#hoping to dip in and not use hurricane metaphors

[seeminglyseph]

Rip Nalzyr's funny eye, Volo popped it out and replaced it with one that can see invisibility, so here's one last image of him with his original look.

[unmitigatedsuperiority]

Summary: A hurricane ravages Virginia. You and Spencer see each other sooner than expected. Pairing: Mermaid!Spencer Reid x Reader Word count: 5.0k Category: Fluff Rating: T Warnings: Hurricane/storm, reader eats food, power outages

read it on ao3 | series masterlist

[previous chapter]

JUNE

You used to think that there was a word for everything.

Hundreds of thousands of words in the English language, not to mention all of the words in other languages. And then there were metaphors, allegories, tricks of the tongue that could be used to describe what couldn’t be captured so succinctly. There were words for everything.

But you couldn’t quite put into words the feeling you got whenever you saw Spencer.

Because it was more than that initial feeling of disbelief when the two of you first met. It was more than excitement or contentment or enthusiasm. No, this was something akin to the polar bear plunges your old roommate used to do. Waking up at the crack of dawn and dipping into the icy waters, pushing through the shock to feel that instant surge of feeling alive. Like even despite all the logic in the world telling you that you probably shouldn’t be doing this, you just couldn’t help it. You kept coming back for more. But even that didn’t seem like an apt enough descriptor for everything you felt.

You looked over at Spencer now, watching him shake damp hair out of his eyes as he scanned the pages of the book you had brought him. Sharing words with him the only way you knew how. Somehow, you knew this is where you were meant to be.

“What are you thinking about?” He inquired. You shook your head.

“Nothing,” you said. You tried to come up with the perfect line, the perfect formula of words that would live up to what you wanted to express to him. But the language slipped through your fingers like water in your hands. “I’m just glad we met,” you told him, truthfully. Spencer quirked his lips, met your eyes. Equally sincere.

“Me, too.”

AUGUST—ONE DAY BEFORE

“I hope you know that I had to fight off several people including a small child to get these bad boys,” Tara lugged up a few gallons of water onto the kitchen table. She puffed out her chest as though proudly displaying a trophy. “Market’s probably wiped by now with the storm finally about to hit.” You reached out and lifted some bags off her outstretched arms, carrying your fair share of the weight to unload.

“I can imagine,” you replied, emptying the items out and into their proper places in the kitchen. The storm shouldn’t be as bad as years’ past, but it was still decidedly a hurricane. An upgrade from the earlier tropical storm advisory. Because it wasn’t a tropical storm. It was a full-blown hurricane, which mean that it was better to be safe than sorry. You could only hope that Spencer was following the same realm of advice and was doing everything he could to swim out before the storm earnestly began.

“Y/N.” You looked up at Tara, noting her furrowed brow. “Canned things don’t go in the fridge,” she pointed out. You looked before you only to see an opened refrigerator, can in hand.

“Right,” you say, shaking your head, “sorry.” You close the door and promptly put the cans away in the correct place. Trying desperately not to read into why you couldn’t quite focus today.

“Damn, you’re worried about him, huh?” Tara questioned. You sighed. So much for not reading into things.

“I don’t know! What do mermaids even do during hurricanes? What do fish do?” You turned to her, desperate for answers.

“Do I look like a fish expert?” She joked. It landed flat. “Hey,” she reached out. “It’s going to be okay.” You nodded, unable to articulate just how much you were feeling. And just how intensely you were feeling it.

“All the outdoor furniture is put away and I found a bunch of extra candles in the hall closet,” you changed the subject as you finished unloading the bags. Tara narrowed her eyes at the clear deflection but didn’t push. You were relieved that she let it be.

“Thanks, that’ll be useful later,” she replied. Paused. “Do you want pizza for dinner? I’m feeling pizza,” she floated the idea, leaning towards the freezer and taking out a large box before shaking it a little, eyebrows raised in your direction. An obvious attempt at distraction.

“Okay,” you smiled. Tara set to getting out the ingredients, and you argued over pizza toppings.

The two of you ate your pizza together that night, a bad movie queued up to make fun together. Tara was a good friend; this was a perfect distraction. Mostly. As the credits rolled, she got up to clear her plate and put away the leftovers. You took another bite of your pizza, sifting through the search results on your phone for what do fish do during a hurricane, pointedly trying not to worry. There was no reason to worry. Everything would be fine.

***

Everything was not fine.

You knew this when you woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. It covered your arms and legs, leaving a distressingly chilling sheen on your body. Evidence of what you’d just experienced. A nightmare quickly fading into the recesses of your mind. You couldn’t quite recall what had happened in the dream. Just the taste of saltwater and this paralyzing fear like a heavy weight in your chest. You could still feel the dregs of it now, dragging you down, drawing you back into bed.

