#he does talk about labour conditions he doesn’t ignore them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jjkpls · 4 years ago

Text

crayons ‘dul’ (PG)

> genre : fluffy fluff, angst, comedy

> pairing : kim namjoon x reader

> words : 3.7k

> warnings : none (except a rusty quill)

>Y/N, a primary school teacher, is way too soft for the quiet, timid new child in her class. Little did she know, the adult version, who engendered this cutie, is even more charming.

> prior

> next

It doesn't take Mr Kim too long to find a way to meet you.

A week or so later, Adrianne is handing you a little post-it where her curvy cursive spells his name, with his phone number and a time. He says he'll bring Jimmy early to school in two days, to contact him if it doesn't work for you and that he cannot wait to talk to you again. This last part you wouldn't bet on the accuracy. Adrianne says he stuttered his way through a mumbo jumbo of English and another language she didn't recognize, apologizing because he didn't know how to express what he meant but from what she could gather, he was excited to have this meeting about Jimmy.

He arrives two days later, right on time. Not a minute early nor late, perfectly on time and if you don't point it out loud, you still notice it with a discreet smile.

They both look perfectly relaxed, smiling for the man and rather calm for the boy. It's funny to see him now. Mr Kim looks pretty much nothing like the first time you saw him, with the worry, the low-key panicked, agitated state he came bursting in your classroom. He looks a few years younger, with an easy grin stretching full rosy lips, dimples digging deep in his roundish honey cheeks -almost the same as his son's, you notice with delight- wearing a straight maroon coat, this time well adjusted, that's making him even taller and more elongated if possible and of which the shade compliments his complexion endearingly so.

"Hi. It's really nice to see you." You end up greeting him first, as warmly as you can.

You've been pondering over this meeting for so long, time feeling like it never ceased to stretch out and felt dreading, dreading, dreading. It was never coming soon enough and you were terrified, even if you had no reason to doubt Mr Kim's honesty, that he'd bail on you for whatever reason.

But here he is, seemingly so open to discuss and after installing Jimmy at his desk with the same tools as last time (a pile of white sheets waiting to be filled and your set of crayons) you join him a few tables away (far enough for Jimmy not to be exposed to the conversation but close enough to keep an eye on him, or more accurately, for him to keep an eye on his guardian), pressing your hands together and against your bosom to try to contain my excitement.

"As I told you last time, Jimmy is a very sweet boy. He's not doing bad with the exercises and activities, it's quite surprising -in a great way!- since from my understanding English is not his first language, right?"

"Yeah, no, it's uh- it's Korean. We just moved from Korea a few months ago, well, right before he started school. But we- my- her mother and I would try to talk to him a bit of English at home to have him pick up on the basis..."

"Oh, that's nice! Children that young do learn languages particularly easily, it's definitely beneficial for him. I can already tell."

Namjoon sends a glance his way, a fond, dad's proud one lingering on his tiny figure hunched over the desk. You can't quite tell from where you sit but it does look like he's started drawing.

"Had you planned moving here for a long time? I mean, was it the plan from the start, that's why you wanted to teach him English?"

"No, not really." The mood feels different. It switches from rather tranquil and cheerful into a very heavy, uneasy silence his deep voice hardly disturbs. There's a glint in his eyes. It's not an easy one to look at and your heart stings as the glint takes over his whole gaze hovering over his son. You understand it's something sad. Probably painful and hard to carry even for such a strong-looking, shoulder-broad grown man.

You don't want to push it. You're curious, as one gets, but too decent and you know yourself to be too soft-hearted and sensitive, for you to be snooping through sad people's luggage. But you think back about Jimmy, whose curious eyes, beautiful but wide with something reflecting like a perfect mirror what you can now find in his dad's, and you're certain that his odd behaviour must come from that.

"Mr Kim, the reason I wanted to see you," You start, voice quieter. He's startled for a second, redirecting his attention back on you, and he looks a bit guilty. As if he highly suspects, if not already know full well, where this is going. "I do meet all the parents of my students, as I told you. But in the case of Jimmy, if I was so insistent, it's that I'm really concerned about him."

His eyes draw downwards, staring at his hands. Long slender fingers fidgeting with one another, pinching and twisting a bit. I wonder if like his son, he might start crying.

"He's lovely but he cannot- he has had a really hard time uh- how could I put it?" You don't want to sound too alarmist. You know parents have the tendency to freak the fuck out for the misinterpretation of one single word. Sometimes an onomatopoeia, misplaced, send them into a raging spiral of anxiety over what terrible condition their kid might be dealing with. Not all parents are insane or simply too quick to jump to conclusions -or plain stupid. Some understand, whatever words you use. The father sitting in front of you seems worried and pained enough you wish you could protect him but you need him to understand that his situation is serious, and how important it is for Jimmy to have the tools to change now, while he still can, before he gets too old and start to take all those unfortunate coping mechanisms as lifelong terrible habits. "He's had a hard time simply being a kid." Namjoon sighs deeply. "He doesn't speak to anyone, not even me. Hardly looks at his classmates, never approaches them. I've noticed also that talking is not the only issue, any form of expression, if not made to do because it's in the course and all the other children are doing it too, he simply won't do." Mr Kim has raised his head enough for you to see him. He's troubled, upset, worried. But he seems to want to show himself more involved and you can tell he is, you can tell he cares as he listens so carefully as you explain in great details the odd incident with the papers and the crayons he refused to play with, even without a soul to watch over his shoulder.

"I feel it's a bit more than simple timidity. Or that at least, there's something significant behind this timidity. I can understand that it might be sensitive to you," You do, his eyes are screaming at you and you can't ignore them. Sort of begging for something, you're not quite sure what, you're not quite sure they, themselves, know either. It's a terrible case of a grown adult, an apparent composed grown man with a mighty balanced life, not a child anymore, actually, a dad, appearing so vulnerable and broken. It's a horrid vision. You've never been able to handle those.

"But it's in Jimmy's interest that I know a bit more. It's quite concerning. He's at an age where he's supposed to develop those skills. If we just let him be, leave him in this... unease, whatever it is, he might adopt it for a very long time until the time comes when it's become an exhausting challenge, almost impossible, to overcome.”

"I understand what you're saying." Mr Kim starts, voice low and tiny I can hardly pick up on the words. "I noticed- I mean, he's not changed that much with me. He's never been a very loud, boisterous boy, you know? But lately, he's been a bit quieter. I can see it at home, he's a bit stoic, less... expressive." You lose the man for a second. He's staring at his son longly and you don't want to abruptly bring him back to the conversation. Eventually, he does come back on his own, clearing his throat and scratching his neck. "That's- ridiculous but I even told myself the other day that I miss his tantrums. He didn't use to throw a lot of fits but sometimes he would, for more candies or something stupid like that. But he hasn't in a while."

You can't count how many times you heard overwhelmed parents jokingly wish that their kid would just turn off, stop causing scenes, stop demanding, screaming and crying out ridiculous tantrums. You remember Adrienne, saying more than once, to chastise the behaviour of one too agitated child to take a look at Jimmy, learn to be more like him, and why can't they be like him.

The thing is, a child is not supposed to be quiet.

A child should be problematic, testing, challenging. Loud and cheerful and agitated because children are like that. They are little humans just starting this whole insane experience that is Life, trying to figure themselves out, trying to figure out the people around them and the whole world along with it. They're meant to be a mess.

They're not meant to be quiet and tranquil, and bathing in a sort of slow, stoic haze. They're certainly not meant to have this expression on their face. The one Jimmy is wearing. Of deep, deep sadness. Like he's been somewhere, he's felt something, he's lost something that has left him misplaced forever. As if he's not really part of this world, this Life, or doesn't care or know why he's in it. Just letting himself float about. Embarrassed and denying all impulse that could potentially shape him and his existence.

He's only five.

"Do you have any inclination as to why his behaviour has turned into this?"

You see the gears going into labour in his head. He looks pensive, lost in a pit of thoughts he doesn't know if he can nor should share. There's a tremble to his lips, to his fingers, a telling frown to his eyebrows as his eyes very obviously decide to avoid you. The question seems to seize him like an earthquake but somehow, it's a good one. A disturbing but potentially lucky one. One that would invite him to experience something hard but liberating, something that he really needs.

Not long after you've asked the question to which you already know half of the answer, he pauses to think it over and then decides to talk. You notice the way his body slump over himself instantly, along with an abyssal years-old sigh and he starts to talk.

"5 months ago, my- his mom passed away." You hate yourself for the way you gasp, eyes wide and already blurry as if it's appropriate, as if you're allowed when you can't even imagine the beginning of their pain. It all starts making sense and you're heartbroken. You wish you didn't show yourself so reckless, sensitive but somehow naive and unhelpful.

You mouth a silent apology and condolence you notice he accepts from the way he nods, not wanting to cut him off. He's already breathless and you wonder how many more words he has in stock before the resources shut down, right before he loses it and breaks the strong persona he has to keep straight and steady for his son. How exhausting it must be. "It was hard already in Korea but I thought -naively- that if we moved here, close to her family, maybe, being around them would ease- everything out a bit. I don't know. It was stupid." He shakes his head from left to right, scoffing to himself, a hand raised to his forehead, hiding his eyes.

"It wasn't, Mr Kim. It's very honorable of you to quit everything for your son." Your words have no effect whatsoever. Unfortunately, it's blatantly obvious, he's made up his mind already. He's guilty, he messed up, and he holds a grudge against himself for this decision and nothing a dumb teacher, sensitive and half-weeping, would say could change that opinion, as destructive and inaccurate as it may be.

"It really was. It's so different here, I thought after some time it would be worth it but I think he hates it. I think he's very confused and I don't know if he's too young to feel like that, I'm not sure, but he looks like he's embarrassed about being a foreigner. Like not speaking properly. I can't even tell if he understands well or if he doesn't get it at all when people speak to him in English since he just- he can't really communicate. Even with his cousins, it's-"

Oh.

"Oh." Now that you hear him say that, it lights a small bulb hidden at the back of your head. It shines upon a whole roof-tall shelf holding all of those awkward, disagreeable memories you tend to forget actively because even reflecting on them decades later still sends a thrill of disgust the length of your spin.

It's those moments of pure embarrassment, of horrid dreading feelings that you used to be overwhelmed with as a child and this until you were not much more of a child anymore, and those memories paired with their emotions simply faded into shadows of scenes that you can only wonder if they ever were real.

You used to be filled with stupid insecurities based on very confused, distant, impossible to decipher pretend truths, sometimes, you would just feel stupid. Completely idiotic, ignorant, and unlovable. In those moments, you just couldn't dare open your mouth to pronounce a word that would give you away. Because if you did, somehow, you would end up messing up and people would laugh and make fun of you and hate you because there are so many reasons to and of course you deserved it.

Images of the little boy, hiding obviously in a corner but longingly observing his peers. Obviously terrified but curious, and most definitely desiring.

Because of course, he'd want to. Talk to them, be with them but how could he when he's not even sure he could speak the way they do.

"Mr Kim, I can tell he wants to. Even if he can't let anyone approach him, I can tell he'd like to be part of the group. That being said his fears or as you said, maybe his insecurities, don't allow him to."

"Should I- Should I seek for a therapist? He had one in Korea but I don't think he was ready for it. He just reacts very badly to strangers, especially when they try to, you know, sink into your brain and- now that we're here, I can hardly picture how that would go."

"Well, therapy is never a bad idea. It can only be beneficial for him... for anyone." You're not sure how appropriate it is for you to add this but you owe to say it. Sometimes, parents don't realize, but a child's deepest wounds are born from seeing and feeling their guardians'.

"I'd seen someone already." He explains without needing you to insist further. Seems like you're not as subtle as you thought yourself to be. "I did because- I had to. His mom and I had been separated for a while before her passing, it'd always been complicated between us and I can't lie, I did feel terribly guilty... I thought it might hurt him somehow. Maybe he could feel it and experience it too. I had to for the both of us. It fixed me but not him, so I suppose, it didn't come from that."

"Grief is... It's very complex. It comes along with a plethora of confusing, untamed emotions as an adult but for a child... It must manifest in a way we can't even imagine. I'm sorry, you don't need me to tell you that." You're a mess of stutters. Words are running away from you, the smart ones are even flying, making sure there's no way you'd catch them by the tip of the tail. You just want to ease this father's struggles, somehow. You don't know him much but you know his son, a little, and you, for reasons you don't care much to look into, deeper than simply you having a saviour complex, need to help it all resolve. They don't deserve any of it all. No one does.

It might be silly. But the thought of Jimmy, that sweet, lovely child, sensitive and precious as he is, must have a father quite special himself to have been brought up this way.

"No, it's fine. You're right." A heavy silence settles in between you. In the background, faintly, you can hear the soft rustling of the tip of a crayon against paper. You open your mouth, the fantastic memory of the other day, when he arrived late to pick Jimmy up and something you still, a week later, recalling itself back to you. He opens his at the exact same time and before you're able to utter any word, he's the one starting, "Actually, I really appreciate it. Being able to talk about it like that with someone. Since my therapist, I don't think I was able to. People only have enough tolerance for other's pain. Which I understand, it's just- hard and well, I'm thankful for you."

He stammers saying that, seemingly scrambling with his own words. The compliment is so heartfelt, like a shot from his heart directly into yours. Most of the emotions it rises probably coming from his choice of wording, maybe an error of translation, a lack of exactitude that doesn’t come smoothly. You've never heard anyone said those words to you and somehow, so unprepared for it, you can hardly handle the overwhelming burst of gratitude.

With the greatest pleasure, you jump on the occasion to bring something good to him, what you meant to say when he started first, the story about last time and how confident you are that better days are yet to come.

It brings an evident brush of light to his expression. The youthful sense he gave off when he just walked in, made of warm colours and smiles, is back. As if a weight has been lifted. As if he trusts you with his son, now wearing his hopefulness and trust and appreciation on this soft face of his, and you feel yourself blush in delight.

It’s precisely why you do what you do. Most of the times, those moments come in more subtle, almost dubious manifestations. It’s a drawing made ‘only for you, Miss’ or a kid you haven’t seen in a few years recognising you from across a hallway and beaming all his teeth your way; or maybe a present too nicely picked out and wrapped up too well to be the product of a kid’s, handed to you at the end of the year.

It's a wonderful feeling you're experiencing.

Until it turns sort of awkward. You mean, from a third party, maybe from Jimmy's eyes, it’s definitely awkward. It doesn’t exactly feel this way for you though. You're just kind of staring at each other, grinning obnoxiously. Delighted by the turns of events -even more so with the start of the conversation, which brought difficult painful shocks to an already sensitive soul, the benevolence and mutual understanding feel all the more pleasant.

Conquered by each other in a way you probably won’t be able to express very well with words if any of you tried. You see in him an ally -which is always such a wonderful feeling because as curious as it is, all parents are not always reliable allies to you, teachers- and you think he does too.

It’s just that it lasts for quite a bit. Probably too long. Until finally, the rummage going on outside brings you back to earth and school that is about to start in a few reminds itself to you.

Quickly he thanks me again, in between the bursting in of a loud, chatty-feeling Riley Donovan, and a Charlotte dragging her feet in discontent. He says something about meeting again before he’s rushing to Jimmy, whose calm demeanour has wavered when his classmates starting walking in.

It’s as heartwarming as last time. The way Mr Kim just has to lean forward to wrap his arms around Jimmy to have him melt onto his chest, face burying in his neck and tiny hands squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until the chubby fingers turn white against his dad’s neck. There’s an exchange of secret words and of gazes, special ones that wouldn’t mean much to anyone else, you believe on the moment, until Mr Kim needs to depart and does so.

The gaze Jimmy had for his dad doesn’t disappear right as the later leaves. It remains and is directed solely on you in a very peculiar way, so notable that your heart starts racing when you notice.

Jimmy who usually avoids eye contact, sometimes would look at you, if you're addressing directly to him for example and those looks are systematically made of bewilderment, maybe fear, definite insecurity. Like a prey caught in a predator's radar.

But now those eyes, the round, dark wonders are lingering with something utterly different. A stillness that hits so differently. You're not sure if you are seeing things, if it’s wishful thinking. If it’s you now watching through the lens of someone beyond enchanted, purely content from the newfound trust and confidence and inspiration.

When you free your class for recess, you have confirmation that something has changed. You have no idea how he did it without you noticing but as you turn your back to the door to face your desk -and your chair, which your legs are dreading to have you throw yourself on- you see the perfect tidy pile of your crayons laid carefully on top of it. A few papers are sitting next to it, less than you gave him.

It’s ridiculous, embarrassing to an extent you would never tell that moment out loud but you end up jumping on the balls of your feet, clapping your hands together like a stupid seal, squealing before grabbing the stack of crayons and pressing it to your heart.

A/N : thanks so much for having waited for me so patiently; as always, lots of love send your way, thanks so much for reading, i hope you enjoy it :)

#btswriterscollective #networkbangtan #thekimlinenet #bts fluff #bts angst #bts fanfic #bts drabble #bts scenario #namjoon fanfic #namjoon fluff #namjoon scenario #namjoon drabble #my writing

106 notes · View notes

panda-noosh · 5 years ago

Text

somewhere in the trees {zuko x reader}

Words: 14.4k

Summary: Rules are rules - other kingdoms are not meant to mingle with the Fire Nation. Zuko knows he’s in trouble when he comes across an Earth Bender hidden deep within the trees just outside his home.

Genre: angst

Warning: panic attacks

Notes: masterlist - support my writing or ask me about commissions! - i haven’t written for Zuko in ages and it hurt me.

---

Zuko listens to the drums.

Dull, throbbing, making his ears pop every few seconds. He leans his head back against the wall, trying his hardest to catch breath that shouldn't have left him in the first place, because he's been doing this for years – for as long as he can remember, in fact.

Showing his face to the people of the Fire Nation shouldn't be such a hard task when he was raised in the palace, when his father is king and his mother is queen and the world knows him by name. Showing his power should be easy, but when he stands next to Azula, he can't help feeling inadequate, and he hates that. It makes his heart race with a mixture of horror and embarrassment; Azula stands beside him, shoulders drawn back and head held high, and she just does everything so naturally, like she was made for the stage. In a way, Zuko was also made for the stage – he just hasn't quite mastered how to show that yet.

This particular show took its toll on him more than it ever has before. Azula was gaining some male attention that quickly turned on Zuko; the three burly men fighting for his sisters affection had taken it upon themselves to chastise Zuko for his limp arms, and his lanky frame, and the scar covering one side of his face. They didn't know the true story – gods forbid someone find out the true story – but they jeered him for it anyway.

Azula had done nothing to help.

So Zuko left. He scrambled off stage and darted into the woods, and that's where he finds himself now.

He presses his head against his knees. Around him, a bird chirps, but Zuko doesn't look towards it. He keeps his head down, inhaling and exhaling, concentrating on the steady rise and fall of his chest. He even presses a hand against his collarbone, trying desperately to feel his pulse, to make sure everything is in order because it really, really feels like something is wrong. Maybe it's a panic attack – Zuko has heard of those only a handful of times, and it's always when his father is laughing about them. He thinks people who can't control their nerves are weak, and Zuko has always laughed along with him because he just wants to please the man, he just wants to prove himself, he just wants to be like him.

The thought draws Zuko up short. His eyes squeeze closed, and he shakes his head, back and forth, back and forth like an animal in distress. The idea – the thought – of ending up like his father is enough to make his breathing stutter, and he's dragged right back to square one before he can even get a hold on himself.

“No,” he whispers. “No, no, no, no.” On and on, tiny words escaping his mouth. The birds around him chirp and soar. The grass beneath him tickles his ankles. He wonders if he's allergic, if maybe this is just some kind of medical reaction That would be easier to explain to his father.

“No.”

“Bloody hell, I heard you the first time.”

Zuko yells.

He scrambles away from the wall, shoving himself into a pile of stray autumn leaves. Nettles stab into his exposed arms, and he cries out again before scrambling away, his eyes darting to and fro for the source of the mysterious voice.

He sees nothing. Just birds and grass and trees.

He licks his lips. “H-Hello?”

“Hello.”

He flinches back. “This isn't funny. Where are you? Show yourself now!”

“Oooh, the prince finally found a set of vocal cords.” There's a small titter of laughter. Zuko scowls, clenching his fists in the grass. “I don't really like fire benders in my forest, if I'm being completely honest. Your powers don't really suit this kind of area.”

“You're in our woods – the Fire Nation belongs to me and my family!” Zuko looks around again. “Where are you?”

“Your woods? When was the last time you came out here and chased off some meddling fire bending teenagers, huh? 'Cause unless you've slipped past me somehow, I've never seen you here before in my life. I'm only being nice now because you're having a panic attack.”

Zuko's chest constricts. Again, he rests his hand upon his collarbone, tracking the quick thump of his heart. He can feel his pulse in his throat, is made aware of his weakening legs now that he's stood up. His breathing is still slightly laboured, but his confusion has distracted him long enough for his body to settle down for the time being.

“Where are you?” He knows he's being repetitive, but there's nothing else he can think to say right now. He's stood in this forest on his own, and yet there's a random voice talking to him from nowhere. He's starting to wish he'd never left Azula's side.

Another laugh echoes through the trees. Zuko flinches back, tugging his hands into his chest; his palms heat up with the warmth of his powers surging to the surface, but he holds it back – there's no point wasting his energy when he doesn't even know where to use it.

“You're actually kind of cute, you know,” the voice says. “The young prince of the Fire Nation. An idol. Should I feel honoured that I've seen you so vulnerable?”

“Stop playing these games!” Zuko snaps. “Show yourself now, or I'll get the guards out here to take you from this forest by force!”

Another laugh, but it's followed by the crinkle of leaves. Zuko spins around, flames immediately engulfing his hands in preparation for whatever protection he is going to have to give himself.

But then he sees you.

A little shorter than him, smiling manically, half-knelt in a pile of leaves. You're wearing riding gear, a thick leather vest with matching trousers that show Zuko you're from the Earth Kingdom. He's struck with confusion – what is someone from the Earth Kingdom doing in the forests of the Fire Nation?

Slowly you rise. Zuko takes a hesitant step back, but he doesn't feel as threatened as he once did, not now that he can see you.

“I like to make a dramatic entrance every now and then, even though it messes with my knees,” you say, brushing brambles from your trousers. Zuko notices the vines curled round your wrist, disappearing beneath the sleeves of your leather vest. “How do you do, Prince Zuko?”

“What are you doing here?”

You roll your eyes. “Goodness me. Why do you get to ask all the questions and just ignore mine?”

“Because this is my kingdom, and I'd advice you to cooperate before things take a bad turn.”

Your smile wavers. What was once a manic, cheshire-like grin trembles at the edges, and Zuko hates that he feels a little guilty for it; you look to be around his age, dirt smeared across one of your cheeks. There's a leaf sticking from your hair, a sign to Zuko that you've been living rough these past few weeks. Weeks? Years? Zuko can only guess as to how long you've been here.

“Well okay,” you mumble. “Clearly little Prince Flame hasn't taken his afternoon nap.”

“Answer the question.”

“I live here.” You speak through gritted teeth, the first sign of outward annoyance you've given to Zuko since you first appeared.

Zuko narrows his eyes. He still holds flames, but you've long since stopped looking at them. Instead, you focus your eyes on Zuko, and he's shocked to see the confidence there, burning behind your irises. He isn't sure whether you see him as a threat or not, but you're certainly not showing any signs of fear.

Zuko tilts his head. “That isn't possible. We would have known if someone from the Earth Kingdom was living here.”

You shrug. “Take that up with your men. I've been perfectly content living in my trees.”

“I wish you wouldn't call them your trees. This is Fire Nation land, and you're currently trespassing.”

You groan, throwing your head back before you stumble to the side. Zuko takes a step back, holding his hands up a little higher in his attempts to ward you off – in truth, he doesn't even know why he's so fearful. He hasn't seen your power – you might not even be an Earth bender, but there's always a chance.

“You're so boring,” you say. “I personally think the Fire Nation needs a little bit more diversity, don't you?”

Zuko stays silent. Something ticks in his jaw. The mere idea of another one of the kingdoms mingling with the Fire Nation nearly makes him laugh – the Fire Nation doesn't make friends outside of the Fire Nation. That's been a rule for as long as Zuko has been born.

“Of course, it goes both ways,” you continue, lazily waving a hand. You catch a butterfly, uncurl your fingers to reveal it in perfect condition, sitting pleasantly in your palm. “The Fire Nation can come visit the Earth Kingdom whenever they want.” You level a gaze on Zuko. “As long as you're on your best behaviour.”

Zuko swallows. “My sister will be furious if she finds you here.”

“Oh, goody!” you exclaim. “Is Azula coming to visit? Should I put on something a little nicer? How does she like her potatoes cooked?”

Zuko growls. “Do you ever take anything seriously? You do realise you're committing a crime right now, don't you?”

“I've known that for a very long time,” you reply. “I've just grown to not. . . what's the term? Give a shit?”

Zuko's eyes widen. His father taught him how to react in a situation like this – when a commoner is disrespecting him, he has every right to punish them however he pleases, because he's prince and that's one of the perks of being a prince.

But he stares at you now, that smile on your face, the way you walk back and forth in the leaves, and he can't bring himself to say anything. He just watches you closely, hands still engulfed in red hot flames.

He swallows again, flicking a glance over his shoulder. “Do you have a name?”

You pause your pacing, tilting your head. “You have an interest in my name?”

“I have an interest in the names of people who trespass on my land.”

You smirk. “So you've just admitted to me that you're going to use my name against me? Tout to your father, yeah?”

Zuko closes his eyes. “I won't tell my father anything. I just want to know-”

“Y/N.”

His eyes snap open. “Y/N.”

“Y/N L/N of the Earth Kingdom,” you clarify. “Eighteen years old, orphan, run-away, all around bad person.” You stretch your arms out and grin. “What a fine pleasure to have your company in my humble abode, Prince Zuko.”

