and bruises she’d hidden, the pitying looks she’d turned away from. Tears for every attempt to escape, every action she’d taken to make things right only for everything to crumble apart and to find herself that same scared little kid once more, cowering in a corner alone.

But she wasn’t alone, not anymore. She wasn’t trapped in the trailer or crouching on the mattress in her old shitty apartment. She wasn’t couch surfing in Mitch’s or Marlon’s living room or hiding from the staff at Louis’ mansion. She was home. She had a home here with Prisha, a life they’d built together. She wasn’t going to give that up. Neither of them were. They would fight for what they had and fight to keep each other safe from all the shit life threw their way. As the flow of her tears lessened, Violet found herself focusing on something else: the feeling of Prisha’s arms around her. She was safe here. And knowing what she did now, knowing Prisha as deeply as she’d ever known a person before, Violet was sure that this wasn’t something she could lose. She was home for good.

[gosecretscribbles]

Stanuary Week 1: Burn

AN: Takes place in canon when the Stans are young, maybe 9 years old.   TW: Bullying, 2nd degree burns  @stanuary

Stan and Ford were sitting under a tree in a park, trying not to sweat.  The park was right across the street from Aunt Sheila’s house.  Ma had taken them there for “family bonding time,” but let them run out after Stan got bored and started shooting rubber bands at her doll collection.  It was so hot that Ford had left his aviator jacket inside, and the two of them wore shorts instead of their usual pants.  It was so hot their clothes felt like flannel. Ford sorely wished he could jump straight into the ocean and not come out till sunset.

Unfortunately, the park was too far from the beach to walk there, although it was close enough that it still got decent tourist traffic.  The ice cream truck had essentially parked at the curb for the day. Normally Stan would’ve been over there conning tourists out of their frozen confections, but today it was almost too hot to move.  The only reason they had the tree shade to themselves was that Ford intentionally left his hands out of his pockets – most of the kids who came close ran away screaming. It was nice to use his freak powers to his advantage for a change.

In the meantime, Stan had taken to describing the park and all its features as if they were his mortal enemies.  

“There it is, Sixer,” Stan whispered.  “The greatest weapon of destruction this park has ever known.”

Ford rolled his eyes.  “It’s a metal slide, Stanley.”

“It’s a metal slide in winter.  In the summer it’s a torture device invented by someone with a deep and fathomless hatred of children.”

“Stan.”

“And that see saw,” Stan said dramatically, pointing to the plastic alligator.  “Is a kid catapult waiting to happen.  Seriously. I want to know who designed playground equipment to be a torture device.”

“Stanleeeeey, it’s too hot to hate inanimate objects,” Ford groaned.  “What did the park ever do to you.”

“You haven’t seen the things I’ve seen, brother dear.”

Ford huffed and closed his eyes.  It was too hot to exist.  At what temperature did humans spontaneously combust?  

“Bet we could fry an egg on that slide,” Stan mumbled.  “What do you think? ��Gotta be hot enough.”

“Maybe.”

“Bet we could.”

“Mmm.”

“C’mon, it’s a science experiment that involves vandalizing public property. Plus we’ll get a snack out of it.”

“You want to eat cooked food?  In this weather?”

The grass beside him rustled.  Ford cracked an eye open to see Stanley stumble to his feet, then stagger dramatically across the grass towards the street toward their aunt’s house.  Ford thought about calling after him, but the heat utterly sapped his energy.  He closed his eyes and pretended not to exist. He heard someone step closer, then give a choked gasp and hurry away.  He clenched his fists and pretended even harder.

A few minutes later he heard more footsteps and this time felt a tap on one foot. He looked up to see Stanley bending over him, grinning, an egg in each hand.

“I got the goods,” he said in a corny Chicago accent.

“Great. Now keep standing there, you’re giving me extra shade.”

“Nu-uh, Mr. Scientist.  You’re gonna come do science things with me.  I’ll let you use fancy words like ‘experiment’ and ‘hypotenuse’ and everything.”

“I think you mean ‘hypothesis,’” Ford grumbled, but he let Stan pull him to his feet and the two of them wandered to the slide.  Ford couldn’t even look directly at the metal; it gleamed too brightly in the sun, and he could actually feel the heat radiate off of it like a physical force.  “Geez, maybe this thing really is hot enough.  That would have to be, what, at least 144 degrees Fahrenheit, so 62.6 degrees Celsius?”

“Heck if I know.  Ready?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Stan handed him an egg.  The two of them tapped the shells against the slide, then cracked it.  The eggs actually hissed quietly as they slid over the metal, and immediately the albumins, mucoproteins, and globulin began to coagulate.  Ford said as much.

“So, the egg white is turning white?” Stan asked.

“That’s what I said.  You said I could use fancy words,” he pointed out.

“I regret so much of my life.”

“Whoa,” said a voice from behind them.  “Check it out, there really are six fingers!”

They whipped around.  A kid slightly older and taller looked down at them, a toddler clutching her leg, staring wide-eyed at Ford’s hands.  He hid them behind his back.

“Whoa, you can count to six!” Stan said, equally wide-eyed.  “That’s so impressive!  You should get a medal!”

The girl scowled.  “Shut up, Ioser, I wasn’t talking to you.  Hey,” she addressed Ford.  “are you cursed or something?  Six is like, a devil number, you know.”

“I’m not cursed.”

“Are you sick or something?”

Stan stepped up, toe to toe with her.  “The only thing sick around here is you.  Get lost.”

“Let’s just go,” Ford mumbled, reaching for Stan’s shoulder.  The toddler saw his hand and gave a shriek.

“Don’t scare her!” the older kid said sharply, shoving Stan aside to scowl at Ford.

Stan shoved her back.  “She’s only scared ‘cuz you’re teaching her stupid superstitions!”

“I told you to shut up!”

“And I told you –”

“Stop, stop!”

Ford moved forward, reaching to pull Stan away from the shoving match. The older kid whirled on him and shoved, hard.  The metal slide was directly behind him.  He fell backwards and braced himself.  

But instead of hot metal, he landed on Stan’s lap with Stan underneath him, screaming as the hot metal slide seared his legs.

“Stanley!”

Ford leaped to his feet and pulled his brother off.  Stan stumbled forward, one hand held out behind him, not touching his thighs.  Ford leaned over to look and sucked in his breath.  Stan somehow hadn’t hit the cooked eggs, but the backs of his thighs were now two angry red burns already beginning to blister.

“Ow,” Stan whimpered.

“Get him ice!” Ford shouted at the kid, but she just squeaked and darted away, the toddler right behind her.  None of the other kids were close and every adult was conveniently looking in the opposite direction.  Ford gritted his teeth.  “Fine, c’mon, we gotta get to Sheila’s house.  She’ll have a freezer and we can cover your burns in egg whites, too.”

“You gonna cook an egg on me now?” Stan asked weakly.

“No, if you combine egg whites with silver sulfadiazine cream and apply it to second-degree burns –”

“Sixer, I’m too injured for science right now.”

“Lean on me, just walk slow.”

Stan obeyed, still bent over like an old man.  The day was still boiling hot, but by the time they were halfway across the grass, Stan’s hand was cold and clammy in Ford’s.  His breathing came in trembly gasps and Ford was sweating from stress as much as heat.  He’d never seen his brother in so much pain before.  Why did this always happen?  It was just like last summer with the pitchforks, only this time his brother got hurt!

“Mom!” Ford shouted as soon as they made the front door.  “Mom!  Aunt Sheila!  MOM! STAN’S HURT!”

Sheila’s house was old and reeked of cats.  The front door opened into the living room, with a hallway on the left that led to the kitchen and staircase.  There came an abrupt clatter of teacups and Ma appeared in the hallway, curls of hair plastered to her face in the heat.  Aunt Sheila appeared behind her, a near-copy of their mom but with blond hair and thinner lips.

“What happened this time?” Aunt Sheila sniffed.  “Throw a rock at a cat?”

“Someone pushed him onto the slide and his legs are blistering, look!”  He pulled Stan gently forward, turning him so they could see his legs.

Ma paled.  “Stan!”

“Am I poached or scrambled?” he asked weakly.

“Sheila, I’ll take some of your ice in a towel,” Ma ordered.  “Stanford, I want ten egg yolks and a baster to spread them with.  We’ll start with the ice, let me know when the eggs are ready.”

“Hey,” Stan protested, when Ford immediately moved for the kitchen.

“I’ll be right back.”

“And you’ll be on the couch,” Ma said, taking Ford’s place in front of Stan. “Go on, couch time.  You’ll lie on your stomach.”

“I’ll be back with the ice,” Sheila promised, then disappeared into the kitchen. Ford followed her.  “Stanford, eggs will be in the refrigerator, top shelf on the left.  Baster is in the drawer under the sink.”

“Thank you.”

They worked quickly, and his aunt hurried to the next room with the ice pack. It really worried Ford that he couldn’t hear his brother’s voice.  Normally he’d be taking full advantage of the special treatment.  And those blisters – he’d never seen a burn that bad.  

He had to crack extra eggs because his hands kept shaking and the shell would puncture the yoke, but eventually he finished the bowl with just a little curl of yellow in it and brought it to the living room with the baster.  Stan was lying on his stomach on the couch, both hands tightly gripping the couch cushions, the ice pack resting on his thighs.

“I have the egg whites,” Ford said, hurrying forward.

Ma nodded.  “Good. Alright, Stan, time to make like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Stan grunted but stayed still.

Ma motioned Ford over and took the bowl while Sheila removed the ice pack. They were almost worse than before, huge clear bubbles stretched over Stan’s skin.  

“It’s not so bad,” Sheila said, catching sight of his face.  “Egg whites are an old trick and a good one.  Since we’re treating him right away, he shouldn’t even scar.”

Ma dipped the basting brush in the egg whites, then swept it gently over Stan’s left thigh.

Immediately Stan screamed, left leg kicking out.  Ford jumped forward and grabbed his ankle, holding Stan’s leg down as his scream turned into a moan.  Ma quickly brushed him again, moving fast to slather the area before moving to the next leg.  Ford stared at the back of his brother’s head, the way his shoulders bunched with pain. Ford was hot.  Way too hot.  He was flooded with heat.  He saw Stan’s head pressed deep into the cushions to muffle his yells and he felt like his very blood was boiling and his gut roiled with lava.  

He didn’t even notice when he’d switched legs, but Ma rapped his knuckles sharply with the handle of the baster and he let go.

“We’re done,” she was saying, or something like it, and then Ford was next to his brother, squeezing Stan’s hand in both of his.

“You don’t – have to apologize,” Stan gasped into the pillows.

Ford hadn’t even realized he was talking.  “You shouldn’t have been hurt,” he said, and his voice sounded far away. “Don’t scream like that again.”

“Like – I’m being burned?  Gee, okay.”

“It’s not funny.  It’s not funny.”

“Hey.”  Stan turned his head so their eyes could meet.  His face was white and drawn with pain.  Ford realized with a shock that there were tears in his eyes.  “Don’t – guh – don’t cry.  Could – you squeeze harder?  It helps – I don’t know why –”

Ford squeezed until Stan’s fingertips turned purple.

“Better,” Stan said, blinking hard.  “That – metal slide – really has it – out for me.”

Ford choked out a laugh.  “You’re practically mortal enemies.”

A hint of a smile curved Stan’s mouth.  “Yeah. Stan Man – versus – Slide Slayer. That’s – comic book origin, right there. Bet I could – make a comic –”

“Not today you won’t,” Ma said, coming back into the room.  She had a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other.  “Here.  Nothing like an allergy pill to knock you out cold.”

“Cold would be good,” Stan managed.

Ford helped him tilt his head at an angle so he could drink the water, and Stan choked down the pill.  Ma took the cup back with a sigh.

“Nothing else to do but wait.  Ah, well. Your Pa’ll be by around 5 to pick us up. Ford, you come get me and Sheila if he wakes up or needs a fresh batch of egg whites; we’ll reapply those every time the old layer dries.”

“Yes, Ma,” Ford said.

“You’ll stay?” Stan asked Ford, after she’d left.

“I��ll stay,” Ford promised.

“Those kids,” he said suddenly.  “You’re not – cursed.  Okay?”

“I know I’m not.”

“Good.”  Stan squeezed his eyes shut.  A tear leaked out and ran across the bridge of his nose.  

“Please don’t cry!”

“Hurts.”

“You’ll go to sleep soon,” Ford said, somewhat desperately.  “And!  And! This totally gives you bragging rights. Right now you are absolutely hotter than anyone else in that whole park.  You’re literally Hot Stuff!”

Stan sputtered, a grin tugging his lips.  “Ha.  I was already – hot stuff.  This just – makes me – Hotter Stuff.”

His grip on Ford’s hands was already going slack.  It took a few long minutes, but eventually Stan fell asleep. Ford didn’t let go of Stan’s hand, though.  

“I’m not cursed,” he said quietly.  “I know I’m not, because I have a brother like you.”

[eclecticstarlightconnoisseur]

Edinburgh to Boston - Chapter 9 - Snow Day

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 

Chapter 3

Chapter4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Hello all, Sorry for the delay getting this chapter out there.  Real life some times gets in the way. This includes technology as my hard drive died. I didn’t lose much, most of what is really important was able to be salvaged.

I finally got around to including links to the other chapters, so anyone who has not read them all will be able to find them if they want. 

Has anyone noticed that Jamie has not called Claire Sassenach in eight chapters? Well, that will be rectified now. You don’t know how hard it was not to call her that all this time.

If there are any questions, comments, or thoughts please don’t hesitate to let me know. I can only learn from what you all say. Respectfully, please.

I do need to thank my beta @curlsgetdemgurls reading this and giving me the courage to post this. You are the best. Chapter 10 is underway.  I have no idea when it will be done, but there is a Chapter 10. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Without further delay, I give you:

Edinburgh to Boston

Chapter 9

Snow Day

Jamie and Claire sat at the table by the window, enjoying their breakfast. Jamie attacked his bowl of parritch, mixed berries, and honey with the ravenous appetite of a starving wolf who just happened across a carcass.

“Nuthin’ like a healthy bowl of parritch to start the day,” said Jamie, giving a withering look at Claire’s breakfast choices of fried eggs, bacon, and toast slathered with butter and jam.

“Well, Fraser, when in America, eat like one,” she said while waving a delectable piece of crunchy fried pork in the air. “It happens to be quite good. Even though they have got this bacon thing all wrong. Not like the rashers we have at home. Still, it is delicious.” Popping the tasty morsel into her mouth, she rolled her eyes and groaned ecstatically.

Jamie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at the remaining piece sitting on the plate, “Looks mostly like fat to me.” He reached over, snatching the ribbon of porkiness from her plate, considered it, and swiftly consumed it. “Hmm, fatty, salty, crispy, and smoky.  ‘Tis good, but I wouldna want to eat it every day.  Cannae be good for ye.”

Sighing and shaking her head,  Claire leveled a look of exasperation at him. “Live a little will you? We’re on vacation!”

He let out a laugh, “Yer right, but there is no need to be unhealthy.  As it is, I’ll no’ be going to the gym today. Hmm, mebbe I’ll just carry ye around instead,” he said smugly. Tilting his head to the side, he gave her body an appraising look, much like gazing upon the beauty of a perfect rose.

“What do ye weigh a leannan, about 8-9 stone? That’s no’ much. I’ll never get a decent workout just carrying ye around,” he smirked.

“Why thank you, I think. That is supposed to be a compliment, right? You don’t think I’m too thin do you?” Suddenly becoming self-conscious, she looked down at herself trying to figure out if she was too fat or too thin.

“Aye, it ‘tis and no yer not. I like ye just fine the way ye are.”

