#he’s so sure that Shadow is out there somewhere and spends a good chunk of time tracking him down. but he’s irritable and a wreck

[niko-jpeg]

(Camp Green Hill) I think that while Super, Sonic gets an absolutely WILD power trip and boost in confidence. The trade off? It doesn’t carry over, and he has to spend a few days coming back down to earth. A lot of mental health maintenance later he is a okay and back to normal, but he needs to spend at least 2 days running around on his own and getting rid of the sudden soul crushing anxiety (and guilt, weirdly enough) that comes with being a god for a bit and being returned to normal. He does this by chewing on things, and also eating peanut butter. Since it takes so much conscious effort.

[angelguk]

this prompt: jock!jaykay and namjoon running into each other at a party or sth and namjoon being like ‘you finally grow a pair and ask oc out yet?’ and jks just like 😧 and joons like ‘seriously dude? 😑 i’ve been waiting for you to ask her out since before i even dated her’. but make it more angst!!! namjoon is kind of an asshole here. there’s smoking, drinking and jk getting a brief lapdance. oc is a LIAR. jaykay deep in his feels tbh. roughly 1.5k. listen to all i wanted by paramore

Jeongguk's crossed too many paths with people during his life to remember every face his eyes have ever seen. But there’s one he will never forget, no matter how hard he tries to scrub the memory from his brain, ignore the muted forlorn twang in his heart, the low ache that ebbs from the base of his skull. It sparks up again despite years of never seeing the individual who caused the problem. How could he forget those broad shoulders? The sharp analytic eyes. The man whom you’d attached yourself too for a good chunk of your joint high school careers. It surprises him, honestly, because Jeongguk’s got a girl grinding on his lap but his eyes are locked on Namjoon, ears trailing after the sound of his deep laugh instead of the sweet nothings Nayeon (or Naeun, or Nayoung — he can’t fucking remember) is murmuring into the hollow of his neck.

For one, he’s fucked out of his mind. Taehyung probably laced the joint; he liked doing that shit even when it messed up Jeongguk’s trip. He should have known not to take a hit, but he was already ten shots in and nothing sounded better than smoke in his lungs. Maybe not nothing. This girl feels good in his hands, responds to the lightest of his touches, moans in his ear like she wants him to fuck her.

He could. He has before. Probably. She knows exactly where to nip his neck for this to have not been a repeat hook-up. But in the haze of the low living room lights and the spinning headiness of the drinks he’d downed, he couldn’t make out her face. It’d shift and twist and turn into an image that almost makes him want to cry because, at some angles, when the shadows form right, he thinks he can see your face. It could be you in his lap, you whimpering whenever your crotches aligned just right, you clinging to him like the sun hangs onto the evening sky.

But it’s not.

And for some unfathomable reason, Jeongguk’s ruined mind recognises that sucks.

Because it should be you.

He doesn’t know how he gets that girl off. Probably some lie that he needed to pee. In reality, he needed to breathe, because those thoughts surface with malicious intent, purposefully drawing him closer to deep dangerous waters. If he’s not careful he could easily drown, suffocated by desires he can’t even string together into a comprehensible sentence.

The night air hits sharp, seeping through his loose shirt. It grounds him enough for his steps to stabilise, feet following a slow trudge to the edge of the balcony. He doesn’t even know whose house this is. Somebody he’s probably never met honestly. But he wanted you to come. Everyone was coming out tonight. Even your elusive roommate Sohee was somewhere in some bathroom with a head between her thighs. You probably are doing that too, to be far. Even the name evokes bile from his throat, bitter and violent, full of jealousy he’d never really learnt to contain.

Lee Eunwoo. A graphic design major. Slightly taller than Jeongguk (only when Jeongguk is having a bad day) and somehow he can make you giggle like he’s getting paid for it.

You’d mentioned it so softly that Jeongguk didn’t even hear it at first. But then your cheeks had heated up, that stupid sparkle melting through your gaze. You wanted to spend the night with him, take advantage of an empty apartment, perhaps watch a movie or two.

It's obvious that you were going to sleep with him. The thought itself irked something visceral inside of Jeongguk. But he’d given you an easy smile, laughed at the modesty of your demeanour and wished you well with a tight hug. The same low buzzing of frustration that he got when you were with Namjoon was already waning through his system as he completed his sets at the gym with more force than needed.

Which is why he can’t help but release a bitter laugh into the night. Ironically, Namjoon was here while you were getting your back blown out by another idiotic guy Jeongguk did not like.

“What’s so funny?”

He can’t spin around to face him, Jeongguk knows he’ll throw up if he does. But he can’t forget a timbre like that. Not when you nearly wrote a poem about how wonderful Kim Namjoon’s voice was. A poem which you recited to Jeongguk before he begged you to rip it to shreds and never talk about again.

(Subconsciously Jeongguk had adopted a deeper voice whenever he talked to you since then. It came out more when he was drunk, but it’s not like you paid any attention anyway).

“Nothing,” he returns. He hopes Namjoon gets the hint and goes away. The bastard joins him on the balcony instead.

“No, seriously, what’s funny? You look like you’ve got a lot going on in your head.” Namjoon was always so concerned in talking about emotions and putting your feelings into words. It’s one of the reasons why you loved him and probably reason one thousand why Jeongguk hated him.

“Hello to you too, Kim Namjoon. Don’t you think we should catch up on the pleasantries before you start psychoanalysing me?” He retorts, forcing his gaze onto the other man. Namjoon looks good; golden skin, broad shoulders and his hair cropped short. There’s an ease to him that Jeongguk could never replicate no matter how hard he tried. Perhaps that’s what happens when you’re born sure of yourself. Like Namjoon was.

The laugh he receives is empty. Namjoon is busy rifling through his pockets, fingers emerging with a joint and a lighter. “Nice to see you too, Jeon. Didn’t think I’d ever bump into you after high school but the universe works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it?” The jay slips between his lips, followed by a swift flick of the lighter before a deep inhale that Jeongguk swears he feels in his lungs. The smoke floats out pretty, fading into wisps of nothing but grey as the breeze sweeps it away. Namjoon offers it cordially, a simple raise of his defined eyebrows and even though Jeongguk’s legs are melting through the floor he can’t say no.

“You sure?” The doubt tinting his tone makes him take it. His overestimation in his maintenance capabilities leads to a rather rough inhale, and an even worse hacking cough that he wants to be mortified at because Namjoon fucking laughs. But he can’t when the world feels like air in his fingertips, slowly slipping away. Almost like you feel at times. 

“You should stop taking the shit Taehyung rolls. I don’t even know what he slips in there but last time I smoked with him I thought I was on Mars.”

“Taehyung offers, I never ask.”

“You never ask for anything to be frank.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Namjoon returns, smoke falling from his lips.

“Yeah, I fucking did. I was giving you the chance to pretend you didn’t say it.” Jeongguk’s all in his space in an instant, the itch to smash Namjoon’s face tingling beneath his skin. Namjoon doesn’t even back up, gracing Jeongguk with a quizzical look that leaves him bewildered. “You don’t fucking know me—"

“I do.” There’s a scoff that riles him up even further. Namjoon’s still incredibly unbothered as he talks. “You think being Y/N’s boyfriend I didn’t hear everything and anything about you? Jeongguk this! Jeongguk that! You know that’s the reason we broke up, right?”

That halts him, a lag in his brain as he attempts to process the words leaving Namjoon’s mouth. The older man just stares at him, the sigh that drifts in between them bordering on pity.

“She didn’t tell you that, did she? Y/N lies about a lot more things than you think, Jeon. Where is she by the way? I’ve seen all her friends but I haven’t seen her.”

“Why would you know her friends?” It’s a stupid question but in the jumble of his thoughts it’s the only thing his mind is capable of plucking out. A question that doesn’t leave him bare and vulnerable like the other one’s racing through his head.

“We don’t have each other blocked on everything. Sometimes we talk,” Namjoon supplies easily. And just like that Jeongguk crumbles. He’s not even aware of it but the first crack spears deep enough to leave the rest of him unstable, wavering as he falters away from Namjoon. You never told him any of this. As far as Jeongguk knew you ended the relationship hating him (a thought that briefly consoled Jeongguk if he’s being truthful). But apparently, you felt comfortable enough to share your life with the person Jeongguk thought hurt you the most.

“Man, fuck you.” It’s a release, to say it. Because honestly fuck Kim Namjoon. In the span of a few short sentences he’s tipped everything he’s ever been sure of upside-down, stomped on Jeongguk’s heart like it was bendable and ducked his head right into the ocean he was afraid of diving it, keeping it under until the water filled his lungs and Jeongguk ceased to function.

Namjoon shrugs, not even looking as Jeongguk stumbles back to the door. He needs to find you, ask how much of Namjoon’s words were true. He doesn’t care if Eunwoo is over he’ll kick him out if need be.

But then Namjoon opens his mouth one more time, the final nail in the coffin.

“You should have asked her out. I was waiting for you to it — she was probably waiting too.”

[veliseraptor]

CQL Characters Rated by Their Stress Levels

On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being “Lan Wangji smiling at Wei Wuxian” and 10 being “Lan Xichen at Guanyin Temple.”

Lan Wangji: Varies wildly over the course of the series; see @howpeacefulislwj for detailed rundown. The roundup post averages his peacefulness at 4.2/10. Generally speaking, stress levels middling, between 3/10 and 5/10 with some extreme highs, pretty much all Wei Wuxian related.

Wei Wuxian: One of those people where you’re like “god I hate him, everything’s so easy for him and he can do everything better than me, it’s the worst, how the fuck does he do it” and then years later you find out that he had an epic burnout and dropped off the face of the earth for sixteen years because actually it wasn’t that easy he just made it look that way. 

I mean, he starts the series at about a 5/10 general state (he’s managing a lot but handling it okay) and basically escalates to a relatively consistent 9 or 10/10 for most of the stretch from the Burial Mounds through to his dying. Someone should make a @howpeacefuliswwx chart, I’d be curious to see his average.

Jiang Cheng: Has been existing in a constant low-level state of stress since late childhood and only grows over time. The calmest I think we ever see him is when he’s holding a bunny and other than that it’s mostly downhill. I worry about him getting ulcers sometimes. 8/10.

Jiang Yanli: Jiang Yanli is so used to being stressed that she barely even registers it any more. What do you mean, most people don’t raise two other children when they are also a child? What do you mean, most people take breaks from supporting others to help themselves? Weird. If she was thinking about it she’d be at a 8 or 9/10 but since she’s so accustomed to this way of life that it just feels totally normal she’s more like a 4 or a 5. 

Jiang Fengmian: Avoids being more stressed by generally avoiding his problems, which is one way to deal with it but doesn’t really end up working out most of the time. 3/10.

Yu Ziyuan: Resides somewhere in the vicinity of 5/10 stress levels, 11/10 rage levels, and when the stress levels get above 5 then everyone else’s stress levels better be hitting the roof.

Lan Xichen: Lan Xichen would probably be relatively unstressed if life didn’t consistently come crashing through his relatively chill vibes. Lan Xichen on a good day is, like, 3/10, handling pretty well, but when things start going wrong around him then he pretty quickly hits critical stress levels and will do drastic things to resolve that, such as convincing Nie Mingjue and Jin Guangyao to set aside their near-murder differences and swear brotherhood, which will definitely work out absolutely fine. Ends up averaging closer to 8/10 because things keep going wrong around him.

Lan Qiren: He’d be fine if his entire family didn’t insist on causing him problems, constantly. Handling it surprisingly well, all things considered. Still 6/10 though.

Nie Mingjue: I mean, does spend a large chunk of time steadily inching toward a qi deviation? That on its own is pretty stressful and also he just seems like generally a high blood pressure sort of person. But the qi deviation inducing saber is definitely not, like, helping. Putting him at a roughly 6 or 7/10 with a median level that just keeps inching slowly upward.

Nie Huaisang: Actually less stressed than you’d expect given how flighty he seems to be! Even when plotting revenge is less “stressed” than “determined.” Pretty good at keeping himself calm most of the time. Generally sits at a stress level of 4/10 or so with a few significant exceptions.

Jin Guangyao: Very stressed all of the time. He has a lot to be stressed about! Between the various complexes and the tendency toward paranoia, Jin Guangyao is definitely among the most stressed in a room at any given time, while doing his best to convey otherwise. But seriously, look at this smile. Does that look like the smile of a serene man to you? 10/10.

Jin Zixuan: You know those high-strung racehorses that sometimes get spooked by, like, a shadow on the ground? That’s Jin Zixuan. Mostly manages to mask his constant low-level “AHHHHH” with a layer of arrogance and/or social awkwardness that looks like arrogance, but it’s there, in the background. 7/10.

Jin Zixun: Shielded from the general Jin neuroses by being an asshole. It’s not fair, but there you are. 3/10 because he does seem to have some inferiority complex issues going on, but that’s not the same thing as stress.

Jin Guangshan: Deserves to be a lot more stressed than he is. Alas, is confident enough to not be terribly stressed. 2/10.

Mianmian: So you know how cheetahs are very panicky animals and so they often in zoos get paired with dogs who will help them figure out that this situation is safe and they don’t need to panic? I feel like Mianmian is Jin Zixuan’s stress meter in their friendship. She will let him know when to be stressed! Because she is not going to spook at her own shadow. Has a sense of reasonable responses to stressors and knows how to remove herself from a bad situation when necessary. Generally a 5/10 because the inherent stress of existing in the Jin Sect is a real thing. 

Wen Qing: It’s hard to be the most competent person in the room most of the time who spends most of her time in very politically precarious positions and with her or her brother’s life at least sort of in danger! Pretty up there for “most stressed” candidates. She’s really having a time of it. Generally hovers around an 8/10.

Wen Ning: Generally not stressed, at least not in the traditional way. Is distressed a lot, but not so much stressed. Ends up at roughly 4/10.

Wen Chao: Like Jin Zixun, gets somewhat shielded from stress by being an unrepentant asshole, though his end of life 11/10 stress via Wei Wuxian kind of makes up for the rest. Averages more of a 2/10 most of the time, though? I don’t think we can let that relatively brief period skew the scale too much.

Wen Ruohan: Does “magic induced losing your mind” count as stress? I mean, he has a pretty stressful job even before that, but he doesn’t project “stress” so much as “incipient madness” during the period where we actually see him doing things. Not sure what rating to give here. It seems like he’s kind of on a different scale.

Wang Lingjao: For the most part seems to manage to get by relatively stress-free, up until things start going completely to shit and she gets haunted to death. Generally closer to a 2 or 3/10, because life as a servant ascended to mistress in a strictly hierarchical society is inherently a wee bit stressful.

Wen Zhuliu: Too sick of this shit and not getting paid enough to really stress out about it. 1/10.

Lan Sizhui: One of those people who manages to appear serene and calm all the time but mostly has just gotten used to functioning at a higher level of stress and therefore can pass for calm even when he is having an Experience of it, which makes his stress levels kind of hard to gauge. But I’d put him at a relatively consistent 6/10.

Lan Jingyi: Wouldn’t call him stressed exactly but he’s definitely very high energy. Kind of gives off the vibes of a very energetic dog who would be stressed if you didn’t keep him busy, but mostly (because I feel like Gusu Lan Sect is pretty good at keeping him busy) hovers around a 2 or 3/10. 

Jin Ling: I feel like Jin Ling isn’t stressed most of the time up until the actual events of CQL itself, where he is both very stressed and very confused almost constantly from the time he first runs into Wei Xuanyu, and it only goes downhill from there. So covering the events of the show I’m going to put him at a 7/10, because he does manage to deal with some wild things with some equanamity and makes it all the way to episode forty-five without breaking down sobbing.

Ouyang Zizhen: Seems like a sensitive soul but doesn’t give off the impression of carrying around a lot of stress, at least not from what we see of him. Probably the chillest of the junior quartet, tbh. Gonna give him a 2/10.

Xiao Xingchen: For most of his life Xiao Xingchen manages his stress very well! He’s actually surprisingly chill. Gets significantly more stressed, understandably, after Xue Yang engineers his no good very bad breakup (the first one) with Song Lan. But in general not that stressed! It is actually part of why he doesn’t handle the stress when it comes very well. He’s not used to it and he only had one pair of eyes to sacrifice. In general a 3/10.

Song Lan: Makes up for Xiao Xingchen’s relatively low stress levels by picking up on the stress for both of them. Still chiller than a lot of people on this list, though, but there’s a lot of very stressed people in this show, so. 5/10.

Xue Yang: Manages his stress by making everyone else very stressed, on purpose. If he’s having a bad day he’ll go and make someone else have a worse day and it helps. At least until there’s a dead Xiao Xingchen and then nothing helps! But as a rule exists at a general 2/10 and honestly he deserves it.

A-Qing: Her life is inherently stressful because she is a street kid trying to make it in a world that is not very friendly to people with no structure supporting them, but she manages to bear it pretty well on the whole. Still, it’s hard being a-Qing. She just makes it look easy. Probably a 4 or 5/10.

Sect Leader Yao: He’s not stressed, but he’s very good at making everyone around him stressed every time he opens his mouth. His presence is a +2 to stress for everyone in his vicinity with the exception of Sect Leader Ouyang, who is for some reason immune. 0/10.

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part One

Nessian Modern AU

Summary: Nesta Archeron isn't good with change. When her car breaks down in the middle of a storm and her sister sends one of her friends to pick her up, Nesta thinks there could be nothing worse than having to spend the night with a total stranger. Until she suddenly finds herself without an apartment. Despite only a night of knowing Nesta, Cassian is quick to offer her a room in his cabin free of charge, and Nesta, broke and without many social contacts, has no choice but to accept.

A/N: This fic is loosely inspired by @lady-therion 's fic Close Quarters. I couldn't stop thinking about Nesta and Cassian sitting in front of a fire, slowly getting to know each other, so this fic is a whole lot of that :) There's no strict plot structure to this so I'm not sure how long it's gonna be, but expect warm and fuzzy content in the beginning. Enjoy!

Masterlist

***

Cassian is in bed when he gets the text.

Feyre: hey i know it's late but i need you to do a huuuge favor for me

Feyre: i really hope you're not asleep yet

Cassian furrows his brows in concern, immediately thumbing back a text.

Cass: what's wrong?

Feyre takes a long minute to type back; wind howls and rain thrashes against his window while he waits. A long message finally appears.

Feyre: you know the shortcut through the woods off of main st? my sister's car broke down there and there's no 24/7 towing around. im all the way in velaris and won't be able to get there for another two hours, but i dont want her waiting in the woods in the middle of the night like murder bait. she's too proud to ask for help, but if you could go and pick her up that would mean a lot to me, please.

At the last sentence, Cassian immediately knows which sister Feyre is talking about. He glances out his window and curses under his breath. It's storming hell outside, and Nesta Archeron is sitting in a broken car in the middle of the woods somewhere.

He's already grabbed his keys and stuffed his feet into shoes when he realizes he never answered Feyre's text. He types out a short on my way and heads out the front door of the cabin, assaulted by rain and wind before he's even fully outside.

Cassian follows the location Feyre sends him, what should be a five minute drive taking almost fifteen in the storm.

Cassian has interacted with the oldest Archeron sister maybe twice in his three years of knowing Feyre. Once for an initial family meeting, where she gave a terse hello upon introduction to Cassian and his friends, before ignoring everybody for the rest of the dinner, and another time when he accidentally bumped into her as she was leaving Feyre's apartment. He remembers apologizing profusely, only to be given a weird look before she turned and left.

In summary, Cassian knows enough about Nesta to know that this won't be the most fun task he's ever been given. Still, he isn’t about to leave any woman rotting on the side of an empty road at this hour, in this weather.

There’s so much rain that he almost misses the car. His headlights catch on a lump of metal, and he slowly brings the truck to a stop. Throwing the gear in park, Cassian flips his hood over his head and runs out into the rain.

She’s already waiting for him when he reaches the car, standing in the freezing rain in nothing but a drenched sweater and jeans.

His first real words to Nesta Archeron come out surprisingly easy: “What the hell are you doing here?” he yells over the torrent.

“Making sure you could see me,” she shouts back. “You drive like a blind dog!”

Whatever Cassian says back gets lost in the rain, but soon he's ushering Nesta over to his truck and slamming the passenger door shut behind her. He returns to the driver's seat, Nesta audibly shuddering beside him.

He flips the air vents blowing hot air towards her. “You should’ve stayed in the car.”

Even soaked and freezing, Nesta summons up the energy to glare. “So you could run me over with your truck? No, thanks.”

“That’s an overreaction.”

Nesta doesn’t bother to reply. Silence fills the truck for a couple of minutes as Cassian tries to maneuver them out of the small backroad, carefully turning back for his cabin. There’s no way he can get Nesta back to her place tonight, and he suspects his phone notifications are already full of flash flood warnings.

Finally, he says, “I’m Cassian, by the way.”

Nesta looks at him like he’s stupid. “I know who you are.”

That takes him a little by surprise, but he only murmurs, “Okay, then.” He wonders how much Feyre told her sister about how this was going to go.

“We’re getting my car picked up first thing tomorrow,” Nesta says into the silence, “and Feyre will take me home so you don’t have to bother yourself.”

“It’s not a bother,” he responds a little too quickly. She only gives him another weird look, like she’s judging him to hell and back, and Cassian decides to quit speaking forever.

By the grace of some higher power, the drive back is faster than the drive to. The pounding of rain only gets heavier as Cassian pulls up to the house, until it becomes an unmistakable thunk. Nesta’s eyes shoot to the roof of the car. “What’s that,” she says sharply. Everything she says is sharp; he wonders if she does it consciously or not.

Another thunk hits the car, this time the windshield. Cassian sighs deeply at the ice assaulting the truck from all sides. “Hail,” he says, resigned with this whole night.

He and Nesta end up making another mad dash to the door, trying not to get hit by increasingly larger chunks of ice as they go. Nesta has a backpack that she holds close to her chest instead of using for protection from the hail, as if it’s a baby.

Once safely inside the cabin, she doesn’t let go of her grip on her bag as she looks around his home. “Nice place,” she breathes, eyeing the exposed wooden beams and towering glass windows. An iron-wrought chandelier lights up the main living area they’re in, lightning occasionally casting twisted shadows across the walls.

Cassian almost apologizes for it, before deciding that apologizing for having too nice of a house is one of those things that would earn him another weird look from Nesta. “Bathrooms are that way,” he says instead, pointing down the main hall. “I can get you some dry clothes…”

She’s already nodding sharply and heading for the bathroom, leaving Cassian to stand awkwardly in the entryway, soaked to the bone in the same sweats he was about to go to sleep in just an hour ago.

Upstairs, after changing into blissfully dry clothes, it takes Cassian a good five minutes to decide which of his shirts will work best for Nesta’s slim figure.

When he finally returns downstairs with sweats four times Nesta’s size, she snatches them out of his hands without a word and slams the bathroom door shut on his face. He stands there a moment longer, nods resolutely, and heads for the kitchen to whip up a hot beverage. Cassian has a feeling he won’t be getting any sleep tonight.

A couple of minutes later, Nesta appears in the kitchen doorway, looking hesitant and absolutely dwarfed in Cassian’s gray sweats. Somehow, she’s made the pants work, likely by rolling them up a hundred times.

Cassian’s eyes widen for a moment, realizing this is the longest look he’s gotten at Nesta since… well, since he first met her.

He remembers thinking she was stunning at that initial dinner at Feyre’s house all those years ago, but damn, he must have forgotten just how much. Because even messy and rumpled, Cassian can’t stop staring at her.

Nesta breaks the silence first. “Is that hot chocolate?” The hard edge has mostly left her voice, like the warm clothes have soothed her frayed nerves from the car ride.

“Um.” Cassian glances down at the steaming mug in his hands. “Yeah. You want some?” he offers before he can check himself.

Nesta further surprises him by nodding, tucking her sweater paws under her armpits. The position would look vulnerable and reserved on most people, but on her it’s just another fortification to her stiff demeanor. Cassian slides his mug over the marble island to her before starting on another drink for himself.

Feeling an urge to fill the silence while he works, Cassian babbles, “The guest rooms are upstairs. You can have your choice, but the master bedroom is mine, obviously.” He pours melted chocolate into a mug and grabs for cinnamon.

Nesta watches him move with her unnerving hawk eyes and nods slowly, taking careful sips from her mug. “I think I’m going to stay up and study for my midterms,” she finally responds. “You mind if I use your fancy living room?”

Cassian almost smiles at that. “The whole house is fancy,” he says. “But yeah, go for it.”

He’s surprised at how nice this feels. Not that having Feyre’s scary older sister over isn’t weird for him, but… having another presence in the cabin, especially at this late hour— it’s warm where Cassian’s nights are usually cold.

***

It’s past two in the morning when Nesta finally glances up from her laptop screen, eyes bleary and unable to take in another word of theoretical law. She’s rubbing her hands down her face when a sudden clap of thunder booms outside the cabin windows, making her nearly fall off the couch. “Christ,” she swears, unconsciously curling into herself.

“Scared of thunder?”

Nesta internalizes her surprise at the unexpected voice and glances up to see Cassian coming down the stairs, looking as awake as he did when he went to bed over an hour ago. Nesta becomes terribly aware of the state she’s in and has to fight to maintain her composure.

She peeled off Cassian’s oversized sweatpants as soon as he went upstairs, not having been able to take a step without almost tripping, and made up for the coldness of her bare legs by dragging the fur throw off the back of his leather couch and using it as a blanket.

“That's usually for decoration, you know.” Cassian gestures at the thick fur.

Embarrassment claws up her throat, for coming into this strange man’s house and taking his nice things and using them incorrectly. Her first instinct is to apologize, but the only thing she hates more than embarrassment is the word sorry. “I thought you were asleep,” she says instead.

Cassian only shakes his head as he takes a seat on the far end of the couch. “Sleep and I aren't friends tonight. I was thinking about watching a movie, but if you're still studying—”

Nesta quickly shuts her laptop, shaking her head. “I was just about to go upstairs,” she says, packing her things into her backpack. Despite the day she’s had and how heavy her eyelids are, she knows she won’t be able to sleep with the sporadic thunder still booming. She wants to ask Cassian if he has noise-canceling earplugs, but the last thing she wants is to inconvenience him further.

The fur throw slips off her as she stands, revealing her bare legs. She might be wearing the largest, least sexy sweater of all time, so she doesn’t know why she suddenly feels naked in front of Cassian. Risking a glance at the man himself, he only takes his eyes off the TV remote in his hand to say, “You can leave the pants behind if you don’t need them.”

Right. She neatly folded his sweats as soon as she took them off earlier, and now they sit patiently on the coffee table.

“It gets a little drafty at night,” Cassian adds, “but I stocked your room with blankets. It’s the second door on the left; I hope you don’t mind that I chose for you.”

Nesta distantly remembers him saying she could have her pick of bedroom. “I don’t care,” she says honestly. “But— thanks.” She clasps her bag to her chest and shuffles towards the stairs, only stopping at the foot of them when she remembers not to be rude. “Goodnight,” she calls out awkwardly, trying not to race up the stairs as she hears him say goodnight back.

Cassian’s cabin is without a doubt gorgeous, but Nesta still feels a little shock of surprise when she finds her designated room. Decked out with a four-poster bed and floor-to-ceiling windows, it’s nicer than any place Nesta’s ever stayed in before.

A bright flash of lightning fills the room, and Nesta’s shoulders immediately bunch up to her ears— the preparation doesn’t make the ensuing clap of thunder any less heart-thumping. Withholding a weary sigh, she moves to draw the thick curtains over the windows, hoping to add a barrier between herself and the storm. It’s going to be a long night.

***

The next morning, Nesta dials Feyre’s number for the third time, growing more irritated by the second. It’s eight a.m., but Feyre is supposed to be picking Nesta up before noon so she can take her car in and return home to her shitty basement apartment.

Finally, the line clicks. “Hello?” a groggy voice drawls over the phone.

“When are you coming?” Nesta demands.

“Uh, what?” Feyre still sounds like she’s waking up. Nesta could hiss.

“You promised you’d be here first thing today, Feyre. I can’t hang around at your friend’s place all day. I want to wear my own clothes and use my own toothbrush.”

“Oh, that,” Feyre says. “Listen, can you just have Cassian take you home?”

“Feyre—”

“I know you hate interacting with strangers, but he’s one of my best friends. It’s a two-hour drive up to the mountains, Nesta,” she speaks as if she’s trying to reason with a kindergartener.

Frustration boils up in Nesta, feelings that she’s in too much disbelief to put words to right now. Her jaw works, and all she ends up spitting is, “You promised.”

“You’re being dramatic. I’m going back to sleep now, call me when you get home safe.” Over the line, Nesta can hear mumbling— probably Feyre’s boyfriend waking up.

Nesta has to hang up before she says something she’ll be made to regret. Her fingers are bone-white around her phone, and she releases a restrained shriek before flinging her phone at the bed.

Still pissed but just a little mollified after the release of energy, Nesta takes a deep breath and heads downstairs to get breakfast.

Cassian is in the kitchen when she enters, sipping from a cup of coffee and watching another one brew in the coffee maker. His eyes are ringed with tired circles, proving he got about as much sleep as Nesta did the night before, but he seems content. She doesn’t miss his quick glance at her still-bare legs before his eyes flick up to her. “Good morning,” he offers with a quiet smile.

Nesta didn’t know Cassian was capable of such quietness— it’s a stark difference from how he is with Feyre and his friends, and maybe the nicest surprise she’s received since this shitty weekend began.

She cuts straight to it. “Feyre’s not coming,” she says, trying to gauge how he’ll react to this new inconvenience. “She told me to let you take me home.”

“I know,” is all Cassian says. His brow furrows when he sees her obvious disappointment. “She called me last night. Didn’t she tell you?”

Nesta’s hands curl under the long sleeves of Cassian’s sweatshirt, but she only shakes her head once. She’s distantly aware that she’s overreacting about a simple car ride, but nothing can take away her discomfort at asking favors from people she barely knows.

Not knowing how to continue the conversation, she says stiffly, “I want to wear my own clothes again.” Is that a good addition to the discussion? She genuinely can’t remember the last time she interacted with a man for non-work related purposes.

Cassian’s eyes light up and he sets down his coffee. “That reminds me, I put your clothes through the laundry this morning. They might still be warm from the dryer.”

Nesta wants to sag in relief at the first good news she’s gotten all morning. She follows Cassian’s directions to the laundry room and almost hugs her neatly folded clothes. While she changes into her clothes from the night before, she makes a list of today’s activities in her head:

1) Eat breakfast. Keep it quick and keep interactions with Cassian to a minimum, but don’t seem ungrateful.

2) Drive to her ancient rustbucket of a car. Make sure it’s okay after the hail and call the towing company.

3) Let Cassian drop her home.

4) Return to her room and not leave for a week.

Nesta sighs as her blue sweater settles around her frame. Only four tasks; it’s achievable enough.

Her first task is relatively easy. She wishes Cassian wouldn’t talk so much, because sometimes she doesn’t know what to say in return, but she also finds that she likes what she has to say. His opinion on the horror movie he watched last night doesn’t make her want to crawl out of the nearest window.

Cassian keeps breakfast short and gets them in the car by nine. It’s only after they’ve dialed a tow truck and Cassian kindly withholds judgment at Nesta’s faded blue lump of metal she calls a car that she gets the call.

It’s from her tenant, or rather, the nice elderly lady who lets Nesta live in her basement-turned-apartment.

“Lorene?” Nesta answers, confused.

“Oh, hun,” the woman answers, and from the sympathy in her voice, Nesta tenses up. “I headed downstairs this morning to check for mold and the rain...the whole basement’s flooded. There must have been a leak or something wrong with the entrance door, but I tried to grab as many of your things before I left.”

Nesta closes her eyes. Presses a forceful hand to her chest and tries to take calming breaths. “O-okay,” she says. “What does that mean, what do I do next?”

Cassian gives her a concerned look from where he leans against his truck. She ignores him.

“I’m getting the basement cleaned out and fixed as soon as I can, but the water damage looks pretty bad. The floors are probably gonna have to be replaced, and I don't know if insurance will cover this.”

She thinks of all her books and valuables in that apartment, taken out by the storm last night.

“You're going to have to find a new place to stay, hun. Most likely for a while.”

