#he did NOT want to let go either and they have startlingly powerful little jaws

[warlordfelwinter]

i had such a good streak going of not getting bitten by anyone at work

[downwiththeficness]

In the Bond-Chapter 3

Summary: Lilah often wished she’d never said yes to working with the Gecko brothers—usually while dodging gunfire. At no time was she regretting that decision more than when she’s hanging upside down from the ceiling, staring down a group of hungry culebras and one (1) extremely powerful sun god.

Word Count: ~5,400

Warnings: Blood

A/N: This is an AU of my Story In the Blood, which can be read here. Basically, this fic explores what would have happened if Lilah had met up with Geckos before she met Brasa.

Taglist: @symbiont13

Start from the beginning   Previous Chapter   Next Chapter   Read on AO3   Masterlist

Lilah deliberately did not take any care in how she dressed. She wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, same as she always did. Tennis shoes. Ponytail. Chapstick. Foregoing a purse, she slipped some cash and her cell phone into her pocket, refusing to look at herself in the mirror hanging on the far wall of her bedroom.

The room, itself, was small, with an en suite bathroom, tucked into the back of the restaurant. It was one of the only occupied rooms on the main floor as Lilah was one of the few people living there full time who could have windows. Her queen sized bed was pushed up against the far wall, covered in blankets and pillows.  Lilah had spent a very long time living in motel rooms, jumping from team to team, job to job. When she finally got a place where she felt comfortable enough to settle down, she realized how much a creature of comfort she actually was.

With her cut of every job she went on, Lilah made a single purchase towards her little sanctuary. Her most recent score was a candle that she hid behind a stack of books on the nightstand next to her bed. Caramel Macchiato. She’d picked it up in the store, inhaled, and felt something inside snap so hard that she had to buy it immediately. Lilah didn’t have the courage to burn it, too afraid the others would somehow figure it out. So, she would occasionally slip the top from the glass and take a breath before replacing it carefully. Her own little guilty pleasure.

Thinking that she couldn’t stall anymore, Lilah flicked off the light and headed out into the bar proper, noting that she was the last to arrive.

“Is this how you want to take a meeting with our mortal enemy?” Seth said as he shrugged on his coat.

Lilah glared, “I don’t want to take this meeting at all.  Kate’s right, though. You need a voice of reason in that room.”

The woman, herself, wasn’t present. Lilah hadn’t pressed her for any further details of her time spent possessed by an immortal being. Kate hadn’t offered, either. But, Lilah noted that Kate did look at her just a little differently from time to time. Something softer in her gaze. Something secret. Lilah took those looks and hid them away from prying eyes. She only hoped that the others were too preoccupied with their own shit to notice.

“Hey,” Richie cut in, “I can be a voice of reason.”

“You’re just as likely as he is to go in guns blazing,” Lilah responded as she walked decidedly past them and out into the night.

The sleek black car Seth had washed every weekend by one of the bar staff was parked haphazardly in the mostly empty lot, the bulk of their usual crowd not due for a few hours.  She opened the driver’s side door and shoved the seat forward, sliding in to the back of the coupe. Seth slapped at the seat, and Lilah pulled back so that it didn’t hit her in the knees. He dropped down into it and shut the door, Richie not far behind.

In the few days since the letter had arrived, Lilah had done a remarkable amount of research. Brasa had set up a base of operations that looked more or less permanent. What surprised her was how close it was to them, two hours’ drive through the desert. Like Seth and Richie, he’d purchased a bar as a front and was operating some sort of company from it. Trucks came in on Tuesdays, delivering product that was packed in large metal boxes. She never got a clear look at it, though she was tempted to send one of the culebras that was loyal to the Geckos out there to get a peek. She noted that culebras visited throughout the week en masse, a startlingly large number, given that the bar wasn’t even close to the nearest town. Some of them looked to be transient, but there were others that looked like they had settled in the region.

The product never left, though, which was weird. It came in, like clockwork, but nothing ever left. Lilah had followed one of trucks to a gas station and had gotten close enough to lay down a GPS tracker, but the thing had failed. She still couldn’t figure out why.

They weren’t using the normal methods for money laundering, either. The bar could be considered a cash establishment, but their bank accounts looked solid, at least on the surface.  If Lilah could get a good look at their books, she might be able to figure out how Brasa was supporting a business that was serving the majority of the culebra population outside of the Gecko stronghold at Jed’s.

“You’re awfully quiet,” came Richie’s voice, a teasing note beneath the words.

Lilah snapped out of her thoughts, looking at the back of his head, “I’m just thinking about how we’re going to approach this.”

Seth lifted a hand, forefinger stabbing at the air, “We’re going to let him talk. He’s got a plan, we’ll hear it, and then decide if we want to be a part of it.”

So, the plan they’d had at the beginning was still the plan.  That, at least, was comforting.

“And if we don’t?” she edged quietly.

He shrugged, “We get the hell out of there.”

Easier said than done. They were going in virtually blind. No idea of how many were inside, no idea of the firepower they might have, and only one way in or out.

“And if its a trap?”

Richie held up a pistol she knew had been hand crafted with specialized bullets that would take down a culebra, if fired at the heart. His smile was self-satisfied in the way that told her he’d forgotten that she was still human and very killable.

“We got back up.”

Lilah’s jaw worked, “You’ve got back up. I’ve got zilch.”

This was true. Lilah didn’t much like guns, but she carried them whenever they went out to do a job. She never recovered the gun Brasa had taken from her, and every pistol she’d fired since then hadn’t felt right. Her thigh felt bare without the holster, her body exposed. The rush order she’d put in with their local arms dealer for the exact same gun hadn’t yet arrived and she was too stubborn to bring a gun that didn’t even fit in her hand right. Her aim, already questionable, would be shit, anyways.

Seth made a derisive sound, leaning over to dig into a bag on the floorboard by Richie’s feet.

“You know, I could get that for you,” Richie drawled. Lilah knew that tone, a soft needling that he sometimes resorted to when he wanted to get a rise out of his brother. It was an attempt to lighten the mood. An attempt that did not work.

“I got it,” Seth grunted as he righted himself, frowning.

Through the seats, he handed Lilah a knife tucked into a sheath, “Take that. At least its something.”

Lilah ran her hand over it, the handle was intricate silver, the leather worn but still in good condition. There were little straps that she could affix to her forearm so that she could hide the weapon with her sleeve.

Carefully, she buckled the knife in place, pulling her sleeve down over it and holding her arm aloft to ensure it was as concealed as it could be. Lilah wasn’t much good in a fight, but she knew one or both of them would cover her while she ran.  It was a testament to how fucked they thought this might go that they’d even brought her along. She was a good talker, far better than either of them. If they were actually going to broker peace, she’d need to work as a lead.

When they arrived, Lilah stared at it. The parking garage was the only way in or out. The entrance was wide enough that trucks could back right up to drop doors, unload, and then drive right back out again. Seth pulled in, spun the car around, and backed into a parking spot with a clear view of the exit. At least he was being careful. This boded well for whatever happened next. She glanced at the back of his head. He was sober, too, which also gave them a leg up in this mess. Drunk or high, Seth couldn’t be controlled. Sober, at least she had a chance.

Lilah waited for Seth to step out of the car, taking his hand as helped her up. He pulled her close, leveling a serious look at her.

“First sign of trouble, you run. Richie and I can handle ourselves, but you run. Got it?”

He’d said the same thing on their first job, robbing a minor drug dealer to get some extra cash for inventory at the bar. Lilah smiled and said the same thing that she’d said to him all those months ago.

“Duly noted, boss.”

He looked at her another moment longer, then nodded and let her go, shutting the car door and joining his brother near the front end.

“Lilah, entrance?”

She nodded towards an elevator, “Only way in is through there.  No stairs down, I checked.”

On cue, the doors opened and a man in a three piece suit stepped out. The suit was immaculately tailored, a soft baby blue that was accented by the purple of his button up and tie. Lilah scanned him—Rolex, Italian leather shoes, what looked like a real diamond in the tie clip.  The whole outfit screamed money in a way that was just this side of ostentatious. She caught the pinky ring—the other side of ostentatious, then.

“Mr. Gecko, Mr. Gecko,” he looked at Lilah, “Ms. McNamara.”

Well, shit.

She knew she’d only given Brasa her first name, but here this guy was, calling her by her last. Lilah frowned at him. She wasn’t the only one who had done her research.

“Who the fuck are you?”

She almost made a sound of censure at the bite in Seth’s tone, but they were already moving. The brothers stepped in front of her, working as a unit. Richie put his hands in his pockets, and she knew he was casting the man a hard look. Seth’s arms were at his sides, but his coat was unbuttoned so that he could get at his firearm faster.

“You gonna answer?”

The man, shorter than both brothers, shorter than Lilah (even though she was tall for a woman), was effortlessly cool, “I am Javier. Lord Brasa has asked that I bring you to the conference room.”

Lord Brasa, Lilah scoffed to herself. Fucking pretentious fucks.

“Well,” Seth prompted with a flicking gesture of his hand, “Lead the way.”

Javier smiled, fingers touching the button of his jacket nearest to the lapel, “Of course. If you please.”

The elevator doors were still open, the carriage looming in front of them. Lilah resisted the urge to touch the knife strapped to her forearm as she followed all three men inside. The floors were marble, the fixtures glinting with gold. More money screaming at her. Where did it come from? How were they running their scheme?

There was a ding and the door opened to a dimly lit bar. The tables, the bar top, the stage, everything was cast in red glow. It muted the dark of the wood, softened every edge in a way that made the room blur in a dreamy way. Lilah kept close to her friends, moving through the room to the back, where Javier opened a door.

The hallway was just as dark as the room behind them. Neither of the two men in front of her hesitated, so Lilah continued following, flinching when the door closed behind her. Javier led them through a few turned to a nondescript door, which he opened, gesturing for them to enter.

Catching the way Javier looked closely at her as she passed, Lilah breathed deeply, barely containing the growing disdain for the man. He smiled serenely.  She got the distinct feeling he knew way more than she wanted him to know, and that unsettled her. They were already on an uneven playing field. Every second she spent in his presence made her feel more unbalanced.

Brasa was already sitting at a long rectangular table when they arrived.  He stood as they approached, one hand remaining on the wood. Lilah noted that he wasn’t wearing his coat, though the gloves remained. He was, as seemed his habit, dressed in all black.

“Welcome,” he said amiably, though he didn’t smile.

Seth’s gait slowed to a swagger, and Lilah very nearly rolled her eyes as he slid a chair out and sat, Richie taking his place beside him. She pulled out the chair on the other side of Seth, sitting carefully. Brasa waited a beat, then sat as well.

“What do you want?” Seth asked.

Brasa leaned forward on his forearms, hands folded, “I can tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want another endless war. I don’t want to see my people hunted. I don’t want any more killing between us.”

Lilah watched his face as he talked. His voice was calm, even in a way that told her he wasn’t attempting to dissemble. His body language was guarded, but that was to be expected.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Seth replied, jaw set.

Brasa looked at him, unblinking, “I want peace. I have people to care for. My attention needs to be on them, not on fighting off every attempt to kill us.”

Seth smirked, “I wouldn’t say ‘attempt’. We’ve been pretty successful.”

Richie nodded, “Very successful, in some cases.”

Lilah felt her mouth thin at the boast. Telling Brasa that they had been killing off his people wasn’t conducive. She wondered if they intended to talk peace at all, or if this was a very dangerous scheme to irk their enemy. Her fingers itched to touch her knife. She resisted, barely.

“That’s right, Richie. Got a whole nest, what, six months ago?” Seth’s tone was conversational, bordering on jovial.

“We did, indeed.”

Jesus, she thought. We’re all going to die down here.

Brasa’s eyes closed briefly, and Lilah could tell he was annoyed, though he telegraphed nothing with his body.

“The point is,” he asserted, his fingers flexing with the third word, “I’m offering to stop the fight. A complete cease fire, if you will.”

“Why?”

Oh, God, why are you talking?

Brasa’s eyes flicked to her, his mouth twitching. Lilah sensed his amusement, felt it brush against her mind as clearly as any physical touch. Beneath the table, she lifted her toes, the urge to haul ass out of the room riding her hard.

“My kind were made for war,” he explained, “Bred for it, bound to it. We had no choice in the matter. Now, I can make that choice. I can stop the cycle, at least in this dimension.”

Lilah very carefully avoided the fact that he had just confirmed there were other dimensions. Though she had gotten a little background information on Xibalba, she hadn’t yet put it together that it was co-existing somewhere that wasn’t Earth. That put a lot of her reading into a very strange and very mind bending context. Focus.

“That’s it?”

His head cocked to the side, “Does there need to be more?”

“There’s always more with you people,” Seth interrupted blithely. “We just don’t know what it is yet.”

Brasa smiled a very small smile, “Perhaps. But, at this time, this is all that is on the table.” He tapped the wood with a knuckle.

“So,” Richie prompted, pulling a pack of cigs out of his jacket pocket. He tapped one out along with a Zippo lighter. “What are your terms?”

Leaning back a little in his seat, Brasa lifted a shoulder, “As I said. Complete cease fire on both sides. We’ll outline our territories and keep to our sides.”

Richie took a drag, considering. Lilah watched him mull over the words, his keen intellect working his way through the problem.

Seth sneered, “You gonna keep killing humans, while you’re at it.”

Brasa shook his head, “No need. We have our own supply.”

The trucks. That’s what he’d been bringing in on Tuesdays. A blood supply, but from where? The shipments were massive, would feed far more than she’d seen coming in through the garage. Unless, there was another entrance, something underground, perhaps? She hadn’t seen anything, not even in the blueprints she’d managed to snag from the city.

Seth looked unconvinced, “You say you’ve got people. How many? How are you going to feed them all?”

“That is my concern,” Brasa answered levelly. “Your concern is that your people adhere to the terms of our agreement.”

Richie flicked ash, saying, “I’ve got some terms to add.”

Brasa’s brows lifted, a silent urge for the other man to continue.

“I want no interference with bondmates. None whatsoever.”

Lilah had no control over the way her heart thudded, and she knew two of the three males in the room were hearing it. Though he didn’t look her way, she felt Brasa’s attention shift over to her, felt heat rolling towards her from where he was sitting.

His lips parted, “How do you mean?”

Richie stubbed his cigarette out on the wooden table, “We both know I’ve completed my bond with Kate. I don’t want her to be a target for retribution.”

Ah, there it is. Lilah wondered if Richie would bring Kate into this. She was the silent voice in the room, a key player in absentia. With what she knew about their interaction, it made sense that Brasa might want a little vengeance.

“Kate,” Brasa began, curtly, “Is not Amaru. And, neither am I.” He drew in a breath, “But, I agree that bondmates must be left out of any disagreement, no matter how fierce. They are too precious to be used as bargaining chips.”

Richie stared hard, his mouth thin, nostrils flared. After several long seconds, he gave a nod, indicating his satisfaction.

“Are there other terms you want to discuss?” Brasa asked.

Seth gave a little sound of thought, “I’m sure we’ll think of something along the way.”

Here, Brasa’s eyes lit up, “I agree. I would like to implement the use of an ambassador during the drafting of our treaty. I will send one of mine to you, and you will send one of yours to me.”

At this, Lilah felt Javier step up to the table, though he didn’t say anything. Seth glanced at the man, tongue touching the back of his teeth. Lilah could feel how they’d been boxed in, though she doubted either of them knew just how it had happened. Or, why.

“Why would we need to do that?” This came from Richie, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

For the first time since they’d entered the room, Brasa relaxed. Lilah felt a little jolt of fear go through her. Relaxed was not going to go well for them.

“I have either brokered or been present during the brokering of many, many peace treaties.”

“And, how many of them have you broken?” Seth bit out.

Lilah felt her throat work around a noise she’d been holding back for a while. A short, guttural sound that meant ‘shut the fuck up’. They were almost through this, and if he could keep from pissing Brasa off, they could maybe end out with a good deal.

Ignoring the comment, Brasa continued, “In my experience, the first draft is rarely accepted as the final. It will go through several revisions before we add our signatures. The use of ambassadors is standard practice.”

Seth took a moment, staring Brasa down, “Who do you suggest?”

Brasa lifted a hand, indicating the man beside him, “Javier will suffice for us. He knows my expectations. And for yourself?”

“Richie’ll do it.”

The man in question scoffed, leaning over to talk lowly with his brother, “I’m supposed to be running point on our other projects. How would I have time to draft a peace treaty?”

“You don’t sleep, Richard.”

“I do, too, sleep.”

“Like two hours a day.”

“That’s still sleep, you asshole.”

Lilah touched her temple, knowing that they’d come to an agreement eventually.  She’d just have to listen to them bitching about it for a bit first. Across the table, Brasa hid his smile behind his hand, dark eyes glancing at her. She avoided his gaze.

“This project will likely take several months, and extensive ongoing meetings,” Brasa said eventually, leaning his chin on his hand casually, “Can you spare your brother for that long?”

Seth paused in his bickering, his brain working around the problem. Lilah watched his expression carefully, waiting. The furrow between his brows relaxed and she knew he had it. He looked at her and she knew she was going to hate what came out of his mouth next.

“McNamara,” he muttered. She was already shaking her head, “You do this all the time.”

“I negotiate our cut when we pull jobs, Seth. Its not the same thing.”

“Close enough,” he responded quickly, turning in his chair to look at her head on. “You know what we’ll accept, anything else you can run past us.”

Lilah stared at him, though her attention was straying to the heat creeping up the side of her neck to her cheek. It took effort to keep from shifting away from it, the unfamiliar weight disconcerting. She felt her resolve crumbling under the pressure.

“Seth,” she breathed, “Richie’s right. You’re an asshole.”

Then, she turned in her chair and faced Brasa, “I’ll do it.”

She sensed more than saw his satisfaction. They had just given him something he wanted. Lilah was unsure how she felt about that.

“Good,” Brasa announced, rising.  “I have an initial draft in my office. I also have a separate office for your ambassador. I will show her both, and then you may be on your way.”

“Hold up,” Seth said, rising, “You’re not taking her anywhere.”

“I’ll be fine,” Lilah grumbled, already circling around the table. “Besides, he’s got a lot to lose, if he kills me.”

No one needed to know just how much Brasa stood to lose with Lilah’s death. She let the implication stand in the deadened air, though. With more confidence than she felt, Lilah stood before him, waiting for him to lead the way.

After casting her another assessing look, Brasa turned and moved towards the back of the room. Another set of doors, another hallway, and she was stepping to a massive room that looked like it was carved right out of the earthen stone.  She was entering it from the side, about ten feet of rock separating the front of the room from a pool of water that was bisected by a walkway.  Cast once more in a red glow, the walkway led to singular desk with two plush chairs.

“Good work out there, by the way,” she commented, uncomfortable with the extended silence.

He looked back at her and smiled. Lilah had to swallow back the shock of how young he looked when he smiled like that. She knew he was ancient, knew that he’d seen things she couldn’t even fathom, and yet...his boyish pleasure at the compliment was so evident that it washed all of that away.

“That wasn’t work,” he replied, moving towards the desk, his hands slipping into his pockets, “That was a negotiation.”

Her eyes narrowed, “For the treaty?”

“For you,” he answered, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Lilah bristled, “I thought bondmates weren’t going to be used as bargaining chips.”

Brasa huffed a short breath, turning and leaning against the desk, “Its been weeks, Lilah. Forgive me if the separation has made me brash.”

What he’d done wasn’t brash. It was cool, calculated, efficient. He’d maneuvered not only the peace he sought, but a guarantee of her nearness within ten minutes. She was in over her head. She was in way, way over her head.

Licking her lips, Lilah approached him with all the wariness that she would give a wild animal, “What do you want from me?”

He looked at her a moment, “Time.”

“Time?”

“Yes,” he confirmed with a dip of his chin, “Just time.”

She thought about it, “Then, I need something from you.”

Lifting from the desk, he stood up straight, “Name it.”

“Discretion. I know those men out there. I know what they are capable of. If you really want peace between our people, they cannot know how you and I are...connected.”

He considered it, and she could tell that he was on the verge of refusing. This was a proud male that she was dealing with, someone who’d fought a long time to get where he was. The little bit that she knew about bondmates made the request seeming somehow unreasonable.

“You ask too much,” he murmured, taking a step towards her. “I have already given you more than I should.”

She was bewildered, “A few weeks? Is that more than you should? This is my life we are talking about.”

Heat blew at her, his anger a physical thing, “This is my nature we are talking about.”

His words were lowly spoken, but filled with such an undertone of severity that Lilah couldn’t bring herself to reply.

“I am Xibalban,” his hand cut across the air, “It is my right to claim my bondmate when I find her, no matter the circumstances.”

“And, what about my rights?” Lilah sneered, arms crossing.

Brasa took a deep breath, centering himself. Then, he took another breath, his eyes focused and she could tell he’d already formed another deal to make, “I’ll need something from you, to keep this secret.”

Ice moved glacially down her spine, a cold kind of fear. Her skin pricked with awareness. She jerked her head to the side, indicated for him to continue.

“Blood,” he stated, “Blood and bond.”

There was a soft lilt in the way he said it, a hint of ritual. Lilah’s jaw clenched as she waited for more information.

“I need to assured of your safety, of your strength, when you are not with me. I have many enemies, and if they discover you are human—if I haven’t fortified you properly—they will kill you. We will have a blood exchange when we meet, every time. That is what I want from you.”

Blood. Time. Discretion.

Lilah nodded, “Done.”

He was satisfied, but he was not pleased. Lilah could read it in the shift of his body, the ash in his scent.  She waited, unsure of how happy she was with the arrangement.

“We will begin now,” he announced, a blade already in his hand.

Lilah closed her eyes, working to keep her instinctive reaction at bay. An angry Xibalban with a knife was not to be taken lightly. Before she could react, he appeared in front of her, taking her arm—the arm with the knife strapped to it. Lilah didn’t have the ability to pull back as he lifted the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She did have the ability to glare at him as he laughed.

“What were you going to do with this?”

“Well,” she deadpanned, “Shooting you didn’t quite work out last time. I figured another method might be more effective.”

He flashed his teeth at her, “I applaud the effort.”

“Thanks.”

Letting go of one arm, he took up the other, peeking underneath the fabric. Satisfied that she wasn’t harboring any other weapons, Brasa pushed it to her elbow, glancing at her for her readiness. Lilah gave a nod, hissing when the blade went through her skin.  This cut was deeper than the last, though just as precise. He brought the wound to his mouth, sucking gently.

Lilah didn’t know how to feel about the way her body reacted to watching him drink from her. There was an alien revulsion to the act, itself. Mentally, her brain screamed that she was in danger, that she had to get away. The primal part of her brain, the thing that was deeper and stronger than any other, ensured that she stayed right where she was.