Jamie leaned back in his chair stretching out his long legs and taking a sip of his coffee.

“So, lass, what would ye like to do today?”

“Well, if you are worried about not getting your proper exercise, there are other forms of exercise that will raise your heart rate, you know,” Claire said as she cast a quick glance back toward the bed.

Jamie ignored this.

“I ken what we can do! Why dinna ye take me to some of yer favorite places ye liked to go when ye lived here?”

“I don’t know if that is a wise idea. Boston winters are very cold and I don’t think that either of us has appropriate clothes to go wandering about. Besides, I don’t know how many places are open today. Most people will be digging out.”

Getting up, Jamie went to rummage through his suitcase. Sure enough, he found his favorite forest green cable knit pullover, his black jeans, a pair of duck boots, and his down jacket.

“Weel, I’ll be damned.  I dinna remember packing these. Check yer bag let’s see what you have in there.”

Claire opened her suitcase and found clothes suitable for outdoor activities. She found her favorite cashmere jumper in midnight blue and her woolen turtleneck sweater in deep rich wine. She also found her favorite black skinny jeans, a warm wooly hat and gloves, and her parka.

“I know I didn’t pack these. I’m sure of it.” Her eyebrows drew together in confusion as she considered how these clothes ended up in her bag.

“It doesna matter how they got there, yer clothes are here. Let’s get dressed. I shall leave the itinerary to ye.”

Claire’s breathing quickened. She began to nervously play with one her curls, twisting it around her finger, over and over.  Truth be told, there was a certain amount of anxiety about leaving the room. She worried about dredging up old memories that she safely tucked away after ending her marriage to Frank. Least of all was the prospect of visiting places that held unpleasant memories. Most certainly she did not want to visit these places with Jamie. Fearing the possibility of a chance meeting with Frank gave her shivers.  She concluded that the likelihood of a chance meeting would be remote as classes would be canceled. That would leave Frank free to shack up with some bimbo, er umm, a young woman all day.

“What’s amiss, lass? Ye look a bit peely-wally. Are ye alright?”

“Sorry?”

“Something is bothering ye. It’s written all over yer face. Ye ken ye can tell me anything.”

Jamie walked back to the chair by the window, pulling Claire along. He sat down and settled her on his lap.

“I dinna want ye to feel that ye need to tell me anything that ye canna, but I can see yer fair fashed over something. Mo nighean donn, tell me what’s bothering ye if ye can.” He raised his hand cupping her cheek and began to stroke his thumb over her cheekbone.  Melting into the warmth of his hand, she relaxed.

“I wasn’t honest with you when I told you I slept well.”

She cleared her throat nervously, eyes darting around the room searching for something to focus on while gathering her thoughts.

“I, ah, had a nightmare about, ...well, it was about Frank. It left me feeling rather unsettled, to say the least.”

Her body language and voice were contradictions, outwardly appearing composed while her voice quavered with emotion. Describing her dream, she related how Frank tried to plant seeds of doubt and used her insecurities against her. The Scottish Barbarian and The English Rose. Insinuating she had a need for someone to dominate her. Jamie observed Claire as she told her story. Her face contorted with frustration, anger, shame; her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I told…,” her voice cracked, “I told him that I love you and you love me. And, and that he should bugger off and not come back,” Claire said this with pride in her voice. “But he said he would come back when I called him. I don’t want to see him ever again, really I don’t. I’ll never call him back, never.” With that, Claire buried her face into Jamie’s shoulder crying shedding tears of outrage and irritation.

Jamie’s mouth drew together in a tight white line.  His eyes burned with anger. That Englishman, that filthy sassenach bastard! How could he have the audacity to come into his bed between him and his woman upsetting her, trying to sow the seeds of doubt. He had no care for insults or slurs directed at him. He heard them before. But, Claire! She is kindness and goodness personified. If I ever meet him...

Jamie’s arms came around her, pulling her close to him.  His strong hands rubbed her back in soothing circles. He spoke to her softly in the Gàidhlig, speaking words of comfort that had no meaning to Claire but spoke to her heart and soul.

Jamie cradled her close to his chest and gently stroked her hair, “I’ll let nay harm come to ye as long as I walk this earth. Dinna be afraid, a leannan, there is the two of us now.”

Claire nodded her head and sniffed.

Jamie’s hand reached under Claire’s chin, raising it up so that he could look onto her face. Her eyes were puffy, nose red and runny, and her cheeks were tear stained.

“Ye are so beautiful, mo chridhe,” Jamie said smiling. He took a serviette wiping Claire’s runny nose as he kissed away her tears.

She sniffed, “You must be blind. I’m really not sure you should be operating anymore. I’m sure I don’t look beautiful right now.”

“Yer beautiful to me always,” he said lovingly.

Jamie’s voice took on a more serious tone. “Claire, if ye dinna want to go out because yer worried that ye will run into Frank,” he growled saying the bastard’s name, “I dinna want you to do anything that will make ye uncomfortable. We could always find something else to do.” He waggled his eyebrows in an attempt at being suggestive.

“Ridiculous man,” she said with a smile in her voice, feeling so grateful to have found him.

Closing her eyes to aid her concentration, she considered Jamie’s suggestion carefully weighing each of the pros and cons.

How much longer will I give Frank power over me, to control me and my life? It’s been three years since we divorced and he still tries to make me insecure, belittle me. When will I remove myself from his grasp? It’s now or never. It’s time to choose.  Time to take back what’s mine.

“NO! No, I won’t run and hide.  Frank has run my life for far too long, and I’ll be damned if I let him continue. Let’s go see Boston, Jamie. We’ll make our own memories,” Claire said grinning.

“That’s my lass. Yer strong, brave, and fearless and I love ye for it.” Jamie gave her a resounding smack on the lips that left her breathless.

They quickly dressed and departed the room laughing, smiling with their fingers intertwined.

**************

Jamie and Claire stepped outside of the comfort of their hotel into the bitter cold and biting winds. In spite of being warmly dressed, the frigid temperature threatened to seep its way into the very marrow of their bones.

The sidewalks were barely passable despite the best efforts of man, machine, and salt. Icy patches dotted the landscape causing the lovers to slip and slide along the walkways. Jamie’s hand reached out taking Claire’s elbow to steady her. They climbed over mounds of grey city snow that sported an occasional yellow streak.

After walking for twenty minutes, they reached Boston Common, each sporting red runny noses and equally red cheeks.

“I’m beginning to think yer first suggestion to stay in bed all day was a good idea,” Jamie said with a smirk on his face, the steam of his breath escaping with each word.

“Do you want to turn back?” A look of concern written all over her face.

“Nah, I was concerned about ye, Sassenach.”

Claire stopped dead in her tracks.  “Sassenach?! I know that word and it isn’t very nice.  Isn’t that something derogatory to call me?” Her amber eyes narrowed glaring at him with unnerving thoroughness.

“In truth, it depends on who and how they are saying it. The word sassenach really means Englishman or English lady. At worst, it means outlander. I have always called ye Sassenach in my mind.  Ye see I have always thought of ye as my English Lady. A woman of grace and refinement, a true Lady.”

With that, Jamie smiled placed his hand over his heart and made a courtly bow, “My Lady, I am at yer service.”

Giggling at the sight she decided to return the gesture.  Bowing her head and spreading the skirt of her jacket, Claire curtsied, “My Lord.”

Jamie popped up like a jack-in-the-box.

“Who told ye?” he demanded.

Claire looked quizzically at Jamie, “Who told me wot?”

“That I am a Laird.”

“You’re a wot???” she gasped.

“I am Laird Broch Tuarach of Lallybroch Estate.  My home. ‘Tis only an honorary title now, but it has been handed down in my family since the 18th century. Lallybroch is a working farm in the Highlands, ye ken.  My sister Jenny and her husband Ian run it. Their five children live there too. But, technically it is mine as I retain the title and will pass it on to my son someday.”

“Hmm, do I have to curtsy every time I see you, my Laird?” Claire asked with a coy smile.

Laughing to herself, she wondered how the OR staff would react if they had to curtsy every time he came to do a case.

“Nay, I think we can dispense with the formalities if ye please,” Jamie said with a chuckle.

“Good. It’s awfully hard to curtsy in the bloody snow.”

“May I offer ye my arm my Lady as we stroll about on this fine cold day...for the sake of yer safety of course. I wouldna want ye to slip and fall injuring yerself.” His blue eyes, as blue as the cold clear sky, crinkled with mirth as he extended his arm for her to take.

Bobbing her head, and lowering her eyelashes demurely she said, “It would be my pleasure, my Laird,” and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. Claire suddenly wondered why this felt like such a familiar thing to do.

Jamie tucked her hand securely in place pulling his arm and her hand closer to his body. He began to speculate why it felt like he had done this more times than he could remember. It felt natural, more like an everyday occurrence for them to walk like this.

A strong wind blew up around them, coating Claire from head to foot in a sheath of powdery snow crystals. The hair that peaked out from under her cap glistened, lashes sparkled with the tiny flakes that clung to them, and her clothes were enrobed in glittering flakes. She took on an otherworldly aura.

His mouth opened as he watched the swirling dust of snow float around her.

She must be one of the faes. No, not just a fae, but Queen of the Fae. For only the Queen could be so beautiful.

He stood there envisioning her in the finery befitting a Queen. A circlet of silvery moonbeams would adorn her head accentuating her mass of curls. Her lithe form draped in a diaphanous gown made of diamond dust while her feet were encased in slippers made from starlight.

He wanted to fall on his knees in worship, beg her to take him to her Queendom. He would become her Knight of the Realm, her Champion. With dirk and sword, he would do battle shielding her from harm. He would slay dragons, protect her from evil sorcerers, and safeguard her from malevolent creatures. As darkness envelops the earth, he would sleep at her feet sheltering and guarding her against the dangers that lurk in the blackness of night. She had cast a spell on him and he was happy to be under her power.

He heard the tinkling of her laughter, much like a wind chime, light and gentle in the breeze. Her eyes crinkled with merriment as a small buffy-brown bird landed on her shoulder. It hopped along coming closer to her ear merrily chirping. Claire raised her hand and stroked the downy head of the little bird speaking softly to it. Her hand went to her pocket and returned with a bit of her toast from breakfast. She opened her hand and the warbler flew onto her hand seized the bread and took wing.

Jamie stood in awe of the scene unfolding before him. “Is a wild bird so tame for her?!” The scene repeated itself several more times with birds flitting along her arm, singing and trilling to her. Each was tenderly stroked, given a bit of bread, then flew off to join its fellows. Her hand went to her pocket pulling out the remainder of the toast wrapped in the serviette. She tore the bread into bits scattering it on the snow.  En masse a clan of the small birds gathered joyously chirping doing a demented dance around the bread, pecking at it.

Mary, Michael, and Bride, she is the Queen of the Fae!

Claire looked at him with a radiant smile.

For a split second, Jamie became irrationally afraid.

“How did ye do that, lass!? The birds, they seem so tame!”

“I don’t do anything, really. They just come. It’s been happening for a long time, ever since I was a little girl. It started not long after my parents died,” Claire said with a shrug of her shoulders.

“Sassenach, do ye want to tell me about it if ye can?” Jamie asked cautiously knowing her parents' death is a painful and sensitive area for her.

There was a moment of hesitation, then taking a deep breath to steel herself for the memories.

“As I told you after my parents deaths my uncle Lamb became my guardian. He was writing a book on the meaning of birds in different cultures. While he sat writing in his study, I would play in the garden. One day, not long after my arrival, I was playing with my plushy dog when a bird, a sparrow, flew down next to me. Its head turned side-to-side watching me. Then it began to sing one of the sweetest songs I had ever heard. I held out my hand and it hopped on, chirping madly while wildly flapping its wings as if it were a leaf caught in a maelstrom.”

Claire’s eyes clouded and her lip quivered while struggling to maintain her composure as the childhood memories beset her.

“I began to pet the bird and it quieted under my touch. It began to sing again, but this time soft and low. For a moment, I thought I heard my mother’s voice singing the lullaby she sang to me at bedtime.”

She gave Jamie a sidelong glance to see if he thought she was deranged. He stood there calm, placid, face expressionless, giving no hint to his inner thoughts.

“I started to cry and the bird flew off. I got up and ran into to tell Lamb what happened. He picked me up, put me on his lap, and cuddled me to his chest. After he wiped my tears, he told me that ancient Egyptians believed that sparrows carried the souls of the dead to heaven. Perhaps this one came to tell me that my parents were in heaven with God and the angels and I shouldn’t worry.”

A single tear ran down her cheek.

“I was happy that Momma and Daddy were in heaven, but I really didn’t understand all of what he was talking about.  Later, as they continued to visit me, we talked about it again. Lamb told me that a Buddhist teacher he knew believed that a person in mourning is considered a very holy person. This holy state opens the mourner to experience things that are beyond the physical world and more receptive to the spiritual world. Lamb thought that was why I thought I heard my mother singing or my father’s laugh when the birds came. Grieving opened my heart to other possibilities.”

“Three months before you came,” she continued, “whenever I would walk Ginger in the park the birds would continue to visit. I began to hear another voice, a new one. It was deeper, rich, and very, very masculine. He would call my name, sometimes in passion and sometimes with love and laughter.” Giving him a quick sidelong look she finished her tale,  “I know now that it was your voice I heard.”

Jamie startled at this revelation. Was it truly his voice or could it be the other’s voice calling out to her from across the centuries? He wondered if she was ready to hear about the Fraser Legend. No, he thought not just yet. He disliked withholding something from her but now was definitely not the right time.

Beginning to fidget, she moved her foot in the snow gouging out a divot with the heel of her boot. She felt the heat rising up to color her cheeks. She was afraid to look at Jamie fearing that she would see he truly thought her insane.

Neither spoke for a time. The only sound around them was the wind soughing through the leafless branches.

“Claire, look at me.” Jamie placed his fingers under her chin forcing her head up to look at him. She kept her eyes closed not able to bear the disdain she would see in his eyes for her.

“Mo ghràdh, look at me, please. I believe you. I dinna understand it, but I believe you.”

“How can you believe me when it sounds crazy even to me? Really, Jamie! I have often wondered if this...” Claire waved her hand toward the birds eagerly consuming the bread, “was nothing more than the imaginings of a sad and lonely child who grew up to become a sad and lonely adult searching for her lost parents and her lost home. A woman who is so desperate that she convinces herself that some sparrows hold the souls of her dead parents. Christ, Jamie!”

He looked at her, her glass face giving away her sense of loss, loneliness, and pain. “Sassenach,” he spoke gently to her as if she were a frightened child, “I am an educated man but I am also a Highlander born and bred. I do ken there are many a thing that is beyond our understanding. There are many tales of the highlands that still canna be explained. Why not this?” His eyebrow lifted in an inquiry.

“Can ye explain what happened to Robert Gordon? The man was clinically dead after 30 minutes of resuscitation no heartbeat, no breathing. Then all of a sudden the man sits up and starts talking. He told us everything that happened in that room, everything we said and did. He said he saw his wife and bairns calling and greetin’ for him.  There was more for him to do he kent, so he decided to come back.”

“Yes, I remember.” Claire shuddered at the remembrance of the event. It still gave her chills to think about it.

“Can ye explain that? No, I dinna think so. There are things that are outside our ken. Why must ye explain yers? It just is. Dinna question it, especially when it makes ye happy to believe so.”

Her rational mind, the scientific part of her, rejected any possibility of this being true, but the little girl in her wanted, no needed to hold on to any chance that she might still have some connection to her family.

Claire’s eyes drifted down toward the snow.  The clan of sparrows left, all except three.  She sighed.  It was always the same, three of the warblers always remained, two males and one female.