Nesta is on the verge of full-out panicking, but the last thing she needs is to have a breakdown in front of Feyre’s best friend. She clenches her fist so hard it hurts, and the bite of her nails takes away the sharp edge of her panic.

She breathes deep, but finally says, “I can do that.” She doesn't know if she can.

After a few more apologies from Lorene, Nesta finally hangs up, only to turn and brace her hands against the roof of her car.

“Everything alright?” Cassian asks slowly.

She needs a place to stay. Her mind works rapidly, going through the short, short list of people she might be able to ask for a bed to sleep on. Coming up empty, she moves on to the next option: motels.

Does she even have the money—?

“Nesta?” Cassian repeats. “What's going on?”

“I’m fine,” she says out loud, still not facing him. “I just need to break the bank a little and find a new place to stay, but it’ll be fine.”

“Find a new place to stay? What do you mean?” A light hand touches her elbow, and she whirls around in alarm. Cassian holds his hands up in placation. “Sorry, sorry,” he says.

Red-hot embarrassment creeps up Nesta’s cheeks. She’s losing it in front of this completely nice stranger—

She reins herself in, tries to remember things like common sense and social etiquette. “It’s okay,” she breathes out. “It’s really nothing. My apartment got flooded during the storm and I need to find a place to stay, and I’m upset, but I’ll get over it.” She nods resolutely, like the grown adult she is. Like she can afford to fix her car and pay for lodging at the same time.

Cassian considers her silently for a long moment, and Nesta thinks he must still be freaked out by her near-breakdown, when he finally says, “Well, you can always stay at my place.”

Her eyes might pop out of her head. “What? No. No.”

“Why not?” He turns hesitant. “Unless you have somewhere else to stay?”

Nesta’s silence is answer enough. She sees his gaze flip from questioning to determined and rushes to change his mind. “I won’t do that to you— I hate asking for favors and I hate making people go out of their way for me even more.” She sounds so forceful it comes off as harsh, which is all the better for convincing Cassian not to make her stay at his cabin.

“I have a feeling you hate a lot of things, Nesta.” He doesn’t back down. “You’re Feyre’s sister; the least I can offer you is free lodging.” After a moment, he adds, “Please.”

Nesta wants to laugh; he’s pleading with her to let her invade his home life. All because she’s Feyre’s sister. The reasoning leaves a bitter taste in her throat, but she doesn’t have the energy to argue with it. Not as the tow truck finally appears at the end of the road, driving up towards them. Cassian only looks at her. Decide now, he says silently.

Nesta exhales deeply through her nose. “Fine,” she grits. So much for getting through the day with her sanity unscathed.

***

Part Two

tagging: @ladywitchling @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla

[jay4firefic]

Last Train Home

Summary: When a train crashes just outside of LA, Buck doesn’t expect to find his ex-fiance Kelly Severide searching the wreckage for Shay. And this close to the anniversary of Andy Darden’s death - the event that broke them both, and their relationship with them - he’s not willing to stand by and watch any more old friends die. 3x18 rewrite for anon.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Pacific West 1135 from Phoenix to LA has derailed somewhere near the LA County line. Whatever your mass casualty protocol is, activate it. I need fire and rescue, USAR, local PD - everyone you can send, as fast as you can send them.”

“I’ll call them now. It seems like you’ve done this before.”

“I’m a firefighter out of Chicago. Dealt with a train crash before. Look, I’m going back in--”

“Sir, I need you to stay on the line. Help is on the way.”

“Help’s gonna be too late for a lot of these people.”

Click.

------

Buck dozes restlessly for most of the hour long ride to the county line, jerking awake every time Mason hits a pothole or flips the sirens on to speed through traffic. He’s exhausted, has barely slept in days, because every time dreams pull him under he sees a wall of fire rushing toward him and a burning body on the floor. He knows from experience that the rest of the week will be just as bad. 

Four years and the anniversary of Darden’s death hasn’t gotten any damn easier.

“Hey, Buckaroo,” Hen calls through the headset, her hand on his knee. When Buck cracks his eyes open he can see her leaning toward him in the darkness of the cab. “You alright? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“Am I supposed to be cracking jokes on the way to a mass casualty?” he asks, and regrets it immediately. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m fine, Hen, just having a bad day.”

She opens her mouth as if to speak again, Eddie leaning in on Buck’s other side to eye him with concern, only to be cut off when the truck shudders to a stop in the dirt. Buck is first out the door just to get away from those looks. He stops dead just outside and doesn’t move until Eddie runs into his back.

The headlights of the trucks and a few hastily set up flood lights are the only thing illuminating the scene outside, throwing deep shadows and obscuring a good chunk of the wreckage. It still looks like something that belongs on a film set rather than in real life. Twisted plastic and metal litter the ground, smoke is pouring out of one of the train cars, and even in the darkness Buck can see bodies - pieces of them, at least - scattered in every direction.

“Jesus,” Buck breathes, while Eddie mutters what might be a curse or might be a prayer in Spanish beside him. A moment later they turn in unison at the sound of Bobby’s voice.

“Buck, Eddie, go have a look. See if there’s a way to secure that car so we can get those people out.”

Buck nods jerkily as he moves away to pull the rest of his gear on and picks his way across the debris field in Eddie’s wake, trying not to look too hard at what’s under his feet. He’s seen more than his fair share of mass casualties before - the earthquake, the tsunami - but he’s always been in the middle of them, experiencing it right alongside the victims. Something about showing up to pick up the pieces after the worst of it is over hits him differently. 

He’s shaken enough that he doesn’t even register the shouting at first. A man’s voice, hoarse and desperate, raised above the more measured tones of another pair of firefighters. He would have walked right past if Eddie hadn’t led them toward the scuffle.

“Get out of my goddamn way, I need to get back into that car!”

Eddie steps forward, lets the other guys escape back to doing the real work of saving people. Buck lingers several feet behind him to continue surveying the precariously tilted train car, but no matter what angle he looks at it from one thing is clear. There’s no good way in. Not without risking the whole thing coming down on them.

“Sir, I’m sorry. We can’t let you inside. It’s too dangerous.”

“I know it’s dangerous, I’m a fucking firefighter. I need to get into that car. My girl is in there.”

“I hear you,” Eddie says, hands extended and voice level. There’s something so familiar about the other voice that Buck finally glances over his shoulder at the argument. “I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” the man stumbles forward in the dark, grabbing Eddie’s sleeve. The light finally catches the silver in his hair, the piercing blue of his eyes, the blood dripping down his face from a ragged cut across his brow. Buck would recognize that face anywhere. “Are you from the 118?”

“Yeah,” Eddie replies, voice full of confusion, as Buck’s voice cracks around a soft cry of, “Kelly?” 

Kelly’s gaze snaps to him immediately, eyes going wide as Buck pulls off his helmet and turns toward the light. “Buck?”

And suddenly Buck’s feet are moving without his consent and the handful of yards between them have disappeared. His gloves are off and his hands are cupping Kelly’s stubble-roughened cheeks before his brain catches up with his body, and by then it’s too late. He inspects the cut on Kelly’s brow, the way he’s cradling his left arm across his torso at an implausible angle, and barely even sees the strange look Eddie is giving him in his peripheral vision. “You were on the train? Why the hell aren’t you collared and backboarded?”

“I’m fine,” Kelly bites out. He shakes Buck’s hands off and tries to push past him, hissing in pain when their shoulders collide. 

“Kelly, we need to get you checked out.”

“No, I’m fine. I need to get back up there. I need--”

“That’s crazy. No, no, Kelly, stop.” Buck hauls Kelly back by his good shoulder, forces him to sit on a nearby piece of rubble. The fact that it’s so easy to move him is proof enough that he shouldn’t be going anywhere. 

“Shay is still in there!” Kelly’s voice breaks as he tries to gain his feet again only to wobble and sit down heavily. Clearly concussed, and still too stubborn to stop trying to be the hero. “Shay is still--”

Buck sucks in a sharp breath and feels his heart rate spike with panic. Shay is still in there. Shay is still in there. Andy died four years ago this week and Shay is still in there. “Where were you?” he manages to ask around the lump in his throat.

“We were in the top car, all the way in the back.” Kelly uses his good arm to point to the upended train car, because of course that’s where they were. The only person Buck has ever met with worse luck than himself is Kelly Severide. “She fell asleep. I went to get a drink, and…”

“We’ll find her.” Buck looks up at the groaning slab of metal and glass and swallows back bile. “Eddie and I will find her, alright? But you have to stay here.”

“Hell no--”

“Kel, if you go into that train you’re going to end up another victim we have to rescue. And every second I spend pulling your ass out of the wreckage will be another second Shay isn’t getting help. I’m going to find her. I’m going to bring her back to you. But you need to stay here, alright?” When Kelly keeps fighting him, Buck plays dirty. He smacks Kelly’s shoulder - dislocated, he’s pretty sure - and watches all of the color drain out of his face. “Stay here. I’ll find her.”

Kelly’s glare might frighten someone else - is enough to have Eddie stepping up to Buck’s shoulder to back him up - but Buck knows better. He crosses his arms and glares back and when Buck doesn’t back down Kelly finally folds, nodding his head and then wincing when it clearly pains him. Buck is already starting to turn away when Kelly catches his sleeve and somehow, the look on his face when Buck glances back at him is worse than the glare. Raw and painful and scared like Buck has only seen him a few times. 

“If you can’t get her out…”

“We’re going to get her out.”

“Evan,” Kelly says, low and desperate. “If you can’t get her out, tell her I love her, okay? Tell her I love her.”

Buck tugs his sleeve free of Kelly’s grasp and shakes his head stubbornly. “I’m going to get her out.”

------

“So, Kelly, huh?” 

Buck knows Eddie is just looking for something to distract them both from crawling over dead bodies to get into the crumpled train car. He just wishes Eddie would pick literally any other topic. Instead of answering he keys his radio, reports, “two black tags at the entrance to the car.”

“Is that the Kelly I’m thinking of, Buck?”

“My ex-fiance Kelly?” Buck replies, because there’s no way he’s getting out of this conversation no matter how much he doesn’t want to have it. “Yep. That’s Kelly.”

“You didn’t tell me he was…”

“A guy? Yeah, well, I didn’t tell you a lot of things, Eds.” His bitter laugh comes out breathless as he starts climbing the seats like the world’s most awkward ladder. There’s another lifeless body halfway up the car - Eddie stops to confirm her obvious death while Buck keeps going, dragging himself a few awkward inches at a time up toward the cascade of blonde hair barely visible at the top of the car. “Shay? Shay, is that you?!”

A pained groan echoes through the train and one of the pale hands hanging over the edge of the furthest seat twitches. Buck’s heart is in his throat as he scrambles up the last few feet to brace himself between a steel beam and a half-crushed seat, reminding himself all the while that it might not be her. It might not be her. But--

It is.

Buck sags with relief as Shay lifts her head to look at him, blinking hard when her eyes won’t seem to focus. “Buck?”

“Hey, Shay.” Buck nearly sobs, covers it with a shaky laugh as Eddie approaches. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a dump like this?”

“Dunno.” She looks around as much as she can without moving her head, her eyes widening as she takes in Buck, scraped and covered in grime already, and the disaster behind him. “Shit.”

“Yeah. How are you feeling?” Buck takes one of her hands in his and is relieved when she winds her fingers through his. He yanks the glove off of his other hand with his teeth and checks the pulse in her neck - it’s racing, and he doesn’t like the sound of her breathing. He tries not to look at the way Eddie is frowning as he climbs behind Shay to inspect what’s keeping her pinned.

“Hurts when I breathe,” she replies, squeezing his hand weakly. “You sure I’m not dead?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

“Weird. Could swear I’m looking at the face of an angel.” There’s blood on her teeth when she smiles, and her eyes still won’t focus on his face, but Buck grins anyway. A moment later it melts off his face when her expression turns to panic. “Kelly--”

“Is fine,” Buck cuts her off. “Busted his arm and he’s gonna need a few stitches, but he’s fine, okay? We’re worrying about you right now. Eddie?”

Eddie grimaces as he slides back down to lean against the seats on the other side of the aisle. He thumbs his radio, speaking to Buck and Bobby at the same time. “Cap, we got a passenger up here. Looks like the support beam from the observation deck broke through the floor. Need you to send up the jaws.”

“Copy that,” Bobby’s voice crackles through both of their radios. “Coming right up.”

The waiting is always the worst part. Shay’s breathing is labored and uneven, her eyes taking longer and longer to open between each blink. Buck cups her jaw and rubs his thumb across her cheek until the forces herself to look at him again, asks, “What the hell are you two doing on a train in Los Angeles anyway?”

“Andy loved trains,” Shay mumbles, leaning her head heavily into his palm. She doesn’t seem to notice the way Buck flinches at Andy’s name, but Eddie sure as hell does. “Kelly found this old list - bucket list, that they made when they joined CFD. Kid stuff, y’know? Buy a motorcycle, marry a beautiful woman, hike the Grand Canyon...we decided to check some things off the list.”

“The train was coming from Arizona.” Buck only remembers bits and snatches of Bobby’s briefing as they had all piled into the truck, but just like always it’s the random pieces of trivia that get stuck in his mind. “Let me guess, Grand Canyon?”

“It’s very grand.” Shay coughs - wheezes, really, because she can’t get enough breath in to do anything more. Buck is pretty sure her ribs are busted, among other things, but as long as the beam is pinning her to the seat it’s impossible to confirm. 

“What’s next?” Buck asks, sending a panicked glance toward Eddie when her eyes drift closed again. He can hear someone climbing up below them, hopefully bringing the requested equipment, and sends up a prayer to a God he long ago stopped believing in that it’s soon enough to save her. “What’s next, Shay? Marry a beautiful woman? We’ve got plenty of those in LA.”

Shay shakes her head without opening her eyes. And fuck, her lips are turning blue. “Hollywood Walk of Fame. Surfing in California. Then Mexico.”

“Hey.” The seat Buck is braced against shudders as Bobby uses it to haul himself up the last few feet. “Take this, Buck. Eddie, what’s going on?”

“Think she might have a collapsed lung from the blunt force,” Eddie replies as Buck releases Shay and scrambles to get the jaws in position. “I can relieve the pressure, but we gotta move the beam off her.”

Buck growls in frustration as the jaws shudder and fail to make any progress toward that goal. “Still too heavy, Cap. It’s not gonna budge.”

“Alright. Let’s try the hydraulic ram.”

Buck braces his feet against the seats and grunts as he takes the heavy piece of equipment from Bobby and jams it into the space between the upturned floor and the beam. He determinedly doesn’t pay attention to the way Shay’s head has sagged forward against the seat again, or how Eddie is frowning at the O2 sensor he just slipped onto her finger, his mutter of, “Oxygen levels are dropping. Definitely a collapsed lung.” All he can do is move the damn beam.

With the horrible sound of warping metal, the thing finally starts to move. Shay takes a deeper breath as the pressure holding her against the seat begins to relax - and then the screaming starts. Buck stops the ram before Bobby’s shouts even register, watches Eddie and Bobbie drop down a few seats, and has maybe the most selfish thought he’s ever had in his life. He wishes there was no one else alive up here, because every second they spend treating someone else is a second they aren’t rescuing Shay.

Buck closes his eyes, tries to breathe through the panic as Eddie announces the girl’s broken leg, the fact that it’s still receiving blood flow, over the horrible wet background noise of Shay’s breaths becoming more labored. It takes all of his willpower to put his back to Shay and move down to meet them halfway between the victims, and when he speaks his voice comes out hoarse and breathless. “What’s going on?”

“They’re both trapped by the same beam,” Bobby announces, and Buck’s heart drops into his stomach. “We take the pressure off one and we’re squeezing the other. Which one has the better shot?”

Eddie glances up at Buck once before shaking his head. “Injuries are different, the risk is the same.”

“Wait, what are we saying?” Breathe, Buck reminds himself. Nothing is decided yet. Shay is still getting out of here, she has to get out of here alive. “We gotta pick who to save?”

Bobby looks at him pityingly and Buck is pretty sure his heart stops beating for a second. “I’m saying I don’t think we can save ‘em both.”

“Fuck.” Buck slams his fist against the nearest seat.

“Look,” Bobby says, holding one hand up placatingly while balancing himself with the other. “We’re gonna give them both some pain meds and try to figure this out, okay? We’re not giving up yet. But we have to be prepared.”

Buck nods mutely while Eddie reaches for his bag, climbs back up to Shay so that Eddie can get past with a handful of medical supplies. He takes one of her hands and watches as Eddie pulls his gloves off and then takes the other, looking for a vein in the light of his helmet lamp and making a small triumphant noise when he finds one. “You’re gonna feel a little pinch.”

Shay lets out a shaky exhale that might be a weak attempt at laughter. “Not my biggest concern right now, buddy.”

“I know,” Eddie replies. He gets the needle in on the first try and pushes the painkillers only moments later. “Alright, Shay. This is for the pain. It should hit you pretty soon.”

“I sure as hell hope so.” If she’s got energy to be snarky Buck has to believe she’s got the energy to hang on a little while longer, even if she can’t really lift her head anymore.

“Keep her talking,” Eddie commands as he passes Buck on his way back down to the other woman. Buck determinedly doesn’t listen to Eddie’s low conversation with Bobby and the victim, doesn’t want to know what her chances are because if they’re good it means Shay’s aren’t.

“It’s her...or me, isn’t it?” Shay wheezes, managing to roll her head to the side and watch Buck’s face. Her eyes are dull and tired beneath a tangle of bloody blonde hair, almost resigned.

“No,” Buck says, with more confidence than he feels. She just smiles sadly as he reaches up to brush the hair out of her face - she’s always been able to see right through him. “No, that’s not what we do. Tell me about your trip.”

“God, I missed you, kid,” she says instead, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “Every day. He does too, you know?”

“I know,” Buck replies, even though he doesn’t. If Kelly had really missed him all these years it would have been easy enough to fly out to LA and tell him that, or even just call him - everyone at 51 knew where he was the whole damn time. Hell, Kelly even knew what house he’s with. He’s spared from having to listen to Shay insist by Bobby’s grunt. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, I’m calling it,” Bobby says as soon as Buck has joined their little huddle. “We start with this girl, we get her out.”

“Copy that,” Eddie says, like it’s any other order on any other day, while Buck’s world collapses beneath him.

“No!” He feels sick. He feels dizzy. Andy died four years ago this week and Shay is being crushed by a beam right in front of his eyes and… “No, it’s gonna crush Shay’s other lung. She’ll die.”

“I am aware of that. The protocol dictates that we save whoever has the better chance, and Eddie’s saying that’s the girl.”

“No.” Buck can’t wrap his brain around the concept of a world without Leslie Shay in it. He hasn’t seen her in over three damn years, but she’s always been there on the other end of the phone - sending him pictures of Kelly and the stupid cat he still pretends to hate, updating him on the latest gossip from 51, asking when he’s going to come home. What the hell is he going to do without someone to remind him that he’s always got a home to go back to, no matter how bad things might get in LA? 

“Her vitals are stronger, Shay’s starting to decompensate. If we have to choose--”

“We do,” Bobby interjects. “We can’t move that steel beam.”

Buck has his mouth open to argue when the whole train car shudders and tilts. He grabs onto the nearest seatback and risks a glance over his shoulder at Shay, at the way her shoulders are shuddering with every inhale, at the blood on her lips, at the knowing look in her eyes. “Okay,” he says, “okay, you’re right. We can’t move the beam. But the skin on this thing, the skin is stainless. That’s much thinner. I could go outside, I could cut a piece out, pull the girl through, and that will buy us enough time to save Shay.”

“No.” Bobby’s frustration is clear - he thinks Buck is wasting time. And maybe he is, but he’s trying to buy enough of it to keep Shay alive. “This car hasn’t been secured, that’s why we’re working on the inside. If this thing topples, we can ride it down. But if you’re on the outside…”

Buck cuts him off. “Yeah, I know. I will be crushed by 100 tons of train car, and I know that is a lot heavier than a fire truck.” He says it matter of factly, like the thought of being crushed between another piece of metal and the cold, hard ground isn’t making his stomach twist up in knots. Like he doesn’t still wake up screaming and clutching at his bad leg at least two nights a week. Because right now, none of that matters. Only Shay does. “But Bobby…”

“Buck, stop,” Eddie says. Endlessly reasonable Eddie. “I know you made a promise.”

“What promise?”

“To Shay’s boyfriend,” Eddie clarifies, and Buck doesn’t bother to correct him. He’s got bigger problems at the moment than whether Kelly and Shay are still getting mistaken for a couple after all these years. 

“I promised I would bring her back to him,” Buck says instead.

“What?” Bobby’s expression is caught somewhere between horror and anger.

“To Kelly,” Eddie says, and his expression is just disgusted. “Her boyfriend is Kelly.”

Shock flickers across Bobby’s face, then resignation. “Okay.”

“No, look,” Buck reaches out one hand desperately, trying to keep Bobby from turning away. From killing Shay. “She’s one of us. She’s a paramedic in Chicago, okay? She saves lives every day. We can’t just let her die.”

“Stop,” Bobby says, finally raising his voice. “You are too close to this. This is too risky.”

“Well, I am willing to take the risk.” Willing to trade his life for his, if that’s what it takes.

This time Bobby snaps. “It’s not yours to take. You can’t just rush into any dangerous situation and assume it’s gonna be okay. ‘Cause sometimes it’s not, and I am tired of being on the wrong side of those hospital visits.”

And Buck is - he’s just sick of it. He’s not a child running headlong into danger because he doesn’t understand the consequences. He’s been a firefighter for nine fucking years, he’s watched friends and strangers die right in front of his eyes. Nearly died himself more than once. There’s no way he would rather go out than saving someone - anyone, but especially a friend. 

“Bobby,” he grits out. “I am not Athena. And I am not your son.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Enough!” Eddie shouts over the both of them. “We don’t have time for this. Buck, come on.”

“No.” Buck doesn’t look away from Bobby. Wills him to understand that he has to do this. “Nobody has to die, okay? I can save them both. So stop wasting time and let me do it.”

Bobby switches to a different tactic, visibly pushing his frustration down and reaching for the expression of a disappointed but hopeful father. “Buck, you don’t owe this to Kelly, alright? You don’t owe him your life.”

“This isn’t about Kelly!” Buck can feel his voice raising, hear the other girl crying and the way Shay has started whimpering with every exhale. “This is about Shay. I would dig her out of here with my bare fucking hands whether Kelly is here or not. And I am not going to let her die because you’re more worried about risking harm to me than guaranteeing her death. I’m going out there whether you like it or not - so either help me, or get the hell out of my way.”

Buck turns and scrambles back up the seats to Shay and his gear. He has a harness, rope, a saw. He can do this on his own if he has to, though it would be easier with Eddie’s help. Eddie who is busy having a furiously whispered conversation with Bobby that he doesn’t care to listen in on. If he has to listen to them weighing the value of his life against Shay’s he’s going to start screaming and he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop.

“Buck,” Shay whispers, watching as he ties the rope onto his harness and starts searching for an anchor point near the window he intends to go out of. “I can still hear, you know. You don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” Buck replies. A thrill of triumph runs through him as Bobby shouts up that he’s going down to see if they can stabilize the car and orders Eddie to ‘help Buck, before he gets himself killed.’ “I know, but I want to. No place I’d rather be than between you and certain death.”

“Kelly will forgive you.”

“It’s not about Kelly!” Buck snaps at her, wincing when she flinches away from the noise. He feels Eddie at his shoulder, passes off the rope to him and starts working on busting open a window instead. “I am not going to watch any more friends die, Shay. Not this week, not ever if there’s anything I can do about it. Don’t ask me to do that. And don’t ask me to walk out of here without a scratch and tell Kelly the love of his life is dead either, okay?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Shay sighs, quieter with every word. Buck can barely hear her over the sound of the window shattering. They’re running out of time. “That’s always been you.”

It’s not true, Buck knows. It’s always been Kelly-and-Shay, it always will be Kelly-and-Shay, and he was never jealous of that. They love each other, are meant to grow old and gray and die together. They loved him too, once, and maybe they still do, but it’s not the same.

“Just shut up and let me save you,” he says, as Eddie finishes rigging up the rope and pulley.

He makes the mistake of looking back at her one more time and sees tears cutting tracks in the blood and grime on her face. “If I don’t make it out of this--”

“Don’t.”

“If I don’t make it out of this, Evan, just...tell Kelly I love him, okay?”

“You’re going to make it out of this.”

“I love you too, kid. Never stopped.”

Buck exchanges a tense glance with Eddie and hauls himself and the saw out the window without another word.

------

“That’s Buckley, isn’t it?” Kelly demands of the man wearing Captain’s gear and barking orders into a radio. He had come out of the upended train car looking tense and pissed off, and isn’t any happier when he rounds on Kelly. “What the hell is he doing?”

“Kelly, right?” Captain Nash asks, and he looks a little like he’d rather be punching Kelly than talking to him. “Your girlfriend is alive. And she’s going to stay that way, even if it kills Buck.”

Kelly doesn’t bother to correct him, or to respond to the barely veiled accusation in his words. He only has eyes for Buck and the shuddering, creaking train car he’s descending on a rope, putting his life at risk to save someone else’s. Just like Kelly has watched him do dozens of times before. Except it’s nothing like before, because he can’t stop thinking, I sent him in there. I sent him in there and now he might die. But it was for Shay, and it’s - it’s an impossible choice, Buck or Shay, the woman who’s never left his side or the love he chased away because he couldn’t see past his own grief. 

He would trade places with either of them in a heartbeat.

“Come on, Evan,” Kelly murmurs. “Come on. You’ve got this.”

Second half coming later this week.

[elisela]

your name like honey on my lips stiles x derek, g, fluff & softness, 1.6k (ao3) for @tylerhunklin‘s prompt: “okay but like…what happens when derek gets too drunk at the bar and stiles has to drag him home…” -- lauren my sweetest love this is likely not what you were expecting but guess what, neither was i so.

--

It’s a bit of a surprise that the bar Stiles was called to abruptly in the middle of the night wasn’t terrible. Stiles had, when he’d finished stumbling into his jeans and made it outside, assumed that any place Scott would choose to get plastered in would be run down and disgusting, lacking appeal in everything except for cheap booze. Scott’s lucky to have a friend like Stiles, honestly, someone who’s willing to drag themselves out of their warm, comfortable bed at half past one in the morning and brave the frigid streets to go pick his drunk ass up. It makes him feel better to tell himself that, to dwell on his response to this situation instead of giving in to the irritation that Scott didn’t even have the decency to tell Stiles he was going out that night.

It was supposed to be Stiles’ night to celebrate; he’s got a brand new master’s degree in hand (okay, he’ll have it when they mail it to him in four to six weeks), he’s got two weeks to do nothing but laze around playing video games in his underwear until he starts his new job, and said job will finally afford him the chance to move out of his ninth-floor walk-up and hopefully into a building where the hallways don’t smell like three week old garbage that’s been left out in the summer heat despite it being January.

He loves Scott. Scott is his best friend in the entire world, the person who’d packed up everything he had and left his hometown just because Stiles had admitted to being lonely in New York; Scott is the person who makes Stiles believe there’s still good in the world. Scott is—

Not at this bar.

There’s hardly anyone in the place, not that he’s surprised—it’s Tuesday, a cold front has swept the city, and anyone with an ounce of sense is home. In bed. He mutters a curse under his breath and steps up to the bar. “Hey man, sorry—I’m Stiles? Someone called, said I needed to come get my buddy?”

The bartender jerks a thumb towards the end of the bar, and Stiles opens his mouth, ready to ask what the hell is going on because that’s not Scott, Scott’s got adorable wavy hair that stills flops down in front of his eyes sometimes, and he’s not nearly as built as this guy is; the guy may be slumped over the bar, head burrowed in his folded arms, but he’s got more muscle on him than Stiles and Scott combined. Whoever this guy is, Stiles doesn’t know him, doesn’t know why he asked the bartender to call Stiles to pick him up or how he even has his number, because Stiles only knows one person with a body like that and there’s no way that—

“You said adorable,” he hisses as the bartender, pointing wildly in Derek’s direction, because of course it’s the guy he regularly makes a fool of himself in front of over there, the one who he’s pretty sure can’t stand him even though Stiles has tried at least seventy-eight different ways to get his attention. “You said talkative. You said—”

He stops.

She holds up her hands and shrugs. “Look, we’re closing. If you don’t want to deal with him—”

“No, it’s fine,” he says, staring at the back of Derek’s head. He wonders how many drinks it took Derek to turn talkative; Stiles had, until this moment, seriously wondered if Derek had some sort of curse placed on him that only allotted him a few dozen words a day. He says more in ten minutes than Derek says all day, something he knows due to a combination of spending long days in the library writing his thesis and strategically choosing tables that offered him a view of the reference desk.

For easy research access, of course.

“You want me to call a cab for you two?”

He should stop staring. When he’d answered the phone—the Sheriff’s kid never, ever lets an unknown number become a missed call in the early hours of the morning—and she’d asked him to come get his adorable, talkative friend who wouldn’t shut up about him, he never expected this. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks,” he says. He hopes Derek doesn’t live far, he’s still got a month before his first paycheck will hit his bank account and his take-out budget is going to get a serious chunk taken out of it if it turns out Derek lives out in Brooklyn or some shit.

He makes his way over until he’s on Derek’s other side and can see his face, eyes closed and resting peacefully. Stiles kicks at his foot gently; when that does nothing, and wraps his hand around Derek’s bicep—oh sweet Jesus—and shakes him a little, shoving his hands into his pockets when Derek’s eyes flutter open. “Hey, big guy,” he says, and Derek blinks up at him for a moment before smiling. Stiles draws in a breath and pastes a smile on his face because no, he is not affected by this. So what if he hasn’t ever seen a smile grace Derek Hale, permanently grumpy research librarian, before? There’s no reason why such a sight should make him want to melt into the floor right there. “Need some help getting home?”

Derek, it seems, has passed the point of happy, talkative drunk and has fallen straight into sleepy and silent. Stiles can’t decide if that’s better or worse, and when Derek finally slides off the barstool and straight into Stiles’ arms like he belongs there, nuzzling his face into Stiles’ neck with a sigh that bleeds contentment, Stiles starts calculating the odds that he actually died earlier in the day and this is his own personal heaven.

Or, more likely, a dream, because even though he’s got ten fingers and the cab waiting for them outside smells like vomit and greasy pizza, Derek shrugs helplessly when Stiles asks where he lives and his license lists somewhere upstate as his address, which means that his only real choice is to take Derek home with him, back to his shoebox of an apartment that’s barely big enough for a bed and a table, where he may have just enough room to sleep on the floor but certainly doesn’t have enough extra blankets to ensure he won’t freeze to death.

So he gives his own address to the cab driver, even though it’s only six blocks away, and stays pressed too close to Derek’s side, comfortably numb over the way Derek’s hand rests against his wrist, pinky and ring finger pressed against Stiles’ pulse point as they sit in silence. There’s so much he can’t wrap his head around that he doesn’t even try, because what good would it do to ask questions when Derek’s not said a single word to him so far? It’s startlingly familiar, just a different setting, a different hour, a different look on Derek’s face when Stiles helps him out of the cab and into his building.

By the time they’re up the stairs—a not insignificant feat—Derek is staring at him openly, mouth soft at the corners and eyes wide, fingers walking slowly up Stiles’ arm as he wedges his key into the lock and coaxes it back and forth until the deadbolt finally gives in and slides open.

“It’s not much,” Stiles says, curling his arm back around Derek’s waist and pulling him in, “and uh, I hope you don’t mind sharing the bed, I’ve got some—well, no, I don’t have any pants for you, sorry, but I have a shirt that might fit. It gets a little cold in here.”

He digs around in his dresser, pulling out of one the long sleeved shirts he wears to bed—it’ll be tight on Derek but it’s better than nothing—and tosses it at him while he pulls his own clothes off for the second time that night and looks around for the sweatpants he’d abandoned on the floor in his haste to leave. Derek’s still sitting on the edge of the bed when he’s done, looking down at his hands, and Stiles kneels in front of him without thinking, working at the laces of Derek’s shoes until he can pull them off.