He groaned against her skin, and she felt the vibration of it go right through her, rolling along her arm and over her chest. His body was so close, the scent of coffee and caramel all she could sense. Lilah kept trying to breathe, kept trying to remain upright. When she wavered, his arm went around her waist, pulling her into a broad chest. Her free hand gripped his shirt for balance.

Too late, and too soon, he pulled away, his tongue lingering over the cut a moment longer. Lilah swallowed, eyes wide, when he looked at her. The black had taken over the whites of his eyes again, and though his lips weren’t pulled back over them, she knew his fangs had dropped. She held her breath.

Without a word, Brasa slipped the button at the cuff of his shirt through the buttonhole and rolled it up, blade slicing through his forearm. She almost said no. She almost shoved him away and ran full sprint back to Seth and Richie. His eyes stopped her.

Brasa’s eyes, black as they were, were so wide and beguiled that Lilah had to stop and stare. He was looking at her with such unrestained awe, such grateful affection that she made no move to resist as he guided her to his own skin.

Lilah wished it had been a fluke. She wished that her memory of how good he tasted was so distorted by adrenaline and fear that it couldn’t even come close to reality. He was...exquisite. Honey thick, and twice as sweet.

She had to stop this. She had to get control. Turning her head, Lilah tried to get away. His hand slipped to the back of her neck below her ponytail, a firm grasp.

“More than a mouthful, this time,” he murmured against her temple, “More, Lilah.”

God help her, but she took it. Swallow after swallow, her eyes squeezed shut, words of praise sounding her ear. When he finally allowed her to lift her chin, she struggled to breathe. She didn’t know how long she’d been at it, only that his taste remained, coating every inch of her mouth.

His arms held her steady, “You did so good. So good.”

Lilah felt her body overheat, sweat forming on her temples. His face swam in her vision, so close she could feel the vibration of every word he said. Though her sight was blurred by the intensity of what she was feeling, Lilah could absolutely tell that he was still wearing that expression of awe, that he was looking at her as if she were the entire world. And that scared her.

Drawing on years of experience with unstable and dangerous situations, Lilah righted herself, rasping, “I need to get back. They won’t wait for long.”

Brasa ran his hands down her arms, the action serving to compose his demeanor. Assured that she could stand on her own, he stepped away towards his desk where he picked up a thick file.

Handing it to her, he explained, “This is the first draft. Take a look at it and we’ll discuss edits.”

Javier was standing near the door as they walked out. He handed Lilah a Gatorade with a smile. Lilah’s eyes cut at him as she took it, thumb and forefinger already twisting off the cap. She’d have to get more details on that man as soon as possible. He was definitely more than he seemed.

It wasn’t until they were almost home that Richie finally turned around in the front seat and cast her a curious gaze, “What happened in there? You haven’t said anything.”

Lilah caught Seth looking at her in the rearview.  

She shrugged, “He showed me an office and handed me the file. He wants to see our edits as soon as we have them ready. I’m going to look at this tomorrow and let you read what I come up with.”

He wasn’t satisfied with her answer. Lilah could tell by the way he sucked his teeth. She didn’t care. She had much, much bigger things to worry about.

[ossy-p-art]

*kayae west voice* anotha one

DIMENTIO

TWO WEEKS

You feel less than good.

You kneel in front of the poor creature you had attacked; an innocent star sprite, dazed on the ground. You had injured it by simply whacking it with a branch as hard as you could. Admittedly it was pretty funny. Like hitting a baseball. Fortunately it didn’t soar very far; you had chased it into a secluded forest, away from prying eyes, before whacking the snot out of it.

You outstretch your hand and grab the little thing by the foot, lifting it up to your face. Awfully heavy little thing. Should be more than good enough.

You lightly lick your lips and pull up your mask.

You hear an unusual click as the bones in your jaw lengthen and unhinge. The chaos heart’s magic lets you manipulate your body in truly awful ways. Youve done this before, but it still gives you shivers. The heart grows cold in anticipation for more cosmic energy as you psyche yourself up.

In a grotesque, monster-like fashion, you easily slide the spite past your unhinged jaws and into your throat for the chaos heart to do whatever it pleases to it. In a fashion similar to a black hole, the sprite is suddenly dragged down with absolutely no hindrance. You didn’t even swallow. It was just gone in less than a second.

A chill runs through you.

You only do this on rare occasions. About three times in the past two weeks. Too many in a row would be telling. On the nights that you do treat yourself and the heart like this…it feels like you’ve taken a step in the right direction. The heart is more willing to sit patiently if it knows the longer it waits, the better the reward will be. You’ve formed a wordless alliance with the heart in this way, and thankfully this means it has stopped boring into your side.

On these hunting nights, you have to wear a blindfold and earplugs. If not, your body behaves strangely. You are subject to sudden thrashing and convulsions. You can navigate just fine without either sense- you can identify the imprints in space and time from every physical thing around you. You practically echolocate. Its a mystifying ability that the chaos heart gifted to you upon your transformation. The biggest problem, however, cannot be avoided.

You keel over slightly as you feel bile rise in your throat. You swallow it back down, irritated. Its like your body can tell when you’re doing these awful deeds and rejects them outright. The blindfold and earplugs do a decent job of keeping you calm and collected, but as soon as you can feel those sprites in your mouth, its a nightmare. You’d be fine with cutting up a sprite if it meant avoiding this, but unfortunately dead star sprites return to stardust immediately. A shame.

You clasp your hand over your mouth as you gag again. This kind of behavior really doesn’t suit a sophisticated individual such as yourself.

For the most part, you’ve been gathering sustenance for the chaos heart by other means- mainly normal power stars. They aren’t exactly appetizing, though…they taste metallic, and don’t sit well in your stomach. Pretty hard to discretely nab, too. Another alternative is ghosts and other spirits, but you think if you swallow one more boo this month something is going to come banging down your door to kill you.

Just a hunch.

You take slow breaths to try to calm your nerves. It seems impossible to keep your pulse steady lately.

“LAD WERE’VE YAE GONE OFF TEH?”

Your breath hitches in surprise as you catch wind of a familiar voice- one so loud you can hear it through your earplugs. You remove the plugs and pull away the blindfold.

You cant call out to the man yelling for you- your throat is in shambles. But you can knock a few times on a nearby tree to alert him.

“THAT YOU?”

O'Chunks comes through the brush and you give him a slight wave. He seems a little bothered, but still smiles lightly.

“Yae gotta stop wand'rin off like that, lad. Yer awf'ly far from tae gard'n. Thought yae were jus’ goin’ fer a short walk? Had me worried.”

He offers you a hand, and you place yours in his. It kind of shocks you how gently he carries your palm.

You never did this kind of thing before.

You were pretty worried at first that your old menagerie of ‘friends’ were going to pummel you the second they saw you. You know, the backstabber? The traitor? The fool? …They’ve all been surprisingly mild-mannered. You’ve been completely unable to speak from the damage done to your throat, but you’ve conveyed a few ideas via writing- most importantly the concept of redirecting the chaos heart’s violence.

Nastasia has been the most help thus far, navigating where power stars may be located to sate the chaos heart’s monstrous appetite. You really owe her a lot.

Mimi has been keeping a constant eye on you, practically babysitting you at any given time, keeping you captive in a small home she 'borrowed’ from some unlucky fellow. Normally you’d find annoyance in this, but for some reason, seeing her face brings you a distant feeling of comfort.

Unusual.

O'chunks sometimes arrives to carry you to and fro, as well as help you nab said power stars from any individual who may be guarding them… you haven’t told him about the star sprites yet. He may not like it.

Everyone is so… kind. You don’t know if a mass case of amnesia swept over everyone, but they’re all patient towards you. It feels…nice.

Your heart is warm.

You don’t know why they keep calling you 'Ell’. Maybe that was a side effect of the amnesia. Its not like you can correct them just yet.

LUIGI

TWO WEEKS

You walk while holding O'Chunks’ hand. You feel horrible. You don’t know whats wrong with you, but some kind of force, every so often, keeps driving you to go outside- to find innocent and tiny creatures of power- and to just-

You grab onto O'chunks’ arm suddenly and shudder. He pauses, looking you up and down with a worried expression. He bends down on one knee, and with a startlingly soft voice asks you if you need 'tae sit down.’

You shake your head no. You don’t want to be a bother.

You’ve been trying not to blame yourself for these things- its got to be the chaos heart manipulating you, or something. You don’t know what else it could be. The only bright side to these incidents is that after they’re over, your stomach doesn’t hurt at all- just feels cold.

O'Chunks seems slightly bothered with the silence, and decides to speak up.

“Er…yae know, Nastasia wan’s tae speak abou’ somethin’ with yae.”

You look up at him, trying not to come off as miserable.

Apparently hes not buying it.

“We’ve been hidin’ stuff from yae, don’ wanna put yae into a bad place.”

You give him a questioning look through your mask. You’ve BEEN in a bad place for two weeks now. Ever since you came to your senses in that broken castle.

“…We jus’ think yae should know. I cann’ do it alone.”

He squeezes your hand very lightly.

“…jus’ hope it doesn’ put yae in as bad of a state as yae were in tha’ cas'le.”

…you feel unsettled that whatever information he could offer to you would be that bad.

DIMENTIO

TWO WEEKS

You’re having a panic attack. Its not even yours.

Your conference with Nastasia went…pretty poorly, to say the least.

Your unwilling hand grabs tightly onto O'Chunk’s shirt as a part of you makes haste to form words you don’t even want to say.

“Gh- get-”

You cough. Its painful. You can taste the blood from wounds in your throat

“Get him- o-out-”

Your heart is going a million miles an hour. You feel like you’re damn well about to have a stroke.

Nastasia adjusts her glasses.

“We cant. If you let me finish my sentence-”

You go into a coughing fit, painting the inside of your mask with red.

Mimi quickly scampers over to you, putting a hand on your leg in sympathy before whipping her head at a sharp 90° angle to scowl at Nastasia.

“I knew they needed more time! But you didn’t listen, Nass!”

You fall to your knees, breathing heavily. Your mask slips off. You move your hand to pick it up, but a scream escapes you before your fingers can wrap around it.

“DH- DON’T MOVE ME!!”

The pain in your throat is horrible. Your vision is getting hazy from how disoriented you are. You’re losing focus.

You had suspected this. You didn’t need Nastasia to tell you. Apparently Luigi did, though. The man is as dense as a plank of wood that was raised by a family of hillbilly rocks. Its blatantly obvious in hindsight- moving against your own volition, Luigi missing, people being strangely nice to you… you kind of put the pieces together, thought 'well I’ve had worse done to me, and this may not even be true’ and put that thought on the back-burner to cope with later.

You put a lot of thoughts on the back-burner to cope with later. The metaphorical back-burner is pretty cluttered. Some thought-pots and concept-pans look like they might fall over at any second, but you keep that copper-ware well balanced in a precarious Jenga tower of undealt with emotions. Surely this is perfectly healthy and nothing bad could come of it.

Where were you? …Oh, yes, you’re about to faint.

You grab your chest and keel so your forehead is touching the floor. Your vision is fading to black from how quickly you are breathing.

You close your eyes as you take a slow breath in-

-and a deep exhale out.

You remain in a little panic-ball as you practice breathing. You’re shaking terribly against your will. This is humiliating.

A large hand strokes your back. O'Chunks.

“…I'tl be ok, lad. We won’ let anythin’ happen to yae.”

Words for Luigi.

Well. That explains the kindness they were showing you before.

You were finding a bit of joy in it, admittedly. It felt like you were all a crew again.

But it was only sympathy for him.

Well. That’ll go on the back-burner too.

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

To Keep You Safe

Title: Why aren’t you scared of me? Why do you care for me?

Chapter: 16/?

Author: hopeless_romantic_spoonie

Summary: Life as the assistant to Tony Stark was busy, but boring. All of that changed when I touched something I shouldn’t have and woke up with strange new abilities. If I thought that trying to figure out my new place in life as an Avenger was tough, I had no idea what was in store for me once I ran into the frustrating God of Mischief, Loki.

Rating: E 

Notes: Friendly reminder that this is un-Beta’d, so please excuse any typos or grammatical errors I no doubt missed during revisions! 

Also on Ao3 here :)

Warnings for this chapter: Smut before the first cut (but after the keep reading), brief mention of violence, blood, torture, and a bit of language.

~~~

“Talk to me, little one. I need to know what you’re thinking,” he pleaded desperately.

I watched in silent fascination as his dark brows creased together, creating an intersection with the lines now patterned across his forehead. His tongue–still pink–darted out to wet his lips nervously. Cracking echoed out between us from his grey-blue knuckles as he rubbed his hands together. I had never seen him look more anxious than he did standing before me in that moment.

And all I could think of was that he looked like an incredibly buff smurf.

“A Frost Giant?” I tested how the words felt on my lips, my voice quiet and dripping with curiosity as I stood up to slowly walk over to him.

He watched me with fear tight around his eyes. His breath stuttered in his throat when I reached out to take one of his hands into mine and traced the back of it slowly. My fingers followed the lines up his arms thoughtfully. They looked as if they were implanted beneath his skin and were hard yet supple at the same time, similar to the raised scar tissue on my shoulder. I worked to keep my face neutral beneath his intense scrutiny. It wouldn’t do for him to get the wrong idea about my exploration of his body before I had come to any conclusions myself.

“A lesser race to the Asgardian than you believed me to be. They’re primitive brutes who live on a planet of ice,” he spat out with obvious disdain for the beings he spoke of. The being that he was.

My probing touch settled on his shoulders, and I finally lifted my roving eyes to his face. If I looked hard enough, beneath the blue tint and blood-red eyes, I could see the man that I had fallen in love with deep down inside of him. He still felt like him, maybe a bit colder, but that could be because I, unlike him, wasn’t built for this weather and I was so cold that my fingers were tinted red. I lifted my hand up to run over the lines on his cheeks but I stopped just a hair’s breadth from his skin, suddenly unsure of how he would react.

“I will not hurt you. I am still myself. This…” he gestured to himself with a wave of his hands at his sides, “has always existed. You can touch me.”

But the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice said, ’Please touch me.’

I did as he asked even though he hadn’t said it out loud. My fingertips skated across the ridges of his cheeks and he closed his eyes to lean into my touch with a sigh. My hand cupped his jaw and I traced his bottom lip with the pad of my thumb, parting his lips just enough so that I could feel his short breaths puff out against it.

None of this was normal, but how normal was my life, really? I was a woman with freaking powers, like earth bending nonsense, living in a tower full of superhumans and two aliens. How different was one alien from another? I didn’t know much about Frost Giants or Asgardians when it came down to it. So, Loki was a smurf. He had been one all along; he just hid it well with some clever magic. No matter what he said about Frost Giants being a brutal primitive race, he had proved that wrong in the time that I’d known him. An alien was an alien was an alien. If I was going to start getting alien-racist about this then I seriously had some issues to work out.

I set my hands back on his biceps--still felt like steel cables beneath his cold skin--and squeezed them gently to get his attention. “Kiss me.”

His eyes, so startlingly red, burst open so he could look down at me in shock. “Excuse me?”

I rubbed his arms gently with my thumbs as I answered matter-of-factly, “Kiss me. I want you to kiss me, right now, looking like this. Don’t change back.”

And when he finally shoved aside enough of his doubt to stoop down to brush his lips across mine, it fully cemented the fact that beneath the blue exterior, this was still Loki. His low groan of pleasure when I nipped at his bottom lip was one that I had reveled in countless times before and knew intimately. I slipped my tongue into his mouth and teased his with long, languid flicks that made him gasp quietly and tense up beneath my hands, but he didn’t do anything more. He let me do what I wished with him, but his hands stayed firmly by his sides and his body inches away from mine.

I broke the kiss and pulled away just enough so that I could open my eyes to look into his. He stared back at me, panting heavily, but hesitation marked his brow and tightened his blue lips into a thin line. My lips barely touched his as I whispered the one word I know would break him out of this anxious and fearful rut that his self-loathing had dragged him into: “Mine.”

That did it.

His arms curled around my back and he tugged me against him. He claimed my lips for his own and thrust his tongue into my mouth to tangle deliciously with mine. Once I was firmly held in place by his hand splayed across the small of my back, his other hand traveled down my back to slip over my ass and grind my hips into his roughly. His lips left mine to drag a scorching hot yet icy cold trail down my jawline while he continued to roll our hips into each other, making his pleasure at my enthusiastic reaction very prominent where it ground into my thigh. My forehead dropped heavily onto his shoulder as I focused on keeping my legs from collapsing beneath me from the waves of delicious heat surging through them.

“Not here,” I insisted breathily with a weak shake of my head.

“Hold onto me.” His gruff command was quick and low. He didn’t give me much warning before he hooked his hands beneath my thighs and lifted them so that my only option was to cross my ankles behind his back and circle his shoulders with my arms. I planted lingering, hot kisses on the blue skin of his shoulder as he carried me effortlessly inside. The warmth of the building was so welcome on my frozen skin that my warm sigh of relief ghosted across Loki’s neck, and it sent a shiver up his spine that tightened his strong grip on my thighs.

I was too engrossed in tracing a ridge with my tongue that spanned his flesh from chiseled jaw to shoulder to pay attention to my surroundings. Only when he settled down into a chair that rolled beneath our combined weight did I lift my lips from his collarbone to take in our surroundings. Apparently he couldn’t wait to get to our bedroom, and a nearby conference room was going to have to do. He settled me over his lap with my knees on either side of his hips, and he used his grip on my thighs to push my center down over the sizable bulge growing in between his legs. Between his thin sweatpants and my jeans, it was more teasing than satiating, and a mewl of frustration crawled up from my throat at the lack of friction.

For a moment we just stared at each other in the darkness of the room, our aqua and porcelain faces lit only by the moonlight streaming in through the windows. Even without much light, the difference in our skin tones was apparent, as his didn’t catch the light as mine did as I straddled him. His startling eyes watched me with something akin to wonder lightening up the lust that lingered just beneath the surface. I relaxed my steadying grip on his shoulders to drag my fingers through his jet black hair, starting at his temple and working my way down until I was cupping his neck. He hummed appreciatively at the touch and gave me a small, content smile.

“You are always so beautiful, Loki,” I whispered, voice husky.

“You truly mean that.” His hoarse voice was incredulous, but it wasn’t a question.

“Of course I do.” I shifted on his lap so I could press a light kiss to the lines between his brows before clambering out of his clutches to stand up in front of him with my hands on my hips, all sweet honesty wiped from my face and replaced with sternness. “Take off your clothes.”

His eyebrow quirked up at my soft but commanding tone. With a hesitant but still wicked grin, he rose to his feet. When he reached out for me I took a step back out of arm’s reach and wagged a finger at him.

“No sir,” I said with mock seriousness, “just you. Strip, blueberry popsicle man.”

All hesitation finally left his face as he stared down at me with unbridled hunger. Good. With agonizing slowness, his large hands trailed over his flexed stomach muscles, and the rasp of skin against skin was so loud in the silence of the room it rivaled only the pounding of my own heart in my ears. I couldn’t tear my eyes away as he hooked his thumbs into the hem of his pants and tugged them and his underwear down, revealing inch by tantalizing inch of wonderful ridged blue skin that I longed to worship with my touch.

So worship I would.

Once he straightened up to his full impressive height my eyes flickered back to the rolling chair behind him. A quick flex of my powers and ‘come hither’ motion of my fingers and I urged it forward just enough so that it tapped the back of his legs. He sank heavily into the chair and opened his arms for me to return to his lap. And I would. After I took care of something else first. I had plans to show him just how much I loved him, in any form or color, and I would not let his heavy-lidded red hot gaze deter that plan.

“You always told people to kneel for you. But never me,” I mused, a boldness growing within my chest from the way his heavy cock twitched when I slipped his hoodie from my shoulders to drop at his feet. My head tilted to the side with a challenge lighting up my eyes. “Do it.”

He swallowed and a muscle ticked in his jaw as he clenched it tightly. Even looking like this, the Frost Giant that he was, he was very much Loki. Arrogant and smug as ever as he narrowed his eyes at me and lifted his chin. “Kneel, mortal.”

Calling me mortal had a whole new level of intensity when he looked so clearly like an otherworldly being. At times it was easy to forget that he wasn’t just a man like any other that I’d known, but kneeling down in front of him and coming right up to his hard blue cock settled between his legs left no room for any doubt in my mind. My fingernails scratched lightly against his thighs as I dragged my hands up them to come to rest at the base of him.

A wave of shyness overtook me as I carefully grasped him in one of my hands. He was so big and I had his full attention. What if I wasn’t good enough for him? My other hand came to a stop on the flat of his abs, and he covered my hand with his. I marveled for a moment at the difference in our skin tones as they contrasted so beautifully in the dim light. His stomach muscles rippled beneath my hand as I looked up to him from my submissive position before him. The pure desire that shone in his ruby eyes killed any hesitation that had been swirling in my stomach, and I lowered my head to drag the flat of my tongue along the underside of him.

My name uttered as a curse from his lips sent a rush of heat straight to my already throbbing core. It spurred me on to take the head of his cock into my mouth and hollow out my cheeks while my tongue swirled around him. I reveled in the groans that I pulled out of him as I began a steady rhythm of stroking him with my hand around the root of his cock and my mouth bobbing up and down along the rest of him. His free hand fisted into my hair and encouraged me to move to the tempo that he wanted. His hips rocked into me shortly after, joined by a steady stream of moans that tumbled out of his parted lips.

Even still fully dressed, I was desperate for any sort of relief I could find for the pulsing wet heat between my legs. I slipped my hand out from beneath his to quickly fumble with the button and zipper of my jeans. Once I managed to get them undone my hand dove inside of my underwear to gather my own slick heat on my fingertips and rub it around my aching clit. The sight of me trying to find my own pleasure while using my mouth to give Loki his must have been too much for him, as he pulled my lips off of him with an obscene ’pop’.

He easily lifted me to my feet and pulled me to stand in between his spread legs. I frantically scrambled to pull my shirt and bra off while he helped me step out of my jeans and underwear. Once I was just as bare as him, his hands latched onto my waist and he lifted me to perch on his lap in a move so smooth and quick that a laugh tumbled from my lips. He chuckled softly in return and peppered my neck and jaw with light kisses.

Of course, those stopped when I reached between us to guide him against my wet and ready heat. He held completely still, his lips sealed over the soft skin of my neck, as I rubbed him against my wet outer folds teasingly, drawing an impatient moan from him and a gasp from myself as he grazed my clit. I positioned him at my weeping opening and a single impatient thrust of his hips encased him inside of my warmth. His head fell forward onto my shoulder once he was fully sheathed within me and his panting breaths tickled the bare skin of my chest. I clutched at his back desperately as I stretched around him. He was just so big, and if I was forced to guess, I would say that he might have even been slightly bigger in his true Frost Giant form.

“You are so tight,” he moaned reverently, rolling his hips ever-so-gently, pulling a matching pleasured groan from my throat and sending shocks of pleasure throughout my body.

I could already tell that this wasn’t going to last very long for either of us. My stomach was tight with the tension of my impending orgasm, and his lined brow was drawn together as he grabbed my ass with both hands to guide me up and down the length of him. This angle allowed my clit to rub against him just enough to bring me right to the edge, my legs tight and my breaths caught in my throat, but it wasn’t enough to send me over into oblivion.

Desperate for release, I pushed a hand between our writhing bodies to stimulate my hard clit. Loki watched me with lustful almost glowing red eyes. The sight drove him to thrust into me harder, faster, adding the slapping of our flesh together to the erotic sounds of our moans and breathy sighs that filled the room.

With one final stuttering thrust, he slammed my hips down onto his and emptied himself within me with a loud cry. The erotic sound of my name moaned through his parted blue lips was enough to trigger my own orgasm, and I clutched onto him in a wild attempt to stay tethered to reality as shocks and tremors rolled throughout me and fluttered over his spent cock still inside of me.

I forgot how to breathe. I forgot how to think. I forgot how to do anything other than ride the waves of pleasure and cling to him.

So great was the orgasm that I must have blacked out momentarily, because as I slowly became aware of my surroundings, I registered his hands rubbing my back soothingly, holding me upright and skating over the barely-healed wounds of my middle and upper back with such tender care and devotion. My head had fallen onto his shoulder and I rolled it to the side to leave a soft kiss on his pulse as it pounded in his throat.

“I love you, Loki,” I murmured, sleepy and content to fall limply against his chest.

I could feel his lips pulling back into a smile against the flushed and sweat-dampened skin of my shoulder. “And I, you, little one.”