A resounding BOOM of thunder startled you up, much to the resentment of your body and its desire to fall back to sleep. You pushed the covers off you as you got up, reaching to turn on your bedside lamp. Dead. The house must have lost power during the night. You sighed, rolling your shoulders as you walked over to the window, the relentless sound of rain pelting the glass filling your ears. A crack of lightning shot out across the sky, illuminating the entire beach for a split-second. Another loud thunderous roar followed it. The storm was right on top of you. It sent a chill down your spine, being right in the middle of it. You watched the ocean fight against the storm, the gentle push-pull you once knew now an all-out war between tides and winds. Dangerous. You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

Something about standing in the eye of the storm felt familiar to you. Braving an unstoppable force. Knowing something is dangerous but not being able to look away…

You probably shouldn’t be standing in front of your windows right now.

Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the scene once more. A reflected flash down in the waters caught your attention. You padded over to the edge of your windowsill, leaning to get a better view. It was the rocks by the edge of the waters. You could just barely see them, but they were there. The sight warmed your chest. All those Sunday mornings coming to your mind. Even though where the two of you always sat wasn’t visible from here, it made you feel more connected. Knowing that he was oftentimes right there. Lightning flashed again, and there was that shiny thing by the rocks again. A shiny thing with a distinctly human form. And shaggy hair. Oh, God.

Spencer.

You turned away from the window, pulse quickening. An unsteady thump-thump echoing from your chest to your ears. You brought your hands to your chest, took a few grounding breaths before setting into motion. You hastily threw on your favorite hoodie, some nearby pants, your sturdiest boots. Tara would chew you out if she knew what you were about to do, but you couldn’t stay inside when you knew he was out there. When you knew he wasn’t safe. Remaining indoors would effectively be breaking the promise you made him months ago when the two of you had first met. Something you weren’t sure if he even remembered, even though he remembered everything. A promise that he would be safe with you.  

You ran on the balls of your feet, light, down the hall and out the front door, balancing your need to see Spencer with Tara’s need to sleep through the night. When you got outside, you had to take a moment to steel yourself against the elements. Heavy droplets chased each other to the ground. Thunder rolled in the distance. Icy winds bit at your cheeks as you rushed down to the edge of the beach. Back to where it all began. You followed that flash of light until it grew bigger and bigger. Until it grew into Spencer.

“What are you still doing here?!” The wind stung your eyes, sand kicking up around the shore. Spencer adjusted his grip on the rock he was hanging onto. He looked exhausted.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly planned…” He grimaced as he yelled over a particularly loud crack of thunder. He looked weak, tired. Your heart ached, a heavy thing. “I needed to make sure everyone else got out safe.”

Without hesitation, you waded out into the shallow end of the water, soaking through your pants, your socks. The icy waves sent a shock through your veins. Your own personal polar bear plunge.

You frowned, taking in Spencer’s fatigued figure. “Spencer, you have to put on your own oxygen mask before you help others,” you chastised him, no real malice in it. He cocked his head, utterly confused at the metaphor. You shook your head. “Nevermind. What can I do to help?”

“I don’t know if there’s anything you can do,” he shouted over the continuous sounds of the storm. “It’s too dangerous for me to swim out now. And it’s not as though I could sprout a pair of legs or anything.” The gears in your mind turned, hummed, at his distress. Then, it clicked.

“I have an idea,” you announced, blinking away the rain that dripped down into your eyes. “But you’re not going to like it.” You reached down and gingerly placed your hand on his. Pointedly ignored the way the contact made your legs shake. “I’m going to call Tara.” Spencer’s face immediately morphed into one of protest. You hardened your resolve. “It’s the only way, Spencer. Our house is safer, and we have a very large bathtub. I just need Tara to help me get you there. Do I have your permission?” The wind whipped his hair and ocean spray misted your face. Your ears rang as Spencer remained quiet, chewing on his lip. You eyed the darkened sky warily when thunder rolled in the distance.

“Spencer. Do I have your permission?” You asked again, softer. A million emotions crossed his face before he steeled his expression into one of reluctant acceptance.

“Okay,” he near whispered. The wind whistling, screaming, almost taking his voice with it. You nodded, rested your forehead against his for just a moment, and stood back up. You released his hand as you pulled out your cell phone, dialing Tara’s number. Feeling an extreme sense of relief when you heard it ring. Thank goodness cell service wasn’t down yet. It rang twice before you heard a confused and sleepy Hello?

“Hey, uhh…” You looked back at Spencer, wiping the rain out of your eyes to do so. He grimaced, uneasy with the situation. But this was the only way. “Do we still have that wheelbarrow?” You shouted over the rain.

“I think so?” Tara concluded, questioning. You heard her fight a yawn, alertness slowly creeping into her tone. “What’s this about? Why are you up? Why does it sound like you’re outside?” You remained quiet, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Y/N. Are you outside.” Not a question. You sighed.

“Maybe?”

“Jesus,” Tara muttered to herself. “You need to get inside immediately.” You dragged a hand down your face, bracing yourself to ask what it was you were about to ask.

“Actually…could you bring the wheelbarrow down to the beach? By the rocks at the edge of the shore? It’s important.”