“You’d be more comfortable without these,” he says, rubbing his palm against the jeans Derek’s still wearing. “You can leave them on if you want, but—it wouldn’t bother me if you took them off. If you’re comfortable with that.” Derek nods after a moment, leans into Stiles as he strips, keeps his hand on Stiles’ arm even as they crawl into the bed. He lays closer than Stiles thought he would, knees coming to rest together as they turn on their sides.

He’s almost asleep when Derek finally says his name. The light from the street below falls across Derek’s face at an angle, casting most of his face into shadow, but Stiles can see how Derek’s eyes sweep over his face, can feel the feather-light pressure of Derek’s thumb coming to rest against the corner of his mouth. “Is this real?”

There’s a slight slur to his words, a drunken lisp, and he can’t help but smile, Derek’s thumb tracing the line of his bottom lip. “You think this is a dream?” Maybe he shouldn’t touch—Derek’s still drunk, can’t really consent to anything and has never even remotely indicated that he would be interested in being in Stiles’ bed before this, but Derek’s touching him like he matters, so Stiles brings up his arm to rest around Derek’s waist and scoots a little closer.

“Yes,” Derek says quietly. “I won’t see you anymore. You’re—gone. I didn’t want you to be gone.”

“You can see me anytime you want,” Stiles says, tilting his head in, releasing a breath when Derek does the same, foreheads pressed together.

“Tomorrow?”

Stiles yawns, tugging Derek closer. “Every tomorrow,” he murmurs as he closes his eyes, and he falls asleep slowly to the sweep of Derek’s thumb across his cheek.

[popculturebuffet]

The Legend of the Three Caballeros: Dope-A-Cabana Review (Commissioned by WeirdKev27)

Salduos Amigos! Since i’m covering a full series, i’d like to welcome any newcomers to the first part of the epic final stretch of THE RIDE OF THE THREE CABLLEROS! For those of you just joining us, a few months back WeirdKev27, easily my biggest supporter as the only one who comissions any reviews from me, asked if I could do a big project for him: a comission of EVERY major american apperance of those three happy chappies in matching serapes. Give i’ve ALWAYS loved the boys ever since house of mouse and had been sitting on Legend of the Three Cablleros for far too long, more on that in a minute obviously, I happily agreed. Plus the rather nice influx of cash from the comissions was very welcome. If your intrested in comissioning your own, hit me up via my direct messages. It’s 5 dolalrs an episode, though I do do discounts on orders of 3 or more, and 10 for a movie, with again discounts for orders of more than one. And yes that plug was very shamless, but again I have no other job than this.  Back to the point these reviews have taken me on a wonderful journey: I got to rewatch the movie and revel in the fun songs, acid trips and super horny Donald Duck, got to both revisit one of Don Rosa’s best story and read another all time classic from the man I hadn’t before, took a trip back to the house of mouse to hear some great songs and see some great cartoons.. and some not so great ones, took a small detour to Mickey and The Roadster Racers to be baffled and annoyed though I am proud to say it was my first review back after I came down with Cornovirus and lost a week of work time. And finally I covered the town where everyone was nice, and got to see the boys have a joyous reunion with Donald and be lushly animated while.. Dewey jackassed around in a B-Plot and Webby resisted the urge to throat chop him. It’s been a long ride and you can find all of it is so far RIGHT HERE IN THIS CONVIENT LINK ! CLICK IT NOW IF YOUR CURIOUS. Point is while this was well paid for.. it’s easily one of the projects i’ve been most proud of and while i’m sad to see it winding down, i’m proud of what i’ve done so far, and I just wanted to heartily thank Kevin for the ride and for being so generious as to fund the whole damn thing. Your a good dude man. 

Which brings us here, to the grand finale. The Legend of the Three Caballeros! As the boys first starring roll as a group since the movie, there was really no other way this retrospective could end, and since I have a terrible problem with procastination and really hated this series version of daisy I just kept pushing back watching the series until now. I’m not proud of it but I am happy to correct it and hope you’ll all come along with me.  Before we get started I could not find much background on the show. It was directred by Matt Danner who was the character designer for the utter classic Xiaoilin Showdown and currently works on the Muppet Babies reboot, so i’m happy he’s still getting work. Otherwise I couldn’t find much. The most I could was on tv tropes, claming the series was orignally meant for Netflix.. and while I have no proof and this could easily be conjecture.. i’m inclined to belivie it. The series was apparently done long before the Ducktales reboot, to the point Frank Angrones was only vaguely aware of it and it didn’t even remotely impact the series, with Panchito and Jose only debuting in Season 2 because the original idea for bringing them in was scrapped. So while I don’t have proof.. I’m inclined to belivie it since it makes sense: Disney DID have a healthy relationship with Netflix once, setting up the MCU shows and likely being happy there.. but eventually they wanted their own corner of the sky, and likely didn’t want one of their shows bolted to the network like all their marvel shows were.  The problem this created though is Disney was CLEARLY left with a show they no longer had a place for. But even with that the show was still done, they COULD have put it on the Disney Now app or just aired it on the Disney Channel. See if there was any fan intrest in season 2 or throw one into production to at least beef up the episode count. I mean the Cabs have a built in fanbase, kids would likely love it... it’s the logical choice. But this is Disney. They’ve had to be drug kicking and screaming into representation, to the point they had to be fought for the gay romance subplot in owl house to happen, try to hide that the Sparkshort “Out” is about a gay man struggling with coming out despite having you know reams of content on the service with either gay subtext or out and out gay characters, and their attempts at doing representatoin to score points in other little ways.. have been pathetic, easily missable bits in movies that could , and have been, edited out in more homophobic countries. My point is yeah i’m still sore about how they and a LOT of the animation industry have to be dragged into doing the right thing over profit, and they often make very stupid decisions for seemingly no reason. They are a good company a good chunk of the time.. but Disney has done fucked up quite a bit. This is one of those times.  Instead they dumped the show on the Disney Life app in the phillipines and slowly some other countries, basically the Disney Now equilvent over there, and then just sort of forgot about it until Disney Plus launched. And given how many shows they HAVEN’T put on the streamer for again, seemingly no reason, it is a nice suprise the show finally got a release on there in the US. But before that, and proving what a massive mistake just abandoing the show was, the show did gather a massive fanbase via people uploading the episodes online. So yeah the show was treated REALLY shittily for stupid reasons, but thankfully it still has a fanbase to this day and said shabby treatment, as it always does, just encouraged fans to support it harder. So naturally i’m more than happy to give the series some spotlight as fanbase or no, it badly needs it and Disney sure as hell dosen’t want to do it. So if somebody’s gotta do it, might as well be me. This is the Legend of the Three Cablleros.  We open on some narration from Xandra, Goddess of Adventure. Granted she hasn’t been identified yet, and won’t be till next episode.. buuuut it’s easier on me to not have to dance around her name so your learning it now. But Xandra narrates that long ago there were epic battles against the good and the evil and all that by epic heroes, and it’s all cumilated in the Legend of the Three Cablleros. Post title drop we’re treated to the boys, in cool looking armor and with neat weapons, fighting a purple monster man as you do in an really beautiful and epic sequence As this scene illustrates the animation for this show is GORGEOUS, a lavish update of the standard disney style with nice use of shadows. It feels almost film quality in it’s work, and it’s an utter treat to watch and opening at the end was a good call: it both ratchets up excitement and allows the first ep to have some action since this one, as part of a two part premiere, is mostly setup. It’s eyecatching, exciting and makes you want to know what the hell is going on. And since Xandra realizes MAYBE starting the story at the climax was a bad idea, she takes us back a bit.

Okay maybe not that far. No we open properly at Donald’s house, where it’s his birthday! And like the movie, it’s Friday the 13th, an excellent call back. Donald’s making his breakfast, boliling some tea and.. talking with the weird foced warped refelection in the kettle who can apparently only say “right back at you handsome, wink”. Seriously I have so many questoins and all of them are about what this guy is, why is Donald so calm about all of this, and is he still alive after Donald destroys his tea kettle later.  Donaldo gets a call from Daisy, whose visting to spend the day with him and is waiting patiently int he bad part of town. I didn’t know Duckburg had a bad part of town but given Glomgold has to get his sharks and bombs somewhere, i’m not surprised. Unless he special orders them, but even then what if he needs a shark or a bomb in a hurry? He’s gotta get them somewhere and now we know where. So there’s that. So all’s going well until Donald’s asshole boss calls and forces him to come in despite Donald having the fucking day off and it presumably being on the schedule. So Donald rushes to work, and we do get some great gags but as you’d expect for Donald it goes poorly and he botches a kid’s haircut despite the mother being very rude.. and also a female version of pete. LIke.. did he remarry after the divorce from peg or is that his sister? Does that mean PJ and PIstol have a cousin I never knew about? I want answers dammit.. and picutures of spider-man. Not for any slander job I just really like spider-man. 

Eh it’ll do.As i’m doing a full series this time i’m stopping to talk about the main cast as we go soooo.... Tony Anselmo is naturally Donald, even pitching in to consult the crew on Donald’s characterization here, as really what better expert is there? He’s voiced Donald since the original Ducktales and has stuck with the roll since, only taking a break for Mickey and the Roadster racers and that’s likely because between finishing up this series and the Mickey Mouse shorts, and moving on to Ducktales 2017, he likely simply didn’t have the time for it. Granted given how little he was used in the first season of the show, he probably still could’ve done it but regardless, he’s a legend.  Daisy is voiced by Tress Macneile, who not only has voiced the character since House of Mouse and is easily the best voice for her, but is also one of the most storied and legendary va’s in the buisness, having been at this since the 80′s with zero signs of stopping. Just to name a few of her more notable roles, in chronological order; Gadget Hackenwrench, Babs Bunny, Agnes Skinner, Charlotte Pickles, Dot Warner (Which as of last year she’s picked up again and will do the same for Babs, just in case you thought i was exagerating on the “zero signs of stopping” thing), Pookie from Hey Arnold, Mom, Hoodsey Bishop, and Queen Oona among MANY, MANY smaller rolls. I didn’t even realize Charlotte or Hodsey were here, she’s that talented and deserves all the praise.. and way better rolls as Daisy than this one but we’ll both get to that and thankfully much like with Tony, the reboot’s giving her character some depth to work with so she gets to reallys tretch her chops. The woman turns 70 here, will likely keep going until she dies, and is wonderful and deserves more respect. 

 So because this is Donald, life wont’ stop punching him in the face and it turns out his house burned down, the fire people are destroying everything because their assholes, seriously they destroy both a family heirloom and a picture of his parents despite not being on fire. I’d be genuinely suprised if their general strategy wasn’t scremaing “fire, fire fire” and then going “rock rock rock” while they throw rocks on it. Super brucey bonus prize for the first person who gets that refrence and comments on it. I’ll get back to this in a second but SOMEHOW, beisdes loosing his home, all his possesions and his job... it gets even WORSE and Daisy calls, refuses to listen to him despite him having VERY valid excuses and breaks up with him. Oh and then the fire fighters gladly talk about going home to their in tact houses  and partners. 

So yeah let’s talk about this. This first 6 or 7 minutes.. is why I didn’t return to the show for a while. My brain has a bad habit of glomming onto certain parts of things, so it remembered the rough to sit through and not very funny first act.. and not the rest of the episode which is very good and likely more indiciative about how good the series is. Thankfully it does get better but this first act .. frames things like it’s DONALD’S fault somehow. I mean yes he did burn his house down.. but even that really isn’t his fault. He was called away suddenly, wasn’t thinking and made a mistake. Hell he proabably woudl’ve had more left if the fire department hadn’t gone crazy with the axes. His being called into work? He took the day off, and his boss was just a dick. His screwing up at the job? he was genuinely trying his best and doing his best and the client was just wholly unresonable. Donald did nothing wrong but the episode WANTS to frame him like some sort of screwup.. which he is, it’s Donald.. but not in this case. It was just a string of uncomfortable to watch bad luck that cumilates in him having nothing left. It’s not funny, it’s jsust really sad and it’s REALLY hard to tell the tone their going for as they seem to awkwardly bounce from jokes to Donald being utterly devistated and alone. 

And the worst of this.. is Daisy. Daisy is EASILY the most infamous part of the show, as their portryal.. is pretty bad and apparently gets worse. We’ll see as we go but yeah.. her screaming at and breaking up with her boyfriend without listneing to his side and giving the claim we only have HER word on that he’s always screwing up, ON HIS BIRTHDAY no less, when he’s done nothing wrong, does not make a good first impression nor the fact the show seems to AGREE WITH HER. And look Donald is a trainwreck, this is true.. but the show dosen’t remotely portray him as one until AFTER this scene. As I said nothing that happened was his fault. Donald isn’t irresponsible or a screwup or dating a high schooler or anything. He isn’t Scott Pilgrim. He just has really bad luck. Again, we do see some foibles in the scenes to come.. but we don’t see any that would justify her claims, especially since she seemed perfectly happy earlier with him. Now if she’d say brought up some screwups in the first scene, and gently at that, then this would’ve worked.. but as it stands she just comes off as MASSIVELY unsymapthetic.. especially since Donald later calls her nieces over for help, which is objectively weird not gonna lie.. so she now KNOWS he had to move to a new house and his likely burned down.. yet still apparently has nothing good to say about him. 

It didn’t help this rubbed me the wrong way in a very special way. As i’ve made plain before I don’t like THIS version of Daisy, the nagging, selfish, vindictive asshole who will gladly try and cheat on donald, dump him at a moments notice and you know PUNCH HIM IN THE FACE. Which just in case you think i’m exagerating...

She fucking upercutted him..and like here for something that isn’t his fault. I mean this Daisy isn’t physically beating Donald.. but that’s a VERY low bar to clear. And emotional abuse is just as bad, so there. My point is too often in the comics when written poorly, Daisy is a pretty terrible person and I REALLY didn’t want a screen adaptation of this form of Daisy. It took a WHILE to recover from not liking daisy over this version, with help from remembering house of mouse, some good barks story with her and the AMAZING Ducktales version and the suprisingly good Quack Pack version.. I did. But yeah.. this is not a good sign of things to come for the character in this show. 

So yeah Donald’s heart is in the basement and his week is at an all time low when a post man shows up and gives him a letter.. well puts it in the box for a good gag but semantics. But the letter turns around as his ancestor Clinton Coot left him an inhertance for his 3Xth birthday: a house of some kind in the swanky neighboring town of New Quackmore. And i’ll also say.. it’s REALLY nice that for once, we focus on the Duck side of Donald’s legacy, or rather the coot but semantics, instead of the McDuck part. Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love the clanmcduck, always will and I love Ducktales exploration of it.. but it’s still nice to acknowledge Donald comes from two sides and while one of those may be humble farmers, they still accomplished a lot, including founding Duckburg in most continuities including presumably this one. It’s also a good way to seperate thigns from other properties including the reboot: focusing on a part of Donald’s lineage that isn’t usually touched on and making THEM just as badass as the other side. 

So we get a quick montage as Donald takes a cab there and takes in the rich and fancy sights. It’s also a brilliant way to set up New Quackmore and it’s attached instutite as a fancy, upperclass place.. and thus perfectly clash it with Donald. Donald ends up getting dropped off at a big mansion.. which is not his , but belongs to the insittutes head, Baron Von Sheldgoose, played by WAYNE KNIGHT. 

Hell. Yes. I freaking love Wayne Knight. In case you don’t know who the man above is, or at least don’t recognize his face, Wayne Knight is a very funny and talented actor and voice actor with a lengthy career primarily in side rolls, with the rolls that he broke out with being loveable asshole and Jerry’s enternal nemisis Newman on Seinfeld and Dennis Nedry, aka “that guy who got sprayed acid in his face by those horrifying frilled dinosaurs that will never not haunt my nightmares”. Seriously that scene fucked me up as a kid and I could not watch that part of the movie. For the most part he’s been a side character man but he has done a LOT of voice work, most notable Zurg in Buzz Lightyear of Star Command, Dojo for the aformentioned and excellent Xiaolin Showdown, and Mr. Blik for Catscratch and I wish he’d do more. He also recently voiced the penguin in Harley Quin so when I get to that you better belivie i’m looking forward to it. Point is while he may not always get the glory, and had to settle for starring in a mediocre tv land sitcom to get a steady paycheck once, the man is VERY talented, very funny and perfectly cast here. 

So Donald makes himself home, finds out it’s not HIS home and gets thrown out by the snooty rich asshole’s bodyguards. As you’d expect. Donald does find HIS home, a run down cabana next door to the mansion with caution tape all over. Still Donald takes it best he can as it’s better than no home at all> What he doesn’t take well is finding out from the executor of the will that he’s not the only one inheriting the house... which is  absolutley fair. The guy just had the worst day of his life, and this lady didn’t bother to put in the letter to any of them that they were sharing the house. The Sheldgoose thing was just an average Donald screw up. This is just this lady going...

But yes we meet our boys.. and the introductions are naturally given this series is about them the best we’ve gotten so far: Jose is thrown off a bus, having ran out of fair, and having wooed all the ladies on board, and quickly charms the executor and is perfectly cordial to Donald, while Panchito parachutes out of a plane and marvels at how he went from nothing to having two new best friends, a run down shack and a sleezy lawyer! In short the two make a great first impression, helped by wonderful casting.  Jose is voiced by Eric Bauza, a talented voice actor whose had WAY too many roles to list here, but two of the most notable are being the current voice of Bugs and Daffy, and his most notable role outside that recently has been playing Splinter in Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. But the guy is endlessly talented, seems really nice, and is easily one of my faviorite Jose’s so far after just one episode. He just.. gets the character perfectly and is thankfully NOT another white guy stepping into the role, so that’s nice. He easily oozes the charm and layabout nature Jose and was a natural in the role and i hope he gets to take it up again at some point.  Speaking of naturals we have Jamie Camil as Panchito, who easily steps into the guys boundless energy and the sterotpical bits are swapped out for making him a cloud cuckoolander instead, which I genuinely love and fits the character perfectly. He’s best known for CW Soap Jane the Virgin, where his charcter Rodrigo just sounds like a delight, but has recently picked up a pretty good voice acting career, vocing Don Karnage in the Ducktales reboot, Globgor in Star vs the Forces of Evil and Todd’s Stepdad George in Bojack Horseman. I only hope he gets more voice work as he’s really damn great at it and it’s wonderful to get to see him in a role that’s not limited to a few episodes at best for a change. 

So Donald’s less than happy about this, again it’s hard to really be that mad at him when he’s had a really, REALLY bad day and wasn’t told about this, but it’s kept to just the light level of grumpy as to not make him unlikeable. Granted after that intro it’d take a LOT to make him unsympathetic, but after their version of Daisy I really dont’ want to test this series.  Our boys also find out they have a groundskeeper, ari, aka THE ARCUAN BIRD! He’s just a delight any time he pops up, doing his usual “ya ta ta ta” bit, and being adorable and hilarioius as always.. and also hilariously failing to fix the boys door. So Donald ends up just accepting he has roomates now, nothing he can do, and the three explore the house finding all sorts of cool old artifacts, feeling they’ve stumbled onto something specail. And you know what that means: YARD SALE! Seriously it feels like a bit out of Wet Hot American Summer or Stella, a  series from the same creators you really should check out and that is high praise, trust me. 

I wish this series was streaming somewhere.. I mean we finally got Clone HIgh streaming Viacom, get on that. Anyways, it’s just.. fucking hilarious, and a LOT of this episode is once we walk back from the writers kicking donald in the junk and acting like it was his fault. Once Donald gets his inhertiance, the episode picks up immensley and we see the shows real charm and hilarirty fly, with jokes coming at a rapid and wonderful pace. The show really did impress me with the second half and made me utterly excited for tommrow.. or I guess today’s, look at the follow up.  But we’re still in this episode and being a rich asshole, Sheldgoose isn’t happy about a yard sale, though given this series standards, we not only get some great deliveres from Knight of an outraged “A YARD SALE?!”... but a wonderful gag where Sheldgoose out to white guy it up and yell at them over this..accidently takes a wrong turn in his massive house, and turns around, not loosing how upset he is once.  Meanwhile, we meet.. April, May and June. Yeah apparnetly Della isn’t dead or lost in this continuity, so the boys are MIA, and are instead replaced by Daisy’s Nieces, who I hope show up in the reboot before it ends. Especially since the show makes them WAY more tolerable than classic huey dewey and louie and instead enjoyable like Ducktales HDL. While not as indvidual as those three, the three are still idendtical outside of outfits, their voice actress Jessica DiCicco uses her consderiable talents and experince to give each one a unique voice, so while they all share a voice actress, none of them sound alike. And to round out our main cast for now, as our last members will be joining us fully next time, let’s talke about Jessica DiCicco. Jessica is a very talented and increasingly prolific voice actor and if you haven’t heard of her, and you probably have, you’ve defintely heard her voice. Starting out with Disney, hence why the probably called on her for this, she did the voices of Maggie for the Buzz on Maggie and Melina for Emperor’s New School before breaking out as Flame Princess on Adventure Time, whose both one of my faviorite characters from the show and one we’ll be digging into starting next month. And not one to rest easily she picked up a second set of iconic rolls vocing Lynn and Lucy Loud on The Loud HOuse, and funnily enough using those voices for two of the girls here. And along with Loud House she’s also currently starring in it’s Pony and is int he main cast of Close Enough as Candace. My point is she’s exceedingly talented.. as is this whole cast, as it’s a DAMN excellent cast and just further sells that this series deserves better.  We’ll get into the girls more next time as they don’t do much here other than get called in by Donald for help, with what I saw of episode 2 fleshing them out more. Point is Sheldgoose offers a million dollars for the cabana and all it’s stuff and the boys are glad to sell.. they just have to find something Sheldgoose desperately wants, a mysterious golden atlas encrusted with Jewels.  Our heroes head in to find it with Panchito finding it, and being very specific about it. We also get a nice call back to Ari destroying the door as Jose cleverly calls on him to destroy the lock. So our heroes open the book... and a goddess pops out and threatens to kill them all. 

Final Thoughts: Dope-A-Cabana is a decent intro the series, but as i’ve said it’s heavily hampered by a weak and mean spirited first act. But once it gets going it REALLY gets going and as part 1 one of a two part pilot, it does it’s job well once it does get going: introducing our three boys and one of our antagonists well and setting up the side cast and preparing for our last to major additions Next Time: The Boys go on their first adventure, Sheldgoose finds a boss and the girls find their voice. Thanks for Reading, Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye. 

[autumnslance]

FFXIVWrite2020 #16: Lucubration

A rapping at his window startled Thancred, sending his pen scratching across the parchment and ruining the line. He growled in annoyance and looked to see just who the bloody hells was interrupting his work.

It was Yda, shifting nervously from one foot to the other on the balcony. She must have hopped up the same way he often did, with help from the grand old tree in the Leveilleur yard.

“Can I help you?” He asked as he opened the window. When last he had looked out, the sun was still just above the western hills; now night had fallen on Sharlayan, the moons and stars wheeling overhead.

“Have you seen Lyse?” She asked, trying--and failing--to keep panic from her tone.

“I haven’t seen anyone since—” he glanced at the chronometer finally and rubbed his eyes. “Since dinner at least. Bells ago.” He gestured at his desk (and the page he was going to have to rewrite, godsdammit). “I’ve an essay due to Master Fraeskoef in the morning.”

“What you get for taking advanced literary analysis as an elective.”

“It’s actually part of my main curriculum now,” he replied with a yawn.

She looked skeptical. “Still not sure what stories and songs have to do with your particular skill studies.”

“That’s why they’re mine, while yours are rather more straightforward. Anyroad, why are you looking for Lyse this time of night? Shouldn’t the little rapscallion be tucked in her bed?”

“If she was, I wouldn’t be here,” Yda replied, exasperated. “I know she’s been bothering you lately, so I’d hoped she came here to show off what she swiped.”

“Swiped? Since when is Lyse a thief?” Thancred asked.

“I assumed you’ve been feeding her stories again,” Yda said darkly, then shook her head. “Also, Mister Perception, haven’t you noticed something missing?”

He blinked, then realized just what did seem so wrong.

“Your mask,” he answered. He could count on one hand the times he’d seen Yda without her turban and the mask worn either on its front or down over her eyes. A couple times had been summer days of swimming and silliness in the Thaliak, the others rare festival days where she instead wore her traditional Ala Mhigan dress.

“If she’s taken it in a fit I—” Yda shook her head. “I need to find her. But now I don’t know where to look, if she isn’t pestering you.”

Thancred thought for a moment. Sharlayan was a large city, sprawling on either side of the river. There were plenty of places a nine year old girl might hide.

Assuming, of course, the girl stayed in the city.

“I have an idea,” Thancred said, turning to grab his shoes. “She mentioned something, the last time she was…” he paused.

Lyse had come running up to him earlier that day as he had been on his way home from a particularly strenuous cat-and-mouse session with Master Enfel Hopfel. Thancred recalled being short with the child, wanting to get home to clean up, eat, and get to work on his other assignments before crashing to sleep and doing it all again tomorrow. The road to becoming an Archon--particularly if one was attempting to speed down it, having had to already play catch up at basic academia with his peers--was a busy one, not leaving much time for playing with energetic little girls.

“Last time she what?” Yda asked.

He really looked at Yda. Like him, she had dark circles under her eyes, and more than a few bruises and scrapes from her own rigorous training. Yda had long since determined that she would become an Archon to best take care of her little sister in their adopted homeland, and to repay Papalymo and the others for their aid. Hells, her immigrant status and more physically based studies had been a large chunk of Thancred’s inspiration for his own scholastic pursuits.

But it didn’t leave Yda much spare time, either.

“I may have blown Lyse off this afternoon,” Thancred said, pulling on his shoes as he hopped out the window to join Yda. “She was mentioning something about the hills beyond the Arboretum. Between the two of us we should be able to track her down.”

Yda looked a little pale at the thought. “You’re better at that than me. Gods, I hope she didn’t go out there; there’s bears in those hills.”

“Then let’s hurry,” he said, using the balcony’s railing to swing down to the ground. Waiting the brief moment it took Yda to join him, he noted Master Louisoix’s study window also still had a light on; not unusual for the old man.

The pair padded through the streets. Others wandered by, visions passing between the glow of streetlamps and shadows, moving to and from libraries, laboratories, and homes. A few still-open cafes glowed warm and inviting, hosting late night study groups and silent social readers, sipping their beverages while taking in the ambience with their books.

As they crossed the courtyard of the Arboretum, Thancred glanced at Yda. “You know, I’ve never asked just why you always wear that old mask.”

“I guess I’ve never said,” she replied, frowning slightly. “I...well, I don’t know how to say it without...sounding callous.”

“Callous?” As if that word could ever describe a Hext.

“Father gave it to me.”

Ah. Family things. No wonder Yda hadn’t mentioned it.

“He wanted to keep me safe,” Yda continued. “So it was to hide my identity while in the Rebellion. We were fighting our own people at first--the Corpse Brigade could be damned nasty, and they didn’t care much that I was just a kid.”

She wasn’t that much older, honestly, but a few years at their respective ages could make drastic differences--more so when one fought in war.

“Then there were the Garleans...And they were worse.” Yda’s eyes scanned the brush line as they passed the edge of town and the ground began to slope up. “Our father was a leader, and he had made a lot of enemies.”

“I can imagine.” It seemed polite to say something, at least. Thancred began to look for signs of a little girl’s passage, while still listening to Yda.

“When he was gone...I don’t know. We weren’t able to take much with us, you know. I worried more about getting Lyse somewhere safe than any of our possessions, even Mother’s heirlooms...So the mask is what I have.”

“And she knows how important it is to you.”

“Sort of,” Yda said. “I...I’m really not sure how well she remembers him. Or any of what happened before we came here; she was so little. I know she doesn’t remember Mother.”

I can’t remember anyone, he thought. Out loud, he said, “Well, you do all right. We just have to find her.” He pointed to a narrow little trail. “This way.”

“You’re sure?”

Thancred nodded. “Stay quiet.”

Yda nodded, and they continued on. It was only a few more yalms and around a bend in the hill before they found the child, sitting on a log that had fallen across a deep ditch, forming a natural bridge. Her legs swung as she sang a little song to herself, the mask on her face.

“Lyse!” Yda called, running forward.

Lyse jumped, nearly rolling off the log in surprise. “Yda! Thancred!”

“I was so worried about you!” Yda exclaimed, stopping just at the edge of the ditch. “You could have been hurt and we wouldn’t have known!”

“You found me anyway.” She sounded petulant.

“I found you,” Thancred said, walking up to the tree trunk, pulling himself up, and then flipping into a handstand, hoping to amuse her. “You were trying to tell me about this earlier, weren’t you?”

Lyse glowered, her expression visible behind the too-big mask. “Yeah, but you were a jerk and now I don’t want you here.”

Ouch. He flipped back down to land on the trunk a good fulm from her. He didn’t bother to hide his hurt; Lyse had never spoken to him that way before.

“Lyse!” Yda admonished. “Don’t be rude! Thancred’s—”

“Busy!” Lyse shouted, the words echoing off the nearby hills. “Just like you! Always busy, all the time, studying and taking tests and doing homework and I hate it and I hate this place and I ha—” she hiccuped into tears before she could get out the rest.

Thancred looked helplessly at Yda, remembering to shut his jaw after a moment. Younger sibling tantrums were well outside his wheelhouse.

Yda closed her eyes, counting silently, before making her own way onto the fallen tree. Lyse was now between them, arms crossed tight against her chest as she tried to remain angry, though silent tears slid from under the mask and glimmered on her cheeks in the starlight.

“I’m sorry,” Yda said. “I have been really busy lately. We all have.” She glanced over at Thancred.

He cleared his throat. “I suppose I did snap earlier,” he said finally. “I wasn’t actually mad at you, though; just tired.”

Lyse tried to speak, but it came out as a whine and she clamped her jaw tight again.

“We’re always tired,” Yda said, voice cracking. “And always busy, and always doing something...except spending time with you. That’s my fault. I can do better. Will you let me?”

Lyse breathed heavily for a short time, thinking. It didn’t take long; she turned and flung herself into her sister’s waiting arms, almost sending them both tumbling backwards off the log. Thancred let out a sigh of relief as Yda’s strong legs remained hooked under the wood, holding them both as she cradled Lyse, stroking the girl’s back.

Thancred looked up at the night sky, not wanting to intrude more than he already was. It was hard to know what to say or do in such a situation.

So he sang.

Quietly, at first, starting with the song Lyse had been singing when they had found her. He figured out a way to transition it into an Ala Mhigan folk tale he had stumbled across in his studies. Lyse leaned on Yda, her ragged breath slowly evening out, both of them listening. By the time the last note faded into the clear night air, Lyse had quietly pulled the mask off and offered it back to Yda.

“I just...wanted to have something of you with me,” she said quietly.

Yda chuckled. “Whenever you like--just maybe ask next time.” She kissed Lyse’s forehead.

There was a strange, lonely ache in Thancred’s chest as he watched them, but he couldn’t help a smile, either. “It’s a bit chilly, and rather late for both students and little girls,” he said. Then he held up a finger. “But! A night this nice shouldn’t be wasted, don’t you think?”

Yda raised a brow as she affixed her mask to her turban again. “Don’t you have an essay due in the morning?”

He shrugged, propping a foot on the tree trunk. “Honestly I was writing myself in circles; a break will do me good. I can come up with something to tell Master Fraeskoef, not to worry,” he waved a hand dismissively.

Yda shook her head, smirking. Lyse looked down thoughtfully, then at Thancred. “I don’t actually hate you, you know. I’m sorry for what I said.”

He reached over to give her blond ponytail a tug, presenting a little white flower for her before she could scold. “I know,” he said with a wink, tucking the bloom behind her ear. “But thank you. I’m sorry too, for what it’s worth.”

He hadn’t known for sure, actually, and it was nice to hear. He could keep that to himself, though.

The trio watched the moons and stars wheel over Dravania for another bell, worries of studies put off until the morrow.

[jinmukangwrites]

Whumptober 2020 Day 6

No more | "stop please"

Ao3

Warnings: kidnapping and torture pretty much. Misunderstandings. Angst. Lost of angst.

-o-o-o-o-

One month, seven days, thirteen hours, and forty six minutes. 