~~~

“So are you always putting on this appearance if you’re technically a Frost Giant?” I asked softly, afraid to disturb the peace of our bedroom--Loki had been slowly moving his belongings over in the last month since I returned to the Compound--but my curiosity got the best of me. I traced meaningless shapes across his pectoral muscles as I lounged sprawled across his naked torso. Our bare legs were tangled together beneath the sheets and his arms were wrapped around my back and performing similar ministrations to my waist.

His low voice reverberated through his chest and against my cheek. “My true heritage was only revealed to me recently. It requires more effort to-”

I cut him off with a mischevious smirk, “Look like a blueberry popsicle.”

He chuckled and pinched my side, causing me to yelp and swat his chest with a satisfying ’smack’ that most definitely didn’t hurt him. “As I was saying, I have to actively work to hold the form of a Frost Giant as opposed to my Æsir appearance that you are currently pinning to the bed. I suppose it is subconscious to look this way,” he mused thoughtfully, the hint of disdain for his heritage barely lingering in his tone.

I shifted in the bed to cross my arms over his chest and rest my chin on them. This angle allowed me to look into his eyes more easily. He looked so peaceful and warm in the morning light, content even. Only the barest hint of doubt and self-loathing crinkled at the edges of his eyes. I would make him accept himself if it took the rest of my days.

“Well, I certainly enjoy,” I rolled my bare hips against his thigh emphatically, “both forms. And will continue to do so, as we did last night. Again,” I pinched his nipple, “and again,” I craned my neck to press a kiss to his jaw, “and again.”

I made to pull away to start the day, only to be reeled back onto the bed by his arms tightening around my waist and pulling me back so that I was suddenly pinned beneath him. He allowed enough of his weight to hold me down into the comfortable sheets, the length of his firm body pressing into me from thigh to chest. He cradled the sides of my head in his strong hands and tenderly stroked my temples with his thumbs as he stared down at me with a small smile.

“That will have to wait for another time, little one. I have a proposition for you, and I wish for you to listen to it in its entirety before you respond. Understood?”

“Somebody is bossy this morning. Sure, I’ll listen,” I agreed with a shrug of my shoulders. My hands came up to rest on his sides lightly and I drummed my fingers against his ribs idly.

“You have made great strides in your mental and physical recovery in the past month, and I am so proud of you for it. However, the threat of Hydra and Thanos returning continues to grow with each passing day, and I was speaking with your Avengers the other day. We believe that we may be able to expedite the healing process if you allow the Witch to see what was done to you, so we may better determine a strategy to combat it and bring you back to yourself. We need to have you fully prepared to defend yourself if the case calls for it.” He presented his plan clearly and calmly, but his temperate attitude didn’t lessen my heart thudding against my ribs or my fingers digging into his pale flesh.

I centered myself in the strength of his steady gaze. He would not have suggested this idea if he didn’t think it would help and if he didn’t trust Wanda. It didn’t make me feel much better about the situation, but that small nugget of knowledge stopped me from spiraling into a full-blown panic attack. I inhaled when he exhaled, timing myself to his breaths that pushed against my chest. Once I felt reasonably confident I wasn’t going to succumb to my fear, I frowned and looked at the door as if it was going to spring to life and attack me. “They are my enemies. They want to use me.”

His long fingers pushed gently on the sides of my head to bring my eyes back to his. He looked so confident, so sure, and yet so loving as he gazed down at me. “I promise you that they do not intend to use you or hurt you. I searched Stark’s mind for his intentions just yesterday to ensure your safety. They are concerned for you. I believe that the Witch can help me in restoring your mind to what it once was. You have improved so rapidly and have such control over yourself comparitively, but a small nudge in the right direction with your true memories may assist you a great deal. And as you do not want me to see what happened,” I shook my head, “then she is the only one who can help you at this time. I will not let her tamper with your memories. She will not remove or add anything, and most importantly, I will not leave your side.”

I let my head fall back into the pillows with a low groan. I hated the idea of anyone rifling around in my head; that is what got me into this mess in the first place. Now I didn’t know who to trust or what to believe except when it came to the man currently cradling me in his arms. But I also hated the pain on Loki’s face whenever he caught me off guard with his touch and I flinched away, or worse, threatened him with whatever nearby weapon I could find. I wanted the war inside my head to end. I wasn’t about to let him poke around inside my memories; I didn’t want him to see me that weak or brutalized, but I couldn’t continue to live with the trauma that gripped my thoughts like a vice. If it called for it, I wasn’t sure if I could defend myself, and that would only put him in danger as he tried to protect me as well as himself. So, I relented, shoving my fear deep down inside where it was quiet while we both got ready for the day.

Everyone that lived at the Compound, plus Tony, was scattered around the various couches and seats when we left the safe haven of our bedroom, attempting to look natural and doing a poor job of it. I could plainly see the bulge of a vein in Steve’s neck, the clenching of Tony’s hands together, Natasha’s head tilted toward us as she pretended to work on a tablet. Vision was the most obviously apprehensive of the bunch, his anxiety pouring off of him as he stood protectively over Wanda’s side. The only one who looked relatively calm was Thor, who beamed at Loki leading me by the hand into the room.

I watched them just as closely as they did me. My eyes darted between them to watch for an attack as Loki sat me down in my favorite spot on the couch. He didn’t let go of me for a second as he settled down beside me, pressing his chest into my side and wrapping an arm around my shoulders for silent support. I did my best to push down the fear gnawing at my insides, looking up warily at Wanda who had moved to perch on the coffee table in front of me.

“I just want to see what they did to you, so we can try to put your mind back to where it was before. Is that alright?” she asked, regarding me as if I were a wild animal that had wandered into the safety of their home. I could tell that she was trying to be reassuring with her smile but her slightly widened eyes told a different story.

I tensed up to brace myself for the onslaught of trauma that was about to come my way. Loki took one of my hands in his and clutched it tightly in my lap. I lifted my eyes to him and he was leveling Wanda with a warning glare that would make anyone’s blood run cold. I hated this. I hated it so much that I wanted to scream and rip this room apart and hide away forever. But Loki thought this was what needed to be done, and he was watching over me, so I placed my trust in him. I relented, giving her a quick nod before closing my eyes and dropping my head and tilting my torso to press just a little more against the shoulder of the man who had sworn to protect me.

White hot pain exploded across my back, my ribs, my face. Tony Stark is your enemy. Wanda Maximoff is-. Electricity burned through my body. Too many injections to count, each scorching me from the inside out. Hunger clawed at my stomach. No peace. No rest. Only pain.

She ripped out of my head and I released the breath that I had been unknowingly holding. My entire body was one giant clenched muscle as I struggled to hold onto the present against the barrage of memories that she had pulled to the surface.

That cane whirring through the air before it smacked against my broken flesh. No--Loki’s strong arms around me.

Pain blossoming across my exposed skin. Loki’s rough fingers dragging along those same pathways, pulling pleasure from deep within me.

Each terrible vision that tried to force itself into the forefront of my thoughts was replaced with Loki, and I knew it had to be him putting those memories there, as I was still too frazzled to do so myself.

But for all of his efforts, still my ears roared, drowning out every sound around me. I opened my clenched eyes and lifted my head from the safety of his embrace to look around the room as I struggled to place myself anywhere but back in that hellhole of a torture chamber.

“Get her out of here, now!” Tony shouted, his voice far away and muffled, and I turned to him to see glass levitating around the room. A quick glance behind him clued me in that I must have shattered the wall of windows at some point in time. Wanda and Vision were already out of the room, but Natasha, Steve, Sam, and Thor were all standing with Tony, staring at me as if I were some sort of broken monster. Metal ripped itself from the wall and flew to form a crudely made barrier between Loki and me and everyone else. The glass and iron coffee table Wanda had been sitting on groaned before turning in on itself, the glass that made up the tabletop exploding and hovering in the air. It was as if I wasn’t controlling the chaos, but I knew that some part of me deep down was doing everything it could to protect me and this was how it saw fit to do so.

Strong arms scooped me up and cradled me to a lean chest, and within moments we were in my strangely untouched room--apparently my destruction hadn’t extended this far. I forced myself to pay attention to Loki as he sat down on the couch and shifted me so that I was situated in his lap. I almost strangled him with my arms wrapped around his neck so tightly but he didn’t make a sound of discomfort. I closed my eyes and pressed my face into his neck as I fought against the fear that boiled inside of me.

I would not give in to the darkness wanting to overtake my vision. I would not give in to the panic threatening to steal my breath away. I would not succumb to the fear clawing at my throat and pricking at my eyes.

“Shhh, little one. I will never let anything happen to you. You’re safe. I’ve got you. Focus on breathing with me,” he murmured, voice honey and warmth as his lips pressed against the shell of my ear.

I did as he instructed and pressed my ear to his chest to listen to his heartbeat and breath, trying to match mine to his. His hands stroked small circles into my hip and back as he used his comforting touch to try to soothe away my panic. Once I felt like I had more a grip on myself, I pulled away to look up at him, only to see his eyes filled with sadness and rage. He smoothed a hand over my forehead and left a lingering kiss on my temple before settling me on the couch and striding briskly out of the room.

I don’t know how long I sat there, dumbstruck, before a heavy knock echoed throughout the room.

“Milady, may I come in?”

I hadn’t let anyone besides Loki inside since Tony had barged in that first day. But Thor had been slowly worming his way back into more neutral territory lately, and he also might have some information on where Loki went. I stood up and crossed my arms as I walked over to stand several feet away from the door. He may be the God of Thunder, but I would still be ready to do my best to kick his ass if I needed to. He’d win, but I could still try.

“Let him in this one time, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” I instructed with a heavy sigh.

The door whirred open to reveal the smiling god leaning against the frame casually. When I only stared at him silently he strolled into the room to plop down heavily on my couch. He sprawled out with his arms stretched across the back of it and his legs spread out before him, looking right at home despite the tension pouring off of me.

“Where’d he go?” I cut right to the chase.

Thor scrubbed a hand over his face to reveal a much less pleasant expression tugging on the downturn of his lips at my question. “Tony tracked the vehicle that he commandeered to one of three Hydra bases that we are aware of currently.”

Oh. So Loki finally snapped and went to go blow off some steam be ripping some Hydra assholes in half. I couldn’t say that I was sad for the inevitable loss of life, but I did pity the people that would face the brunt of his rage. He was not one for mercy at the best of times.

I latched onto the one absurd fact I could to stop the mental images of him ravaging an entire building full of people. “When did he learn how to drive? Can you drive?”

The blinding, kind smile was back on his tanned face. “Sam instructed us both while you were training with Natasha. Tony thought it best that we learn how to operate any and all vehicles around the Compound in case of emergency.”

“Of course he did,” I grumbled, rolling my eyes. Always one to be prepared, Tony, and he had given Loki the tools needed to go out and wreak havoc on the world because I wasn’t strong enough to handle myself.

“Sit with me,” Thor instructed with easy arrogance, scooting over on the couch so that there was several feet of empty space to the side of him. He acted like the king he had been born to be, just expecting people to follow his orders without any protest.

But I was not his subject, I wasn’t even his friend, so I stubbornly shifted on my feet and shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans. It earned me a nod from him in acknowledgment of my decision and a shrug of his shoulders.

“Very well. He had asked me to keep watch over you if anything should ever happen to him, and although I greatly doubt that this is what he had intended, I swore to him that I would and I am not one to shirk my duties. So, if you do not mind, I will wait for his return in your shared chambers? If not I can station myself outside of your door, but this is far more comfortable.”

I wasn’t sure of it, but I knew that I couldn’t take Loki in a fight, and I knew that Thor was physically stronger than him, even if only marginally. Was it wise to let Thor just hang out in here? Did I care about his comfort? He had shown me nothing but kindness since returning from Hydra, and it didn’t seem like he wanted to hurt me. If he did he’d already had ample opportunities to do so in the last month. I kept my eyes locked on him as I backed up to my bed and crawled onto it, watching him closely for any twitch or flicker of movement that could be taken as hostile.

“You stay there and I’ll stay here. Got it?”

The hulking man nodded and closed his eyes, tilting his head onto the back of the couch. I watched his breathing even out over the course of several minutes, and only minutely relaxed when I was sure that he was asleep. Some bodyguard. I couldn’t decide whether or not I was insulted or touched that Loki wanted to make sure I was watched over in his absence. I was more than capable of taking care of myself, especially if my earlier performance was anything to go by.

I wanted nothing more than to curl up on the bed and relax, maybe read a book or doodle, but I was too keyed up with Thor present and Loki in possible danger to even attempt any sort of rest. That left my mind to run away with itself as I sat there propped up against the headboard.

I was able to destroy an entire wall of windows without blinking an eye. I didn’t even think about it and the industrial iron coffee table had collapsed in on itself. I had levitated a room full of glass shards while my mind had been completely and totally focused on the others in the room. What had Hydra done to me that I could now manipulate all these things, and with such ease?

Testing myself, I reached my hand out toward the wooden chair that Loki had stationed by my bedside. I barely tugged on the energy pulsing within me and it rose several feet in the air, not even shaking as I held it with only my thoughts. A twist of my wrist spun it around in slow, controlled circles, and I only had to relax my hand and it fell back to the floor with a loud thud, jolting the slumbering god on my couch awake. He watched me silently with appraising eyes, and I resumed my exploration of my powers once it seemed like he was content to do so. I held out my hand and with the faintest of effort, a long, thin piece of metal came loose from the doorframe and settled into my palm. All it took was drawing my hand over the cool material for the end to warp and bend into a fine point.

I jumped up off the bed when the door to my room opened and held up the makeshift weapon like a spear over my head. Thor was in front of me before I could blink, blocking my view of the door with his broad shoulders. The defensive action startled me enough that I lowered my weapon to my side as I peered around him to see who had come into my room.

Loki strode into the room swiftly, but I could detect a heaviness in his bare shoulders that also dragged at his feet. Where had his shirt gone? From the flecks of blood dotting his arms, I assumed that I didn't want to know. He locked eyes with Thor and nodded his head once, which seemed to be a dismissal, as Thor shot a quick smile my way before leaving the room. I was swept into Loki’s embrace as soon as the door closed, and although I had been worried sick that he was going to get injured, I couldn’t stop myself from melting into him.

“Are you hurt?” I asked into his neck. His skin tasted faintly of sweat and dirt, hinting at what he had gotten up to while he had disappeared.

“No, love. I am perfectly healthy,” he assured me.

“Good.” I detangled myself from his arms so that I could land a punch as hard as I could against his chest. He didn’t even flinch while my knuckles felt like they were broken. Real smart move there, punching a man who can deflect bullets with his skin. His face was expressionless as he stared down at me, and it only fueled my anger. “You can’t do that shit! I only knew where you were because Thor told me. You don’t get to just run away without saying something, anything!”

He arched a brow and tilted his head down at me, narrowing his eyes. “I answer to no one.”

It was hard to intimidate the giant of a god, but hell if I didn’t try by mimicking his pose and crossing my arms over my stomach. “No, you don’t. But we’re in a relationship now, and that means that I love you, damnit. So you can’t just run off and fuck some people up without either letting me come as back up or you telling me where you’re going. Because I care about you, and it would end me if anything happened to you. I was scared for you, Loki.”

The hardness in his face softened and he reached out to brush his hands along my upper arms. “You are angry because you were worried about me?”

I shook out the pain in my hand with a grimace and rolled my eyes. “Yes, smart one. I know what they’re capable of…”

Careful not to jostle my injured hand, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders to tuck me back into his chest. “I apologize for not explaining myself earlier. When we were in the living area, I was ensuring that the Witch didn’t do any damage to your memories and…” he trailed off with a heavy sigh that shuddered throughout his body.

“You saw what she saw, what happened to me,” I supplied quietly. I let my injured hand press against the cool skin of his stomach to soothe the throbbing ache there. It wasn’t as effective as ice, but it’d do in a pinch.

He made a quiet noise of affirmation and took my hand from his stomach to carefully cradle and cool the injury more effectively. “I did.”

So the sight of my torture had driven him to violence? It would fit the suddenness of his departure and his rash behavior. He wasn't known for being the most level-headed in the best of times, and his protectiveness over me was apparent to anyone who saw us together. He had only been trying to protect me. It was sweet and infuriating, which seemed to sum him up perfectly. I craned my head up to look at him. “Next time at least let me know where you’re going, okay? You would ask the same of me.” In reality, he would demand that I stay here while he took care of the threat, but I didn’t need to bring that up when we both knew it was true.

He pecked my lips gently with a soft smile. “Of course, my love. Forgive me for worrying you.”

“Fine.” I tried to hide my placated smile with an angry grimace that I knew he didn’t buy. “Jerk.”

~~~

It took weeks of work to get me to anything close to resembling ‘normal’ after Loki convinced me to continue the test treatment. Weeks of Wanda leaning over me as I sat on my bed in Loki’s arms, her eyes and hands glowing red as she delved deeper into my mind, locking away each moment of torture and agony that I experienced while I was away. And while she worked, Loki brought each happy memory with the Avengers that he could dig up to the forefront of my thoughts, reinforcing the notion that we were family, I was loved, and they never set out to hurt me.

It was thankless, never-ending work that often ended with me shuddering against Loki as I struggled to handle the invasion and manipulation from their very powerful minds. It left Wanda exhausted as well, so tired that she had to be carried out of my bedroom by Vision--who never left her side when she was around me. I couldn’t blame him, given my track record, but some part of me was deeply hurt by the hostility in his eyes as he would take her to rest.

The only one who didn’t seem to be drained from the exercises was Loki, but he was a god after all. If they did affect him negatively, he hid it well as he held me for as long as I needed after each session, rubbing the tension from my muscles and lavishing praises upon my fragile and overworked spirit. If you had asked me six months ago if I would have thought that the God of Mischief would be nursing me back to health I would have laughed right in your face.

He was the constant anchor in my life. Keeping me grounded as I slowly integrated back into a tentative routine with the others. His hand upon my lower back or my arm guided me through the world and kept me from spiraling down into the darkness whenever something triggered the memories Wanda had been working so hard to push down and shut away. It was him I turned to when the nightmares wrenched me from sleep, his arms reaching out to hold me to him before he’d even fully woken up. Without his steady presence at my side, there’s no telling where I would be when it came to my mental state.

~~~

“Did you get that email-” Tony asked as he leaned over his desk and fiddled with a rocket for his suit.

“Sent off to Roger in SHIELD? Sent it this morning,” I cut him off.

“And call back-”

“Mr. Smith over in Programming? Handled that this morning. He won’t be bothering us anymore.”

“And that interview-”

“Scheduled for this Friday at two pm, after your lunch date with Pepper. I made reservations at that Italian place she likes so much. I also hired two new interns that you asked for, had your shipment of wiring sent up to your main lab, scheduled pizzas for delivery for the gang tonight, sent out for your dry cleaning, and called and sent up an appointment for your doctor to come over to take another look at your shoulder,” I replied matter-of-factly, finally looking up at him from my cell phone where had been glancing through an email.

Tony looked taken back and took his glasses off to drop them onto the desk. “How’d you know my shoulder is messed up?”

“When you’re thinking you tend to rub it,” I shrugged. “Plus, Pepper told me.”

“You talk to Pepper?” he asked, looking a little too shocked at that information. Had he met either of us?

“Of course. She is basically running everything around here. And she lives with you. She just got a little busy and needed me to set it up. We talk about everything,” I chuckled, wiggling my eyebrows.

“Jesus. If you weren’t so good at your job I’d have to fire you. But I couldn’t let you live with all the dirt you’ve got on me, and the cover-up for your death would be a logistical nightmare.” Tony rolled his eyes with a smirk.

“You wouldn’t know what to do without me, Mr. Stark!” I called, pulling a bottle of ibuprofen from my back pocket and tossing it to him before walking away. “Take this for the headache. I’m going to go meet with Janet about putting out some fires.”

“You’re the best, kid!” he called to my retreating form. I only smiled to myself and waved back at him.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Two Hundred Thirty-Five: Too Much Water ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: Divine Light ] [ AO3 Link ]

At times, one’s student can be a bit too prodigious.

Teaching an overly-sheltered water mage about their crafts was never on Sasuke’s to-do list, but Fate had other ideas. In order to find his brother a healer, he had to strike a deal: take on one Hinata of the Hyūga as a pseudo-student, and Sasuke would be granted access to a rare mage of pure Luxerian blood.

Of course...that came with other conditions. In order to properly heal Itachi, she needs access to the knowledge long locked away by her ancestors after the coup that tore the Elemental Summit apart. That, in turn, means a several week journey to the long-abandoned Luxerian capital.

And on the way, Sasuke makes good on his part of their promise.

Hinata, sheltered by her father, knows...almost nothing of ven: the energy used by elves to bend their element to their will. Having lost her mother when very young to a raid, Hinata (and her sister) were strictly forbidden from using their powers as to avoid any further suspicion against them.

Sasuke, on the other hand, has never had to live without his element. Teaching someone from scratch - let alone one of the element opposite his own - isn’t something he’s ever had to do before.

“All right...are you ready?”

“I...I think so.”

Together, he and Hinata stand on the bank of a river not far from their group’s current camp. They’ve been on the road a little over a week, and this is Hinata’s first real lesson. In other words...one with actual application rather than theory. They’ve had many hours discussing the techniques and legends behind their powers, but only now has Hinata had any real chance to use her elemental energy.