Zuko silently questions his own sanity when he lowers his hands, dismissing the flames he'd once considered his only protection; now, he doesn't even fully believe you're a threat.

You smile, letting your own hands drop. “Truce?”

“How can you actually live here? How can you really make this place your home?”

“I like nature, Zuko.”

“And I like fire, but I don't live in flames.”

“Then how much can you really like fire?”

Zuko frowns. “You're very weird.”

You chuckle, and it's a pleasant sound that forces Zuko to halt his grin before it becomes obvious. “So I've been told. I think the death of two parents can do that to a person.”

“How did they die?” He isn't sure if this is too personal, if he should just back up and leave the conversation at that – he hasn't had the chance to talk to a normal person in quite a while, and his communication skills have become rusty throughout his time locked behind the mahogany doors of the palace. Sure, he enjoys talking to the maids and the cooks, but how real can a conversation be with someone who works for you?

You continue walking back and forth. You continue to smile. Your voice still holds that humorous edge to it when you say, “The Fire Nation killed them.”

And in that moment, Zuko wishes he had just kept quiet.

His stomach reels. His mouth snaps shut, his prepared follow-up question escaping his mind. He stares at you, how you never once waver, how your smile never flickers, and he wonders of your sanity.

He clenches his fists. “I'm . . . I'm so sorry.”

“It happened a while ago,” you reply, kicking a stone onto the toe of your boot before burying it beneath the leaves. “I don't remember it all that well. I've been told stories, though.” You look at Zuko and slowly shake your head. “Terrible, terrible stories. Nightmare inducing stories. Stories that include your father-”

“I'm sorry.”

You shrug, going back to your pacing. “But what can I do about it now? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Y/N...”

“I don't want pity, either. I just want you to turn and leave me to my own devices, in my own little forest, all on my own.” You stare up at the sky. “This is where I belong, Prince Zuko. I'd appreciate it if you respected that.”

Zuko knows this is just an excuse, a way to get him out of your sight so you can go back to breaking the law with no consequences. He knows, as prince, he should be dishing out your punishment and taking pride in doing so, but he can't find the strength. He imagines you, a little baby, so innocent and vulnerable, parentless because of the things his people had done out of pure selfishness.

He bites his lower lip and says no more before backing away. He turns on his heel when it becomes clear you've lost interest in him, slowly making his way back to the palace, back to his life of luxury, back to pretending that everything is fine and the world isn't a corrupt shithole.

---

If there is one thing Firelord Ozai sees as important, it's making his family look as close-knit as possible in the eyes of the Fire Nation.

Meal times are often practice for this kind of thing, and Zuko hates it. Even when the world is not watching their every move, Ozai likes to make sure his two children are pristine and perfect. He shoves all arguments and all tension out of the way, replacing it with a false sense of happiness.

Zuko is ruining that image today, and he can't help it.

It has been three days since he paraded into the woods and found you lurking amongst the brambles. It's been three days since you told him of the happenings that resulted in your parents deaths. It's been three days in which Zuko has been unable to get a grip on his guilt.

He sits at dinner now, his legs folded beneath the table. His shoulders are slumped, and he's been jabbing at his roast beef since he sat down, having yet to touch a single fine cuisine on his plate; it's an expensive dish, but he can't even bring himself to be grateful for it.

Azula coughs. “Father. Surely you've noticed Zuko's a little down in the dumps recently?”

Zuko has to resist the urge to kick his sister. At the head of the table, Ozai frowns, fork lifted halfway to his mouth as his eyes settle on his youngest son, his biggest disappointment. Zuko doesn't even look up from his plate, but instead tries to make himself look as inconspicuous as possible by scooping a pile of peas into his mouth and straightening his shoulders in the most subtle manner he can manage.

Ozai slowly lays his fork across his plate and forms a tent with his fingers. “Is this true, Zuko?”

Zuko wants to scream that Ozai doesn't really care, because he doesn't. The Firelord has put him through hell from the moment he was born – he only wants to keep up appearances. He wants to play Happy Families whilst his men and his army go out and destroy real happy families for the sake of rank and reputation.

The realisation burns bile into the back of Zuko's throat. He swallows it down, looks up at his father and says, “I'm fine. I don't know what Azula's talking about.”

“Oh, but look!” Azula waves a hand over Zuko's packed dinner plate. “He's barely touched what the chefs have so kindly served him today. Usually he's the first one finished.”

Only because I want to get away quicker, Zuko thinks.

Ozai raises a brow. “This is true. Has something been heavy on your mind recently, Zuko?”

Zuko shakes his head, chewing on a bit of roast beef purely as an excuse to not answer. His voice will break. His father will know.

But his father knows anyway. Ozai always knows.

“I don't like it when you lie to me, son.” His voice is low, heavy. “There's too much mistrust in your heart, and it's a problem.”

“I don't mistrust anyone,” Zuko says. “I'm just not hungry. I've been feeling a little bit ill.”

Azula snorts, opens her mouth to say something, but Ozai raises a hand and she goes silent immediately.

“How can you ever expect to rule over the Fire Nation if you can't even handle a simple stomach bug?”

Zuko's head snaps up. “Father, really. I'm just-”

“Do you expect me to hand over everything I've worked for to a boy? A boy who is bed-ridden at the first sign of an ache?”

“I'm fine, father. I just don't feel like-”

Ozai stands up. Zuko doesn't understand why he is so angry, why the conversation has taken such a sudden and twisted turn. “I am paying people to train you into a Firelord, Zuko, and clearly they are not doing a very good job.”

Zuko's eyes widen. “They're doing a wonderful job, father. You're right. You're absolutely right. I need to-”

But Ozai is already clicking his fingers, and servants are already rushing inside the dining hall. Azula stifles her laughter beneath a gloved hand. Zuko's heart thunders in his chest, a million miles per hour, a million thoughts that he cannot bring himself to organise.

A servant named Beatrice arrives at Ozai's side first. The Firelord doesn't even look at her when he says, “Find Zuko's tutors and kill them. They're not doing their job. They've wasted my hard earned money, and I won't have it.”

Zuko belches. “Father, no. Please!”

Beatrice looks between father and son, her eyes wide.

Ozai clicks his fingers and points to the door. “I've given my orders. Now go, or else you'll be facing the same fate.”

Beatrice squeaks, bows and scrambles out of the room. Zuko can only stare after her, hands trembling in his lap – that feeling is coming back, that thumping of his heart, the sweat pooling in his palms. His breathing will disappear soon, become some ragged thing that causes physical pain in his chest. Soon, he won't be able to hide it and he'll be back to square one.

But he can't stop trembling. He can't stop the screams that echo in the back of his mind, the image of his tutors – tutors who have worked so hard to help him become someone he was never meant to be – being brutally slaughtered because Zuko had one bad day.

Ozai's face is stone. He stares dead ahead, sniffles and says, “Dinner dismissed. Both of you, go to your rooms. I don't want to see you for the rest of the night.”

Zuko pushes his chair back and darts out of the dining hall, his stomach reeling even though there's barely anything there. Servants ask after him, unaware of the brutalities happening to their co-workers in the next house over. He ignores them, feeling nothing but relief when he finally bursts into his room and locks the door.

He crumbles to his knees as soon as the door is closed. His body deflates, and a sob erupts. He claps a hand over his mouth, squeezes his eyes closed, says a silent prayer that someone will have mercy on them poor souls, poor, poor souls.

He knows it's useless.

It's useless, and he needs something. He needs something, anything to get his mind off it. He can't be in this palace. He can't sit there and listen to the casual chatter of the servants outside the door, the casual patter of footsteps in the hallway coming from people who are either oblivious or just don't care.

So he gets up and climbs out his window. His legs are too long and his movements are too clumsy, and he ends up kicking the window beneath his own. He quickens his pace when this happens, knowing time is dwindling, knowing it won't be long before whoever occupies that room comes knocking on his door to ask if he's alright – he should probably just climb back inside and feign ignorance. It would be the safer option.

But as soon as his feet touch the soft brambles, he's running towards the woods and he can't stop even if he tried to. His lungs are burning after only a few seconds, despite his skilled stamina – he's having a panic attack. The running is not helping, but he can feel the stress leaking from his system and he savours that feeling of deflation even as his lungs burn and scream for a mercy he cannot give them because he does not deserve it.

Lives are being taken because of him. What right does he have to be treated kindly, even by himself?

Soon, Zuko finds himself surrounded by the familiar greenery he was caged in only three days ago. He falls against the wall, presses his hands into his eyes and says, “No, no, no.”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

Zuko doesn't flinch this time, because he knows who it is. He wanted you to appear. He wants to hear your voice.

He doesn't look up. It takes you a moment, but you finally drop from the canopy and land in front of him; he can't see you, but he feels you staring at him.

A branch pokes him in the leg.

“You look a little down, Princeling.”

Zuko opens his mouth to say something, but words fail him. He instead digs his fingers into his eye sockets a little more, as if this will push all the memories and all the thoughts to the back of his mind – yet another array of horrors he will be forced to deal with later.

You hum. “Okay, you look a lot down. What happened? Was the steak not medium rare?”

Zuko doesn't respond. He senses your hesitancy when you slowly kneel down in front of him, gets a shock when your hand rests on his knee.

“Hey. Look up.”

Zuko does just that. His eyes meet your own, and he's startled to see you're not smiling. It takes him a minute to even realise you're the same person he spoke to three days ago. You don't quite look the same when you're not grinning from ear to ear, spewing some stupid information that Zuko really doesn't need to know.

Now, you've got your head tilted and your lips are pursed, and you look genuinely worried for him.

“Did you know,” you begin, voice a mere mumble, “that people from the Earth Kingdom are actually really, really good listeners?”

Zuko's heart lifts. His voice is croaky when he replies. “I didn't know that, no.”

You shift until you're sitting beside him, shoulder pressed against his own. The two of you stare into the forest, the darkness slowly taking shape between the trees as night falls upon the forever glowing Fire Kingdom. Back in the city, people will be lighting lanterns with their hands. His father will be getting ready to address his people – his worshippers – for their good night call.

“Well we are.” You stretch your legs out in front of you and tap Zuko's knee, gesturing for him to do the same. He hesitates before lowering his legs onto the grass, stretching them out so they surpass your own, exaggerating the height difference between you both.

You frown. “That's not fair.”

“I think good height runs in the family.”

You swat his shoulder. “What do you mean, good height? Do you think being short is bad height?”

Despite himself, Zuko smiles. “Your words, not mine.”

You scoff, folding your arms over your chest. “And here I was thinking you were a better man than your father.”

Zuko's smile collapses. His heart collapses. His fathers words slam back into his mind, and tears are suddenly rising to the surface.

He looks away, tries to hide them, but you're much quicker than he is. You lean forward, catching his eyes just seconds before the realisation seems to dawn on you. Your own eyes widen, jaw dropping open for a second.

“Zuko. Woah, okay. What's the matter? Did I say something?”

Zuko swipes a hand beneath his eyes, shaking his head. “It's nothing.”

“That's clearly not true.” You move in front of him, knees pressing into the dirt but you don't seem to care. You continue trying to catch his eye, fingers tightening on his knees which are, again, pressed into his chest. “Zuko, why are you here? What happened?”

“What happened,” Zuko whispers. “What happened, you ask. What happened, Y/N, is what always happens!”

You flinch back at the steady rise of his voice. “I don't understand.”

Zuko clenches his jaw. “It's all my fault.”

“Zuko, you're not making any sense-”

“They're dead, and it's all my fault!” He isn't sure where it comes from, but a roar of frustration is pulled from his mouth. His hands erupt into flames. You gasp, pulling away from him as he throws the fire against a nearby tree.

It goes up in flames.

Zuko's eyes widen. “Oh, sh-”

You throw your hands out, and immediately the flames are dispelled. You don't even look towards the tree you've just saved, instead keeping your gaze steady on Zuko.

He looks back at you, eyes wide. “I'm so sorry.”

“You're angry, is what you are,” you correct, crawling back towards him. “Put those hands away, will you? And take some deep breaths, for the love of god.”

Zuko trembles. “They're dead, Y/N. Because of me.”

“You're still not making any sense.”

“Do I have to? I think I like it more when people can't understand what I'm saying – it makes it less difficult to mess up.”

You frown. “Well, that's not a very good way to live your life.”

“It's better than what life is like now.”

“In what way?”

You don't tell him he's wrong. You don't call him crazy for thinking like this. You don't look at him like he's got three heads, or like he's some deity, and maybe that's why Zuko's breathing goes back to normal, why he looks you in the eye when he explains the entire situation.

You nod along to his words, letting him know you're listening even when the story gets hard to tell. Zuko's throat closes up when he describes his fathers voice and the anger, and how he could do nothing about it. He's been trained from such a young age to never defy his father – the scar on his face is enough proof of what will happen to him if he steps out of line.

When Zuko is finished, he looks away. You go quiet. The only sound is the pleasant chipper of the insects burrowing in the grass; not even the birds are out, having long since taken the darkness as a sign to settle down for the evening.

Finally, you sigh and say, “Sounds like a tough night.”

“I should have done more,” Zuko croaks out. “I just wish I knew how to.”

“You were scared.”

Zuko flinches. Another thing his father has taught him – it's not right for the future Firelord to be scared of anything. This mindset alone drives Zuko into stupor, a sudden overwhelming urge to defend his own bravery rising to the surface.

But he looks into your face, and you're smiling a little bit, a little softly, and your head is tilted as you wait for his response. You don't mean any harm by your words – you're just telling the truth.

Zuko looks back down. “I am. Very scared.”

“That's alright,” you say. “Ozai is a scary man. Or so I've heard. I haven't really seen him in person, and I don't like to judge people, but he did order the death of my parents, so I think I have a right to say that.”

Zuko flinches again. “It's terrible what he's doing, but you can't blame yourself for his evil, Zuko. You're just a boy-”

“I'm meant to rule this kingdom when he passes on.”

“Bloody hell, one can only hope that's sooner rather than later, eh?” You nudge Zuko, laughing. He just glares at you. You snap your mouth shut and utter, “Sorry.”

“What happens if I end up like him?”

You raise a brow. “What? Killing innocents?”

Zuko nods, swallowing the golf ball sized lump in his throat. He's never spoken about this to anyone; he isn't sure why he thinks talking about it with you is a good idea, but the words are coming far more easily than they ever have before. He kind of wants to savour it while it lasts.

“Zuko.” His name is a sigh when you say it. “I know you're upset, but that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.”

His eyes snap up. “Why is it?”

“Because you're in this state.” You gesture towards him, pointing out his curled form, the tear stains on his cheeks, the way his hair is sticking up in all directions. “If someone else being a monster disturbs you this much, I think you'll be driven to insanity if you were to do it yourself.”

“But I'm his son-”

“Don't remind me. I might be forced to wipe you out.”

Zuko closes his eyes. “It's just a fear of mine. I don't think it's irrational.”

“No fears are irrational. Some are just . . . more justified than others.”

Zuko sighs and leans his head back against the wall. It really is getting late, and he knows his disappearance from the palace will soon be noted, that he will be in big trouble when he gets back, but he doesn't want to leave. Your hands are still resting on his knees, and he uses that as his excuse to stay seated on the grassy floor – you're keeping him there. You and you alone, and maybe there's more truth to that statement than he wants to believe.

Zuko doesn't open his eyes when you start moving around. He feels your back press against his feet when you spread out on the grass, and when he finally looks down, he can't help his flicker of amusement at the sight of you laying on your back in the leaves, looking up at the moon. Only one side of your face is completely illuminated, your hair trickling out around you. Zuko takes a strand of it, curls it around his finger.

“Whenever you become Firelord,” you begin, voice quiet, “you won't forget me, will you?”

The question is so startling, but there's a peaceful ring to it that stops Zuko from flinching away. “Whenever I become Firelord,” he replies softly, “you'll come and live in the city. You'll have your own little cottage.”

“Can I have pets?”

“As many as you want.”

“And plants?”

“Of course.”

You hum, closing your eyes. “Yes. Let's hope Ozai carks it sooner rather than later.”

---

Zuko's life inside the city does not improve, but at least he's found an escape.

He doesn't like being driven to the point where he feels he must leave his home to be peaceful. He hates that his chambers are no longer good enough, that the only person who can chase his sour thoughts away is a criminal, living illegally in the woods of the kingdom he is meant to rule over in a few years time.

It makes him feel so weak, like perhaps he isn't up for the job he's been trained for his entire life.

This mindset does not stop him, however. Feeling weak and inadequate is nothing in comparison to the haunting helplessness he feels when he's left alone with his own thoughts; you're the only person who can chase those away right now, and Zuko isn't ashamed to admit it.

He also isn't ashamed to admit that these past few weeks have directed him to feelings he never thought safe to feel. He still doesn't think they're very wise, still thinks he doesn't deserve them. That pleasant little fluttering that springs up in his chest when you laugh – what has he ever done to deserve that? Nothing. He's the prince, and that's it. He's a title, a face to flaunt until his real duties begin, and even then, it will always be the commoners doing the hard work.

But he can't help it, and he's too tired nowadays to fight it off.

He walks through the woods once again, leaving the flames behind. The lanterns have been lit earlier than usual tonight, so Zuko has to duck behind carriages and bushes on his way to visit you, lest he be seen by night time dawdlers.

He gets there eventually, though, and his hardship with getting here in the first place all seems worth it as soon as you hop down from your tree and land in front of him, that manic smile plastered on your face.

This time, he smiles back.

“Oh, would you look at that,” you exclaim, poking the corner of his mouth. “You look particularly pleased tonight, Princeling.”

“I am. And you will be, too.”

You raise a brow. Zuko tries not to blush under your gaze as he gets to work setting up everything he managed to bring with him tonight – a blanket, stolen from the back of one of the expensive sofas in the lounge room; some fruit cut up into tiny squares; slices of fresh ham, stolen from the kitchens without the cooks even realising Zuko had paid them a visit. He even took the risk of pinching a few of the freshest slices of bread, and he lays them out on the blanket now, his fingers tingling from the cold. A little bit of extra thought sends flames through his bone marrow, warming his hands up enough to allow him to set the food out in a nice array.

He looks up and grins when he's finished. You look back down at him, one eyebrow still raised, your hands on your hips.

“And you go on at me for being a criminal.”

Zuko rolls his eyes, grabs your hand and drags you down beside him. You laugh, knees clashing against the blanket, and Zuko watches you shuffle closer to the basket to get a closer look; so often you pretend this kind of thing does not affect you, but Zuko can see the small smile playing on your face, the way your fingers trace idly over the goods he's brought.

It warms his heart.

“You can dig in, you know,” says Zuko. “I brought it for you.”

“All of it for me?”

Zuko shrugs. “I was hoping we could have a bit of a midnight picnic. No one will miss this stuff back at the palace.”

You grunt before grabbing a slice of ham. Zuko joins you, and the two of you chat and joke as you fill your mouths with sandwiches and fruit, vegetables cut into little strips that make you laugh because you feel like a little kid again, pinching carrot sticks from the vegetable platter your mother always had out for guests. Zuko listens to you retelling these stories of your childhood, listening for any sign of sadness in your voice, any sign of resentment, but there is none. You laugh and throw your head back, and your eyes twinkle in amusement; you talk about your parents like they're still alive. You talk to Zuko about your parents, as if he isn't part of the Fire Nation, a crucial cog in the machine that once killed the people you love.

With a mouthful of apple chunks, you say, “My mum would have loved you, I think.”

Zuko pauses. “Really?” He can't think of a single reason as to why anyone would love him.

“Yeah,” you reply. “'Cause you're nice, and you treat me well. Honestly, my mum wasn't hard to impress from what I've heard – all you needed was good manners and a good attitude towards her kids, and she was basically adopting you for herself.”

Zuko smiles. “She sounds lovely.”

“I'm sure she was.” You pluck at a piece of lettuce, caught between two slices of bread. “I think I would have liked to know her in person, not just through what other people have told me.”

Zuko swallows the lump in his throat and looks up at the moon. “She's watching over you.”

“You think so?”

He points towards the sky. You tilt your head, following his directions. “My uncle Iroh always tells me to look up at the moon when I miss someone I've lost. He told me that's where all the good souls go – to the moon.”

You chuckle quietly. “Not the stars?”

“No. The moon. They're all up there, like little astronauts. Living amongst the rocks and the craters.”

It goes quiet then. Zuko looks over, his heart thumping a little when he sees you, head tilted towards the sky, eyes closed. He wants to kiss you so badly right now, but he holds himself back. He watches you from afar, and that's good enough.

You inhale deeply before opening your eyes, a slow flutter of eyelashes, accentuated by the slow pull of a smile forming on your face. You turn to Zuko and say, “Your uncle is a wise man. I'd love to meet him some day. When I'm allowed in the city.”

Zuko nods. He doesn't know why, because he knows it will be a mighty long time before you can ever step foot in the city walls, before he can ever show you off to his family and friends. He nods, but it's more of a hopeful thing rather than an agreement. You smile sadly and turn back to the food, and Zuko knows you understand.

---

Zuko is smiling.

Perhaps this is the first red flag that sparks in the back of his uncles head. Perhaps Zuko's happiness is enough to make his uncle – and everyone around him – suspicious.

But Zuko doesn't even care. It's dark, the city lit up only by the lanterns flickering along the street. A few drunken party-goers stumble along, but the light is too dim and their vision is too skewed for any of them to take notice of the prince walking amongst them – strolling amongst them, shoulders drawn back, a tiny smile playing on his face. His eyes are glittering. His heart is full, and for the first time in a very, very long time, Zuko doesn't feel like curling up and hiding from the world.

Until he hears Iroh's voice.

He was made aware of his uncles impending city visit a few days prior, but had been much too distracted by a certain Earth bender to make arrangements. His heart plummets when he hears it, the smooth way his name is spoken from lips withered by age and too much smiling.

Zuko freezes in the middle of the street, hands stuffed in his pockets. It's such an un-princely way to stand, and maybe that's the second red flag Iroh catches onto. Iroh has always known Zuko better than his own father. Zuko has no doubt in his mind that the old man can see some discrepancies in the way Zuko is carrying himself.

“It's a bit late to be out, isn't it? You'll catch a cold.” Iroh slowly emerges from beneath a bridge. He's smiling – as per usual – and his hands are tucked into the oversized sleeves of his grey robe – as per usual.

Zuko turns his head slightly and says, “Uncle. I think the same could be said for you.”

“I'm fine,” says Iroh. “I've got an excuse to tell Ozai when I get back. You, however, look like you just plan on throwing caution to the wind.”

That's exactly what Zuko plans on doing.

“I was just going for a midnight walk.”

Iroh narrows his eyes. Zuko shifts under his gaze, suddenly desperate to get away.

“The palace guards permitted that?”

Anger edges under Zuko's breastbone. “The palace guards permit whatever I tell them to permit.”

Iroh hums. “I believe they permit what your father tells them to permit, and Ozai certainly wouldn't permit you free reign of the city in the middle of the night.” Zuko's shoulders slump. He turns to fully face his uncle. “Don't tell anyone.”

“Where were you, Zuko?”

“The – The woods. I was in the woods.”

Iroh's eyebrows shoot up. “What did you see in the woods that has you smiling so big?”

There's no going back now – Iroh has noticed his expression. Whatever explanation Zuko gives now will drive him deeper and deeper into the mud, and he isn't sure he can afford that with his status. He looks back at Iroh and hollows out his cheeks – this is the man who knows him better than he knows himself. If he can't trust Iroh, then who on this earth can he trust?

“I was visiting a friend.”

Iroh pauses. “Friend? You have friends?”

“Uncle!”

“I'm just curious! Why can't this friend of yours see you – oh, I don't know – in the day time?”

“They're not exactly allowed within the city walls,” Zuko mumbles.

Iroh, again, pauses. During this stretch of silence, Zuko's stomach turns itself inside out. He clenches his fists at his side, resists the urge to tell his uncle to mind his own business, because that's what the old Zuko would have done. The young Zuko, the one with so much unaccounted for rage. Now, however, Zuko is trying to keep himself calm, taking deep breaths as he waits for his uncle to say something – anything.

Finally, Iroh says, “Ah.”

Zuko's eyes snap up. “What? You won't tell my father, will you?”

“The Firelord will find out eventually. I know my brother well, Zuko, and fugitives living on his land-”

“Y/N isn't a fugitive,” Zuko insists. “They're not causing any harm. In fact, them woods would be nothing but smithereens by now if they weren't there.”

“Is that right?”

“And they're kind, too, Uncle. They have this wonderful way with words. They make me feel so normal, and – and I haven't known what that feels like for so, so long.” Zuko shakes his head. “You have to promise me you won't speak a word of this to. . .”

Zuko glances down at his uncle and trails off. Iroh is staring up at him, an amused smile pulled tight across his face. His eyes are crinkled into crescents, cheeks flushing red with the effort it takes to suppress a burst of laughter.

Zuko steps back, folding his arms over his chest. “Don't look at me like that.”

“I'm not looking at you like that.”

“Yes you are! You look like you're going to laugh in my face.”

“Why do you always have to rip the joy out of the worlds greatest things?”

Zuko groans. “Just promise me-”

“So this Y/N person makes you happy?”

Zuko pauses. He isn't sure why the question makes his heart lurch in his throat, why he's suddenly swarmed with embarrassed butterflies. Slowly he lowers his hand against his abdomen, biting his lower lip as he processes how to answer without throwing himself completely into the deep end.

But then he thinks of your face, and your smile, and the feel of your hands against his because Zuko warms you up when it's just a little bit too chilly for an Earth bender. He counts how many nights he's sat in bed, counting down the seconds until he hears his fathers chamber door close so he can hop out of his own room and see you.

“Yes.” His voice is a croak, barely there, like he's been screaming into the void for the past ten minutes. “Yes, Y/N makes me very happy.”

Iroh steps forward, places a heavy hand on Zuko's shoulder. “Get to bed, Zuko. I'll keep this between us.”