The birds stood there cocking their heads from side-to-side regarding Claire and Jamie. The female and one of the males flew up alighting on Claire’s shoulder. The female came close rubbing her feathery head against Claire’s cheek, softly cheeping to her.  The male landed on her opposite shoulder gently pecked at her hair.

The more vocal male flew up landing on Jamie’s forearm giving him a level look. He began to chatter and chirp loudly hopping up his forearm with the determination of a sprinter moments away from the finish line.

His black birdy eye coldly glared while uttering piercing squawks of what seemed to be warning or admonition.  The feathery wings spread wide fluttering frantically. This was one very agitated bird.

“If we are going to believe these creatures possess the souls of my family, I think he is my father and these two are my mother and uncle,” Claire said with a small smile.

“Aye, I think yer right, Sassenach.”

Jamie reached up took hold of both of  Claire’s hands, linking them together.

“Sirs and Madam,” Jamie said with all solemnity, “I am James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser, and I am deeply in love with yer daughter and niece. My intentions are honorable and I promise to see her safe, care for her and love her all the days of my life. I ask yer approval of our relationship.” He bowed his head in respect toward the feathery family.

In unison, their heads swiveled toward Claire questioning.

“I love him too. He fills my heart with love and joy. He takes away the emptiness. When I am with him it's as if the sun comes out on a cloudy day filling my life with light and warmth.”

The downy kinfolk flew around them coming to land on their joined hands singing sweet and mellow.

“I hope ye dinna mind, but I plan to kiss yer daughter.”

Their hands broke apart.  Jamie raised his hands up to cup Claire’s face, “Before yer family, I love ye, Claire Beauchamp across all time.”

“I love you too, always and forever,” she sighed into his mouth.

He leaned forward and tenderly pressed his lips to hers. A kiss filled with so much love, tenderness, and promise.

His eyes crinkled and a smile lit his mouth, “Aye, I must love ye Sassenach, ye have me talking to the birds too.”

The little bird family took flight soaring high above the lovers and disappeared into the sky knowing their daughter and niece was well loved.

[lastbluetardis]

Chemical Potential (9/11)

Summary: Slightly homesick and stressed about her abysmal chemistry grade, Rose Tyler meets quirky James Smith, the boy who sits in front of her in their chemistry class. They become fast friends as James makes it his personal mission to help Rose get through the semester.

Ten x Rose University AU

This chapter: ~5800 words, teen

Notes: This was written for the lovely @thegreenfairy13 as part of the @dwsecretsanta gift exchange. Also tagging @doctorroseprompts.

There’e going to be one more chapter and an epilogue after this one :)

AO3 | Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | epilogue

Rose woke up in the middle of the night to something solid landing on her chest. Heart hammering, she jolted upright and blinked wildly, batting at the thing on top of her. Her fingers met with sleek fur as an annoyed mrrrp sounded from her stomach and two luminous eyes glared at her accusingly.

“Jesus,” Rose sighed. “You scared me, Pip.”

Pippin crawled back onto her chest and began the process of finding a comfortable spot. More than once, his arse was shoved into her face and she leaned away from it. He eventually plopped down and began purring contentedly, the vibrations of his body making Rose drowsy.

Until she remembered where she was, and that she’d invited herself to sleep over at James’s house without his permission.

Her gaze shot to the couch, but it was empty. Rose plopped her head back against the recliner. Well, at least he hadn’t woken her up to toss her out of his house. Though he was far too polite to do that anyway.

Rose sighed, but settled back into her chair. She was tired and it was still dark out. She might as well try to get a bit more sleep before having to see James and give him an awkward apology.

She reached up to rub Pippin’s soft little head, then pulled her blanket closer around her shoulders. No. Not blanket. Blankets. Plural.

Glancing down, Rose realized that she had somehow become covered by the blanket James had been sleeping under mere hours earlier. Something twisted inside of her at the thought that James had covered her with a blanket.

She inhaled deeply and hummed when she realized her new blanket smelled like him. She tucked her hands under her chin, bringing the blanket with them, and she fell back to sleep surrounded by James’s comforting scent.

When she awoke again, the sky outside was a light gray color. While the recliner wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, Rose felt well enough rested that the day wouldn’t be a sleepy struggle.

She froze when she realized she’d awoken because she’d heard footsteps. She closed her eyes and stilled, pretending to sleep. Moments later, James paused at the entrance to the living room. Slowly, she cracked open one eyelid. Through her lashes, she saw him standing a few feet away, just looking at her.

A thrill of… something shot through her. She was a little self-conscious, but at the same time, she���d watched James sleep the previous night, so turnabout was fair play. (Never mind the fact that he didn’t know she’d been watching him. Then again, James didn’t know that she knew he was watching her now either.)

He began to move closer, and she shut her eye. Her body was far too tense to pass as sleeping, but she hoped James didn’t notice. She was hyper-aware of him so that when he rested his hand on her arm, she wasn’t entirely surprised.

“Rose.” His voice was soft and gruff from sleep. His hand rubbed up and down from her shoulder to her elbow. Even though their skin was separated by two blankets and her sweatshirt, goosebumps still prickled across her body. “Rose. Wake up. Ro-oooose.”

Her heart clenched at the way he crooned her name, his lilting voice turning it into two syllables. A pang of longing went through her as she wished she could wake up every morning like this. Well, perhaps not exactly like this—she’d prefer a bed to a recliner—but she wanted to wake up with him.

She made a show of slowly beginning to stir, and she was pleased when he kept rubbing her arm. She never wanted him to stop.

When she cracked open her eyes, all coherent thought left her mind. His face was inches away; her eyes skated across the freckles that speckled his cheeks and nose. Then they darted down his lips, which were pulled in a lovely little smile that made her tingle all over.

She smiled sleepily. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

But soon embarrassment cleared her head and warmed her ears and cheeks. “Sorry for sort of inviting myself to spend the night. But you were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you, and I didn’t want you to wake up alone, so I just sort of…” She broke off with a shrug.

“I don’t mind. I…” His cheeks pinkened. “I’m glad you stayed.”

They looked at each other shyly for a minute before James stood up.

“We should get moving. Want breakfast first, or would you prefer me to take you back to your flat right away?”

“Oh, it’s okay. I can call for an Uber.”

James shook his head. “Please. I insist. After all you did for me yesterday… Please?”

Rose nodded, then said, “Breakfast would be great.” She rooted around on the floor where she’d set her phone last night. “What time is it?”

“Seven,” he answered, right as she hit the home button and saw 06:58 flash on the screen. “You’ve still got some time until you need to be at the school for your Shakespeare class.”

Silly though it was, Rose was pleased that James remembered when she had classes. And that he was thoughtful enough to wake her with plenty of time to spare so she could go back to her flat for a shower and a change of clothes first. She hadn’t relished the idea of spending the day in the same clothes as yesterday.

“Toast and eggs all right?” James asked as Rose lowered the footrest of the recliner.

“Yep.”

She followed him into the kitchen, where Pippin and Merry were crunching over their bowls of food. James moved around the space, gathering a frying pan, eggs, and butter.

“I’ll mind the toast,” Rose offered when he grabbed a loaf of bread from the pantry.

Together, they worked to make a nice but simple breakfast. Rose slathered butter and raspberry jam over their toast while James expertly fried and flipped the eggs, not breaking the yolks as Rose often accidentally did.

The conversation was sparse as they ate, though it was by no means uncomfortable. On the contrary, Rose was perfectly at ease as she sopped up the remnants of the runny egg yolk with the last bit of her toast, not caring that her fingers got messy.

James had left the crusts on his plate and was cradling his nearly-empty mug of coffee in his long fingers.

“I’ll cut the crusts off for you next time like my cousin does for her five-year-old,” Rose teased.

James stuck his tongue out at her, but his cheeks had turned pink. He didn’t look embarrassed though—in fact, he was smiling faintly—and Rose shrugged it off.

“When you’ve finished your tea, we can leave,” he said, gulping down the last of his coffee.

He began to clear up their dishes while Rose drank her tea as quickly as possible without scalding her mouth. Then he walked her to his car, his hand on her lower back, and drove her home.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” James promised, idling outside of her building. “Thank you so much, Rose. I—” He hesitated, his mouth working silently for a moment, before he eventually said, “I’m incredibly lucky to have you as my friend.”

Rose wished he was out of his car so she could give him a hug. “I’m lucky to have you as my friend, too. If you’re ever having a bad day and want to talk or just hang out, let me know. I’ll always be here for you, James.”

His responding grin was dazzling, making her breath catch. With a cheerful wave and a two-fingered half-salute, James pulled away from her building and drove off.

oOoOo

After that, something shifted almost imperceptibly between herself and James. Rose couldn’t put her finger on what had changed; all she knew is that things seemed more intimate between them.

They used the impending approach of the third exam and finals week as an excuse to study more often, but their study sessions frequently found them talking about non-chemistry-related things.

They shared pieces of their pasts and talked about their futures. Rose’s heart raced with delight and anxiety when they both talked about the following semester and the rest of their time at the university as though it was set in stone that she would be around to see it. And as though they planned to still spend time together.

She appreciated his confidence, and used it to attempt to kindle her own fledgling optimism. Rose was doing superbly on all of her assignments and lab work; any time she showed James a new score that was near-perfect, he beamed at her as though she was holding a winning lottery ticket and scooped her in for a congratulatory hug.

It was hard to not feel hopeful, especially when the Excel spreadsheet of her chemistry grades kept changing, projecting that she needed a lower and lower score on her final exam to get a passing grade in the class.

“You are doing so well with this unit, Rose,” James praised on their last study session before the Thanksgiving break. “You’re amazing! Look at this!” He took her quiz from her and waved it in front of her nose, as though she hadn’t been staring at the circled 95% at the top. “Amazing!”

“Finally some of this seems to be making sense,” Rose said, still grinning with pride. They were in the final few chapters of the class, learning about molecular geometries and shapes and how things were bonded together, something she’d been worried about until she realized her artistic background would help her immensely with visualizing three-dimensional orientations of molecules.

“This is more than making sense. This is understanding. You’re getting it, Rose. You’re truly understanding what’s going on.” He then pulled a sour expression and whined, “You’re rendering me obsolete!”

Rose rolled her eyes and nudged her elbow into his ribs. “Oh shut up. I’m still going to need your amazing brain to help me get that 62% I need on the final. Besides, I’ve grown quite fond of you; you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

James blushed, but smiled.

“Right, so I think that’s enough studying for today,” Rose said. “It’s a holiday, which means no thinking at all for the next few days.”

“I’m not sure that’s exactly what’s supposed to happen during break,” James argued.

“Is too. What time should I get to yours on Thursday?”

James pressed the tip of his tongue to the backs of his teeth as he gazed at a point above and beyond her shoulder. “Hmm… It’s gonna be more of a late lunch than an actual dinner. So probably around two or three?”

“D’you want help cooking?” Rose asked, remembering past Christmases where her mother and various relatives all worked nearly-nonstop in the kitchen before the meal. “I can get there earlier. I don’t mind. I’d be eager to see the whole process of Thanksgiving.”

“Really, it’s just like Christmas,” James said. “Turkey goes in first, then the sides are made at different times.”

Rose tried not to let her disappointment show as she forced a nod. James’s eyes went a bit wide.

“But it’d be really nice to have some help,” he said quickly. “I’d love for you to come earlier. It’d be nice to have an extra set of hands.”

“If you don’t want me there…”

“I do,” he said firmly. “Come by in the morning. Say… nine or ten?”

“Sounds good,” Rose said, and she gathered her school bags and headed to her flat.

The university had closed for the holiday beginning on Wednesday, and Rose spent the day catching up on all of the chores and errands she had been putting off. She cleaned every inch of her home and began to browse the Internet for Christmas gift ideas.

As the evening approached, Rose sent James a text. “Need/want me to bring anything tomorrow?”

His reply came back immediately.

Just yourself.

Btw, want me to pick you up?

Bus routes are few and far between on holidays. And Uber rates are expensive.

Rose chewed on her lip, trying to decide. On one hand, he was right; using public transportation tomorrow would be a hassle. But on the other, she didn’t want to inconvenience James by having him drive all the way to her flat only to turn right around and go back home again.

Seriously, I don’t mind. What are best mates for, anyway?

“For living vicariously through your cat babies,” she teased.

Rose Tyler, you wound me.

“Oh, you know I love you.” Rose froze at the natural response, then quickly deleted the words before she could accidentally send the text. Instead, she typed, “You know I’m kidding. And yeah, if you really don’t mind, getting a lift from you would be great.”

Excellent. I shall see you tomorrow around nine-ish.

Also. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow. And as we’ve just established, Uber rates are insane.

So if you want to spend the night at mine, you’re more than welcome to.

If you want.

“Mate-date sleepover?” Rose hesitated, then added the winking emoji and sent the message.

Small dots popped up on her phone, but they disappeared seconds later. Then they reappeared. This happened half a dozen times, and Rose was about to reboot her phone, thinking it was glitching, when it buzzed in her hand.

Exactly! He’d added a grinning emoji.

She would have traded her soul to know what he’d been typing and deleting for a full minute.

“Sounds great. See you tomorrow!”

oOoOo

Preparing dinner with James was magical. They worked seamlessly around each other, checking on the turkey and basting it, boiling potatoes, cooking veggies, and occasionally stealing pieces of the various fruit pies to sample.

It was as though they were always meant to be doing this. Hosting holidays together.

James was in a tight pair of jeans and a snug t-shirt that showed off his lithe body. Rose stared openly at the flex and ripple of his muscles as he worked. His forearms. His pecs. His shoulders. His back.

Her body ached to touch him, to wrap her arms around him and press herself against him until there was not even the slightest sliver of space between them. She wanted to know how his body moved with hers. She wanted to know where her hands would settle as they kissed. She wanted to know where his would settle.

“I’m sure the potatoes aren’t that interesting,” James said, bumping his hip into hers. That made the heat in her belly flare sharply. “Thinking deep thoughts?”

Only about how much I want to snog you. And maybe shag you.

“I truly am as dull as you said. Boiling potatoes are the height of fascination,” she said dryly.

He giggled, a giddy sound from high in his throat. She loved that sound. She wanted to hear it every day, wanted to be the person who made him make that sound.

He stepped closer to her and stabbed a fork into the potatoes. The warmth from his body radiated into hers, sending a delicious shiver down her spine.

“Still needs some time,” he murmured, his mouth right beside her ear. His breath was hot and he was so, so close now.

And before she could respond, his lips landed on the side of her neck. She hummed low in her throat and tilted her head to the side, giving him more room. He took advantage of it and began pressing delicate kisses along the arch of her jaw. She lifted her hand and threaded her fingers through his hair to hold him in place. Not that he was going anywhere.

“James,” she breathed.

“Rose,” he replied. She felt him smirk against her, then his teeth scraped across her skin.

She shuddered in his arms, then turned. A cocky grin was on his lips, but it slipped when she lifted herself onto her toes and yanked him down for a kiss. A real, proper, full-on kiss. He sighed into her mouth and melted into her.

Rose wrapped her arms around his shoulders to hold him close. Finally, she thought. Oh, God, finally. His lips were soft and a little dry, and they moved perfectly with hers. They found a slow, lazy rhythm and kept it, unhurried.

His arms draped loosely around her waist, hugging her gently to him. One of her hands went to his jaw, his cheek, holding his face tenderly while her other hand fisted into his hair. She enjoyed the motions of his jaw as they kissed.

When she scraped her nails across his scalp, he let out a knee-weakening groan that made her core begin to throb.

With a noise that was a cross between a growl and a hiss, Rose walked him backwards a few steps until he collided against the wall. He smiled beneath her mouth, but let her pin him to the wall.