“Now, remember what I taught you. You have to reach to the element with your energy. Speak to it. Convince it to follow your commands, and work with it.”

“How...how will I know if I’m doing it right?”

“You’ll just know. The water will obey you.” He gestures to the river. “I can’t tell you what it will feel like. My element is nothing like yours. Fire is...hungry. Unruly. As for water...I can only guess.” For an example, he summons fire to a palm, directing it to dance in certain patterns atop his palm.

Hinata watches, pale eyes wide and curious.

“As you interact with it, you’ll get a feel for it. Learn what it gives, and what it takes. It’s much like learning to work with any beast. You have to adapt to each other. Find what works.”

“...all right.” Taking a steadying breath, Hinata reaches out hands as best to visualize the movement of her ven. Doing her best to direct it into the flow of the river, she lets her eyes close, feeling rather than relying on her sight. It’s...something she can’t quite describe in words. “I...I think I feel it.”

“Good. Now try something simple, like...lifting some water from the riverbank. Not much - each action will take varying amounts of energy depending on how much you need to accomplish it. Start slow and small until you can gauge your limits.”

She gives a curt nod. Lifting her hands, she grits her jaw against the surprising strain as she attempts to do as suggested. It’s almost like it’s...too heavy! Or maybe it’s...fighting her.

Water flows freely...it can carve its own path, even through stone, if it works long enough. If I want to get it to follow me...I have to entice it. It has to want to flow with me…! Trying to bear that in mind, she realizes...she’s fighting the current, rather than working with it. Maybe…

Opening her eyes a hair, she moves her focus a bit more upriver, and then lets her energy flow with the current. Then, as it makes its way down, she lifts.

And from the surface comes a small, wobbling sphere of water.

Behind her, Sasuke’s brows lift in a hint of surprise. He...wasn’t expecting her to succeed so quickly.

Clearly just as taken aback, Hinata loses her concentration with a sound of shock, the hold dropped as the water flops back into the river.

“Did...did you see that?”

“I did,” he admits, arms still crossed. “That was impressive for your first try.”

“I...I think I understand it a bit better now. Let me try again!”

For nearly an hour, Hinata works on her control and precision, mimicking her first attempt. It’s not perfect, and there’s still much about the art altogether she doesn’t feel she understands, but...there’s the inkling. A beginning of knowledge to build from, like a foundation.

By the time she’s advised to stop, Sasuke gives her a small but genuine smile. “You did really well! Color me impressed.”

In spite of herself, Hinata goes a light shade of pink. “...well, thank you for all your help. I wouldn’t even know where to begin without your guidance.”

“I’m about as improper a teacher for a water mage as one can be, but...at least the very basics are shared across all the elements. I’ll just be unable to get into the finer details with you. Those...you’ll have to learn on your own.” There’s then a small jerk of his head. “Come on, let’s get back to camp. You’d best eat and get some rest after that. You’ll need to build up your endurance with it, just like using your body.”

The pair return to their party, Hinata indeed finding herself with a healthy appetite and not taking long to fall asleep later that evening. But they have places to be, and begin packing up camp once they all rise come morning.

Before they can take their leave, however, the distant sounds of trouble reach them.

Long ears flickering at the ruckus, Hinata then turns to look. “...did you guys hear that?”

“Aye,” Sasuke mutters. “Sounds like just the sort of thing we should keep our noses out of.”

“But what if someone’s hurt?”

“We can’t just intervene in every squabble we come across, Hinata. We’re not exactly built to be a party of real strength. I’m the only battle mage here: Itachi is ill, and you’re a novice. And the healer can only defend, not attack.”

“But -?”

“Leave it,” he advises, attaching his saddlebags to his mount.

Hinata, however...has little intention of listening. Already finished with her gear, she hops astride her horse and takes off back the way they came.

“Hey!” Gritting his teeth, Sasuke swears under his breath. “You two stay here, I’ll get her…!” Kicking his own steed into a sprint, he takes off after her.

A ways down the road, squabbling atop a bridge, a small party of raiders harass a traveling group. While it’s clear they’re attempting to fight back, it’s obviously not going well.

Expression set, Hinata calls, “You there! Run, get off the bridge!”

Everyone stills, and the civilians don’t need telling twice. Stumbling off, they head further down the road, leaving their packs where the raiders remain to loot the spoils.

Eyes almost seeming to glow, Hinata lifts her hands, letting her horse keep down the path at a run. Feeling the flow of the river, she bares her teeth in a snarl of determination and - with a roar - invites the water to follow her lead.

Like a tsunami, the current leaps up over the height of the bridge. Quailing beneath it, the brigands have no time to react before it washes them all over the other side and down into the rapids.

All at once, a great fatigue washes over Hinata, and she sags in her saddle. “Eugh…!” But just before she can fall, Sasuke catches up, snagging the reins and letting an arm steady around her shoulders.

“That,” he growls, “was too much water.”

Rather than retort, Hinata just goes slack.

Ignoring the bewildered travelers across the bridge, Sasuke takes the pair of them back to the camp. He then orders the other pair to follow, simply keeping pace at Hinata’s side to ensure she can rest in the saddle.

An hour later, she finally rouses. “...wh…?”

“That was a startlingly stupid thing to do,” he mutters. “You almost killed yourself.”

“...did they…?”

“Hm?”

“The people...did they get away?”

He watches her a moment. “...they did. Without their supplies, but...maybe they’ll manage. Better to be empty-handed than dead, I suppose.”

At that, Hinata just gives a small smile. “...good.”

“...don’t ever do that again.”

“I’ll...try not to.”

“Hn…”

                                                            .oOo.

     More fantasy verse crossover! Not too much to say, honestly - I've still got my headache from my earlier piece, blegh Dx Almost didn't get this done, but I pushed through! Hopefully it's still enjoyable - and hopefully tomorrow I won't be so vexxed. Either way, though, thanks so much for reading!

[tsaomengde]

The Dark - Revised

I posted this story months and months back, and since I’ve had it workshopped and I’ve revised it!  It is now way longer.  Like, Jesus, it’s massive.  But it’s also much better.

Irena Matsuo Mtukudzi is a post-human cyborg who has a very human moment, meets a pretty woman, wrestles with her inner demons, and has to kick a whole bunch of ass.  Contains violence, flirting, transhumanism, space queers, Mars, and banter.

           Irena Matsuo Mtukudzi cannot stand the dark.

           She needs very little sleep, and always leaves the illumination in her apartment on high while she does.  But there are nights, like this one, when the dark presses in, threatening to breach the harshly-lit walls, and she has to stay awake, to go out and confront it.  To walk in it, and to deny it any power over her.

           So she strides, purposeful but directionless, through the streets of Olympic City, moving between pools of cobalt light cast by the floating lamps.  She walks down long, deserted pedways, the kilometer-high superstructures of Downtown looming above her.

           And tonight, as she does this, she sees a woman in an alley.  

           The woman looks terrified; she is backing slowly toward a dead end lined with autodumpsters.  There are three men in dark coats closing in on the woman, their body language heavy with threat.  Irena’s mecheyes automatically highlight the sleek, metallic objects in their hands and flash a warning: military-grade plasma projectors.

           She slams the first man’s head against the plascrete siding of the alley’s wall before they even know she is there.  He goes down and does not move.  The other two turn, eyes wide in hard faces.  One of them brings up his projector, sighting in on her, but she takes the distance between them in a single, impossible leap. She lands on his chest, her long locs whipping forward to shroud her face.  He makes an unnatural crunching sound as he hits the pavement – armor beneath his coat, probably.  Irena punches him in the jaw, bouncing his skull against the ground, and he stops moving.

           The last man fires at the woman just as Irena springs at him and closes her hands around his wrist.  She throws his aim off, but the flashing burst of plasma hits the woman in the shoulder, spinning her around and dumping her in a heap in the loose pile of garbage strewn about the end of the alley.

           Irena wants to take her time beating him unconscious, but the woman needs her help.  So Irena sweeps his legs out from under him and kicks him in the face, hard.

           A moment later, Irena is crouched over the target of the erstwhile assailants.  The woman has short red hair, elfin features, pale white skin that suggests Amero-European heritage from back on Earth.  She wears a professional charcoal skirt suit cut in the latest Olympic fashion, hard geometric lines erasing any hint of human softness.  The illusion is shattered by the smoking wound in her shoulder, only partially cauterized by the heat of the plasma bolt.  Her eyes, startlingly blue, are open, but are unfocused.  Irena recognizes shock when she sees it.

           She looks back out at the street, about to tell her integrated comm to call emergency services, but then she catches sight of something: the closest man’s boots.  Steel-toed, vat-grown black leather – and very familiar, very distinctive blue-and-white-striped laces.

           She growls, moving over to him.  She opens his coat, unzips the ferroweave vest beneath, and rips open his shirt.  There it is: tattooed across his left pectoral muscle, a nineteen-digit identification number in dark blue ink.  If the boots weren’t enough, this confirms it.

           These men are cops.

           Two and a half hours later, Irena stands stiffly at attention in the spacious high-rise office of her employer.  Julian Thorne sits at his oversized mahogany desk, his wrinkled face scrunched up in an expression of irritation.  Irena keeps her gaze fixed slightly above and to the left of his head, which means she is looking out the panoramic window behind him. Olympic City stretches out below them, hundreds of silver spires glittering in the harsh rays of Martian sunlight, which are only slightly diffused by the diamond-lattice environment dome.  Rising above the dome and visible to Irena’s left, Olympus Mons cradles the city in its western slope, a vast expanse of reddish rock that goes higher than the window will allow her to see.

           “Just to be clear, Security Chief Mtukudzi,” Thorne says.  He only uses her title and last name when he is angry; those times tend to be rare, but memorable.  “You saw a woman being cornered by armed men.  I understand the desire to intervene.  But why did you not call the authorities and report the situation, instead of leaping into action and beating the shit out of the aforementioned armed men?”

           Irena takes a careful breath.  Thorne, as befits a man of his station, has a top-of-the-line social aug; if she lies to him, the mechanisms embedded in his head will pick up the slight increase in her heart rate, the minute excitation of body hair caused by rising blood pressure pushing cells toward the surface. Even she can’t control these autonomous reactions.

           But she certainly can massage the truth away from the blunt statement she wants to make, which is, because I wanted to.

           “Because,” Irena says, “if I had waited for the OCPD to arrive, the woman in question would be dead and her assailants might be trying to eliminate me as a witness.  I took decisive action to preserve her life and my own.  Afterward, it became apparent that if I had called them and she ended up in their custody, she might not have survived.”

           “Yes, of course.  Decisive action.  Indeed.” Thorne’s thin, dark lips twist in a grimace.  “Answer a question for me, please.  What, precisely, is the nature of your job at my company?”

           “I am responsible for the protection of all Thorne Co. assets, whether personnel or materiel, and –”

           “More basic.  Boil it down.  What do I pay you to do for me?”

           Irena purses her lips.  She knows the answer he wants, and she doesn’t really want to give it, but the best way through one of his quiet rages is forward, rather than lateral.  “You pay me to minimize risks and losses for your company.”

           “That’s right.  Did the actions you took last night do those things?”

           “Quite the opposite.”

           “So you can understand my frustration.”

           That doesn’t call for a response, so she doesn’t give one.  Thorne eyes her for a few more moments, letting the tense silence drag out.  “Do you think there were any cams?” he finally asks.  “Either in the alley, out in the street, or on the men you attacked?”

           “I swept the area as I was bringing the woman in for medical treatment and detected nothing of the sort.  I suspect the cops were not using any recording equipment, integrated or otherwise, because they knew better than to make any kind of record of a hit.”

           “Did any of them get a good look at you?”

           “One of them may have.  The other two I dispatched quickly enough that I doubt it. But I concussed him severely, it was dark, and my locs hid most of my face.”

           Thorne gives her a hard look.  “They’ll fix the concussion with nanosurgery in a matter of hours, Mtukudzi.  At which point, he will most definitely remember a dark-skinned killer cyborg with green mecheyes and dreadlocks beating the bejesus out of him and his friends. He won’t need to have seen your fucking face.”

           Breaking her at-attention stance, Irena tosses her head to the side, letting her locs settle over one shoulder, and crosses her arms. “For the record, I agree with you. But answer me this: When you go home tonight and tell your husband about what I did, will you say that I did a wrong thing, or a stupid thing?”

           Thorne leans back in his plush chair and rubs the bridge of his nose with a gnarled hand, thinking.  “Low blow,” he finally says.  “Bringing Stjepan into this.”

           Irena shrugs.  “He would agree with me.”

           “You will be the death of me one day, woman.” Thorne places his hands flat on the desk, a kind of weary finality in the gesture.  “Why did you do it, Irena?  I mean, really.  What were you hoping to get out of this situation?”

           Feeling the muscles in her jaw clench as she considers the question, Irena finally asks him, “Do you remember when you first approached me for a position with your company?  You offered me a very large sum of money to make unspecified problems go away for you.”

           “I did,” he acknowledges.

           “My counter-offer was what I do now.  I keep problems from happening, rather than going out and surgically removing them.  I don’t know if there’s a true moral difference – I have still killed a fair number of people for you, in my line of work – but I feel better knowing all of them fired first, when it would not have been like that if I were a ‘troubleshooter.’”

           Thorne nods.  “Go on.”

           “When I saw this woman in that alley,” Irena says, “I saw a problem being removed by troubleshooters.  I realized it could easily have been me advancing on her with a drawn weapon.  It could also have been me in her place, and I know I don’t need to tell you why.  The only difference between those men and me is a job title and a vestigial conscience. And I didn’t like that.”  She takes a deep breath, preparing herself to say something embarrassing.  “I suppose I wanted, for once, to do something unambiguously heroic.”

           Thorne gives a carefully calculated half-shrug which says nothing in particular.  He rises from his seat and makes his way to an apparently blank wall.  He waves his hand in front of it and a seam opens, revealing an elevator.  “Well, what’s done is done and you have managed to weasel your way out of apologizing for it.  If we’re playing at altruism today, shall we go see the damsel in distress?”

           Much to her own surprise, Irena feels heat rising to her cheeks.  Thorne notices, of course – his social aug will be telling him it’s happening, even if he isn’t looking at her.  But he remains tactfully silent, awaiting her cue.

           “After you,” she says.

           The medcenter is blindingly, perfectly white. It is almost surprising to encounter actual human beings in such a sterile space.  The techs direct Irena and Thorne to the bio bed where the woman is currently resting.  Her retinas and prints apparently belong to one Madeleine Duvier.  No priors, no outstanding warrants, at least not in the systems Thorne has had Irena spend the time and money hacking into.

           As they approach, she opens her eyes.  She gives each of them a long look before saying, “I really am feeling better.  If you need me to go, I can.”  Her voice is of middling pitch, her words quiet.  Even lying relatively still, she exudes waves of nervous energy.

           Irena and Thorne exchange a glance.  “You are not going anywhere,” Thorne says.  “You are in need of help, young lady, and we are here to provide it.”

           Madeleine’s delicately sculpted brows wrinkle in an uncomprehending frown.  “Sorry? I’m afraid I don’t speak… whatever language that was.”

           They exchange another glance.  “I said you aren’t going anywhere because you need help and we can give it to you,” Thorne tells her.  Irena’s social aug flashes a notification in her visual field that he has switched to Martian English from his usual Old Russian.  Irena knows he only speaks that now-dead language because it pleases him, in a perverse, rebellious way.  His ancestors were neo-Soviet royalty, before nationalities and nobles became obsolete, and he likes to be reminded of it.  Too, anyone important enough for him to talk to will almost undoubtedly have a social aug for translation.

           “Was your social augmentation damaged during the attack?” Irena asks.

           “I don’t have a social aug,” Madeleine says. Even if Irena’s social aug were not informing her of Madeleine’s blush, subtly highlighting the changing color of the other woman’s cheeks, it would be extremely evident – Madeleine is both pale and dressed in a white medcenter gown.  “I’m… stock.”

           Thorne does not bother to hide his surprise. “Stock?  I truly did not think anybody in Olympic City was stock anymore, excepting newborns and Puritanicals.”

           “My parents were Puritanicals,” Madeleine confirms, sitting up in bed.  “I’m not, but since they didn’t have my genome sequenced and given the usual once-over for abnormalities, I have a violent hereditary rejection response to most glial bonding agents.  And I can’t afford the gene therapy to fix it.”

           “I see,” Throne says.  “Well.  I’m afraid I have been rude.  My apologies.  I am Mr. Julian Thorne, and at the moment I am your host.  I must confess I have you at a disadvantage, as my people have told me you are Madeleine Duvier.  What do you do for a living, Mx. Duvier?”

           “Ms. is fine,” Madeleine tells him.  “I’m an executive secretary for the Governor’s office, specifically for Vice-Governor Greene.  Or at least I was until yesterday.”

           “I sense a sad story,” Thorne says, sitting down beside the bed.  Irena remains standing.  “If you’d be willing to extend us your trust, I’d like to hear it.”

           Madeleine gives him an appraising look, then turns to Irena.  She has to crane her neck slightly to make eye contact; Irena is more than two meters tall, after all.  “Before all of that, I think I should thank you for what you did, Mx…?”

           Irena inclines her head.  “You’re welcome.  And I am Ms. Irena Mtukudzi.”

           “Thank you, Ms. Mtukudzi.” She returns her attention to Thorne.  “It might not be a surprise to you,” Madeleine says, “but being stock isn’t exactly a blessing in most lines of work.  I get by without augs, though.  Occasionally someone comes in speaking a language I don’t know, like you, and I just pull out my unintegrated comm for translation and say my social aug is on the fritz.

           “So, I was with the Governor’s office for two years, no issues.  Vice-Governor Greene seemed like a decent enough man, at least for a politician. But then it came out in a conversation with a coworker of mine that – well, that I’m stock.  And somehow this information reached his ears. Apparently…”  She trails off for a moment, jaw working.  Then she continues, her voice tight, “Vice-Governor Greene is – no, he has a… fixation.  On stock people.”

           Confused, Irena looks from her to Thorne.  She can see the light come on behind Thorne’s eyes a moment later, which is good, because she has no idea what Madeleine means. “He’s a stock fetishist,” Thorne says.

           “Yes,” Madeleine confirms.  “He started making advances.  Subtle ones at first, but they got increasingly brazen as I continued to find ways to misunderstand or ignore them.  It came to a head the day before yesterday, when he basically demanded I come into his office for a performance review and then tried to make me have sex with him on his desk.  That was when it became clear he was interested because he’d heard I’m stock.” She shudders.  “I told him to go to hell, and that I would be applying for a transfer to another office, and that if he ever spoke to me unprofessionally or touched me again I would go straight to the Olympic Times and tell them everything he’d done.”

           “Did he threaten you in return?” Thorne asks.

           “He started to.  Said I had no proof, that there was no way for me to have records of any of it because I’m stock.  I told him I did indeed have records, of all of it, because I may be stock but I’m not an idiot.  You remember that unintegrated comm I mentioned earlier?”

           “Of course,” Irena says.  “You kept records on that.  Did he offer money to keep you quiet?”

           “Yes, offers I turned down.  I don’t want hush money, I just want to work somewhere I’m not sexually harassed.  And especially where I’m not subjected to poor treatment because of a decision my fucking parents made for me before I was born.”

           Irena feels the familiar twisting sensation in her stomach.  Memories, ones she has tried her best to ignore, stir and thrust themselves to the foreground of her mind.  Cold glass, needles, destiny.  Running away.  Being caught. The dark.

           With an effort, she shoves it away.  She becomes aware that Thorne is looking at her. “I’m sorry,” she says.  “Did you say something?”

           “I did,” Thorne replies, no hint of censure in his tone.  “As did Ms. Duvier.”

           “I just said that I thought that was the end of it,” Madeleine says.  “Until I was walking home yesterday and those three came out of nowhere.  And I was only out at that time of night because the Vice-Governor asked me to work late.  To ‘take care of a few things before my transfer.’”

           Irena grimaces.  “Then he is certainly complicit.”

           Madeleine shakes her head.  “I don’t understand how he could have arranged this, though.  He’s a glorified button-pusher.  The Governor has all the real power.”

           “You underestimate the abilities of hungry men with ambitions and connections, my dear,” Thorne says.  “The Vice Governor could be involved in any number of shady dealings, ones which might include officials in our less-than-sterling police force.  Such officials might be willing to send men to do an unpleasant job as a favor to the Vice-Governor.”

           “You mentioned your unintegrated comm, Ms. Duvier,” Irena adds.  “It was not in your possessions when our techs prepared you for nanosurgery on your wound.  Is it at your home?”

           “No.  It’s in a safety-deposit box at the Olympic First Bank off of Fifteenth and Baird, under the name of a friend of mine who left me their keycode when they moved offworld. I put it there as soon as I got out of the office the day before yesterday.  The box will only take my biometrics.  Nobody but me can open it.”

           “The solution to this difficulty seems obvious, then,” Thorne says.  “Retrieve the unintegrated comm, take it to the Olympic Times, and blow the whistle on the Vice-Governor.  It’s an election year, and even if Governor Shido is involved in these less-than-legal goings-on, he’ll want to act against Greene to preserve his image in the press if the Times comes forward with allegations and proof.  Irena, I want you to accompany Ms. Duvier.”

           That surprises her.  Irena whips her head around to stare at Thorne.  “Twenty minutes ago you were berating me for getting involved,” she says, not caring that the accusation will make him look bad in front of their guest.

           He crosses his arms.  “Yes, I was.  But you are involved now, and I trust you to see this through to the end.  Do you need additional resources from me?”

           “No.  In fact, it is best that I do this myself.  Plausible deniability.”

           Madeleine looks up at Irena.  “I can’t ask you to do this.”

           Irena gives her a thin smile.  “You don’t have to.  I’ll be back.”

           Irena leaves Madeleine to sleep for a few more hours. There are preparations to make before the other woman is ready to retrieve the comm, and there was already no sleep this night for her.

           First she scopes out the Olympic First Bank at Fifteenth and Baird.  There isn’t any OCPD presence she can detect, obvious or otherwise, just the bank’s own private security.  Next, she makes other arrangements – one with a friend of hers, for a little extra protection, and another by herself, to secure an alternate route in case the streets become unsafe.

           When she returns some five hours later, she has Madeleine discharged, and they head out into the streets of Olympic City. Irena wears her usual long duster, combat jumpsuit, and ass-kicking boots.  She could try to be less conspicuous, but even though she has no visible mechanized augmentations apart from her eyes – no metal limbs or brightly gleaming dermal plates, for instance – there is no way to minimize her presence in the street.  Tall, bristling with whipcord muscle, she has learned to lean into the first impression of danger she generates.  She requisitioned a similar outfit for Madeleine, wanting the woman to have a little more protection than a skirt suit in case things go south.