Zuko looks up. “Uncle. . . If anything happens to Y/N, I don't think I'll be able to forgive myself. I don't think I'll be able to come out of that.”

“I understand. No harm will come to your – what did you call them? Friend?”

Zuko blushes. “Friend.”

Iroh smiles, small and subtle. “No harm will come to your friend.”

---

The crowd screams.

Zuko closes his eyes, trailing a hand through his black hair in any attempt to tame it from the bed-head he's been cursed with this morning. It's eleven am, and Zuko overslept due to his late night endeavours. His father had been furious, his sister had been suspicious, but neither of them had time to chastise him.

Now, he stands by the balcony and waits for the signal to start.

Azula stands beside him, fixing her make up using the reflection from an empty platter. Her hair, as per usual, is done to perfection, piled a top her head, kept in place by an abundance of hair pins hidden beneath her dark locks. Zuko looks at her and scowls – he's never been able to pull himself together in quite the same way.

Ozai stands by the balcony doors, getting ready to present himself to the people screaming his name outside. They all hate him; Zuko knows this for a fact. They hate his cruelty and how they have to tiptoe around their own lives to ensure they don't make him angry – but they show up in their numbers anyway, because there's a chance of them getting slaughtered if they don't.

“You don't look prepared.”

Zuko looks towards Azula. “What?”

She gestures to his clothes. He's wearing his fire robes, though they've shifted a little, revealing a lick of collarbone that he awkwardly stuffs back into his collar. “You look like you've just crawled out of bed, Zuko.”

“Because I have.”

“You say that like it's a good thing.” Azula rises to her full height. “Do you go out of your way to embarrass this family, or does it just happen?”

“I slept in. It was an accident.”

“Mm.” Azula flicks his ear. “Make sure it doesn't happen again.”

Before Zuko can reply, the announcer is calling them forward. Ozai does only a single swift check of his shoulder, making sure all his ducks are in a row, before the balcony doors are thrown open and Zuko and his family march in front of the waiting crowd. The screams get impossibly louder. The world shrinks to this moment and this moment only, and Zuko feels his cheeks glowing bright red under the critical gaze of complete strangers.

He concentrates on his breathing, even as he waves and smiles to the people staring up at him. He has to, or else he'll lose it – he lost it last time. He can't afford to make a fool of himself now.

Ozai speaks into the microphone, voice booming across the screaming crowd. Zuko stands straight backed, arms behind his back, his breath skipping every few seconds-

Then his eyes meet yours.

His smile falls. In one second, the demeanour he's been trying to build up, the charade he's been trying to play is completely wiped out and replaced by terror, confusion, panic, all rolled into one. His breathing leaves him in a single breath. Azula glances at him, raises a brow, hisses a warning under her breath, but Zuko can barely hear her over the sound of his own heartbeat.

You're stood near the front, hands curled around the barriers. By your side is Iroh. He's leaned in, whispering in your ear, talking to you like you're a good friend. You're no longer wearing the vest and the trousers that made you stick out as an Earth bender, but instead wear a pair of oversized Fire Nation robes. There's still a leaf in your hair. Zuko wants to laugh.

But he doesn't. Honestly, he can do nothing but stare, the crowd making him feel claustrophobic. He wants to be down there. He wants to be beside you. He wants to know how in the hell Iroh managed to get you past the city guards, why he bothered to get you past the city guards.

His father continues speaking. Zuko fiddles with his thumbs behind his back, waiting for the moment he can scramble off stage and meet you in the middle; you're looking up at him, a grin on your face as Iroh whispers in your ear. Iroh suddenly turns and points in Zuko's direction, but you're already looking at him and Zuko's eyes meet your own, and it's really like nothing else in the world exists.

Zuko can't contain his excitement. A slow smile stretches across his lips, one you return almost immediately. You bounce on your heels, grabbing Iroh's sleeve and pointing up at Zuko, and he risks it all by giving you a little wave – you grin even brighter and wave back.

That's what cracks him.

He turns to Azula before he can think better of it, leaning in to whisper, “I'll be right back.” There is no chance for her to ask what he is doing, because Zuko has already turned and is speeding back through the palace, making his way through crowds upon crowds of special guards, and cooks who call his name with the same confused tenderness they've always given him. He rushes right past them, darts through the back doors of his home-

Iroh is already one step ahead.

At the end of the back alley behind the palace, Iroh ushers you forward. You look up, eyes meeting Zuko's, and then you yelp, sprinting towards him. Zuko laughs when he catches you, arms wrapping round your waist, body moulding into yours like he was made to be in this exact position. You nuzzle your head in his neck, arms wrapped right around his shoulders.

Nothing else exists. Nothing else in the world.

“You're here,” Zuko breathes against your neck. “How are you here?”

“Iroh found me,” you reply. There's something in your voice – not exactly emotion, but something similar, something that tugs at Zuko's heart and makes him tighten his grip. “He said he could – he could disguise me, or something. I'm not gonna lie, Zuko, I thought he was mental.”

“A lot of people do.” Zuko draws away first, glancing at Iroh who stands to the side. The thing about Iroh is, he never gets awkward. He stands around whilst his nephew and this complete stranger hug and greet each other in a more-than-friendly manner, and he just looks proud. He looks on with a small smile on his face, hands folded in front of him, not a care in the world.

Zuko clasps him on the shoulder. “How did you know where to go?”

“Because I know you, Zuko.” And it's such an Iroh response – it doesn't even need a reply.

Zuko turns back to you. His eyes click with yours, and he can't help it when he reaches forward and brushes a stray strand of hair away from your neck. You close your eyes, a rare and brief moment of vulnerability – it's nice. Zuko feels like he can protect you when you're like this.

“I want to show you everything,” he says.

Your eyes flick open. “I want to see everything.”

“Come on. Before my father finishes his speech.” Zuko grabs your hand and darts back into the palace – there is no shame in his movements, not like he once expected there to be. Now, he parades through the cooks and the cleaners and the royal guards, and he introduces you to each and every one of them. His hand remains in yours, and you do not fight to remove it.

You instead look on in awe, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. Zuko stares at you any chance he can get, marvelling the way such little things take you by surprise – the vase Zuko has seen everyday for the past eighteen years forces a gasp from your lips. You trail your fingers along the mahogany wood that Zuko once believed to be distasteful. You sigh in pleasure when sinking down into the sofa that Zuko thought was getting a little worn out from time and well-use.

Finally, however, Zuko leads you to his bedroom, and his nerves return.

He feels stupid for being nervous. He's an eighteen year old man, soon to be the Firelord of his own nation. Bringing someone special – are you someone special? - into his rooms should not be something that fazes him, but it is. The butterflies crawl into his stomach, and he has to drop your hand to disguise the sweat that sheens along his palm. You glance at him, raise a brow.

“Problem, Princeling?” Zuko purses his lips. You tilt your head. “What's behind that door that's got you so nervous?”

“I'm not nervous,” Zuko lies. “I was just – uh – this is my bedroom.”

You nod like it's no big deal, standing there expectantly. Zuko glares at you for a second longer, because he's fully aware that you know exactly why he's nervous – you're just choosing not to say anything, refusing to put him out of his misery in that blunt way you always seem to manage.

He sighs. “You'll kill me one day.”

“Shall we go in or do you just want to show me a picture?”

Zuko pushes the door open. You step inside before him, surprising the prince when you reach back and grab his hand, dragging him in after you. He's been in his room every single day, often locks himself inside just to clear his head, but he's looking at it behind a completely new lens now; he becomes aware of the small mess cluttering the corner, the little bottle of ink on his desk that has fingerprint smudges wrapped round it, the single sandal thrown carelessly to the side as he had no time to put it away this morning.

And then there's you, standing amongst all of it. Already your fingers are trailing along the dark red wallpaper, eyes scanning the double bed with it's slightly creased sheets and abundance of pillows. There's a tiny smile on your face.

You turn. “My aunt used to tell me that a bedroom is the window to someone's soul.”

Zuko blushes. “I think your aunt was mistaken. I haven't had a single say in the running of this room since I was born.”

“No, no. I think she was right.” You point to the sandal. “Clearly you were in a rush this morning.”

“My bedhead would have been enough to give that away.”

You step towards him and run your hands through his dark hair. Zuko scrunches up his nose, glaring, pretending he doesn't love the feel of your fingers scratching against his scalp, pretending he doesn't love your body being so close to his.

“I like bedhead on you, Princeling,” you say softly. “It makes you look a little less perfect.”

Zuko raises a brow. “And that's a good thing?”

“It is when you spend your whole life looking pristine.”

“I don't look pristine all the time.”

“That's a lie.”

“Should I be taking this conversation as a compliment?”

You grin. It's only then does Zuko realise your fingers are still embedded in his hair, and your body is still dangerously, dangerously close to his own. His fingers twitch, the sudden urge to draw you closer flooding him in two seconds flat. It's difficult to keep himself contained when he can smell the earth and the soil on your clothes – your Fire Nation clothes.

He looks down and plucks at the red collar of your robes. “Iroh did a good job with this.”

You pull away. Zuko has to bite his lip to hide his disappointment, though the disappointment dwindles when you twirl for him, robes billowing out around you. “You like them?”

“You're just the kind of person who suits everything, I think.”

You scoff. “You know, me calling you perfect wasn't me trying to get a compliment out of you.”

“I complimented you because I'm a nice person.” He pauses. “And because it's true – you do suit everything.”

You hum, glancing down at your new wardrobe. “I appreciate it. It doesn't really feel right, though. I kind of miss my Earth Kingdom clothes.”

“Of course.” Zuko takes your hand. “You won't have to wear Fire Nation robes forever. We can go back to me visiting you, and then-”

Your head snaps up. “You're not sending me off already, are you?”

Zuko's eyes widen. “What? No, of course not! I just thought-”

“You made such a big deal about me coming into your room, and you're already planning my departure.” You pull your hand from his, folding your arms over your chest. “I feel betrayed.”

Zuko glares; you're doing it again, teasing him. Teasing him because you're you, and that's what you do, but teasing him because he's easily teased, and you know that. You know that, because he's opened up to you in ways he's never opened up to anybody in his entire life.

He loves you. He knows he loves you. He's known from the moment he realised he couldn't wait to see you again, couldn't wait to risk everything by climbing out his window in the middle of the night just to see if you were still awake somewhere, waiting for him.

He stares at you now, examines the amused smile on your face as you wait for whatever flustered reply he always gives. You fluster him so easily, and yet Zuko has never been good at that kind of thing.

He gives it a go now.

He grabs your hand, draws you forward and kisses you.

He only meant for it to be a short peck, something to get a feel for the waters. But your response is too quick, and you're melting against him much faster than he expected, and he's plummeting, plummeting, lost in seconds.

He doesn't register the moment your hands start trailing through his hair. He doesn't register the moment you start pushing against him, guiding him deeper into his own room as if you own the place. He doesn't register the moment he spins and presses you against the wall, his lips still moulding into your own.

Suddenly it's just happening. Suddenly his stomach is just in knots, and Zuko realises with a start that he's dug himself far, far too deep into this hole, and there's no going back. He's fallen in love with someone from the Earth Kingdom. He's fallen in love with someone he has no chance of ever being with.

But even as the thought passes through his head, he pushes it away. He's Prince Zuko; he's the shy, easily-embarrassed, anxiety-filled prince that his own nation mocks, but he gets what he wants. Perhaps it's the spoilt rich-kid side of him that has gifted him this drive, or maybe it's just his lips on your own, but he swears to every god that has ever witnessed his life unfold that he will keep you with him. He will not let anything bad happen to you.

You pull away first, a splutter escaping that you quickly silence by pecking his lips one final time. Zuko laughs against this tiny kiss, chasing your lips when you pull away. You place a hand on his chest and say, “Give me a minute.”

“Good?”

“Unexpected.” You fan yourself. For the first time, Zuko has made you flustered. He beams, and you glare at him. “Don't do that! You could have said something first!”

Zuko curls a strand of your hair around his finger. “That would have ruined the surprise.”

“Has anyone ever had the nerve to tell you just how much of an ass you are?”

Zuko grins, slowly leans forward and pecks your lips. “Only you.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the chance is stolen when Zuko's bedroom door opens and a royal guard steps inside. Zuko scrambles back, running a hand through his mussed-up hair; you stay against the wall, hands curled against your chest, an amused grin forming on your face.

The royal guard raises a brow, glancing between the two of you. Zuko claps his hands to get his attention back. “What do you want?”

“Uh...” The guard shakes his head. “Your father's finished his speech and wants to speak with you. As soon as possible, if you will.”

Zuko's heart thunders, only this time it isn't because he's holding you in his arms. He glances over his shoulder; you meet his eyes, raise a slow brow in a silent offer. You're telling him you'll leave. You're telling him you don't mind going back into those woods, living the rest of your life in the trees you seem so attached to. You're telling him you don't mind, but your hands are trembling against your chest, and then you take a slow step towards him, curling your arm against the small of his back.

He knows you don't really want to go. He doesn't want you to go, either.

Zuko turns back to the guard and says, “I'll be there in a minute. Tell him I won't be on my own.”

The guards eyes widen. “Prince Zuko-”

“This isn't a debate. Deliver my message, and I'll make my way to the throne room as soon as possible. As requested.”

The guard swallows, flicks one final gaze in your direction before he bows and exits the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Zuko deflates as soon as he hears the click, slumping back against your warmth. You catch him, curling an arm around his middle, pressing your face into his spine.

“Don't do anything you'll regret, Zuko. I won't have it.”

“Do you want to stay here?”

You pause. “I want to stay with you.”

Zuko's heart soars. He gently touches the hand you have against his stomach, intertwining fingers. “Then it's decided. You'll stay with me.”

----

Zuko has never brought someone home to meet his parents. Zuko has never had anyone to bring home.

A summer fling here and there, a young romance sprouting from the casual touch of fingers, people finding him attractive because he has the word 'prince' tacked on to his name; none of it really meant anything. He never once thought these relationships would grow into something worth flaunting in front of his father.

Now, he holds your hand and walks into the throne room, unsure how to introduce you, unsure what this is. He's kissed you once. He's felt the affect you have on him, but is that enough for him to label this as a relationship? Will his father even approve?

Does he need his fathers approval?

Zuko shakes his head, hollowing out his cheeks as you and him enter the throne room. Ozai has yet to appear, though there are two guards flanking either side of the single throne set upon the dais; there used to be two, but since the death of Zuko's mother, Ozai has removed his mothers throne. More space for his power to radiate.

You squeeze Zuko's hand, lowering your voice to a whisper when you say, “Is that air conditioning I feel?”

“You don't have to try and lighten the mood.”

You frown, pulling away. “Fine. But just so you know, you look like you're going to burst a blood vessel.”

Zuko opens his mouth to respond, but the door on the other side of the room is thrown open before he gets a chance to. His father says nothing. His face is stone, passive as he approaches his throne and sits down. His hands curl round the curved ends of the arm rests, and he stares directly at Zuko.

Zuko knows what to do. He's been trained for this his entire life, so it comes naturally to him when he lets go of your hand and steps forward, dropping to one knee. You stare at him with an open mouth, unsure of what to do, but Zuko does not put that burden on you – he lets you stand.

Ozai says, “Up.”

Zuko rises. “Father. You requested to see me.”

“That I did,” says Ozai. Zuko's stomach turns when he notices Ozai's eyes haven't left you. “I asked for my son, and my son alone. Where was the message distorted?”

“Nowhere,” says Zuko. He takes a step back and wraps an arm around your waist, feeling immediately guilt when your tense body presses against his; he left your side for only a second, but it's clear you're terrified. “I wanted to introduce you to Y/N. I wanted to talk to you about some arrangements.”

Ozai's left eye twitches. “Zuko, this talk wasn't for you to orchestrate. You left the balcony during the morning announcements. You embarrassed your sister and I, and now people are asking questions. I did not call you in here to discuss what you want.”

“Part of my explanation for leaving involves Y/N.”

“That isn't a good thing, Zuko.”

Zuko's grip tightens – he was prepared for loose threats, but they shake him up nonetheless. You glance at him; Zuko can feel your eyes burning holes into the side of your head, can feel your ribcage expanding and dropping at lightning speed beside him. He rubs a small circle into your hip, and you melt against him a little more.

“Introduce yourself,” Ozai suddenly says.

You pause. “Me?”

Ozai scowls.

“Oh, me!” You stumble forward, but your hand darts behind you and grabs Zuko's wrist, needing to keep some form of contact. “Uh, good morning, Firelord. Firelord? Your Majesty? I don't – uh...” You turn to Zuko. “Help?”

Zuko just nods.

You scowl and turn back to Ozai. “Firelord. My name is Y/N L/N. I'm a – uh – friend of your son. A good friend. Really good friends.” You pause. “I'm in love with your son.”

Zuko's breath skips. He curls his fingers tighter round your own, a silent message portrayed through nothing more than skinship: I love you too. I love you too. I love you so much.

Ozai keeps his scowl, but he has not yet dove from his throne, has not yet ordered your death, and Zuko is going to take this as a good sign.

“In my forty three years ruling this nation,” he says slowly, “I don't think I've ever seen you before.”

You stiffen. “Really? That's odd. I – uh – pay my taxes and everything, so-”

“Y/N is from the Earth Kingdom, father.”

It happens in seconds. Zuko has barely any time to blink before the royal guards are dashing forward, and suddenly you are in their grasp, and your startled cry is echoing off the throne room walls.

Zuko lurches forward. “Stop!”

Ozai rises from his throne with a swift calmness that makes Zuko ill; you're thrashing in the guards grip, feet kicking from the ground, but they only hold you tighter. There is a guard at Zuko's elbow, a spear In front of his nose that stops him from getting any closer to you.

“Father,” Zuko pants. “You must hear me out. You have to give me a chance to explain-”

“You know the rules, Zuko,” Ozai says calmly. “This little infatuation of yours is a criminal. We do not tolerate criminals here.”

Zuko shakes his head. He doesn't know why, doesn't know what he's disagreeing to, because his father is technically speaking the truth – you are a criminal, and Zuko knows that, but the rules you have broken are so unfair and so stupid that it makes him angry to hear that label be pinned to your name.

He looks over. There are tears glistening on your waterline, though you have now gone limp in the guards arms. Your shoulders are pulled back, mouth pulled into a tight line as you try to fight off the rising panic he knows you are feeling – you're trying to seem strong, unthreatened. Zuko remembers the way you had so casually agreed to go back to the woods on your own, how prepared you had been to go back to such a horrendous way of life – was this your way of telling Zuko you were prepared to die, as well?

Death. Zuko can't even bring himself to think of it. He has to stop this. He promised to keep you safe.

Slowly, he turns back to his father. “You don't want to do this. Not really.”

“Now we both know that's not true. I have killed plenty, and I will kill again. That is my job as the protector of this nation.”

“You're insane if you really believe that.”

For a second, Ozai pauses. Zuko has never spoken to him like that. “Watch your tongue, boy.”

“You've always wanted me to be tougher.” Zuko steps forward, fingers curled at his sides. “You're always telling me to be braver, to stop being such a wimp. You've always wanted me to follow in your footsteps, and now I'm prepared to do just that.”

“Stand down, boy – before you make a fool of yourself.”

Zuko grits his teeth. His stomach churns, a feeling he's never before experienced slicing through every bit of patience he gathered before walking into this throne room; he prepared himself for hostility, an argument, an explanation his father would never make sense of, but now you're being held by royal guards and Ozai is threatening your life and Zuko can't hold himself back any more.

He takes another step forward and lets his hands erupt.

Ozai's eyes widen. Royal guards rush forward, but Zuko is quicker – he sends his hands out in front of him, creating a circle of flames on the ground. Guards jump back, yelping in shock because Zuko – the wimpy little prince – has never shown this side before.

This wimpy prince turns back to the Firelord and says, “You always thought I was weak, father. The truth is, I just never had anything to fight for. Now that I do, I'm not going to let you destroy it.”

“Zuko,” you croak out. He closes his eyes. “Zuko, don't do this. Don't-”

“Shut them up.”

The royal guard backhands you. Zuko's eyes snap open, and it's reflex when he throws his hands out. He doesn't even think, doesn't will his power to the surface – it's just there, present in a way it's never been before, and the royal guards robes set alight. He screams, letting go of your arms; you crumble to the floor, revealing the slash now embedded in your cheek thanks to the guards ring.

Zuko darts to your side and grabs your arm. “Are you alright?”

“Don't do this,” you repeat, clinging to him. “I'll be fine, Zuko. I'll be okay if I have to leave, but I can't see you dead. I won't.”

Zuko smiles weakly. Tears flood his eyes. “Why do you think I would be any different?”

“You're the prince,” you whisper.

Zuko closes his eyes, tracing his thumb along your cheek bone. “So you like to remind me.”

“Zuko-”

He spirals up, whirling on his father yet again. His hands spring out, but Ozai is in front of him – much closer than Zuko had once anticipated. The Firelord snatches his sons wrist and twists; Zuko's knees buckle, but he catches himself and forces flames into his palm. Ozai flinches back, giving Zuko just enough time to spin back and throw a fireball against the marble floor. The dais cracks, the throne falling on its side. Flames swallow the plants set up for decoration. The golden doors start to smoke.

Around him, his throne room crumbles under his sons power, but Ozai stays kneeled on the floor.

“Come on, father,” Zuko taunts. “You've forced my hand, but now you won't finish it?”

Ozai licks his bottom lip; blood is pouring from a cut Zuko hadn't even realised he'd made.

“Look at you,” Zuko spits. “Everybody fears you. You've made everybody fear you, and yet you can't even look me in the eyes right now.”

“Zuko!” you cry out. “Stop this now!”

“Listen to your thing, Zuko,” Ozai growls.

Zuko clenches his fists. “Don't you dare.”

Slowly, Ozai lifts his head. Blood coats his fingers, his chin, his busted lip the source of it all. His robes are singed, the tan skin beneath bubbling with blisters nobody has ever seen on the Firelord, because nobody can bring themselves to imagine Firelord Ozai losing in a battle involving fire bending; he's the master of it. He is the person every fire bender wants to be.

But Zuko stands over him now, and his own power is overwhelming him. It mingles with his anger, exaggerated by his dire need to protect you.

“Is this all it takes?”

Zuko frowns. Ozai's words do not click.

“What are you talking about?”

Ozai slams his hand into the marble and yells, “Is this all it takes?”

Zuko stumbles back. “I don't – I don't understand-”

“A single Earth Bender is all it takes to bring your power to the surface.” Ozai laughs, a bitter sound that mingles with the gurgle of blood pouring into his open mouth. “I have raised you from day one, tried to bring this out of you from day one, and all it takes is me threatening your little infatuation for you to finally succumb to it. I feel like a fool.”

Zuko's breathing quickens. He doesn't know how to reply, having not expected the conversation to take this kind of turn.

Ozai shakes his head before turning his attention to you. Zuko steps to the side protectively, lowering one of his hands; you reach up from the ground, hooking your index finger through his before you say, “This cut on my cheek feels really deep.”

Ozai scowls. “How did you ever fall in love with my son?”

Zuko doesn't need to look at you to know you're smiling through your response. “I really have no idea, Firelord. It just kind of happened.”

“Y/N is staying with me, father,” Zuko says. Ozai closes his eyes, running a thumb along his bottom lip. “Y/N will stay with me, or I will go with them – whatever happens, we're staying together. You either lose your heir, or you lose your pride and admit this rule you have is wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“I know,” you grumble. “Gods forbid anything you do is wrong.”

Ozai lurches forward. Zuko's free hand erupts into flames; the Firelord pauses, growling at his son. And Zuko knows he's being treated well here, because he's seen his fathers fury. He's been on the receiving end of his fathers fury, knows that Ozai can hurt him in so many different ways if he so chooses – but he's not. He's staring at his son, contemplating something Zuko can't read.

It makes him nervous. He tightens his grip on your finger, because that's what soothes him nowadays.

“I've laid out my conditions,” Zuko growls. “All you have to do now is choose which one you prefer.”

The room goes eerily quiet. Zuko can hear his heartbeat. He can hear the blood pumping through his body, but louder than anything else, he hears your giggling behind him. It keeps him rooted to the spot. He has to fight off his own grin when you shuffle forward and press a small kiss to his palm – a silent good luck. Or maybe it's a goodbye. Either way, it sends Zuko's heart into bliss.

Until Ozai looks up and says, “If Y/N is what it takes to make you into the Firelord you're meant to be, then I will only be putting myself at risk by sending them off again.”

Zuko stares.

That's all he can do as his brain struggles to process the words his father has just spoken – spoken so easily, with no catch whatsoever. His heart thunders. His hands grow sweaty, to the point where you're scowling up at him, wiping your palm on his robes.

“You're serious,” Zuko says, some of his previous formality slipping. “You're being serious right now.”

“Don't make me regret it,” Ozai growls. “And don't think this is the end of anything, son. The way you spoke to me today-”

“Very bad boy, yes.” You jump up from the ground, sway a little as you wrap your arms around Zuko's shoulders. “I'll make sure he sits in the corner and thinks about what he's done.”

“You're a curse, Y/N L/N,” Ozai growls. “The Fire Nation and the Earth Kingdom aren't meant to mingle; one day, we will burn you out.”

“Goodness, I hope so,” you reply, before giving the Firelord a cheery thumbs up. Zuko is still in a daze, making it easy to steer him out of the throne room. “Have a good night, Firelord! Thank you very much for this. Thank you!”

The throne room doors close. Zuko snaps back to himself just seconds before you hop into his arms and squeal in his ear.

Your legs are wrapped around his waist. His hands are under your thighs. Your fingers are trailing through his hair. It takes a few seconds, but then your lips are on his.

Everything is happening. It's happening, and it's allowed, and Zuko cannot believe what he's just done actually worked. He can't believe he's actually still alive.