His hands dipped under the hem of her shirt so his fingers could map out the expanse of her back. She shuddered as his fingers caressed her skin, then settled at the base of her spine. His fingers clenched and released, mirroring the motion of his mouth against hers.

He was a fantastic kissing partner. His lips pulled and gave way, dominated and submitted. His breathing was ragged and he kept letting out tiny, needy noises that made her press herself closer. Their hips were flush, and they were rocking and grinding and writhing together, stoking the fire that was roaring through her veins.

The oven beeped at them, and James faded away from her, taking the solid length of his body away from her touch.

“No,” she whimpered, grasping for him.

He grinned at her, looking entirely put together and composed while she thought she might scream with frustration.

The oven continued blaring.

Only it wasn’t the oven.

Rose’s eyes snapped open. Her body was hot and tense, and an unbearable ache throbbed between her legs.

“Fuck,” she grumbled, then she fumbled for her phone to silence her alarm.

She flopped back down onto her bed and rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. That dream had felt so real. Now, not only was she turned on and alone, but her chest twinged with sorrow and longing that she’d never actually kissed James. Or had him kiss her while holding her like she was the most important person in his world.

“Fuck,” she repeated. She swung her legs off the side of her bed and got up to take a long, cold shower.

James arrived a few minutes after nine. Rose carried her overnight bag down to his car, then flung it into the back seat and slid into the passenger’s seat.

When they got to his home, Rose chucked her bag into the spare bedroom that she was desperately trying not to call “hers”. Then they went to the kitchen to begin food preparations.

There wasn’t much to do at first, and Rose boosted herself onto the countertop to watch James season the turkey and pop it into the oven. She took the time to observe him. His jeans weren’t as tight as they’d been in her dream, but they still gave her a very generous view of his arse. He was wearing a jumper though, which, to Rose’s disappointment, hid the movement of his upper body from her. It was probably for the best.

“You all right?”

Rose snapped her gaze up from where she’d been rotating between ogling his bum and his exposed forearms. Her face heated, but she ignored it and instead forced a smile.

“Fine,” she said. “Just a little tired. I didn’t sleep all that well last night.”

“Feel free to make yourself a cuppa tea,” he said. “If that’ll help.”

Her smile turned genuine, and she hopped down from her perch to make tea for the both of them. It was nearly automatic, the way she dumped milk into the mugs then added honey and a lemon wedge to hers and several scoops of sugar to his. But when she turned, he was looking at her with a soft, unreadable expression.

“What?” she asked, self-conscious.

He shook his head faintly. “I… Nothing… It’s just… You remembered how I take my tea.”

Rose frowned. “Well, yeah.” Then she shot him a teasing smirk and said, “It’s milk and half a bag of sugar. Not that hard to remember.”

He giggled her favorite giggle, looking absolutely delighted. Her chest felt warm but slightly hollow, and it took everything in her to not slam him against the wall and snog the breath out of him.

“What time are your other guests going to be arriving?” Rose asked. “And how many people are coming?”

“Anywhere from noon to three,” James said, shrugging. “I gave very loose, vague timelines for today. It’s going to be a low key gathering. And at last count, there were gonna be eight other people, in addition to you and me.”

While they waited for James’s guests, they broke out a board game and passed the time playing Risk. They finished two rounds before the doorbell rang. Rose cleaned up the game pieces while James greeted his guest and let them inside.

“Rose, this is Jack. Jack, this is Rose.”

Rose glanced over and saw a handsome, dark-haired man grinning at her from the entry to the living room. He was quite fit, and Rose took a moment to rake her eyes up and down his toned, muscled body. She flushed when she realized he’d caught her looking and was now giving her a once-over.

“Hi,” he said with a wink and flirtatious smirk. He stuck out his hand for her to shake. “Jack Harkness.”

“Jack,” James said, frowning. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying hello,” he said innocently.

Rose bit her lip around a chuckle as she walked towards them and grasped Jack’s extended hand. His grip was warm and firm, and after he shook her hand, he brought it to his lips for a kiss.

James glared at Jack’s back, but he turned and stalked to the front door when the bell rang, heralding a new guest.

Over the next hour and a half, all of James’s guests arrived, pulling him in and out of the kitchen to greet them. Rose assured him she didn’t mind; after all, it wasn’t that hard to boil potatoes. Some of the guests entered the kitchen to offer their help (especially Jack), and Rose made idle conversation with them as she worked on the mashed potatoes.

“I feel bad, leaving you to do the cooking. You’re not even the official host,” James said when he realized she’d finished the potatoes and had the veggies heating up.

“I told you, it’s all right,” she said. “Besides, if I didn’t want to help, I wouldn’t have offered.”

James gave her a relieved smile and squeezed her forearm in thanks.

“Though I’m making you carve the turkey. I don’t feel like getting my hands that dirty.”

James stuck his tongue out at her, but conceded.

The ones who hadn’t ventured into the kitchen on their own, James brought to introduce to Rose. She worked hard on remembering everyone’s names and how James knew them, but the information faded fairly quickly.

The meal wasn’t as awkward as Rose had thought it would be. Despite only having met them a couple hours ago, she managed to make easy conversation with everyone.

Everyone but James, that is. She’d initially planned to sit beside him at the table for dinner, and had put her glass of wine next to his to informally reserve her seat. But when she’d disappeared to the kitchen to help James bring the platters of food out, a blonde woman had sat in her place. She remembered this woman’s name: Reinette. She was the French girl who had somehow landed herself in James’s intermediate French class.

Oh well, she thought to herself as she plucked her wine glass from the table.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman said, frowning. “I didn’t realize someone was sitting here.”

“It’s all right,” Rose said brightly, moving to the opposite end of the table.

Minutes later, everyone was seated and passing around the dishes of food. The conversation was steady as everyone worked through the heaps of food on their plate. Jack had ended up sitting beside Rose, and they talked to each other quite a bit.

Rose couldn’t help but notice that Reinette and James were engaged in conversation for the entire meal. He was laughing and beaming at her, angling his body towards her to give her his full attention.

Something hard and uncomfortable dropped into the pit of her stomach as she watched Reinette cover his forearm with her hand, squeezing and rubbing his arm. And James was leaning closer to her touch, which made the feeling worse.

Rose pulled her gaze away from them and tried not to let her hurt show. How had she never seen James interacting with another friend until now? What she’d mistaken for flirting and attraction must have just been his overly-affectionate personality. All the times he’d grabbed her hand or let her take his were normal for him. Nothing special.

She utterly ignored James and his dinner companion for the rest of the meal, choosing instead to throw herself head-first into the conversation around her. Someone had turned the television on and had flipped it to a sports channel, where an American football game was playing.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” Jack asked her, nudging his foot against hers.

“Not really,” she admitted. “Er… I know they have to take the ball from one end to the other. And they get different amounts of points depending how they did it. But that’s about it.”

Jack laughed good-naturedly at her, as did a few of the other people sitting around her, and he began explaining the basic rules to her.

Everybody took their plates to the kitchen after the meal was over and stacked their dishes in the sink, per James’s request.

“I’ll load the dishwasher later,” he’d said.

Stuffed and sleepy, Rose joined a few people on the floor of the living room to continue watching the football game. There were cheers and boos at seemingly every play, and Rose found herself joining in the longer she watched.

Meanwhile, James had settled onto the sofa with Reinette plopped beside him. To make room for another two people on the couch, they were pressed so tightly together that Reinette was nearly in James’s lap.

Rose continued to ignore them, just as she ignored the acidic taste in her mouth at the sight of them. Instead, she leaned against Jack and sipped her drink as she continued to watch the game.

Try as she might, Rose couldn’t entirely block out James’s conversation with Reinette. They talked about politics, both American and European, and the places they’d travelled to. Rose hadn’t realized how much of the world James had seen.

“My parents loved to travel,” James told Reinette wistfully. “We vacationed every summer in a different country. When I moved with my aunt to America, we would take vacations to various states.”

“Why did you move with your aunt?” Reinette asked, furrowing her delicate brow.

“Er… my parents passed away,” James said awkwardly.

“Oh!” Reinette clapped her hand to her mouth. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

She wrapped her arms around one of his, hugging it tightly to her breast before she leaned up to brush a kiss to his cheek.

That was when Rose stood up and stalked into the kitchen under the guise of getting more wine.

Her chest ached as she poured herself her third glass of the afternoon and downed half of it in one go.

Seeing James with Reinette made it so heartbreakingly obvious that she was way below his league. He and Reinette were able to talk about travel and politics and other sophisticated things much more eloquently than she ever could.

Somehow she’d managed to convince herself that James had romantic feelings for her when instead he was simply an affectionate person. She should have realized she wasn’t anything special to James, and she’d been stupid to think she was.

She’d gotten her hopes up that maybe he might be a little bit in love with her. Now her hopes were crashing down and shattering at her feet, and it hurt.

Working on autopilot, Rose set her newly-emptied glass of wine to the side and moved to the pile of dishes in the sink. Trying to convince herself she wasn’t avoiding James, she gave everything a cursory rinse then arranged them neatly into the dishwasher.

It didn’t matter; he found her five minutes later.

“Rose!” He sounded like he was smiling hugely, and she irrationally wanted to throw a spoon at him. “There you are! Thought I’d lost you.”

“Nope,” she said, trying to infuse emotion into her flat voice. “Just washing up. Figured I’d get a load started before the food was too caked on.”

He sidled up beside her and bumped his hip into hers.

“You’re making me feel like a shoddy host,” he teased. “First making all the sides, now doing the washing up.” Then he went over to the opposite side of the dishwasher to help her finish.

“You can go back to your guests,” Rose murmured, carefully arranging the utensils.

“No thanks. I need a break.” He paused, then lowered his voice and admitted, “I’ve only just escaped.”

Rose’s head snapped up to look at him. He was scrubbing his hand at the back of his neck with a sheepish grimace on his face.

“Escaped?”

He loosed a long breath then said carefully, “Reinette’s been… very friendly. She’s been hanging off my arm all day. I’ve barely been able to chat with my other friends. And I’ve tried to hint to her that I’m not interested, but…” He shrugged and turned to root under his sink for dishwasher detergent.

Rose’s heart lifted itself out of her stomach and back into her chest.

“Am I a rubbish host if I hide in here for the rest of the day?” James asked, tossing the detergent pod into the dishwasher.

“Hmmm…” Rose tapped her finger against her chin. “Probably.”

James rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“You can sometimes be too friendly for your own good,” Rose said.

“How can I politely tell her I’m not interested?” he asked with a sigh. “I thought I’d been obvious.”

“As an observer, it didn’t look like you were uninterested,” Rose supplied.

James’s jaw slackened and a look of horror crossed his face. His cheeks went red as he began to stammer, “Wait… but… she… I… Rose!”

“I’m just sayin’,” Rose laughed.

“Really?” he squeaked. “‘Cos I’m not. Interested, that is. I’m not at all interested in her. Not in the least!”

Rose giggled at him, amused by how flustered he was. But she couldn’t help the happiness and relief bubbling up inside of her.

James pouted. “Well what about you and Jack?” he asked petulantly.

Rose stopped laughing. “What d’you mean, me and Jack?”

“You two have been very… cozy today.”

“He’s a nice guy,” she countered, watching James carefully.

“Yeah, he is. I just… I feel like I should warn you. He goes through women very quickly. Men, too, as it were. Just so you know.”

James had his hands stuffed into his pockets, but Rose could see they were clenched into tight fists.

“Thanks for the warning, but I’m not interested,” she said.

James brightened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said softly.

He beamed at her, and she couldn’t help but return it.

“In that case… I, er, was wondering… Do you… Would you like… I’d like to… Do you wanna maybe…”

“What are you two kids getting up to in here?”

James jumped a little, and he turned to glare at Jack. Rose didn’t know whether to be upset at Jack or to kiss him. While he’d been stuttering his way through fragmented sentences, judging by what they’d been discussing, Rose was fairly certain James was trying to ask her out on a date. If he was, she was thrilled, and hated Jack for interrupting. But a small part of her also wanted to flee from the room. There were still three and a half weeks left before she would know for certain whether or not she could stay at the university. With her luck, she’d start dating James only to find out she’d lost her scholarship.

“Oh, nothing. Cleaning up, that’s all,” Rose said brightly, hating the way James’s face fell then shuttered off.

“I saw your pile of board games, and a group of us wants to play something. There’s too many of us to play individually, so we’re pairing up. Do you two want in?”

“I do,” Rose answered.

“Brilliant! I still need a partner,” Jack said, waggling his eyebrows.

“I think you’d work well with Reinette,” James suggested. “If she still needs a partner.”

“I think she was hoping to pair up with you,” Jack said pointedly.

“No doubt,” James grumbled. But he stepped up beside Rose and rested his hand on her lower back. She nearly rolled her eyes at the possessive motion, but a larger part of her was thrilled. “I’ll be Rose’s partner.”

Jack eyed them both carefully, then winked and left the kitchen. Rose made to follow, but James gently gripped her forearm, stopping her.

“Rose. Before… I wanted to ask…”

“Stop,” she interrupted, her heart galloping. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, ask me after finals.”

James’s brow furrowed, confusion and hurt warring on his face.

“Please. Just wait and ask me after finals.” Rose tried to explain with her eyes, because she felt too pathetic to tell him how worried she still was about not being able to stay in school. And she didn’t know how to confess that she was already head-over-heels in love with him, and that it would kill her if she got a taste of a relationship with him only to have it yanked away.

To her eternal relief, a kernel of understanding dawned in his eyes, and his gaze softened. He reached out and took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“After finals,” he agreed quietly.

Then he lifted her hands to his lips, planted a sweet, tender kiss to her knuckles, and guided her to the living room.

[xxscarletxrosexx]

Miraculous: The Lost Memoirs- Ch. 2 When Tomorrow Comes

Finally updated after 4 years.

Fanfic | Deviantart

A/N:

Yes, I'm alive! It has been 4 ridiculous years since I last updated this story. First and foremost, I apologize for being gone for so long. I truly have to thank Miraculous Ladybug Season 3 for being the catalyst to bring back my love for writing again. I have been looking through a number of Instagram feeds regarding Miraculous Ladybug, and suddenly it just came back. I HAD to write, and I'm here. But it's not just Miraculous Ladybug… I have you to thank. I have not been able to read the sweet comments all of you guys have left me when I have been away via Tumblr, Fanfic, and DeviantArt. Let's just say that I had some growing up to do. And I found the time and the passion to come back. So thank you, everyone.

On another note, when I first wrote this story, I remember that this was back in season 1 when the valentine's episode had just recently come out. Yes, this story is roughly as old as that episode. I had limited information on characterization and interaction, limited to resources on how to write this story, but I had so much freedom to write the story back then. With the ongoing season 3 taking place, I've decided to do my best and try to capture as much canon scenes as possible and adapt into this story, that being said, the outline that I left myself will be scrapped (and may be portrayed as an AU one-shot to this story if anyone is interested).

That being said, thank you to everyone who has followed me and this story, and favorited me and this story. I will be working hard to complete this story. My drive for writing this is very strong. I will talk to you soon! Thank you all from the bottom of my heart to the people who have been reading this from the beginning to the new readers who came to read in between the year of my absence. Thank you so, so, so much<3

I'll write to you guys very soon :)

There are some Easter Eggs that you fans will notice. I was inspired by a post on Instagram. If you don't notice it, feel free to read below for the answers ;)

DeviantArt: XxScarletxRosexX Tumblr: XxScarletxRosexX Instagram: XxScarlyliciousxX

Summary:

It is far from coincidences that these miraculous jewels ended in Marinette's and Adrien's possession. Their kwamis claim that they have been specifically chosen as the sole protectors against evil. But when an akuma returns a forgotten past, it unravels an unforeseen destiny of their Miraculous predecessors' lives. Their decisions, from this moment forward, could possibly alter the true meaning of their existences and their destinies.