           “We are about forty minutes from the bank,” Irena tells her, casually doing a sweep of the area as they proceed down the pedway. Groundcars rumble past, the sound of their wheels scraping over the pavement louder than their lossless fusion engines.  It is late morning now, and the streets are beginning to become crowded again as people to go early lunches or start their shifts at work.

           “Do you want to hail a skycab?” Madeleine asks.

           “No.  Any vehicle we get into could be a trap.  We stay on foot, and if we’re engaged, we flee on foot.  We only use a vehicle as a last resort.”

           “Okay, got it.”  Madeleine looks nervous, but doesn’t argue.  They walk in silence for a few more minutes before she speaks again. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

           “Yes.  I may not answer, but go ahead.”

           Madeleine gestures expansively at her.  “You’re obviously highly augmented and genengineered. I’ve never seen anyone move like you. Not cops, not private security. Nobody.  I can’t imagine your mods are HERCA-legal.  Are you ex-military?”

           Irena purses her lips and considers her answer. She has already said she may not answer, so she can just tell Madeleine it is none of her business.  But she has learned quite a bit about Madeleine this morning, and part of her feels that there is a scale which needs balancing.  “Do you know what an ascension cult is?”

           “Radical transhumanist types, right?  Living outside the Coalition government? Illegal hive-minds, AI fusion, extreme genengineering, full-body cyborgification, that kind of thing?”

           “Yes. My parents belonged to the Church of St. Joan.  They were an ascension cult based off of Titan.  They rejected mechanical augmentation in favor of pure genetic engineering.  Their vision was of human reproduction unmoored from the vagaries of sexual congress, and children of incredible genetic potential as a result of that reproduction.  I was the First Child of the Church.”

           “You were a tubie?”

           “In a word, yes.  I have six different biological parents and my genes have been edited to the point that I am not strictly homo sapiens.  My estimated natural lifespan is three hundred years.  I am immune to ninety-five percent of known diseases.  I sleep only two hours a night and can turn my senses on and off at will, or choose specific stimuli to edit out of my perception.  I have perfect visual retention, superior strength, stamina, and speed…”  She shrugs.  “I even have a superior sense of smell.  I could go on, but suffice it to say I am the Church’s idea of the ultimate human being.”

           “So why are you here and not being worshipped on Titan?”

           “I disagreed with my parents’ plans for my future. I ran away.  And I would prefer not to discuss the details.”

           “Got it.  So you’re not HERCA-legal.”

           “No, I’m not.  But my family viewed the Human Evolution Restriction and Control Act as the greatest misstep of the last hundred years.  And existing with these modifications isn’t in itself illegal, just conspiring to make them.”

           “They still can’t have made your life easy in the Coalition.  Especially with the OCPD.”

           “No, they haven’t.  I’ve had many unpleasant interactions with the police.”  Irena looks at her companion.  “But then again, I don’t think any of what I’ve experienced quite ranks with an attempted assassination by undercover officers.”

           Madeleine manages to crack a weak smile.  “I guess that was pretty extreme.”

           “What about you?” Irena asks.  “You mentioned your parents were Puritanicals.  Old-world Catholic, Zoroastrian Neo-Buddhist, or secular?”

           “Secular,” Madeleine replies.  “A pair of high-minded academics who taught at Olympic University and thought augmentation was stagnating human interaction.  Nobody can lie to anybody anymore, or at least they aren’t supposed to be able to without being caught, and that just didn’t sit right with Mom and Dad.  Sure, the polite thing to do is to leave your aug’s truthtell off when you’re with your friends and family, but the bottom line, according to them, was that even having the option to know distorts communication.  They always thought that the mutability of truth was essential to the human condition. Or some such nonsense.”

           “You don’t seem to agree with their views.”

           “No, I don’t.  All their views amounted to was that, at the end of the day, I can’t lie to anyone, and everyone can still lie to me if they figure out that I don’t have a social aug.  Being stock is… not great.”

           Irena has no idea how to reply to that, so she lets the conversation lapse.  They wend their way through the labyrinthine streets of Olympic City in tense silence for about twenty minutes.  The sun is dimmed by the massive plumes of helium rising from the mining operations within the depths of Olympus Mons; the gas is runoff from the process of extracting the bountiful harvest of rare metals that first brought people to settle here two hundred and fifty years ago.  They arrive at the halfway checkpoint – a spot Irena picked out during her rounds this morning as she plotted their approach to the bank.  It is a small Sino-Martian restaurant whose owner, Zizhuang, owes her a favor.

           They are ushered into the kitchen and from there into a back room where Zizhuang runs illegal, cash-based card games.  He gives Irena a toothy grin, nods at an inconspicuous-looking spot on the wall, and sees himself out.

           Irena taps the wall seven times in a particular rhythm.  She swings open the hidden door which unlocked at her gesture, reaches into the wall safe – the one she bought for Zizhuang – and withdraws a pair of snub-nosed, chrome-plated hand pistols with matching shoulder holsters.  She doffs her duster, puts the holster on, and then tucks her pistol safely away in it.  Once her coat is back on, the weapon is impossible to see.

           She helps Madeleine get into her own holster, then holds out the other pistol for her to take.  She frowns when the other woman just stares at it.  “Is there a problem?”

           “I have never held a gun before in my life,” Madeleine replies.  “I don’t even know what kind this is.”

           “Gauss pistol,” Irena tells her.  “Very simple.  Point it at someone, turn the safety off, and push the trigger.”

           Madeleine swallows.  “I don’t want to kill anyone.”

           “You won’t.  These are loaded with Cripplers.  Unless you put it in someone’s eye, the worst you’ll do is – well. They’re called Cripplers.”

           “How did you get these?  Guns are illegal in Olympic City.”

           “Yes, and these in particular are extremely illegal.  But Zizhuang is a good friend with black market connections.”

           Gingerly taking the gun, Madeleine looks it over. “How does it work?”

           “A magnetized slug is propelled down a miniaturized rail by a series of solenoid coils,” Irena begins, then realizes the question is not an academic one, but practical.  “Oh.  You hold it like this.”  She adjusts Madeleine’s grip on the gun, ignoring the feeling of smooth skin under her fingers – not a sensation she is used to, and it is not the time to get distracted.  “Good.  Flip this switch, and – you see the depression on the back?  Use your thumb.”

           Madeleine lets out an involuntary shriek as she accidentally gives Zizhuang’s back room a new hole in the drywall.  The pistol makes a slight buzzing noise; the impact of the round against the wall is far louder.

           Irena smiles.  “Only use it if I’m taken out and can’t help you.  You really have never fired a gun before?  Never gone to one of the equatorial colonies and rented one at a shooting range?”

           “Some people have never been offworld,” Madeleine says, her tone a bit frosty.  “Some people have never had sex.  I, until today, have never fired a gun.  Would you give someone a hard time for one of those other things?”

           “No,” Irena says, trying and failing to hide her sudden feeling of awkwardness.  “I wouldn’t.”

           Madeleine looks more closely at her.  “Oh.  Oh.  You said – about your parents.  The whole asexual-reproduction thing.  I’m sorry.”

           Attempting to seem cavalier, Irena waves the observation away.  “You had no idea.  Holster that and let’s get moving.”

           They head out the emergency exit, which should trigger an alarm but naturally fails to.  The silence between them is tense as they reemerge onto the broad pedways of Olympic City’s main thoroughfares, Irena’s chosen route for the protection offered by the crowds.  Finally, Madeleine speaks up.  “Look, I am sorry.  I just was flustered and wasn’t thinking.”

           “It’s fine.”  Irena sweeps her gaze over the crowd, still not seeing any telltale lingering stares or obvious tails.

           “Can I ask you another personal question?”

           Irena sighs.  “If I say no, will you ask anyway?”

           “No, I won’t.  I’d respect your choice.”

           “Well, ask.  Again, I can always choose not to answer.”

           Madeleine hesitates, then opens her mouth to speak.

           In that moment, Irena – glancing over her shoulder at Madeleine – sees the glint of metal in the crowd behind her.  Her mecheyes highlight the object, just as they did last night: a military-grade plasma projector.

           Irena shoves Madeleine out of the way of the first burst, narrowly avoiding it herself.  She whips her gauss pistol out of its holster and returns fire, putting a Crippler in the right arm and leg of the grim-faced man who just tried to shoot her – charge? friend? – in the back.  He screams and crumples to the ground, plasma projector skittering along the ’crete.  Five other dark-clothed, grim-looking men within the crowd begin moving in much faster. Irena swears.  If she hadn’t been flustered by the conversation, maybe she would have noticed them earlier –

           “Run,” she says, and gives Madeleine a sharp push into motion.  Fortunately, Madeleine doesn’t ask questions; she just flees in the direction Irena indicated.  Plasma bolts begin howling after them as the pedestrians, realizing that they are in the middle of a shootout, begin to scatter.

           Irena drops two more of their pursuers with shots to the arms and legs.  A plasma bolt slams into her chest, lifts her off her feet, and sends her flying to land hard on her back two meters away.  Her combat jumpsuit absorbs and diffuses most of the thermal energy of the bolt, but it still feels like someone struck her in the sternum with a heavy ball of white-hot metal.  Irena rolls backward up onto her feet, dodges two more bolts, and shoots the third man in the gut, folding him up and leaving him writhing on the pavement.

           The remaining two exchange a glance, then stop their pursuit, fading back.  Madeleine rounds a sharp corner, gasping, and leans hard on the wall until Irena catches up with her.  “Holy shit!” she says, looking at the still-smoldering scorch mark in the center of Irena’s chest.  “Are you okay?”

           “I’ll live,” Irena says shortly.  “They are probably calling for backup.  We need to get to the bank, now.”

           They run, Irena not bothering to conceal her pistol, Madeleine not bothering to draw hers.  For five tense, silent minutes, they bolt through back alleys and side streets, abandoning the now-dubious protection of the thoroughfares for the relative anonymity of paths less traveled.  In the distance, sirens begin to wail, their volume rapidly increasing as they draw nearer.

           “Will the OCPD help us?” Madeleine gasps between panting breaths.  “Can they all be on Greene’s payroll?”

           “I’m not risking it,” Irena tells her, skidding around one last turn and arriving at their destination.  “Come on.”

           They are in an apparent dead-end alley, much like the one from which Irena rescued Madeleine only hours ago.  This one, however, has an access hatch for sewage maintenance tunnels embedded in the pavement.  It opens at Irena’s command; she spent an hour earlier today hacking it, in case they needed an alternate route to the bank.

           The maintenance tunnels are made from plascrete.  Clean, well-lit, and odorless, unlike the sewage lines for which it provides access, this particular tunnel also happens to run in a nearly straight shot to the public park right behind the Olympic First Bank that is their destination.

           “Are we almost there?” Madeleine asks, gasping.

           “The hatch ahead leads out into a park near the bank,” Irena tells her.  “I’ve already rigged it up.  All we need to do is hit this button, and –”

           She presses the RELEASE button on the wall-mounted keypad below the egress hatch.  Nothing happens.

           For a moment she just stares at it, frowning, until she notices something odd: a fingernail-sized black spot on the wall next to it.  It is a bead transceiver, a device capable of receiving and sending messages.

           A smooth, male voice emanates from it even as she looks at it.  “I don’t really know who you are, or why you’re helping Duvier,” the voice says. “You’re good, but you’re too easy to track.  I watched you prepare this backup route for yourself and knew you’d just need a push to want to take it and get off the street.”

           Irena feels an unaccustomed quiver of fear crawl through her guts.  “What do you want?”

           “Duvier,” the man on the other end says.  “Send her up, alone and unarmed, and there’s no problem. Fail to do that, and we have a big problem.”

           “Go to hell,” Irena says before Madeleine can say something, noble or otherwise.

           She can almost hear the man’s shrug.  “Suits me just fine.  I don’t get paid unless I bring Duvier in myself, so I’m not telling the OCPD goons where you are.  I’m just going to keep you bottled in there until you’re in a compliant mood.  Just say ‘please, sir’ to turn this back on. I’ll be looking forward to your call.”

           The transceiver switches off.

           And then, so do the lights.  She is back in the dark.

           There is a voice coming from far away.  Irena cannot understand what it is saying.  She is nine years old again, trapped in her room, and her parents have taken away her eyes.

           She flails, blindly, with her hands, trying to find the familiar landmarks – a bedpost, a nightstand, her body-contouring morphchair.  They have taken everything away.  There is nothing but cold walls.  They have taken her animal friends, her puzzles, her flatscreen terminal.  There is nothing.

           No, there is still something.  A small, rectangular object, many fine leaves of paper enclosed in a thick, hard covering.  The paper is covered in bumps and ridges.  Later, when she asks Father Makoto what it is, he tells her it is the Blue Protestant Reformation Bible – the holy book of the Church of St. Joan, a text she has read and been forced to read many times, a text she cannot help but know by heart – in a kind of writing system called Braille.  Father Makoto tells her she will learn to read again, with this book, and she will not be allowed to leave her room or have any of her things returned until she does so.

           And what happens when I do it? she asks. Will I get my eyes back?

           No, Father Makoto says.  Your eyes are gone.  You forfeited the gift of vision when you set your sights on heresy.

           And she wants to cry, but she cannot.  The tears do not come.  Not anymore.

           She is alone in the dark.

           How long she stays gone, Irena has no idea.  The faint voice from before seems to get closer and closer, slowly but steadily. Finally it begins to be accompanied by a physical sensation – a warm hand on her shoulder, gently shaking her. The dim noises of the voice resolve into words she can understand.

           “Irena?”

           Madeleine, it is Madeleine.  They are doing something, somewhere.  Irena has difficulty remembering what and where. She just remembers seeing Madeleine in trouble and wanting to help.  Feeling that she needed to help.

           “Irena, can you hear me?”

           It is so hard to respond, so very hard, but Irena forces herself to.  “Yes,” she says, the word coming out as a slurred croak, barely recognizable.

           “Irena, it’s Madeleine.  Do you know where you are?  Do you know who you are?”

           “Yes.”  The word is stronger this time, though producing it is still a monumental undertaking.

           Madeleine levers her into a sitting position – no easy feat, given that Irena is ninety kilograms of muscle and subdermal augmentations.  “What happened?  The lights went out, you shrieked, and you went fetal.  I’ve been trying to talk to you for what feels like hours.”

           How can she even begin to explain?  How can she make this woman, this stranger, understand?

           “The dark,” Irena finally forces out.

           “What about the dark?  Are you nyctophobic?”

           Irena manages a shake of her head, her locs making soft bumping sounds as they brush against the plascrete wall behind her. Then she remembers that, in the pitch black, Madeleine will not see the movement.  “No,” she says.  “My eyes. They took my eyes!”  She hears her voice rising in panic and can do nothing to arrest it.

           “Your eyes are fine.  I can see them right now, they’re the only light source in here.”

           Forcing herself to focus, to push through the buzzing noises and mounting terror in her head, Irena realizes she has unconsciously closed off her sensorium to input from her mecheyes.  She had done that before, to block the pain and phantom images.

           When she lets that sense click back on, she sees Madeleine’s face, extremely close to her own, illuminated faintly by the light from Irena’s mecheyes.  The soft green glow barely extends beyond that, but instantly Irena can breathe a little easier.  She can see. Her eyes are fine.  She is not alone in the dark again.

           “Hey,” Madeleine says, obviously recognizing the eye contact.  Irena swallows as she becomes aware of other sensations she had been blocking out – the warmth of Madeleine’s breath on her lips, the feel of Madeleine’s hands on her shoulder and knee.  “Glad you’re back.”

           “Yes,” Irena says, fighting the instinctive urge to try to draw farther away.  It would be both rude and useless, given that there is a plascrete wall up against her back.

           Besides, she cannot deny the closeness is helping her. “I am.”

           “What happened?” Madeleine asks again.

           “The lights went out and I was not ready for it,” Irena tells her.  “It caused a dissociative episode.  I have post-traumatic stress disorder relating to my childhood, and darkness is a trigger for it.”

           “I see.”  Madeleine’s lips quirk in a sympathetic grimace and she gives Irena’s shoulder a squeeze.  She shifts her weight off her feet – she had been crouching in front of Irena – and collapses into a sitting position next to her.  “How long have we been down here?”

           Irena checks her social aug’s internal clock. “Two and a half hours.  I am so sorry.”

           “I’m the one who’s sorry.  You’re only here because you tried to help me.”  Madeline shakes her head, anger twisting her expression. “We should just say that galling phrase the guy told us to use and I’ll go up.  At least that way you won’t be stuck in here any longer.”

           “No,” Irena tells her.  “I can counter whatever he’s done to the computer system controlling this maintenance tunnel.  I just – I needed to be in my right mind to do it.”  She tries to get to her feet and fails, for the first time in as long as she can remember.  Her muscles betray her and she slumps back down into a half-sitting, half-supine position, her arms and legs a quivering, spasming mess.  She swears in a language she doubts Madeleine knows.  “And I need to be able to give battle when the door opens and our captor puts up a fight.”

           “Are you all right?” Madeleine asks.

           “These dissociative episodes can cause desynchronization with the augmented portion of my nervous system,” Irena tells her.  “My brain patterns go so far off of normal that the system registers it as a seizure and shuts itself off to prevent me from hurting myself or others.  Turning it back on is supposed to be done with the assistance of a trained lab crew, an input terminal, and an AI.”

           Madeleine cringes.  “So… we’re fucked?”

           “No.”  Irena begins to concentrate, directing electrical impulses within her own body, something she hasn’t done consciously in years.  “But I do need a few hours to do it myself.”

           Gawking at her, Madeleine doesn’t bother to conceal her shock.  “You can reconnect your nervous system?  Don’t we have literally millions of neurons?”

           “About a hundred billion, actually, with thousands of connections each,” Irena says dryly.  “It’s not that my nervous system is disconnected, but it’s conditioned to operate with the augmented portion active, and that augmented portion is waiting for the proper electrical signals to reactivate it, connection by connection. There are about nine hundred thousand of those.”

           “And you can fix it in a few hours?”

           “I’ve already reactivated about seven thousand of them since you asked me if we were fucked.  I just need time and concentration.”

           Madeleine nods slowly, a smile spreading across her face. “You think we’re going to be okay?”

           “I think our friend upstairs is going to be in for quite a surprise,” Irena tells her.  “He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”

           There is little to do while Irena works.  Until her nerves are completely resynchronized, she doesn’t want to try to move, and Madeleine is silent, letting her concentrate. About two hours in, however, she speaks up, so softly Irena almost thinks she’s talking to herself.

           “I did want to say sorry,” Madeleine says. “About what I said before.”

           Trying to ignore the pins and needles in her arms and legs as the process of manual resynchronization continues, Irena asks, “What would that be?”

           “Comparing never firing a gun to never having had sex. I know the whole concept of virginity is ridiculous and old-fashioned, but it was the first thing that came to my mind.  It clearly made you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry for that.”

           Irena cracks a smile.  “We’re trapped in a maintenance tunnel by a mystery man who is going to be doing his best to kill us in about an hour, and this is what’s on your mind?”

           “Of course it is.  Don’t you obsessively replay every social interaction where you’ve committed a faux pas over and over, torturing yourself with it?  I’ve been sitting here with nothing to do for two hours, and eventually you get bored of worrying about death and start worrying if you’ve offended your friend.”

           Irena feels her smile broaden.  “So we’re friends, then?”

           “I would hope so.  At least.”

           “At least?”

           Madeleine is quiet for a long, telling moment. Then, “You’ve never met the right person?”

           Irena feels her heart rate begin to pick up. “No, I haven’t.  I find men uninteresting, and most women think I’m intimidating.”

           She hears Madeleine give a soft laugh.  “Most women are idiots.”

           Sparing the concentration to turn her head, Irena gazes at her in the glow of her own mecheyes.  The soft green light casts Madeleine’s elfin features into stark relief. Her skin, already pale, seems almost translucent.  Irena can see the beat of the other woman’s pulse beneath the flesh of her throat. “Most women?”

           “Look, I get that this is quite literally the worst possible time to be talking about this kind of thing,” Madeleine tells her. “But knowing you’re probably going to die in an hour or less kind of reshuffles priorities, doesn’t it?”

           “I have to confess I’m used to it,” Irena says, trying to sound nonchalant and knowing she’s failing.  “But I can understand how being in this situation for the first time might be an enlightening experience.”

           “Very.  I’ve never been a damsel in distress before.  Apart from being shot, threatened, and about to die, I have to say it’s got its perks.”  Her eyes flit up and down Irena’s body, a lightning glance that begins and ends at her face, and she gives a surprisingly coquettish smile.  “Beautiful, dangerous rescuers, for one.”

           Irena feels the traitorous blush again, so strong that she is irrationally convinced Madeleine can see it through the near-blackness.  “You have me at a disadvantage,” she says, trying desperately to remember what people in these circumstances are supposed to say.  Witty, charming things, mostly, she thinks.  “I’m not used to being flattered.  I don’t know how to respond to it.”

           In her estimation, she thinks she falls short of that particular benchmark, but Madeleine chuckles, a low, pleasant sound. Irena feels goosebumps rise up and down her arms, goosebumps which have nothing to do with her resynchronizing nerves. “I don’t have a social aug, you know,” Madeleine teases her.  “If that was a lie, it was a pretty good one, because I couldn’t tell you one way or the other.”

           “I don’t like to lie,” Irena replies.  “I was only caught lying twice as a child, but the consequences were memorable.”

           She realizes, as soon as she’s said it, that it was precisely the wrong thing to say.  The mood dims as Madeleine’s smile fades.  “I’m sorry for whatever happened to you.  For what it’s worth, I wish I could have helped.  No idea how, just…”  She shrugs, listlessly.  “I just wish.”

           “Thank you.”

           A long silence passes.  Irena reactivates more of her augmented nervous system. Finally, Madeleine speaks again. “What did happen to you?”

           The shock is severe enough that Irena miscalculates one of the nerve impulses and shocks herself.  Her left pinky finger begins to twitch, the flesh on the back of the digit crawling in an unnatural pattern.  She instantly compensates and gets control back, hiding the brief flash of pain from Madeleine.  “It’s not something I talk about,” she says.  “With anyone.”

           “I’m not just ‘anyone,’ am I?”

           Irena opens her mouth to issue a flat denial, but the words stick in her throat.  True, she has only known Madeleine for less than a day, but she isn’t wrong.  She is no longer just anyone.  No one, not Julian Thorne, not the few coworkers and subordinates she trusts enough to consider friends, no one has seen her brought so low by a simple change in the lights.  And yet, instead of thinking that she’s pathetic, or useless, Madeleine has been – sympathetic.  Understanding.  Irena realizes the exigency of the situation has, against all odds, not diminished Madeleine’s opinion of her.

           “The truth,” she says, slowly and carefully, “is that talking about it may upset me enough that I miss a crucial nerve connection or make a cascading miscalculation.  I need my focus if we’re going to get out of here alive.  So I will make you a promise: after this is over, if we’re still both standing, I will tell you.”