He kisses you back. You slip down his body, drag Zuko backwards until your back is pressed against the wall and he loses his mind. His hands slip to your waist. He pulls you closer. The royal guards awkwardly look away, but Zuko doesn't even care. He doesn't care. He doesn't care.

“Gods,” he breathes against your mouth. “Y/N, what have we just done?”

You snap back, hands curling into Zuko's robes. “Me? I did nothing! It was you that decided to go all bat-shit crazy on the Firelord!”

“Keep your voice down.” He kisses you again.

You laugh against his mouth, pushing him away. “This is insane. This isn't right. There's a catch in there somewhere.”

Zuko groans, slumping his head against your own. “Why can't we just focus on the fact I've just nearly wiped out an entire room of people?”

You mess with the hairs at the back of his neck. “Is the Princeling tired?”

“Exhausted.”

“Why don't we go back to your chambers and you can have a nap?”

Zuko raises a brow. “My chambers?”

“Your chambers.”

Zuko scoffs, grabs your hand and says, “Our chambers. And a nap sounds delightful right now.”

---

Zuko remembers days like this.

More specifically, he remembers his dread.

The butterflies, how he had to concentrate just to breathe properly. He remembers Azula sneering at him from across the balcony, telling him to straighten up his shoulders and look the part of the prince he was meant to be.

Now, he stands on the very same balcony, and he feels none of that. Azula is not present. The only person by his side is you, holding his hand, wearing your dark green Earth Bender robes. Your hair is pinned back with a fancy pin in the shape of a leaf, and as Zuko waits for the screaming crowd to die down, he reaches over to touch it.

You shoot him a glare. “I swear if my hair falls out of place-”

“You look beautiful,” he says.

You purse your lips, look away and say, “Okay. Love you.”

He chuckles. “Love you too.” He turns back to the crowd. They have yet to fully settle, but he starts anyway – if he were to wait for complete silence, he would be stood there all day.

“Good morning everyone,” he starts, just as he always does. “I know a lot of you are confused as to why I have called an announcement today. I apologise for any inconvenience, but this is not something I can hold onto any more.”

The crowd murmur. Zuko inhales deeply, his breathing hitching. He squeezes your hand, his form of comfort.

“As many of you know, Y/N is born from the Earth Kingdom. They wears their Earth Kingdom robes with pride. They practice Earth Bending in the streets. They brings diversity to our streets of fire. My father made it clear before he died that the Fire Nation were to be seen as superior, that any mingling with any of the other kingdoms was forbidden, wrong.” He levels his gaze. “I am making it my goal to change that mindset.”

The crowd go quiet. They're uncertain, but Zuko had expected nothing different; for years, it has been drilled into their heads that every other nation is doing something wrong. That's all they've known. Zuko is aware he'll have to be patient to get through to them.

You squeeze his hand, whispering, “You're doing amazing.”

Because you've said it, Zuko believes it.

He straightens up his posture and continues. “From now on, the borders of the Fire Nation will be open to people from every kingdom. Security will be put in place to ensure the safety of the people inside the city, but we will no longer be segregated from other kingdoms – it's unhealthy, and it's wrong. We as a nation can only improve when we welcome other cultures into our own. That is the only way we can grow and learn, and we have been stunting that growth with the ridiculous laws my father put in place.”

The crowd breaks into murmurs. Zuko glances over to see you smiling – a brighter smile than he's seen you wear in quite a while. You've always told him you don't mind, that you don't expect him to change the laws of the Fire Nation just for you – but it's clear to him now that being the only Earth Kingdom citizen has been eating away at you for a while now. It makes him realise that perhaps you've felt a little more lonely that you've let on in the past.

He turns back to the crowd. “From here on out, the law of no contact with other kingdoms is dropped. I suggest you all start working on your greetings.” And before anyone can say anything more, Zuko bows to the crowd and walks back into the palace, you following behind him.

The glass doors shut. Someone tries to talk to him, a voice in the back of his head that doesn't matter, because his one thought is focused purely on you.

He spins round, cutting the guard off when he grabs your hands and says, excitedly, “Did I do a good job?”

“A perfect job,” you reply, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him in for a hug. “You're very good at this public speaking thing. It's quite attractive.”

Zuko rolls his eyes, nibbling your shoulder in warning. You scoff and push him away, and it's then that Zuko gets a good look at your face.

There are tears in your eyes.

His expression falls. “Y/N...”

You swipe your hand beneath your eyes. “What? Don't do that voice. It scares me.”

“Why are you crying?”

You groan, throwing your head back. Royal guards awkwardly shuffle round the corners of the room, but Zuko pays them no attention. He reaches forward, pulling you towards him so he can rub your tears away.

“Did I do something wrong? Was there something else you wanted me to say?”

“No! Zuko, no. No, you did wonderfully out there.” You shake your head, sniffling. “It's just . . . you did wonderfully. I'm so proud of you. And I was just . . . I was stood there beside you, listening to you speak, and I just. . . It became real, you know?”

Zuko frowns. “Please explain.”

“It became real. My aunt can come and see me. My people can come and see me stand beside the Firelord – me. The little orphan who nobody could take in because everyone in my village was too poor to feed another person.”

“So you are just with me for the title.”

You roll your eyes. “That's just an added bonus.”

Zuko chuckles, bundling you against his chest. “We're making a difference, Y/N. That's what we always promised we would do.”

“It's going to take a while for everyone to get used to it. We're going to have to put extra security in for the first few people who come from other kingdoms.”

“We'll sort it out. We always do.”

You hum against his chest. “Yes. We always do.”

908 notes · View notes

green-eyed-whumpster · 4 years ago

Text

My OC Universe: Rowan 48

Chapter 48 Summary: Rowan meets Marie’s consort and it is revealed that he and Oliver have a past together. (Tag: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @much-ado-about-whumping, @abitefullofeverything, @whump-me-all-night-long and @sky-or-something-idfk)

Trigger Warnings: Conditioning, reference to previous abuse, dehumanisation

When Rowan awoke there were some servants in the corner, they were assembling something. As he sat up and peered over at them he saw the mattress and pillows and felt his heart jump slightly.

A bed? Is it for me? Is this because the Prince said I wasn’t allowed to sleep in his bed anymore? The door opened and a different man was led into the room by a junior advisor. He had fawny-brown hair which was slicked back cleanly, a soft shadow ran along his jaw and cheeks, his eyes, a bright, pale blue, fell on Rowan and the boy flinched, looking away quickly. The man was as tall as Oliver, and only slightly slimmer, which meant he towered over Rowan easily. I’m the size of a fucking child. I’m basically made for manhandling. “That’s your bed, there.” The junior advisor said, indicating to the structure being built by the servants. The man nodded sternly before glancing back at Rowan. “Why is there only one?” He asked. “You need more than one bed?” The junior advisor asked incredulously. “Well, what about the Prince’s consort?” The man asked, Rowan flinched as the junior advisor began laughing and shook his head. “He doesn’t sleep on a bed unless he’s with the Prince.” Rowan looked down in his lap and sat up, shifting from the lounge to sit up straighter. “Anyway, for today, because of the wedding and coronation in the one day, it would be best if you remained here until tomorrow. Have a guard get whatever you need.” The junior advisor left and Rowan found himself uncomfortably alone with the man and Oliver. On the one hand I have Oliver, who I’ve fought with and don’t really want to be near to right now. On the other, I have this new man who’s presumably the future Queen’s consort, who already thinks I’m nothing much. I wish Oliver would let me onto the balcony. Having seen the fragile state in which Rowan was in having left the dungeon and arguing with him, Oliver thought it would be better to keep the boy away from the dangerous precipice. “Does he always treat you like that?” It took Rowan a moment to realise it was him that the man was talking to. “Sorry?” He asked and the man jerked his head to the door. “His royal highness. Does he always treat you like that?” “Oh, no of course not,” He didn’t trust you to make yourself a cup of tea. He’s just looking out for me. He doesn’t want me to hurt myself. “I suppose it’s just, I haven’t behaved well recently and this is my punishment.” Punishment’s lasting a long time, especially when you’ll still be marked with his crest long after he’s tossed you aside. I killed his friend. I’m lucky I’m not dead. It wasn’t fun being punished, but I deserved it. “Oh yeah? What indiscretion warranted him treating you like a dog?” I hate being compared to dogs. “I-I’m sorry, what –“ “There was an incident, he ended up striking one of the nobles and the noble died.” Oliver spoke over Rowan and the boy looked down gratefully. Alexander was right. I’m stupid. I’m lucky I’m pretty. “Gods. What did the noble do?” Oliver glanced at Rowan, not wishing to speak for him, but finding the boy thoroughly studying his lap. “Details are unclear, but the general understanding is that he became upset and attacked the consort.” “What do you mean ‘details are unclear’? The man’s right here.” Man is a questionable term. I’m just an overgrown boy. Rowan could feel their eyes on him and swallowed heavily. “I insulted him first. I forgot my place and he became angry. He went mad with rage and if it wasn’t him it would have been me.” He said finally and the man whistled. “That’s awful. He didn’t hurt you too bad, did he?” Rowan turned a hesitant look to him and tilted his head curiously. “Who?” The man appeared startled by the question and paused. “The noble.” Rowan shook his head and rubbed at the skin where the cuts had healed. “No, not too bad, thank you.” He said softly and looked down again. “I just panicked, I only hit him once, I really wasn’t intending to…to kill him, I just wanted him to stop.” The man looked at him piteously and Rowan ignored the look by gratefully stretching his neck. The cricks as his vertebrae snapped were immensely satisfying, so much so that he almost moaned in pleasure. “Well, I’m Johnathan,” Rowan was surprised to see the hand of the man being extended to him, it scared him how long it took to remember that it was most likely to shake his hand. “My name’s Rowan.” He replied softly as he reached out to shake the large hand. I’m so small beside him. I may as well be a child. “You can use my bed, if you like,” Johnathan suggested, and Rowan shook his head. “No-no thank you,” He swallowed and rubbed at his eyes furiously. “He doesn’t want me to so I won’t.” He covered his mouth as a yawn stretched through his throat. “I’m-I’m sorry, I’m quite tired, do you mind?” “No, of course not. You sleep.” Jonathan quieted as Rowan curled up on the pillows again, hiding his face under a woollen blanket he had slept with before.

~ The two men were left with their own company when Rowan’s breathing lengthened and his slender frame relaxed among the blankets. “What’s your job, then? Royal consort’s babysitter?” Oliver looked up and met Jonathan’s eyes humorously. “You could say that.” He shrugged and Jonathan chuckled. “Gods, he looks like he’s been thrown off a cliff. What did the Prince do to him?” He asked, eyes drifting back to the purple and blue pattern of Rowan’s skin. “Had him thoroughly punished.” Was all Oliver could reply. “Is he even old enough to be a consort?” Jonathan asked. “He looks like he isn’t more than a boy.” “He’s old enough,” Oliver sighed gently. “I don’t know if he’s ever actually done any manual labour or been fed properly in his life, though, so that’s probably why he’s so small.” There was a brief pause where Oliver’s sadness was squashed by the memory of the boy insulting him and he shrugged. “Maybe that’s why the Prince was so interested.” Jonathan’s face lifted in surprise and Oliver had the decency to flush slightly at the statement. “I see you don’t really favour your current position much, do you?” Oliver sighed softly and shook his head. “No. I don’t. It’s not really because of Ro-the consort himself, it’s just, I’m better suited to other soldiers. He’s a bit too delicate for me to be around.” Jonathan believed that wholeheartedly, looking at the boy he could see the fragility that surrounded him like a cloud. “It’s definitely a come down from since we were together last,” He sighed softly and Oliver snorted. “Excuse me? What about you? Sir professional lover?” Jonathan laughed and shrugged good-naturedly. “It’s an easy life. My job consists solely of spending time with a woman I love, what’s not to like?” Oliver’s smile faltered and he glanced at Rowan again. “Well, it’s easy if you like your master.” He said and Jonathan paused, sighing gently. “Poor creature, I suppose.”

#whump #medieval whump #my writing #oc #Rowan #Oliver #conditioning #scars #dehumanisation

11 notes · View notes

tartagilicious · 5 years ago

Text

when we die, where do we go? [gavin]

+ this fic is for an anon that wanted an angsty Gavin fic, and also @queenvking and their request of a halloween karma inspired imagine! They don’t really figure out what Gavin’s circumstances are, but his shift still plays a big part! In addition, it was inspired by this call, gained from the evolution of Gavin’s card ‘fierce battle’. And because i took so long to write this, it’s also a semi-christmas themed one too~

→ pairing | gavin x reader (mlqc)

→ genre |vampire!au, angst w/ happy ending (ish 😳), someone’s heart is broken the usual, the mc actually trying to put her emotions aside for once in her goddamn life

→ word count | 8294 (22 pages of blood sweat and tears with a 30 minute-average reading time lol)

→ song rec | talking to the moon by bruno mars

→ note | it’s your local gavin stan here again with some hearty angst 🤠 also, originally gavin was supposed to die and then come back as a vampire (ikevamp style), but then I changed it to a coma because i’m a baby. and to make it better I did absolutely zero editing because I’ve been writing this for 2 months and just didn’t want to look at this doc any longer!! so, I’m sorry if there are any mistakes or inconsistencies~

“What are you up to?”

Gavin’s voice comes through the speaker with pressed difficulty, but his words still send relief flooding through you. From the moment you pick up the call, it marks almost a week since you’ve said even a word to him. He had left quite suddenly then, after all, and only with a vague warning that he could possibly be gone for longer than usual.

“Gavin! You finally called! Is the mission over?” You can barely describe the emotions in your chest upon hearing your boyfriend’s voice again, your smile widening as you hear him chuckle on the other end.

“It’s over.” His laugh morphs into something greater frighteningly quickly, as if he’s sighing, or even groaning.

Your brows go taut as your smile begins to falters. “You sound kind of off…”

“It’s just because I’m coming off a mission.” There’s still at least a smile hiding in his voice, but it does little to ease your arising gut feeling. “I’m tired.”

“...Am I the first person you called?”

“It’s getting really late, you’re probably anxious. So I thought, I’d call you to-”

Gavin’s voice cuts off over the line with a sharp static noise that indicates a harsh cough. The reception is bad enough that the already unclear audio is painfully fuzzy, and the combined roadblocks have worry settling deep in your stomach before you can catch it.

You bite your lip. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

His gentle laugh is tired, but portrays all the emotions he can’t voice just yet. “I’m fine. Just a little tired. Really wanna sleep all of the sudden.”

“If you’re tired, tell me where you are and I can go there right away.” You say, your worries suddenly besting you before you can even think about the words that escape your mouth.

“No, dummy.” He laughs with a familiar adoration lining the gentle sound. “It’s classified, I can’t tell you where.”

Your expression twists slightly, worry settling firmly within your chest again. “..What are you going to do?”

“My partner is close. Relax. So just, talk with me awhile. I wanna hear your voice.”

“O-ok,” Your voice falters slightly, and you try your best to cover it with a cough. “What do you want to talk about?”

The line goes quiet for a few moments, but the stillness carries a silent meaning you aren’t yet sure that you want to decipher. There’s something you aren’t picking up, you’re sure, but you have nothing but the worry of a concerned girlfriend to back your thoughts up. You quickly tell yourself it’s only natural to be nervous for Gavin, so it’s completely possible you’re just imagining things after all.

“I was wondering, are you worried about me?” He asks, earning a small and very stupefied quirk of your brow.

“On a dangerous mission like this?” You whisper, sighing softly before continuing, “Of course.”

“You know…” He pauses, the faintest sound of a grunt filling the speaker before he continues. “Ah — forget it.”

“…Forget what? Why do you always stop halfway through? Don’t you know that worries me even more?”

A moment of silence ensures before he begins again, more hesitantly. You strain your ears trying to decipher if it’s for you or for himself, but begrudgingly give up when his voice returns to normal.

“This is the first time I actually… got afraid. Doesn’t that sound ridiculous? When a bullet whizzed by my ear, all I could think of was... I haven’t returned your calls yet.”

Tears pool at your lash at your boyfriend’s confession. “Oh, Gavin…”

“Are you crying..? Don’t cry. I’ll be back soon.”

You wipe away your warm tears before they can fall, but they still peek through in your voice as you say, “I’ll be waiting. We’ve still got a lot of things to do together.”

“I’ll take you to the movies, or maybe even karaoke.” He pushes out a strained snicker, admitting more of his condition than he has since you picked up the call. “I bet you’re dying to find out how tone deaf I am.”

You laugh along through your tears. “Nonsense! You’re obviously a good singer!”

Gavin is silent yet again for a few painstaking moments before he begins to whisper, his voice cracking slightly under change as he says your name. “___, I might not say it often, but I just want you to know that you matter so much to me. I’m so glad to have met you again. ``I love you.”

Looking back on that call, you don’t know why you refused to believe what you already knew was true. Maybe if you had, things would have gone differently. But even in the end, it seems that he was only trying to keep you from worrying, granted that this time, it may have almost cost him his life in return.

Gavin goes quiet a mere few minutes later, his phone slipping straight out of his hands to hit the ground hard. And yet, even as you already know what’s probably become of him by then, you still can’t bring yourself to hang up. His shallow breaths have almost completely ceased, and there’s barely an intelligible sound coming from the other side of the line save for the quiet echo of the blowing wind.

You let out a shaky breath as you continue to strain your ear for even the littlest signs of life, but can’t even find relief in his slight breath in and out.

He’s close to death and it kills you that you can’t do anything about it.

You soon hear footsteps rushing over on his side, and quite suddenly, you’re put to the ear of Gavin’s partner and good friend, Eli. You’d only met him briefly before, having barely managed to share even a single conversation back then because of your business with the STF. And because Gavin has never particularly been one to put you in any unnecessary danger, that was the last time you talked to him.

It’s depressing that your second meeting has to be in such gruesome circumstances.

“Sir, it’s still on.”

A voice you don’t recognise says these words faintly, and after a few seconds of radio silence, they wordlessly pick Gavin’s phone up and hand it over to Eli.

Eli mumbles briefly and unidentifiably before putting his mouth to the phone’s speaker

“___. I probably shouldn’t have expected anyone else but you to be the person he’d call in a time like this.”

You appreciate his attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but that’s far from what you need right now. You just go quiet in response, trying your best to gather yourself before speaking. “...Is this Eli?”

“It is.” You hear him swallow tighty as shuffling presumes in the background. “I’m so sorry, ___.”

Nothing but meaningless background noises fill the room, and your attention mixes with it. You can’t help but zone out of Eli’s consoling words and rather go to focus intently on keeping your sporadic heartbeat still.

“Please help him, Eli. He’s still alive, I know --”

“Ok.” He interrupts, inferably for your sake as words freeze in your throat. “I’ll try my best, ___.”

Your breathing is laboured and tears are streaming down your cheeks, but you don’t dare to try and stop them altogether. There’s only one thing — one person — that could manage to make you feel better right now, and that’s hardly yourself.

But for the time being, it’s impossible.

Gavin’s unit almost immediately decides to bring him into intensive care for fear of the possibility of his evol losing control under his fragile state of comatose. It’s rare for such things to occur in those stages, but everyone is in a silent agreement that it isn’t necessarily wrong to take precautions; especially since Gavin isn’t exactly typical. After all, his long years of being an evol agent have made his powers finely developed and too powerful to run freely when he’s in no place to control them.

You’re allowed to see him again around a week later.

You’d been given no specific date for the event upon your chat with Eli that day, but the time still comes faster than you thought it would. The organisation is a complicated web that you still don’t completely understand, so for all you know, those complications could have very well taken much longer.

Eli is the first to greet you when you go to the STF that day, and only silently leads you to the medical ward Gavin is being supervised in. There isn’t much for him to say, but it’s not like you necessarily have the capacity to ask about the details of your boyfriend’s death yet anyway.

“Be careful with him, okay? I know it’s a given, but we’re trying to make sure he’s stable before we make any other moves. So, just make sure not to touch the equipment.”

You give him your best smile in response. “Okay, I won’t. Thank you for everything.”

He nods, opting to give you some space as he retreats in the opposite direction. You aren’t sure that it would matter either way, though, as you stand there long after Eli had rounded the corner. It’s not like you can help your hesitation — your fear — but you still feel tense ignoring the very thing you’ve been pining after for days when it’s right in front of you.

You have no idea what to expect beyond that door.

Are his signs of stupor visible even after such a short amount of time? You hope to god that isn’t the case, praying that you’ll be able to look at your boyfriend again as someone who only looks as though they’re in a deeper sleep than usual.

But you’re afraid that you’ll open the door and find his body to be like the movies: pale, cold, and utterly lifeless without a shadow of a doubt. This the real world — your prayers certainly don’t have to be answered, and your fears won’t always be catered to. That’s what scares you the most.

And the very moment you finally gather enough courage to grip the door handle with your clammy palms and push it open, you know the world is too unforgiving.

The steady beeping from the heart monitor is barely noticeable over the heavy silence of the room, only a select few devices working actively to keep your lover alive. He is indefinitely stuck in a place of stagnicity, but there’s not even so much as an audible sound from the unit to tell you so. There’s only a slight buzz from the machinery aiding him, because sadly, there is so little left of Gavin to aid.

Your footsteps are heavy and rushed as you make your way over to him, but you still hesitate to touch him for a few fleeting moments. His skin is indeed frigid on the eye, yet it feels much colder to your warm touch.

Gripping his hand tightly as tears threaten to spill, you reach out to gingerly brush the bangs out of his eyes. You find that usually, due to the stress of his never-ending list of responsibilities, Gavin’s brows are usually slightly pinched. And yet, he looks uncharacteristically calm in the absence of consciousness.

You sweep a thumb lightly over his brow, swallowing harshly as you breathe back hot tears.

Gavin’s lying in front of you once again, yet, you still felt helpless. That didn’t change — it never had.

He’s alive in your memory, taking leaps and bounds into the past that only pushes the despair deeper into your stomach. You touch over every aspect of him in your head: every time he protected you, every time he sacrificed something for you, every time he kissed you—

It takes a lot to shake away the memories as your tears finally begin to spill.

You would do anything to rewind time. Anything to see him smile again, anything to have him next to you, alive and well again. Because that night he had called you, he was right: there really was so much you hadn’t experienced together.

Your eyes flit up to his face again, and you bite your quivering lip hard. The sobs that leave you aren’t languid nor graceful, and rather show the depth of your grief much better than any action does.

The reality of the situation is harsh, and unlike the movies, it doesn’t help you grow; it’s not a moment of staggering realisation. Instead, it’s despair clawing at your chest like a caged animal, and your headache blooming into a thorny flower that can hardly be called touching.

“Gavin,” You whisper this gently, your hand falling down to his cheek to tenderly brush your fingers over his cold skin. Placing a final kiss on your forehead with blurry eyes, you whisper to him.

“I love you.”

When we die, where do we go?

It’s certainly an abstract thought, one you’re not even quite sure you want to delve into, but continue to anyway upon the striking memory of Gavin’s cold skin under your fingertips. Though there’s hope for him to wake, of course, the awful possibility of death still looms over your head as a constant grim reminder.

Some describe the place after death as a paradise, where you’re gifted a golden halo and luxuries on the condition you lived an innocent life. While on the complete opposite side, it’s depicted as an inhumane switch over to a ghastly figure: ghosts, demons, put it how you will, all are perceived the same.

But you don’t want to think about what you believe, because to you, there’s no reason to.

Months go by where your angel is still absent, stuck in the dreadful place beyond life and yet still below complete death. His indefinite state of stagnicity continues to keep him well under surveillance at that time by not only the STF but also yourself -- all in hopes of a miracle bringing him back to you all.

His evol aiding him, his body finally healing, even a deity in the sky deciding that they’d made the wrong choice in taking him away: every single possibility is counted by you. And foolishly, it gives you hope.

To lean on the power of prayer alone is half witted and you’ve been made aware of that many times, but sadly, it’s the only chance you have, so you won’t let it slip through your fingers for small reasons like that.

You’ve been through so much with Gavin — from the time you’d reconnected to the last day you’d talked to him, you would take little of it back. He’s your partner partner in life that you feel proud to stand beside, and maybe it’s selfish, but you wish for his return more than anything else in the world.

Only, you know that you’ll have to prepare for the inevitable fate of the world turning a blind eye to your wishes once again.

It’s hard to continue on when such a huge piece of your life is suddenly missing, and in those months, you find yourself struggling more than you thought possible. But you’re grateful for the people that have chosen to stay by your side throughout the hard times, even if someone in particular was largely unprecedented.

But Victor’s help still means a lot to you.

In a way, he doesn’t change much from his usual self. He softens under your difficulties still, but continues to be his usual demanding and headstrong self for as long as it’s good for him. Yet Victor’s normally irritating traits are still surprisingly easy to repurpose to get you back on your feet, and they effectively act as a healthy buffer between you and reality for as long as he’ll allow it.

And with his help, you find yourself slowly clawing your way out of the hole you’ve been buried in for months. Slowly but surely, every hand he offers you eases you out of your pain with more success each time.

Winter rolls around and you’re feeling the best you have in a long time. Granted, it’s not amazing, but it’s still progress. You’re noticeably healthier, looser, even — and yet you still can’t help but hide the sadness and regret you feel. Because no matter what, you know that the one who’s given you so much will never live up to the person you’ve lost.

The upcoming holiday season is only another reminder of that, your nerves spiking at the thought of your first Christmas without Gavin. Though Victor is there to help, of course, you’re afraid that you’ll end up taking the change too hard.

After all, your hope for Gavin to wake is just as bright as the day you had shared that short call with him, but even more so now upon the timing. Because along with the season, it’s also been almost an entire year since then. Your longing for your boyfriend’s healing is stronger than ever as a result, and even beside others, you find yourself to be as lonely as can be without him.

Being healthier, being happier on the outside, all of it only hides what you can’t help but feel on the inside. The depressing situation leaves a bitter taste on your tongue that only grows with each passing day — and your grief turns into a monster you find yourself battling every single day.