When tomorrow comes… I'll be on my own… feeling frightened of the things that I don't know… When tomorrow comes… Tomorrow comes… Tomorrow… Comes…

~~~~~~~

I'll be all alone.

How long had she been sleeping? she wondered.

She wasn't sure how many days have passed nor if her eyes had ever closed. All she remembered was darkness.

Her body was a heavy lead, and to lift as much as a finger sapped all her energy. Her father had been checking up on her every hour or so, leaving her meals in silver dome trays beside the trap door for her to consume, but Marinette would never have the energy to eat, nor make an effort for that matter. Instead, she would force her arms to move her hands and grip onto the sheets of her bed to reposition and drag her to the edge of her bed to take a glimpse at the silver tray before plopping her head against her crumpled sheets in defeat.

During these moments, Tikki's voice would chastise her to take care of herself and not to disrespect her father's efforts. Hearing her voice was enough for Marinette to muster what's left of her strength and stand up from her bed, followed by dragging her feet across the floor and trudging down her stairs. She would drag her legs as if she were dragging a heavy cart until she finally stood in front of the silver tray, and plopped herself on the ground with a loud thud. She would open the tray and eat her luke-warm meal in silence. But today, she felt like staying in bed for a while longer.

The depressed child had not seen her father for days, but she acknowledged his presence with the creaking of the trap door. Guilt had nestled a place at the pit of her stomach, throbbing reminders of the many delicious meals she had wasted of her father's skills; of how much trouble she was causing her father and friends; and most of all, of failing her duties as Ladybug and protecting Tikki. The sensation was an alarm clock with a message repeating like a broken record in her mind, but it had played so many times that she had grown numb to it.

There was no point.

The sound of her creaking trap door meets her ears like a crack of thunder, and Marinette was well aware that she had this chance to talk to her father. All she needed to do was lift her head and call out, "Dad!" But, she couldn't.

She heard him sigh. It was thick with concern but tapered off with an undeniable sense of disappointment, and the feeling had brought tears to her eyes again. She couldn't bring herself to speak with him.

Marinette knew her father so well that she knew exactly what Thomas Dupain was expressing simply by the way he breathed. When he had sighed, she knew his brows would knit together and form several creases across his forehead, as he hung his head forward slightly. She knew that his eyes would trail to the loft where she resided, and he would debate behind sealed lips whether to talk to her or not. Marinette recognized the gulp of air that passed through his lips as he decided to say something but snapped shut at the last second. He felt defeated.

Neither could find their voices for they were lost in a sea of silent cries, both shouldering conflicts that the other could not help resolve with words. It was ironic because, at times of need, even a stranger would jump to help, but they were family. And they couldn't do anything for one another.

With another sigh, she heard the door close, followed by the heavy steps trudging down the stairs, with each weighing heavier from the last on her heart.

Marinette had lifted her head then. She peered into the darkness and made out a silhouette of her untouched dinner, still shrouded by a silver dome, and probably cold and unappetizing.

When she turned away from the meal, Tikki's voice would chime in her mind, chastising her for her laziness. No matter how many times her mind had played tricks on her, Marinette would fall for it. Her body would fall rigid and jolt as if electricity had coursed through her body. Whereas the whites of her eyes, now puffy and sensitive, and slathered with a blistering shade of crimson, would widen and peer around her room in search of her ruby kwami. And from time and time again, the raven-haired girl would be greeted back with disappointment and emptiness. Her kwami's name would roll out of her lips like a silent prayer, wishing that she would return to her and dissolve this never-ending nightmare, as scorching tears spilled down her ashen face.

Marinette's slender fingers had trailed up her cheeks and gently caressed the damp, swollen lumps, as if preventing any further overflow leakage like a boy had plugged his finger to prevent a leak in a dam; and winced internally as the stinging sensation throbbed beneath her fingertips from the numerous times she had wiped them with her hands and the fabric of her cotton shirt. Although the last time she had checked her reflection was days ago, Marinette laughed bitterly as she thought of how hideous her image must be at her current state. Still, she made no effort to fix herself. Instead, she forced her body to roll to her side and stared at the glass trapdoor.

A veil of murky ivory had adorned her disarray hair and lifeless eyes to a slant across her torso. Her eyes, the color of over-washed jeans, stared idly at the dark cumulus clouds as they reeled past her empty eyes like a film played over a vintage projector. It was not long before nostalgia had tugged at her heartstrings and brainwashed her thoughts with such vivid memories that she had almost completely mistaken it for reality. It happened at an instant; a silhouette figure had flitted across her vision, gliding across the sky like a graceful gazelle, but as soon as her eyes blinked, it had vanished.

Marinette knew that guilt and nostalgia was sending her mind off to an astral projection journey, because she had recalled the numbing sensation of the frigid night's kiss against her lips and cheeks, and how sweet it had tasted on her tongue to feel so light and free from her responsibilities and expectations in her hectic life. She also recalled how brightly lit the stars had twinkled as she sailed beneath them. Then she was submerged in the shadows once again under the arch. She felt Chat Noir's warmth post-resuscitation spread across her body, and she wondered to herself if that warmth could save her right now as she drifted from consciousness once again.

~~~~~~~

Alya, Adrien, and Nino decided to hang at the park right across from Marinette's house, giving Nino and Adrien an hour to help Alya calm down her nerves despite her insistence to go immediately. Reluctantly, Alya sighs and caves to the boys' suggestion. Alya plops herself on one of the park benches with Nino sitting right beside her and Adrien facing both of them.

"Really, I'm going to be fine guys. I just want to see Marinette…" her voice fades towards the end. Nino takes her hand in his and weaves his fingers through hers.

"It's alright, babe. We both know how much this is stressing you out. We don't even know what's going on in Marinette's life right now. It's pretty scary that she practically erased herself from existence."

Alya squeezes his hand appreciatively, "Yeah… let's just hope she didn't just disappear. I hope an akuma didn't get to her."

"Doubt it," Adrien states confidently. He had been sneaking out of his room during his piano practices and when everyone had returned to bed. Ladybug's absence had been bothered him endlessly. His brain had run through a marathon of worse case scenarios regarding capture from an akuma or being akumatized, but none had been in his radar throughout his patrol. Paris was finally peaceful… too peaceful that it had left Adrien feeling on the edge. He reaffirmed his thoughts with the conversation he had eavesdropped with Miss Bustier and Alya, "Mr. Dupain-Cheng would have noticed if his daughter was akumatized, and reported if it were the case. But he hasn't said anything. So that means Marinette is still at home."

Nino nods to his friend with agreement and gratitude before meeting Alya's troubled eyes, "Adrien's right, babe. You've seen Mr. Dupain ever since Marinette has been absent. If she were akumatized, you would definitely be the first to know. After all, you are Paris's greatest journalist on Ladybug and akumas."

Alya smiled weakly. She looked at her boyfriend then to Adrien, "Thank you, guys. I'm feeling a bit better about this."

"It's no problem," Adrien smiled.

"Yeah, we got you."

The trio walked in silence for a good two minutes before Alya broke the silence. "I want to see her… but I'm afraid she'll push me away again. This is really hard to go through."

Nino squeezed her hand, "We can try to ask Mr. Dupain about what's happening on her end if Marinette isn't ready to talk. We can't rush a person who is going through something, after all."

"She's your best friend, after all, Alya. Trust that Marinette will come to you as soon as she recovers," the blond model added.

"You're right, guys. I'm sorry for just rambling all of these stupid nonsenses," the auburn-haired woman said sheepishly.

"If Nino was in this situation, I probably would have reacted the same way," Adrien chirped.

"Dude…" the brown-skinned boy looked at his best friend with an awe-struck expression. Unsure of how to respond to Adrien's heartfelt comment, Nino lifts his free hand to bump fist with Adrien. "I'd definitely react the same for you too, dude."

Alysa clears her throat and feigns annoyance, "I appreciate you guys cheering me up, but save the bromance when I'm not here."

The two boys share eye contact and laugh with Alya joining in the humor.

"Sorry babe, you know how Adrien and I are. We're pretty tight."

"Yeah, yeah," Alya rolls her eyes.

"Why don't we start by a florist and get her a bouquet while we're at it?" Adrien suggests thoughtfully.

Alya's eyes sparkle. This was the first time Adrien had ever initiated getting flowers for Marinette-or maybe before any girl. Marinette will be so ecstatic when she hears about this, Alya thought to herself whilst picturing her best friend enter her rambling, fangirl episode followed by fainting. She giggles to herself.

"What is it?" the blond model asked curiously.

"Oh nothing!" Alya chirped, "I think it's a great idea! In fact, I know exactly what she likes!"

~~~~~~~

Alya, Nino, and Adrien stood in front of Tom & Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie. Adrien glanced over at Alya then back to the bouquet of red roses, white lilies, and white daisies. Hesitantly he asks, "Alya, you sure you don't want to be the one to give this to Marinette? You're closer to her after all."

Alya shared a mutual grin with her boyfriend before answering, "Of course it's fine! I know this will make her so happy Adrien, especially if it's coming from you!"

"I don't know…" the blond hair teenager tapered off hesitantly.

"Trust me, dude," Nino reassured, he smiled to his giggling girlfriend before continuing, "Marinette will definitely appreciate it."

"Really?" He looks back at the bouquet thoughtfully, a small grin etching on his face, "I hope she'll like it." Adrien turns to the auburn-haired teenager. "Shall we go in?"

"Yeah." Alya reaches for the door and was immediately greeted by a soprano jingle. To their surprise, the shop was empty. "Huh… that's strange. No one is here."

"Is it really okay to leave the shop unattended?" Nino asked aloud.

Adrien shrugged.

"Nope! I'm here!" The trio turned their attention to hurried stomps coming from the staircase followed by Mr. Dupain. "Hi guys, thanks for coming in today." He looked exhausted upon closer inspection. There were noticeable dark circles and creases forming under his puffy eyes. Perhaps the stress of their situation must be taking a toll on Mr. Dupain too. "I'm sorry you had to come all this way just to drop off her homework."

"Don't worry about it," Alya reassured him.

"We wanted to come here," Nino finished her sentence.

Mr. Dupain appeared perplexed and embarrassed as he scratched the nape of his neck.

"Marinette's our friend after all. She's important to us," Adrien added.

To his left, Alya and Nino exchanged a warm smile. "I wish I recorded this on my phone to show to Marinette," Alya whispered to Nino. "She would totally flip."

"Don't worry, I got you," Nino winked. He pulled out his phone to show that he was recording their conversation before hitting the stop button.

"Keep recording Nino! This is gold!"

"Alright, babe," he whispered back.

"I'll make it up to you afterward," Alya whispered and pecked the hand that was still holding on to hers.

"I'm expecting that," he replied suggestively.

"I see you have flowers for Marinette, Adrien?" Mr. Dupain continued. "That's very thoughtful of you to get her one."

"Yes, I mean we all-"

"Yes, it was a wonderful idea, Adrien!" Alya quickly cut off. "He came up with the idea after all!"

"Marinette sure is lucky to have you guys as her friends," Mr. Dupain praised then his expressions dropped as he continued, "But I'm afraid that Marinette may not be able to greet you guys again. I feel quite troubled to share this news with you guys after the trouble you guys have gone through," he glances at his watch, "especially leaving school at this time."

"It's okay, Mr. Dupain. We wanted to try regardless," the caramel skin woman tried her best to sound positive, but her expression betrayed her with defeat.

Nino took quick notice and squeezed her hand and continued, "With all due respect, Mr. Dupain, do you mind if we can talk to you about this? Everyone in class is really worried about her, and we don't know much of the details."

Mr. Dupain was silent as he crossed an arm and planted his elbow on his hand to support the other fist against his chin. After a minute, he nodded thoughtfully and affirmingly. "You guys can go ahead upstairs. I'll lock up the shop and we can talk this over some snacks. I'm guessing you guys haven't had anything since leaving school."

"You always know the right words, Mr. Dupain," Nino said happily, "Your pastries are the best in town!"

Mr. Dupain laughed, "Thanks, kid." Then directed his attention to Alya as he walked to the glass the door, "Lead the way. I'll be with you in a moment."

"Yes, sir!" Alya chirped with an improved mood, "Let's go, guys!" The auburn-haired teenager climbed up the stairs and made her way to the Dupain-Cheng's apartment with Nino and Adrien following suit. Once she opened the door, to their surprise, the living room looked the same: clean, organized-perhaps Mr. Dupain had been completing some light cleaning to keep himself busy. The only thing that was out of place, based on Alya's memory, is the family picture sitting on the kitchen counter. With some deductive reasoning, Alysa assumed that he had been looking at the frame during the last three days. She picks up the picture to observe the Dupain-Cheng family. Thomas Dupain stood in the back, Marinette on the left, and Sabine Cheng on the right. "They looked so happy in this picture."

Adrien approaches Alya and took note of the family picture that he had once observed when he was Cat Noir. He reminisced the silly memory when Marinette and he had been caught in a huge misunderstanding with Mr. Dupain and Mrs. Dupain-Cheng regarding their "feelings" for one another. "Yeah, it's so weird…" he had unconsciously admitted aloud, "It's really shocking to see Marinette and her parents so unhappy and stressed. I don't think there's ever been a time where I saw them like this… It's completely out of character for them." Adrien turns his attention to the stairs leading up to the Marinette's room and stares at her wooden hatch door pensively.

Alya and Nino follow his gaze and sigh simultaneously. "Come on," Alya initiated, "let's help Mr. Dupain and at least set up the plates." The others nodded and assisted Alya in collecting plates and the silverware.

After the trio had finished setting up, Mr. Dupain arrives with a variety of pastries hidden inside a silver tray. "You kids are just a lovely bunch. But you really didn't have to help set up. You're the guests after all."

"It's alright, Mr. Dupain. We want to help as much as we can. We've intruded after all," Alya replied.

"I appreciate it very much," the baker responded heartfeltly. He made his way to the kitchen counter and placed the silver tray on the table. He lifts the lid to reveal croissants, fresh marble bread, bon-bons, chocolate and caramel macaroons, various flavored macarons, and creampuffs. "Dig in, everyone!" The expressions on Marinette's friends' faces had washed over Thomas Dupain with a wave of nostalgia as the trio reached for their favorite pastry. Adrien's glowing eyes reminded him of his sweet daughter when she had received his delicious pastry on sad days. Nino and Alya, on the other hand, reminded him of himself and Sabine. Nino and Alya had simultaneously picked a pastry and had set it on their partner's plate rather than themselves. Both look surprised as they noticed their partner placing their food on their plate, followed by a sheepish smile and giggle. He missed his wife. He missed his daughter. He missed his family.

Adrien noticed the expression on Mr. Dupain's smile drooped, and his forehead knitted to form creases. Before he could eat his food, he had set it back down. This gesture had snapped the pastry chef back to the present.

"Is there something wrong, Adrien?" the giant man asked startled with concerned.

"No, sir," Adrien answered, "Sorry if this sounds nosy of me, but I couldn't but notice you looking stress."

Alya and Nino had stopped snacking their own food immediately and turned towards Mr. Dupain.

"Ah," Mr. Dupain answered. He sighed, defeated before continuing, "I just couldn't help but notice how nostalgic this feels. It has been three days since the last time Marinette, Sabine, and I had a happy moment like this. I know it hasn't been long since Sabine's departure, but three days feels like an eternity for me."

"No," Adrien disagreed, "three days is a long time. I totally get it."

"So it's been like this for three days?" Alya inquired.

"Well, Sabine and I had an argument before her departure to visit relatives back in China. Despite how many times Sabine and I argue, she has always been the one to keep a level-head, but I think I really upset her with what I said. Maybe Marinette overheard and was upset by it too," Mr. Dupain recounted.

"Was it that bad, Mr. Dupain?" Nino asked.

"Well, it's a marital tiff, I would say. But I don't think Marinette would react this badly to it. Marinette usually cheers me up when my wife and I have a disagreement. Honestly, she got her nature from her mother. She's very mature for her age."

Alya nodded approvingly, "Definitely."

"She was okay on the day Sabine left… well until in the evening."

"Evening?" Alya's ears perked, she had entered detective mode, "What do you mean?"

"I couldn't sleep that evening since Sabine had left. I was worried, but I also missed her. So, long story short, I felt the need to move about the house. Then Marinette came home. I don't remember seeing her leave the house after she got home from school. Perhaps," Thomas Dupain's forehead furrowed and he began to scratch his head in his recollection, "she left the house when it was rush hour. I probably missed her on her way out. Because there's no way she can get out from her balcony. It's too high and too dangerous. She could've hurt herself if she attempted to leave."

"That's right," Nino chimed in. He recalled the height of Marinette's home when they had paused outside of the bakery. "That would be impossible."

"The strangest part of all," Mr. Dupain continued. The trio was hooked to his story and had all subconsciously leaned towards him, forgetting the tasty treats in front of them. "She came home drenched. Paris was not raining that evening. When I asked her about what happened, she just looked at me and smiled. It was one of those forced smiles. She told me that she was having a bad day and needed time for herself." He gestured to her room with his gaze, "She's been in there ever since." With a sigh, he folds his arms across his chest and turns his attention back to the three students, "Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if she fell into the pool, but I would understand that that would be a mortifying experience."

"Have you ever once tried to go in there and talk to her?" Adrien asked.

"I have a couple of times, but she won't respond. When she responds to me… it's like she's lifeless. She won't talk about what happened. All I can do is just leave food at the foot of her door. The only thing I'm grateful about is that she actually eats, although it's not much."

Alya hangs her head in frustration. Her hands glide under glasses to smother her face as if it were a windshield dragging dirt downwards. Nino slides his arm around her shoulder to comfort her. Adrien joins the consolidation by patting her back softly. "I just don't get it," she mutters, "this is really all new to me too, Mr. Dupain."

"Totally," Nino agrees softly, "we've never seen Marinette act like this before."

Suddenly they heard a loud thud upstairs and all four members sprang to their feet. Mr. Dupain was the first to dash up to the stairs and knocked on the hatch door. Alya, Nino, and Adrien rushed behind him. "Marinette! Are you okay up there?"

No response.

"Marinette!"

"Yeah…" a weak voice croaked back. Her voice was soft, a bit more audible than a whisper, but it was the kind of soft voice you would hear your friend whisper in your ear. She was near them as if she was face-planted to the hatch. The only thing that divided them now was the wooden hatch. "You okay, honey? Do you want me to get the food?"

"No, I'm okay. I'll bring it down. I can do that at the very least."

"Okay, well you have guests over, honey."

No response.

"Marinette?"

"I don't look decent to come down."

Alya stepped closer to the hatchet and replied, feeling relieved at last, "Then dress up a bit, Marinette! We know you're not feeling so well, so don't push yourself too hard. Do you need my help?"

"We?" she asked in her low voice.

"Your dad, Nino, Adrien, and I."

"Adrien…?" she whispered softly. Fortunately only Mr. Dupain and Alya were the only two who heard her whisper the model's name.

"Would you mind letting me in?" Alya requested.

"No, it's fine, Alya. I'll go down. Just give me ten," Marinette's voice grew a little stronger.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, let me just clean myself up a bit."

"Okay, we'll be out here," Alya concluded. Marinette responded with her feet shuffling away from the hatch.