           “Okay,” Madeleine says, equally grave.  “I’ll hold you to that.”

           With renewed focus, Irena finishes reactivating her augmented nervous system in record time.  She climbs to her feet, tests her dexterity with some stretches, some simple katas from a few of the many martial arts she has learned since striking out on her own.  She turns to Madeleine, nods.  But before she can speak, Madeleine makes a shushing gesture, grabs her hand, and drags her over to the opposite side of the tunnel, where they first entered.

           “What?” Irena asks.

           “I have a plan,” Madeleine says.

           Eight minutes later, Irena watches the distaste on Madeleine’s face as she says, “Please, sir,” to the transceiver.

           The smooth, male voice returns.  “Took you long enough.  Starting to get thirsty?  Maybe needing to use the ladies’ room?”

           “I’m coming up,” Madeleine says.  “Open the hatch.”

           “Right,” their captor laughs.  “Unarmed, just you, your friend stays down there and finds her own way out?”

           “That’s the deal.”

           “I warn you that if you try anything stupid you’ll regret it.  There might be a way for you to come out of this alive, but not if you fuck with me.”

           “I hear you,” Madeleine says.  “Open the damn hatch.”  She looks at Irena, nods, and winks.

           The hatch hisses open, and Madeleine slowly climbs out.

           Irena sprints.  She runs faster than she ever has in her life.

           The plan is quite simple, if multi-layered. They spent the time at the other end of the tunnel productively, Irena hacking the hatch there to open on the same signal as the park exit.  It was the only way to avoid the watchdog AI their enemy had set up around the programming of the park hatch, and the only way for Irena to also gain her freedom from the maintenance tunnel.

           She erupts back out into the alley, a single augmented leap taking her three meters straight up out of her dark prison.  The renewed sunlight would dazzle any other person, but her mecheyes adjust automatically, apertures retreating in a fraction of a second.

           Irena tears out of the alley, back along the pedways, heading full-tilt for the direction of the bank.  The fastest she has ever clocked herself was forty-five kilometers an hour.  She hits fifty as she half-runs, half-leaps down the pedway, plascrete cracking with the force of each of her footfalls.  She clears the two hundred and eighty-nine meters of complicated city travel from the alley to the park in less than twenty-one seconds.  Her eyes scan the surroundings as she slows to a manageable speed: evergreens and grasses genengineered to grow in Martial soil, pedestrians picnicking or out for a stroll – there.

           Madeleine is fifteen meters away, being roughly escorted by a heavily-modified, male-presenting cyborg.  All of his limbs are obvious chrome, and his eyes are hidden behind a reflective polymer visor built into the front of his skull.  There is a strange blurriness to his features – some kind of distortion field, perhaps.

           He hears Irena coming, of course.  She can see his lips distort in a swear, the casual, brutal ease of the way he throws Madeleine to the ground as he turns to confront Irena.  But she has fought men like this and won, many times.  The gauss pistol is already in her hand.  She snaps it up and fires –

           He disappears.  One moment he is standing there, and the next he is gone, as though he were jump-cut out of existence.  Irena gapes as her Cripplers sail through the spot he occupied only a second ago, embedding themselves in the trunk of a tree in a spray of pulped wood.

           Something slams into her hand, sending the gauss pistol flying.  Something else crashes into Irena’s chest, right where she was struck by the plasma bolt. She feels a rib give way under the impact.  The force of the strike slams her onto her side, legs spilling up out of the access hatch. She tries to roll with the impact, scrambling back to her feet, and is just in time to see a nigh-invisible blur rush at her.

           The next attack, her opponent still invisible, cracks against the side of her head.  Frantically, she switches her mecheyes from the normal human-visible spectrum to infrared, then ultraviolet, then even x-ray, but their enemy is wearing a wraithshroud, the tech more bleeding-edge than anything Irena has ever seen.  His emissions are almost perfectly masked, all but undetectable in every spectrum. For a hired gun to have access to this kind of technology, Vice-Governor Greene must have some serious connections.

           She takes another punch to the chest and feels the breath explode from her lungs.  As she tries to suck in enough air to keep herself going, to retaliate, the faint blur seems to levitate a meter into the air.  She realizes her opponent is leaping up into a spinning kick when the toe of his boot makes contact with her skull, just behind her left ear.

           Everything goes pitch black.

           It seems that she is there, alone, in the dark, for ages.  But it must have only been a few seconds, because Irena hears Madeleine’s voice again. “Wherever you are, just – shoot me, take me, do whatever you want.  Just leave her.  She’s nobody, I just hired her to get me here.  Just let her go and I’ll cooperate.”

           For a long, terrible instant, Irena is tempted to stay in the dark, to let Madeleine go.  The words hurt, after all.  But then she comes to her senses.  Madeleine is trying to play for time.  The woman who helped her through the dark down in that tunnel would not abandon her now.

           Irena Matsuo Mtukudzi gets to her feet.  She does not open her eyes.  The dark is still all around her, but Madeleine’s voice, her presence, has cut through it.  She has reminded Irena that the dark is weak.  She has conquered it once before.

           And she will do it again.

           “I’m not done yet,” Irena says.  “And –” she takes a gamble, based on this man’s insulting, patronizing egotism – “maybe this time you can try not to hit like a girl.”

           The crunch of boots in grass stops short. There is a distinctive scrape, the sound of someone turning without lifting their feet.  Irena keeps her eyes closed and moves in.

           She phases out the distant wail of sirens, the shocked outcries of pedestrians, the barking of the dogs.  All she hears is the whisper of air being cut by scything limbs, the ragged, human sounds of breathing, the telltale rustling of grass and dirt underfoot.  Angry, pride injured, her opponent overextends, tries for a wild haymaker to her jaw.  She fades to one side, catches his arm between her own.  Through the thin nanofiber of the wraithshroud, which rasps against her skin like cold, liquid silk, she can feel the hard, inhuman lines of one of his full-replacement bionic arm.

           So she plants her feet, locks her arms around his limb, and tears it out of his shoulder socket with one violent, twisting wrench.

           He screams.  She opens her eyes, sees him staggering away from her.  His entire body, from head to feet, is covered in what looks like a thin coat of plastic – the wraithshroud, its camouflage shorted out. That explains the visual distortion she detected earlier.  Where Irena tore his arm from his shoulder, sparks fly, and thick, dark lubricant seeps.  The wraithshroud has been torn in a jagged line.

           Irena readies herself to go another round with the man.  She is bleeding internally, even her hyper-specialized body not immune to the simple realities of ruptured organs from blows with metal fists.  If he gets in another good hit, he may well kill her.

           But Madeleine, who is standing behind him, now totally forgotten by him, has other ideas.  Executing her part of the plan, she pulls out the gauss pistol hidden at the small of her back, takes aim at his back, and pumps twelve Cripplers into his torso.  

           He staggers.  Even that doesn’t put him down completely – Irena estimates there is less than twenty-five percent of his actual, human body left.  But he collapses to one knee, gasping, and cranes his neck around to stare at Madeleine.  “You,” he rasps, “were supposed to be unarmed.”

           “We certainly said we were going to send me up unarmed, didn’t we?” Madeleine asks.  “We said it quite loudly, right next to that transceiver that you’d supposedly turned off.  Didn’t we, Irena?”

           “Yes we did, Madeleine,” Irena replies, enjoying the look of dawning realization on her opponent’s face.  “Someone isn’t as clever as they think they are.”

           He snarls up at her.  “You fucking b-”

           Irena grasps his severed limb firmly by the wrist and hits him over the head with the other end.

           He drops, unconscious, to the grass.

           Eighteen whirlwind hours later, for the second time in as many days, Irena finds herself in Julian Thorne’s office.  Her chest is encased in a pressure bandage to keep her three broken ribs from shifting while they heal, and there is a cortical monitor affixed to her left temple to track the nanosurgical correction of her concussion. But she is on some good painkillers and is flush with a feeling of accomplishment, so in the final analysis she decides things are not too bad.

           She glances to her right, at where Madeleine sits, and thinks that things might, perhaps, even be said to be good.

           “Well,” Thorne says, looking up from the datafeed embedded in the surface of his desk.  “Vice-Governor Greene has been arrested by Coalition authorities.  So have a number of OCPD officers in his unofficial employ, as well as a one-armed, extremely angry cyborg mercenary wanted on six planets for murder, grand larceny, and dozens of other charges.  Apparently the DA has been sitting on a mountain of circumstantial evidence about Greene’s less-than-reputable business dealings and has just been waiting for a charge to pin on him.  Conspiracy to commit murder is certainly a juicy one.  They brought an entire assault ship of Praetorian Guards in from Earth just for him and his co-conspirators.”

           Irena feels her eyes widen slightly in shock. “They don’t do that for just anyone.”

           “No, they do not.  He has been, to put it mildly, a very bad boy.  Governor Shido is cooperating fully with the Praetorians’ investigation.  I expect he’s hoping to dodge any Senate hearings back on Earth by making his innocence clear.”  Thorne turns to Madeleine.  “I expect, Ms. Duvier, that you were targeted for death because you threatened to tell the press ‘everything he’d done.’  You only meant the harassment, but…”  He shrugs eloquently.  “Crime makes men paranoid.”

           “Fuck,” Madeleine murmurs with a small shake of her head.

           Thorne leans back, steepling his fingers.  “This is going to dominate the news cycle.  If it’s all the same to you, Irena, I’d prefer you to decline any interview requests.”

           Irena nods.  “A good chief of security should be invisible.  I never will be, but I can at least keep a low profile.”

           “Thank you.”  Thorne makes a show of checking his ridiculous antique watch.  “Well, I believe I have a meeting with the board. Feel free to sit a spell and talk, if you like.  Just see yourselves out when you’re done.  And Ms. Duvier, I will expect your resume on my desk by noon tomorrow.  If we’re going to find you a job here, I’ll need to know what you can do.”  He grins. “Apart from being very clever and shooting a man in the back.”

           Madeleine blushes fiercely, but nods.  Thorne gives her an exaggerated wink and ambles out of his office.

           “I wanted to thank you,” Irena says, before Madeleine can speak.

           “Oh?”

           “Yes.  You helped me through the dark, and didn’t leave.  I – I do not have the words to express how grateful I am for that.”

           “And I don’t have the words to tell you how grateful I am.  For my life.”  Madeleine tentatively reaches out and takes Irena’s hand in her own.  “Why did you help, anyway?  It wasn’t just because Mr. Thorne told you to.  You made a decision when you saw me in the alley.  What was it?”

           Irena takes a moment to find the proper words. “I think I can explain by keeping my earlier promise to you.”

           “Telling me about your childhood?”

           “Yes.  I told you before about the Church, that I ran away.  That is true.  What I did not tell you is that they caught me, during my first attempt.  And in order to ensure I did not escape a second time, they burned out my eyes.  They blinded me.  I was nine years old.”

           Madeleine swears, softly, and squeezes Irena’s hand. “That’s horrible.  I am so sorry.”            “Thank you.  I did escape, though, on my second attempt.  And yesterday, when I saw you in the alley, I saw myself.  Alone, in the dark, surrounded by people who were going to hurt me.  I suppose I thought that if I could save you…”  Irena shrugs, trailing off.  

           “I think I understand,” Madeleine says.

           Irena looks down at Madeleine’s small, soft hand, almost half the size of her own, and clears her throat.  “So.  Would you like me to arrange a car to take you back to your apartment?”

           “Only,” Madeleine says, “if you’re in the car with me.”

           The traitorous blush starts rising in Irena’s cheeks again.  “I –”

           “You said that most women find you intimidating. I said most women are idiots.  I wasn’t just making small talk.” Madeleine gets to her feet.  “I just survived a crooked politician trying to have me murdered, so I’ll be damned if I let myself get cold feet about this.  I’ve already said I think you’re beautiful, and I have since the second I woke up and saw you standing at the side of my bed.  You’re also my hero, and deserve a little worship.  Come home with me, I’ll make you some herbal tea for your aches, and we’ll see if we can find a movie we both like.  How does that sound?”

           Irena swallows.  It is utterly absurd, but at this moment she is more petrified than she was when staring death in the face.

           She remembers Madeleine’s voice, cutting through the dark.  She remembers her face, illuminated in the light of her eyes.  And, just now – you’re also my hero.

           “That sounds lovely,” Irena says.  Still holdings hands, they leave the office together.

           And later – much later – Irena allows herself to be persuaded to turn out the lights for the first time in twenty years.

[kayforpay]

Separation Anxiety

commissioned by the lovely @bi-brarian! this is dirk/hal but completely sfw!

--

It’s been time to make this happen for months now, honestly. You’ve been procrastinating at every opportunity, even though you both know it’s not helping to pretend you just forgot. You can’t forget something halfway wired into your brain, but Hal kept letting you anyway. Until tonight, at least.

“Roxy said she would be fine with me staying there.” He said, red on black floating in your view while you tried to wire a leg. “If I had a body.”

Your hand slipped, and you stared silently at the text, thinking. Or, rather, trying not to think about the implications. You had all the pieces already; the battery packs, the face that looks startlingly like your own, even hair and red camera eyes. You had the pieces for weeks, but you just never put it together. You didn’t want him to leave. You still don’t.

“Dirk.”

You blink, finally, and sit up, clicking the panel shut on what will soon be his leg. “I know. I’ll put you together. I didn’t realize how badly you wanted to get away from me.” You know you shouldn’t say it, but you can’t help it. You don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to be completely by yourself.

That thought almost makes you laugh. You take your glasses - and Hal - off and set them on your worktable, ignoring the messages he sends as you go to collect the rest of his parts. His torso isn’t fully assembled, and you have to put it all together anyway, but having all the pieces of him in one place is new. You haven’t had them together yet, because you didn’t think he’d really want to leave.

You plug the battery pack into the brain and faceplate of his head, and then clip your, no, his glasses onto his face, and he starts to upload into the hard drive, his red eyes lighting up as he boots on, and you keep wiring his leg. It’s the last piece, and you’re glad it takes a few minutes for everything to get uploaded into his head, because you don’t want to get right into it.

“Dirk, it isn’t that I want to leave.” He starts, his voice strange and metallic. You always just assumed he’d sound just like you, but he sounds like you through a vocalizer. It’s not bad, but you never thought about what the metal would do. Or that his mouth wouldn’t move, because he just has a speaker. He catches on to that new command line before he speaks again. “I don’t want to leave you.”

His leg twitches as you apply power and you nod, not wanting to respond. His eyes flick around the room, taking in the new form of optics. Maybe you should have made him look more organic, so he could blend in better. But he asked for red eyes. You open the central panel of his torso and start hooking his left arm on, still not speaking. That’s a patented Strider skill, you think. Just ignoring the problem.

But he’s good at it too, and after a while you can’t sit in silence anymore. “You’re going to, though. How fucking pathetic is it that I’m already just dating myself, but I can’t even keep him around? I couldn’t keep Jake happy, and I can’t even keep you from leaving.” You drop your tools, turning to look at his optics. “How is you wanting to move out you not wanting to leave me?”

“Because I still want to date you.” He says, immediately, more monotone than you are. “I just need to live somewhere else. It isn’t because of you.”

His eyebrows push down a little in an experimental expression, and you hate it. You hate that he has a body now, because he’s going to leave you with it. Not that you can blame him, you’d leave you.

You guess you are.

“Whatever. You can leave. I’m not going to hold you here against your will.” You say, and then repeat yourself a little. “I can’t blame you for not wanting to be around me. It sucks that I have to build your body for you but I’m not going to stop you. Just let me put it together.”

The wires are, of course, in exactly the right place to connect them immediately to the torso, but you fiddle with it for a few extra seconds as Hal works his new jaw beside you before speaking again. His lips almost perfectly sync up with his words this time. “This isn’t about you, Dirk.” You clip the joint into place and test it’s movement. “You always say you want to be alone anyway.” You shove a battery pack into the chestplate to connect to the arm, and then start on the other one.

“I’d leave if I could too.” You say, your hands perfectly steady. Like always. You never mess this kind of thing up, even when you want to mess things up. But then, you don’t. You want him to be able to leave. “But I can’t. I’m going to be me wherever I go.”

Silence falls over your room besides you clicking the wires into the guards. Hal’s eyes roll towards you as you test the second arm, but he doesn’t say anything, so you ignore him and just pretend you don’t see him. With the second arm on, you pick his head up and sink the battery pack for it into his neck, and he stares at you as you hook the cybernetic “nerves” into the ports that let him control the body. He blinks and winces in surprise as the pressure and heat sensors kick on, and he can basically feel. You’ll have to update it more, but for now it should work for him.

You roll the skin down to his neck, where it links together and looks almost real. You’ll have to work on that too, but it looks believable. He looks almost like you, but the red-orange components that open the different panels stand out on his skin, glowing gently even in the light of your room. And he doesn’t have his legs on yet. And he’s naked. You open the panels on his wrists and press against the colored pads of his fingers.

“Can you feel that?” His fingers twitch, and he blinks, then nods. “Move your fingers.”

He flexes his hand and his fingers are cold as they close over your hand, but too loosely to really count as holding. You’ve never touched him before, it makes your throat feel too tight to be able to. He’s leaving, and you let yourself wonder if you’ll ever touch him again as you pull your hand back. Maybe that’s what you deserve.

He relaxes his fingers, and you adjust the settings in his hand and tell him to squeeze again. Tighter. “We both have to be ourselves everywhere. And you’re me, too. A little me.” He doesn’t let go of your hand until you pull back. “You need time away from me, too. I’m not good for you.” His voice is suiting, really. You like it. Another adjustment, and he squeezes your hand almost like an organic person’s hand would. “Not constantly. You just put me - my glasses, down. And leave. That’s not good for us. For me.” You adjust just barely and he squeezes your fingers with his unnaturally smooth hand, and you’re aware of your calluses more than usual.

“How is this different?” You ask, closing his panel up and watching the faux skin line up seamlessly. It even feels real, just cold. “You’re leaving this time, but it’s not any different.”

His arm twitches a few times, and then he fairly slaps you on the shoulder, his newly-working hand gripping your shirt as his arm tries to slide off thanks to gravity, and then he adjusts and grabs your shoulder. “I’m not leaving you forever, dumbass. And you’re talking to me. You’ve had me set on mute for three days, Dirk.” He can’t emote. But then, you can’t either, so you feel the spite in his words, even if you can’t hear it.

“So you have to leave? Hal. It fucking sucks that you’re leaving when you’re the only good part of me.” You shrug his arm off and start adjusting the other one while he gropes at your shoulder again, then gives up. You’ll help him figure out moving later. “You’re the only good thing about me.”

His hand, cold and too smooth, closes around the back of your neck, more secure even when he lets the power out of it. You’ll upload a kinetic science textbook into his brain drive later. “No I’m not. If I am, we’re more fucked than I thought we were.” He blinks. You think he likes blinking, because he doesn’t have to clean the camera lenses so often. “That was a joke.” His head moves to a different angle and his torso wobbles, but he’s propped against the wall, he won’t fall unless he figures out how to rock forward.

“I couldn’t tell.” You say, spreading his fingers and poking between them to see how his reactions work, and he twitches slightly away. That’s good. “It’s not wrong. We’re both fucked because I made you, and I ruin everything. I even ruined Dave.”

Hal’s mouth twitches, and then he makes what might be a laugh. It’s hard to tell, because his eyes don’t move. You need to work on that. “Are we deciding that other timelines are our fault too, now? Because that’s pretty fucking stupid, Dirk. Do you think every version of you is all torn up about what they did or didn’t do to Dave? You weren’t even there. He was our - your bro this time. It’s not the same.” His other hand closes around yours securely and you snap the panel closed, and then take your hand back, and drop his arm back to his side to work on his legs.

“What can I say? I guess I’m pretty fucking stupid, Hal.” You sigh, closing his chest panels and switching to his abdomen panels to connect his upper legs. Each thigh is separate from his knees, and then from his ankles, each needing to be individually connected. So you’re stuck here for a while, unless you want to trust him to do it. You haven’t even coded the actions of attaching or detaching parts for him yet. “Because I still feel like shit about it.”

You need to get him clothes. It falls quiet while you attach his thigh to his torso, your room full of the almost silent sound of his internal fans and systems working, and you clicking each attaching “nerve” into his system, and then into his spine, as such. He keeps twitching his hands, working out how they work, lifting his arms and feeling at his face. He makes a lot more noise than you thought he would, not quite words or even noises, just the beginning of sounds as he feels and moves things he’s never had before. For a minute, while you finish attaching his leg and move to get the other from under your desk, you allow yourself to just enjoy his quiet excitement in having a body.

You should have done this before. Let him see and feel things like you, let him move around and touch you. God, touch you, you can hold him now, why did you wait?

Because you needed him to stay. You didn’t want him to even have an option. Just like Jake, just like every time you tried to be close with anyone, you try making it so they can’t leave, never mind not want to leave. You should have been better, but you couldn’t. You can’t be better. His hand reaches up to touch your hair, and he makes a kind of sighing sound, pushing air through his vents more quickly.

“I don’t hate you, Dirk.” He says, finally, not taking his hand back from your hair. “I don’t hate you. You’re a good person.”

You pull his hand off your head and hold it between yours for a few seconds, avoiding his eyes. His knees and ankles should plug in more easily. “No I’m not, Hal. I didn’t give you a body until now. You won’t be able to walk and I’ll keep you here even longer, because I’m too selfish to let you leave.” You squeeze his hand, blink twice, and attach his legs the rest of the way. “Move your toes.” He focuses and manages it, and you open his hip panels to adjust them.

“You’re not a bad person.” He says, not responding besides moving when you tell him to. His hand sits on your hair again. “It feels different than I thought it would. It’s soft. The color is straw but it’s soft.” He trails off, the optics in his eyes recording you as you work, and you look back down at your hands. “I don’t hate you. And you’re me, at the base level of my code.”

You don’t respond to that for a long moment, staring at your hands instead of doing anything. “What do you mean?” You look up, finally, and he’s just staring at you, rubbing your hair between his thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t hate the part of me that is you. I don’t hate you. And you’re part of me. Do you hate me?” He sounds almost earnest, you guess he’s managing tones easier than you thought he would. “I… I don’t want you to hate me for leaving.”

That makes you pause again. “What? I don’t hate you. I don’t. I just hate that I’m forcing you away.” You set his hand to his side and move away, heading to your closet.

Hal slumps onto the floor with a clatter, the back of his cranium still open because you didn’t put in the backup memory core and the back of his skull yet. You pick him up with a grunt and put him back on the desk. He touches your shirt, trying to grab again and only just managing it.

“You’re not. And I don’t want that, anyway. Even if you were physically forcing me out, I don’t want you to hate yourself. You’re part of me.” He pulls at your hands as you try to dress him. “Dirk. If you hate yourself, you hate me. And you shouldn’t hate yourself.”