Truly, you continue to believe that you’re at your limit every single day.

But then something changes. Something in the heavens, something in the deity that you’d pictured giving Gavin everything he wanted in the afterlife, something in fate. And slowly, the course of life starts to change, too.

The days have always tended to go by faster when you’re afraid of something. You’ve known that for a long time after being nervous for school presentations, job interviews, and even plain-old events throughout the years. But you think that nothing you’ve ever been through compares to now, when Christmas is suddenly only a few days away and there’s not even a single word from Eli on Gavin’s condition changing.

The sight of festivities is enough to make you nauseous with so much as even a glance. Yet still, that doesn’t stop your oh-so gracious caregiver from decorating his house on his own, stringing every light and hanging every ornament by his hands alone.

Tapping your fingers on the mahogany of Victor’s dining table one night he invites you over, you’re quickly broken out of your thoughts by a loud sigh.

“You know, you’re going to wear a hole in the table if you keep doing that, and it’s coming right out of your paycheck.”

Maybe you would have normally laughed, but his joke only harmlessly bounces off of you as you retract your hand and let it fall to your lap. “Oh. Sorry.”

SIlence ensues before Victor sighs again.

“...Is there something wrong, ___?”

His voice is a gentler one, the same he’d used when he’d found you trying to piece a glass back together with bloody hands all that time ago. It’s the voice that once gave you comfort, but now only offers guilt.

Your eyes shoot over to where he’s sitting on the couch across the room, slowly taking in the way he’s shut his laptop and now directs his full attention to you.

“It’s almost Christmas.” You say vaguely, forcing a smile as Victor’s brows go slightly taut. Thankfully, you don’t have to explain any more than that.

“I’m sorry, ___. It’ll be hard, but I know you can get through it.”

“Maybe,” You pick up your head as your smile drops. “But that’s not what I want to hear anymore.”

Victor returns your gaze, and under that action, you helplessly avert your eyes. Even with his limitless kindness over the past few months, you still can’t help the inexplicable wall between the two of you. Maybe it’s your own fault, or maybe it’s just a difference in viewpoints -- but whatever the case, your methods of fixation almost always seem to differ.

His voice goes uncharacteristically soft as he busies his hands with the computer sitting in his lap. “I’m sorry that I can’t help you as much. If there’s anything else I can do—“

He trails off when you blink in response, your adam’s apple bobbing as you fold your arms on the table in front of you.

“No, whatever I do in this situation is up to me. I’m grateful for your help, but you have nothing to do with what happens to me.” You sigh. “I can’t rely on you forever.”

You can’t see his eyes, but in a fleeting moment you do, you swear that they almost beg for your opinion to differ. It’s a kind gesture, you think, yet it’s unfortunately not something that’s very realistic.

Victor doesn’t push it, just standing up and nonchalantly walking past you to the sink. He’s never been very persistent to you, and though that might’ve bothered you before, you’ve never been happier about his weird quirk than you have in that moment.

“Dummy,” he mumbles, his quiet words lost to you above the sound of the faucet running. You sit there in comfortable silence as he washes off his dish, and almost jerk in surprise when he starts speaking again a few minutes later.

“Celebrate Christmas with me this year.”

It’s blunt, and the wording doesn’t make it sound like an offer as much as it does a demand. But only because you’ve come to know Victor, you know his words are as genuine as they come.

“...I couldn’t impose on something like that.” You shake your head.

“You wouldn’t be imposing on anything,” He says, reaching casually for the towel next to him as he dries his plate off. “I have a function to go to that day, and though I was originally going to go alone, I thought it sounded like something you might like.”

You process his words for a few moments. He thought it sounded like something I’d like? Is Victor not feeling well?

“Are you sure…?”

“If I wasn’t sure, would I have asked?”

Ah, there he is.

The days after that seem to tick down faster and faster until before you know it, you’re waking up alone in bed on Christmas morning with an entirely new sensation running through your chest. As you force your eyes open to meet the forenoon sun, the change in atmosphere the occasion has warranted suddenly makes you hyper-aware of the empty space next to you.

Sorry Victor, you think tiredly, but now begins the start of what will probably be the most awful day ever.

You drag yourself out of bed after a few minutes and walk through your sparsely decorated apartment to the kitchen in favour of caffeine over anything else. But unfortunately, even when partaking in such a mundane action, Gavin manages to be everywhere. The hand you reach blindly into the cabinet comes out with a pretty cerulean mug -- only one of the many things he had gifted you last christmas.

The mug almost seems to mock you in your hand, but you mentally push it away and just put it beneath the coffee machine’s filter without another thought. You’ve gotten horridly good at ignoring your emotions over the period of time you’ve been left alone, and though you’re certain it’s not a good thing, at times it proves to be one of your greatest assets.

Because the more you can ignore the sinking feeling in your chest, the more you’re used to being without it.

You know undoubtedly that Christmas morning for most is a happy occasion -- children rush downstairs to a heartily decorated tree with their parents in wait, screams of delight from people of all ages when receiving a desired gift, and especially gatherings for family, friends, and lovers alike. But for the first time, Christmas means something horribly new to you.

Sipping your coffee and trying your best to ignore the scorching feeling of it, you sit on your couch and imagine yourself sinking back into the cushions. Maybe if you did, the day would pass by unnoticed. But then again, that would also mean that you would miss Victor’s invitation, and you were admittedly curious of the man’s vague offer.

Along with the upcoming holidays, a large part of your attention in the past weeks has been on what Victor said that night at his house. He had refused to tell you specifically what it was, only choosing to disclose that it seemed like something you would like and dismissing the conversation from there. It was a very characteristic thing of him to do -- and if you weren’t already up to your knees in his antics, maybe you would have dived a bit deeper into it.

You sigh out a breath of warm air at the thought, the coffee’s previously sweet aroma coming out half-baked. But the strange smell doesn’t even so much as vex you anymore as you cradle the warm mug between your knees, pulling your phone out of your pyjama pocket in hopes to distract yourself in the few hours you have until Victor comes around.

“You’ll be cold if you only wear that. Put on a hat or a scarf, if you have one.”

You shake your head and put on a smile as you shrug on your jacket later in the day. “No, I don’t need to. I’m used to the cold, don't worry.”

A small sound of discontent escapes Victor’s lips.

“You know, it doesn’t matter how used to it you think you are,” He says firmly, his hands instinctively going up to grip the lapels of his own coat. “You’re still going to be cold where we’re headed.”

You give him a suspicious look as you reach for a hat hanging on the hook by the door in your apartment, not breaking eye contact even as you pull it over your head as far as it can go.

When your eyes are momentarily covered, you swear you hear him chuckle.

“Is this good?” You ask.

“No, too much,” he mumbles, not caring to hide the laughter lining his voice as he reaches out and softly tugs it above your eyes.

The moment the soft fabric comes up into its rightful place, you’re met with Victor’s eyes awfully close to your own. And though you can’t fight the embarrassing heat that rushes to your cheeks, you just smile as if unaware of it.

“Fine, Mr I Know Everything, is that suitable for you?”

Something begins to shift in his eyes. but it’s barely for even a second, so you have a hard time catching it before it goes away again.

“You can let yourself think that,” he answers vaguely, a small smile curving on his lips as he turns back towards the door. “But we’ll know for sure later.”

You swallow back any thoughts daring to jump out and just nod, plastering on the same smile that you’ve been refining for months.

“I swear I won’t be cold! Now let’s go, we’ll be late if we don’t leave now.”

Going ahead of him to reopen your apartment’s door, you take a quick look behind you again and usher him forwards. Victor gives you a slightly scrutinising look, but well accustomed to it, you only stare back as he ignores you and goes past you.

Where you’re going -- the very place he’d so dutifully refused to tell you -- is a mystery to you up until the moment he gets started on the route.

“Wait, you’re taking me there?” You blurt out as soon as you put what you think are the pieces together, looking over at him from the passenger seat. Victor gives no response but the slight twitch of his lips, but that’s answer enough for you.

LFG is almost notorious for hosting elaborate Christmas parties each year: events that are raved about by the men and the women who attend, though still second only to the CEO’s judgment. You don’t know the specifics, but Victor has never particularly seemed to enjoy the holiday season, even when you tended to be more enthusiastic about it in the past.

But even if the yearly Christmas event had been one of your guesses when Victor originally mentioned his offer back then, it was still impossible to guess any further as the event tends to vary drastically per year. And since that’s still the best your guess can do, you opt to stare out the window and try to clear your head instead. Because right now, at least you’re in a suitable headspace to distract yourself from strong sense of loneliness that’s taken great care in hiding itself.

Gavin has been off your mind since this morning, but you know that the sensation will be short-lived. It always is.

Victor catches your attention again by turning the key in the ignition, effectively tearing you away from your thoughts as you go to look out the window. And you can’t help your jaw dropping at the sight in front of you.

This year, LFG has revamped the entire park to look like some kind of winter wonderland. Festive decorations make the scene merry, booths look like they’re filled to the brim with goods, and not to mention the main feature -- the beautiful frozen lake designated specifically for ice-skating. It’s wonderful, and for a few moments, an overwhelming sense of joy comes over you.

“Victor!” The pitch of your voice goes slightly higher when you turn around to look at him. “Your company did all this?”

Victor only stares at you for a few moments, as if not anticipating your reaction, and just chuckles.

“Of course, dummy. Who else would’ve?”

You ignore his snide comment and turn towards the window again, sighing slowly in relief as you take in the scenery yet again. You thought that having a good time today would be impossible, but now looking at everything from a different perspective, you think that maybe it’s your duty to have as much fun as you usually do -- if not for yourself, for Gavin.

“Are you ready or what?”

“Yes!”

On Victor’s cue, you get out of the car and walk ahead of him, peering inside booths and sizing everything up as you go. Just as you first predicted, the booths are overflowing with everything ranging from traditional ornaments to steaming baked goods, only, they seem to have everything in between in addition.

“You really prepared this well,” You say, phrasing it as a compliment as you lean slightly in front of a booth to pick up a small stuffed polar bear. “Everything is so nice.”

He’s quiet from behind you, but you can almost see his small content nod in your mind’s eye.

“Good. See anything you like? Consider it a present.”

You whip around at his offer, brow quirked.

“And it won’t come out of my wage this time?”

His mouth curls up, his expression almost sour. “What do you mean this time? You think I’d do that? Or in case you didn’t realise, it’s Christmas, ___.

“I know, I’m sorry!” You can’t help but laugh at his reaction. “It was only a joke.”

Victor grumbles about it but doesn’t look unhappy.

“But, Victor, I think I know what I want.” You say, gripping the little polar bear in your hands and turning around to him. His eyes don’t meet the stuffed toy right away, but when they do, he doesn’t look very surprised.

“Are you sure?” He asks. “It’s only been a few minutes.”

You nod, looking down into the toy’s familiarly amber eyes with a small smile twitching on your lips.

“I’m sure.”

You hand it over to Victor, but as the cashier notices him walking up, she freezes. Her face heats up as recognition flashes through her eyes, but he promptly ignores her and goes to reach into his coat pocket.

“Sir,” She sputters, shaking her head as a nervous laugh escapes her throat. “There’s no need for you to pay.”

He ignores her yet again, pulling out a leather-bound wallet.

“No matter who I am,” He begins, his voice dropping into a brusque tone. It’s oddly chilly compared to his voice only moments before, but why, you don’t know and don’t ask. “It’s irresponsible to assume I don’t have to pay.”

Her face gets redder as the presumably kind thing to do blows up in her face. And after she apologises, they continue the process in painful silence that’s hurtful to even you, someone who’s not inherently in the conversation.

“Thank you for the offer,” You say this from beside Victor, smiling in what you hope is reassurance. “It wasn’t wrong of you to do that, and I appreciate your thought a lot.”

The young woman seems grateful for your interruption, and nods before bowing her head slightly. But, you don’t catch the curious look in Victor’s eyes as she says, “Please have a good rest of your night.”

Victor leads you away from the booth in what would look like a normal saunter to any onlookers, but knowing him as you do, you see the things no one else does. It’s definitely not something you see from him often, but that only means that you have the sight of it deeper engraved in your memory:

Something has just surprised him.

“Victor?” You reach over and put a hand on his arm as you walk, quirking a brow when he looks over at you with a slightly conflicted gaze. “Are you okay?”

You both stop near the middle of the makeshift square, and seeing your expression clearly under the lights now, Victor only sighs.

“I’m fine.”

And that’s about all you get out of him, but you know not to push it any further.

Soon enough, his mood swings are the least of your concern anyway. Because as you go around with the bag over your arm for the rest of the night, you feel a sudden yet horrible sense of nostalgia washing over you. It’s the same issue every year during the holidays, good memories calling up deja vu that still lead forth fulfilling nights, but this year, it’s different.

Your nostalgia is a constant cycle instead of a straight feeling, wherein the twisting memories are replaced by sadness further on. But for what feels like the first time, that same melancholic feeling is being accompanied by an out of place rush of happiness.

And for the first time, genuinely, since you were told that Gavin might not wake, you feel happy.

You feel nothing but triumph as Victor is dumbfounded by your laugh, like the sound itself is foreign to him. You enjoy things that you couldn’t before because of pressing memories, and like that you’re able to see everything with a clearer gaze again. You don’t have such a foreboding force crushing down on you, and it feels amazing to live without as much grief, even if it might only be for one night.

But then, going later and later into the night and finally having to acknowledge that it’s all good as over -- well, that’s a different story. There’s the same kind of purpose in each step that you’d been gifted hours before, but they come with less strength now. They’re dull, almost as if because the night is coming to an end, the effects of everything are suddenly beginning to wear off, too.

It’s a shame, you think, because you really could get used to a feeling like that.

You and Victor are some of the only people left in the park when you look at your watch, but you don’t mind much. Actually, even if you have to be here alone, you’d probably still choose to stay a bit longer. Because, maybe it’s selfish, but you don’t want to be sad again.

Surprise jolts through you as a hand comes down to land on your shoulder, effectively breaking your thoughts,but you relax again when your eyes shoot up to meet Victor’s.

“Stay here for a minute. I have to discuss something with a park manager.”

Not able to find the words to respond, you just nod.

And soon enough, you’re alone just as you wished. It’s not exactly what you’d imagined, and if anything, you only feel desolate standing in what’s supposed to be such a happy place by yourself.

Quite fed up with all the twists and turns the emotions in your chest are doing in those moments, you stuff your frozen hands into your coat pocket with enough force to send a small shiver through you. But while doing so, you remember your phone, still remaining dutifully in the same pocket you’d put it in at the beginning of the day. The surface is fairly cold, having been off for so long, but you still feel some sort of silly peace when the screen flashes to tell you it’s powering on again anyway.

You lose that sense fairly quickly.

The phone screen turns on almost immediately, signified with a small vibrate at the palm of your hand. And when it does, you’re met with a sight you never thought you’d see. The lock-screen, which would normally be a cute picture you’d taken while in the mediterranean with Gavin, was now completely covered by a mass of missed calls and texts from Eli.

Your breath freezes in your throat as your eyes take in the contents of the screen, and for a moment, it seems like all of your senses are gone. You want to assume the best, you want to assume the worst -- but at the least, you want to assume that everything is okay. It’s only been a couple hours since everything was made, and you hold on tightly to the belief that whatever happened, Eli handled it.

With trembling fingers and an equally trembling heart, you call him back.

“___!”

He picks up on the first ring, and you feel horrible immediately thinking that you have to prepare yourself for the worst. You’ve only been conditioned to feel that way, after all, and it��s admittedly a hard habit to break.

“Is everything okay?” You ask, a little more frantically than you’d meant to. “My phone’s been off all day.”

Eli only sends a breathy laugh coming through the speaker, leaving your nerves to hang for a few more seconds before delivering the final blow.

“___, I’ve never believed in Christmas miracles, but he’s awake. Gavin’s really back for real this time.”

Your heart stops.

Turning the words over and over in your head, you can’t help but feel surprised when you come up without a single clear explanation. There’s an indescribable type of joy that clouds your thoughts, but even so, you still know bright as day -- your prayers, albeit late, have finally been answered.

“...Are you okay?”

You snap out of the haze you’re in to Eli’s curious voice over the speaker, and quickly apologise as you wipe the tears from your eyes.

“I’m fine.” You croak, sniffing as you try and wipe the embarrassed tint from your cheeks. “Thank you so much, Eli. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Able to hear the man’s bashfulness in his response, you find it hard to hold back a smile.

“Would it be okay for me to come and see him? I know there’s probably still complications--”

Eli interrupts you before you can so much as get the meat of your sentence out. “No, yes! Please do! The guy’s been asking about you since the moment he could form complete sentences!”

You pull your lips together in an attempt to stop the noise raising in your throat, although it doesn’t work very well. So, you just nod and nod silently in hopes that will convey your emotion enough, and then inevitably realise how much of an extreme sport it is to keep from crying when you really, really want to.

“___?”

Another voice calls your name from behind you, effectively startling you out of your thoughts. So, you quickly finish your conversation with Eli and try to at least make yourself presentable before turning around.

Once you do, you’re met with Victor, who stands there patiently with his arms crossed over his chest. But his calm expression melts into one of confusion once he glimpses at your face.

“Are you okay?” He quickly walks over to you as you curse yourself inside your head for not doing a better job of cleaning up. “Why are you crying?”

You stumble over your words, looking up at him with teary eyes and a wide smile you can’t seem to wipe off your face. “Victor--”

He puts a hand on your shoulder, still hesitating slightly after all these months.

“Yes?” He whispers quietly, prompting you on.

“He’s finally awake.” You laugh through tears, sniffing as you wipe your eyes. “Gavin’s finally awake.”

You feel as if he’s happy for you, but because of your hands obstructing your eyes, you don’t see the depressingly blank look on his face.

But, he thinks, maybe it’s better that she doesn’t.

“If he’s awake,” Victor hesitates again before taking his hand off your shoulder and stepping past you. “Then let’s go. I’ll bring you home so you can change and go wherever you need to.”

Nodding gratefully, you go after him and decide that you’re ready to face whatever comes your way from then on.

“Thank you so much, Victor. For everything” You offer a smile to him as you walk back to his car, but yet again, don’t notice the pain in eyes as he smiles back.

“Anything.”

Eli runs up to you the moment you set foot in the STF around an hour later. A healthy time, you think, but not nearly quick enough for your racing thoughts.

Things like ‘what if something happens before I can get there?’ or ‘what if he goes under again while I’m stuck in traffic?’ rush through your head, but luckily, Eli’s there to cajole you otherwise.

“How is he?”

You ask this tentatively as Eli punches in a passcode for the medical ward. He doesn’t so much as look up from what he’s doing, but you still see his eyes soften with your words.

“He’s fine, apart from the obvious.” Eli laughs at his own dry joke, and “It’s just strange, how he’s awake all of the sudden. I guess I’m not really supposed to be talking about it, but it’s only you.”

You try to push him along with your eyes, and catching your gaze, he does.

“When he woke up…” Eli trails off as his finger hovers in the air, as if just over the last needed number in the keypad. “His injuries were almost completely healed.”

Your brows knit. “What? Healed?”

Eli shakes his head as the door gives an affirmative beep and slides open.

“Yeah. It’s weird, isn’t it? He was still wrapped up in those awful bandages and hanging onto life support a few days ago, and now he’s awake with barely any side effects.”

You don’t know whether to be curious or concerned at the information.

“What side effects does he have, then?”

Assuming the worst, you can’t help but be surprised when Eli just shrugs, talking as he turns a corner. You follow in haste, but are stopped almost as quickly at the sight in front of you.

It’s not like you haven’t been in the medical ward before, but the sight of various officers unconscious makes you slightly sick to your stomach. Some are having their last days, some their worst -- it all stirs something in you. You can only be glad your boyfriend isn’t one of them.

“He’s a little drowsy, so we can’t get much more than that.” Eli gets your attention again, to where you realise that he stopped to wait for you. “But for right now, it’s only a matter of expecting the worst so nothing else happens.”

Quickly apologising, you pick up walking next to him again, where he calmly and understandingly resumes.

“Whether it has something to do with his evol or another thing entirely, at least he’s making progress.” He muses, his lips twisting slightly in thought.

You can only nod in silent agreement.

Something doesn’t sound right to you, but it wouldn’t do any good to point out what everyone already knows. Gavin is awake, and maybe Eli’s right: perhaps that’s all that should matter for now.

Eli stops before you even realise it, and in mere moments, you’re staring up at the door to the very room that months ago you never wanted to set foot in again. But noticing your repetitious reluctance, Eli vouches to say one last thing before walking off.

“He’s been really stressed out, asking if you were okay like that. Treat him well, ___.”

Your insides melt at his soft words, and with tears blooming, you nod and turn back to the door. You’re alone in the hall again, almost as if you had travelled back 8 months in time, but this time it’s different. You’re here to see your lover alive.

So, for a change, you push the door open without a second thought.

“Be careful when eating, it seems your teeth have shifted a bit more.” A nurse chastises Gavin while she replaces an IV. “We don’t want any long-term side effects.”

You try not to draw attention to yourself, but the natural human instinct for eyes to be drawn towards motion sells you out first.

Gavin is frozen where he sits, but the nurse standing above him only sends you a patient smile. She’s an older woman close to what looks like salt and pepper hair, with faint lines decorating her face to show years of passing emotions.

The nurse hums. “Miss ___? I was told to wait for someone.”

You can only nod, forcing your eyes away from Gavin to acknowledge the woman for even just a second.

She gives you a once-over and smiles again, as if silently sharing a secret with you. But, you’re not nearly paying enough attention to give it much thought. Still, you hope it’s in good graces as she whispers her wishes for you to have a good holiday when walking past you to the door.

“...Gavin?”

You can only force out his name as the door clicks shut behind you.

“___.”

He sounds breathless, almost yearning, and the sound of his voice alone brings lost tears crashing over your cheeks.

Gavin isn’t one to show many emotions unabashed, but in that moment, you swear he doesn’t hold anything back any longer. Unsaid words flood from his eyes just as easily as tears come from yours, and in a moment, you’re next to him again.

Touching him again is rejuvenating.

It feels silly to think, but you swear that you can feel everything falling back into place again when he wraps his arms around your waist. It’s as if his touch is somehow forcing bad memories away: the bad memories of crying yourself to sleep; the bad memories of missing him so badly that your chest would hurt; and the horrible sinking realisation that you might not ever see him breathing again -- it all pacifies when you felt his breath on your skin.

“Are you okay?” He asks this softly, his voice slightly muffled by your jacket. You can’t do anything but shake your head.

“Always worrying about me,” You try to click your tongue through your whispers, although the action is just sad. “Even until what I thought was the end. Worry about yourself first, would you?”

It should be a joke, but neither of you laugh. He only sighs into your chest in a silent apology as you pull him closer, and you try to find pride in the possibility that just maybe, you’re giving him the same feeling he’s giving you.

“What about you?” Your teary mumble is lost along with your fingers in the tendrils of his hair, but the words still manage to reach him perfectly anyway. “Eli told me that you’re quite the superhuman.”

He doesn’t answer you with words, only nodding in confirmation. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to talk about it, but even if that is the case, you still understand. It’s likely that he knows just as much as everyone else does about his condition, but that doesn’t make it any less of a touchy subject.

“I hope everything is cleared up soon.” You say this softly in retraction. “It might be selfish, but I really, really want you to come back.”

“It’s not selfish,” You can feel his quiet laugh as he speaks, and it’s almost as if the heavy atmosphere from only a few seconds ago dissipated with his smile alone. “I missed you, a lot more than I should have been able to while I was like that.”

You finally pull back to look him in the eye, and he takes your hand in his with a such a swift motion that it shouldn’t even be possible for a man that was on the brink of death not even days ago.

But you don’t dwell on it. You don’t want to dwell on it. It might be strange, supernatural, even, but all that matters to you in that moment is that your lover is finally awake in your arms again.

And you hope with all your heart that it will stay that way.