Exactly one month, seven days, thirteen hours, and forty six minutes ago, Dick went missing. Dropped off the face of the earth. He was last seen leaving work. Bruce knew he made it home, but his apartment was trashed by the time Bruce went over to check it out himself. Though, he had expected that. There had been a complaint called in from the downstairs neighbor about the ruckus.

However, it was a kind of "trashed" that was so unlike Dick. On one hand, Dick  did  have a messy living space. It had been an issue ever since he had first moved into the manor as a boy. Alfred would always be on his case about picking up his laundry or tidying up the action figures that fell off his bookshelf.. And now that Dick was an adult, Bruce knew by now to give Dick a few hours heads up before heading over so he could attempt to at least make the place  presentable  before company arrived. 

But on the other hand, this kind of “trashed” wasn't what Dick was oh-so fondly known for. Clothes tossed everywhere, hanging out from the skink and off the curtain rods. The left cushion of Dick's love seat had a giant cut in the material, like a giant scar, stuffing oozing out like blood. The TV Bruce bought him for Christmas was on its side, cracked and sporting a bullet hole through the center. 

The worst part was that the little compartment Dick had built into his apartment where he kept his suit was wide open, the contents thereof rummaged through carelessly. The suit and mask were missing, along with various high tech weapons, but the rest were strewn across the carpeted floor carelessly. Whoever had taken Dick; they knew he was Nightwing. Which meant Dick went down fighting as Nightwing. He wasn't holding back, he wasn't pretending to be anyone other than the powerhouse of a vigilante that he was. 

Which also meant that this was an all hands on deck sort of scenario. Dick's identity was compromised, which very well meant that everyone else could be figured out as well.

Besides, no one really minded being called in to help find Dick and the people responsible for his abduction. The compromised identities were just a font used to cover the fact that they all cared and were worried. 

One month, seven days, thirteen hours, and forty seven minutes. 

It shouldn't have taken that long, but it had. These people were professionals. The best of the best of Blüdhaven's underground ring of villains. Each hired for a specific purpose: figure out who Nightwing was, teach him a lesson, then take him out. Bruce, Tim, and Barbara could hardly find any information on the people who took Dick besides that. No cataloged fingerprints. No fines or tickets. No history of crime. Though, that wasn't at all shocking. Normally, the best of the best in the criminal world are people who haven't been caught yet. 

All of that added up as to why it took so long. Dick's initial abductors weren't even Blüdhaven natives. Just hired guns to barge in and grab him, then deliver him to the real people who wanted him out of the picture.

After one month, seven days, thirteen hours, and forty eight minutes, the people who had Dick now were a family of foreign mafia members who had set base in Blüdhaven generations ago. Dick had, apparently, about three months ago taken down a solid chunk of their scandals to make money by exposing the drug trade going on in one of the basements of Blüdhaven's many casinos. This was an act of revenge, and revenge was hardly quick and painless. 

Which could be a good and a  bad thing.

Good because it meant—as Bruce, Cass, and Tim scoped out a decently sized company building (near the casino Dick exposed) exactly one month, seven days, thirteen hours, and forty nine minutes after his abduction—that Dick still could be alive. 

Bad, because it meant—as Bruce pointed where he needed Cass and Tim to enter the building and talked over his comm to give instructions to the rest of the family exactly one month, seven days, thirteen hours, and forty nine minutes after his abduction—that when they do find Dick, he wouldn’t be in good shape. 

There wasn’t any doubt about it. However they find Dick, it would be gruesome. Bloody. Filled with the stench of confinement and the reek of torture. 

The most they could do now was make sure the one month, seven days, thirteen hours, and fifty minutes since Dick's abduction didn’t become much longer. 

Bruce entered through a large vent built into the side of the building while Tim and Cass followed suit silently. Jason and Duke were to enter from the rooftop while Steph and Damian entered through the sewers. There wasn’t any telling where Dick could be—if he was being held in this building in the first place—but the building was large enough for it to warrant a whole lot of searching. It might only stand half a dozen stories high, but it had just as many stories going down into the ground as a series of basements. Tim had a theory that a wall in the lowest basement could potentially lead to another secret floor down below. 

Though, the only way to know for sure was to go in and check themselves. Blüdhaven wasn't as… documented, believe it or not, compared to Gotham. Blüdhaven was founded on scam and lies. Corruption ran so deep that it was everywhere you walked, like every person walking the streets and breathing in the air were glitching codes of ones and zeroes hiding behind innocent, lifelike masks. 

Searching through the building took time; time Bruce wished they didn't have to spend. One month, seven days, thirteen hours, and fifty minutes turned into one month, seven days, fourteen hours, and two minutes rather quickly. Too quickly. They stuck to the shadows of the building and focused on avoiding being spotted just yet—but sneaking took time, and Dick didn't have a whole lot of time left to spare. 

If he was alive at all. 

No  . No he was alive. Bruce knew it. He was somewhere in this building and he was breathing and he was  alive . 

He had to be. 

Bruce didn't know what would happen next if he wasn't. 

Finally, one month, seven days, fourteen hours, and three minutes from Dick's kidnapping, Jason's voice whispered over the comms that he overheard a couple of grunts talking about Nightwing, and that he was in the secret level beneath the building like what Tim suspected existed. Bruce didn't say it out loud, but he was sure that Jason and Duke didn't overhear anything. They probably cornered a couple of mafia members in a dark, isolated janitor's closet and scared them until they spilled the information they wanted and probably soiled their pants during the process. Regardless, Bruce luckily took Tim's gut feelings into higher standing than most things. He, Tim, and Cass were already racing down into the basement levels. 

Steph and Damian said over the comms that they might take awhile to get there; as it turned out, these people were smart enough to set up motion detectors in the sewers connecting to the building. 

Eventually, they made it to the very bottom of the building where nothing was very interesting to see besides long, mostly empty hallways filled with various machines and generators keeping power to the activities above. There was the distant, muffled sound of loud electronic music, but that was to be expected because the floor above was a "secret" strip club. 

The three men playing cards on a dinky plastic table next to a bare chunk of wall was proof enough of Tim's theory of a secret room. Men with guns and a walkie sitting between them on top of the table  for all to hear easily, don’t normally sit in shadowed spaces of basements. They were guarding something. 

Bruce stepped  back, waving at Cassandra and Tim and pointing out their targets, but he didn't get far into his silent instructions before Cassandra lifted a hand to cut him off, her jaw set in a firm line beneath her dark mask. 

And Bruce understood. She had really stepped up to the plate when Dick was kidnapped one month, seven days, fourteen hours, and ten minutes ago. She had taken it upon herself to be happy and positive and comforting while everyone else could see that all she really wanted to do was throw something against the wall just to watch it shatter. Cassandra didn't like to express her frustrations in violence, but sometimes, Bruce knew she needed a group of bad guys to demolish. 

Silent as a whisper of death, Cass crept forward with her dangerous fists clenched. 

The fight didn't last long at all. Cass's abilities to fight were and always would be beyond comparison. Even compared to Bruce. He watched her take out each man with a quick series of punches aimed precisely where she wanted to hit and not a single hairsbreadth off. They didn't even get the chance to yell or call for help on that walkie of theirs. One moment they were playing what looked to be some sort of improvised version of go-fish with a classic 52 pack of playing cards created out of boredom, and the next they were taken out of commission by what could possibly be their newest worst nightmare. Cass brushed her hands together in front of her, silently saying that she had taken out the trash, and that it was Tim's turn.

Tim, for his part, didn't need to be told verbally of what he was expected to do. He just immediately ran past her, giving her a brief good natured pat on her shoulder as he did, and started to feel along the wall. 

It was always entrancing to watch Tim figure out complicated technology. The boy was a genius. He knew the in's and out's of 1s and 0s better than most everybody. Bruce was sure, no… he was  confident  that it was only a matter of time before Tim's abilities surpassed his own. 

If Tim hadn't already surpassed him. 

However, tackling a complicated problem alone could take time. Time they couldn't waste. Bruce stepped forward and looked at the hidden hand scanner Tim had discovered under a discreetly placed section of drywall. Tim looked up to him, a question in his eyes, and Bruce thought it over. 

They could try using the handprints of the men Cass took down and risk their biological data not being in the system and setting off an alarm, or they could spend more time taking the scanner apart and searching for the right wires to trick.

Risky or long. Quick or safe. 

Bruce gave a nod, letting his shoulders fall ever so slightly as he lowered himself to his knees and pulled out a set of tools from his utilities belt. Tim nodded back, his eyebrows falling down to umbrella over his masked eyes in concentration. 

It took time. The panel was good. Better than many that Bruce had run into during his years of Batman. Unhackable, most would say. 

Those people haven't met Tim though, and neither had the now picked and flashing green handprint scanner. 

There was a mechanical whirr of practically silent pistons and locks becoming undone. Bruce and Tim stepped back to watch the section of wall lower into the floor, showing a set of stairs that went down directly in front of them for several steps, then turned 180° to continue going down out of sight. 

The walkie behind them crackled to life; a voice asking what that noise was. 

The voice sounded recognizably American, which made it clear they weren't actually dealing with the actual mafia. Just a group of crime-doers that probably descended from the original gangsters in Las Vegas, only difference was that their ancestors didn't make it big and decided Blüdhaven was much easier to do crime in. 

" I told you I didn't want any interruptions  !" The man yelled through the walke speakers. "  I'm not done with him yet -"

Bruce felt his heart clench at the sounds that followed that followed. A Spark of electricity. A  scream . 

Bruce disregarded the walkie...  forced himself to. One month, seven days, fourteen hours, and thirteen minutes since Dick's kidnapping, and Bruce was sprinting down the stairs, his feet barely touching the ground as he went. His movement's as silent as a owl's feathers, his cape flowing behind him like he controlled the shadows himself. 

Running down the staircase barely took any time at all. Within seconds, he found himself looking down one long hallway built like a bunker. Dick had to be in one of these rooms. He just  had  to be. 

Heart in his throat, Bruce, Tim, and Cass spread out into the floor, opening door after door, looking for Dick. Behind most of the doors were crates and boxes and bags and  piles  of drugs, and as Bruce found himself slowly approaching the end of the secret basement he couldn't help but feel intense worry that he had gotten something wrong. That Dick wasn't here. 

But he  heard  Dick scream over that walkie. Dick was alive. Dick  was here. 

He just had to find the correct room. 

And it was just his luck that the last door he opened was the correct one. 

One month, seven days, fourteen hours, and seventeen minutes. 

That was how long it took Bruce to get here, in this doorway, standing with widening eyes behind his cowl's lenses, watching as a man leaned over a table, his hands wrapped around something struggling and writhing in binds. Lining the walls were groups of people, all holding guns and looking comically shocked as Batman barged into the room. Across the room, sitting in a chair to have the best view of the present torture session, was a big rat of man smoking a cigar.

And Bruce saw Dick. He saw Dick's bare chest, his hands tugging on the binds keeping him pinned, his ankles twisting as a natural instinct while fighting to breathe. He saw the man holding Dick's neck between his squeezing fingers. He saw the dried blood splattered over Dick's body. He saw the missing fingernails. He saw the cuts and burns and the broken nose. He saw the pale skin. The weight loss. Every single rib countable if you smeared away the blood.

Red.

He saw red. 

He charged in, his teeth grinding so hard that Leslie would be furious to keep himself from screaming, and punched the man choking…  torturing  Dick across the jaw. The man went flying, roughly hitting the ground as Dick gurgled out a desperate gasp. The rat of a man stood up from his chair, eyes wide and jugular waggling under his butted chin. Immediately, guns were aimed at Batman, thugs all here to protect his boss while he watched what must be his daily torture session. The fat, pathetic excuse of a mafia boss—who Bruce would call a scumbag if that didn't insult all scumbags across the universe—scrambled backwards, lips flapping in a short, flipped sentence that Bruce had heard many, many times to where he almost had to hold back an eye roll. 

But he was too  furious  to roll his eyes now. Not even as the gangster screamed "GET HIM!"

In fact, he hardly even heard those two words yelled at him with a thick sausage of a finger pointed his way. All he could hear were the strangled  sobs  of Dick behind him as he ran forward, swinging his cape to catch the first bullet, throwing his fist to hit the gangster right across his cheek. From then on, it was chaos. Bullets everywhere, shouts and cries harmonizing with the sparks. The singular light above ended up being blown out by a stray bullet around the same time Bruce heard Cass and Tim finally enter. 

Bruce worked like an angel of death. 

No, not of death. 

His blows as if lightning struck the air around him, his will like howls of wind summoned from hell itself. He was the conjuror of destruction, of danger, of catastrophe. He was worse than death. 

He was the crumbling tower, sent to reign down upon those who had thought they could climb too high. 

He blinked, and he found everything silent besides the hands grasping on his shoulder, trying to tug him away from the beaten and broken face of the gangster. Bruce hadn't even realized that time had passed. That the battle was over besides him punching this monster over and over and over in the face. Disgusted—with the man, with himself—he shoved him away and watched so heartlessly it almost frightened him as the unconscious rat splattered onto the grimy floor in a mess of sweaty and bruised limbs. 

He turned towards Cass, her sympathy and understanding lining every inch of her frame, even with the black kevlar covering her features. He turned past her, remembering the whole reason he was here in the first place even though he had never really forgotten. He quickly rushed towards the table Dick was still restrained down onto. 

His eyes were closed, his chest heaving, trickles of water escaping the corners of his eyes and trailing down the sides of his head in more than a month's worth of dust, grime, and blood. His fists were clenched, toes curled, muscles that showed too detailed under the lack of body fat straining weakly against the leather belts keeping him immobile.

Bruce reached forward without thinking and placed his hands on the belt keeping Dick's left arm pinned down above his head. 

Before finding Dick, Bruce had expected a great, many things. A body on one end, a simply trapped and relatively unharmed bored young man on the other. Batman was known amongst the superhero community for always having a plan A through Z for every possible scenario and outcome.

Yet, for some reason, he hadn't ever expected Dick to flinch under Bruce's touch during rescue. 

It was like he was suddenly touching fire the moment Dick cried out, the moment Bruce's fingers just barely brushed the inside of his wrist. He yanked his hands away and stared with wide eyes as Dick broke into more sobs. 

"Stop," Dick hiccuped through his cries; his voice rough like a thousand shards of glass, "stop,  please . No more- I can't-"

The young man dissolved into bubbly suds made out of tears, babbling and begging and beginning to openly weep as he begged for the pain to end. 

"I can't- stop- I- puh-please! Please, no more- n-no more- I  can't- "

The realization crashed into Bruce like a rocket. Dick… didn't realize rescue had come. All he had known for the past month and-  and  was pain and torture and blood. Did he have any hope of rescue left after all this time? Or did he lose it weeks ago, when help had still not come? How long did it take for his quips to fall flat? For his screams to no longer remain silenced? How long did he force himself to stay strong before he must have come to the false realization that no one was coming, and that he would die here?

How long ago had Bruce failed Dick? 

Because Dick not only didn't realize he was  safe  now, but he thought Bruce would hurt him somehow by simply touching the inside of his wrist. 

Dick thought he was going to be tortured. Again. And again. And again. No hope of help. So much pain and suffering in his soul that it ending here and now wasn't even a thought at the back of his mind, hidden behind tearfully closed eyes. 

Bruce took off his cowl, ignoring the way Tim began to whisper urgently towards Cass and into the comm unit. 

"Dick," Bruce tried, forcing his voice to remain calm and soothing, locking all the worry and gravel into a keyed box at the back of his throat. He approached slowly now, but Dick continued to cry anyways. " Chum , I'm here."

A broken gasp. Bruce couldn't take it. 

He reached forward again and gently curled his fingers into Dick's blood matted and sweaty hair, stroking softly like he had always done whenever one of his children ended up in a hospital bed. Dick cried out like he'd been stabbed the moment Bruce touched him, but Bruce didn't back away this time. 

"It's okay, Dick," he soothed, rubbing Dick's scalp through his thick locks like how Dick had always loved because... because Bruce didn't  know  what to do now. "It's me, it's Bruce."

Dick continued sobbing, no recognition. Nothing. Just pain and sorrow and fear. 

"Chum, open your eyes-"

Heaving breaths rattling a chest splattered in red. 

Bruce didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to  do-

But luckily, Tim came up then, giving a smart idea like he always did. 

"We should sedate him," Tim said, his voice barely above a sacred whisper. "Get him at least home and comfortable."

"He's hurting," Cass added, "and scared. Sleep will be good."

Bruce looked down at Dick who was still struggling and crying and babbling and begging words that needn't be spoken now. Not ever again. He took a deep breath then retreated from Dick's hair and reached into his utility belt for a small vial of sedative that he kept on him for a variety of reasons. It didn't take long to take out and fill a clean syringe then  tap the sides to get the bubbles out. It was almost methodical to do so.  This : he knew how to do. He could be given a drug and a needle and someone to stick it in and he could do it without missing a beat. 

But his heart still skipped one when he looked back up to Dick. 

Knowing that it would be evermore unpleasant the longer he allowed this to go on, he shut off the fatherly part of his brain that just wanted to gather Dick up and smother him in forehead kisses. He reached forward and ignored Dick's rekindled cries as he tilted Dick's head to the side to get a better aim at his neck. 

Dick's begging and sobbing increased in pitch and desperateness the moment Bruce stuck the needle into his neck, but thankfully the sedative worked quickly, and soon Dick was little more than a still bag of bones, limp against the table, eyelids flickering in what was perhaps an immediate nightmare.

"What the hell?" A new voice called.

"Oh shit," another agreed. 

It seemed that Jason and Duke had arrived. 

Bruce didn't welcome them though. Dick was… none of his kids were more important than the other, but Dick's situation called for more attention. He quickly got the straps off from Dick's wrists, sparing a thankful glance towards Duke as the young man ran forward to undo the ones on Dick's ankles. The moment Dick was finally free of his binds, Bruce carefully began to cradle Dick towards his body, holding him like a parent would their young child. Head tucked under Bruce's chin, back supported by one of Bruce's arms, legs curled around the other. Bruce held him as tightly and as closely as he dared, listening to nothing but the sound of him breathing as he turned to the others, noting how both Steph and Damian had finally arrived as well, covered in questionable stains and both looking openly upset and shocked. 

Bruce could count the amount of times on one hand that Damian had looked that small, young, and lost. Trust Dick to always be the apple of that boy's eye, trust Dick to be the one to get Damian to look that way. Like a scared, thirteen year old child. 

"Let's go home," Bruce said, and they all agreed one by one. It most certainly would be a pain to get back out of the building without being detected, but Bruce could sense a new fire inside each and every one of them. 

The quickest way out was through the front doors. The people inside this building hurt one of their own. They were all itching for a fight now, more than ever. 

Who was Bruce to stand in their way? This building could crumble to the ground for all he cared. 

As long as he got Dick and the rest of the family home, safe and sound and on the road to recovery, nothing else mattered. 

Not a single, god damned thing.

-o-o-o-o-

Woah? You made it to the end? A reblog would be nice... Haha jk... Unless 👀

[desdemonafictional]

The Erl King

To begin with, it’s important you know that the roads in Drusselstein did not get paved until 2003, when the project was undertaken by some private investors interested in building an export market in the USA. As of 2012, five percent of the country’s population owned one hundred percent of the country’s automobiles. Forty years ago, it could still have passed for a medieval kingdom.

It was 1976, and the carriage made a heavy thudding sound on the shadowy ground as it lurched over half buried trees and washed out gullies. The driver was a Doofenshmirtz man, his expression comfortably grim as he urged the rented nags over various obstacles. They made decent time, although the horses were as old as they were ungainly—domesticated animals do not favor the forests of Drusselstein. Wild animals don’t particularly care for them either, but those don’t have much of a choice.

High above them, the white half globe of the moon flickered between withering leaves. It was autumn, and the man’s family had been journeying to the capital to apply for yet another loan, before the year dwindled down to nothing. Prospects so far remained grim.

The wagon contained five bodies, four human. There was a dog, the man and his wife, and two boys. They had started off from the capital when the sun was high in the sky, and the man had silently refused equally silent requests to pause for the night at an inn at the border of the forest. It was common knowledge that wood trolls were attracted to the sound of carriage wheels after night fall, but the village of Gimmelshtump was only an hour away once you passed the tree line, and the man had not been in the mood to let some trolls that might or might not even be in this region of the forest dictate his actions.

He was, in addition to simply being a man, a Drusselstenian man. This meant that he was never entirely unarmed when it came to the monsters of the countryside.

In the back of the carriage—more of a covered wagon, really—the man’s oldest son sat with his hands cinched around his knees. He had spent a hefty chunk of his relatively short life as a lawn gnome—and would spend more, most likely, if his father’s business with the bank had gone as badly as it sounded—which gave him some familiarity with the dangers of unprotected spaces. Witches, spells, wood trolls, der kinderlumper, so on and so forth. He was eleven years old, and he was fairly certain that he’d like to live to be twelve regardless of how much he did not want to see Big Black Boots Boris on Monday. Driving through the forest at night seemed to be a good way to make sure neither ever happened.

His name was Heinz, which is usually short for something else but in this case was not.

Heinz looked out the back of the carriage. It was open to the darkness, and the road wound out behind them like a pale silver thread.

Now, wood trolls. He could deal with wood trolls. Everybody knew what to do with them, and given enough preparation they’d hardly slow you down. Witches were trickier, but they didn’t usually wander the roads at night. Witches were more the house keeping types. Bats and goozims were probably more of a threat than—

Child.

Heinz let go of his knees and crawled to the edge of the wagon. He heard something, underneath the rattle of wheels and the creaking planks, like a third set of hooves. It had a ghostly uncertainty to it, not quite consistent enough for an echo and not quite solitary enough to be real. Heinz looked back at his mother, seated beside his father at the front of the wagon with her hands squarely in her lap, and bit his lip. She’d ordered him to be silent, but that was hours ago, and besides, she never remembered to give him back speaking privileges. If he didn’t carefully forget after a day or so, he’d never get to talk at all.

Child.

A sound like a voice slipped in through the cracks in the rattling carriage.  Heinz jerked back from the darkness and searched wildly in every direction for the source of the sound, another traveler or perhaps a radio, and found nothing but his parents and his little brother, exactly as they were.

Heinz swallowed.

Carefully, he leaned over the back of the carriage to get a look at the ground. It was probably too much to ask for the wheels to be trailing a bell or some strange noisy junk, but he’d rather not jump to conclusions.

The wind whistled, but it was not a voice. There was nothing under the wheels.

“Child,” the darkness said, “come with me.”

Heinz toppled backwards and skittered across the bouncing wooden floor, heels pushing wildly at the planks until his back was pressed up flat against the back of his mother’s chair.

“Mama,” he hissed, eyes fixed on the featureless night beyond the bounds of their walls. “Mama there’s something out there.”

“I told you to be silent,” his mother replied. Her voice was colder than the moonlight across the dirt.

“I know, I know, but there’s something out there,” he said. “I can hear it talking.”

“How can you hear anything over the rumbling of this two bit rental,” she said, as motionless as ever. It wasn’t a question, Heinz was pretty sure of that.

“I can hear it,” he insisted, “there’s a voice, and hooves, and it wants me to go somewhere with it.”

His mother shifted. Something he’d said must have done the trick, because she turned back for a moment to glance over her shoulder at little Roger, who was sitting placidly across the carriage, staring harmlessly at nothing.

"Do you hear anything, darling?" she asked the smaller boy, a hint of reserved worry around her deep set eyes.

"No mama," Roger said.

The moon went dark behind a canopy on the road ahead. Any emotion in his mother’s face died. “There,” she said, “then there is nothing Heinz. Be silent.”

"But mama, I heard it—"

His mother snorted. “Roger heard nothing,” she said. “And elves only come for beautiful children. It is the wind in the leaves.”

And with that, she returned to her motionless vigil.

Heinz scowled at his brother. “Why didn’t you tell her?”

Roger gave him a mild look that was altogether too mature for a six-year-old’s face. “I didn’t hear anything,” he replied. “It’s late. I’m going to sleep the rest of the way.”

Roger’s meaningful look slipped right past Heinz, who was already crawling back to the end of the carriage. The younger boy gave up on further communication at that point—even at six years old, Roger was aware that his brother was by nature strange and irrational. High strung.

Heinz leaned over the edge again, this time searching the tangles of branches along the road side for a hint of motion in the darkness. The alder trees rose high and curving, and empty of everything except the wind. Heinz sighed and sat down again, resting his forehead against the sill. Maybe it was nothing.

“Child.”

Heinz froze.

“You, dear child.”

He twisted his head. “Roger,” he hissed, “Roger do you hear that?”

His brother only made an irritated six-year-old noise and rolled over onto his side, firmly avoiding the problem. No help from that quarter, then. Heinz took a deep breath and turned back to the window.

Out in the inky night, he could make out the shadowy figure of what might have been a mounted rider in the tangle of the undergrowth, moving with eerie speed through the dense brush.

“You, dear child,” it called, “come, go with me.”

Heinz leaned out the window. “I’m sorry mister,” he called out, only a little louder than the sounds of the carriage. “My brother is sleeping, I don’t think he wants to go anywhere with you!”

The shadow figure’s horse balked, danced sideways, and then ducked gracefully out onto the piecemeal illumination of the road.

“I’m sorry,” the rider said, a new and uncertain note in its echoing voice. “Who?”

The rider, as best Heinz could see, was striking and male, and wore in his long knotted hair a spired crown with peaks like the knobs of old branches. His face was a dark pane of shadows, with glinting pinpricks of light where the eyes were—should be, Heinz amended uneasily. He wasn’t certain.

“Roger,” he answered, dutifully. “My brother. He’s not interested, um, please try back some other night?”

The black horse tossed its head, a mane like cobwebs fluttering against the night. The rider cantered forward, slipping into a more casual distance, head tilted curiously. Closer up, he was more strange than frightening. Heinz had always found that things were less frightening up close, where you could see the seams. Take wildcats for example. Way less scary when they weren’t stalking you through the underbrush.

“Ah,” the rider said, peering past Heinz into the dim space of the wagon. “I didn’t know she had a son.”

“What?” said Heinz. He started to build up some indignation, but then, why bother, he’d been mistaken for a servant before. He went with the more important question. “Do you know my mother?”

The rider regarded him silently for a moment, and then inclined his head. The wicked peaks of his thorny crown glinted. “I am the Erl King,” he said.

“A king?” Heinz repeated, scrambling up over the back of the wagon. He perched there, as close as he could get to the rider. “Can you give my father a loan? Or are you a poor king? My father is a poor baron, that’s what he says.”

“I am rich,” the Erl King said, “but I have more valuable boons than money to grant men. Power, talent, charms, a really excellent peach cobbler recipe—”

“Oh,” sighed Heinz. “He doesn’t want any of that.”

The Erl King cleared his throat. Or whatever passed for a throat. “Right. Ah. So. Come, dear child, go with me.”

Heinz frowned. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

The king reached back like he was rubbing his neck with one twisted hand. “Er. Come away with me.”

“Come away where?”

“To… my kingdom?”

“Oh.” Heinz paused, took that in for a moment. “What, like on a vacation?”

“…Sure. A lengthy… holiday.”

“Gosh, let me tell mama, she wants to go on a vacation so badly, this is great.”

“No, no, hold on,” the Erl King cut in hastily, “not your family. Just you.”

“Me?” Heinz said.

“You.”

Heinz considered this. After a moment, he glanced back at his brother, sleeping placidly with his knees pressed up against the back of their parents’ seats. Something clicked into place.

“But,” Heinz said slowly, “elves only take beautiful children. You are an elf, aren’t you?”

“I am something of that nature, yes.”

“So… why me?”

The Erl King blinked—you could tell because the twin liquid pinpricks of his eyes darkened for the flash of a second. He trotted forward again, horse keeping effortless pace with the rumbling wagon. He leaned in, over the neck of his mount, and peered at Heinz. On the lit pane of his cheekbone, Heinz could barely make out a twisting curling pattern, like the limbs of a very old tree.

“Men have such strange concepts of beauty,” the Erl King murmured. “Child, you are not like them.”

Heinz’s spine stiffened. “I am too! I’m just like everyone else!”

“No,” the Erl King replied, “you really are not.”

“I’m going back in the wagon,” Heinz threatened, throwing a leg over the wall just to demonstrate how serious he was.

The king didn’t seem particularly worried. “You have talent, dear child. Much talent. Come away with me, and I will show you how to make the most of that—my kingdom is hungry for artists, you would never be without admirers.”

“What--Me?”

“There will be dancing,” the Erl King went on, casually, “and there is always food, lovely endless food the likes of which you will never taste elsewhere. I have daughters who would play with you, any game you like. We have many beautiful old things that need to be fixed. You could be very useful to us. We would be so very grateful.”

“Dancing?” Heinz echoed, a little bit behind the curve. “Like—for fun?”

“You enjoy dancing,” the Erl King said, and it wasn’t a question.

Heinz glanced around, nervously, but no one was listening to him. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Come away with me,” the king said, offering one knotted dark hand towards the boy. “No one will tell you to stop breathing so loudly, or to be still, and you will always have a bed.”

“Um,” said Heinz. “That sounds really great, but—”

He looked again over his shoulder, at the shapes of his family in the darkness. He knew enough at age eleven to know that he wasn’t happy, and that maybe he had never been. Other people were happy, even Roger seemed happy enough. Kids at school. Uncles. Dogs. If it was possible for them, then why not him too?

The hand waited, extended patiently into the void between the monstrous horse and the creaking wagon. Heinz considered it. He had heard a little bit about elves, just enough to know that people didn’t like them very much. They took children. Well, people also didn’t like him much, and at least this elf was asking first.

Heinz sighed. “I’m sorry, your highness. I can’t go with you.”

The Erl King retracted his hand. “Dear child, you can’t be serious.”

Heinz gestured helplessly toward his family’s vague shapes. “I can’t, I—I already ran away once, I had to come back. They need me.”

The Erl King regarded him with his strange eyes, black and hooded. “They don’t love you,” he observed, a touch reproachfully.

Heinz flattened his lips, stared into the empty darkness. “I can make them,” he said.

The fairy horse tossed its head and stamped, losing distance as the wagon rattled on. The Erl King regarded Heinz with something almost like sadness. An alien, curious sadness.

“I only offer,” he said, finally. “I cannot take you by force.”

Heinz shivered. “Thanks for the offer, then, your majesty. I appreciate the thought.”

The king inclined his head.

Half an hour later, the wagon arrived in the village of Gimmelshtump, wheels shaking ominously on their posts. The man and his wife went to unload their dog and their children and bring them inside the house, only to find their eldest son huddled at the back of the contraption where the windchill bit hardest. His skin was paler than the fading moonlight, and worryingly cold to the touch. The man and his wife exchanged a glance, lifted up their son, and silently carried him to his small bedroom.

In a day or so, the fever passed, and the boy survived.

[dontasktheradiodemon]

Emotional Support, $500/hour

Alastor hires Angel for his services. No, not those services. The "provide sympathy and advice for some poor loser who's found himself unwillingly stuck in a soap opera" services. Although Angel would far rather do it as a friend rather than for pay.

Tumble mobile is a piece of crap that won't let me post an entire chat log in one post, and I don't want to wait eight hours to post this when I get home, so gonna post this in two chunks. Part one:

Alastor

A text arrives at one of the numbers written up on the walls around Pentagram City:

"Is this Angel Dust's business line?"

Hella formal.

Angel

An identifying ring sounded from Angel's drawer. Not the type that'd fire warning bells in his head, but the sort he preferred to hear from his hotel room.

Time to go to work.

[ The one and only, Toots! 💋 What can I do ya for? 💕 ]

Alastor

"What are your rates just for private conversation? Nothing sexual. I need somebody to talk to."

Angel

Angel reread the message. Once. Twice. A couple more times. Usually he didn't get this type of request on this number, but a part of him was relieved.

[ Ya talkin' companion rates, Babe? I typically run that 500 by the hour, but dependin' on the kinda secrets I'm gonna be keepin', I could drop or ask fa a tip. It's a pretty accurate ballpark, though. Have I lost ya? ]

Alastor

There’s a longer pause before the next reply.

(The pause is for Alastor to go “Five hundred dollars?! FIVE HUNdred DOL*LARS*?! *FIVE—*”)

“I can manage that.”

It’s not going to be *his* money.