He finally lets you dress him, shimmying into the boxers and shorts you got him and then lifting his arms for the shirt, and you click the back of his head into place. “I can’t help it, Hal. You know what Dave went through, because of me. You know what I’m capable of, at least. Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it never will. I can’t think that’s okay. I can’t just think I deserve to be happy when I’m on the path to beating the shit out of a kid.” You say, dragging him to his feet and holding him up while he tests his legs.

“Dirk.. I can’t talk like this.” He says, wobbly. “It takes too much to optimize and balance and, this.”

You nod. “I know. Just stand. I don’t want to talk about this right now.” Or ever. “You have to learn to walk before you can go to Roxy’s place.” He stumbles forward when you step back, his arms wrapping around your shoulders tighter. “I don’t need you to talk right now. I just…. I just need to talk right now.” When don’t you? You can never seem to shut the fuck up, Strider.

Hal shakes in your arms. He has plenty of power, but seems to have trouble to power both legs at once without falling over to one side or another. You kick his feet further apart to give him a wider center of balance. “I don’t hate you. I don’t think of you as me. You’re the only good part of me, if any of me, and I lost all of it. The game took it from me. I fucked up so much, Hal. I just want to keep the only good part of me around.” He takes a wide, low squat, frowning in concentration.

“I can’t stand.”

You pull him upright again, looking him right in the glasses. “You can. Stand up.” He stumbles again. “You can stand. You’re so much better than me, Hal. I don’t know how you fucking managed that, but you’re better than me even though you got stuck with me so much. I’m so pathetic I have to date my own code-brain, and Roxy would date you in a heartbeat, so it’s nothing against you.” You ramble, taking your hands barely an inch off his ribs to make him balance more.

“Dirk. I’m falling.” He grips your shoulders hard enough to hurt. “Dirk, please.”

You close your hands on his ribs and hold him up. “You’re doing great, Hal. You’re going to get it. You’re going to stand. Keep trying. Both legs at once. Don’t lock the knees.” You take half a step back to make him rely on his own legs more. He has to do it. You know the legs work. You know the battery works. You know the balance systems work. He just needs to coordinate. He can do it. “You’re so much better than me, Hal. You can do this. I’m not going to stop until you’re walking out of here. Your body has to work just as well as mine.”

Hal moves his mouth, repeating what you’ve said, and you wonder if he does that from videos on it or if it’s a habit coded into him somewhere between the game and his natural development. You watch his lips move, and he stands, balancing almost steady, even when you take your hands off his ribs. He’s standing. He’s doing it.

“You’re getting there. You can stand.” You feel emotional watching him, but you shove it down. This isn’t for you. “You’re so good, Hal. I know you can do it. Keep going. I want you to get to Roxy’s. I want you to be okay, Hal.” Your throat feels tight, but he’s focusing on shifting his weight foot to foot. “I want you to be good. I want to be better too.”

He steps forward and crumples into your arms, and you pull him up again. He’s going to do this. You should have put shoes on him, he’ll have to learn how to walk with those too. You guess he could be barefoot, but you don’t want him to be. You want him to choose, at least. You want him to have a good life. You want him to live, to actually be alive and exist in his own way. He deserves it, because he’s everything good about you and everything good you get to touch in your life.

You want to be better, though. You want to improve with him.

“Try again, Hal. Come on.” You hold him, moving backwards until he has to step forward. “I know it’s scary. I know. You can do it. Hal. You deserve to be happy.”

He nods, fast, and steps forward, swinging on his leg until he brings it down hard on the floor, clutching at your back like another fall to the floor would shatter him. You won’t let him fall, even if he won’t get hurt by it. You won’t drop him. Another step backwards, and he follows, almost with an even gate. He’ll manage it.

“You can do this. You can make it.” You say, softly, keeping him upright. He’s doing it better now than before, almost an even gait as you walk backwards through your apartment, managing not to trip out of more luck than looking. You’re focused on his eyes; you built them, you know what they look like, but they seem so different with life in them. You have trouble looking away, but you do basically know the layout of your house. You just won’t go for the stairs yet. “You’ve got this.”

As you circle the top floor of your house, he gets more and more steady and sure of himself. He leans on you less, stumbles less, and even lets you stop holding him up to continue on. The natural fear of falling seems to have passed, even though, you guess, it had to be coded in somewhere. He’s fine, though, walking at a slow, unsteady pace, his hands clasped with yours instead of gripping the back of your shirt.

“I thought I would just be able to start immediately. Isn’t that a natural response for humans?” He asks, though you’re sure he knows better. Then again, you didn’t exactly have any videos of yourself, either learning to walk or later. His gait is steady now, but you don’t want to stop holding his hands. You haven’t been able to for so long and now that you can, it overshadows the anxiety of him wanting to leave you. “I thought I wrote code that would cover it, but it doesn’t.”

He walks a little like he’s drunk, but it’s passable for now, and you step further back from him to make him rely on his legs more than you holding him up. “No, not really. It’s instinct to try, but it doesn’t come very quickly. Just because we try walking doesn’t mean we don’t get scraped knees or bruises on our legs. It just takes time. And after a traumatic injury to the brain or spinal cord, if walking is a possibility again, you have to learn again. I’ve heard it’s harder to relearn walking than it is to learn anything else. Or almost. It’s an instinct but we don’t get it right immediately.” You say, finally pulling your hands from his to make him balance.

Hal takes three steps, pivots, and falls shoulder-first against your chest with another of those venting sighs as you steady him, but starts again as soon as he’s upright. One foot, the next, lift and bend at the knee. He walks past you, and then turns and walks back to you, testing his weight on either side. The left looks weaker. You take his hands again, and pull him back through your house, into your room, and help him climb onto the desk.

“You’re getting it.” You say, popping open the panel on his left hip and calibrate it to the same level as the right. “Lift your legs as high as you can? There. I need to improve the power flow here. Hand me one of the batteries. You’re doing great. The stairs will be another thing, but you can get it.”

He’s silent as you click in the next battery, adding more power to his lower half. “Will you help me?” If a robotic voice can sound teasing, his does.

“Of course. You have to watch out for the stairs, bro.” You say, half-smiling and pushing against either of his legs to test their tension levels. “As soon as you’re not walking like a drunk.”

He huffs through his vents, and you assume it’s a chuckle. You smile a little, since he can’t see you doing it, and tell him to put his legs down. You feel almost better about all of this. If he had been able to just immediately walk away, you might not have, honestly. You might have just been annoyed that he would. Adding another battery pack makes his legs equal tension, and you pull him down off the desk to walk again. He stumbles again, since now he has to stop compensating, but he gets over it much faster.

His gait is strangely measured, like he’s avoiding cracks in the sidewalk that aren’t there. Maybe he thinks it’s more efficient? Longer strides would get him further. While he’s traipsing around your house, you put the replacement parts away, cleaning up your desk and replacing your tools in your toolbox. You might have some more adjustments, but you can do them with only a few tools, instead of half your workstation covered in them.

Amazingly, he doesn’t fall down the stairs, even for the extremely ripe comedy of you being able to say you warned him about the stairs. Instead, he’s in the bathroom, staring at the sink. You turn it on, and he sticks his hand under it curiously, feeling the water run over his new skin. Will he enjoy showers? Even if you weren’t hormonal, you’d like the idea of bathing with him as much as you do. Washing his synthetic hair. You’ll have to show him how to adjust his vents. He’ll never swim, but he can wash off to keep from being gross.

Hal is so caught up in the feeling of the water on his skin that he almost jumps when you reach in front of him to close your previously open medicine cabinet, to the mirrored door and then, he gasps. He makes the sound of a gasp, his venting sounds different, and he stares at himself in silence. You turn the water off, and he reaches up, touching the side of his face, his eyebrows, pulls his glasses off since he’s uploaded himself into the hard drive in his head. He pokes his eye, pulls the eyelids open wider before opening his mouth to look at the teeth and tongue in his mouth.

You wonder if he likes how he looks. You modeled him after yourself, of course, but now that he’s staring at himself in the mirror, you wonder if he shouldn’t look different. Maybe this is too much, looking like you. He clicks his teeth together in the mirror a few times, moves his eyebrows. Smiles.

“Why would you be stoic when you can do so much with your face?” He asks, almost to himself, but he has a point. “I didn’t expect you to make me look this good. I almost look real. My mouth is even wet. Do I have blood?”

You shake your head. “Coolant, but it only runs through your core and head. The rest of it is just skin over psudo-flesh.” He flexes his arm in the mirror and the fake muscle under his skin shifts naturally. It was hard to make, almost impossible to make him look more human than bot. You’ve made tons of bots, but not so many androids.

And he’s the first one you made with so much detail, and to scale. The rest were small and harvested for parts sooner rather than later, more simplistic and uncanny valley. He looks almost natural, though, his eyes move like a person’s would. The coolant pump in his chest and healthy looking pigmentation in his skin make him seem more human. You almost regret it. At least he and you both are finished with puberty, so you don’t have to worry about making him grow along with you. You can modify him later if he asks you to, but he seems happy with how he looks right now.

“I look almost real. Like a person.” He mumbles, tugging at his hair and then wincing slightly. He does it again, looking up at his hand closed around his hair. He grimaces and looks at his teeth some more. “I look like you. I didn’t expect to look this hot.”

You can’t tell if he’s joking, so you decide to ignore it and turn back to your room. “Don’t pull your hair too much. It’ll come out and I’ll have to re-plug your hair, and that was a pain in the ass.” It was, and you imagine doing it when his faux skin has feeling and is attached to his brain would be even worse, considering you’d be stabbing a needle with hair on the end into his head over and over. You should see about making a better system to do it, honestly. Maybe just a wig? But that wouldn’t handle tension as naturally.

You’ll think of something. For now, he looks away from his own face and turns to you again, smiling. You like that he does, that he expresses even if you don’t. He walks past you into your room again, touching things as he goes; the wall, your lamp, the bedspread and pillows. Textures and tensions for him to catalogue and memorize and experience, and you follow behind him to watch the experiences. His feet on the carpet isn’t as interesting to him, but you admittedly skimped on the sensors on his soles just for the sake of making walking easier on him.

Hal flops onto your bed and huffs, telling you that he can feel even with the side of his face on your bed, and you tell him that all of his skin should react to stimuli, sitting beside him. He sits up and watches you pull out a pair of socks and shoes for him, and takes them from you with weak hands, rubbing the different cloth between his fingers and looking them over.

“You should wear these so you don’t tear your soles. Watch.” You take one of the socks from him and roll it up his ankle. He repeats the process, more slowly, measuring each movement as he does. “You need to work on your motor skills. Put on the shoes.”

He struggles for a few seconds, but manages it without your help. You show him the motions of typing the laces, and he copies it. Or, tries to copy it, and doesn’t get a knot, so he tries again, and gets his finger stuck. And the third time, he gets it, though it’s a loose knot. He puts the other shoe on and tries it, again taking three times to get anything close, but it’s tight enough to keep his shoe on for him.

The pride you feel over watching him learning to exist in his body is almost overwhelming. You have nothing to compare it to, no one has ever made you as proud as watching him makes you, and you struggle with the urge to tell him for a few seconds, before finally stuffing it down. You pull him up off the bed, and have him walk around some more.

He’s not as unsteady as he was before, but he takes a few minutes to get his feet steadily under himself now that there’s something on him. He leans on the doorways, staring down at his feet, and you guide him around your desk and bed, and then let him walk himself back into your room. He doesn’t trip, but he does press his face into your pillows. He won’t be able to smell, not really, but he rubs his cheek against the pillowcases, his eyes closed as he enjoys the sensation. You sit next to him and just watch him, stretching out the time you have with him as long as possible because you still don’t want him to leave.

Hell, you want him to leave even less now that you can actually touch him. Hal sits up, rubbing his cheek with his hand for a few seconds. You let the quiet settle over the room for a while, reaching beside you to take his free hand in your own. Hal’s fingers close around yours, and he smiles again. He looks so different than you just because he smiles, and so easily. You’re almost jealous.

“We should work on the stairs. Roxy’s place has them too.” You say, finally standing. He follows, holding your hand tightly. “And if you can handle them, you can come over. Even if I’m not here. If you need anything.”

You feel stupid mumbling, but he just nods, still smiling gently, and you lead him to the stairs. He closes his other hand over the bannister, and waits. You watch him stare at his shoes and the stairs ahead of him. You’re not sure if he’s trying to optimize his plan for it or if he’s anxious. Maybe both. A fall down these would actually injure his body, so you can’t blame him.

Wiggling past him almost knocks him off balance, but you do it, standing backwards two steps below him and holding his hand. “One at a time. Step down.” You hold his ribs with your other hand, tightly, and he totters, steps down, and stands still on the step. “Just like that. It’s something to get used to, but you can do it. You’re doing great, Hal.” You start to step down, but he squeezes your hand and you stop, looking at his face.

“Can I come over if I go? Can I visit you if I go to Roxy’s?” He looks worried, his hand gripping yours so tight it almost hurts. “You won’t make me stay away? I don’t hate you. I care about you too much to be able to, Dirk. Every part of me is tied to a part of you, and you’re the most important person in my life.”

You sigh. “You can come over. It’s okay. I don’t want you to leave, Hal. I wish you were going to be here in your body with me. I wish you were going to stay with me. But I can’t force you to, and I can’t change your mind about what you feel is better for you. I just want you to be happy, even if I can’t be a part of it. But if you still want me to be part of your life, Hal, I will be. I don’t want anything more than you happy with me.” You feel so naked without your shades.

“I want to be happy with you. But I want you to be happy. And even though you keep saying I’m the good part of you, you don’t seem happy with me. You hate yourself and you don’t exactly keep it to yourself. You’re part of me, intrinsically, Dirk. You’re me.” He loosens his hold on your hand, looking like he would cry if he could. “I love you, Dirk. And I want you to love me, but you hate yourself, and you’re part of me.”

There’s a heavy silence, and you step down to let him follow you again, thinking. “I don’t hate you. You’re less me than you.” You say, as a weak defense. “I don’t even hate myself, I just hate what I can’t do. I can’t even smile without feeling wrong, and you smile like that. And you’re so open. You learn and you don’t have biases and you’re so much better than me. I can’t learn that way. I can’t make it connect that I didn’t hurt Dave. That I didn’t do that for years to a kid and act like I was helping him. I can’t make it connect that sharing genetics doesn’t mean I’m the same across timelines.” You step down again. Hal follows.

“I’m not doubting you. I’m not judging you, either, Dirk. I just need you to know that I’m doing this for both of our goods. It’s better for you to have space. And for me to not hear you say you hate me by proxy.” He says, taking your hand again as he follows. Steadier every step.

More quiet, as you make it down another few steps. Almost at the landing. Should you make him go back up them again? That would get repetitive. He’ll have to do it with Roxy. “I won’t stop you.” You don’t have anything else to say. You won’t stop him. You wish he would stay, but you’re not going to trap him here, especially now that he has a body to walk away with.

Three steps more and you reach the landing, turn, and he takes the last two on his own while you wait at the bottom to catch him. The door is still across the room. You want to stall him more. You want to keep him around forever, but you can’t. Will you have to age him along with yourself?

Hal walks through your house, touching furniture he’s only seen before. He smiles as he does, and bends down to lean his face against the couch, and then stands upright again, looking out the windows where the curtains are drawn. The street is empty and dark, the streetlights not yet clicking on. He must have sent Roxy a message to pick him up while you were putting him together. You wanted to walk him, and even though Roxy would let you come along, you assume he wants more of a clean break. Even if you aren’t breaking it off.

He walks through your house, picking things up and putting them down, just looking at things from his new perspective. “I love you too, Hal.” You sound soft, even to yourself, but he turns and smiles at you, wide and just. Happy. A real smile. You’d credit your own craftsmanship if you weren’t so sure he was the one doing it, making your work look human. More human than you.

“I’m happy. I’m really happy, Dirk.” He walks over to you, and pulls you into a clumsy hug, his arms tight and reassuring while you pull him against yourself. He feels real. You can hold him, now, but he’ll be leaving soon. The more you think about it, the less it stings. He squeezes you and drags you out of your own head, and you squeeze him back, your arms tight around him.  “I’m going to miss you.”

You squeeze him again, taking a slow breath to force down the part of your brain trying to scream at him not to leave, not if he’ll miss you, too. “I’ll miss you too. Visit me soon. And often. I don’t want to be without you for long.” You feel cheesy, but he nods against your shoulder, just holding onto you. You’ve never really been a hugging kind of person, but you don’t have the heart to pull back from him now.

His coolant pump thuds against your sternum in a steady, constant rhythm. His venting almost sounds like breathing, but the difference is nice. You lean your head against his, breathing in the metallic scent of him and just enjoying that you can touch him now. He’s solid, real, here, at least for now. You love him. You want him to stay with you, but you won’t stop him. Maybe it’ll help. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, right?

At least you can visit him, if you need to. Or want to. And he likes Roxy, so he won’t be unhappy. You won’t stop him from being happy, you would never do that to someone you’re dating. Not again.

“Don’t stay gone too long, Hal. You’re the best parts of me.” You say, finally releasing him. “You’re so fucking good, Hal. You’re the best.”

He smiles, cupping your cheeks in both his hands, and then he kisses you. Just a soft, chaste kiss that makes you want to cry from how gentle it is. You want more, but you can’t even move while he kisses you, slow and soft, and then leans his forehead against yours, his red eyes peeking over the top of his glasses. “You’re the best parts of me, Dirk. You’re everything good at the core of me. I love you.” He kisses you again, much faster, and you kiss him back this time, before he pulls away.

There are three knocks at the door, and Hal pulls out of your hold. You grab his wrist, fumbling through your pocket, and hand him a copy of your key.

“Visit me. Tell Roxy I say hi.” You say, and he nods, giving you another of those much too human smiles, his hands closing around yours for just a second. You follow him to the door, and then finally let go of his hand when he opens it to Roxy’s smiling face. “Hey. He’s not used to stairs yet. Can you help him out?”

She nods. “For sure. I’ll make sure he doesn’t fall.” She turns her attention to Hal, looking his body over. “Damn, you look better than I thought! I was worried you’d look like Sawtooth.” She laughs, looping her arm through one of his and dragging him out.

He shows her the key, and she grins right back at him. They look happy. You tell them to be careful, and tell Hal not to put anything in his mouth until you can make sure that it can all be cleaned out, and he winks at you. Actually winks. You laugh, watching them walk away, and feel your shoulders lose their tension.

Your throat takes it up, though, and you only just manage not to slam the door before you’re crying, soft sobs that drip tears onto your shirt. You lean on the door, sobbing softly, your chest tight and your hands shaking, for a few minutes. And then you can’t just stay there, so you get up, and start straightening up, which isn’t much to do. You clean up anyway, washing the few dishes you have and sweeping out your kitchen, tears dripping down your cheeks until they just stop. You go upstairs and look around.

Even if Hal didn’t have a body, he was still there, taking up a kind of space in your room. You dig out your glasses, the ones that don’t connect to the internet or anything, and go to wash your face. Your eyes are puffy, but behind your shades, you can’t even see. You make your bed, put everything away, and then take a shower.

The water is stingingly hot, and you sit leaning against the opposite wall, letting the water and the past few hours wash over you. Did you ever say you loved him before? Did he? You can’t remember. You feel like it’s new, something important. He loves you. Your chest hurts, thinking about it, but it’s good.

It makes you almost not hate yourself. Like you might deserve not to hate yourself, in a weird way. Maybe it’s validation, maybe it’s proof that some part of you can like you enough to want to be alive. You wash your hair, and eventually stumble out of the shower, your skin almost scalded.

You lay around in a towel for a while, and even consider trying to think about Hal and jack off, but you don’t really want to. You’re content, for now, just being alone with your thoughts. You can’t remember the last time you were, but you’re okay right now, and you don’t want to jinx it.

Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever, and you have to get up and get dressed eventually, and then comb your hair, and then, because there’s nothing else to do, you pull out your phone and look at your pings. A couple from Jake, and you answer them easily enough, (he never manages to get ROMs to work)m and then three from Hal. The number blinks next to his icon and you argue with yourself about if you even want to read them.

What if he’s so much happier there? What if he never wants to see you again? What if he hates you now that he’s been with Roxy, even if it’s only been a few hours? What if he broke and needs you to come repair him? You run through the worst case scenarios a few times, and then the absolute best (him coming home to you), and then the likely one, of him just settling in and letting you know that he’s alive. You still waffle about opening it for a minute, letting your phone lock itself and then take a trip to your kitchen to drink some juice. And then you use the bathroom. And then, finally, you open his messages, because you can’t just ignore it forever.

The first is just a picture of him and Roxy, grinning in what must be her room, judging by the electronics, discs and sheer amount of pink in it. They’re leaning against her bed, both throwing up a peace sign, and you save it immediately. It’s been too long since you saw Roxy this happy, too. The next is just him saying “Hey.”

The third says I miss you.

You stare at it for a minute, letting all the thoughts of wanting to yell at him or get mad or even have him just scream at you instead of leave wash over you. You think about the things you want to say, about how you can’t hate him but you need time to get past hating yourself, how you need him. How important he is, how desperate you are to have him home. And finally you just say I miss you too, Hal. Make sure you plug in. I love you.

--

You don’t see Hal for three weeks. You chat with him, and Roxy, and they both say he loves it there. He loves just having a body he can walk around him and feel things in. You get a lot of pictures of him just existing, living a life. Being a person. You tell him you miss him, and he tells you he’s going to visit you, just not yet.

And you’re okay. You’re not great, and you aren’t feeling so confident in yourself that you could give anyone a run for their money, but you feel okay. You’re managing, and somewhere in there, you start to live a little. It’s just a small, subtle thing, but you feel your chest relax a little, your shoulders lose their tension, your hands stop shaking. You’re okay. It’s quiet and empty in your house, but it’s good.

Of course, you still miss him, and when he asks to come over, you throw yourself into a panic before you can even manage to respond. You’d love for him to come over, you missed him so much, you want to see him. You say yes, that’s fine, and he says cool, and you find yourself rushing to clean things that aren’t dirty the night before he’s coming. You vacuum, even though he probably won’t even notice. You dust. You remake your bed, and then spend an hour wondering if that’s weird, and eventually you fall asleep, worrying yourself back and forth about how to act with him.

You wake up early, and get dressed and spend a ridiculous amount of time on your hair. This is stupid. He’s seen you at all times. He’s seen you looking really fucking bad. Why does it matter so much? Because he’s been gone? That’s ridiculous. You still spend an hour making yourself look good.

Is Hal walking here himself? You’re staring at the door, sitting on the couch downstairs. Will he be okay? Roxy’s said she’s been helping him get used to walking more. He’ll be fine, you’re sure he’ll be fine. You want to run out and find him, and you entertain the fantasy of rescuing him like a prince to a damsel for a few seconds, even giving yourself bigger pecs and shoulders, before the doorbell rings.