~~~~~~~

Marinette's room was an absolute chaos. Papers were tossed aside, her mirror in disarray and a red and blackboard marker sat uncapped on her dresser. A child's drawing of a red kwami floated on the top left of her vanity mirror, another one was floating on her computer's black screen, and another one was on her mini wash station mirror. Each wore a smile. In her head, she heard Tikki's voice chastising her.

You should make yourself more presentable Marinette! You have guests over! They must've been worried sick about you!

She stared at her poorly drawn kwami on her vanity mirror and responded, "I'm not feeling well."

Doesn't justify you to be rude, Marinette!

"Let me be…"

The poorly-drawn kwami stared back at her in silence with a wide smile.

Marinette sighed, "You were right, Tikki…" Marinette looked at the left corner of where her floating red kwami usually levitated. A tear escaped her abused, puffy eyes, "You were right, all along… I'm so sorry."

~~~~~~~

© Cover photoshopped and edited by XxScarletxRosexX © Miraculous: The Lost Memoirs written by XxScarletxRosexX © Miraculous Ladybug: The Tales of Ladybug and Chat Noir belongs to Thomas Astruc © Lyrics from Flashlight by Jessie J. © Easter Egg idea from Instagram: where the same bouquet has been used in multiple scenarios (I cannot find the reference at the moment!) © Eater Egg 2 from a scene in Weredad © Location of College Francois Dupont / Francois Dupont High School referenced from Episode: Robocop

[lizord-lord]

(Hoooooo boy! I got about halfway through this chapter and then had to write both I Can’t Decide (Take The Part or No?) AND Locked Heart, so those took priority and between that and the amazing @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 betareading over the holidays while i was on vacation and off of tumblr, this took AGES! But here we are, and you have this to enjoy while I get back into the swing of things! And now, we begin..)

Ships: Royality

Word count: 5,881

Summary: Patton’s always believed there’s more the the world than meets the eye. Or at least-meets others’ eyes..his own have always seen glimpses of shimmer in the bushes, colors in the breeze, movement in the shadows.It was only distant hope-until a day of exploration in the woods led him to become acquainted with a pair of Fae twins. They call themselves Truth and Lies… But does he really know which is which? 

Warnings: Implied sex, sympathetic(?) Deceit, some brief body image issues

Chapter One

Chapter Three Will O’ The Wisp, Chapter Two

Brush Just the Edge of the Land of Faerie

Patton did not rise to the sound of an alarm, as usual, but to birdsong. It floated through the still air and tickled his ears-and Patton blinked open his eyes, to be greeted with soft golden light streaming through the curtains. A smile slowly spread across his face. A nice way to awaken, and this thought was only amplified by the sight right in front of him-Roman’s sleeping face, his soft lips slightly parted and tawny hair beautifully mussed and half falling into closed eyes, the light reflecting off of his tanned skin, making it appear as if it glowed from beneath. Patton couldn’t help the adoring giggle that bubbled from his throat, reaching up with a pale, freckle-splattered hand to brush the wayward locks out of Roman’s face and press a light kiss to his nose.

For a few long minutes, he lay there in the warmth, Roman’s arms still wound around his waist. And Patton might have intended to stay there for hours, but he soon became aware that he was actually very hungry.

With a melancholy, fond sigh at the thought of leaving his Prince, Patton wiggled out of his arms, then rolled out of the bed to alight his feet on the floor.

The patchwork quilt on the bed caught his eye. It was made of t-shirts, every one from an old show of Roman’s (the only way Patton had been able to convince him that they needed to be retired) and a bit messily made, but both of them had fallen quite in love with the thing. Hard work and all that. A sparkle alighting in his eye, Patton reached down to tug it off the foot of the bed and wrap it like a cloak around his naked frame, letting it fall around his shoulders and clenching the fabric close to his chest in his left fist. He didn’t really feel like getting dressed, but he didn’t want to just walk around bare either. Plus, the quilt twirled.

Patton shuffled out of their bedroom, gently closing the door behind him, and made his way to the kitchen. He made breakfast and then they’d make dinner together (or just order food, they tended to do that a bit more often than either of them admitted), that was the arrangement. After all, Roman started work much earlier than Patton did, he needed his beauty sleep.

So Patton wandered into the pantry, locating where they’d stored the pancake mix far more easily than he ever did back home, and got to work. He measured the mix into a bowl, cracked in eggs and added milk, beginning to hum a tune as he grabbed a pan and began to heat it up.

By the time Patton was sliding pancakes off his spatula and onto a plate, the sound of footsteps echoed through the quiet hall, and he turned. Roman leaned in the archway that led into the kitchen, his hair still adorably mussed and falling into hazel eyes in a way Virgil would call ‘annoyingly pretty’ and Patton would call ‘breathtaking’. He had tossed a red tank top over himself and pulled on a fresh pair of boxers, but what Patton noted was the playful grin that he wore on his face as his gaze met Patton’s.

“So that’s what happened to the quilt.” Roman strode from the archway to the counter as Patton laughed-though the laughter was quickly cut off by a squeak as Roman  brought his arms around to lace his hands behind his boyfriend and tugged him in close, leaving Patton a blushing mess with his hands clutching his scant covering to his chest.

A kiss was pressed to his lips-slow and sweet and soft-but Patton made a face and squirmed away. “Rooo, morning breath,” he whined-sticking his tongue out to emphasize the disgust.

Roman pouted. “But rosebud, how am I to stop myself when you look so divine?” Despite his pink cheeks, Patton did his best to bat his boyfriend away while still holding onto the quilt. “Brush your teeth, Ro- or eat first! Then we kiss, okay?”

Huffing-and poking Patton’s nose, Roman did concede. Patton stepped away from where he’d been leaned against the counter, watching his boyfriend eye the pancakes, then go to the fridge. He pulled out syrup for Patton and a jar of Crofter’s for his own pancake spread and then shut the fridge door.

“I’ll put this on the table,” he announced, turning back around and picking up the plate, “Why don’t you get dressed?” Patton nodded. He’d been planning to do that after Roman awoke anyway, so he shuffled out of the room and into the bedroom while Roman headed into the living room.

He picked out a pair of cargo shorts and reached for a favorite of his- a white t-shirt with lines of puppies playing printed along the collar and hem- but then drew his hand back. No, the last time he’d tried that on it had been too snug around his tummy. Just need to lose a few pounds before I try that one again.

Instead, he picked out his much looser Hufflepuff t-shirt and got dressed, placing the quilt back at the foot of their bed.

Exiting, he found Roman seated at the table with a glass or orange juice and his Crofter’s-slathered pancakes, already digging in. Patton got some water for himself and plopped down beside him, stacking pancakes on his own plate and picking up the maple syrup. Normally he’d dump it all over the plate and basically drown his pancakes in syrup like some kind of sugary bloodbath, but today..today he made sure to only do a small squirt.

They struck up a conversation- nothing too deep, this and that-excited plans and more awed observations about the house, but all too soon it was time for Roman to be getting ready. Patton hadn’t quite finished, but he was plenty fine with that-taking their dishes to the kitchen counter while Roman went to get properly dressed and do his makeup.

Patton decided to sit at the little window seat while he waited- letting out a happy sigh as he sunk into the soft pink cushions that laid along the shelf, picking up a decorative pillow from the side and hugging to his chest as he stared out the clean, white framed of the window to take in the green countryside, feeling the warmth of the golden sunlight warm him.

He might have zoned out at one point-probably did, in fact, knowing how long it took Roman to get ready. Technically, the male employees didn’t have to do the full face of makeup that was required of the women, but both out of protest and the desire to show off, Roman had chosen to do it, flamboyant eyeshadow, sharp eyeliner, lipstick and all. Unfortunately, this cut a sizeable chunk out of his morning.

Patton watched the flowers bend softly in the gentle summer breeze, the sunlight warming his cheeks. He’d probably come away from this stay as one giant freckle. Didn’t really care, just hoped he didn’t burn too badly. But how could he avoid that, when the fields were so vast, the woods so bright, the air so clear. Maybe he’d go out again today once Roman left- he could be plenty careful.

“Well, I am afraid I must be off!” announced Roman from the entryway- Patton turned. His face broke into a smile as he looked upon his boyfriend- dressed in his red and black uniform with matching scarlet eyeshadow and striking black lipstick to match. As always, he had to restrain himself from kissing the lipstick off. Instead, he rose from his perch by the window and pressed a kiss to Roman’s cheek instead, then hugged him tight.

Roman stepped out the door, and Patton returned to the window to watch him vanish around the side of the house to the street where their car was parked. He didn’t move from there even after. Well, not for a while anyway. Despite the softness of the seat and the warmth of the sunny patch, he did eventually have to go to the bathroom- and as he returned to the living room, his eyes flickered to the door.

Soon he was pulling on his shoes and grabbing his keys, locking the door behind him before stuffing them in the pocket and starting down the path. The air smelled fresh, and the golden morning light lit up the greens of the grass around him like a gentle fire.

For a moment or two he just stood there on the porch, but it wasn’t long before Patton was making his way down to the woods, stepping onto the narrow dirt trail and sending up small puffs of dust behind him as he walked briskly beneath the canopy, holding out his hands with a little grin and admiring the golden dappling of shadow and sun on his hands.

It was different without Roman here. It felt..less like a spectacle or an adventure (Roman did have a tendency to make everything feel that way, though) and more like..

“...Home.”

Yes, like home. Warm and cool at the same time, gentle and inviting. Patton found himself humming a random tune. Not only did it seem more whimsical on his own, but he found his thoughts drifting too -though that was nothing new. And as long as he stayed on the path, a little wandering of the mind was harmless. He wished Virgil could see this. After all it was broad daylight, and there was a path, so it wasn’t like the forest was fraught with danger. His little emo friend might enjoy the greens and golds and the soft reds and blues of fruit peeking through clumps of more and more leaves, the gentle breeze, the air that was so silent except for the faint rustling of bushes and branches where small creatures made their homes and the whispering winds.

Seeing as Patton had apparently neglected to bring his phone with him (it wasn’t like he’d have service in the woods anyway, that was one downside) he didn’t know how much time had passed by the time he reached the massive oak he and Roman had rested at the previous day, but judging by his own general sense of time and the fact that it hadn’t taken that long yesterday, it wasn’t too much time. Though his feet did hurt just a bit, so maybe he was wrong.

He ended up resting there once more, finding a nice patch of soft moss that cushioned his back from the rough bark and curling up between two roots, hugging his sides loosely as he stared out in no particular direction, sighing with contentment. It was just the tiniest bit chillier in the woods, but it was also summer in Florida, so ‘chilly’ was...well, probably not at all accurate, but it didn’t really matter.

“....does intrigue me…”

Patton’s eyes snapped open (when had they closed?) and he sat upright, glancing around frantically. He’d heard a voice. Not like last time, a voice with no words, just the shape of them- but definitely a fragmented sentence. Could it have been one of the neighbors, happening upon his walk? “Who’s there?” True, just asking like that might have been a bit foolish-but it wasn’t like he was revealing himself. He was sitting right out in the open, and maybe it was all the time he spent watching movies talking, but if he was going to get attacked by some crazy murderer or something he had a strong feeling it would not be in such a bright environment.

Though, not to his surprise, there was no answer.

For a moment, Patton sat there with bated breath, ears straining to hear something of the voice through the faint rustling of the leaves from wind and little animals. He’d almost convinced himself he’d imagined it in some state between sleep and wakefulness, when another scrap of words came to him on the breeze.

“...does look like a threat. Iron all over.”

“Harmless indeed.”

Not one voice. Two. And they seemed closer now, the words clearer-Patton leapt to his feet, spinning on his heels-

And his mind went blank.

Sitting in the branches of the tree he’d just been leaning against were two figures, their eyes fixated on him. But these weren’t random teenagers or even little kids having a laugh, no. They were...well, they were beautiful.

Long, delicate legs hung over the thick, twisting branches of the oak. As Patton’s eyes traveled up, he nearly averted them as he realized he was only seeing bare skin-but then he realized that the unmarked, nearly shining skin shifted to something..papery in texture- what looked like translucent leaves. No longer translucent as he looked higher-it shifted to a deep blue on one, brilliant green on the other-the strange texture appearing halfway up the arms and legs but seeming to expose the middle of the chest. It was when Patton saw the faces of these nearly identical creatures that it settled in his mind that there was no possible way they could be human, though his doubts were already strong.

Human eyes weren’t sapphires and emeralds- human ears didn’t point. And humans certainly didn’t have spots-(scales?) encircling their eyes, and these two did. Opposite sides of their faces, around one eye and then spreading down to the cheek, opalescent in the morning light. And while it was far more subtle than these mystifying details..

Humans didn’t have the look of an ancient youth in their eyes.

Patton meant to say something. To ask who in the world- what in the world he was seeing...but his mouth was dry. Words did not come.

He heard a laugh from the green one-a sound that came to his ears like it was brought on the wind, carefree and light, yet it wasn’t joyful. No, it was something else..

The moved. In unison-far too in sync to be possible in a spontaneous movement, they fell from the branches, Patton watching in slow-motion as their bodies gracefully twisted in a way that was not at all natural and yet entrancing, landing on bare feet on the mossy ground like the fall had been only inches.

Only then, faced with these two magnificent beings merely feet from where Patton stood, did he find his ability to speak again. “.....who- who are you?”

“What a coincidence, we were wondering the same of you?” Spoke the blue- and Patton was certain his voice was the first he’d heard. Low and smooth, cool water over stone, yet still oddly distant, despite the proximity.

Wait. Respond. Um. What was the question? Who- who was he? “Um- Patton. That’s me. I’m Patton,” he stuttered out, eyes flickering between the two of them.

“And that must be all, right?” Asked the green, and his voice was like thick honey, sweet and deeper than his counterpart’s. Patton frowned, confused- all? He was only Patton, nothing else particularly interesting to say…

Thinking seemed to return him to his senses. And with his senses came a breath catching in his throat as he realized what he was facing.

Coming from the woods, creatures fairer than you’ve ever seen, speaking of iron, asking for your name.