Angel

[ Sounds good! Where ya gonna be wantin' me, Sweetheart? Just so ya know, I'm gonna need those bills in my hands before we get down to any business. ]

Alastor

“I’ll have them. The hotel just outside Cannibal Colony’s northern entrance. I’ll let you know the room number.”

It’s a middling sort of hotel. It’s alright.

Angel

[ Alright, I know the area. I'll be there in about fifteen. ]

He didn't know the area. But Angel couldn't let an unknown client know that. Furthermore, last he was there he had himself QUITE THE WELCOMING. So by his better judgement, he asked Bel for directions without running the risk of getting shot this time. He'd find his way.

Alastor

And Alastor is gonna spend the next fifteen minutes cordially threatening the first people he sees who look well-dressed and stupid enough to be carrying around several hundred dollars, and then bolting for the hotel.

He’s settling down on the room’s couch and texting Angel the number at about the same time Angel probably ought to be walking in the front door.

Angel

_Rap rap._ He's not the police, so he saves announcing himself. Nonetheless his senses are alert, his limbs folded deceptively casual before his torso. Anxieties aside, he's expecting an easy job. As soon as he can confirm it's a real job and not a hold up.

Alastor

Alastor’s shadow opens the door for him.

He glances over from the couch. “Right on time.” He gestures to an arm chair across from the couch. Surprise!

Angel

Angel looks at his phone. The room number. His phone again. They surely match up exactly, don't they? A rather robotic wave to Alastor's shadow, just to be polite, before he pokes his head in without crossing the doorframe.

_" ... What. Am I bein' punk'd 'ere!? "_ Arms flail wildly as his eyes dart about the room in search of clues he might not get from the real deal on the couch. " THIS where ya been holdin' the crock pot hostage?? "

Alastor

“Do come in and shut the door before you start shouting, would you? I *am* trying to be discreet, here.” Proof of that claim: he’s actually using an indoor voice for once.

There’s no crock pot. No nothing else, either—he got the room less than five minutes ago just for this, he hasn’t touched a thing and he didn’t bring any personal effects. Just him, sitting cross-armed on the couch.

He uncrosses his arms, fishes a wallet out of his pocket, and slides several bills half out. See? He’s legit. “I have enough here for—let’s see—about three hours and twenty-five minutes. Hopefully I won’t need that much, but.” A jerky shrug.

Angel

His face fell and stiffened into a vague sternness. Wordlessly he stepped around the shade and soundlessly shut the door. This energy was too weird. He didn't trust it. He didn't like it. Either he or Alastor was running the risk of being made a bigger fool than Narcissus in the pond. Fittingly, neither one of them would risk their egos for something so trivial.

He was MORE than serious.

Angel passed the arm chair, instead taking a knee before him and lowering a hand over the wallet. " I'm not takin' ya money, Al. The fuck's goin' on? "

Alastor

“Oh, don’t worry about *that,* it’s not my money. It properly belongs to...” He pulls a card out of the wallet and squints at it. “Mr. Bee. Ironically, he looked more like a parrot.”

But he doubts that’s going to satisfy Angel. “I’m not talking to you as a friend. I’m hiring your services as a professional. I need your expert advice on a matter. And if I’m asking you to do your job, I *am* going to pay you for it.”

Angel

Angel rose a brow higher than his last hit. At the very least he could relax, but he was still dumbfounded -

_... as a friend?_ If he weren't a professional, he'd be asking him as a friend? The corner of his mouth twitched. It seemed more likely that he wouldn't be asking him at ALL if he weren't professional.

Regardless, he was wasting his energy trying to figure him out on his own. " What in the Nine's could ya be askin' _me_ for? " A short exhale before shifting his back against the armchair. " Save fa givin' yaself a day coma, I thought ya... pretty good at keepin' ya shit together... "

Alastor

Alastor rifled through the wallet to see if Mr. Bee had any interesting membership cards worth stealing—museums, day spas, secret societies, etc.—before sitting forward and holding the wallet out to Angel. “Are you taking it? Because I’m not telling you why I’m asking you unless you’re on the clock.”

Angel

" Alright alright, lemme see, " Angel lied with little to no intention of sitting on it. He flipped through the bills and counted them off by the hour before placing them on the table beside him. " ...120, 180, remainder a 25. 205 minutes of complete and undivided attention, in part or in full. You're set, Smiles. "

Alastor

Alastor watched as Angel counted. “All right.” He took a deep breath, let it all out. His gaze didn’t move from the table to Angel. “I could use—relationship advice.”

Angel

He could BURST with the sheer force of that bombshell, but Angel kept his cool as he made his sprawl of limbs comfortable from the floor. " Ya... gotta secret squeeze around 'ere or somethin? Cannibal gal ya came out t' see? "

Alastor

Alastor laughed ruefully. Wouldn’t that be convenient—some cute little lady to have a predictably heterosexual little afterlife with, sharing all of his shallow surface-level preferences—home era, musical theater, cannibalism—he could pick from any of a dozen ladies he’d passed since arriving in the Cannibal Colony that afternoon who would leap at the chance.

“Not a squeeze,” he said. “Not a gal, either.”

Angel

Well, he was _laughing,_ but it wasn't the good kind. Angel leaned an elbow over a seat of the sofa, keeping all signs of his own personal glee from his face.

Most of it.

" Do tell. "

Alastor

By this point, he wasn’t looking anywhere near Angel. Okay. Now or never. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, twisting his laced hands together. “Advice.” Like saying it again would keep this to some emotionally neutral info-gathering consultation. “What do you—How should one handle it, if... one has... sentiments, for one’s best friend, that he doesn’t reciprocate.” His stomach churned. “Andhe’s found out.”

He had very few people he publicly acknowledged as friends, particularly not somewhere Angel would have seen it. Only one of them was a man. He braced himself for an outburst of shock/amusement as Angel worked out who he was talking about.

Angel

Oh this was FAR from strictly transactional. They all pretty much lived together. Their interpersonal lives would be intertwined for the unspecified future. Said best friend was ENGAGED... to Angel's own best friend.

Again, Angel's eyes flickered about the room. This wasn't a Lifetime movie. This wasn't a hidden camera show. This was gonna be their life now and he'd be DAMNED if that sort of mess could be sorted by a few hundred dollars or so.

He just took a deep breath and stated the facts. Any generic advice he had on hand wouldn't be helpful. " You're his best man, Al. _What_ were ya thinkin'? "

Alastor

He squeezed his eyes shut as if Angel had just reared back to sock him in the face. He would have preferred amusement. “*I didn’t want him to kn—*”

He choked on his own static. He took a shuddering breath. “I don’t want—They make him happy, *that’s* what I want. Him happy. I don’t want to interfere, I just—“ He had to stop again. Unprofessional. Management would’ve given him a stern talking to after a performance like this.

He lifted his laced hands, pressing the knuckles of his thumbs to his eyelids. “I didn’t tell him. He figured it out.”

Angel

Angel expected defensiveness from trying to pry some more from him, to pass an air of judgement for the sake of pulling out whatever emotions he was trying so hard to hide beneath professionalism. He thought Alastor would HANDLE IT.

Not fall into whatever _this_ was. The Alastor he knew was nothing short of _UNBREAKABLE._ It was as surreal as it was painful to witness. _What could be possibly offer him?_ A simple question suddenly felt loaded and heavy.

" _Hey hey hey._ " Angel rose from the floor and perched upon the sofa facing him. " He's a smart guy. You're expressive as shit. Even performin's got... some of ya in it... Ya can't help ALL OF IT. " He leaned forward, just enough to duck below Alastor's falling level. " ... What he... have t' say about it...? "

Alastor

In a week, maybe he could have been calm and collected and above it all. But it was yesterday. It felt like it was an hour ago. The wounds were still raw, literally.

A sharp nod. “It was unavoidable.” He’d realized that the moment it happened. He still hated, hated, hated it.

“Oh, you know.” Another humorless laugh. He dropped his hands and stared tiredly down at them. “He’s furious, he feels betrayed, he feels used... he believes he still wants to be my friend but if he so much as *looks* at me before he’s ready for it he’ll hate me forever...” He shrugged wearily.

Angel

" That's why ya out here, " he stated with a toss of an arm over the backrest, " I DON'T know. How's he feelin' used? Ya never... did anythin' to 'im, did ya? I mean, since you was tryin' so hard to just keep it in, I can't imagine you HAVE. " Angel racked his memories a moment, but drew blanks. He couldn't think of any reason, for both not knowing enough and such a notion conflicting his own direct experience.

" It's... YOU hurtin' 'ere, from what I see. He's got Valera, they gonna be tyin' the knot soon. You've been... " He swallowed thickly. " There fa him. Tell me why. There's - " Words caught in his throat. Words that may have saved him from damnation had they been said to him when he needed to hear them. " Ain't nothin' wrong... wit' feelin' what ya feelin'. "

Alastor

A nod. That’s why he’s out here.

“Because any time we interacted, there was more to it—more than he was bargaining for. More than he knew about.” He had himself back under control, but his tone was subdued. Almost emotionless. Not very Radio Demon. “We hugged, we cuddled. Napped together.” And was he justified in feeling used over that? All Alastor could say was that he’d felt guilty about it the entire time—that he’d dreaded that maybe he *was* using him. “I *tried* to make sure he was always the one who initiated. It didn’t always end up that way.” He remembered holding him in his arms when he’d fainted, telling himself it was justified because he was just supporting him until he woke back up. He’d been *unconscious.* “He said he couldn’t really consent to anything we did because he didn’t know what he was consenting to.”

Angel

" And he's puttin' that on you? Smiles, ya owed 'im nothin' more than ya wanted 'im knowin'. It didn't change nothin'. Ya still gave him everything he wanted and needed from ya. You think ya owe him a reengineerin' of the parts a ya you can't change, too? He may... own ya... but he can't... change ya. Not like that. "

Realizing he may have been projecting a little too much, Angel cleared his throat. " Lovin' 'im a lil' different don't take away from everythin' ya already had. I dunno why he'd feel so... THREATENED by ya unless he... ain't cool wit' you bein' a guy, but any guy who's that comfy wit' his friends can't be straight 'imself, ah? " He forced a chuckle, but he knew that wasn't the point.

" Ya still... didn't have motives, Al, ya didn't take advantage of him. Ya didn't go underminin' everything he's workin' for. Right? No matter how you was feelin'... he still came first. Now if ya ask me, that's PRETTY FUCKIN' STUPID. But he has ya. Had ya. Whatever happens. He's got it all an' then some just t' kick ya to the curb... " Angel crossed his arms. " Ya don't deserve that. He's got some apologizin' t' do to you. I'd drag ya back to the hotel an' give 'im a piece a my mind right NOW... but y'ain't gonna want that, huh? "

Alastor

*He may own you.* Something inside Alastor twisted in pain and boiled up in fury—because it was true. Some part of him had been seized away and he was never getting it back, and that was the *worst* part of this. He muttered, “I wish I could reengineer it. Not for *him* but for *me.* I don’t want this.”

He shook his head. “It’s not because I’m a man, that never came into it. He isn’t straight.” He says this with the confidence of somebody who definitely absolutely totally knows that this is a fact, despite the fact that he has not, actually, been told so.

No, of course he’d never undermined him, he would never—but that didn’t necessarily mean he hadn’t, at the same time, taken advantage. Taken liberties he shouldn’t have, here and there. The idea that *he* might be owed an apology was laughable. Alastor wasn’t laughing. “No, absolutely not, don’t say a *single* word to him. As soon as this conversation ends, I never told you anything and you don’t know any of it.”

Angel

" Didn't think so. " Angel dropped his cheek into his hand and studied him. Something changed. He was being short with him. He perused his words, robotic and unnatural, searching for what did it. It was the price he paid for rambling.

" But ya _do,_ want it. You'd want it if things were different, if he felt the same about you. Tell me I'm wrong an' I'll eat my words wit' a side a fries. " He closed his eyes and hummed into his palm. " Whatever closure ya needin' ya gotta find it. " Angel hesitated to volley ideas, as he knew they'd be leaving his mouth astronomically hypocritical. But he wasn't being paid to play by example, was he? " Ya can count on Penny t' come around and give it to ya, but if ya do that you could be fuckin' exiled forever an' give up the front seat to watchin' Charlie's redemption plans go to shits. Sure it's a lotta fun out 'ere, but it ain't no 1929 fun. "

" Or, ya can wipe ya face. Get off ya ass. Make sure ya got all that's goin' on outta ya system. An' find somethin' new to pour yaself into that's got nothin' t' do with him. And keep doin' it until he's got less an' less a hold on ya until... you're feelin' free an' yourself, again. An' he'll just 'ave to deal with whatever that means if he wants to be stayin' friends with ya. 'Cause ya done ENOUGH. "

Alastor

"You *are* wrong." There's an edge of desperation in his voice. "If he said he felt the same and he made me that offer—yes, I'd take it. But if I could actually choose, if I was given a *real* choice? Between being with him and—and having this taken out of me and being *free?* I'd want to be free! I'd choose that in a heartbeat! I'd rather be his friend!"

And he *knew* that was what he'd choose because he *had* chosen it. Back before he realized that freedom was no longer an option. He'd lost a piece of his heart he was never getting back.

He listened to Angel's suggestions. Let out a long, slow sigh. And asked tiredly, "Is that it?"

Angel

" Then ya gonna have to prove it to yourself first babe 'cause ya ain't soundin' convincin'. " Angel ducked below his line of sight again as if it'd grant him a different perspective. " If this sorta thing had a magical fix, you'd know a lot better than me. But it don't. Ya just gotta... "

He frowned. He wouldn't be able to keep the promise of pretending this never happened. " ... keep at it... keep talkin'... maybe you'll wake up tomorrow feelin' inspired. Maybe you'll wish ya never woke up at all, but... it's all ya can do, Smiles. It's gonna take time. " Angel didn't like leaving it at this, but he found himself unsure. With other clients, he could leave them with the best and never hear of the results. So long as he stayed at the hotel, _he was going to end up WATCHING HIM every step of the way._

But he still didn't know how he needed to be taken care of. If Alastor knew himself, he wouldn't have solicited. " Good thing we got all the time in the world down 'ere to find new things to fuck ourselves up with, ah? " He reached out and gently pat the sofa cushion in place of his knee, in place of taking his hand. " You'll... get there. You're the fuckin' Radio Demon. I dunno how ya do half the shit ya do but this is gonna be one a them things. Say it. "

Alastor

"Would it sound more convincing to you if I destroyed everything he'd ever worked for *just* to ensure we could never have a life together? Would that be convincing enough for you?" Alastor snapped. "*Because I did.*"

He shoved himself off the couch to start pacing. "I've *tried* pouring myself into something new to keep him off my mind. I've *been* trying it for the last *fifty-four years.* That's why I'm at the hotel in the first place! It's why I know *how long* you can *kill yourself* with a bottle of 190 proof booze!" He flung his hands up in despair. "I've been trying to *feel like myself* again since 1966, and all I can do is—distract myself! Distract myself and suppress it until the next time I'm reminded of him!" He let out a brittle laugh, "And smear what I feel for him around to all of his duplicates!"

He rounded on Angel. "I've joined musicals, worked in restaurants, moved to a cultish commune, been an alcoholic, gone to therapy, traveled the nine circles, signed onto every harebrained scheme and plot in Hell—including the hotel!—and more things I can't even remember off the top of my head, and on top of *that* put over half a century between me and him, *and he's still stuck in my heart.* I've tried every piece of advice I've ever heard for how to fall out of love and they *haven't worked!* So give me something *new!* Give me something I *haven't tried!* You're the professional!"

He collapsed onto the armchair Angel hadn't taken. He wasn't sure if getting all that out of his system had really helped. He kind of felt like he'd just projectile vomited.

Angel

" Dupli-? ... _Fuck..._ " Angel dropped his cheek into his palm with the rest of his body taking up the empty space on the sofa. This ran much deeper than he thought. The root of his issues didn't even have anything to DO with the Pentious he knew. Likely beyond anything he could possibly say. Hadn't Alastor been so sweepingly BROAD when he came in, he could've been more careful, but- _ah seemed like he tired himself out._

**_Ya DONE?_**

" That kinda miracle workin' ain't on my resume, " he said bleakly with a broad sweep of an arm, " Ya called me fa someone to talk to, not t' be the answer to all ya problems. " As much time as he spent hearing out the woes of the damned, usually all that was really wanted from him was a crank. An easy enough temporary fix. Not here.

He stood up now. Trying to build him up from below didn't seem to be working. Alastor responded only when he called him out, questioned the half-hearted assertions playing from his mouth like a weathered record. Was that what he needed? To be spiritually disemboweled until he purged all the poison from his soul onto the tarp? He didn't like this. He didn't like it at all. He wanted to call the job off. He couldn't do it. This was too personal and psychologically visceral.

But even moreso, he couldn't give up on and leave him there for much of the same reason he couldn't leave him at the bar. Self destruction was a BITCH to be going through alone. And at the root of it all, Alastor made it clear enough he didn't want to be alone by calling him there.

Angel braced a long arm over the back of his chair so he could drill him in the eye. " Believe me, if I had it all I'd give it to ya, but all I got is this. If ya want ya stolen money back, fine, Al. If ya wanna keep yellin', 'ave at it, Al. Lay out all the shit that's been dry doggin' ya since '66. So I can get it. REALLY GET IT. 'Cause ya holdin' out on me. An' if ya really wanna get the most outta ya hours. Ya gotta keep goin'. "

Alastor

A corner of his mouth twitched. Miracle working. "Of course. Of course, you're right—I'm not expecting a miracle. Not in Hell."

He slouched forward, elbows on his knees again, running one hand through his hair—it was still partially stiff with the hair gel he hadn't managed to shower out at Rosie's, he hadn't bothered to restyle it.

He hadn't liked... that. He still felt sick. "No, I don't want a refund," he said. "I—don't think I want to keep yelling, either." He was silent a moment, trying to figure out what he *did* want from all the things he didn't want, mentally chasing something elusive. It had made perfect sense when he'd tracked down Angel's number—talk to a professional, someone whose job was all about desire and attraction, someone who'd probably dealt with thousands of broken-hearted clients; while Alastor's had only broken once, and just never been put back together.

And now that they were talking Alastor couldn't quite figure out what he wanted. Maybe he really had been hoping for a miracle.

*Ya gotta keep goin'.* All right. "I don't particularly want to talk about '66, either—but..." He took a deep breath. "There was a day when I had a choice—happily ever after with him; or run for the hills, toss aside those emotions, and go back to being who I'd been before I—fell. I chose to run. Destroy everything and run. So—when I *say* that I'd choose freedom over requited feelings... even if it doesn't sound convincing to you, I need you to know that I'm telling the truth. Because I *did* choose it. Or—tried." He looked at Angel, waiting for his reaction—waiting to see if he was believed. Because he needed to be believed. Everyone else in the world only said they didn't want love when they couldn't make it work out—and if Angel lumped Alastor in with them, then... then they would be speaking two different languages that had the same words but different meanings, never actually communicating. If Alastor couldn't make himself understood, he was still alone.

Angel

Angel took a deep breath before sinking to the floor again. " I believe ya. Just gotta say it with conviction, ah? " he said heavily with a fold of his arms over the armrest. As Alastor spoke, he tried to put himself in his place. When he was posed with as monumental a choice, he made the opposite decision. And regretted it with everything he had. Not only was there no miracle working in Hell: there were no choices for the better, either. You were damned whether or not you believed something was too good to be true or fell into the trap. Angel had dived headfirst when he should've trusted that he knew himself better than to believe it'd end well for him.

" How'd it fall through? " he posed with a drop of his chin into his arms, " He bait ya back? " Angel found himself listening with new acoustics. They'd both been in ruins for decades for strikingly similar reasons: trapped by the clutches of toxic loves neither of them want, when they never felt anything of the sort prior. A tragic First they were still fighting. Perhaps he had something to offer him afterall. Perhaps he could support him in a way only few could. He could only hope it'd be enough.

Alastor

“No.” Alastor slid off his chair, too; it didn’t feel right, sitting higher. They should be on eye level with each other. “No, that was—that was why I destroyed everything before I left. To ensure he *wouldn’t* try to bait me back. To make sure he wouldn’t want to. And he didn’t want to. He hasn’t.” Huff. “You saw him on my first day at the hotel! And that’s the longest conversation we’ve had since I left. No, he didn’t do anything. It just...” He shrugged helplessly. “Didn’t fade for me. It’s *supposed* to fade, everyone tells you it’s supposed to fade. It never did.”

Angel

" Oh. That was. " _Let's just pretend he knew from the beginning that they weren't the same demon._ Angel darted his eyes to the corner of the room as he slinked off the armrest. _Yeah. TOTALLY KNEW,_ he lied to himself as he faced Alastor and made himself comfortable. Odd of him to follow his habit. " ... him. " He then cleared his throat. " Yeah, it... doesn't... really... " Angel echoed with a perch of his arms over his ankles. " So... what's ya plan...? Ya gonna just... camp out 'ere 'till ya figure it out? "

Alastor

“That was him,” Alastor said grimly. “My *ex.*” The word was sour on his tongue. Such a fitting word. “And what did I do, I immediately blew up his ship again. Terrific work on my part. Well done.”

A shrug. “Wait at Rosie’s until either he comes calling or I decide he never will, I suppose, and then figure out what to do from there. The—the new ‘he,’ I mean. The one I’m friends with now.” He paused, considering that. “Was friends with.”

Angel

" I'll say. " Blowing up an exe's property sounded perfectly justifiable to him, and it wasn't just Cherri's influence. But he guessed if Alastor felt bad about it that only meant he preferred other ways of moving on.

" Rosie... she... busy a lot? Ya got enough company out 'ere? "

Alastor

“Oh, everyone loves me in the Cannibal Colony. All the ladies swoon and all the men beg me to come over for dinner. I can’t go half a block without getting roped into small talk and dance numbers.” He didn’t sound terribly enthusiastic about it. But he added, “I have better company here than I do anywhere else in Hell,” and *that* was completely true.

Angel

" Well... sounds like a good place fa ya to be... " Angel pondered some. Of course Cannibal Colony was his personal wonderland. But there must be something missing for him to leave, he figured. " Pause the clock for a sec, " he said with a clear of his throat, " Rosie got room fa one more? "

Alastor

“I don’t want a roommate.” He gave the answer immediately; and then, after a moment, grudgingly, asked, “Are you trying to get away from the hotel?”

Angel

" I ain't askin' t' be ya roommate, " he growled, " YOU'RE the one turnin' tail 'ere. " With that, Angel snapped his fingers. " Clock's back on. I ain't ya friend no more. "

Alastor

Alastor stared at him, lost. “Th—No, pause the clock—Then what *are* you asking?”

Angel

He crossed his arms and eyed him sternly. " If ya... " A sigh. He already knew the answer. " If ya need a friend, Al. Ya gonna be out 'ere for fuckall knows how long. Ya goin' through it. Would be much easier if all I had to do was turn a corner instead a hikin' all the way over whenever ya felt like stealin' a wallet. "

Alastor

All right, that was what he’d originally thought. He didn’t know why Angel got *offended* that Alastor hadn’t wanted a favor that had been offered for Alastor’s benefit—but then it wasn’t the first time, was it? “I don’t want a friend nearby. I don’t want to be *watched* while I’m... thinking things over. I need to have that distance.” He unconsciously glanced toward the wallet as he said the last word.

Angel

" That mean ya done? " he asked with a toss of his chin down Alastor's line of sight.

Alastor

He snapped his gaze back to Angel. “No. No, just—have to look somewhere, don’t I?” Deep breath. “Sorry. Distracted. Where were we?”

Angel

He actually pulled him back. Color Angel surprised. " Ya blew up his shit, it didn't do ya no good, ya made a mean jambalaya... "

Alastor

“*Right.* Yes. That’s not the one I wanted to talk about. *He’s* not the one I wanted to talk about. I just—needed you to know the context, but... The one I’m friends with now. That one.”

Angel

" Yeah. The one who kicked ya to the curb after ya tore yourself the fuck apart tryin' to be who he wanted ya to be instead a seein' an' appreciatin' ya fa who you are, " he stated matter of factly with a moderate sweep of his arm, " _That one._ Pen. "

Alastor

It stung to hear. Another little needle jammed into his heart, right alongside all the others already buried in. "If I was tearing myself apart to be who he wanted, then he *couldn't* see who I really was, could he? I've been more or less lying to him as long as he's known me. He's got every right to distrust me."

Angel

" More or less, " Angel echoed, " So ya _not_ entirely convinced you were completely in the wrong. " His eyes challenged him. Though the secondary six didn't have pupils, an eerie weight carried through. " It's 'cause you're not. "

Alastor

"I *meant* in the sense that even when I wasn't *actively* lying, I was lying by omission." He shook his head. "Even if I... It's nothing I don't deserve anyway—in general, in a... you know, a karmic sense. Years ago, I stabbed a version of him in the heart; now he stabs me in the heart. He was probably... *selected,* on some celestial level, to be my punishment." He'd been doing a valiant job of keeping at least a ghost of a smile on his face, but it was starting to waver now. "I knew this wasn't going to work. Of course we couldn't be friends—he was just thrown in my path to rip open the wounds I'd gotten too good at ignoring. If it had a chance of working, we wouldn't have been allowed to meet."

Angel

" What's the point a harpin' on about what ya do an' don't deserve if there ain't no redemption to be had? That cross on ya chest ain't ever gonna flip. " _Catholic,_ he heard Alastor's voice echo in his head. How he _loathed_ those places of worship. Even before being damned his skin burned with rancor every time he crossed an altar. And he did so many times with and without a Colt tucked into his coat. " What'cha expectin' to be comin' outta sufferin' like a good lil' sinner? 'Cause no matter how many times I dunked my wank hand into the holy water, " he said curtly as he signed himself, " I kept missin' the memo. " Intentionally. But he could play dumb for now if it helped him drag some religious trauma out of him.

Alastor

"I don't expect anything to come out of it but more suffering. I don't expect a reward, redemption, or respite. But—and here's the key part—I don't expect anything to come out of denial and resistance, either. Either way, I'm going to suffer and nothing's going to improve. Because this is *Hell,* and *nothing* gets better, and only a *damn fool* tries to improve his lot. Even if he succeeds, it's only because Hell is letting him set himself up for an even greater fall." He crossed his legs loosely, propping his elbow on a knee and his chin in his hand, letting his fingers half cover his mouth. "This situation is just further proof of that."

Angel

" So ya called me just so you can fuck yourself over a lil' more? Ya " damn fool " ? 'Cause if ya lookin' to get fucked UP an' do it RIGHT, that's up my alley, too. " Angel flashed a crooked smirk and waved a his hand. He wasn't serious. However, he _did_ fundementally disagree. " I'm kiddin'. Kiddin'. But ya know. So long as we're stuck kickin' around, sufferin', may as well keep things interestin', " he droned with a shift to his knees so he could reach Alastor's shoulder, " Keep takin' chances. Keep chasin' the next best thing. Keep doin' what'cha do. It ain't gonna matter an' it's always gonna suck, but at least ya get ya kicks outta watchin' other demons handle it a lot worse than you, ah? "

Alastor

He laughed weakly. "I've tried getting f#%ked up." A muffled beep obscured most of the word. "Funny thing though, once you get tired of that, you still have to pick up the pieces. And I never have liked cleaning up messes."

A lump formed in his throat when Angel touched his shoulder. "Next best thing," he muttered. "That's what I've been doing. All this time." He could hear his voice trembling, but he couldn't stop it. "If I can't be *happy*, at least I can be *entertained.* Ha! I just w—!" He couldn't finish the sentence. He slid his hand up to fully cover his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut.

Angel

Angel chuckled in time with his laugh. Was that part of his act? Was the bleep conscious? He had so many jokes at the ready. He was MORE than ready to start trying to make him laugh...

... but instead, Alastor shattered like glass. Just a touch of a hand was all it took? He always took extra care to respect his space after their first conversation. Right now he was just leading him by example, showing rather than just telling him to take chances.

_" ... Al... "_ He thought he should pull back. Maybe it was a bad call. But if he let go, there'd be nothing there to catch his pieces. _And Alastor surely didn't like cleaning up messes._ Angel took a short breath before raising another hand. He gently squared his shoulders towards him. _" Hey... You ok there buddy? "_

Alastor

He shook his head. But he also didn't pull back. Just this once, apparently, this was what he needed.

Angel

Angel almost felt like he'd be more comfortable holding a hornet's nest, but at least providing this sort of comfort was more his speed. " C'mere. " Cautiously, he slid his arms past Alastor to angle his head over his shoulder and avoid a pair of antlers to the throat. In the same motion, he slipped beside him to support any weight that would fall. _Was it too much?_ He kept his secondary arms on the floor for now, a small crunch of product in his ear as his cheek tilted into his hair.

Alastor

Yes, that *was* what he needed. He'd be surprised at himself if he wasn't trying so hard to hold himself together. He leaned his weight into Angel, pulled his knees up to his chest, and covered his face entirely, one hand over his mouth and one hand over his eyes.

Voice cracking, choking on every few words, he said, "I just—wish—I could stop—dragging him into it. I don't want to be the—the one assigned to—make him suffer. That would be enough."

Angel

_You're NOT..._ Angel took a deep breath and pulled him closer, all arms around him now, a couple subtly rubbing his back. This wasn't a point of argument he could win. He couldn't contest or even tell him it'd be ok. So every time he choked, he gave a little squeeze. Every time he cracked he gave a more deliberate stroke. He could cry into his fluff. It'd be ok. He wouldn't look. Instead of protest, he affirmatively hummed along.

Alastor

He couldn't quite bring himself to cry into the fluff, that was a step too far. That would be the point where chronic touch aversion won out over acute touch starvation again.

But he *was* willing to press his forehead into the fluff—oh wow that was really soft. That was. Insanely soft. Holy shit. It lived up to the advertising.

Angel

He seemed to still. That was good. Angel brought a hand to the top of his head to gauge where the antlers were again, but _god_ was his hair a mess. Roots showing, old pomade... at least it didn't feel an awful brand. Keeping his chin up, he relaxed his hold on him and stayed put, listening closely for potentially muffled words.

Alastor

Just one word for the moment, croaked out from beneath a hand and a wall of fluff: "Thanks." He'll work a few more out, just—give him a moment first. It's been a long time since he's let himself be touched by anyone but the person he's currently a wreck over.

Angel

" Yeah... I won't mention it, " he said quietly before brushing a thumb over the base of his ear. Alongside the softness, it was almost en_deer_ing how small he managed to make himself. But he was a broken man. Angel hoped he'd never have to see this side of Alastor again regardless of how used to his frame he was getting. Less a hornet's nest, more a vulnerable demon just like any other.

Alastor

And Alastor sincerely hoped to never be seen like this again; but that wasn't totally in his control, was it?

He took several deep breaths, white noise hisses; and then asked, "Should I—even try again? Being friends? Or would we both be better off to—not?"

He desperately wanted a *yes, try again.* But he couldn't give himself one. He'd been trying, for days; all his excuses and rationalizations rang false. They all sounded selfish and naive.

Angel

Angel bit his lip. _No,_ he wanted to say, _Not if ya gonna keep runnin' yourself into the ground. Not if you're gonna cling to this idea of suffering._

_Ya just gonna be back 'ere again._

But so would he, wouldn't he? Angel already decided. He wasn't going back to the studio. If nowhere else... he was going to be here. Playing redemption.

" ... He. Should try, " he said sternly as he traced waves, " You don't do a fuckdamn THING to get in his good graces until he makes it up to ya. That's the only way this could work. Ya gave 'im everythin'. It's his turn. "

Alastor

Alastor's throat tightened. He didn't like that answer. "But being loved by a friend is *horrible.*" Voice of experience. "He didn't *want* everything from me. I can't blame him for being upset at having so much shoved onto him. How could I?"

Angel

Angel sighed heavily. Temporary fluff suffocation. You'll survive, Alastor. " I ain't sayin' ya gotta do that. Just that he should f'give ya some. Y'ain't no scarlet fuckin' letter. Just a guy. Wit' a complicated past. Wit' some complicated feelin's. If he's gonna be givin' any bit of a damn about you, he's gonna have to wade through some of it without judgin' ya or blamin' ya. It's what friends do. "

Alastor

That's fine, breathing is optional. He can wait.