#mr love queen's choice #mlqc #mlqc gavin #mr love gavin #mlqc x reader #mr love queen’s choice x reader #mr love fanfic #mlqc fanfic #mr love #mr love x reader #mlqc gavin x reader #mr love queen’s choice gavin #mlqc memes #incorrect mlqc #incorrect mlqc quotes #my writing #I already know this isn’t going to get many notes and that makes me sad 😔#but I like the end result anyway so I guess it doesn’t matter

137 notes · View notes

ephemeral-afterlight · 5 years ago

Note

Remus' accident? (Did I miss a post qwq?)

you did not!

remus has had a... weird life, to say the least.

until he was ten years old, remus grew up in a happy, normal family with his brother and his parents. he's always been rowdy and chaotic, but that's just how children are. he and roman were close, and always getting into trouble together in that big, empty house. their parents loved them (well, they loved roman, at least), but they were rarely at home, always working and doing something or other. roman isn't that much older than remus, only by a couple years, but they thought that the two boys would be fine alone in the house for the years that they grew up together. roman and remus never went to public school, but rather were taught by a private tutor, one that they hated because she was always very cranky and wouldn't let them have an extra scoop of ice cream after dinner. their life was lived in solitude, only having each other to know and rely on. they were too young to go out on their own and make friends, and their parents were never there to give them that experience, so for years they rarely ever left that cold, empty mansion.

then remus turns ten, and his parents come home one day to tell him to pack, with one suitcase allowance. they say that remus is leaving, for good, and then disappear into their father's study. the brothers don't know what's going on, and roman begs and begs to know why his little brother is leaving, but his parents don't even spare him a glance as they close and lock the study door. the two brothers shut themselves in remus' room and pack remus' bag in silence, and as a last-minute thought, roman throws one of their old walkie-talkies in remus' suitcase so that they can still talk to one another.

their parents finally emerge from the study forty-five minutes later, both of them just as pristine in their formal outerwear as when they arrived, and they just steer remus towards the huge front doors without a word to either of them. roman has to beg for just one more moment with his brother, to exchange tearful goodbyes and sob in each other's arms, and then roman's best friend in the whole wide world is being whisked out the door.

the walkie-talkies don't work at the distance their parents take remus, and roman doesn't hear from his brother again. he doesn't know where they took him, what he's doing, or if he's even alive. no matter how much he asks on the single day a week his parents are home, they don't answer him. he's ignored completely by them for eight more years of his life. eight years he goes with his memory slowly but surely fading until he doesn't even know that he had a brother at all.

their laughter and footsteps used to echo in the big halls, filling a lonely house with the sounds of a home. but now everything is cold and lonely. even when roman enrolls in public school, even when he starts making new friends, even when he has huge parties where he talks to anyone and everyone and bass filters into every room. that house feels like nothing more than a tomb, like there something missing that roman can't pinpoint, so when he's eighteen years old, he leaves without a word and never looks back.

he meets patton, manages to get an awful apartment with his new best friend, and leaves behind that high school life without so much as a second glance to the so-called "friends" he made. patton is different, doesn't care about his shitty attitude and how he sometimes wakes up crying out for someone he doesn't know late at night. he doesn't care about their lack of money, doesn't mind that roman is still struggling to find a job.

roman feels so guilty for their relationship, like he's just taking advantage of patton for shelter and food. he tries his best to start bringing in some sort of income to help ease the financial burden from patton, who already is contemplating taking up a third job to ease a little bit of their troubles. and there is absolutely no way roman's letting him do that, so he manages to put some ads out, does some odd jobs like mowing lawns and babysitting and house cleaning, and he manages to pay their next month of rent in full. the feeling of taking responsibility is euphoric, and the blinding grin that patton gives him when he realizes he has another month to relax a little bit makes all of the blisters and weariness worth it.

but then roman gets a call from a number and a voice he doesn't recognize, one that tells him that his family has been in a car accident and that they'd like him to come to the hospital to discuss some things. it's all very cryptic, and he understands none of it until he walks into the room he was directed to and sees someone in the bed who looks remarkably like himself.

as soon as he hears the guy's name, everything comes back in a rush.

his head is underwater, blood rushing in his ears as those moments of two brothers playing games and yelling in the halls and pranking their tutor flood his memory. he forgot his best friend, his closest confidant. he forgot his little brother. he forgot his brother.

and now said brother is here, looking beat up in a hospital bed, his body bruised and cut up and his breathing laboured and his hand too fucked up to use properly. despite how bad his condition looks, remus laughs and makes stupid dirty jokes and exists as an echo of his past, younger self. roman forgot him, forgot someone so important to him, and yet remus just rags on the shitty hospital food and the man who's come to discuss the inheritance.

roman's more surprised by remus than he is by his parents' deaths, but he doesn't mention it. he figures remus wouldn't talk about the accident or their parents, but he treads all over the topic without care. he talks, tells roman that they hit a hole in the road wrong and the car was sent into incoming traffic. that their parents died instantly, that his hand was crushed but he's gonna be okay. tells him that apparently, their parents left everything to roman, left all the money and possessions and the house to him, and he doesn't even seem upset that they left remus nothing.

remus tells roman to go home, that everything will be fine, that he has a place to go, that he has money from elsewhere. and roman really doesn't want to, but at the same time, he doesn't know how to act. he feels awkward constantly, like he doesn't know his brother at all. they don't discuss where remus has been, don't mention what roman has been doing, either. but roman's side of the conversation is always stilted, run rotten by guilt, so when remus tells him to go, roman just leaves his phone number and does.

sorting out the inheritance stuff is hard, and it takes up so much time that he doesn't go back to visit. he waits for remus to call or text, but he doesn't, so roman figures his brother probably hates him for not ever finding him again, for not doing more. roman hates himself for it, too.

with patton's help, he puts his focus and energy into the inheritance, and manages to get them into a nicer place. it's bigger, and cleaner, and it even has a pool out back that patton squealed in excitement upon seeing when roman surprised him with the new house. they get new furniture, stock up the cabinets, go shopping for better clothes, and riding the high of having money to spend leaves the two of them exhausted but satisfied. they get out more, make new friends, invite them and work buddies to gatherings. for two months they settle in, and start building a better life. they both still work, but they can save some of it up just in case. they manage their finances better, and things are really looking up.

but then roman is walking home one night and sees remus huddled against a wall in an alleyway, and he learns that remus lied, that he had nothing and nobody to turn to. he's been living on the streets, crashing on couches after one night stands, using his body in a transaction that trades sex for shelter. it's awful. and roman feels even more guilty than before, even when remus laughs the lifestyle off like it's nothing. roman shuts that down so quickly he doesn't even realize what he's doing until he's finally introducing his brother to patton, of whom doesn't really like remus' vulgarity but doesn't think he's all that bad, if you can ignore his recurring dick jokes.

remus slots himself into their life like it's nothing, like he was supposed to be there all along, and roman feels that aching hole in his heart slowly stitch itself shut with every day that the three's lives just... work together.

they don't talk much about the accident, don't really bring up his parents. roman tries to ask where he went once, but his brother just gets a dark look and mutters something about prisoners, and roman doesn't ask again.

and roman will beat himself up for the distinct lack of care he feels for his parents' deaths for a very, very long time.

small taglist: @illogical-anxieties @kazykazu @sharp-as-hyalus @bookwyrminspiration @thekitchenpan @bunny222 @agoddamnrayofsunshine

22 notes · View notes

goosegoblin · 5 years ago

Note

Hi Jess! I really need advice from someone in a long term relationship. How do you make it work? Me and my boyfriend have been together for over a year now + long distance and we are taking a break for several days and i think it is about me wanting too much attention? The same has happened before and i always blame myself although he told me that it’s not about me(he has some problems going on now) but im still worried the same gonna happen? How do you guys make it work to maintan relationship

Hello! Long post incoming, haha.

So first of all, we haven’t been long distance (for longer than like, a month or two over summer holidays), so I’m not sure how much help I can be there. That being said, we have indeed had fights when temporarily apart, and 99% of the time that came down to a misunderstanding in communication. Text, especially, is notoriously easy to misunderstand. I’ve gotten into the habit of asking ‘what do you mean by that?’ if I’m unsure on what something means, and it’s definitely saved us some fights, lol.

My partner and I are not perfect people. These days we’re better at catching arguments and turning them into discussions, but that doesn’t mean we haven’t had misunderstandings or issues in the past. I mean, we got together as two mentally ill teenagers with undiagnosed developmental conditions lmao. We’ve put a lot of work into improving our communication (me in particular, as the methods I was taught growing up boiled down to ‘ignore them’ or ‘yell at them’), and it’s really paid off.

I think that arguing is fairly normal for couples, but for me, how matters. Name-calling, prolonged shouting, threats of violence or anything similar are not okay. I also feel that passive aggression is not okay, and I’m disturbed by how normalised it is, especially among women. Giving your partner the cold shoulder, one word answers, heavy sighs, sarcasm etc are designed to hurt, not to help. If you find yourself thinking ‘this will make him realise I’m upset’ or ‘this’ll make him feel how I feel’, for the love of god, STOP. Take a break. Go for a walk, play loud music, talk to a friend, do some exercise, do anything else.

(sidenote: as this comes up often, the difference between ignoring and taking a break is that the former is denied, while the latter is communicated. ‘I’m NOT ignoring you’ v.s. ‘I’m feeling quite overwhelmed and I’m going to take a break from this conversation- I’ll be back in thirty minutes or so’. I also like to throw in a ‘I’m safe and I love you’.)

I know I bang on about it constantly, but honestly, communication solves... nearly everything in a good relationship. I say in a good relationship because communication is a two-way street. You can be the best communicator in the world, but if your partner is not, you will get nowhere. So if you’re reading this post and thinking ‘that’s great, but my partner would never agree to do that...’, that’s a really red flag.

There are various tools you can use in disagreements to make them more productive. ‘I statements’ are really basic but really nice- rather than saying ‘you always do [x]!’, you reframe it to be ‘I feel like you do [X] often, and it makes me feel [Y]’. That way you’re clearly explaining what the actual problem is for you rather than slinging out accusations. Read those two examples, and think about how you might reply to them. The first is a lot more likely to trigger ‘No I don’t!, whereas the latter incites useful discussion. There’s lots of good examples of using this tool online.

I’ve noticed that we tend to thank each other for sharing their perspective, and to make sure we’re acknowledging the other’s point of view. So like, for a hypothetical:

“I feel like I do the dishes most of the time, which is frustrating because it makes me feel pressured. I know you do other chores and I’m grateful for that, but I need help with the dishes.”

“Thank you for telling me it makes you feel under pressure, I didn’t realise that. How much more help would you want with the dishes?

like, it’s not always that perfect, but trying to remember to listen to what the other person is saying and thanking them for sharing helps a lot to slow the pace of things down. I try to never talk over him and I don’t let him interrupt me when I’m talking either.

The ideal is you + your partner VS the problem. Sometimes though, something your partner does is the problem (or vice versa), and that’s obviously a bit more difficult. You can still be on the same team, obviously, but I am very very wary of a dynamic I often see online where women ask for advice/solutions for their boyfriend’s behavioural problems. There’s a difference between asking ‘how can I approach him about this?’ (what I feel you are doing) and, say, ‘my boyfriend says he doesn’t understand what emotional labour is- how can I help him?’. I very frequently see women doing all the work to try and make their boyfriend a better partner, and frankly, that sucks.

It’s also important to be your own people, with your own interests, hobbies and friends. We are... not especially good at this one. We try! It’s something we’re working on. It’s important to maintain a sense of identity and personhood separate from your partner so that, if you do have to take a break or similar, you aren’t left spinning quite as much.

Feel free to message me again with follow-up questions or anything more specific- I’m happy to try and help.

#long post for ts #abuse cw #well it's mentioned and better safe than sorry!#Anonymous #honk response

36 notes · View notes

zithjen · 5 years ago

Text

Some Core Issues of this World

Before we dive into the execution of a revolution we should probably address why change is necessary and why it is so important that it happens soon.

The issue that has always bothered me personally the most is that of the exploitation of the worker. To think that the t-shirt I was wearing was sewn by a girl my age or younger, in a run-down factory, breathing in poisonous gases, continuously working her hands bloody (literally) because she has no real choice but to let companies exploit her, just to ensure that her family can afford the barest necessities of life. It is one of the most disgusting things I can think of. She doesn’t have the option of doing something with her life that fulfils her. She has to sell her labour at a wage that is no where near enough to provide for her loved ones. And to top this off employers could not care less for their employees’ safety and thus the working conditions are often insecure and endanger the workers. Phew, all the topics that come to my mind when thinking about this. Apart from endangering their workers, big companies and employers take away people’s means of living by for example pressuring them to sell their farmland which has been their main source of food and income for generations or buying up a vital fresh water source, bottling it up and selling the water these people used to get for free straight from nature for money which they simply do not have (not to mention the pollution created during the process if plastic bottle-making and then the shipping of the goods (I tip my hat to you if you also immediately thought of companies like Nestlé who are one of these monsters)). Or, which I might find even worse, such factories polluting their environment with chemicals either out of self-servitude or ignorance. Excuse me, I get carried away. Awful things that we let happen.

Now, as for the reason why this is an issue that could and needs to be ended by a system change is that this exploitation is the absolute base on which capitalism is built. Capitalism relies on the means of production getting cheaper and cheaper and the market to continue expanding. And seeing as we as consumer ship expect less expensive products the money we do not want to pay needs to be taken from somewhere. I can guarantee you that CEO’s will not part with a single penny which means that labourers (this includes office workers as well nowadays, contrary to Karl Marx’ time where this particular class struggle was first properly studied and where Marx’ oppressed class, the Proletariat, was made up by all workers (meaning factory and manual labourers) of the world) will have to deal with worsening working conditions and even less pay.

Instead of having only a handful of people in a company call the shots, make most of the money and not care about the people doing the actual work, anarcho-syndicalists as well as communists suggest self organisation and the complete abolishment of hierarchies, as well as a reconnecting with the work we are doing. The people working in a factory deciding how, when, and what they want to do that is, however, just a small part of that change.

While we are on the topic of exploitation, something else that is grossly being exploited is our earth and her resources. I don’t know where or when people got the idea that the earth is a 24 hours unlimited all you can eat buffet but it isn’t. Get that idiocy out of your heads. On the bright side, not all people are completely unaware. So there have been multiple trends in recent years such as a ban of plastic bags in supermarket chains all over the world and the most recent trend of refusing plastic straws. While it is admirable that some people are doing something it is hardly enough. What needs to change is again the system. 100 companies are responsible for 70% of emissions and although I do not know the numbers for the responsibility of ocean pollution I’d wager our plastic sins, while despicable and under all costs needs to be reduced, if not stopped, are nowhere near as harmful as that of big companies. Now, more important than continuing to reduce the harmful ways in which we impact our planet as individuals, is that we pressure big companies to either do the same or make sure they disappear forever. Aside from harmful emissions and plastic, in order to make profit, companies destroy enormous amounts of forest (especially in South America) for mono cultures of plants such as soy and palm trees. I have to admit geography is not my area of expertise, however, if I’m not mistaken then the hummus layer (which is the layer with most nutrients) in the ground in the rain forests is rather thin and can only be used for a short amount of time before yield is close to non existent without massive fertilisation. As though removing a big chunk of our planet’s lungs, our oxygen provider, wasn’t bad enough, using such amounts of fertiliser is incredibly harmful. And eventually these big stretches of land will have to be abandoned and by then the ground is so exhausted of nutrients that the forest struggles to reclaim the land. I can not even express my disdain for such reckless and stupid actions. And again we have only scratched the surface of these atrocities. We have yet to address the massive loss of life and habitat during deforestation. But I’ll leave that to organisations such as WWF and Green Peace.

Another topic close to my heart is discrimination. This will take me some time to cover as we are talking about discrimination against different ethnicities, people in the LGBTQ community, women, and, tied to the discrimination against ethnicities, xenophobia, and I’ll scrape the topic of the absolute brainlessness of borders and keeping people out of a country.

As a foreigner who grew up in the central European country I quickly learnt how normal discrimination is. As a child I got harassed and called slurs due to my origins. I wasn’t alone in this. If you didn’t absolutely adapt to the predominant culture you would have a though life. While this can be rather traumatising it is nothing compared to what prejudices for example black people in Europe as well as the US have had to live with. Shot at, killed, unjustly taken into custody, wrongly imprisoned. To name a few. I can’t believe that I am explaining this because the only right thing, on which I will not argue with anyone, is to judge a person based not on their skin colour, clothes, physical appearance, piercings, tattoos, hair colour, headscarf, burka, or anything like that, but on their actions and their capacity to show kindness. Back to the topic at hand. While there may be a lot of minorities, such as black people who live in poverty, which in no way represents their laziness or inferiority, they are not given the same opportunities as other people because of their skin colour. Prejudice and decades of oppression has forced them into impossible situations, where for many survival is their biggest concern. Being denied access to education or having to “sit with the brown kids” at lunch is what keeps them imprisoned in a lower class. This struggle is exceptionally painful as black people freed themselves of slavery mere decades ago just to be continuously mistreated.

Unfortunately, discrimination is not limited to people of colour. Modern women’s rights movements, which have been going on for over 100 years also still struggle and have to fight for each scrap of equality. I will not delve too deep into the topic. I will say though. My body. My choice. You can fuck the hell off if you tell any woman who did not specifically ask for your opinion how she should live her life. This is regarding clothing choices, choices regarding children, or how many or few sexual partners she has. Aside from that, many people see equality between men and women as achieved when plain and simple it has not been. The pay gaps being the smallest issue. Women are denied jobs for which they would be the perfect candidate for the reason of being female. The annoying thing about this is that many are not aware of their own prejudices, which makes it that much harder to battle. Women are naturally assumed to be the stay-at-home parent and are pressured into the “right” gender role. This applies to both men and women of course and the issue of bigenderism will be another point of discussion in the future. DISCLAIMER: Just because you do not do one of these things that does not automatically make you a non-sexist. It just makes you not quite such a sexist. Treat women as equals and there you go. Now actively say or do something for equal rights for women and you’ll be a feminist. This includes all women; white, black, Muslim, Christian, trans, etc. (We will discuss feminism and the fears connected to it at a later point as well.)

Speaking of trans (great TRANSition). Acceptance towards the lgbtq community is lacking as well. Not only is there a lack of acceptance but people actively hinder lgbtq members from being happy and living their lives the way they want to. I will try to make this very clear: they are not harming you by loving who they love and fucking who they want as you are. Who do you think you are, attacking them when they do nothing to harm you. Instead of complaining or hating queer people you might want to judge people based on their morals, as I have said before. A gay guy that’s rude is just as much of an unlikable person as a straight guy. He is, however, not an unlikable person because he’s gay. Never. Let people do what they want as long as they don’t harm anyone. And no one has a right to harm them for being who they are. Not civilians, not police. We just passed pride month, which, apart from reminding us to love who we love, should remind us of those who have fought for the rights of lgbtq members. It should remind us of those who were crushed and prohibited from loving and those who were suppressed by their governments and their police. Hatred will not stand against love.

And it is in these times, I believe, that we need love for one another more than ever before. We have reached a certain standard of living in western society that we do not have to fear for our lives. Unfortunately, not all people are that lucky. People flee from their home countries, whether it’s because it’s at war, or they can’t provide for their families. For whatever reason they flee, they are looking for a better life for their families and themselves and they need to be given a chance. Of course the problems in their countries need to be solved, but until they are these people need a home. Instead of pretending that they are all evil you could get over yourself and get to know some of them. Yes, there may be a cultural difference but it might be interesting to get to know it, broaden your horizon. Everyone is a human as you are. Some where just more or less fortunate in where they were born and how their country has been or is being governed. They have worries enough. Be kind to them. There is no need to put them in concentration camps, build walls to keep them out, separate children from their families, or be scared of them altogether.

Speaking of concentration camps (aka ICE). Many anarchists will agree that we hold no love for the police. I only briefly mentioned police brutality in the paragraphs about discrimination. I did not even scratch the surface of the disgusting things they do. They have been given the power and the right, by their government, to use force when they deem it necessary. Keep in mind they choose when they want to use force. It is no coincident that there are more black people being shot than white people by police, or that more lgbtq members are beat up than cis men. There is an imbalance in the distribution of power. We are governed from the top down and it is all we can do not to submit and accept this injustice.

If you take anything from this, let it be that we are all human beings, who deserve to live our lives as we choose, without fear for survival. Assuming we are different from one another because we are born in different places marked only by an imaginary line, or the colour of our skin, sexuality, or gender (which is also an ide constructed by our society).

It is not a coincidence either that all the oppressed are not white, straight, old men who sit in positions of power and assure that these few named injustices continue. It is our duty to ensure that no innocent is harmed and every moment we fail to do just that, is one moment too much. We need to fight this. Now.

18 notes · View notes

perfectharmonyloveschaos · 6 years ago

Text

DBH Connor Headcanons:

• Connor is programmed, as an advanced prototype, to be able to adapt to any given situation and manipulate his own body language, voice and appearance in order to adapt to a suspect or victim’s behaviour. He can play the good cop and bad cop simultaneously, such as during the Carlos Ortiz android interrogation.

• Connor didn’t actually like dogs when he first met Hank, as he was only 3 months old by that point and spent the majority of his time either investigating or in Cyberlife tower either in stasis or reviewing maintenance /updates. He said he liked dogs in order to win Hank’s favour, but upon actually meeting Sumo, he quickly realised he did in fact like them. Sumo was the first dog he ever met.

• Connor, despite his awkwardness when talking to humans or comforting, is actually equipped with basic psychological – analysis software and is able to be of use when faced with a number of psychological issues that may affect any human victims including PTSD. He is a fully trained therapist if needed.

• Those at Cyberlife, however, did not take into account that these responses and assets could back-fire when used against a hard – boiled alcoholic lieutenant.

• Connor is programmed with software from an amalgamation of androids to assist with any possible situation. He has basic child – care in order to comfort and gain the trust of children in frightful situations, his crime-scene analysis software is a highly advanced version of that a house maintenance android would have in order to maintain prime hygiene within the home, his social interaction and adaptation software is based on that of android talk show hosts and actors that would require quick – time reaction and proper adaptation to events.

• Despite his more lanky appearance, Connor is extremely strong even by Android standards and is able to lift weights akin to that of construction and labour androids such as the likes of Luther.

• These abilities however have to be tightly monitored and measured when doing near all tasks, his software precision altered even slightly could be disastrous. The exact pressures are critical between different tasks – from petting Sumo or helping an android/Hank to stopping an elevator with his bare hands, kicking a door off its hinges or even restraining an android the size of Luther. His software is managed with excruciatingly neat detail, with some situations forced to involve less power than others. He wouldn’t be allowed to use any such strength against a human or deviant to be captured as it could pose unnecessary damage or harm. He physically would not be allowed while being a machine unless completely necessary. As a deviant, however, he would have to monitor these pressures himself.

• When he is emotional, these pressure monitors can be affected by his deviancy and fluctuate ever so slightly. It isn’t uncommon to see Hank or one of the Jericrew comforting him without applying too much stress or too much physical contact after he all but broke Markus’s hand in his while being comforted after one of his first panic attacks without Hank there. Hank was aware of the strength problem but never thought it wasn’t normal by android-standards enough to be mentioned.

• Connor, as a result of his deviancy conflicting with his code, his very being, has been known to suffer panic attacks. The signs of this is usually over usage or a bombardment of data from his surrounding, overheating his sensors and affecting his system depending on the situation and whether Hank, Sumo or later Markus and even Simon, leading to him struggling to comprehend his surrounding and entering a sort of threatened, feral mode as his system views him as being vulnerable and open to attack. His sensitivity , from the senses of touch, sound or sight, are heightened to uncanny levels and he can barely function in these states.

• Connor doesn’t really understand how to stop his emotions from controlling him, while he isn’t reckless or aggressive, he doesn’t know how to control responses that prior his deviancy were held back by his programming. Like how when he first meets Gavin against post-revolution and he just doesn’t even take a second to try to defuse or ignore him, he just instantly shuts down any physical aggression Gavin has against him and just lets loose his irritation. This turns out to be very entertaining and slightly terrifying to those watching as Connor completely destroys any of Gavin’s ego and superiority complex, not wasting any time in showing his determination to kick Gavin’s ass should he try anything.

• Connor is asexual and doesn’t understand the need for sexual intercourse but does enjoy the concept of romance and welcomes physical contact from those he is comfort with. While he doesn’t feel the need for sex or anything along those lines, he isn’t disgusted by it or show any hatred towards those who enjoy it. While watching romantic movies or scenes he prefers to analysis the interactions and body language of the individuals involved, using such signs of attraction and other information when interacting with the females in the office he can’t help but notice behaving strangely, turning to Hank with his findings only for him to glare at the onlookers and groan that he needed a drink.

• Connor also may or may not have also noticed corresponding results to his interactions with a certain robo-jesus as of late. The other Jericrew members found his analysis hilarious.

• Connor hates when people assume he is a ‘dog person’ as he views favouring a certain animal over all others is idiotic and unnecessary and just illogical. He loves all animals of any shape and size (even hairless cats) as he feels comforted by their lack of prejudice towards androids and unconditional love should you treat them well.

• But Sumo is his favourite animal friend... possibly his best friend. He enjoys how he simply wants pets and doesn’t stare at his LED but just slobbers all over him.

• Connor has a phobia of Snowstorms due to his experience with Amanda in the Zen Garden during Markus‘s speech and so, while able keep himself calm while outside in winter, his stress will automatically shot upon even a slight breeze blowing snow flurries onto him. If left to endure such conditions, he more than likely would succumb to a panic attack and be welcomed with a hug from Hank and Sumo before they would all cuddle sit on the couch and drink hot cocoa or hot milk and honey and watching another old movie Hank suggested.

• Connor has extremely fast reflexes upon being touched while in a vulnerable state such as (sleeping??) stasis or simply relaxing with Sumo. This was noted rather quickly when Hank went to wake him up a week or so after the revolution by shaking his shoulder, only to quickly find the android flipping him over the sofa and his programming already predicted over ten ways to subdue and possibly disable his attacker. Connor continued to apologise for a near week afterwards, despite the older lieutenant’s claims that it wasn’t his fault he was built to be quick to action and at least he hadn’t woken up with a knife in near proximity.

• Hank also wanted to ask him about the ‘Amanda’ character he had been muttering rather loudly about while sleeping which caused the lieutenant’s actions, questioning if androids could even have nightmares but deciding to hold off until Connor calmed down.

• Connor and Hank would often have movie nights (especially during not-gonna-sleep-snowstorms) during which they could go through Hank’s collection dating back nearly thirty years. These would definitely include the likes of Back to the future (Hank kept complaining about watching the sequels since Connor kept informing him of the illogical plot pieces in contrast to the basics of time travel), Star Wars, Star Trek, Marvel, Rocky, Disney...etc.

• Soon Connor would also branch out to have movie nights with the Jericrew (Hank definitely encouraged him to educate their ‘uncultured plastic asses’) and these more often or not were action movies (North) or Disney movies (they all love them fight me they all cried for Mufasa and Baymax).

• Connor cried during the scene where Hiro made Baymax attack Calihan (?? That how you spell his name?). The Jericrew thought it was just the scene that upset him, not understanding how it represented one if his greatest if not his greatest fear – being controlled to kill and attacking/near killing his friends in the process.

• That was the first time the Jericrew saw him saw him show such uncontrollable emotions, watching the ex-deviant hunter start to silently cry, attempt to proper himself and shrug his emotions away before completely breaking down into a sobbing mess.

• It slowly dawned on them the actual implications of the scene and how they affected him, with Markus immediately pulling the sobbing detective into a hug.

• The others joined in too. Even North.