He’d always been one for newer stories, kinder ones, but...well, he knew the darker ones as well.

Faeries.

Oh-oh. He’d just given his name- but no, the stories Virgil always countered with when he and Roman babbled on about fairies (not to be confused with faeries) said full name. First, middle, and last. He was okay. Probably.

“Yes, that’s- that’s all.” Patton replied, the uncertainty in his voice slowly beginning to fade. “So...can I um… ask who you are again?”

“You may call us Truth and Lies,” replied the blue one- Truth, judging by how he gestured first to himself, and then to his counterpart.

Well those were...interesting names.

“Was one of you what I saw yesterday?” Patton suddenly asked, the question springing to his lips almost unprompted, the curiosity suddenly consuming. He’d met fairies- no, faeries- how could he not be? They were right here in front of him, real, finally real, he couldn’t just leave!

“No, we never come out here. But if we did, it would certainly be alone,” Lies drawled in his honey-low voice, and Patton frowned slightly.

“So..it was someone else then?” The two fae laughed in unison, the sounds melding together in a way that seemed to echo from all the trees around him-a tingle ran up his spine. There was humor in the laugh- but perhaps it was just some joke he didn’t really understand. That was why it sounded odd.

“I believe was us. I cannot be certain which you spotted, but we never travel alone.”

“But he just said..” Patton’s eyes flickered to the green fae, whose expression was an odd halfway point between mirth and..doubt. Wait. Something clicked. “Wait..can you only lie?”

Another bout of strangely echoing laughter, and Lies grinned, tilting his head sharply to the side and tapping his nose with one finger.

“Incorrect!”

Oh. Well. Obviously, he wouldn’t know the answer from Lies’s words. But from the fae’s reaction, he seemed to be correct? Patton still glanced back at Truth for further clarification. The blue fae’s lips curled up. “Correct. And I can only tell the truth.”

“Ah. Well that does kinda make sense,” Patton chuckled lightly, and the two fae shared a glance. He couldn’t read it. Their expressions seemed off, slightly askew from what he’d expect to see in a way that made them just shy of understandable, yet he couldn’t stop watching.. But then to his surprise, Lies took a step forward- a gesture that made Patton’s breath catch involuntarily.

“So, are you new around here?”

Patton blinked- forcing himself to tear his eyes from the thin face -in being closer, he noticed that the two fae were both considerably taller than him, perhaps even more so than Roman. But no, stop, you were asked a question! “Oh- um, yes, I am. Well, kinda, my boyfriend and I just moved to a house out there for the summer, then we’ll be heading back to the city.”

“The city?” Now Truth strode forward-the act of suddenly being surrounded by the faeries humbling Patton into curling his arms around his chest, his eyes locked onto the evening sea that was Truth’s eyes, deep, intense, and vast- and at the moment, full of scorn.

“Why would you ever want to go there, it’s filthy and overprocessed.”

“Well- it’s my home, my family and my job is there, and living out here isn’t cheap..” Of course a fae wouldn’t like the idea of living in a city- idiot, he shouldn’t have mentioned that. The last words were half mumbled. Truth only hummed lowly in acknowledgement, still with that look of mild disgust on his face- then he heard Lies click his tongue.

“Come now, we want to make the poor thing feel bad, don’t we? It has to be his fault he was born in a city..” A gasp escaped Patton’s mouth as the fae’s hand brushed his- fingers long and delicate, like the branches of a willow-the skin as smooth as marble, and seeming to glow faintly from within. He was rendered dumb, awestruck, as Lies took his hand, which felt large and clumsy in the faerie’s, allowing himself to be guided back to a root on the great oak, and sitting on top of one as Lies tugged away. His skin tingled, warm and energized, where Lies’s hand had been. The fae sat back on a slightly more raised root opposite of Patton, knees tucked to his chest- reaching out with one hand and a teasing grin to beckon his..brother? They did look like mirror images of each other except for the coloring...

There was a pause before Truth did join them, seating himself on the same root as Lies, but farther back, folding his arms on top of Lies’s knees and resting his chin on them.

“My..apologies. I did not intend any discomfort on your part.”

“No! No, it’s fine,” Patton said quickly, reaching up to rub his neck, “You have a point, cities are a little rough-especially when you have a big family..” what was he doing? You’ve met faeries, faeries! What are you doing babbling onto them about city life, you must sound like a fool!

“..speaking of, are there like-more of you? In here I mean?”

“Oh, of course...it’s rare you’d find a forest bare of us,” Truth replied, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Patton suddenly felt the need to glance behind him.

“....Really?” The thought of that was daunting, nearly every wood in the world? How? How could they remain unknown, how could he not have known, if they had been six inches tall like all the stories he’d read as a child that was one thing, but..well, they weren’t! “How? I mean-how do people not know?”

Once again, the two laughed in unison, a sound that seemed to surround and envelop Patton, ticking at his ears like wind chimes just out of earshot.

“Oh Patton, no humans stumble around poking their heads out of bushes and call it hiding. I’m surprised they don’t expect us to do the same,” Lies commented offhandedly, a smile curling over the sharp features of his face.

It took Patton a minute to unravel what Lies had just said. When he did, he realized he felt mildly put out on behalf of his species. Wow that was weird to think. “Hey! We’re not bumbling idiots, plenty of humans can sneak up on animals and stuff!”

“Animals. Nothing with a touch of magic in its system would so easily be hunted by a human,” Truth replied, that hint of haughtiness still seeping into his cool voice.

“Oh.” Patton felt a bit..foolish for a moment, but it was quickly washed away by another burst of curiosity when the statement fully registered in his mind. “Wait- so there are like..magical creatures too?”

The two fae frowned, and Patton rushed to clarify. “Like- animals?”

“Depends on what you’d call an animal,” Truth hummed, “But if you mean fae that do not look so similar to your own kind, then certainly.”

“Like..” Patton wracked his brain for a good example, trying to think back to things Virgil had mentioned on the occasion, “..kelpies?”

“And why that one in particular?” Lies questioned, tilting his head.

“Oh- I don’t know, just the first one that popped into my head I guess,” Patton chuckled half to himself, glancing down into his lap. “My friend Virgil mentioned them a few times, he’s got more experience in this sorta thing than me..”

“Well, they do exist. As do plenty others, though I am unsure if you humans would classify those as fae, per se,” Truth paused, and then continued, “Virgil?”

“Oh!” Patton’s face burst into a grin. “Virgil’s my friend from back home. He’s kinda a nervous type, but he’s really sweet and really smart! He’s really into myths. I mean- I’m not sure he believes them like Roman and I do, maybe a little, but it’s always so fun to hear him talk about it. Mostly he likes cryptid stories, the Loch Ness Monster and Bigfoot, y’know, but he’s mentioned faeries too..though I guess he was a lot more right about that than we were.” His grin turned slightly sheepish, and he rubbed the back of his neck, watching as the two fae exchanged a glance.

“How boring..” Lies mused, tilting his head sharply to one side, his eyes falling half-closed. “Are these all your friends?”

“Oh no!” Patton shook his head. “I have a bunch more back home, Talyn and Joan and-”

He broke off. A thought had occurred, and a thin vein of dread wormed its way into his excited mind.

“..sorry. I don’t want to- I mean, no offense or anything, just..names and all that..” it felt wrong to say that, disrespectful even, to show that he couldn’t fully trust these two wondrous creatures, but from the way the two broke into identical, gentle smiles, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh no, dear, we do want you and your friends’ true names,” Lies assured, “and besides, first names matter the most.”

“But we understand if you don’t want to keep giving them out,” Truth finished, lifting up from where he had been curled around Lies’s legs to step across the small patch of grass between the two roots and sit next to Patton, placing one hand on his knee. Patton jolted in surprise, though neither fae seemed to think his reaction odd. Despite Truth being obviously sentient and humanoid, he couldn’t help but feel the same sense of awe and wonder that he would if a butterfly were to land on his nose. The need to still, barely breathe, for fear of scaring off the magnificent, gentle creature that honored him with its rare presence.

It took him a long moment to realize one of them had actually said something while he’d been trapped in reverie-and Patton instantly felt embarrassed- goodness, he looked like such an awestruck fool.

“...um.. Sorry, I missed that,” he mumbled, eyes flickering to the ground. That same laughter echoed through the trees, and he was unsure whether to feel comforted or to curl in further. Luckily, Truth’s next words seemed to solve that problem.

“I asked about this ‘Roman’ you’ve mentioned.”

“Oh! Yes! My boyfriend, he’s really-” that was when he looked up, and for the first time, caught something new in the emerald eyes of Lies where he still sat across from him. Confusion.

Wait.

“...you don’t know what a boyfriend is, do you?” he asked slowly, and to his relief (he wouldn’t want to assume lack of knowledge from what had to be ancient creatures, of course) the fae replied with “I do..”

“The literal meaning would of course imply simply a friend that is a ‘boy’, but from context I can assume that isn’t what you mean,” Truth added. Patton quickly moved to clarify.

“No, it isn’t. Well, he’s definitely my friend too, but when humans say ‘boyfriend’ it usually means like..a romantic partner. Who’s a boy. Or a man. I mean ‘manfriend’ sounds kinda..well kinda freaky if you ask me.” he laughed a little. When the only response he got was twin owlish stares, Patton quickly tried to move on. “Yeah, so he’s..that.”

“What is he like?” Questioned the blue fae, and Patton couldn’t help but brighten the tiniest bit, even in his offbalanced state.

“Roman? Well..he’s really brave, and funny, not scared to be silly...gets himself into trouble sometimes, but Vee and I usually get him out. He’s a great guy. And such a romantic, he’s a drama queen like you wouldn’t believe but..yeah, it’s sweet.” He found himself smiling, gaze cast a bit downwards. Patton always felt sort of shy gushing about his sweet prince. When he did look up, he noticed the mirrored smile on the lips of Truth- and if he were to glance across from him at Lies, he’d see the same expression.

“You don’t seem the type to deserve it,” came the honeyed tones of the green fae across from Patton-and Patton almost protested, until the gentle tone of voice reminded him who he was speaking to. A faerie, he was speaking to a faerie!!

Instead, he found his cheeks heating slightly. “I- well..I sure do hope so!”

“As do I,” echoed Truth, and Patton squeaked in surprise at the feeling of delicate fingers sweeping through his fiery curls-the tingling heat the touch left making him feel as if they were literally so.

“You’re a very interesting boy, Patton..such lovely hair too.”

“Oh- um, thank- thank you?” His voice only rose in pitch, which made his light blush darken and oh dear he was such a mess!

“Truth, keep groping the poor thing, you don’t know how humans get,” Lies chastised warmly, standing up, and for a moment Truth almost seemed sheepish as he pulled away, as Patton lightly shivered.

“Apologies,” the blue fae hummed, the brief flash of emotion melting away into that vague serenity that seemed to hang about them.

“No it’s fine! I mean it- it wasn’t groping, just- well just my hair, it’s no big deal!” he assured all in a rush, but neither fae really seemed all that perturbed. Lies stepped up behind Truth, placing his hands on smooth, angular shoulders, right where the dewy skin began to gain that strange leaflike texture.

“Of course it isn’t. He just doesn’t tend to forget that you humans don’t like certain things, that’s all. Tell me- do you have any family?”

“Family?” Patton peeked up from where he had been brushing his curls back into place (or maybe hiding his face) “Oh- do I!” “Do you?”

Patton made a noise that was halfway between a giggle and a groan. Truly, the sound family deserved. “Yup. There’s my older brother and sister Jasper and Victoria, my lil’ sib Casey, and then I got my moms and dad! They don’t live here though, they’re back in the city. Well- no, Casey still lives at home and Jasper got an apartment in town, but Vicky’s spending a couple years in Europe, last time I heard from her she was in Italy but I think it’s Sweden now? Anyway, none of us were super surprised when she started traveling just because she’s always kind of had a thirst for adventure, y’know? Though I kind of thought Jas would want to explore a little too. Then again maybe he made the right choice, Ma and Dad were all over me when I told them I was moving away for the summer, at least Mom had a little more confidence I wasn’t going to die..” a fond smile slipped onto his face as he recalled the dozens of worried hugs and the kisses peppered on every single freckle. The silence fell over them for a moment, warm and gentle- until the particular topic sparked curiosity in Patton, and he looked up to where Lies stood tall over where Truth sat, their faces nearly mirror images, expression and all.

“.....Actually- if you don’t mind me asking, are you two brothers? Or- siblings?”

He watched them share a glance. Truth opened his mouth to answer- but to Patton’s shock, instead of words, what came out was nothing but a gust of wind. It spilled from the lips of the fae with a loud whoosh, rustling Patton’s curls before dissipating. It almost seemed to laugh as it swept by his ears, causing the goosebumps on Patton’s skin.

He stared, wide-eyed, at Truth. But neither Truth nor Lies seemed concerned, only...annoyed?

“What was-”

But Lies cut him off with the wave of his hand. “Oh no, no, incredibly important. It’s complicated really, that’s not what happens if I try and speak true or Truth tries to say anything that isn’t true.”

“It...comes out like wind?”

“Indeed,” Truth sighed, taking one of Lies’s hands and pulling him down to sit. The green fae did not resist, instead leaning his back onto Truth’s side, though his face remained twisted towards Patton.

“Simply a mess of wording. What I mean to say is that we are not…” he paused, pursing his lips, “exactly siblings, the way a human might define it. But I believe the relationship is similar enough that you may call us such, if you find it easier to comprehend.”

“Oh. I see. So...can you tell me what you are, then?”

But the two fae only responded with a laugh, and Lies waved a hand, brushing it off. “Oh, I’m afraid so. It would take far too little time..”

“That’s okay!” Patton replied quickly, flashing a wide smile. He wouldn’t want to pry or anything...these things might be sacred or something after all!

“So, are you enjoying our little wood?” Truth asked, tilting his head to one side and offering Patton a wide smile that curved over his high cheekbones. Patton found himself nodding vigorously- because really, how could he not?

“Absolutely! I mean…” he gestured to the greenery surrounding them, spreading his arms wide. There just...well, he couldn’t find the words. “It’s...it’s magnificent.”

“Isn’t it?” Truth’s words were laced with something Patton might call..pride. And with them came a shift in feeling.

These beings were the forest, he felt it in how they spoke of it. He stilled-only to start when he realized that Truth had extended a slender hand towards him, a glimmer in the deep, blue pools that were his eyes.

“Speaking of….what do you say to a little tour? The experience can be rather thrilling.”