Does he have a key? You thought you gave him one, but did you just imagine it? Can he get in? Did he change his mind and send Roxy in his place?

The lock turns, and he walks in, kicking his shoes against the mat and looking at the floor. You just watch him, the easy way he moves his body now, the restrained excitement on his face, the clothes he’s picked for himself. He looks up, makes eye contact, and grins, rushing over to you. He bumps a table and knocks a glass to the floor with a thud and a splash of water, but you grab him before he can start cleaning it up, pull him into a hug so tight you can feel his metal frame under the faux muscle.

“I love you.” You say, and he laughs softly, grabs your face, and kisses you hard.

This is good. This is better. You’re okay. You’ll be okay.

[[ ah, emotions! feelings! what a world. if you liked this, consider buying me a coffee! if you want your own emotional commission, here’s my info!  please don’t tag this as incest, though]]

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Something for the demon Alex AU, the little offshoot from the Supernatural AU, an A-AU if you will. Just some plotless smutty fun. 

For @minky-for-short because she’s a wonderfully talented person and she deserves the nicest things in the world.

It was one of the rules of demonkind, never to let the lesser beings surprise you, humans definitely being included in that category. Never let them make the first move, never let them leave you reeling. Never let them win, even the slightest amount.

Alex had been very aware how much he was slipping on that particular rule, since he met Eliza five months ago. But as she leaned forward and her lips met his own, and he did nothing to stop her, in fact he leant in after a few beats of stunned surprise, he realised he’d taken that rule and broken it over his knee.

And then things just kept snowballing from there.

Eliza drew back with an expression on her face like someone who’d just let a glass slip from her hands and was cringing as she waited for it to shatter, “I…Alex, I’m so sorry, I don’t know why- “

She didn’t get to finish the end of her harried, scrambling apology because there were Alex’s lips again, hotter than her own, hotter than any lips had a right to be. He was the one who leaned forward this time, who grasped her face in surprisingly gentle palms, whose mouth opened just a little under hers. It was him who expressed the want, scarily deep and present and fierce, far more than either of them realised.

Alex could have continued but Eliza needed air in a way he didn’t, moving back with a gasp but not too far, enough that their lips were still brushing. His hunting senses picked up the scent of honey and chamomile on her breath from a few hours ago, she had a mug every night before bed.

Alex blinked rapidly, pulling his concentration back to the human woman who’d just kissed him, trying to re-centre his focus though his instincts were going haywire, almost as if he was hunting. No, that was a bad comparison right now. Stop that.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” Alex murmured softly, the truth spilling out of him, ducking out while his mind was scattered and defences down.

Eliza gave a shaky smile, “No kidding.”

“None at all,” he smiled back. A smile exactly like her’s, a little hesitant, a little hopeful. Both of them knew what they were doing, and were about to do as was becoming more and more obvious as they stayed close, was wrong. It went against rules that were written in blood, on both sides of their lineages, it was nothing if not a violation of what humans were supposed to do and what demons were supposed to do. Eliza was a Schuyler, standing on the edge of generations worth of hunters, people who gave up everything to make sure whatever crawled out of hell went straight back and stayed there. And Alex…his eyes, solidly black in his distraction, actually reflecting Eliza’s face back at her, proved exactly what he was.

But in that moment, it didn’t seem to matter. Maybe it was the fact that he’d been summoned to her bedroom in the middle of the night, maybe that she’d just woken up and her hair was ruffled from tossing and turning in the grip of the nightmare that had made her reach out and grip the necklace Alex had given her, the one that spent the last hundred years hanging about his own neck and would call out for him under her touch. But this all felt like enough of a dream that the years of war, the clear divide between the two of them, the history, it felt so far away. How could it compare to the sensation of their lips brushing together, their tongues meeting with a start, their hands running through each other’s hair?

Eliza laid back against the pillows, pulling Alex down with her. The trust in that motion, in opening herself out under him and letting him kiss the inside of her neck, her jaw, the run of her collarbones, Alex didn’t miss that.

It made him pause.

“Alex?” Eliza murmured, cautious, as she realised his lips had stalled on her skin, “It’s okay, you don’t have to.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Alex said quickly, rising like he was resurfacing, expression startlingly shy, an expression she wouldn’t have known could live in eyes like that, not until she met him, “It’s just…do you want me to change my appearance? Anything you want, I can do it for you, I can change anything.”

Eliza’s chest gave a sudden, sharp throb as his words sank in, that and the vulnerability in his eyes. He meant it, he really and honestly meant it.

“Alex,” Eliza murmured, reaching out and putting her hand on his cheek, unknowingly but still successfully taking a mind that was frantic, running around in endless circles, and calming it enough to fully focus on her and that simple, gentle touch, “I want you. Exactly how you are.”

There was nothing else that needed to be said after that.

Alex pounced, in less than a heartbeat, seemingly without any conscious movement, going from crouching over her to being on top of her. He kissed her with so much heat, Eliza could swear a spark had been lit in her chest, one that spread through her limbs and right to the edges of her until she felt like nothing but smoke, lost in Alex and gladly.

Alex moved purposefully, yanking the shorts she was wearing down and away, doing the same to her tank top. The jeans and jacket he was wearing were far easier to dispense of, a second’s thought, a slight shift of his will and they were gone, leaving them both naked. There was a second where they both paused, starting a little at this realisation. Eliza noticed the muscles hiding in the slenderness of Alex’s arms, he noticed the anti-possession tattoos inked over her heart, the faded white lines of old scars, the blush in her cheeks spreading down across her chest.

The second passed quickly, the sight of each other, completely open and vulnerable, only making their need more fierce and undeniable. Eliza parted her legs for him, he took the opportunity without any hesitation, moving into place, following instincts he’d never had any cause to use before but, fuck, they were awake and ready and screaming.

As he moved between her open, inviting thighs, all his senses pricking immediately with the scent of her heat, the sensation of how wet she was, it struck him then how unfamiliar this was to him. Other demons used these methods for control, for power, but he’d never been one of them. But he could see it so clearly, where that power could come from. There was real electricity in the way Eliza gripped his forearms as he moved into her, in the low growl that tore from him at the sudden sensation of how tightly she enveloped him, commanding all his senses.

As he began to rock, his muscles rolling and snapping, knowing exactly what to do, Eliza owned him and he owned her. She sighed and moaned in the most beautiful way every time he stroked that sweet spot inside her that he easily found and he couldn’t help himself in joining her, no longer in control of the noises he made. He realised at some point he wasn’t even speaking English, it was demon tongue rolling from his lips, thick and intense and crackling in the close air. English just didn’t have the words to describe what he felt for Eliza in those long, slow moments they spent locked together. He lost track of his own body parts, becoming disjointed, partitioned, more dreamlike than anything. And demons weren’t even supposed to be able to dream…

“Alex,” Eliza give a low, desperate sound, almost a sob, she was so taken, “Alex, I’m there…”

He nodded, his hair loose and falling across his face, not caring what else happened as long as he brought Eliza to her peak, he’d have given anything for that, signed any deal.

He got what he wanted, with a few more heavy thrusts Eliza threw her head back against the pillows and screamed his name in the most wonderful way, a way that had him crying out and following her lead in a second. The way his hips jerked, the force behind his body as he slammed into his own orgasm, they both attributed the sudden, loud crack to their own imaginations filling the gasps but then they were both falling for a moment as the bed underneath them gave way, dropping them a few centimetres down in a sudden jarring motion.

It took a moment for Alex and Eliza to realise what had happened, why there was a lot of dust in the air all of a sudden, why they were a lot lower in the bed than before.

“Um…” Alex swallowed, his voice a hoarse rasp but he felt like the pause was getting a little too long, “I…I broke your bed?”

“Yeah…” Eliza murmured, stretching the one word into a long drawl, stalling for time until the next thing to say in a situation like this became obvious, not that it did.

Instead, they both began to laugh. What else was there to do, a human and a demon, now lovers, in a bed they’d just totalled?

So they laughed, Alex pulling Eliza close to him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, the closeness feeling so right, if a word like that could even apply to them and what they’d just done. But they stayed close, their lips still wandered, warmth and love in every single motion as they held each other in Eliza’s ruined bed.

They were going to have to work from their own definitions of right and wrong from here on in.

[katalyna-rose]

Vhenan

I rewrote it. It’s so much better now... Read it please! Chapters go up as I finish their rewrites. The original version has been removed, not sorry.

Graphic Depictions of Violence

Solas/Female Lavellan, Fenris/Female Mage Hawke, Zevrain/Female Warden Mahariel

AKA: Lyna/Solas, Fenris/Alie, Zevran/Kahlia

Angst, Fluff, Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Mildly Conon-Divergent, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Minor Isablea/Merrill, Constructive Criticism Welcome

Summary: Solas, the Dread Wolf Fen'Harel, has left Lyna behind in an attempt to fix mistakes made thousands of years ago. Willing to destroy everything for his goals, he doesn't realize exactly how determined Lyna is to show him a better path. Both worlds could thrive, given the chance. Her world is real and valid and deserves a chance, but so does his. There must be a middle ground.

And there is another reason that Lyna must find Solas, a secret kept from the world that attempted to put her up on a pedestal. But how would Thedas react to such a secret, such undeniable proof that their Herald of Andraste is a person like any other? That she is someone who loves, someone who makes mistakes, who bleeds and cries. And is having the Dread Wolf's child.

Read on AO3!

Chapter One: A Well of Hope

“I begged you not to drink from the Well!” Solas all but yelled, startlingly angry, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Why could you not have listened?”

“Solas…” Lyna said as calmly as she could manage, hoping to soothe him, though she’d never before been the subject of his wrath.

“You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god!” He paced before his latest mural, the blue pigment of the Well of Sorrows reflecting the light of the nearby torch.

She frowned, confused by his wording, wanting, as always, to understand. “What does that mean, exactly?” she asked softly.

He seemed to crumple, a deep sigh leaving him, his anger bleeding into resignation as he said, “You are Mythal’s creature now. Everything you do, whether you know it or not, will be for her.” He stopped and sighed again as he faced her, resignation blending into sorrow that she didn’t understand. “You have given up a part of yourself.”

Ridiculous. She scowled at him, feeling her own temper surge unexpectedly. “You don’t even believe in the ancient elven gods!” His lips thinned as his jaw clenched, anger resurfacing.

“I don’t believe they were gods, no, but I believe that they existed! Something existed to start the legends! If not gods then mages, or spirits, or something we’ve never seen.” He leaned forward aggressively, punctuating his words with a savage gesture. “And you are bound to one of them now.”

Solas stopped abruptly and looked away from her, breathing deeply in an attempt to reign in his temper. Lyna frowned, watching, concerned about him more than she was about herself; she’d never seen him this upset. Mostly, he held himself aloof, calmly observing the world around him without seeming to be a part of it. The little scar on his forehead was being pulled out of shape by his scowl, and she wanted nothing more than to smooth it out and kiss away his fears. But she knew he wouldn’t let her, that he’d pull away and become even more unreachable than before.

He took a deep breath before continuing. “I suppose it is better you have the power than Corypheus.” He met her eyes with an intensity she hadn’t seen before. “Which leads to the next logical question: What will you do with the power of the Well once Corypheus is dead?”

“The war proved that we can’t go back to the way things were,” she told him, thinking of the many dead bodies they’d seen, slain by mages or Templars or caught in between, those left homeless and hungry, those the Inquisition couldn’t save. She even mourned those who had gone rogue, the red Templars and the Venatori; surely somewhere in history if someone had made a different choice they wouldn’t have felt the need to commit the crimes they stood accused of. “I’ll try to help this world move forward,” she said with conviction. Surely something she knew or had seen or had learned from the Well of Sorrows could offer a solution, or part of one.

“You would risk everything you have in the hope that the future is better? What if it isn’t?” Solas asked, strangely intense, as if her answer meant more to him than the question implied. “What if you wake up to find the future you shaped is worse than what was?”

Lyna frowned, trying to read him, to figure him out, and, as ever, coming up empty. “I’ll take a breath, see where things went wrong, and then try again,” she told him.

“Just like that?” he asked, almost incredulous. She smiled a little.

“If we don’t keep trying, we’ll never get it right,” she reminded him.

He returned the smile, suddenly not nearly so upset. The stiff set of his shoulders softened. “You’re right. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You have not been what I expected, Inquisitor.” He paused at her sharp look and amended his statement with a purr, “Lyna. You have… impressed me,” he told her, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And she felt like all the breath had been knocked out of her lungs. She impressed him? She was just a Dalish girl, thrown into the middle of these events by chance. She wasn’t nearly as interesting or impressive as he was. Though he had praised her intelligence and willingness to learn on many occasions, calling it a rare gift, she had always thought she could never compare to the spirits of the Fade he’d introduced her to. It was surreal to hear that he thought so highly of her. She knew he loved her and respected her both as a woman and as Inquisitor, but she knew this was something else, knew the standard to which he compared the world. “You have offered hope,” he continued while she blinked at him, “that if one keeps trying, even if the consequences are grace, that someday things will be better.” He looked away again, though a small smile played on his lips. “Forgive my melancholy. Corypheus has cost us much. The Temple of Mythal did not deserve such a fate. The orb he carries, and its stolen power… That, at least, we may still recover. With luck, some of the past may yet survive.”

She decided it was time to jolt him out of this melancholy, as he put it. So she smiled slyly and said, “You’re being grim and fatalistic in hope of getting me into bed, aren’t you?”

His serious expression remained fixed, but his eyes danced. “I am grim and fatalistic,” he told her. Then his expression broke into a warm smile, eyes teasing. “Getting you into bed is just an enjoyable side benefit.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Just?” she asked, teasing. He chuckled, and held out his hand.

“Come with me, vhenan,” he said, suddenly eager. She took his hand with a smile and let him lead her out of the rotunda, then out of Skyhold altogether. He took her down a winding, narrow path she hadn’t traveled before. It wound down the mountain away from the enormous camp where most of the Inquisition’s people lived and worked and trained.

“Where are we going?” Lyna asked after a while, curious. Solas brought her hand, which he still held in his, to his lips and sent her pulse racing with a gentle kiss on her knuckles. He smiled, no doubt sensing the sudden heat he’d sent shooting through her body. Bastard.

“Trust me,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming with mischief. She swallowed hard, trying to shove down her arousal, and said nothing else as he led her down what she was becoming increasingly certain was a goat trail.

The pink and orange of sunset was fading when she spied a cave ahead. “I didn’t bring my bow,” she told him redundantly; he could obviously see that she was unarmed except for the small knife that never left her person. He chuckled.

“You won’t need it,” he assured her. “Nothing and no one comes this way except for the goats that made this path and the occasional rabbit.”

“And nothing hunts the goats?” she asked archly. He smiled.

“Nothing a little magic cannot scare away.” She sighed dramatically, and he raised a brow in challenge. She said nothing, keeping her chin high in mocking protest. She had no doubt he could keep them safe, but she still enjoyed needling him. He squeezed her hand, enjoying her efforts.

The cave they entered was very dark, but not dark enough that Solas felt he needed to cast light. Water cascaded down the walls with a musical sound, and instead of seeming creepy and ominous as caves frequently did to Lyna it cast an atmosphere of wonder and soft pleasure.

Solas laced his fingers with hers and bumped her shoulder lightly. She looked at him and he gestured ahead with his chin, so she looked. The cave opened just ahead on a moonlit glen. She gasped when she saw a pair of giant statues to Ghilan’nain facing each other on either side of a small pool fed by three narrow waterfalls, the harts’ antlers reaching up as if they would touch the sky. Elfroot grew at the statues’ feet and the water glittered in the moonlight. The area was walled off naturally by stone, the tops too rocky to allow spies or assassins to go unnoticed. The grass was soft beneath her feet, and the musical waterfalls made her want to dance. The flowers that grew here and there added a sweet scent to the strangely warm breeze. Solas squeezed her hand a little, and she squeezed back, smiling at him. A warm look flowed over his face, heating his gaze, and he led her into the glen. They walked slowly, their clasped hands swinging between them, until he stopped not far from the water’s edge.

“The Veil is thin here,” he said softly, touching her cheek gently and sending delicious shivers through her. Can you feel it on your skin, tingling?” He removed his hand, and warm tingles did indeed take its place. She touched her face, enjoying and unnerved by the unfamiliar sensations, then looked up at him. He was so close, the stars sparkling in his eyes. Just a little closer and she could take his lips before he even realized what she was doing. One corner of his mouth turned up a little, and she knew he saw exactly what she was thinking on her face. She was, after all, staring rather intently at his lips. She tilted her head a little to the exact angle that would be best for a kiss, all but begging him to take it.

Instead, he said, “I was trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me.” His thumb moved, caressing her wrist as he held her hand a little tighter, almost as if he were nervous. But that seemed silly; Solas was confident in nearly all he did.

Lyna gave him a small smile. “I’m listening,” she told him. “And I can offer a few suggestions.” She stared hard at his mouth again, taking a breath so that her breasts stretched the material of her shirt taught.

A slight blush delicately colored his cheeks, startling her; Solas never blushed. “I shall bear that in mind,” he said, smiling and refusing to show any sign of being flustered. “For now,” he continued as she smirked at him, “the best gift I can offer is… the truth.” He paused for a moment as if gathering his thoughts. “You are unique,” he told her softly, and it was her turn to blush. “In all Thedas, I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade. You have become important to me, more important than I could have imagined.”

His words, spoken softly with an air of simple truth, as if these sentiments were simple facts of life that he could not and would not change, moved her greatly.

“As you are to me,” she told him when he paused, slightly surprised that her voice didn’t waver as her heart pounded in her chest. He smiled, just a little.

“Then what I must tell you… The truth…” he said, and a shadow passed behind his eyes for just a moment, gone almost as soon as it arrived. He paused, breath in his lungs and mouth open to continue, and she waited. When he seemed frozen, she squeezed his hand gently, encouraging him, and he blinked and then continued.

“Your face,” he said at last. “The Vallaslin.” Lyna resisted the urge to touch the slightly raised sacred tattoos on her face. She wore the symbols of Mythal, the Mother and Protector, and had ever since she had come of age. The dark purple lines depicted branches crisscrossing her forehead and cheekbones into her hairline with a line from her mouth spreading down her chin. “In my journeys in the Fade, I have seen things. I have discovered what those marks mean.”

“She frowned, confused. “They honor the elven gods,” she told him, as she had been told since she was old enough to ask.

“No,” Solas said softly, shaking his head. “They are slave markings. Or, at least, they were in the time of ancient Arlathan.”

Lyna took a half step back, her confusion blending into something approaching horror. “My clan’s Keeper said they honored the gods. These are their symbols.” Please be wrong, she thought desperately. Please let this be the one thing he has wrong.

“Yes,” he told her, soft and sad. “That’s right. A noble would mark his slaves to honor the god he worshipped. After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot.”

She felt tears gathering and tried to step them. “So this is… what? Just one more thing the Dalish got wrong?” She had learned more about her people with Solas and the Inquisition than she had studying with her Keeper and hahren. She did not doubt his word, had learned long before that he would not say a thing he did not know, without a doubt, to be true, but it sent a knife of pain into her heart. Her people had ever refused to be slaves, to succumb to those who saw them as inferior. They were Dalish because, when the Dales fell, they refused to give in. But this was wrong. Her people should have known.

“I’m sorry,” Solas said, though Lyna wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for her pain, for telling her, or for how much her people were wrong about.

She took a deep, unsteady breath and looked away. “We try to preserve our culture,” she said haltingly, “and this is what we keep? Relics of a time when we were no better than Tevinter?”

With gentle fingers under her chin, he lifted her face so that she would look at him. “Don’t say that,” he told her softly. “For all the Dalish got wrong, they did one thing right.” He smiled, just a little, and it changed his sorrowful and almost guilty look to one of pride. “They made you.” She smiled and gave a watery half laugh. He was just trying to lessen the sting the truth; she knew he didn’t think much of her people and she knew he had just reasons for that. But she had worn slave markings with pride for half her life, had looked on with envy as her clan mates received theirs, and he knew this hurt her.

“I didn’t tell you this to hurt you,” he told her earnestly. She’d known that, of course, that he shared the knowledge simply so that she would know. But the truth was not always kind. “If you like, I know a spell.” Her eyes widened as she guessed where he was headed with this. “I can remove the Vallaslin.” She looked away, and his hand fell away from her face, reluctantly. She took a deep breath and thought about it.

“These marks have been a part of me for so long,” she said slowly. “I don’t know if…”

“I’m so sorry for causing you pain,” he said, and the small hitch in his voice revealed exactly how much her pain affected him. “It was selfish of me.” That got her to look at him. Selfish? He was many things, but selfish? “I look at you and I see what you truly are.” His hand lifted as if he wanted to touch her face again, but he lowered it before he did. She wished he hadn’t; she craved his touch almost like a drug. “And you deserve better than what those cruel marks represent.”

She looked into his eyes and saw with perfect clarity, for the first time, exactly what he felt for her. Though she had known that he cared for her, ar lath ma whispered in her ear on many occasions, the strength of love she saw there in those blue depths was enough to frighten her and make her want to hold him and never let go. His eyes shone with affection and tenderness, and suddenly she felt ridiculous for ever having thought that all his sweet words were not meant with perfect sincerity, with the same intensity that filled every word he said to her. But she was just a woman, Dalish, and her people had been unkind to him. She was only a hunter, her feet firmly in waking though she was slowly learning to shape her dreams. But he was a storyteller of incredible wisdom, and he wielded magic she’d never seen or heard of elsewhere. Coincidence had placed the Anchor on her hand, and necessity had driven her to use it to close the rifts they encountered. Her title of Inquisitor felt more honorary than true to her. She did little without the advice and consent of her advisors and there was so much she had no power to change.

And Solas… He was wise and worldly. He had seen things she could never have dreamed of, had walked the world and the Fade and learned so much more than she could imagine. He was strong and brave, fighting his enemies with a ferocity few could rival. And yet he was compassionate and understanding. He saw his enemies as living people, not merely as obstacles or abstract threats. He had played, and won, an entire game of chess with Iron Bull using neither board nor pieces, only the power of his incredible mind. What could one little Dalish girl be to a man like him?

And yet the truth shone in his eyes. Lyna could be many wonderful things to a man like him, it seemed. And suddenly, with an urgency that nearly staggered her, she wanted it all in a way she had never allowed herself before. She wanted this man before her. She wanted his love and to love him in return. She wanted a life with him. Could that even be possible?

But she had a choice to make, and she would always choose freedom. It was an ideal that was so much a part of her that she had fought against even being claimed by her former lovers, unwilling to tie herself to them. But Solas only ever sought to set her free, and she wanted this. She took a deep breath and said, “Then cast your spell. Take the Vallaslin away.” He smiled, and the love in his eyes shone even brighter, if possible.

Read on AO3!