• Simon, upon them binging the Captain America movies, would comment that Connor and Bucky were quiet similar in that they were both made into weapons and forced to ignore their emotions and conditioned to obey until a suave guy who was good at shielding himself with a hunk of metal managed to break through and help them see the light.

• Everyone found that comparison heart-warming but hilarious once they realised Markus was blushing for making a comment about shipping Stucky (cue awkward android babies being teased – ruthless killing assassin helped by cutie with weird but wicked fashion-sense and a big heart).

• No one who surprised when, a week later, they found Connor wandering around Jericho saying “I Am Groot.” to all and everyone in the characters voice.

• He gave everyone a near heart attack when he said it out loud at the precinct.

• No one in Jericho is allowed to talk about Infinity War. No one.

922 notes · View notes

bennifits · 5 years ago

Text

Undercover Martyn (2/???)

Summary: The avengers all coincidentally go to one bar to talk about their emotions and problems to one barmaid with too much time on her hands

- In this installment, peter parker falls into a dumpster.

Characters: Peter Parker, Original Character (Daisy)

Tags: peter parker is fucking dumb but that’s okay bc we love him

previous - next

The last thing Peter Parker AKA Spiderman wanted tonight was to end up in a dumpster in the middle of somewhere in New York, on the night before his history assignment is due, it’s due tomorrow and he hates his life decisions full heartedly, to make matters worth he’s hardly done anything with it. It’s meant to be a PowerPoint on his chosen subject of the Industrial Revolution, nothing hard but he’d been putting it off for weeks and now it’s finally come back to bite him in the ass.

To make matters worse, he smashed his phone screen beyond repair and the communication system got damaged in the fall, so he can’t call anyone to at least get him.

He might just lay there for a few more minutes instead of getting up and out of the dumpster amongst his brothers and sisters, the trash bag and the smell of liquor stronger than any millennial self-deprecating joke.

Maybe he can just do it without the PowerPoint, have a few sheets on A4 paper filled with endless information. Stick a few pictures on the white board and point to them as he talks from the sheet he hasn’t memorised. He can read it the entire 15 minutes of the train ride to school, maybe he can even convince Ned to feed him the information through a wireless headset.

Suddenly the wind got knocked out of him. Whatever collided with his chest was heavy and smelled, mainly of food and wet paper towels. It also was very dark.

“Holy shit! I’m so sorry!”

Peter pushed the trash bag off him and sits up, going to rip off his mask only to shove it back down over his face as the culprit, a young woman leans over the side in distress, Peter could see her legs dangling over the other side of the bin.

“Oh shit, you’re Spiderman, I didn’t see you there, I’m sorry” she says rather quickly, tucking some strand of hair behind her ear. “Need help getting out?”

“Uh yeah actually”

She had a strong grip for a girl, it sounded bad in theory, but he was kind of surprised on how she found it easy to practically drag him out of the bin to plant his two feet back on the cold ground. She was considerably taller than him, mainly because of the heels she was wearing that clicked with the ground.

“Soooo….” He drags out “Thanks” he reads her name tag “Daisy”

“Why were you in a dumpster?” she asks with a chuckle, her shoulders bopping up and down as she laughed.

“I fell” he states, embarrassed slightly with an awkward laugh.

“You fell?” she giggles

“Yeah” Peter laughs nervously, scratching the back of his head. “Hey, not to sound weird or anything but, do you have a phone or something?”

“Yeah, it’s inside” She takes a few steps back, the light coming through the back door illuminating her features. “come in, I’ll give you my phone and fix you a drink”

And that’s how he ended up in a bar, drinking orange juice from a cocktail glass with an umbrella on the edge of it. After his call with a tired and frustrated Mr Stark, he handed back her phone with the little skeleton head charm. The girl unties her hair nonchalantly and wears the yellow scrunchie on her wrist, sliding her phone into her back pocket.

Peter had only known her for around 10 minutes, but she was warm, it was a nice feeling to know that a total stranger (who was considered adorable in his eyes and down right pretty, even with a small stain of red wine at the bottom of her shirt) who he had never met or seen before could be considered warm in his eyes. He honestly wanted to stay a little longer, out of the cold air and in an air-conditioned pub down near the wrong side of town.

His face turns red from under his mask.

“Someone coming to get you?” she asks “You know, since your communication thingy got wrecked and stuff”

“Uh yeah” he nervously laughs “Someone’s coming to get me”

“Alright then Spiderman” she smirks, fixing her suspenders to be more properly sitting on her shoulders. “I assume you were in that dumpster from drinking too much orange juice? You’re underage and shouldn’t be drinking” she jokes

“No, my uh-” he twists his arm to show his web shooters. “I ran out of web and fell. I must have broken something in the fall”

“Funny, I thought cardboard and broken bottles would be like landing on a bouncy castle” she replies sarcastically before making her way to the register, a satisfying ka-ching reaching his ears as she opens it like in the movies when the bad guys rob a cashier. He chuckles, lifting his mask slightly to his nose to take a sip of the orange juice, and doesn’t put it back down over his mouth.

“I really need to get home” he says

“Why? Got a girl waiting?” she side eyes him with a devilish smirk to match the whole theme of the bar.

“No!” he cries, startled. “I mean, I don’t think she likes me back anyway so- “

“Girls dig it when the guy acts first, gets the gossip train going with their friends” she interrupts, starting to organise the money and a mocking motion with her hand like she is pulling a whistle on a train. “Just try spidey” she pulls out a dollar and puts it into a different section of the register. “plus, who wouldn’t wanna date a superhero?”

Peter chuckles.

“I actually have an assignment I need to do” he admits with a groan. “It’s due tomorrow and I’ve been ignoring it”

“What’s it on?” she asks curiously, not looking up from the register.

“The Industrial Revolution”

“Oh dude, I love that time period” she shuts the register. “What do you need to know?”

“Wait seriously?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and drinking the last of his orange juice and placing it on the devil’s coaster. “I need to know everything”

“Watch the Assassin’s Creed Syndicate cutscenes, got everything you need to know in like, 5 hours. Add some smaller details about the pollution in the UK, child labour and you’ll get an easy A”

“It’s that easy?” he asks

“Yep” she pops the ‘p’ at the end of the word. “And it’ll impress your girl as well” she winks at him. “From one ex-teenager to teenager, balance Spiderman time with class time okay? Or you’ll end up at a bar serving superheroes for the rest of your life with strangers hitting on you to try and get a free drink.”

He laughs a little, that put his mind at ease even a little.

“Thanks” he says “You know, for the drink and talking”

“Anytime Spiderman” she salutes as car outside honks its horn. “That’s your queue kiddo, good luck on your assignment.”

Peter nods and does a slight wave, saying goodbye but secretly he knew that he’d see her again.

Hopefully.

#peter parker x oc #peter parker x reader #peter parker #spiderman #spiderman x reader #spiderman x oc #marvel #bennijie writes

8 notes · View notes

atqh16 · 6 years ago

Text

I’d Rather Be With You

Matt and Foggy get trapped under a collapsed building after an earthquake and there's nothing they can do but keep each other company as they wait for the Emergency Crew to arrive. But Foggy might not have much time left to wait.

AO3

The building was falling apart. Dust and debris were raining the air in a thick hazardous cloud and Foggy has to duck his head to inhale a clean rush of air into his lungs. The earth beneath them continued to violently shake the structure above them apart. The wood and steel panels of the warehouse creak and groan and seconds later he can hear the glass windows shatter at the pressure of the walls start to give in.

He could her other people screaming and crying in horror from other parts of the building and even people from the higher floors. He felt his stomach drop at having to accept that he was in no condition to help any of them except for his partner who was currently passed out in front of him after pushing Foggy away from a large chunk of falling wood that would've thrown him to the floor and had instead hit Matt on the head hard enough to knock him out.

"Matt. Matt come on wake up. Come on Matt I can't do this alone. You gotta give me some help here bud", Foggy shakes his best friend as vigorously as he can while leaning his broken arm as close to his chest as possible. "Come on Matty. Come on wake up please. I can't save you alone. I need you. Come on Matt I need you"

But his partner doesn't stir. There was a small puddle of blood slowly trickling down his temple from his head wound, his hair matted in wet clumps with it.

A large chunk of the roof caves in and Foggy screams. He jumps to his feet, terror for both his and Matt's life helping him ignore how his broken arm swayed painfully at his side and grabs Matt collar by the other.

"Come on. Come on Nelson"

It's slow and tedious but slowly Foggy manages to inch Matt away from the falling chunks of steel and wood to the underground basement a few feet away.

Foggy's panting and whimpering in pain by the time to they reach the open hatch door but the sound chunks of metal and wood keep falling around them and the roaring sound they make as they whistle pass and slam against the ground - like creatures waiting to devour them both - keep him moving despite how much the pain wanted to make him cry out.

Tugging Matt down the wooden stairs was a lot easier but still slow because Foggy was trying to make sure neither of them would slipped and fall. The sound of the building falling around them was muffled underneath the roof of the basement.

Foggy is racing back up the stairs to close the hatch door when a loud thunderous moan of straining wood rattles above him. Foggy doesn't make it upstairs far enough to reach the latch and pull the hatch close. A large metal beam falls merely inches away from him and breaks the hatch door right of its hinges while another large chunk of the roofing falls through the entryway onto the basement stairs and collapses it right beneath him.

Foggy screams as he falls and the last thing he sees before his head hits the cement floor is the sight of the entire roof caving in above him before everything goes black.

Foggy wakes up slowly to the pain of something rough and heavy shifting on his stomach. Feeling thankful for once for the flab covering his abdominal muscles that help push back the weight slightly as to not cave in his abdomen entirely.

"Come on. Move. Move! Argh. Fuck. "

He blinks a few times before his eyes and ears manage to decipher the voice and form of his best friend beside him who was trying to push away the heaviness that was weighing Foggy down.

He moans when the rough edges of the debris dig deeper into his skin.

"Ok this hurts a lot more than that time when I got punched by Brett for destroying his bike."

Matt stops and reaches out to touch his face. "Foggy? Hey try to stay still ok buddy. I'll get this stuff off of you."

The small slabs of rock and metal continue to move as Matt tries his hardest to gingerly haul the heaviest of them off of him.

Foggy tries to regain his faculties enough to take note of his surroundings.

The wreckage and remains of the warehouse were scattered around them in a hazardous mess but the roof of their small place of refuge was still intact and from what Foggy can tell, Matt seemed to be uninjured enough to move with little pain. Though the unfocused look in his eyes told him that Matt was probably hiding some injuries and holding back a severe headache from a major concussion. Blood was still running down his face in narrow rivulets that continuously dripped off his chin. Foggy couldn't help but remember that head wounds tended to bleed a lot and he wondered worriedly how much blood Matt had lost during the time that lapses between his unconscious state and his current one.

And judging from how 'six pack, I can beat 10 people at once' Murdock was finding it difficult to muster enough strength to move the rubble above him, it was definitely affecting him more than he would probably like to admit.

The one time his suit and helmet would've been useful in protecting his best friend and they get trapped in a situation while they were both just civilians. Of all the random things in the world it was an earthquake that caught them both off guard.

He raises his uninjured arm - thank god it wasn't buried as well - to tug at Matt's sleeve.

"Matt. Matt, I think you need to take a breather. You're losing a lot of blood. If you keep at it, you're gonna pass out"

Matt was panting heavily but he didn't stop his efforts of digging Foggy out. "I can keep going. I just need to move a little more of this and get you free first"

Knowing that his best friend was going to continue to ignore anything he had to say on the matter, he let his hand drop but glued his eyes to his friends face to make sure he wasn't going to overexert and pull himself back to unconsciousness.

A pretty large bit of debris moves on top of him and suddenly the cement held up by what little was left of the wire rods above them both shift with a groan that sent large chunks of rubble raining down on them, threatening to crush them both.

Foggy immediately held his hand up to cover his face but Matt instead curled himself protectively around Foggy and took the brunt of the damage.

The sound of falling cement tapered off after a while and Matt shook off the dust and rocks that had fallen onto his back.

The both shared a look of horrified understanding that was only broken when Foggy gave what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug.

"Looks like I'm gonna be stuck here for a while"

Hours passed - Matt keeping track of the time using his watch that had miraculously survived with nothing but some scratches - and they both got worried that no one was coming for them at all until Matt's head jerked up at something that only he can hear.

"The emergency crew is getting closer. I can hear them digging through the wreckage nearer than before. But it's sounding like it's getting harder to dig out the bigger slabs of debris. They're trying to be careful to make sure they don't shift anything that might fall on any survivors and hurt or kill them. There's some talk about bringing in some heavy machinery soon."

Foggy wiggle's a bit where's he's lying on the hard floor, trying to get comfortable. Well as comfortable as you can be when you're buried under a literal building.

He leans his back on the palm of his working arm that's he's managed to move up to cushion the back of his head. "Sounds fantastic. Took them long enough"

Matt's head turns towards him in the way it does when he's about to talk to him. Knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them. "You doing ok?"

Foggy tries not to think about how his lower limbs are starting to feel numb, though Matt can probably tell that his breathing was starting to get more laboured. "Peachy. A little hungry though"

Matt can't help but smile. "I could go for some Thai later on the way home. I haven't had anything all day except half of that bagel you stole from me"

"In my defence it was a really good bagel. It's not fair. You always know where to find the best food. Oh my god! Matt, you're a foodie! You're one of those hipster 'influencers' that go around looking for picture perfect foods even if it's on the other side of town cause you have no sense of just making your life easier. Do you have an Instagram Matty? Is it full of pictures of your workout routine and disgustingly healthy green smoothies?"

"Nah, just some pictures of my abs, the occasional bragging and showing off my model hot dates. Not that I actually know what they look like of course."

"I can't believe I'm best friends with a handsome little duckling hipster. You've probably got all your followers swooning every time you post a selfie."

"You literally dressed like a hobo in college Foggy. Forgive me if I don't take your perspective on self-grooming seriously. But sure, I get a few dozen swooning followers every now and then"

"Must be such a pain to have to turn them all down"

"Excruciating" Matt says with an upturn of his lips.

Foggy's about to tease him about it a little more when suddenly Matt stiffens. Fingers curling into a loose fist that rub against each other in an agitated manner and his shoulders hunch up like he's trying hard not to cup his palm over his ears.

"Hey," Foggy calls out soothingly, "are they getting louder?"

Matt shakes his head. A part of him wants to keep himself from talking about it entirely. Half because he just wants to ignore it and half because he wants to spare Foggy the gruesome details.

But he knows that ignoring what he's hearing is a futile endeavour and it would actually be more helpful to just talk about it rather than hide it. Not to mention Foggy's always urging him to be more honest in opening up to him. Appreciating how Matt's is learning to curl back the habit of hiding himself behind his walls.

"It's getting quieter" he says.

"How many of them are left?"

Matt cocks his head to the side, focusing on his surroundings. "30 I think. The heartbeat of 5 of them from before have sort of become muted. I don't know if they've passed out or the aid crew managed to dig them out.", Matt's not sure if he wants to know which is it.

"Can you still tell which of them are still sticking around?"

Matt goes silent again for a moment, "The lady on the fifth floor stopped crying a while ago, I think the kids on our right are sleeping but their dad is still awake, the two teenagers in our left are talking about sports - I think they're trying to distract themselves- and the rest that are close by are talking in hushed tones and I can't really tell what they're saying. About 8 of them are too far for me to hear what they're doing but I can still hear their heart beats"

Foggy nods appreciatively, "That's good. They're all trying to keep each other company. That's probably gonna help them stay strong for the next few hours till the paramedics can get to them"

Foggy shimmy's a little bit more, trying to ease the weight that's crushing down on his pelvic bone. But winces when the movement jostles his broken arm.

Matt instantly inches himself closer, hand flitting forward to grip Foggy's shoulder, "Hey, how you're doing?"

"Not great but still kicking. You?"

"I'm fine." Matt assures him but Foggy gives him a sceptical look.

Matt is swaying a bit from the dizziness, blood still running down the side of his face though it's slowed to a trickle. They'd pressed Matt's jacket over it at first but when their surroundings got darker and the air around them got colder Matt had put it back on and scuttled even closer to Foggy. Not that it really helped either of them stay warm since it's hard to share body heat when the other person has half his body buried away. Matt's wincing with every breath he takes from his bruised ribs and he was leaning most of body on his right side to leave his left broken ankle from being weighted down. Foggy can tell that he would prefer stretching it out completely if there was actually any room for it.

"You know I have eyes, right?" Foggy retorts.

Matt raises an eyebrow, "I think that's ableism. Reminding a blind man of what he doesn't have", he makes a tutting sound of faux disapproval, "I expected more from a cum laud graduate of Columbia"

"It's not ableism if said disabled is a masochistic asshole who parkours over rooftops for fun"

"Touché"

"How many are them are left?"

"23"

"The kids?"

".... I can't hear them"

Foggy's peripheral vision is starting to darken. He finds it hard to hear much unless he's concentrating and his attempts at banter with his best friend is getting slower.

"Hey Foggy, stay awake ok. They're getting really close and it's not gonna take much longer now"

Foggy wheezes out a breath, "It's ok, I'm just daydreaming about the pizza I'm gonna order when we're back home. Large all meat pizza with extra onions and cheese"

"Tell me more about it"

"About the pizza?"

"Sure. I'm going to order that fresh basil mozzarella and pepperoni from El-Salvador's"

"There you go again with that hipster food. That pizza cost almost twice the price of the take away near my place."

"They use 100% percent fresh ingredients and it's completely worth the price. Besides, when we get out of here it's totally an occasion worthy of fancy pizza. I'll treat you"

"Deal. You get the pizza and I'll pay for the Thai"

"We're still getting the Thai?"

"We are still definitely getting the Thai"

"Sometimes I don't know whether to be amazed by your appetite or horrified"

"You complain enough about the Cheetos I buy to snack on at the office"

"Those things are drenched in chemicals and preservatives and I will continue throwing them away when I find your stash"

"The game isn't fair when you can smell it with your super powers"

It's too dark to tell but Foggy thinks he can make out Matt's silhouette tapping the bridge of his nose, "The nose knows"

That's startles a chuckle out of Foggy but the rumble of his chest aggravates the rubble above them and send dust into the air. Triggering a coughing fit that racks horribly in his chest.

Matt's grip on his shoulder tightens.

"Just a bit more Fog. We're going to get out of here soon"

Foggy nods because really that's the only thing he can do.

"Hey Matty?"

"Yeah Foggy?"

"I could sure use a toilet right now"

Matt chuckles, " me too"

"Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm getting... really sleepy"

"Come on buddy, you gotta keep me company."

"Ok"

"Hey Matt?

"Hmmm..."

"I'm just gonna.... gonna close my eyes for a bit ok"

Foggy can hear Matt scramble forward and wincing when it pushes his injured ankle against the ground. "Hey stay with me Fog. Keep your eyes open ok", he sounds lethargic. Foggy feels bad for thinking about letting himself rest when Matt is busy worrying about him.

But he's so tired and it's getting really hard to breath.

"Just for a little while Matty. Just a short nap"

He can hear Matt calling his name but his eyes are already closed and the sound of his voice slowly tapers off before going completely silent as Foggy lets himself go to sleep.

7 notes · View notes

underthebluerain · 7 years ago

Text

When Angie gets the call, she’s not really surprised. It’s not the first time Peggy has had to leave the city for a mission –although it is the first time that she hasn’t been able to say goodbye in person– and Angie knows her job is sometimes unpredictable like this. Peggy has a mission, she has to leave the city, and she’ll be back as soon as she can. Angie tells her to have a safe trip and goes about her daily life while worrying. By now, she knows how it is: Peggy goes off to save the world, returns after a while, and tells Angie as much as she is allowed to over a pie and some Schnapps.

Except this time, Peggy doesn’t come back.

***

She listens to Peggy explain that her plane is leaving for L.A. in three hours, that she doesn’t have time to stop by, and that she’ll be back as soon as possible. She sounds a bit distracted and hurried, but that’s normal in this situation, so it doesn’t worry Angie. She also sounds distant, and that worries Angie more. She thought Peggy had overcome the stage of pushing her away, but maybe not.

She wonders, briefly, if anything has changed since the last time they saw each other, and discards the idea. It was only last night, everything was going well, and Peggy was acting normal. What she’s picking up on is probably the pre-mission stress and nothing else.

So Angie swallows the I could go with you, swallows the Be careful, swallows the I’ll miss you, and as always, swallows the I love you, and just says, ‘Have a safe trip and bring me a nice souvenir, will you?’.

Peggy hangs up and goes to work, and Angie does too.

***

She doesn’t hear from Peggy in the next week.

This isn’t really weird, either. Peggy is a spy on a dangerous mission and she is supposed to keep her cover. Calling her roommate to chat about her day is probably not the best way to go about it.

Angie still worries, though. Her shifts at the automat keep her busy and her auditions even more so, but she finds the time.

The mansion phones don’t ring once.

***

Eventually, after looking through the documents in the mansion, she manages to find the telephone number of what may be the Jarvises’ house in Los Angeles. The first time she rings, nobody picks up. She tries the next day. A very cheerful female voice answers. Angie has to give her name, surname and address, and explain everything regarding how she knows Peggy, before the woman confirms that she is staying there. Angie doesn’t mind, though. She’s happy that this woman –Mrs. Ana Jarvis, apparently– is protecting Peggy. Angie is informed that Peggy is not home, so she leaves a message for her: that she called, that she hopes everything is okay, and to ask Peggy to call her back when she can. Mrs. Jarvis assures her that she will pass the message along.

Peggy doesn’t call.

***

Angie manages to wait a week and a half before ringing the Jarvises’ again. This time, nobody answers the phone, not the first time, not the second, not the tenth.

She’s actually worried now. She tries to ring the phone numbers she found that are even remotely related to Howard Stark, but he’s never reachable. She’s been devouring any L.A. news that pop up in the newspapers, looking for any clue about whatever dirty business Peggy may be investigating. It turns out that there are several fishy things going on in L.A., but she doesn’t know which one –if any– Peggy is dealing with. Spy work, Angie reminds herself frequently. It’s likely that nothing about it will appear in newspapers.

She finally finds something. A small note at the edge of the page reporting that someone broke into the Stark Mansion in L.A., kidnapped a man and shot the woman who confronted them. The lump in Angie’s throat tightens with every word she reads. The second victim was shot and left for dead. Luckily, a timely intervention allowed her to be taken to the hospital and she is currently in a stable condition. There are no names mentioned, not even the hospital’s, which means she is still in danger of those bastards finding her and finishing the job. Angie’s hands are shaking and she’s not sure if it’s fear or rage. The woman has been identified as the spouse of Stark’s butler, who had been living in the mansion. The lump loosens and Angie feels relieved, then guilty.

***

Two days later, there is more news. This time, Angie doesn’t have to find them: they’re everywhere. Front page of every newspaper. Articles about a rift being opened and closed, something called Zero Matter, and famous actress Whitney Frost being somehow responsible and sent to an asylum (and that’s what sparks Angie’s interest the most, she knows everything about Whitney. She’s now both upset and eager to know the whole story).There are two pictures, one of a giant gaping black hole in the sky, the other of Stark smiling at the camera and shaking hands with a man Angie doesn’t know. The caption reads Howard Stark saves the day with the help of employee Jason Wilkes. There is no mention of her or her organisation, but Angie knows, she just knows, that this is what Peggy has been doing. All’s well that ends well, she thinks giddily, and she finds herself beaming at everybody, even at the rudest clients. Peggy’s saved the world, she wants to scream at the whole city. She’s okay and she’s coming back and these past weeks won’t matter at all.

That night when she comes home, the phones are ringing. She runs to get it –good thing there’s one in every room– and when she picks up, there’s Peggy’s voice. The mission is done and she’s coming back tomorrow. She still sounds distant, but Angie ignores it, so happy that she thinks she’s about to burst. She wants to tell Peggy everything –not everything– that she’s been dying to say these weeks, but Peggy says that she needs to go pack. Angie promises that she’ll be waiting at the airport for her.

Peggy hangs up and Angie doesn’t sleep a wink all night. She feels too happy to.

***

The next morning, Angie calls in sick, goes to the airport and waits. There are a few planes coming from Los Angeles today, and she doesn’t know which one is Peggy’s, but she doesn’t mind. She’s brought two sandwiches –maybe Peggy will be hungry when she arrives–, two lemonades–maybe she will be thirsty– and a copy of her new shot at reaching the stage, Love's Labour's Lost. She’s going to learn her lines and maybe when Peggy arrives she can recite her scenes for her, probably turning up the drama more than it is necessary. Peggy always laughs when she acts melodramatic.

Hours pass. All the flights from L.A. arrive. Angie learns her lines by heart.

Peggy hasn’t come back.

***

Angie doesn’t want to seem desperate –clingy, a lady or two have called her before– but she thinks there’s good reason to call Peggy as soon as she gets home.

She doesn’t care that it’s past midnight. She doesn’t care because either something bad has happened to Peggy that kept her from leaving, or. Or maybe something else is happening. The line rings a few times before someone answers in a sleepy voice. Angie asks if something has happened to Peggy, if she’s okay. The voice –the woman again, Mrs. Jarvis– says she’s all right. Angie asks to speak to her. Mrs. Jarvis replies that she’s sorry, but Peggy isn’t home. According to her husband, Peggy was going to board the plane, ‘but she decided to stay here in L.A. Isn’t that wonderful, sweetie? I was hoping she would, there is still so much to see and do here!’. She doesn’t say more, and Angie may be childish but she’s not stupid, and doesn’t need –doesn’t want– to hear her say that sightseeing isn’t the reason why Peggy’s chosen to stay or why she’s not home in the middle of the night. Mrs. Jarvis is nice and has called her ‘sweetie’ and offers to tell Peggy she called, and Angie feels a sudden new rush of sadness because she thinks they could be friends, but not right now. She somehow manages to say no and hang up the phone without crying or snapping at her. It’s not Mrs. Jarvis’ fault that she is lonely and angry and desperate for love.