"Oh, no? If I had a big red letter pinned to me, are you sure you could tell? B for backstabber." He sighed. "Right—of course. If he doesn't decide to forgive me, there's nothing else I can do. It's out of my hands until then."

Angel

" You'll be _fine,_ " he relented with a sink of his chin onto his head and a wide circle over Alastor's back, " You'll get along again. You'll get over y'selves. Even if ya don't, you'll still be fine. "

Alastor

They'll get along again. They'll be fine. His throat squeezed shut. He doubted Angel had any real way of knowing that was true, but he clung to it anyway.

He tried to nod, found he was buried too deep in fluff to complete the movement, and instead managed a garbled, "*Mhm.*"

Angel

" Mhm, " he echoed affirmatively, fingering a wayward curl back into place. At least as close a place he could figure. Angel then squeezed him tight around the shoulders before loosening into casual sweeps. " ... ... Ya smilin'? "

Alastor

He doubted it, but he prodded his cheek with the fingertips of the hand still over his mouth to check. "Mm-mm." That's a negative.

Angel

His lashes fluttered. He wasn't actually expecting him to say no. " Ok... I'll stay here, long as ya need to. If ya comfortable bein' a lil' ball. "

Alastor

"Mhm." Just a few more minutes. In a few more minutes he'd be able to collect himself. They'd get along again and they'd be fine, and if they didn't—if they didn't he'd face that when he had to.

Angel

" Mhm. " He wanted to chuckle. _Grunt after grunt._ Should he feel guilty about how _funny_ he found this? Probably. Only for the next few minutes as he cycled through the usual motions: playing with his hair, ears, rubbing his back, shoulders, the typical things clients found soothing before and after. Alastor had yet to protest, so he felt certain enough to venture he wasn't _bothered._ Nonetheless, they remained light, idle, all but absent minded. Working, but for a friend.

Alastor

He stayed there for several more minutes, until the idle background sensation of disembodied touches on his back and head slowly returned to what they usually were: prickly, uncomfortable reminders of another thinking feeling person pressed up against his body. He felt his shoulders start to tense and he pulled back a bit from the fluff. "Okay, that's—that's all I can handle."

Angel

" Handle? " Angel questioned as his arms dropped from Alastor's person in favor of leaning back on them, so he could remove himself on his own accord. " Interestin'... choice a words, there. " He tipped his sights to the corner of the room for a spell as he thought. " You ok? "

Alastor

He drew back and started straightening his clothes and brushing himself off—he had a smile back on, but God was it a tired-looking one. Dryly, he asked, “In what sense?”

Angel

" Er... relative sense. " Angel then cautiously leaned into the empty space. " Whataya mean, all ya can handle? "

Alastor

“My personal space bubble turned back on.” He stood up and continued tidying himself, brushing off his pants.

[secondhand-trash]

Merry Christmas, Kiss My Ass

Ficmas day 2 aka 5 days till Christmas owo

A/N: This is the best christmas song and I don’t accept criticism.

Description: You hated Christmas, much thanks to your ex who broke up with you right in the middle of the festive season. The last thing you wanted was to see him in a Christmas party again after so long.

Pairing: Kirishima Eijirou x reader

Warning: alcohol

Word count: 4108 

Tumblr doesn’t like links but I’m gonna force you to listen to it, because what do you mean you had never heard of THE emo christmas song? 

-

It was the festive season and everywhere you passed by was filled with holiday cheer. Tinsel and fairy lights hanging on the street lamps filled the entire avenue, the sparkling lights reflecting onto the thin layer of snow on the ground to emit an almost angelic glow. Each window of the shops were decorated with the most extravagant displays for this special time of the year. Even the people who walked past looked so happy, chattering excitedly and in awe of all the decorations with the laughter of children ringing in your ears like silver bells. Everything was so festive and joyous.

You absolutely hated every part of it.

The decorations were tacky, the shops marked up their prices this time of year to lure people into paying more just because it was the holidays, all these people looking so damn upbeat for no reason other than the approach of a heavily commercialized festival infuriated you to no end. You wished that everything would just disappear in front of your eyes and give you some peace.

Bringing a hand to rub at your temple, you groaned at how much like an edgy teenager who wanted to spite people for the sake of looking cynical you sounded like.

There was a time when you loved Christmas and at heart, you still did. But you could not take a look at all things festive without it recalling the painful memories that you tried so hard to suppress.

Everything reminded you of him, and you would rather be numb than admit that it still hurt you to this day.

You looked around you and sighed, the puff of hot air turning into white mist from the cold. It was snowing and the colourful lights lit up the entire avenue. It was a beautiful night, it really was.

He kissed you for the first time on a night like this.

You nearly screamed when you got Kirishima’s message asking if you’d like to hang out during winter break. Even if it was just a blind hope on your part, you would rather believe that it was his way of showing you that he was interested than thinking that your crush on your sweet classmate wasn’t as unrequited as you thought.

There was this long period of awkwardness between the two of you. Everyone could tell that something was going on between the two of you but neither of you made a move to actually make it a thing. It was ambiguous, the line between friendship and romance was so blurred that you were certain that you two were probably everything but just friends. Yet he never made a move, until now.

There was something so youthfully innocent about the whole thing. Two person, walking side by side on the main road, so aware of each other’s presence but neither dare close the small gap between their bodies with only the occasional brush of a hand hinting at the longing to hold onto the one beside them.

It was cute, the way he glanced at your way when he thought you weren’t looking only to quickly look away and change the topic when you turned your head his way.

The streets were illuminated by the intricate lights bended into different patterns, all the people on the streets rushing to get back to somewhere warm but you were trying to drag the way home just a bit longer, treasuring each second you get to spend with Kiri. He insisted on walking you home, saying that it was the manly thing to do. You wanted to say that he didn’t have to but you didn’t have the heart to say no to his beaming face.

As you turned into the corner of your neighborhood, you dreaded how empty your laughter sounded echoing off the dim streets. If only the short walk from the corner of the streets to the front of your house could be a little longer.

“I guess this is where I drop you off.”

With a small nod of your head, you tried your best to maintain the smile on your face. It was a fun day, but somehow you wished that you had been braver and make a move that confirms your feelings. “Thanks.” You said, “I had a lot of fun.”

“Yeah, me too.” He said and scratched the back of his neck, a sheepish grin on his face as he looked everywhere but at you, “We should do this again.”

You beamed, “Totally.”

“Cool. I’ll see you at school?”

“Cool.”

Fidgeting with the sleeve of your jacket, you shifted your weight from foot to foot as silence filled that air. You didn’t want to say good bye, debating inside your head on what to say and what did you dare to do.

It felt so painfully awkward. When you looked at Kirishima once again, you found him staring at you with an incomprehensible expression. Unlike the several times you caught him glancing at you during the day, he did not look away even under you dumbfounded stare. You felt like he was burning a hole into you with the way he stared at you so intensely, like he was trying to have your image carved into his head.

The beating of your heart pounded through your ear drums when he took a step closer to you and his gaze trailed down from your eyes to the tip of your noes down your lips. You could barely feel your face under the cold but you were sure that you were burning up as his eyes flickered between yours and the true destination of his stare.

Was he thinking of... Was he?

Your mind went hay wired when you suddenly feel his lips crashed onto yours. Your hands instinctively went to the back of his neck as you pressed him even closer to you. The kiss was messy, a lot of teeth clashing with each other and you shivered at how freezing cold his lips were.

But it was exactly what you had been wanted to do for so long.

Abruptly pulling back, Kirishima’s eyes widened and almost panicked when he realised what he just did. “I’m so sorry! Did you-”

He was cut short as you grabbed a fist full of his shirt and pulled him down to your level, shushing him with an equally forceful kiss. You smiled as you felt him kissing you back, his lips growing warm from the contact.

That was years ago and you could never go out on a winter night without remembering the spark you felt when the boy you loved kissed you for the first time, sending a rush of warmth down your chest.

The corner of your lips that were threatening to lift up froze, curling into a stiff purse as another distinctive memory popped up inside your mind, washing away the sweet nostalgia and replaced it with a burning annoyance.

How convenient that he also broke up with you on a chilly night just like this one.

The audacity of him to dump you right before Christmas. He looked so apologetic when he told you that he didn’t think he could handle balancing a relationship with his work, saying that he wanted to focus on his career right after graduation.

“You deserve someone who will have time for you and put you before everything else.”

That’s what he said to you in the empty street. He sounded so considerate even when he was trying to break things off with you, so considerate that you didn’t feel justified to be mad at him when you wanted nothing more than to throw cry and scream at him. But you couldn’t, and that hurt you on a whole other level.

You spent the entire holiday season acting more like a fragment of what’s left of you than yourself. No matter how many gatherings or parties you went to, you couldn’t find something that would fill up the void in your chest after a large chunk of your heart was taken out. You were so used to having someone to give all your love to that you didn’t know what to do with it once he was gone. Everyone around you had someone to be with and it made you hyperaware of just how lonely you felt. It was miserable, being constantly reminded of how happy other people and the cheerful atmosphere that was shoved in your face nearly suffocated you.

You had loathed all things Christmas since then.

Quickening your steps, you pulled your scarf higher up to your face to shield it from the harsh wind and ignored everything around you as you nearly stomped through the streets regardless of how it made the cold even more unbearable.

If you just walk and act like you see nothing, maybe it wouldn’t get to you. It worked every time that shadow of red threatened to pop up in your mind.

The avenue seemed to be way longer than it usually was as you paced down the road that had stores with decorations and festive goods lined up on both sides. You put your attention on the ground in front of your every step, refusing to give in to even a bit of your surroundings.

But right when you were about to make a turn at the corner of the street, something in the shop window caught your eye that made you stopped in the middle of the road. The store itself was nothing special, just another tiny corner shop. It was the boxes of trinkets that were piled up outside that caught your eye and you knew you would regret it, but you couldn’t stop your curiosity from getting the best of you and looked into the displays to see if your guess was right.

Aha, they were still selling the same ornaments as they did before. You thought to yourself as you pulled out a tiny glass globe that was tied to a silk ribbon. Inside the glass were tiny pieces of crystals. Putting it up under the light, you were left breathless as the way it sparkled like crushed diamonds left you speechless.

What a pity to see that your taste had not changed at all from the last time you were here.

“I feel like we should really be heading back.” Your boyfriend said with a laugh as you dragged him to the nearest store. Amidst all the training and internships, it was rare for you to get some alone time with Eiji and you would be damned if you don’t make the most out of it.

“Oh, come on! It’s so festive everywhere, how can you resist?” you turned around without letting his hand go, smiling as you took a few steps backwards, “Just another one, then we go back to the dorms.”

Trying to put on your most convincing expression, you tucked on his hand as you pouted. He sighed, Eiji could never quite say no to you when you pull out the puppy dog eyes. “Anything for you, babe.” He chuckled at your child-like grin, “But if we get into trouble for not being back before curfew, just know that it’s your fault.”

Rolling your eyes, you said as you put a hand on the railing on the door, “Yeah, yeah, sure.”

Looking around, you were at awe by the many displays. The store was lit up by a warm light and the sweet smell of cinnamon filled the air. A large part of the shop was dedicated to vintage items that the owner got on his trips to many places all around the world and if you dig deep, you were sure to find some hidden treasure on the messy shelves. The tiny corner store did not have extravagant and over-the-top decorations like many other larger shops but something about the homely decor made you feel giddy inside.

You let out a small gasp when you saw the boxes of ornaments at the corner of the store. Eiji smiled, peering over your shoulder as you rummaged through the many knick knacks. Something about the way you get all excited over Christmas was just so god damn adorable to him.

A thin piece of gold ribbon caught your eye and you pulled it out. It was a finely crafted glass ornament with the middle hollowed out and filled with golden flakes. It was absolutely gorgeous and as you lifted it up to put it under the light, your breath was taken away by how the gold reflected onto the glass bulb.

You were too mesmerized by the ornament in your hand to notice that your boyfriend was staring at you the whole time. “Like it?”

You nodded but your face dropped when you read the numbers labeled on the small tag that was hanging on the ribbon. It was really pretty, but there were better things to spend that amount of money on than to spend it buying a piece of glass that would only be seen once a year.

Shaking your head, you put the ornament back with the other trinkets and held onto Eiji’s hand. “Let’s go, curfew is almost up.”

He didn’t say a word but he did notice the way your lips pursed together when you tried to smile. He took a quick glances towards the boxes at the corner of the store before following you out of it.

When you opened your present from your boyfriend on Christmas, you nearly smothered him to death when you tear the wrapping paper off to see a glass globe with gold flakes in it.

You threw away everything you could associate with Kirishima the night he broke up with you but as you took the glass ornament off of the tree and held it in your hand, you didn’t have the heart to throw it away. It was stored in a small box deep inside of your closet, hidden away with the ache in your heart that came whenever you thought of the man who used to bring you so much happiness.

Standing in front of the door, you could hear the music and laughter even from outside. 

It made you sick.

If Mina hadn’t been texting you non-stop about how you have to come to this party that she spent so long organizing and practically fatigue bombed you into giving in, you would have never stepped out of your house and went through all that festive torture in the first place.

You really didn’t want to go in. You really, really didn’t. 

But the door swung open before you even had the chance to turn around and chicken out. You felt an instant sense of dread when the sounds from inside got louder once the door was opened to reveal your pink haired friend.

“(y/n)! You came!” Mina squealed and gave you a bone crashing hug. The dread was still there but you couldn’t help but smile a little upon seeing your old friend and hugged her back. You might be a Grinch, but you were not an asshole. If you decided to do so much as show up, the least you could do was to act like a good guest despite the growing nerves inside of you.

The first thing you did when Mina led you into the house was heading straight to the punch table. You needed alcohol in your system in order to make it through the night without the urge to escape every 5 minutes. The burning sensation of the vodka sliding down your throat gave you just the kick you needed to get out there and socialise with all the people who looked like they might actually wanted to enjoy the holidays.

Everything was going surprisingly fine and you slowly started being glad that you ended up coming to the party. It was nice to see so many old faces and to listen to everyone’s stories after you parted to enter the professional world. At some point, perhaps it was the vodka kicking in, you even managed to laugh genuinely without a hint of remembrance of all the bad memories you associated with Christmas.

That’s when the doorbell rang, and you almost froze in place when you saw the fiery pop of red that entered the house.

He looked good, just like he used to be. His signature grin was still the same, only with more of an edge that made him look just a little less boyish and manlier.

He looked really good and your brain could not handle the fact that it was the first thing that went through your mind when you saw your ex-boyfriend for the first time since he broke up with you right before Christmas a few years back.

All the pain and loneliness rushed right back up to your head. Suddenly, the chatter and music that you were just starting to enjoy became irritating. Your friends noticed your sudden change of demeanor, Tsuyu even offered to make up an excuse for you to leave early. Despite what you truly wanted, you refused, not wanting to rain on everyone else’s fun when it was an issue so personal to you.

Excusing yourself from your group of friends, a few curses escaped under your breath as you paced towards the other room with the drinks in it. Of course he would be here, why wouldn’t he? You should have expected that when Mina said that the party was meant to act as a gathering between old schoolmates.

Picking up whatever you could find, you took a huge gulp from the red plastic cup. Letting out a sigh when the cooling drink calmed you down, you finished the rest of it until the cup was completely empty.

Ok, what now? You could always pretend that he wasn’t there at all and go on with your small talk but you knew that your mind would not stop circling to that person you did not want to think of. It was impossible to hide from him the whole night, you two shared the same group of classmates after all and he was bounded to join the conversation somehow. Perhaps you should take the offer and say that you had a bad stomach ache?

“(y/n)?”

You jumped at the voice that called out for you. That voice, you could recognize that voice where ever you were and the last thing you wanted to do was turn around to face your ex.

“Hey.”

When you finally looked at him, the pounding of your heart in your ear nearly gave you a headache. It took every last fiber in your body to even manage a presentable expression on your face when you looked straight into those eyes.

“Hey.” You managed to utter out a simple word as your hand clutched onto the empty plastic cup. Even after so long, one look into his eyes could still make your mind race.

“It’s been a while.” Kirishima said, seeming to be just as uncomfortable as you were as he put on a weak smile, “You look nice.”

“Thanks,” you tried to smile back at him, “you too.”

You hated how you couldn’t even think of something to say when he was in front of you. It reminded you of the days when you would spent so long thinking of how to reply to each of his texts and how to act in front of him, the resemblance was not making it any easier for you.

“So... What are you up to?” He said, trying to break the awkward silence.

“Oh, you know, just pro-hero stuff.” You said as an attempt to make it sound nothing less than a casual conversation, “you?”

“Pretty much the same thing.” He replied and you managed to force out a chuckle.

“Like you aren’t ranks ahead of me.”

“The ranking means nothing.” He grinned, showing the sharp tips of his teeth. “Besides, you got much higher ratings from the administrators than I do.”

You snorted, finally feeling a bit more human than a stiff auto-response. “Yeah, sure.”

You didn’t talk to Kirishima directly again for the rest of the night but you didn’t mind being in the same space as him anymore. There were even times when you were both in the same conversation and you could laugh at something he said. You caught him looking at you several times and he quickly looked away before your gazes would barely even met.

Everytime you felt his eyes on you, you felt the familiar fluster in your stomach that you thought had long died down and some part of you knew that if he wasn’t the same person who made you hate Christmas, you would have been eying him the same way.

“I think I should go.” A chorus of groans and pleas filled the room when you announced your departure. By the late night and after several more cups of liquor down your throat, you had begun to truly enjoy yourself. You almost frowned when you looked at your phone to see that it was about time you left the party. “I wish I could stay too, but I have work tomorrow.”

You hugged everyone at the door and promised to keep in touch before leaving the bright living room into the dark pavement. When you were about to walk away, you heard the door cracked open and someone called after you.

“(y/n)!”

You looked back to see Kirishima from the door and you stopped. He quickly ran to where you were and breathed heavily when he stood in front of you. He looked like he had something that he wanted to say but nothing came out as he did nothing but stare at you. You did not even know that you were holding your breath in until his gaze started travelling downwards and his eyes flicked between yours and the ground.

Just like that night when he kissed you in front of your house, meaning that it was also like that night he said he wanted to break things off with you.

The beating of your heart quickened as each second pass by. You were nervous under his stare and you wondered if you could break up with someone that you had already broken up with because you were starting to think that it might be a possibility as well.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something and you immediately tensed up. But as if he swallowed his own words, Kirishima pursed his lips together.

Your mind went blank when he opened his mouth once again to speak in a tone that sounded like he wanted to confess something. Only it wasn’t a confession, and the two words still rang inside your head as you walked on the streets alone.

“Merry Christmas.”

You reached for your phone to click off the alarm and nearly threw your phone to the other end of the room when you picked it up to see a message from an unknown number that started with “Hey. This is Kirishima.”

Should you read it? Should you even tap into it? What if you read it but don’t know what to say?

Swallowing your last nerve, you clicked onto the small notification.

Hey. This is Kirishima. I got your number from Mina, hope that you won’t mind me texting you all of a sudden.

I wanted to say this to you last night but I panicked when I was alone with you and didn’t manage to say it. Pretty unmanly of me, huh? 

I guess what I wanted to say is that seeing you again made me realise that I missed what we had. I didn’t do the right thing breaking things off with you the way I did and I wish that we can start over again. 

I completely understand if you had already moved on and want nothing to do with me but I mean what I say. Can we start with being friends again? Again, I completely understand if you don’t feel the same way and I’m sorry if this made you uncomfortable.

You stared at the screen, still trying to process what you just read. You would love to believe that you had moved on and just delete the message like nothing happened but you would be lying if you say that there wasn’t a tiny bit of you that missed him as well.

Sucking in a deep breath, you could only wish that you had made the right decision as you started typing your reply.

[songfell-ut]

Chapter 3, still a-comin’

Cirumstances, am I right, folks?

If you didn’t make it through Chapter 2 or this is all 100% new, welp, this is a continuation of this comic by @lostmypotatoes, after which Frisk has gotten him to be her witchly apprentice, but now he’s trying to flake on her. ACTION

Sans was getting soft in his old age, or maybe from proximity to someone as aggressively good-hearted as the High Priestess, because he found he didn't want to demolish the entire wall. For one thing, without his magic, it'd be too much effort. More importantly, though, Frisk's rooms were many, many stories above the ground, and falling masonry could kill or injure someone below who hadn't earned it. Most important of all: Frisk would probably end up trying to help dig them out and put herself in danger.

He also figured that he had time to do things neatly and cost her less in repairs. Everything had been loosened by that first colossal blow, but he had to give it a few more whacks before he could start pulling it apart, making a pile of glass shards, wood paneling, bricks and stones in front of her office. Luckily, whoever had constructed the outside wall hadn't done a great job, or else it would've taken him all night. A carefully judged body-slam was enough to weaken the remaining support structures; a few kicks and a yank created a space big enough for the giant skeleton to squeeze through, and then he could see the barrier itself.

Panting, Sans took a moment to survey his handiwork. It sucked to exert himself like that, but he figured that sometimes in life, you just had to punch things until they broke.

Unfortunately, he didn't have that option with the barrier. The old stories came back to him as he stared at the golden latticework hovering outside the ruined wall. How was he going to get through without touching it directly or throwing something big enough to hurt someone below?

His eyes fell on the worktable and the vials of stuff he'd made this afternoon. Four hadn't been infused yet. Sans grabbed one, pulled off the cork and, with a speck of magic, willed the liquid to boil, burn, dissolve anything it touched. It promptly began to fizzle and hiss in his hand, and he had to fling it away like an idiot before it started eating through his metacarpals.

He did one thing right in throwing it at the barrier, which instantly melted and let the chilly night air wash over him. Outside, moonlight shadowed the bricks of a nearby wall that stretched almost all the way to the ground, ending in the roof of a building only a couple stories high. He could hop out, grab onto the brick edifice, climb down safely and be gone before Frisk even got back up here, never mind moving the statue and getting the doors open. From there, it'd only be a matter of time before his magic regenerated and he could take a shortcut home.

Poor Frisk. She'd tried. Hell, she'd survived his murder attempts and taught him a few things, and he'd never forget her.

Anyway, she was better off losing track of him and finding a smaller, tamer monster to work with. What was she even getting from him being here, besides a hell of a lot of trouble?

The question was supposed to be rhetorical, but as if in reply, he thought of Frisk standing at the worktable with her arm up those ridiculously oversized trousers, grinning and saying, "The pleasure of your company," looking up at him like...well, like he was her friend, not an inferior or a dangerous monster or a giant pain in the ass, pun absolutely intended. Of course, it wasn't as if she had many other friends, but he couldn't tell himself that she was just using a captive freak to keep her company; he already knew her too well for that.

This, right here. This was why he needed to leave now. The skeleton took a few steps back, gauging the distance to—

Whhhsh went something in his mental ear. He jerked around to see Frisk standing half in his shadow, half in the moonlight, with her veil in her hand and absolute murder in her eye. "Sans." It was a whisper, lost in the wind.

Shit fuck shit shit shiiiiiiit fuckity fuck SHIT rang in his head as the satchel hit the floor. "Frisk?" he whispered.

Frisk beckoned him closer with one finger. Unbelieving, he knelt, and she punched him so hard that he almost felt it. "Here is what's going happen," she said as he touched his jaw. "I assume you've blocked the doors, so you will go and unblock them, and I'll tell the guard that you were—we'll say you were fighting off an assassin, and everyone will be impressed when they see how much damage you did trying to kill him before he escaped. Won't they?"

Sans nodded helplessly. "How...how'd you...?"

"How did I get here?" She tossed the veil aside, letting it drift to the floor. "Let me tell you a story, Sans. Once upon a time – yesterday morning – I had a long talk with Dr. Serif. He said you probably didn't intend to stay for a whole month, and I needed to be on my guard, just in case you decided to pull a stunt like this. I didn't want to believe him, but I followed his advice, and lo and behold, less than a week later, I caught my lying, backstabbing apprentice trying to break his word because he was apparently too bored with me to waste time learning crucial information for the survival of his entire race! The end!"

Frisk had to pause for breath. The boss monster took great exception to that last accusation, and he doubted that was actually the end of the story, but he was afraid to interrupt. "Do you see this?" she continued. Sans flinched as the tiny woman ripped off her brooch and brandished it at him. "Dr. Serif brought it yesterday afternoon. It seems he'd taken some of your magic while you were unconscious, and not only did he refuse to return it to you, he said I couldn't be here every hour of the day, and I needed to have this if you ever tried to break loose. He infused it with enough of your power to teleport myself one time." Another deep breath. "Do you have any idea how angry I am that he was right, and I was right to listen? And do you know how sick to my stomach I feel right now?!" Frisk threw the brooch to the floor, where it shattered. The last bit of magic quietly evaporated, and she pressed the back of her hand to her lips, eyes unfocusing. "And...how do you stand—"

There it was. He couldn't believe it had taken this long to catch up with her—the first time he'd tried using a shortcut, it left him feeling like his head had been screwed on backwards.

The skeleton glanced at the open, crumbling wall, then at Frisk, who was leaning heavily on the worktable, eyes closed. Then...

The priestess squeaked as Sans swept her up into the crook of his arm and headed to the bathroom. "Put me down!" she croaked, thumping his clavicle.

"Yes, m'lady," he said, opening the door, poking the light on and placing her at the very back of the room. "Go for it."

Once she was settled and could puke in relative peace, Sans went to the double doors leading into the hall, replaced the statue in its niche, and headed back to the workroom. Her office door was blocked by the many chunks of wall piled in front of it, and moving them again would take effort, so the skeleton ignored it for now. He picked up the satchel and set it on the worktable, wondering if the wind was too cold for her and how, exactly, he was going to pay for this, in every sense of the word. After one more look outside, Sans made himself tiptoe back to the bathroom and ask, "You done?"

There was a pause, the sound of water running, and a much longer pause before she opened the door and stared up at him. "What are you still doing here?" she demanded.

Sans blinked at her, mostly for effect. "'Zat a trick question? I'm makin' sure you're okay. That magic can knock you on your ass the first couple times ya try it."

Her face tightened, a hard, bitter expression that probably shouldn't have surprised him. "You don't say." She turned her head to cough, resting her forehead on the tile wall. "Congratulations to you, Sans. I'm here, but I'm in no condition to do anything. Your plan worked after all." She pushed herself upright.  "Good night."

Shit. "Uh...Frisk—"

The priestess walked right by to open the double doors. He heard her exclaim something about the guard not being there, and mutter that she'd deal with it in the morning. She barred the doors shut, which he hadn't even noticed was an option, and wobbled past him into her dressing room, evading his halfhearted attempt to steady her.

Hangers rattled. There was an occasional sniffle. When Frisk came out in a long crushed-velvet robe, she actually looked offended to see him. "Don't you have somewhere to be? I said good night, Sans."

Wasn't she going to at least try to stop him? Sure, she was sick and exhausted, but where was her determination? ...Was she so upset that she was determined to cut her losses and let him go?

That really seemed to be it. Well, Sans should have been elated, but he mostly just felt insulted. Besides, he couldn't leave until they got a few things straight, or else he'd spend the rest of his life trying not to think about it. The boss monster wracked his brain for a witty yet conciliatory opener, but what came out was "You're not boring."

A blast of wind howled through the room, flipping the lighter books open and ruffling the weighed-down stacks of paper. Frisk remained stock-still as her short, wavy hair fluttered across her face. "I beg your pardon," she said, colder than the autumn air.

"Okay, yeah, I admit it. I was gonna ditch ya," he said desperately. "But it wasn't 'cause I don't like you or I don' care about helping the other monsters. I—you remember all you heard about Papyrus, right?" Her expression softened a little as she nodded. "I had a dream about him last night that I'm pretty sure was real. Me bein' gone and him not knowin' I'm okay is killing him, Frisk. I can't..."

She stayed silent as Sans pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. It had been so long since he'd told someone the entire truth that he felt completely exposed. It was scary as hell, but he owed it to her and to Pap. "Ya gotta understand," he mumbled. "My brother's all I got left, and I'm all he's got. You've been nothin' but fair to me, and it's not yer fault there's no real way t'contact 'im. I just...I can't go a whole month without lettin' him know I'll be home soon, and I can't dream at him with yer barrier up." He sat down with his legs crossed, staring at the floor. "I spend too much damn time away as it is. He never knows for sure if I'm comin' back."

Frisk swallowed. "Why didn't you tell me sooner how important this was to you? And what do you mean, 'dream at him'?"

"I didn't bother 'cause you might'a thought I was lying to make you feel sorry fer me. I know I wouldn't trust me." The skeleton jerked his head at the ruined wall. "What I mean is, I can talk to Pap while we're both dreamin', but you wouldn't be there to hear what we were saying. I could tell him all sorts of crap, like how strong the High Priestess is and how much safer it'd be for us monsters if she was dead."

The priestess was silent again. Sans risked a glance in time to see her reach up to sweep her hair behind her ear, only to yelp in pain. Sure enough, as she raised her hand to inspect it, the outside knuckle was red and swollen. "Augh! How did I not notice this?" Frisk tried to move it and had to stifle another exclamation. "Wonderful. If it hurts this much, I must have broken it." She made an incoherent noise and started toward the rack of finished potions on the worktable.

Sans dimly recalled that humans didn't feel as much pain when they were scared or excited, and that it could catch up to them pretty fast. It also occurred to him that it was a bad idea for a small human to hit a thick-headed skeleton with her bare hand. "What are you doin'?" he wanted to know. "You can heal that up in a jiffy."

"I can't heal myself," she said brusquely. "I'm not very adept at healing to begin with, and I can't make it work on me at all."

That couldn't be right. "Ya mean to tell me you're good enough to hold me off and keep me penned in for days with no magic, but—"

"Leave me alone."

Her voice was so quiet and furious that he stopped dead. But as she picked a vial and started to pull the cork out with her teeth, Sans got up and held his own hand out. "Lemme see."

With as much dignity as she could muster, Frisk closed her mouth and handed him the vial. He put it back impatiently and beckoned again. "Not that, dummy. Yer hand."

The priestess gave him a long, eloquent look. When he didn't move, she placed her broken hand in his huge one, wincing as his thumb closed lightly over her wrist. It was hard to remember how to turn his magic green, but she'd been right about intentions: it helped to think about how badly he wanted it to work, not only to help her, but to prove that he was capable of fixing things as well as destroying them.

Sure enough, within seconds, his palm began to glow as if he held a handful of emeralds. When Sans could bring himself to let her go, she flexed it easily. "You've gotten some magic back already," she observed. Frisk smiled at him for a moment, and he couldn't not smile back. "You know," she said, anger rapidly resurfacing, "you're not only a lying reprobate, you are a huge idiot." She rapped her knuckles on his palm. "I've always had a barrier guarding the bedroom from any external magic. If that was the only thing keeping you from reaching Papyrus, you should have asked me to remove it."

Sans sat down again. "But—"

"As for the possibility of giving him illicit information, I will ask you this only once." Frisk moved closer, looking him square in the sockets. "Do you intend to tell the other monsters, at any point, that your race would be better off with me dead?"

He didn't even have to think about it before he answered, "Not anymore. You're pretty damn useful as you are, speakin' up on our behalf to the other humans. I don't see anyone pressuring you into screwin' us over."

A brief smile. "I'm glad to hear it. For my part, I don't mind letting you talk to your brother as long as you take me with you. I'd love to say hello—I've heard so much about him that it'll be like meeting an old friend." She stifled a yawn. "If you start tattling on me in some fashion, I can always pull the barrier back up."

"...You want me to...bring you...in my dream?" Blink. Blink. "But how—what're you gonna—"

"One thing at a time, Sans. First, we're going to bed."

"We're what now?"

"If you're not leaving yet, then we're going to bed, now. This mess can wait till morning." With a nod at her blocked office door, Frisk motioned for him to follow her into the bedroom. "Come along. There's nowhere else for me to sleep, and I'm freezing."