A tour? Of the woods? With...with them? The words were warm. It did sound wonderful..imagining all that he hadn’t yet seen-and if what he had was this breathtaking, imagine more! Imagining- imagining what the fae’s wood might be like..would the trees be alive? Would there be houses grown from the plants themselves? Or tiny faerie children running about dirt pathways, flowers in their hair and laughter in their eyes?

Patton’s hand lifted, almost on its own- and his fingers were almost brushing Truth’s when he remembered. He pulled back, and caught a flash of...disappointment? In the eyes of the two fae.

“I- I’m sorry, I can’t. I have work soon, I’ve got to get home!”

“Oh,” was Truth’s only response, though Lies seemed to show a bit more disappointment that his counterpart. But he smiled, twisting to fully face Patton as he placed a hand on his shoulder.

“That isn’t fine at all, we don’t understand.”

“Thanks,” Patton sighed, flashing a sheepish smile. “I can come back tomorrow though!”

“Terrible,” Lies replied. His thumb brushed lightly over Patton’s cheekbone, and Patton couldn’t help but freeze, a flush rising to his face.

Lies rose to his feet, and Truth did the same, a gentle smile appearing on his face to mirror his brother’s. He brushed his fingers through Patton’s curls once more.

“We look forward to it, Patton.”

Patton grinned broadly through the fluttering in his chest, getting up too and dusting plant mater off his shorts.

“Goodbye!” he called, dashing off down the path with a buzz running through his veins. He glanced back for just a moment as he reached the edge of the clearing, only to witness...nothing.

The fae were gone. Yet he did not quite feel alone.

The feeling was a but odd, but not unpleasant. Suppose he’d have to get used to it. Oh- oh my. Get used to...to this!!! To faeries!!! Roman was going to flip! Patton bounced on his heels, barely able to contain his excitement as he booked it down the path-how was he going to hold this in at work, this was the most amazing thing that had ever happened in his life…

He’d known this summer was going to be magical!

Tags: @patton-croc-agenda @why-things-go-boom @tawnyevergreen @jynxlovesluck @towersandmyrtles @notveryglittery @per-seph-o-nee @definitely-a-plant @starryfirefliesbloggo @karmels-stuff @impatentpending

Writing: @pastel-patton123 @chinesewaffles2 @whatwashernameagain @em-be-lievable @the-incedible-sulk @xx-fandom-potato-xx

[surrounded-by-superheroes]

The Soldier and the Assistant Ch. 4

Click here for chapter three!

Summary; You run into a mysterious stranger on the street while running late for work and spill coffee all over yourself in the process. Later, you find out the man was none other than James Buchanan Barnes and your company is about to write a story about him. The thing is, he’ll only talk to you. As you get to know one another, you both start realizing this relationship is a little more than work. Will both of you let the romance bloom? Or kill it before it starts?

A/N; Bucky and Steve crack me up and I never get enough of their bullshit. Amen.

Warnings; Language.

Tags; @farfromjustordinary @ria132love @karlilarki

Words; 2,595

Chapter Four

Change of Plans

*Bucky’s POV*

“What the fuck would you have me do, Steve? I wasn’t going to let her cry alone in her apartment, still terrified.” I justify my reasons for bringing you here as you sleep soundlessly on the couch. Steve rolls his eyes and rubs his temple.

“For the last time, I’m not upset you brought her here. Just surprised. Stop trying to convince yourself you need a reason to feel like protecting her, jackass.” Steve snaps back, an entertained smirk on his face. After sighing, I remain silent as we stand across from your sleeping form. I’d brought you up and in Steve and I’s apartment and sat us both on the couch. You’d told me the whole story in a calm, distant voice then proceeded to realize you’d left the coffee I got you at work. Honestly, you seemed more upset about that than about Jim, but that’s most likely the shock. Afterwards, you calmed down and fell slowly asleep in my arms. Steve finally got here and that’s when I laid you down and told him what happened. Now, the both of us are just standing across the room from you lying on our lumpy tan couch. Steve’s hands are in his pockets, most likely missing the perch his suit’s belt usually provides, while my arms are crossed across my chest.

“I’m not sure what to do.” I admit uneasily. “She can’t go back there and work for that asshole again.” That’s one thing that absolutely cannot happen. Steve nods along with my words.

“Agreed, but her future is up to her. We don’t know if she’ll want to press charges or just quit and be done with everything.” Steve says, ever the reason to my insanity. I frown at the thought of Jim walking free and briefly think of holding a gun to his head, but dismiss the thought. I’m in enough trouble and I’d rather not get Steve blamed for anything else, or you. “I’ll call Natasha. See what she can find on this Jim guy. Maybe there are other people willing to speak up. I doubt this is the first time it’s happened.” Steve claps a hand on my shoulder and I nod at him once before he heads to his room to make the call. My place is in here, watching over you. Suddenly, your legs crumple into your body and you frown. As quietly as I can, I walk over and grab the blue blanket off the back of the couch, laying it over your body and tucking it under your feet. The frown disappears and I find myself smiling down at you. That’s when I decide that if you don’t wake up I’m not taking you home. Sleep is a precious peace and I refuse to disturb yours after a day like today. Carefully, I reach down and brush my lips across your forehead.

“What are you doing to me?” I question you and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Almost imperceptibly, you smile.

*Reader’s POV*

Waking up is fucking hell most days, but today especially. My eyes are still covered in makeup and now are crusty from sleep and tears. My mouth tastes weird and dry from the lack of, well, any drinks yesterday and my body is still cramped inside my pencil dress. I wipe the crust out of my eyes without a care to what I look like; I’m sure I already look like shit. Finally, I break the film and open my eyes to reveal an unfamiliar bedroom. Looking down, I see navy sheets and comforter covering me in a pale-yellow room. Some paint is chipping off the walls, but everything else in the room is pristine. The bed is in the center and is flanked by two small, white tables. Straight across is a honey-colored dresser and on the wall to my left is the doorway to a bathroom in the corner, another door on the wall that meets it. Symmetry. The setup is definitely a soldier’s room, but the accents are not. It isn’t hard to guess that this is Bucky’s room, especially since I can smell him in here. Bar soap, spice, and something bitter like gasoline or oil.

There are pictures placed on the dresser and both bedside tables. Mostly of Bucky and Steve, but a couple of just places. Drowsily, I climb out of bed and wander around to get a better look at the pictures. All are black and white with the exception of one, but I love seeing Bucky in uniform. The one on his right nightstand, most likely closest to him when he falls asleep, is a colored picture in a white frame. He was clearly coerced into frame, judging by how he’s angled and Steve’s arm drawing him in by the neck like a noose. They’re both grinning even though Bucky is in the middle of an eyeroll and it makes me smile. Straightening up from my crouching position, I glance at the walls of the room. What I love most is that most of the walls are covered in drawings and writing. Carefully, I let my fingers trace the fine script on one of the thin pieces of paper. I’d have never guessed Bucky’s handwriting to be so fine. Feeling a little more awake, I head to the bathroom and find a little pile of clothes with a note.

“For you. Figured being in these would be more comfortable than a dress. Soap’s in the shower and you’re more than welcome to it. Bucky.” I read the words aloud, feeling the soft fabric of his sweatshirt and sweatpants under the paper. “Sweet.” I murmur and glance up at the mirror, nearly shouting when I see how bad I look. My hair is a mess, my makeup is slathered over my face, and my dress is askew. Immediately, I shut the bathroom door and strip. I let the water be freezing to wake me up and do my best to get all the stuff off my face. After giggling a little at Bucky’s old spice shower stuff, I use a little and rinse fast. I’m in and out in less than ten minutes, then walk out in fifteen wearing Bucky’s big clothes.

The note he left me is folded up in my dress that I take out with me. I open the door and wince a little at the bright light. Bucky keeps his own room dark. Then, the smells and sounds start hitting me. Bacon overpowers everything else and I can hear it sizzling. My eyes find the source of the sound to my right, in a small kitchen. Bucky stands there in sweatpants and a loose T, poking the bacon with a fork in his right hand. There’s no Steve in sight, but it may be too early for him. I have no clue what time it is. All of a sudden, I feel extremely embarrassed. One bad day and you call a stranger to pick you up, spend the night at his place, and sleep in his bed. God. Even so, I set my dress beside my purse at the door and walk over to Bucky.

“Morning.” I bid him quietly, my voice still a little croaky from sleep. Bucky’s head snaps up at the sound of my voice and he turns to look at me with a comforting smile on his face.

“Afternoon.” He corrects and points at the clock on the oven. My eyes shut as I sigh, a headache already on it’s way. “Here.” I open my eyes to find Bucky gesturing to a small breakfast table for two. Smiling thankfully, I sit down where he tells me.

“Uh, so listen, I’m really sorry about all this.” I tell him sheepishly as he returns with Motrin and coffee. “Thank you. Anyways, I’m really thankful for everything you’ve done for me, when you really don’t know me and others would’ve just kicked me out.” I continue as he now brings me eggs and bacon on a plate with a fork. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, I’m listening. You’re just being ridiculous. I’m not going to throw a crying girl out on her ass, no matter who she is. What would the reporters say?” He teases and the discomfort in my chest evaporates.

“You know what, I really don’t feel bad anymore.” I quip and he smiles lopsidedly. “Thank you for breakfast and coffee, you’ll make a fine husband one day.” I tease right back as I fold my legs under me, getting comfortable. His eyebrows shoot up as he sits across from me with the same breakfast, but he says nothing about my comment.

“You’re welcome.” He responds softly as I take my meds with my coffee. The taste is perfect, somehow, and breakfast is delicious. “Now, it may be too early for you to talk about this, but I wanted to ask you what you’re planning to do. About Jim.” Bucky asks and his voice is careful, not knowing my mind on the subject yet. My eyes shut a moment and I pause to collect my thoughts.

“Ugh, right. Well, obviously I’m going to press charges against the son of a bitch, come what may. I’m out of a job pretty much either way. Especially since I’m not going in today and there’s no way I’m calling.” I explain my plans, then look back up at Bucky. Those blue eyes are striking and shining with pride as he looks at me. The look cements the plan even more in my mind; if he’s looking at me like that, then I must’ve made the right choice.

“Sounds good to me.” He agrees and I can’t help but smile at his handsome face. “Hopefully you won’t mind, but you actually won’t have to do that. Steve’s already taken care of it.” Bucky reveals and starts eating his breakfast as I stop in shock.

“What? How?” I ask instantly, flabbergasted.

“Well, Steve called Natasha to dig up what she could on Jim. He could’ve had his own cemetery with the amount of skeletons in his closet. Natasha rallied them and was there when Jim was arrested.” Bucky allows a chuckle to slip from his pretty lips. “She was ecstatic at the opportunity.” He tells me and my mind reels with the addition of such new information.

“So…he’s gone? That’s it?” I ask him, still trying to wrap my mind around it. Bucky nods, his face quizzical at my not understanding.

“Yes. He’ll be in prison before the year’s end if Natasha gets her way, which, she always does.” He reports, eyes scanning me for what I’m thinking. After a few moments of silence, he gets up and kneels beside me. “It’s over, doll. I…apologize if this isn’t the way you wanted it done, but the bastard didn’t deserve to breathe any more free air.” He tells me, those eyes burning into mine as always. I shake my head, reaching out and messing up his hair lightheartedly. His grins, although it is a lonely grin.

“No, I’m not upset. I’m only surprised.” I tell him sincerely, then smirk. “You’re ruining your reputation for being bitter, Bucky.” His grin reappears as I tease him, and we both stay there for a moment. With our eyes connected and my hand still in his hair, the air around us seems to charge with heat and electricity.

“And whose fault is that?” He whispers gruffly and I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. My hand falls from his hair to his jaw and I smile slightly when I rub my thumb over his scruffy cheek.

“You know, you look lonely sometimes. When you smile.” I tell him in a sadder tone, letting my hand drop to my lap. “When you allow yourself to smile.” I continue.

“Do I?” Bucky asks and fleetingly I think his ankles must hurt from crouching for so long.

“Yes.” I tell him simply, my eyes fluttering from his eyes to his lips, then back again.

“I don’t feel lonely when you’re around, doll.” Shock courses through me, but he doesn’t give me a chance to respond. “Damn. I sound like an idiot.” He mumbles and stands. I catch his hand before he walks away and he looks back at me, his eyes swimming in vulnerability.

“I already know you’re an idiot.” I tease and get a laugh out of him, then a happier smile.

“You’re still a smartass. Eat your breakfast.” He tells me and takes his own plate away, rinsing it and putting it in the dishwasher while I finish my food in silence. Once I’m done I follow his lead, which coerces another smile from his lips. “How about this, you think I’m lonely, so why not spend the day with me?” He asks and I notice he seems to force the words from his mouth, or perhaps they were so eager he couldn’t hold them in anymore. Either way, they bring an amused smile to my face.

“You make it sound like a chore, Bucky.” I tell him honestly before continuing, “of course I wouldn’t mind. Do you have any plans?” At that, a mischevious smile overtakes Bucky’s face.

“Yes, actually. I do. I want you to write that article.” Bucky says firmly, steel and determination written all over his face. My eyes widen at the prospect.

“Bucky, you’re aware that I don’t have my own private printing press, right?” I ask, gesticulating dangerously with my fork still in my hand. Bucky leans over, takes the fork, puts it in the dishwasher, then nods.

“Yes, thank you. I want you to write it anyways. Think about it.” He tells me as I heave myself up on the counter while he washes dishes. The corner of his mouth twitches at the action. “What paper, magazine, whatever, isn’t going to hire the author of that article? An article about the world’s most wanted assassin?” He continues dryly and I snort.

“Right, the fluffy assassin that just made me breakfast and let me stay at his place.” I find it more important to address what he thinks of himself first, instead of his offer. Bucky smirks and shrugs.

“Maybe don’t include that.” He suggests and I nod with a silly grin. “But, what do you think of writing the article?” Bucky stays on course, drying his hands on his shirt. I tap a nail on the counter while I consider him and his kind offer.

“Why? Why are you doing this?” I ask seriously, losing the levity for a moment. Bucky sighs and runs his hands through his hair while he thinks.

“I like you. You’re different and seem like you deserve a chance. You certainly deserve a hell of a lot more than the treatment you’ve had so far.” He growls and I hop off my perch and stand a little less than a foot in front of him. The irony of is words aren’t lost on me, but I choose not to point it out.

“That isn’t an answer, Bucky Barnes.” I remind him and he rolls his eyes. “But anyways, I like you too. I’d be happy to do the article.” I relent and pat his arm, then head to my purse. After grabbing my notebook and pencil, I sit back down at the breakfast table. “Ready?” Sighing in resignation, Bucky comes over and sets a cup of coffee down in front of me.

“Born ready.”