***

Angie doesn’t get any calls. She doesn’t want to think about it, but she wonders if Mrs. Jarvis told Peggy about her call, if Peggy cared at all. If Peggy was ever going to call her to say she wasn’t coming back. She botches the audition but doesn’t mind. She’s too sad for a comedy. She finds her eyes straying to Peggy’s usual booth in the automat, now always occupied by someone else. She tries not to, but she keeps thinking back to her time with Peggy. She can’t find any reason why she should’ve seen this coming, but she keeps looking for it.

She remembers belatedly that Mrs. Jarvis had been shot and that she had woken her up in the middle of the night without even apologising or asking after her health. She feels guilty, but doesn’t dare call again. She’s afraid that Peggy will be there to answer the phone. She’s afraid that she won’t.

Strangely, she also finds herself thinking of Dottie, sometimes. She knows Peggy was after her before she left New York, and she read about her arrest in the newspaper. But she also knows how dangerous Dottie is, and how determined to get to Peggy, and thinks maybe there’s something in her desperation that mirrors her own. She wonders if she is still locked up or if she has escaped, and if so, if she has ever traced Peggy’s trail to the mansion.

If she has, Angie thinks bitterly, she must’ve realised by now that Peggy doesn’t have much interest in the house or anything in it anymore. Maybe she never did.

***

Angie wakes up one morning and can’t stand the silence of the mansion. She’s sick of not talking to anyone who’s not ordering coffee and of not hearing the sounds of living in her house. She packs her bag, leaves her keys on the counter, and sets out for the Griffith. She hopes Carol, Evelyn, Gloria and the rest of the girls are still living there.

If they’re not, well. It’s always been easy for Angie to make new friends, and she’s grown used to them leaving.

They all do, eventually.

#agent carter #angie martinelli #peggy carter #cartinelli #peggyxangie #OTP #my fic #THIS IS SO SAD I HATE MYSELF #idk i started writing this in my head late one night when i couldn't sleep and january is ac month i guess which makes me feel sad #ANYWAY this was a momentary acceptance of s2 as canon as fuel for angst now back to my scheduled denial of s2

3 notes · View notes

kuriquinn · 7 years ago

Text

Penthesilea [19/20]

Cover & Disclaimer:

Chapter Summary: No one will notice if he disappears after all of this is writ into law. He is, after all, notorious, and even his own people likely want to forget that he exists. Naruto aside, there’s no one among the Senju forces left to see him as anything but a monster.

Chapter Beta: None beyond my own two eyes and at the moment. Since I’m finishing the fic this week, I’d say all edits will be forthcoming within the next few weeks as my beta has time to look through everything.

AN: Welp. We’re nearing the end. One more chapter and possibly an epilogue to go.

Sasuke wakes to the smell of antiseptic in the air and the sound of hushed voices. Somewhere to his left, Naruto’s chakra is calm and familiar, yet a sense of surprise and dismay washes over him.

“You idiot,” he rasps. His voice is raw and gravelly, and it hurts to talk. “You were supposed to kill me.”

“Well, I gave it my level best,” the other man says dryly, “but a certain healer we both know had a more convincing argument. I happen to like my head where it is.”

Sasuke opens his eyes—and he can see again and inclines his head to the left. It hurts more than he likes but he fixes the blond man with a glare. Naruto sits beside him, face covered in bandages but smirking at him nonetheless. It irritates him.

“I was meant to die,” Sasuke slowly, as if talking to a particularly stupid child. “If I live, it makes it possible for the war to continue. You’ve allowed sentiment to jeopardise that. I thought you understood.”

“Oh, I understood,” Naruto mutters. “I thought it was stupid, but I understood. Everything with you Uchiha is death and sacrifice and drama…” He waves dismissively. “You got what you wanted—the world saw me kick your ass. And then they saw Sakura show up and save it.”

Sasuke can’t find his voice at this, and can only stare at Naruto in surprise.

“Mm-hmm,” the other man nods. “The people were calling for your death, and she stepped in and said that peace should not be begin with the spilling more blood. That you’ll be tried for your crimes, and an appropriate—and useful—punishment will be found for you.”

Sasuke frowns in thought.

Exile or hard labour, most likely.

He stares up at the ceiling of the large tent overhead; in the distance, he can still hear the sound of rushing water. He thinks they must have set the tent up around him, which means his condition was serious if he couldn’t even be moved. And yet…

It doesn’t escape his notice that a certain individual is conspicuously absent. He wonders if he might have dreamed her presence before he passed out for the last time.

He has to stop himself from asking about her. Instead, he wonders, “Why can I see?”

“While she was healing you, Sakura found out you had the same thing as Itachi,” Naruto tells him. “But she knew what to do this time. And she had Tsunade-baachan and Rin helping. I’m still healing so I wasn’t much help.” He indicates the bandages on his face. “It’s a good thing she did heal you, because she found something in the process. Something about the nerves attached to your Sharingan putting pressure on part of your brain. The part that’s responsible for decision-making and rational thought. So basically, you were batshit crazy, but it wasn’t your fault.” He snorts. “Maybe that’s why you came up with such an extreme plan…oi! Sasuke! Are you listening to me at all?”

“Where is she?” Sasuke returns, finally losing the fight against asking.

Naruto’s open expression turns troubled for an instant, and then he beams. “Well, you can’t really expect her to hang around for something stupid like you, right? I mean, eyes aside, you heal pretty fast. And there’s a lot of legal stuff that needs doing that she’s responsible for now. You know she was made Tsunade-baachan’s heir a few weeks after the conclave disaster.”

“Hn.”

He was aware, but the answer doesn’t satisfy him. There is something false in Naruto’s voice that makes Sasuke’s stomach clench in dismay. He can easily interpret the truth.

Clemency aside, Sakura does not want to be around him more than necessary.

There is movement beyond the tent and then a familiar head pokes in through the flap.

“Well, you two have done it now,” Kakashi says dryly. “You know they’ll be talking about your little spat for generations.” The rest of him enters the tent. “I’m pretty sure they’re writing songs about it as we speak.”

“Hah. Just make sure they mention Sasuke’s bad hair,” Naruto quips.

Sasuke ignores him, gazing upon his former teacher. He isn’t sure how to apologise or bring up what as passed between them, and can only manage a flat, “You’ve survived.”

He doesn’t bother hiding the relief in his tone.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Kakashi responds, surveying him with a critical eye.

Sasuke’s heart clenches again as he recognises the gesture as one Itachi used to perform when he thought he couldn’t see. He has forgotten over the course of the past year just how close Kakashi was to Itachi—and how grateful he once was to have the man as a mentor. He expects to face anger and repudiation for his harsh banishment of the man, but instead Kakashi’s eyes soften a little

“It seems you’re a lot more like your brother than any of us ever imagined,” he tells him quietly. “Just do us a favour and don’t try to pull something like that again?”

“I doubt there will be a need,” Sasuke says, lying back on his pallet.

“Well, about that…There’s some, er, unrest out there,” Kakashi says. “Official peace can’t be declared without the presence of the Senju and the Uchiha leaders. Which would be you, since you didn’t die and, apparently, Obito goes by Nohara now?”

He raises an eyebrow at Sasuke, who manages to remain carefully blank-faced this time. Perhaps taking note of this expression, Naruto tries to draw the older man’s attention. “Who’s officiating?”

“An emissary from the Land of Iron,” Kakashi says, naming a country that has been neutral since the first days of the war generations earlier. “Some samurai named Mifune.”

“Guess that means we have to get pretty-boy here ready,” Naruto snorts.

“He’s not the only one,” Kakashi points out. “The Uzumaki and the Hyūga are expected to be present as well.”

“Aw, shit…”

Naruto’s impending whining is interrupted as the tent flap rustles again, and Sai arrives bearing an armful of robes.

“This was the best we could find you both on short notice,” he says blandly. “Some overbearing Yamanaka woman insisted you not show up covered in each other’s blood.”

He sounds as if he doesn’t know why that would be an issue.

“Sounds like Ino,” Naruto snorts as he reaches for one of Sai’s offerings. “I didn’t know she was back.”

“She and an envoy from the Land of Wind arrived the day before yesterday, as soon as they heard the news,” Sai says. “In fact, many of the people from departed clans and from the surrounding villages have gathered.”

“It’s Sasuke’s fault…he’s been out of it for days. If you’d woken up sooner, we wouldn’t have to make such a big deal of this,” Naruto complains, while Sasuke silently accepts his own bundle of robes. He blinks in surprise when he notices that someone has taken the time to sew the Uchiha kamon onto the back and sleeves of the formalwear.

“Today is an historic event, and everyone wants to see it,” Kakashi points out. “You shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

“Yeah, yeah…though someone’s going to have to help me put this stuff on. The last time I wore montuki I was six…”

Sasuke chooses to struggle into his own, trying to ignore stiff limbs and aching bones. He suspects that he will have to get used to dressing by himself for the rest of his days, and so there is no reason to get used to someone else helping.

Sakura’s lack of presence seems even more pronounced just then, but it’s not as if he can blame her. Their last meeting before his battle with Naruto was poisonous. If she can’t forgive him, what hope does he have of the hundreds – maybe thousands – of people who suffered the ravages of this war because of him and his clan?

For the first time in his life, his feet itch to run fast and far away.

戦国時代

The valley down below the ruined waterfall teems with people. Even standing so far above them all, Sasuke finds himself overwhelmed by emotion. People cheer and cry and hold onto each other – friends and family and former enemies, wearing every colour and crest that he’s seen on the battlefield. He hears celebrations and speeches about dreams for the future and all good things to come.

Another tent has been set up on an outcropping above the valley, at the best vantage point for the people below. It is draped in the colours of the main clans and their vassals, and surrounded by representatives from each. When he and Naruto draw near, the excited murmuring goes quiet. Their eyes fly to the leader of the Uzumaki and there is awe; when their attention falls to Sasuke, it is distrust and wariness. Even the gazes of his own former vassals are cold.

He can’t blame them. If not for his grief-fuelled madness and his relentless pursuit of peace on his own terms, they might have had peace for almost a year. The rest of his clan, with the exception of Obito, might still be alive.

Sasuke clenches his fist, trying to fight down the sudden overwhelming desperation to leave. As he sees it, he has done his duty – he has ceded victory to Naruto and everyone knows it. There will be peace between the remnants of the Uchiha allies and those of the Senju, as well as their vassals. It’s a bright future – the one Itachi wanted – but not one Sasuke intends to be a part of.

No one will notice if he disappears after all of this is writ into law. He is, after all, notorious, and even his own people likely want to forget that he exists. Naruto aside, there’s no one among the Senju forces left to see him as anything but a monster.

Not any more at least.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Naruto says quietly, interrupting his thoughts. “And that’s not part of the agreement. Even if you’ve still got to go on trial, you’re supposed to get a second chance at a future, too.”

“There’s nothing left to build a future with.”

“I bet you’re wrong about that,” Naruto smirks. “And I can prove it.”

Sasuke frowns. “Whatever you think you know is wrong.”

“Oh yeah? So, there’s no one alive who you wouldn’t consider staying for?”

Sakura’s face flashes to the forefront of his mind, first the softly-smiling image he always carries close to his heart, and then the one of utter devastation that haunts his nightmares.

Chains from a failed past, he thinks grimly.

“Listen, just do me a favour,” Naruto continues. “Stick around at bit after all of this. Once we sign the treaty, there’s something you need to see. And if after that still decide it’s not enough to stay here, I’ll let you go without a fight.”

Sasuke narrows his eyes, wary, but he nods incrementally. Naruto lets out a triumphant hah, claps him on the back, and jogs ahead.

“No sense of decorum, that one,” Kakashi says appearing beside Sasuke in his usual unexpected fashion. “But he’s got a point.”

Sasuke side-eyes him, taking note of the way the man’s eyes glint in amusement. Not just at Naruto’s antics, it would seem.

“You know what he wants me to see,” he realises.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“No.”

“You’re maddeningly unhelpful.”

“You deserve to stew for a bit.”

He can’t argue with that.

They cross the rest of the distance to the festive tent, where more and more of the clan representatives gather. Far down below, the crowds of people continue to swell, spreading across the fields of battle that have been littered with the dead and dying since the days of Madara and Hashirama.

“The Valley of the End,” Kakashi reminds him.

“An apt name.”

“It’s like I said. People are already turning you into legends. Are you sure you two didn’t plan this?”

Sasuke sighs and stares up at the sky, counting down the hours until sunset. “This part wasn’t planned.”

The crowd of clan representatives and witnesses part as they come through, and he can see that inside there are several sombre looking individuals. Hyūga Hiashi stands there, with his daughters on either side, and there is a young man – barely old enough to shave – loitering nearby in the colours of the Sarutobi clan. He glares about as if challenging anyone to remark on his presence there. Suigetsu is there as well, dressed in the Hozuki colours, his dead brother’s sword sheathed behind him, while the redheaded Uzumaki woman—Karin, Sasuke supposed—scowls at him across the way.

Sasuke takes up his place beside the Hyūga clan, most of whom glare at him with undisguised dislike, while Naruto stands opposite him. A serious-looking man waves for everyone to quiet down. The vassals and allies of the various clans take their places behind their respective leaders, but Sasuke notices that someone is missing.

“Where is Tsunade?” he asks. The peace cannot happen without agents from both sides.

Naruto looks sheepish. “Yeah, uh…about that…”

And that’s when Sasuke tenses.

He can sense her before she even enters the tent, with that same otherworldly awareness he has always had of her.

“Senju Tsunade has exhausted herself healing this man and is resting,” a familiar, albeit cool, voice says from behind him. “There’s no telling if she will ever wake again. But the fact that her last act was to heal her traditional enemy should tell you where she stands. As it is, before she fell into her sleep, my honourable adopted mother bestowed upon me legal agency. I am to negotiate on her behalf and on behalf of all her vassals.”

Slowly, Sasuke turns to acknowledge the speaker of these words, and when he finally sees her he feels as if he can’t breathe. He has never been one to care overly much about a woman’s looks, even after involving himself with the one facing him. And yet he can’t help be in awe by the sight of her now.

He has never seen Sakura clothed in anything other than her armour or disguised as a common villager. This figure before him is neither the warrior or the healer, but a regal politician. Her pristine white robes bear emblems of the Senju, although the obi she wears has a circle stitched into it – her own clan emblem. Her hair has been pulled back into two twists on the side of her head – not for fashion, he suspects, but to draw attention to the seal on her forehead. Finally, a gold kanzashi sits upon her crown; it’s old, he can tell, and suspects it may have belonged to a distinguished Senju ancestor.

No doubt a reminder to any who might question her status.

“I take it there have been witnesses to this granting of agency?” the samurai from the Land of Iron asks, moustache bristling in annoyance at the change to protocol.

“That’d be me,” Naruto interjects. “And before any old fogies want to bitch about needing Senju blood present for this, Tsunade-baachan and I are cousins, so kinship-wise I’ve got both the Senju and the Uzumaki covered.”

He grins, utterly irreverent and unrepentant in the face of such a serious occasion. Hinata smiles shyly at him, stars in her eyes, but Sakura’s face remains carved of marble as she stares down Mifune.

“I suppose that’s permissible,” he mutters, clearly uncomfortable.

“Then if you’re not opposed, let’s begin,” Sakura says. “The Senju wish is to sue for peace. Are the representatives of the other honoured clans in agreement with this?”

“The Uzumaki stand with the Senju,” Naruto says.

“As do the Hyūga,” Hiashi declares.

Everyone pauses, staring at Sasuke, but he ignores them. He has no intention of speaking until she looks at him, but she barely inclines her head in his direction. Despite her confident bearing and the set of her jaw, he senses apprehension. It’s clear in the way her fists move beneath her voluminous sleeves – as if they are clenching and unclenching.

“Uchiha-sama,” Mifune interrupts, voice tense. “It may simply be formality at this point, but what is the position of the Uchiha clan?”

Sasuke continues to stare at Sakura, silently requiring some sign of her acknowledgement before anything else happens. She must sense this, because slowly her gaze is drawn to his. At first, she focusses her eyes somewhere to the right of his jaw, but gradually, as if drawn by a magnet, they meet his own.

Everything beyond the two of them fades out, and Sasuke’s lungs feel too tight. The bewitching irises that were burned into his soul the first day he met her arrest him, searching him with something that is wary and tentative and hopeful all at the same time.

For a moment, they appear to find what they seek, but in that same instant she looks away, an angry flush of colour in her cheeks.

“Sasuke?” Naruto prompts.

“The Uchiha clan wishes for harmony,” Sasuke says, turning away from Sakura. “It is desired that there be peace in this land, now and into the future.”

It is as if the entire room breathes a collective sigh of relief.

“I will enter into this agreement under the condition of equal respect and trust with the Senju,” he continues. “Much of the onus falls upon those of my blood…and I will accept the consequences of my actions thereof. But the sins of the past cannot be erased either. There must be full penance from both sides before we move forward. To this end, I wish to convey the contrition of myself and my clan concerning the lives lost and pain caused. The slights we have all endured – both real or imagined – have no place in the future.”

Sakura looks back at him now, eyes calculating.

“Before any amends can be made, I would ask the forgiveness of the honourable representative of the Senju,” he concludes, “for any injuries incurred by the actions of my ancestors or myself.”

Naruto’s jaw actually drops, having not expected this. Sasuke is half in agreement, having not intended to say much today. He tries to blame the fact he is still recovering from his injuries, but when Sakura’s eyes suddenly begin to shine with something like hope, he stops trying.

“The Senju accept the apology of the honourable representative of the Uchiha,” she says quietly. “Though no words can expunge the past, we will do all in our power to build the future you speak of – and let old hatreds be buried with our dead.”

They gaze at each other a beat longer, and he feels an element of the same, unnameable force that has connected them all this time.

“Then we will now discuss the terms of this concord into law,” Mifune interrupts with a clearing of his throat. “It is hoped that from this day forward there will no longer be discord between you, but harmony and –”

A high-pitched, screeching wail interrupts Mifune’s words.

Sakura freezes, and her gaze leaves Sasuke’s faster than he can ever remember it doing. As the people gathered search for the noise – a crying child, it appears – and mumble at the inappropriate interruption, Sakura’s face flickers with a desperation he doesn’t understand.

Naruto is also suddenly uneasy.

“Sakura,” he says cautiously, although his eyes flit to Sasuke.

She doesn’t reply, instead bolting from the gathering of peacemakers.

“Senju-sama!” Mifune calls out in protest, but she ignores him, stumbling to the edges of the tent as quickly as her elaborate robes will allow. Sasuke moves to go after her, but Naruto’s hand stops him.

“It’s not what you think,” the blond man says, and is that amusement in his tone?

Sasuke’s head whips back to observe Sakura, who is reaching desperately into the crowd and – apparently – arguing with someone. He has to strain his ears to hear her.

“ – not the time, my lady –”

“ – don’t care if it’s a serious affair,” she snaps, “hand her over, she needs me!”

“ – Sakura-sama, it’s not decorous to –”

“I don’t care about decorum!”

“You can’t just –”

“I’d give her what she wants,” a blond woman standing beside Sai remarks dryly.

“Shizune, if you don’t hand me my daughter in the next thirty seconds, I guarantee you that peace will be the last thing on my mind!” Sakura growls.

Instantly a swaddled, wriggling and crying bundle is laid in her arms, and she holds it tight, making shushing noises and rocking it back and forth. The entire world has fallen away and she appears to be aware of none of it.

Sasuke can relate.

At that exact moment, everything else seems superfluous in the face of the truth he watches unfold before him.

Sakura has a child.

Sasuke’s heart clenches in his chest, and he has trouble breathing, but this time it isn’t due to awe for the woman before him. The last hopes he had of rekindling what they had dies away.

Because it has been a year, and what did he expect? That she would wait for him to come to his senses after he singlehandedly ripped apart every possible path leading to a future they could share with one another? She had people to heal and lead, and at the end of the day, she deserves to be with a man who can make her happy. He has utterly failed in this, and so he can’t even protest the gutting sensation ravaging him now.

She…deserves to be happy, he tells himself.

Long minutes of awkward whispering follow, with Sakura unable to quiet the fussing child. People are exchanging judgemental glances, and Mifune shifts in annoyance. Eventually, Sakura sets her shoulders, and stalks back to re-join the delegation, still cradling the baby. As she ducks into the tent, she bestows an expression of challenge anyone to criticise the sudden addition of crying child to the proceedings.

Sasuke suspects that it is only a general, healthy respect for what her fists can do which keeps anyone from protesting.

When Sakura’s eyes fall on his, something like dismay and apology enters them, confirming his worst fears. Then her demeanour becomes serious again and she strides forward, eyes on him and still bouncing the crying baby.

Her gaze never wavers, and it feels as if she’s using him as an anchor; he wishes she wouldn’t. The closer she gets, the more he must steel himself, refusing to look down at the child. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it or the idea of Sakura’s features blended with some other man. Instead, he does his best to meet her searching gaze without flinching.

Then she smiles a little, bouncing the infant.

“This isn’t exactly the way I imagined today would go,” she admits to him, as if they aren’t standing in the middle of stalled peace talks or being watched by the representatives of clans from both sides. As if these aren’t the first personal words she’s spoken to him in almost a year.

Or that the heart he spent his life pretending didn’t exist isn’t being shaved into a million tiny slivers as the seconds go by.

“The baby is a surprise,” he replies weakly.

She shoots him an urchin’s grin. “I imagine so.”

“Probably not as much a surprise at the other thing,” Naruto pipes up.

Sakura shoots a side glare at him. “Shut up, Naruto, this isn’t the place!”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s much choice of that right now,” he grins down at the baby. “She’s got a flare for the dramatic.”

“I suspect she comes by it honestly,” Kakashi remarks from several paces away. His visible features show no surprise, and Sasuke feels a sudden burning anger rising within.

Kakashi knew.

He and Naruto both knew about this, and they said nothing to him. And they had the gall to think he would be happy about it? And Sakura –

Sasuke knows that he has a long way to go in earning her forgiveness – perhaps he even deserves some pain for what he did to her – but this? He has never believed she would be the type to rub his face in his mistakes or remind him of that which he will never obtain.

One year can certainly change a lot, he thinks darkly.

“I suppose you’re right,” Sakura sighs now, apparently unaware of his inner turmoil. “It’s not like everyone won’t figure it out eventually.”

“In case none of you are aware, we’re in the middle of something important,” Mifune bites out.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Naruto snorts, while Sakura bites her lip and the baby fusses louder.

“Shh, Sarada…sweetheart, don’t fuss now,” Sakura murmurs softly. “I think it’s making your father nervous.”

Sasuke instinctively looks to Naruto, expecting him speak up or joke or confirm his relationship to the child, but the blond man simply continues to laugh and shake his head as if the whole situation is highly entertaining. There is no other man around them that looks concerned for the child in the way a parent might – curious, perhaps, and possibly irritated judging from the expressions of the older delegates – but the father of Sakura’s child does not appear to be in the vicinity.

It makes sense, and his frustration must show on his face, because Sakura suddenly laughs.

“Is something about this funny?” he asks her.

“Sasuke-kun…” she sighs, shaking her head like he’s missing something. Maybe he is, because the familiar way she says his name takes his breath away. He barely notices her moving closer, putting herself and the infant into his personal space. “Would you like to hold your daughter?”

There’s an instantaneous collective intake of breath all around them, as the implication of Sakura’s words sets in. Then, everyone is talking at once – exclamations of disbelief and demands for clarification and Sasuke doesn’t hear any of it beyond the first explosion of his noise, because his own brain has stalled.

“Sasuke-kun, would you like the hold your daughter.”

Daughter.

His daughter.

“It’s not…it’s not possible…” he murmurs faintly, staring at Sakura in a silent, desperate request for explanation.

Sakura purses her lips and raises an eyebrow at him in challenge. And he knows exactly what she would say if they weren’t in such esteemed company.

Because the reality is, they were never careful. He always assumed that she was taking some form of preventative measures – after all, the battlefield is a dangerous place, especially for women. Unwanted advances are common, whether from the enemy or even amorous comrades. While it’s highly unlikely anyone could ever force themselves upon someone as strong as Sakura, it would be irresponsible of a female medic to compromise her usefulness by falling pregnant.

And yet…

Even if she was, there’s always a small chance…

In the background, Mifune tries to demand order, while the various clans and their vassals dissolve into confusion. The Hyūga seem apoplectic with shock and indignation (not Hinata, however).

“Uchiha Sasuke,” Naruto snorts. “The dumbest genius in the land—ow!”

He ducks an elbow from his redheaded cousin, who also seems unsurprised by the proceedings.

Sakura lifts the fussing infant closer, and this time, Sasuke can’t stop himself from gazing down on her. The minute his eyes meet the baby’s, any infinitesimal shred of doubt vanishes as if it never was.

Because they are completely black.

It’s a distinctly Uchiha trait, possibly related to their dōjutsu, but Uchiha babies never have light eyes – even at birth. In addition to the inky black hair, Sasuke can already see smaller versions of his own features – nose, chin and cheekbones – and the way her face scrunches in displeasure at being held away from her mother. She appears to notice him looking down at her because she stills, and then he finds himself the subject of a direct, appraising look.

His heart stutters at the sight, because that look has been levelled at him before – first by his father, and then by his brother – only this time it’s with eyes identical to his own.

Sasuke doesn’t notice much more than that, however, because it is at this point that he promptly passes out.

つづく

Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated! Also, if you are in a supportive mood, I have a ko-fi button at the top of the page, or you can find my tip jar here.

Thanks for your interest in my work!

クリ

Next Chapter

#naruto fanfiction #sasusaku #au #warring states period #kuriquinn #sasuke uchiha #naruto uzumaki #sakura haruno #kakashi hatake #mifune is not amused #sasuke is the dumbest smart person ever #drama #angst #romance #the end is in sight #politics has to happen before emotional stuff

140 notes · View notes