And so it was that Sans found himself lying rigid on the huge feather mattress, the priestess curled up like a cat in the armchair. He had no idea why he was so nervous; he couldn't even muster a semi-joke about her joining him in bed. "I've heard of this spell before," said Frisk, who seemed unperturbed by their proximity. "It's not very complicated. You've just healed me, and I've recently used some of your magic, so we have enough of a connection that I should be able to find you once we're asleep. ...The key word being sleep, Sans. You have to relax. I'm not going to eat you, no matter how short-sighted and dishonorable you've been."

"You're not gonna let that go, are ya?" he mumbled.

"You have no idea. We haven't even talked about repairing the wall yet." Her voice warmed again. "For now, though, don't worry about it. We need to find Papyrus and set you both at ease."

Now Sans felt nervous and extremely weird again. He turned onto his side so she couldn't see him changing color.  "'Kay. I...yeah. Thanks."

"Of course," she said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do a favor for someone who had completely betrayed her trust, and turned off the witchlight. He felt her raise another barrier at the bedroom door, one solid enough to stop an army, and a thinner barrier disappeared from behind the headboard. "There," she said in the darkness. "We'll see how well this works. Go to sleep, Sans."

That seemed unlikely, but he'd forgotten who he was dealing with. When about ten minutes had passed and the orange light of his eyes was still going strong, something wonderful started creeping up on him, a soothing vibration that spread through every bone in his body before he even knew what he was hearing. It was Frisk humming, of course, and of course it worked; Sans was more than content to let the sound and her presence lull him to sleep.

~

He jerked upright as something hit his skull, reflexively swatting the air and yelling, "Piss off!"

The lights were back on. In fact, it was full daylight, or what passed for it. Sans rubbed his eye sockets, turning this way and that. He was still in bed, but the bed stood alone in the middle of an open, snowy field. Kid monsters were racing back and forth under gaily decorated trees, throwing snowballs at each other and catching him in the crossfire.

The skeleton brushed himself off, reasoning that the Underground could be a weird place, but it wasn't quite random-snow-bed weird. This must be a dream, then. Damn it...

Oh, well. At least it was a nice one, and it felt pretty real—his good dreams tended to be fuzzy, while every single one of his nightmares was incredibly vivid.

Footsteps crunched on the snow behind him. "Well, hello there. That was simple," said Frisk, looking around them as he got up. She was in her plush robe and bare feet, but seemed at ease. "So this is Snowdin. Which house is yours?"

"BROTHER?"

Sans froze as a familiar shape emerged from a nearby fog of ice crystals. "Papyrus?" he whispered.

"I KNEW IIIIIT—OOF!" Papyrus had run to give his brother a bear hug and fell straight through him, as if Sans was also made of fog. "WHAT IS THIS, SANS? HAVE YOU BECOME TOO LAZY TO STAY SOLID?" he accused him from the ground.

"It's a dream, bro. This happens every damn time," the boss monster said wearily. "Just keep it together and listen, okay? I'm here t'let you know—"

"WAIT. A HUMAN? IS THAT...KRIS?" Papyrus was staring up at Frisk, his face somehow creased in puzzlement. "IS IT REALLY YOU? I THOUGHT YOU'D BE...KRIS-ER, NYEH."

Sans snorted. "Not every human is Kris, Pap. Don't be racist."

"Hello," Frisk said, offering a bright smile and a hand up. "My name is Frisk. It's wonderful to meet you, Papyrus."

"YES, IT IS. NYEH-HEH-HEH! YOU ARE CLEARLY VERY WISE AND ATTRACTIVE, HUMAN!" Papyrus brushed the snow from his fake armor, throwing his red scarf back over his shoulder in so dramatic a fashion that he didn't notice Frisk grinning, though Sans sure did. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY GREAT AND ATTRACTIVE DREAM?" he added.

Still smiling, Frisk watched the pack of young monsters run by. The monsters didn't seem to notice them, though the bed was still there and her purple robe stood out like a dark beacon against the snow. "Your brother wanted to see you, and I decided to come along," she explained. "Sans was captured by humans about a week ago when he was out looking for food, but please don't worry about—"

"CAPTURED?!" Papyrus clapped both hands to his skull. "THIS IS TERRIBLE! PLEASE DE-CAPTURE HIM IMMEDIATELY, HUMAN, OR ELSE I...I...!"

"Pap! Take it easy. She's okay. 'Fact, she's the reason I ain't dead or enslaved right now." Sans plucked at his shirt. "See, she even got me some new duds. You can finally stop bitching about what I'm wearin'."

Papyrus stopped flailing long enough to examine Sans' shirt. "NYEH! I SEE NO HOLES OR QUESTIONABLE STAINS. WHAT SORCERY IS THIS?"

Sans smirked, letting his brother poke at him in vain. "I told ya, bro, I just got it. You don't hafta rip me apart like this."

Frisk rocked back and forth on her heels. "So," she said over Papyrus' exasperated groaning, "I gather you knew a boy named Kris from the last human delegation. Is that right?"

"YES, IT IS RIGHT! KRIS WAS OUR DEAR FRIEND," Papyrus said as Sans grimaced and turned away. "WE WENT FOR WALKS AND HAD SLEEPOVERS, AND MADE HAND PUPPETS THAT ALSO HAD SLEEPOVERS. IT WAS LIKE HAVING A CUTE LITTLE PET THAT CLEANED UP AFTER ITSELF. WE'VE ALL MISSED HIM VERY MUCH, NYEHHH."

"Yeah, he left with the other humans," Sans muttered. "Can we please move on now?"

"Yes, of course. I'm going to borrow your brother for a few more weeks," Frisk told Papyrus. The latter was glaring at his brother's new shirt again, as if daring it to make a false move. "I have a plan to start making peace between monsters and humans," she continued, "but I need a monster's help to do it. Can you get along without Sans until I send him back to the Underground?"

"HMMMM." Papyrus straightened, one hand on his chin. "YOU WON'T HURT HIM?" he asked, sounding almost timid.

"Absolutely not, Papyrus," she said firmly. "He'll be back safe and sound."

Papyrus nodded, evidently impressed by her sincerity. "I AM IMPRESSED BY YOUR SINCERITY, HUMAN. IF THIS DREAM IS NOT MY MAGNIFICENT IMAGINATION PLAYING TRICKS ON ME AGAIN, THEN I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, SHALL SPARE MY GOOD-FOR-NOTHING BROTHER FOR A LITTLE WHILE LONGER. NYEH-HEH-HEH!" Without warning, the skeleton grabbed at Sans' wrist bones. "HUMAN! I WOULD LIKE TO TALK TO MY BROTHER IN SECRET FOR A MOMENT, IF YOU WILL PLEASE EXCUSE US. IT WILL BE SECRET!"

"Of course," said Frisk. "I'll be right here. Just make sure it's not too secret, please."

Sans covered his face with his hand as Papyrus marched toward the fog bank, still holding his brother's imaginary wrist. "Ya can't touch me, remember?" Sans called after him.

"...I KNEW THAT. CONGRATULATIONS, BROTHER! YOU HAVE PASSED THIS TEST! NYEH. ...HEH." Papyrus waited for Sans to join him, and they walked towards the river. "ARE YOU SURE THAT'S NOT KRIS?" the younger skeleton asked doubtfully.

Sans laughed, jerking his thumb in Frisk's direction. "Does that human look like a sixteen-ish-year-old boy?"

"HMM. NO, IT LOOKS LIKE A HUMAN. BUT! IT SEEMS DELIGHTFUL! THE GREAT PAPYRUS THINKS YOU SHOULD BRING IT BACK HERE WITH YOU. IT'S BEEN TOO LONG SINCE WE HAD A HUMAN TO PILLOW-FIGHT WITH, NYEH-HEH-HEH."

"That's probably not a great idea," Sans remarked.

"NYEH-HEH! WHY NOT?"

"I could spend literally the rest of the night tellin' you all the reasons why not, but the biggest one is that she's the High Priestess, Pap. The other humans would definitely notice if she was gone."

"HIGH PRIESTESS?" Papyrus cocked his head in perplexity. "WHY WOULD A DELIGHTFUL HUMAN BE A HIGH PRIESTESS? DON'T THEY CREATE BARRIERS?"

"It's complicated, bro. Look, I've gotta go soon. Is there anything else you wanna say?"

His younger brother paused, and sighed, shoulders slumping. "SANS. WERE YOU REALLY JUST LOOKING FOR FOOD? WHEN YOU GOT CAUGHT, I MEAN."

The bigger skeleton tried to kick a chunk of ice into the water, his foot passing right through it. "I wasn't slaughtering humans, if that's what you're askin'. I was mostly tryin' to track down monsters who've been sold off recently. But I did want to see how the humans' harvest turned out, an' it looks like it was pretty good this year."

Papyrus nodded, still troubled. "ALL RIGHT, BROTHER. I UNDERSTAND. PLEASE, JUST...TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF. NYEH."

"You too, Pap." Sans felt a familiar stab of trepidation and backed away. "Shit, I've got a nightmare coming. I'll see ya soon, okay? Don't tell anyone about Frisk!"

He had to turn and run before Papyrus could answer. Frisk was sitting on the bed in the snow field, ducking snowballs. She turned and started to say, "I hope you weren't telling on m—"

"No more dream! End it now!" he panted.

The priestess didn't waste time asking stupid questions. As the nightmare nipped at Sans' heel, Frisk made a quick swiping gesture, and just like that, he was back in bed, in the bedroom, staring at the sun-washed ceiling.

The skeleton sighed in relief. He rested his forearm across his eyes. Between the radius and ulna, he could see the flickering shadows of birds flying past the open windows. "Thanks, kiddo," he said, "an' thanks for lettin' me talk to him. I really appreciate it." Sans scratched the top of his skull, rolling over to face Frisk. "So, how'd you like Papyrus? He's a cool guy, huh?"

Frisk didn't answer, because she wasn't there. A strange human child sat in the armchair, perched on the edge of the seat, holding a kitchen knife. It stared at him with red-shining eyes, teeth bared in a horrible grin.

If Sans had had more than a shred of magic left, he would have pulled all his blasters at once and obliterated half the building. As it was, he jerked back, nearly choking in terror. The child wasn't moving, but menace radiated off it like heat from a furnace, eyes boring into him as its grin widened. Sans looked around wildly for an escape. The windows were too small, but maybe he could—

A sharp whistle split the air. The barrier snapped on, and the child vanished.

Sans was sitting upright in bed again, in the dark, awake, panting as though he'd run a mile in a few seconds. "Sans, I am so sorry!" The light snapped on. Frisk stood at his bedside, wide-eyed, clutching the neck of her robe. "I didn't think I was going to have that nightmare again before we woke up! I thought it'd be fine, I—" She took a step onto the bed, leaning over to grab his humerus. "Sans? Sans! Please say something!"

He shook her off, and she stumbled backwards, falling into the armchair. "What the fuck was that?" he rasped.

Frisk sat up and pulled her robe tighter around her shoulders. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I should have warned you. It's the reason I have that barrier up in the first place." She swallowed hard. "It shouldn't happen again."

"It better not," Sans snarled. "What the hell was that thing, anyway?"

"I don't know." She looked so miserable that Sans wanted to smack himself, but he was too unnerved to lie and tell her that it was okay; he was shaking so hard that he could almost hear his bones rattle.

For a solid minute, the only other sound in the room was the wind blowing outside the shuttered windows. "I hope you had a good talk with Papyrus," Frisk said presently with a decent attempt at calmness, placing her palm on the bedroom door to dissolve the thick barrier. "I can see why everyone likes him so much. It's good to know he hasn't changed."

The skeleton grunted, hoping she was smart enough not to ask him any questions about him changing. "Yeah. Thanks for fixin' that up for us. Sorry I pushed you just now."

"It's fine. It was an accident." Frisk fiddled with the key in its lock. "You know, Sans, I'd like you to help repair the damage you caused, but...if you still want to leave, I won't stop you. I wasn't thinking of how much it was to ask, staying an entire month."

Sans stared at her. She wouldn't turn around. Finally, he said, "What the crap, lady? You already let me talk to Pap. That was the whole reason I tried to bust out of here. Why wouldn't I stick around 'n make it up to you? Ya really think I'm that bad?"

There came a soft knock at the door, startling them both. "Your Eminence?" It was a male voice, deep and pleasant. "Are you awake, my lady? Please forgive my intrusion, but His Holiness urgently requests your presence."

Daylight was showing through the closed shutters. "Yes, of course. I'll be there in a moment," said Frisk, running her fingers through her hair, eye twitching as she found a tangle.

Sans watched her, and watched her move to unlock the door, feeling a different sort of unease. "Wait a sec," he rumbled. "Frisk, wait. Didn't you bar the big doors last night? How'd he get—"

The man knocked again. "Just a moment," Frisk repeated, turning the key. She glanced behind her. "What, Sans?"

The door banged open. Before she could blink, a stranger in tattered clothes rushed in, his arm raised to strike.

The boss monster was already moving. The man lunged, and there was a sound of steel hitting bone; the priestess found herself staring at the tip of a knife, inches from her face, jutting from between massive skeletal fingers. "Sans!" cried Frisk, twisting around to look at him.

Red clouded Sans' vision, but one clear spot remained: with his free hand, he reached out, corralled Frisk and gently maneuvered her behind him, fingers forming a protective cage. The other hand flexed briefly, then backhanded the intruder so hard that the man rolled clear out of the bedroom, hitting the worktable with a crack and a thump.

The skeleton clamped his teeth on the dagger's hilt and pried the blade out from between his knuckles, jerking his head to fling it to the other side of the bedroom. There was technically nothing to pierce where the knife had been lodged, but it still stung. He glanced down to be sure Frisk was unscathed, then edged forward into the workroom.

To his great irritation, the man wasn't dead; he was not only conscious, but pulling himself up on the table. "Who the fuck are you?" demanded Sans. Only the vague awareness that Frisk was watching kept him from grabbing the guy and pinching his head off.

The stranger wiped the corner of his mouth on his sleeve, squinting against Sans' literal glare. He was gaunt and generally gross-looking, but had moved fast enough and aimed the knife with enough skill to peg him as a professional killer. "What's a big-ass talkin' skeleton doing here? They said you got sold off already!" The assassin laughed shakily. "So it was you bashin' that wall down! What the hell'd you even do that for? It took me all goddamn night to get out!"

Sans glanced at the office door, which was ajar. Several pieces of broken masonry had been moved out of the way by shoving the door repeatedly from the inside. The guy must have snuck into the office after Frisk left, while Sans was in the bedroom but before he blocked the entrance, and gotten trapped in his hiding place by all the debris piled against it.

It would have been kind of funny, except that if Sans really had left, Frisk would be dead now.

The young woman was leaning on Sans' femur, peering around his outspread fingers. He could feel her trembling, which only intensified his urge to kill something. "I know you," she said. "You spoke to me after a service last week. You said I...I..."

"Had a positively angelic voice?" The man leered at her, showing several broken teeth. "S'truth. But I needed to be sure 'xactly who you were. The last High Priestess used body doubles sometimes." He looked her up and down. "Gotta say, I like yours a lot better."

She shuddered. Sans leaned down, not taking his now-flaming eyes from the assassin. "You need this piece of crap alive, Frisk, or can I take 'im apart now?"

"Frisk?" The man cackled, slapping the worktable with a dirty palm. "That's your real name, lady? That's gotta be the dumbest—"

And just like that, he launched himself at Frisk, closing the distance and ducking between Sans' legs like a snake. He whipped another knife out from his belt and would have sliced her neck open if Sans hadn't been ready to nudge her out of the way, grabbing the assassin on the backswing and slamming him against the open door.

Before Frisk could react, Sans turned his head to the opposite wall and said, "Holy crap, what's that?" As she whirled around, Sans plucked the knife out of the man's hand and gave him one squeeze, very quick and very hard. "Whoops, my bad. Nothin' there," he said to cover the sound of ribs breaking.

The priestess started to turn back. "Stay where you are," Sans ordered, pulling the assassin out of her line of sight, stepping into the workroom and closing the door behind him. "Oh, no you don't," he said loudly, as if chasing the man down. "Nooo, stop! We just want to talk to...oh, no!"

The assassin didn't seem to appreciate the theatrics, especially because Sans was carrying him straight to the broken wall. Ignoring the man's feeble protests, the skeleton drew his arm back and murmured, "Now think about what you've done, pal," before tossing him out into the open air.

His only concern was that the bastard would make a lot of noise on the way down, but it seemed he'd knocked the wind out of him, ha. By the time Frisk peeked out of the bedroom, the assassin was long gone.

Sans shook his head and turned from the opening. "Nope. Sorry, I couldn't catch him before he told us who sent him." He wished he had his jacket; his hands had nowhere to go. "You all right, Frisk?"

The priestess gulped and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "No, I'm not." She slid down, back to the wall, and wrapped her arms around her knees.

She didn't seem be physically hurt, so for the moment, he said, "'Kay," and stared at the slightly open office door. "Son of a bitch. I'm gonna tear that guard a new one. D'you think he knew you were sleepin' in there, or was it just a convenient...place to...crap."

Frisk's shoulders had hunched and her face gone pale. Sans ground his teeth, cursing his stupidity. "Well, it's over. He won't bother you again," he reassured her, coming to kneel beside her. "At least that cover story 'bout the assassin ain't a lie now. Right?"

She didn't look reassured at all. With the threat of bodily harm removed, Sans was out of his element again, with no clue how to help her. Should he frame this as an inconvenient but probably solvable problem that she'd always known might come up? No, that would be dumb. She already had enough problems. She didn't need to worry about more shitheads getting in here to hurt her. As long as she was an important and politically vocal person, it wasn't like she could do much to...

Wait. That was it: Sans had the idea. "Actually, ya know what?" He waited for her to shake her head. "You were sayin' this weird stuff about me leaving once I'd seen Pap. Before we talk about that, I gotta ask, what's the going rate for a bodyguard around here? A good one, not just some moron following you around tryin' to look scary."

She bit her lip, a habit Sans had noticed and been distracted by several times already. "Um...it depends. A skilled full-time personal guard? Anywhere from fifty to a hundred dinar—"

"Oh, nice. I can probably—"

"—an hour. I only sleep a few hours a night, so..." Frisk gave him the ghost of a smile. "If you're offering your services, Sans, I'd be glad to accept. Would a salary of one thousand per diem be acceptable?"

Now he really was at a loss for words. "A thousand a friggin' day?" he repeated blankly.

Frisk nodded. Her shock seemed to be fading as she thought aloud: "You could pay for your clothes in one day, and I can negotiate the repairs down to about ten days' worth. After that, well, wheat is about five dinar a bushel." Despite herself, she sniffled again. "You could buy a lot of wheat, or beans, or...or wedding cakes, or literally anything else you want to take Underground with you."

He was patting himself on the back when, without warning, Frisk's smile faded. "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you before I unlocked the door." Sniff. "Thank you for staying with me." Sniff. "And thank you for saving my life."

Shit shit was as far as Sans got before he lost even that bit of coherence. His senses were already heightened by the unexpected danger, his SOUL still feeling a little queasy at how close she'd come to dying right in front of him; to cap it off with Frisk looking up at him like this with big eyes, messy hair, and her robe falling off her shoulder was more than he could handle. She never looked bad, but right now, damn.

Sans didn't realize he was reaching for her until his fingertip brushed her cheek, toying with a wavy lock of hair. "Don't mention it," he said gruffly. "'s the least I can do."

Frisk pulled away, face flushing, but only in momentary surprise. He devoutly hoped that she'd get up and go get dressed, or maybe pack her things, buy a fast horse and leave the kingdom forever, but that damnable woman didn't know any better than to smile and take his hand, or at least rest her hand in the space between two of his fingers. "Just so long as you keep in mind that you're still my apprentice," she said with mock sternness. "Do you promise?"

Fffffffff

Neither of them understood what happened next. Sans felt something welling up that made him want to grab her and...he didn't know what would happen next, but he wanted it so badly that he backed away in sudden alarm. All he knew was that this feeling – this energy – had to go somewhere, and if he directed it at her, he could accidentally mash her into paste. The only thing he could think of was to whip around, look for something else to latch onto, and focus his attention on the pile of stones, etc. by the office.

His magic was barely available, or so he would have said a minute ago. Fueled by the whatever-it-was, though, and with the barrier gone from one of the walls, Sans didn't even have to think about it: Frisk jumped back as the heap of debris by her office began to glow red, rising into the air and flying into the broken wall. To their mutual astonishment, the outside bricks and internal structures zipped back into place first, followed by more bricks, mortar, stone, wood, and finally the glass and lead of the windows. When the dust settled, the entire facade had been imperfectly but almost entirely restored, the floor sagging under the windows.

Sans stared at his hand, still breathing heavily. "Huh," he said by way of explanation.

"Indeed." Frisk absently ran her fingers through her hair again, working out a tangle as she examined the wall. "Did I know you could do that?"

"I didn't know I could do that." Now that the unfamiliar energy was gone, Sans found he wanted to sit down. He sat down next to her, comfortably but not dangerously close. "Welp, I need a break from life," he said, which got a laugh out of her. He snorted. "Break. I actually didn't mean that one."

Frisk gave a long, long sigh. "We'll knock down your fee to three or four days of repairs," she said gravely.

Sans couldn't help grinning. "I always knew there was mortar life than money."

She kept a straight face until he added, "Makin' it pretty again is gonna be a pane in the glass," whereupon she broke out in hysterical, snorting laughter, which cracked him up in turn and guaranteed a minutes-long feedback loop.

As nice as this all was, Sans was a little concerned when he got under control and she kept going, and going, and ended up nearly gasping for breath. "You okay, kid?" he asked. "Ya need some water?"

"Oh, Lord," she wheezed. Frisk wiped her eyes on her already-damp sleeve. "Sans, you're killing me."

Silence. Frisk thought about it, and promptly buried her head as far between her knees as she could get it. "I didn't do that on purpose," she said, muffled and sheepish.

Sans shifted his weight. He wasn't ready to admit to himself how badly the whole attack had scared him, much less to her. Just to check, he considered escaping again – maybe once she was letting him walk around with her outside and his magic was naturally restored – and now, less than twelve hours after doing his damndest at it, he couldn't believe how much he hated the idea. No problem, really; he could chalk it up to her letting him connect with Papyrus and needing to make it up to her. Also, holy shit, one thousand dinar every day for the next twenty-five days? That was as solid a set of reasons as he'd ever come up with.

"Well," he finally said. "Guess you'd better get yer scary witch dress on and go tell everyone about this whole mess." He snapped his fingers, making an odd click, as something occurred to him. That's right—I got both those knives off him. Maybe someone can take a look at 'em and figure out who he was, where they were from."

Frisk raised her head, staring into space. "No," she said, as if to herself. The boss monster looked askance, and she smiled in a small, nasty way he hadn't seen before. "We won't say anything." The smile grew. "I'll go about my day as if nothing happened, except I'll be accompanied everywhere by a ten-foot skeleton. Whoever set him after me will have no idea what happened, and it'll drive them absolutely mad. We can see if anyone incriminates themselves, but...ohh, I'm going to enjoy this."

"It's a neat idea, but the garbage threw itself out already, remember?" Sans indicated the repaired wall. "Someone's bound to notice 'im."

The young woman did a remarkable impression of shock and distress, eyes wide and mouth hanging open before she murmured, "That poor man jumped from such a height? What a hideous tragedy. Peace be upon his soul and those of his loved ones."

"Daaaamn" was all Sans could say. He might have killed the guy and covered it up, but he couldn't look that cute telling a bare-ass lie! Also... "Ain't you a priestess? Isn't that a little...?"

Frisk scowled. Despite her bedhead and furry robe, she was the very image of sternness and, yes, determination. "I was taught that it is my duty to aid the weak and be an instrument of justice against people who, for example, want to stab me in my own bedroom when I've done nothing to harm them. It's no sin to protect yourself."

The skeleton shrugged, holding his hands out. "Okay, that's enough. I think I love ya. Where do I sign up to kill people for you?"

The priestess laughed. "I bet you say that to every girl you try to escape from. And, please, don't kill anyone." She glanced at the clock, and her amusement melted into panic. "Dirt! I have matins in twenty minutes!" She sprang to her feet and made a beeline for her dressing room. "Can you please find my veil for me?" she called before she shut the door.

Sans also got up, muttering, "'Dirt'? Seriously?" as he retrieved the veil from where it had blown onto the table. As an afterthought, he returned to the bedroom and picked up the assassin's daggers. He studied them, saying out loud, "I think I'm screwed, is what I am," then placed them on the nightstand.

He heard Frisk emerge from her dressing room and went to meet her as she asked, "Sans, do you have my—"

He handed the veil over. "Thank you, sir." She threw the veil over her head and adjusted the headdress over it. "May I assume that you haven't been to many religious services?"

"Er..."

"Well, we have an oral contract, effective immediately, and I am going to church, so you are going to church." She inclined her head, moving toward the double doors. "Follow me."

And, of course, he did.

[crypterion-moon]

Tiamat: Rise in Shadow p.2

Summary: He’s ended up in a new world, one that is surprisingly similar to his but everyone is so much younger. Tiamat, unable to resist his curiosity begins to observe, acting impulsively.

The Light realizes that they have problems concerning their operations

Tags: Violence, Gore

Tiamat's head was ringing, and it was damn annoying as well as slightly painful. It took a whole lot of effort and will to just open his eyes with his whole body screaming at him for the abuse. Not the first time, he told himself, had worse happen to him on Batman's watch. And then he realized there was a possibility he wasn't alone. His eyes shot open and he lifted his head enough to give the surrounding area a quick scan around before dropping back to the ground, face first of course. He felt as if he got kicked in the head by a horse, which was a close enough comparison given how hard he was hit. 

Fortunately it seemed like the Blight Hounds didn't seem to make it through or were dropped off elsewhere, hopefully somewhere far away, like a different dimension. He was about to seduce and kill a young man who would later become a gang leader as he'd been told by Oriviane, one of the oracles. Though it had nothing to do with Tiamat or the wraiths what his destiny would have been, his name was listed. He would die sooner or later.

It would have just been another night of ending someone's life with pleasure until they were suddenly ambushed by those damned monsters. Ambushes weren't all that unusual though it served to be a pain in the ass having to kill his targets before they ran off. Tiamat was always prepared for these moments and it wouldn't have been a problem if his psyche as well as his powers didn't decide to fluctuate right at that moment. It earned him a swat to the face from one of their malformed paws, and they were strong, if not smart.

“Damn, I hope they didn't scratch me,” Tiamat grunted, as his fingers came away wet with blood. 

He glanced at his surroundings, a thick but not unruly gathering of trees blocked much of Tiamat's field of vision like a forest, preventing him from seeing too much farther, but he could hear a the low drone of activity, human activity just beyond the edge of the spot where he stood. Tiamat followed the sounds, noting how oddly neat these trees were spaced almost as if...he reached the end to find wide open spaces filled with people either picnicking, strolling or playing, and beyond that was a city. Its buildings jutting up unpleasantly over the foliage. His portal navigation had landed him in the middle of a park in god knows where, again. In fairness, it was a stressful moment, trying to open up a door while fending of mutant mutts and no doubt, they must've been scattered over other realms. He really needed to get the hang of this before it sent him into somewhere much more unpleasant.

Strangely, as he kept passing through the thick growth of trees he could hear the sounds of civilization cars and voices, not too far away and as it turned out, he’d reached the edge of what turned out to be a reserved patch of forest. Now he was staring from under the shade, normal civilians passing by going about their business. At least he was sure he wasn’t on some god-forsaken hell. He was about to move forward when a sudden explosion erupted about fifty meters away. He flinched back into the cover and watched intently.

Through the throngs of screaming people, a figure emerged from the wreckage, large and imposing and an awfully familiar at that. It was Bane. Still duped up on Venom.

“Come out you spineless cowards, come out and face Bane!”

Good lord he was obnoxious as ever. Watching him thrash about like a child throwing a tantrum was almost comical. He took out a substantial chunk of the cement ground throwing it about, thankfully most of the crowds had retreated but he was posing a serious threat to bystanders. For now, it seemed that the only damage he was intent on doing was to the surrounding inanimate objects, smashing to be exact, unimpressive really. Then the drugged up criminal fixes his gaze on some unfortunate man on his way to work. Tiamat grinned. Perfect, he had some stress to work off.

Just when he had taken a step out, suddenly Bane was ambushed. Teenagers sporting colourful sets of powers and abilites. One of them, a green skinned boy morphed into a bull charging Bane relentlessly and recklessly. A young blond woman with a bow joined in, notching and releasing arrows effortlessly with near perfect aim. The flashy one dashed in to deliver a series of, flimsy punches. When it comes to Bane, nothing short of a strong punch will affect him, but somehow, Tiamat could feel that was merely to add to the distraction.

Something bigger was coming his way. 

Just as the thought materialized, a large black and blue jean mass came flying in, crashing into Bane with a loud thump and crack that definitely was the sound of a few broken bones. The villain was sent flying back from the impact while the recent addition to the fray watched with a triumphant expression, back straight, floating in the air with the symbol on his chest on display. A Super.

The sight of the S brought memories, slamming back into Tiamat .

“Hey Broody.”

Kon smiling as he hovered over him making terrible jokes about his height, his personality being not as colourful as his costume. Fighting together with their teammates against extraterrestrial terrorists. 

“You know he doesn’t mean that.”

Kon comforting him over his arguments and fights with Bruce and Jason. Hearing Kon’s voice beg him to come home again and again until he couldn’t hear him anymore. And when he finally opened his eyes, he was holding Kon’s head in his bloody hands.

Tim doubled over gagging, holding himself steady grasping a thorny vine that grew along the trunk of the tree, his hand so tight around it the thorns pierced skin and blood ran down his palm and the vine.

“Damn it, not now, keep it together...” he fought to keep the memories suppressed. Just then a giant crash spooked him out of the lapse and he looked up in time to see a huge Gorilla in a stupid hat flattening down everything In its way, with a machine gun to match. Following behind were what looked like a few hired goons, of course, why not. Bane always made sure to be stocked up on henchmen and backup.

This was however turning into a bit of a joke and Tiamat was getting bored of watching.

“Robin!” A slight figure leaped out of nowhere at the command, unleashing a whole arsenal of batarangs and smoke pellets. The flying pieces of metal successfully took down a portion of the goons while the pellets burst, enveloping the area in thick smoke. No one can see through it accept for Superboy but they had definitely planned this enough not to require visibility. Tiamat ’s suspicions were confirmed when the green shapeshifter charged right into the smoke, audibly knocking out more of the hired guns, both Robin and the archer jointly disabled the remaining men caught in the smoke. Bane could be heard roaring over the commotion, Gorilla sniffed and grunted. Suddenly, Superboy and a girl with a familiar symbol dived in, tackling the two. The team’s hard hitters best suited for tanks like Bane and the Gorilla. Tiamat guessed they must be this world’s Teen Titans, which meant he had to be careful who he came in contact with.

After a whole load of punching and kicking, the two villains were finally down, disappointingly enough, how boring. They began discussing something together possibly about whatever mission they were on while the blond with the lasso and the speedster began tying everyone up. Just then the  farthest man lying just a meter of where Tiamat was hiding got up and started sprinting off into the woods.

Tim watched the man as he made his escape into the darkness, soon noticed to be by the teens, his lips stretched into a sinister grin. He sat back on his haunches, preparing for the chase.

“Let the hunt begin.”

“We have a runner,” Nightwing sounded slightly fed up, his tone coloured with annoyance as he watched the last of Bane’s hired gun run of to the woods. No one could blame him, since it’s been a long day and no doubt, going to be a long night for him in Bludhaven, the wicked never sleep. So the team started off after him as the heavy hands came to take the criminals away for locking up. Kid Flash was definitely the fastest but not the brightest, and in an environment like a forest, odds were that he’d trip up or spend the whole day searching high and low for the man, so it was a good thing he wasn’t here or he’d run off not knowing where he was going or running into. Beast Boy had the right idea though, as a hound, he had the escaper’s scent. So they followed him into the thick growth. 

Finding him was actually harder than they thought, he had no tracker so all they could really rely upon was Superboy’s senses and Beast Boy’s ability to track as an animal, even then Connor couldn’t see past all the trees with his vision and Garfield lost his scent a few times.

“He must be in the deepest part of the forest by now,” Artemis said.

“Keep searching, if he’s going back to base this could mean finding the ones responsible for the meta-trafficking,” Nightwing ordered.

“He could be headed towards the docks, it’s the quickest and closest way out,” Robin said, it made sense and Nightwing agreed, it was the only other place that anyone could find a way to get off the island. As they got nearer to the docks, Superboy stopped all of a sudden, his teammates stopped as well.

“Superboy, what’s wrong, is-” Wondergirl began to say when he shushed her, his ears picking up whimpers and sobs and some frantic words that were to muffled for him to hear properly. But he could tell which direction.

“Over there,” he said, facing in the direction of the sound just off to the side to where the docks were, .

They followed Conner to what looked like the deepest part of the forest when he faltered and bent over looking shaken.

“What’s wrong,” Nightwing asked, checking him over with concern.

“Someone screamed and it wasn’t any scream, I mean a real scream,” Connor looked up and around, panicked, “I can’t hear him anymore.” 

With this disturbing reveal, Nightwing and Robin both took off in that direction, with the others following after Superboy had recovered. Beast Boy was in the lead again, with the scent strong this time and they ventured on before Garfield started yelping, then, the smell hit them hard, the smell of blood and urine.

“Oh my god,” Artemis let out a hoarse whisper.

Everyone stopped, their mouths hanging open in shock. The corpse lying before them was definitely their runner, but he wasn’t going to be answering questions or going anywhere but the morgue. His limbs stuck out at odd angles like he was flailing about so much they were arranged haphazardly, his uniform was ripped open and so was his throat. The chest area bore several gashes. Right arm ripped off and legs punctured. He looked like he’d been mauled by a savage animal except, no animal can make such clean cuts as the ones on his chest, the claws must have been thin, needle like. His mouth hung agape with terror and he must have been scared enough to wet himself with the darkened patch on his pants mixing with the blood that was now seeping in, staining the grey a darker shade.

“Wha- who could have done this?!” Cassie gasped. Nightwing took a tentative step forward, he’d seen bad things in Gotham but never something like this here. Something had made it’s way on the island.

He looked back to see Robin had also followed his movement but he seemed to be on the verge of getting sick, he was too young to witness something like this. Nightwing didn’t want to baby him. Working as Robin alongside Batman meant being in the middle of things like this but still...he glanced back at the body. This was too horrible.

“You guys, go back to HQ, call Batman, tell him we’ve got an issue, possibly something worse than the crisis at hand,” he ordered the rest of the team, “Robin, look at me, I know it’s going to be hard but go back with them, take the rest of the day off.”

“But I-.”

“Listen to me, Tim, I’m not putting you off missions because I think you’re not up for it, but I’ve had something like this happen before and it isn’t something you can just shake off, take it from a guy who tried winging it,” Dick gave him a wry smile, “Go home you earned it.”

Both Nightwing and Robin looked at the tattered remains, “I don’t think it’s exactly safe there right now.” 

Batman was waiting for them when Nightwing and a few others were finished assessing the situation and had returned to their new cave headquarters. The mountain they had once called base was demolished and smoothed over but in the process of retrieving precious components the had managed to unearth tunnels and caverns formed long ago when lava still flowed here.

It was almost like the old one, well, technically it was, or rather an extension of the old cave.

Batman was tapping away at the computer when they finally arrived.

“I’ve heard a lot about what happened, report.”

Aqualad, Blue Beetle looked rather ill, Nightwing wasn’t happy to have dug his hands deep into the case. 

“Nothing good,” Dick said as he produced a image storage card from one of his compartments, and slotted it into the computer then turned to the rest of the teens gathered around watching curiously, “If any of you guys just ate and don’t have the stomach for this, you might want to look away, especially you Static.”

“I think I’m cool, I’ve been working on this team for a while.”

None of them seemed to be able to look away and Nightwing raised a brow questioningly but relented, “Suit yourself.”

The series of images that popped up on the screen were...hard to digest. The first image of the dead gunman in the woods was obvious, to some but there were more, far more to come. And they got bloodier and bloodier, multiple bodies piled upon each other or strewn around warehouses, corridors, missing limbs, missing eyes, throats torn, one had his skull crushed and a few sliced cleanly in half. All merciless, and brutally killed. All in the same uniform. 

Some retching could be heard in the background, a few of the teens’ eyes had gone wide and forced to look away. Even Superboy, claiming to be fearless didn’t find it easy to be seeing this. Bart grimaced.

“We can assume that this was the base where our runner was going to and whoever, whatever got to him got here first, from what I can tell there were no survivors.”

“Oh god,” M’gann’s voice was merely a whisper.

“Have you determined who they were working for?”

“Only that the hired muscle belonged to Luthor and the whole operation was headed by Bane. The base located just a few miles off the coast was built overnight, it’s supposed to be temporary. That’s how they got so many guys to infiltrate the island. Today was supposed to be the first wave, scout and weaken we know the Light is pulling strings again and they were planning to completely take out the Young Justice.” 

“The full attack was scheduled two days from now, a whole army coming at us...there were a lot of people stationed at that base.” 

Nightwing looked visibly shaken, but he collected himself enough to give the rest of the report, “That’s all the information I was able to recover from their smaller caches, along with the shots we took of the scene but the rest of the data that was in their main computer, is gone, no messages, no videos, all taken or destroyed,” Nightwing looked grim. 

Batman narrowed his eyes and turned back to the screen, scrolling through the images stored on the memory card. The info explained only a portion of the operation but nothing on what transpired there, no indications of unusual activity, which meant that whatever happened, happened suddenly and quickly. His mind racing through a million possibilities, scenarios, potential suspects who wanted in on this operation or just to sabotage it. Joker was on the list, even if he worked with the Light before, he and they both knew he was a wild card of sorts and could turn easily on any one. But this…

Beside him, Robin had taken a step forward analysing each photograph, the investigator inside of him pushing past his queasiness to work out all the clues and Bruce didn’t miss a single moment of that.

“Whoever did this knew what they were doing, but it wasn’t exactly planned, no, I think it all started with the runner,” Batman said.

“How can you be sure?” Aqualad questioned.

“No prior reports of related activity and in such a short time period starting, with your fight with him he’s done a lot of damage,” Batman continued before Jaime cut in.

“Wait, he?”

“Just one person?” Artemis added.

Batman gave Robin a look, body language he was trained to understand, by now, he’d analysed all that he could in those shots and was already organising them into vital information in his head, he started, “There’s blood on the floor that doesn’t match the shape of any of the men in the photos, it’s distinctly male given the size of the footprint, and it can’t be female as the toes are not narrow enough. The back of the print is narrower so the heel must be high, that alone separates it from the any one of the Lex’s men.” 

“Plus there are some distinct marks in front of each print, they look like dots but on closer inspection,” Robin zooms in on one particular print showing a print with several patterned holes in the front, “Our...killer has clawed feet.” 

“Whoa,” Bart said.

“What the hell could that be?” Static threw up his hands frustrated in the riddle talk, “Our mystery guy has clawed feet and is wearing high heels? Apart from fashion statement, is he human? Meta like us?”

Batman and Nightwing exchanged looks, everybody just looked worried.

“You’re thinking something else aren’t you.”

“Without further investigation we don’t have much to go on, but our gut instinct says the same, someone, something has made it here.”

“And whoever or whatever that is, is extremely dangerous,” Nightwing warned.

“Are you even sure it’s just the one guy?” Kon asked.

There was a pause, Batman turned to the screen, scanning the pictures of mutilated and half eaten bodies littered across it, before he answered, “With this kind of carnage, let’s hope we’re just dealing with one threat and not an army.” 

Meanwhile at Lex Corporations, news about the massacre had reached Luthor, and he was not amused. He sat at his desk scrolling through the reports and the images attached, articles that were published days before. He cared little about the men he hired to do his work but was no savage and seeing the aftermath of the attack, he could only conclude it was performed by one. He could put the blame on a few named psychopaths but wild guesses may not help his case. The announcement given by the Batman claimed that it was both a calculated move and a spur of the moment impulse. The  So now, he had a rabid but logical killer on his hands, probably headed for him. With nothing to help identify them it could turn out to be any one person or maybe more, he’s had attempts on his life but it helps to know the suspects, Arsenal a most recent example but a missile is easy to see, easy to counter. From what Lex could tell, this one will give no warning, far too unpredictable.

“Mercy, make the call, our protective measures won’t be enough I’m afraid,” Luthor said. His bodyguard immediately took out the phone to begin dialling, “I have a call to make myself.”

“So, you’re saying that you’re being hunted, why am I not surprised?” Klarion smirked.

Luthor cocked an eyebrow in response to the jarring comment but continued, “If I may continue, it is but a theory, the only thing that causes doubt is the suddenness of the incident. I’d rather be safe than sorry that’s all.”

“A few dead men and you’re concerned?” the Queen mocked lightly, “How very unlike you.”

“Simply cautious my dear, unlike some,” Luthor shot back, making the woman wrinkle her nose slightly but comment no further.

“Now, now, no need for us to argue over such matters, I understand how important it is to be vigilant, Luthor. You have our support. Let’s hope this setback doesn’t last too long,” Vandal said.

“Thank you, I’ll lay low for a bit, in the meantime we should end the threat while it’s still early.”

Klarion hummed in playful doubt, “I dunno, maybe whoever this is could be fun to play with. They’ve caused quite a stir everywhere.”

“Oui, perhaps this newcomer will make a good ally,” the Brain said in his heavily accented English. Lex looked doubtful, as the Queen but both Savage and Klarion seemed open to the idea, Klarion more so with a glee in his eyes. As long as chaos was involved anything would be enough to keep the boy happy. Though the other members were uncertain, a little bit of investment could go a long way. With both Black Manta and Ra’s unavailable to comment, the majority voted on watching the newcomer first, see if there was anything he could offer and act when the moment was right. 

“Let us observe for the moment, we shall soon see if he can serve the Light.”

[secret-engima]

So in Nox AU how does Regis try to bond with Ardyn after it becomes clear that they're 'half-brothers', cause I think that'd be sweet to talk about.

Hmmm good question! Buckle up Imma ramble and I’m sure angst will show up somewhere in here but hey.

-After the shock factor wears off, he probably tries the direct route of talking about their Brother status.

-This, for reasons Very Obvious to say, Nox and the audience, does not go over well.

-Ardyn continues to insist they are NOT brothers, that their blood connection means nothing, and grows prickly when Regis pushes. So Regis stops pushing for fear of making things worse. But … that doesn’t mean he is giving up on getting to know his half-brother. Ohhh no. He just … has to figure out a sneakier way.

-I feel like he ends up spending even more time with Nox, because Nox is a sure gateway to Ardyn, with the bonus of Nox being his son and he always loves hanging out with his son. Ardyn, who adores his nephew, has no issues with including Regis in bonding activities because Regis is Nox’s dad.

-Nox knows exactly what Regis is trying to do and what Ardyn is pointedly ignoring and just- sighs. His life. Why is his life so weird.

-I feel like Regis also ends up accidentally bonding with Ardyn over history, because Regis adores history and loves to nerd about it and Ardyn has lived THROUGH a decent chunk of history and doesn’t mind either talking about bits of it (as long as you don’t bring up the royal family of the era) or sitting back and laughing at the idiot theories poor modern historians have come up with (or utterly confounding Regis with his ability to fluently SPEAK in old languages, Regis is so jealous TEACH HIM PLS).

-Regis introduces Ardyn to fishing. Ardyn finally understands where Nox’s obsession with fishing comes from. It comes from THIS guy. Ardyn doesn’t … really get the appeal until he figures out that for Regis it’s not about the FISH, it’s about getting to spend a few serene hours outside in the sunshine, enjoying the fresh air and light and quiet. No politics, no drama, no hard hikes that will hurt his knee (save maybe to get to the fishing spot). Just … calm. Sunshine. Relaxation. Pretty water. And if he lands a fish or three for supper, that’s great! If not, oh well.

-When he looks at it like that Ardyn … still doesn’t REALLY enjoy fishing, but he can see the appeal now. Regis and Nox team up to invite Ardyn on their fishing trips and so while the fishing nerds do their thing, Ardyn can usually be found stretched out under a tree either napping or reading a book.

-Somehow (Nox’s careful manipulation on behalf of his dad and uncle because he wants his family to get along kthanks) this evolves into just Regis and Ardyn going on fishing trips that they then spend lazily watching the water or with Regis listening to Ardyn read aloud from whatever novel he’s chosen at random this time (he does not have any clue on modern literature, he literally wanders through the library and picks something that looks unknown and interesting) or arguing over historical factoids that Regis thinks are true because Research and Ardyn knows are false because He’s Been There (but can’t say that). If Ardyn’s book of choice is poetry, they might discuss that (Regis discovers that Ardyn is very perceptive with words, very good at putting them together for twisty rhymes and meanings, but his on the spot poetry tends to be either dark or have gallows humor).

-If his book is fiction, it usually ends up being either shamelessly racy, a tooth-rotting romance, a horror, or a cop drama because Ardyn never reads the back, just picks based on how many question marks the book cover sparks in his head. This leads to more than a few afternoons spent with Ardyn reading the book aloud to Regis and both groaning at the stupidity of the author, or Ardyn laughing at Regis when Regis’s inner romantic rears its head (or his inner wuss. For a man who braved daemon-filled dungeons and war, this man CANNOT handle the suspense of a murder mystery or a slow burn horror novel, Ardyn, with the patience of a 2k former eldritch abomination himself, just gets GLEEFUL the more the suspense rises).

-Somehow, Ardyn is STILL utterly flabbergasted when next Christmas, Regis gives him presents. One, because presents??? Him??? Why??? Two, because they are all … things he likes??? They’re books with strange covers and even a few movies because Regis has discovered (to his horror and guilt and anger toward Mors) that Ardyn knows exactly 0 pop culture references beyond ones he’s absorbed from Nox (so … mostly King’s Knight or chocobo ones) and has seen 0 famous movies of the decades. Regis makes him a collection of famous hits according to era, they end up watching them together because if Ardyn is going to watch these strange things, Regis is going to suffer through his peanut gallery commentary.

-Someday Ardyn is going to look up in the middle of snarking with Regis over a movie and just- freeze. Because he knows this feeling. This warm, more-fond-than-annoyed feeling. This is what he felt teasing and being teased by Somnus. This is … this is brotherly affection. For REGIS.

-Ardyn abruptly leaves, runs away from his feelings and Regis because Of Course He Does. Surprisingly, it is not Nox that tracks him down and smacks sense into him, it’s Titus. Titus who has watched this odd brotherly relationship form where Ardyn and Regis take turns being the little brother without noticing, Titus who has seen how HAPPY it makes Ardyn.

-Titus who is not going to let his idiot Izunia Caelum ruin everything for himself just because of past traumas and guilt complexes.

-No one but the two knows what Titus told him that day, but hours after Regis has well and truly panicked and started guilt tripping himself, Ardyn creeps back into the room and shakily sits down, quietly asks if the movie is over or if it was paused.

-Regis, wary but grateful, says he paused it. Ardyn nods and they resume watching in a more subdued, skittish manner. But … but Ardyn is still here, and after thirty minutes of unnerving silence Ardyn begins to peanut gallery again and Regis feels something unwind in his chest. Nothing is ruined. Ardyn is here. Ardyn is … okay with this.

-Nox slinks away in the shadows, for once unnoticed by both Regis AND Ardyn. The part of his head that is occupied by memories of a certain little brother 2k years ago (not a kinslayer king, but a little brother, who once loved and then hated and then regretted all the way to his deathbed) murmurs softly in regret for wounds unhealed and relief for brotherhood once again found.

[kd-holloman]

The Traveler’s Gift Deleted Scene

I haven’t posted any deleted content lately, so here’s a deleted chapter from D3 of TTG. This chapter--or something really similar--managed to make its way through three drafts before I decided to get rid of it. For some reason (one I can’t think of now that Draft 4 is done) I was reluctant to get rid of it. I’m glad I did, because the story just flows so much better without it. 

Warnings: Drug use, mentions of nsfw content, implied molestation, violence, language, and murder. 

Louis didn’t know what he was doing crammed in the back seat of the SUV, but he wasn’t sure he liked it.

Johnny was lounging in the front seat next to Mark, while Damien sat on Louis’s left. On his right, Slater unapologetically did his best to take up as much of the backseat as possible.

Louis was still hurt over what had happened to Rodney and he wasn’t about to forgive the brute in the passenger seat for the role he’d played in his murder. That was what he deserved for getting so attached. There was a reason that many of those who worked for the mob kept their home and work lives separate. If they didn’t, things got messy. 

Louis had distanced himself from his family to the best of his abilities without raising suspicion. His intimate relationships had a history of being nothing more than one-night stands or brief flings with no emotional attachments. He hadn’t kept up with his childhood friends after returning from the war. They’d had their own lives, families, and jobs to worry about. Once he’d been hired by Marcello, the only person he’d kept up with had been Javier, but only because they’d been partners. 

Look where that got you, he reminded himself bitterly. Javier is dead too.

“Oh, don’t be like that, blondie,” Johnny grumbled, his crooked nose pressed against the tinted glass to watch the city streets slide by. “It was just business.” The smirk was audible in his voice. 

Louis scowled and slouched against the supple leather of the seat, a quiet spark of fury igniting within him. He was in the car with two other gifted individuals reputations just as red as the blood on their hands. It would be wise to keep his trap shut. With that in mind, he swallowed his heated retort and settled for glaring past Damien, through the window, instead. “Where are we going?”

“Rick has given us an errand to run,” Mark explained. 

Slater spoke up for the first time since they’d left the apartment. “If I wanted to waste my time I’d spend it watching videos of dogs that can walk on their back legs. This is stupid.” 

“It’s not a waste of time. We’re just reminding Marco who he’s dealing with. If you run a drug ring from one of O’Shea’s buildings, you pay the rent.”

“They’re street trash. I don’t associate with street trash.” 

“You’re not associating with them. You’re associating with us.” 

“Why did you drag me along again? Johnny is here and he likes to crack skulls together. I’m sure he’s more than capable of getting the job done.” 

Mark tightened his grip on the steering wheel so much his knuckles cracked. “Yes, but he doesn’t have your reputation. Your face in a room is enough to make a grown man shit his pants. Don’t argue with me or I’ll put Rick on the phone.” 

“Please do. I can’t wait to tell him to go fuck himself.” 

“No! I’m not going to call him so you can piss him off. You’ll get all of us in trouble.” He pulled up to the curb in a shady, industrial, part of town. “Go in there, scare the shit out of a couple of drug rats, and we can all go home.”

“He does have a point,” Damien piped up. “If we have Slater, why do we need him and Johnny?” 

“I don’t know! I don’t make the fucking rules.” Mark twisted around so he could look at Slater. “You have to be on your best behavior tonight, O’Brien.”

Slater wore a liar’s smile. “I’ll be on my best fucking behavior.” 

“I’m too old to deal with this shit,” Mark grumbled before opening the door. “Dee, stay with the car. I don’t trust these bastards not to take a baseball bat to it.”

Damien obediently leaned against the bumper to wait.

There was nothing particularly special about the grimy building. It was a handful of blocks away from the main stretch of road, nestled in the shadows, and out of reach from any street lights. A few cars sat out front, dented, rusting, and paint fading. Their bumpers sat low to the ground, their windows too dark to see inside.

Louis unsnapped his holster, ready to draw his gun if necessary. It didn’t seem like it was going to come down to a shootout. Nobody else seemed concerned, even if the quiet stillness of the night seemed to whisper danger. 

Mark rapped on the door in a patterned series of knocks before it swung open. 

A haze of smoke hung in the air, curling in lazy wisps overhead. The smell of marijuana was so pungent that Louis felt like he was going to get gowed-up just from breathing. 

A man was sitting on a lopsided couch, a woman in his lap was being none-too discrete with her hand down his pants. He jolted upright fast enough to send her to the floor. He pulled the reefer from between his lips. “Who the hell are you?”

Another man had been weighing white powder on a scale sitting among a trash-littered coffee table. At the sound of the other man’s voice, he stopped what he was doing and picked a gun off of the table next to him. 

“None of that shit,” Johnny said. He waved his hand and the gun went skidding across the room. 

Mark gave an approving nod. He held up his hands to show that he wasn’t about to pull any weapons. “I’m not here to fuck up your shit. Are you Marco? Rick O’Shea sent me. He says your rent is due.” 

The man on the couch nodded. He had a tattoo on his face, an X, the blank ink was faded and looked slightly green against his skin. He slid a suspicious look from Mark to the rest of them. “Why did you come with such a big crew if you aren’t here to start trouble?” 

“You can never be too careful. I didn’t know if you were going to have twenty guys waiting to punch me full of holes.”

Marco nodded, seeming to decide that it was a fair precaution to take. “Get your ass up and get the hell out of here,” he snapped at the girl sitting at his feet with red eyes and black streaks of makeup down her face. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be. Go on, now.” He gave her a nudge with the toe of his boot. 

She was slow to get to her feet and slightly unsteady once she got there.

“If you see Drew or Kevin when you get out there, tell them to mind their own business outside until I tell them to come in. Got it?” 

She looked like she hadn’t even registered a word he’d said. She was too high to pay attention. 

“Bitch, did you hear me?” 

She jerked, the sudden boom of his voice startling her. “Uh, yeah … yeah. I’ll tell ‘em.” She shuffled to the door. It slammed shut behind her. 

“Jesus,” Mark said, “she’s fucked up. What is she on?”

The man sat back down on the couch and twitched his fingers toward his friend. Once he had fat stacks of cash he began to count it out. “Just herb, y’ know what I’m saying? Good dealers don’t use their own product.” He licked his finger and continued to count cash. “Your boss is asking for his cut a little early, isn’t he?”

“No,” Mark said. “He’s doing you a favor. He gave you an extension, remember? It’s time for you to pay up. I’m sure you discussed the terms and conditions of the late fee.” 

“I know my business,” Marco replied coolly. “I thought I had another week before I paid up.” 

“Take that up with him. What’s in the back room?” 

“That’s where I keep my supplies.” 

Mark looked from the doorway in the back corner of the room to Louis. “Mahoney, take a look back there and make sure we aren’t going to have any surprises.” 

Louis touched the brim of his cap in acknowledgement. He looked at the dark room, imagined himself standing next to it, and willed himself there. 

Once his shoulder was pressed up against the wall next to the door, ignoring the burning in his bones, he raised his gun and peered inside. 

There was nothing but a couple of locked gun safes against the back wall. There was another couch, even more stained and lopsided than the first, to his left. Trash littered the floor, the room smelled like mildew and marijuana. He checked each corner of the room before he gave Mark a thumbs up.

“Oh,” Marco laughed, amused, “you got yourself a bunch of freaks here. I almost forgot that O’Shea had a bunch of them on a leash.” He didn’t look up from counting the money when he asked, “What about you, red? Any tricks up those leather sleeves of yours?” 

Slater fixed the drug dealer with a ferocious sneer. “It will be a bad day for you, if you ever find out.” 

In the stillness of the night, a series of shrieks came from outside. It sounded like the woman from earlier hadn’t gotten very far and she was having an episode. 

“Don’t mind her,” Marco dismissed with a wave of his hand. He gestured for his friend to hand him more money. “She’s always carrying on about something. Back to you, Red, are you going to show off your moves for me?” 

“It’s a disappearing act,” Slater replied. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah and if you watch closely, you can see just how I do it.” With that, he turned tail and walked through the front door. 

Mark did his best to appear unconcerned, but Louis saw his jaw twitch from where he stood. No doubt, Slater was going to get an earful once they got back in the car. 

Marco finished counting out the cash. “There’s that and here’s the extra chunk I owe him for his generosity.” 

Johnny dropped a backpack on the coffee table in front of him. 

“Don’t forget that you’re just a phone call away from losing everything, Marco,” Mark reminded the dealer. He accepted the loaded backpack from Johnny. “Keep the boss happy and we won’t ever have to have this conversation again, understood?” 

The sharp glimmer in the other man’s eyes showed just how sour the threat sounded. “Of course, of course. I wouldn’t want him to send The Reaper after me. That’s his name, isn’t it? Or is that some sort sick joke your boss made up?” 

“I don’t know,” Mark replied with a shrug. “The Reaper just stepped outside. Why don’t you ask him yourself. Mahoney, go get him.”

Louis nodded and disappeared from the stuffy drug den and emerged in the sticky night air. He found Damien leaning against the SUV’s bumper. “Is Slater in the car?” 

He shook his head and pointed to the backside of the building. “He went that way, where that girl was screaming. Christ, you don’t think he killed her, do you?” 

That was a grim thought, but part of Louis was skeptical. “I don’t think so.” He jogged to the rear of the building, where Damien had indicated that Slater had gone. He only slowed when he heard the staccato smack of a closed fist hitting flesh. 

Louis’s heart beat faster as he rounded the corner. 

Slater’s red hair was unmistakable, even if the rest of him was hardly visible in the barely-there light. 

The woman sitting on the ground, slumped against the tire of a car the color of cigar ash. Her shirt was crooked and her skirt had been hiked up past her hips, revealing too much of a bright pink undergarment. Her head bobbled every once in a while, the way it did when someone was nodding off and trying to stay awake. She was alive. 

Louis turned his gaze from the woman and back to Slater. Why? He wondered. Why is he fighting with these strangers when he could kill them in their tracks? Why was he choosing to throw fists when he could end it in an instant? What’s the point? 

Judging from the way the redhead stood with his hands in the pockets of his , he wasn’t concerned about the two men circling him like sharks preparing to feed. 

“You think you can just come around here and stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?” The taller man asked, his voice raspy. There was an unthreatened melody to his tone, like the idea of a fight didn’t scare him. 

Slater’s face split into a grin. “Do you know who I am?” 

“From what I hear, you’re the guy that everybody’s afraid of. I can’t see why. You look like a pussy to me. What do you think, Drew?” 

The shorter of the men smirked, “He looks like a preppy motherfucker to me, Kev.” 

“Run along, Reaper. Let me fuck this bitch and get on with my night.”

Their jibes seemed to have little impact on Slater. He simply stood where he was, watching them from behind his sunglasses. “The only ones getting fucked tonight are the two of you.” 

The taller of the two men—Kevin—moved, a snake striking in the tall grass. It was sudden and the force of his punch was hard enough to snap Slater’s head to the side. The hiss of air slipping between his teeth was as sharp as a gunshot. 

Slater reached up and brushed his thumb across his upper lip. He inspected it for a moment before he laughed in delight. “Now, this is starting to get fun!” When the man swung again, he ducked out of the way before retaliating with a jab of his own. 

In an aggressive flash of fists, Drew joined the fight. It was unfair, two against one, and obvious that the two men wouldn’t stop until Slater was unconscious or dead. 

Louis contemplated intervention, but stayed put. He was interested in seeing how this deadly boxing match would end. Whatever the outcome was going to be, Slater didn’t appear concerned. 

In fact, with each blow struck him, it seemed to drive him faster, made him burn a little brighter. The smirk on his face continued to grow, even with the bruises already forming on his fair complexion. He showed now signs of slowing down. 

The door banged open and Mark scrambled around the side of the building with Johnny on his heels. He skidded to a halt when he saw Slater in the midst of a fight. Then, he pulled a device out of his pocket and lunged for Drew, it crackled and spat in a flash of blue light. 

Kevin stopped and looked at Mark, but his attention was jerked back to Slater when the redhead spoke. “If you touch them, I’ll kill you.” 

It must have been a credible threat, because Mark hesitated.

His pause was enough time for Johnny to extend his hand. 

Drew hardly had enough time to let out a startled yelp before he went flying backward. His body crashed into the brick wall behind him hard enough that Louis heard a crack. Then, he slumped onto a pile of garbage bags, eyes rolled into the back of his head. 

Slater’s eyes snapped to Johnny, the smile on his lips vanishing, his expression frigid. 

Kevin didn’t need an invitation to send another fist flying. This time, the punch was fueled by even more rage. It slammed into the side of Slater’s face with enough force that Louis’s own jaw ached in sympathy. It sent the two of them into another round of snarls hissed between clenched teeth and battered knuckles. 

Apparently, Slater’s arctic glare had been enough of a message to keep Johnny from intervening again. He didn’t make a second move to put an end to the fight. 

How much longer is this going to go on? Louis wondered. Are they going to keep going until they’re unconscious, dead, or until Marco comes out with his friend, guns blazing?

Enough was enough. 

Louis’s approach didn’t go unnoticed. Mark stepped in front of him to block his path. “Stay out of this, buddy. This isn’t your fight.” 

He flicked Mark an unimpressed look. Having something—doors, people, or walls—in his way had never stopped him before and it wasn’t going to work now. 

“Did you hear me? Are you deaf or are you stupid?” 

“Probably just stupid.” 

Mark made a move, the Taser in his fist crackled angrily. 

One moment Louis was there, the next he was standing between Slater and Kevin. 

Everything went still. The only sound was sound of the fighters and their ragged breathing, their attack thwarted by Louis’s sudden presence.

Louis had done what he could. He’d gotten their attention. Now, he had to keep it. 

“Move,” Slater ordered. 

He stayed put. At this point, if The Reaper wanted him dead, he had nothing to lose. 

“Get the fuck out of my way before I kill you.” 

Louis stared down at him, seeing his own reflection in the lenses of his shiny, bent, glasses. He thought about what Damien had said, that Slater had blown a man’s head clean off his shoulders with only his mind. Obviously, he’d been deemed The Reaper for a reason. If he truly wanted Louis dead, there was nothing stopping Slater from killing him. He didn’t look away. “If you were smart,” he warned Slater’s opponent, “you’d get the hell out of here.” 

He didn’t have to turn his head to hear the other man run off into the night. 

Slater was still glaring at him, four inches shorter than Louis. 

It reminded Louis of a game he and James had played when they were kids, one where they stared at each other before the other looked away.

Louis looked back for what felt like an eternity, every muscle drown rigid with anticipation. If felt an awful lot like staring down the wrong end of a loaded gun. Each second dragged as he waited to see if Slater would pull the trigger. 

“Johnny,” Mark said, “go tell Damien to start the car. Come on, O’Brien, you’re coming with us.” 

Slater kept his gaze on Louis for a few more deliberate moments before he followed Mark without a word. 

Louis exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. The tension resolved once those hidden eyes were no longer burning him to the core. He gave the girl, propped up against the wheel of the car, one last look before he followed the others. 

On the ride back, Johnny broke the uncomfortable silence by complaining. “Why do we even let O’Brien come with us? That asshole gets off on picking fights. I swear—”

Slater, now in the passenger seat, reached out with a bruising and bloody had to flick on the radio. He twisted the knob for the volume until nobody could hear Johnny bitching. 

Once the car was turned off, Johnny started again. He slammed the car door hard enough to make it rock. “You want to know what I don’t understand? I don’t get why Boss keeps you around, anyway. You’re a loose fucking cannon. I mean, just ask the new guy, I can kill people too. Big fucking deal! You aren’t spe—”

If Louis hadn’t been watching, he would have known what happened. One moment, Johnny had been going on and on, without a breath between words; and the next, he’d collapsed to the concrete of the parking garage floor, lifeless. 

There was a breath of stunned silence among them before Mark reacted. “O’Brien! What the fuck?!” 

Slater’s expression was smooth. There wasn’t the slightest hint of emotion on his face. He looked at the body with disinterest before he turned to the other man. His voice was just as blank as his face when he said, “I warned him to stay out of it. I warned all of you. He just didn’t listen.” 

“Oh shit!” Damien gasped from Louis’s elbow. “Oh, holy shit!”

Now Louis understood how Slater had earned his nickname. It hadn’t been a myth and Damien hadn’t been exaggerating his power. He had really killed Johnny just by looking at him. 

He studied the corpse with morbid fascination. Blood ran from Johnny’s mouth, nose, and ears, pooling beneath his head on the oil-streaked concrete. His eyes were wide open in a blank stare. 

Louis looked at Slater, palms sweating. Maybe he shouldn’t have stepped in to stop the fight. By doing so, he had probably signed his death certificate. 

Slater paused in front of Louis on his way out of the garage. He leaned in close, reeking of sweat and leather. There was a bruise blooming on one of his high cheekbones. His voice was a whisper, “Consider this your warning. Don’t get in my way again.” 

Louis swallowed the nerves that had formed into a ball in his throat and watched Slater disappear into the night.

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