It was a long lull before Tara spoke again. “This is about Spencer, isn’t it?” You looked back at the mermaid, watching him struggle against the current.

“Please.” You whisper, voice faltering. The silence hung heavy, tense, as you waited for her answer.

Tara sighed. “You’re lucky I owe you.”

“Thank you! Oh my god, thank you, Tara. I owe you a million more. Please hurry.”

“Alright, I’m on my way.”

“Okay, see you soon.” You hung up, tuck the phone back safely into your pocket. Turning to Spencer, you spoke up over the rain. “Help is on the way!” Spencer nodded, tightening his grip. You returned your hand to his. He smiled ever so slightly at the contact, reveled in it while the rain pounded away around you. Blending into the angry sea.

“I’m not going to lie, this is going to be uncomfortable,” you spoke after a long minute of silence. Well, silence with the exception of the elements. “We’re going to have to lift you out of the water. There will be some touching.”

“Better than getting dragged out by the storm,” he replied, tight. You could feel his struggle with the forceful optimism. The pushing of his boundaries.

“I’ll be here every step of the way,” you reassured him.

“You trust Tara and I trust you,” he shrugged. The sheer honesty evident in his tone blew you away.

“And I trust you,” you replied. “I hope you know that by now.”

“I know,” he said. And you knew he did. Not even a question. You brushed a wet curl out of his eyes and he leaned into the touch, extracting what comfort he could. You focused all your energy on Spencer—keeping him as comfortable and safe as you could. You kept your hands on him as though your touch could heal wounds. And the way he was gripping your hands almost made you believe that it could.

It was only after several minutes that you saw a dark figure in the distance, felt that telltale chill on the back of your neck signaling that someone was nearby. You held onto Spencer’s hand tightly, peering back until you recognized the shape as Tara, and began waving her over. You felt Spencer shrink next to you.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, repeating yourself as often as necessary to make him feel safe. You rubbed your thumb across his hand, hoping the repetition would help. It didn’t seem to hurt. When you eventually turned back around, you were met with yellow boots and a chipped red wheelbarrow inches from your face.

“God, you’re a lifesaver, Tara.”

“I know, I—” she stopped her self-aggrandizing comment. Took in the picture before her. Really took it in. After all, it wasn’t every day that you met a mermaid.

“Hi,” Spencer waved, thinned his lips. Tara waved back with a cautious Hi? Everything was almost going perfectly, but then Spencer’s tail dipped out of the water. It was only a second, but evidently enough to make Tara lose it. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

“Oh, my God—” You leapt up and grabbed Tara by the shoulder, turning her around in a small huddle facing away from Spencer.

“Please don’t freak out,” you pleaded with Tara before going in close to drive the point home. “Please don’t freak him out.”

“That’s a fucking mermaid.”

You huffed a laugh. “Yeah, that’s a fucking mermaid.”

“Like, I always knew he was out there, but part of me didn’t really believe it,” Tara rambled. Her eyes caught yours. “No offense,” she added. You waved your hand through the air.

“Don’t worry about it. You’re a scientist. Seeing is believing, I get it,” you placated her. Thunder rolled overhead once more. You glanced up at the sky, then back at Spencer, nerves rushing through you.

Tara eyed you, nodded, before clasping her hands together. She took a breath, settled her features into something stoic, only a hint of panic exuding through her body language. “Alright,” she turned around, “what’s the plan here?”

“God damn, he’s heavy,” Tara had uttered, strained, several minutes later. She staggered over to the wheelbarrow, Spencer’s arms dangling before her. It turned out that a tail added quite a bit of weight to what would otherwise be a six-foot-tall man.

“You said you’ve been wanting to join a gym, right?” You quipped. Tara huffed a humorless laugh before adjusting her grip beneath Spencer’s shoulders. “Okay. Go, go, go,” you encouraged as you approached what was soon to be a mermaid transportation device.

Your grip on Spencer’s tail was as loose as it could be while still maintaining control. He had just barely let you touch his tail earlier this week and now here you were carrying him by it. The thought turned your stomach as you took in Spencer’s visible discomfort. Better than getting dragged out by the storm, you repeated his words to yourself. He had given you permission to do this. It was the best that could be done in a bad situation. Still, guilt crept up on you.

“Okay, easy,” you guided once you had reached the wheelbarrow. Tara gently lowered him down into the concave top. Once he grabbed onto the sides, you let go of his tail, opting to hold onto the end of the wheelbarrow instead.

Tara braced her hand on her knees, breathing heavy. You mimicked the gesture, face softening at Spencer’s discomfort.

“Sorry, Spence…” You trailed off. You couldn’t even find the words to convey everything you felt. That sickly feeling convincing you that you betrayed his trust by calling Tara. That this was surely the end of everything. But you didn’t have time to wallow or worry. You had to get out of this storm.

“Let’s go—let’s get to the house. We can go in through the back.” You motioned for Tara to grab the handles. Spencer braced his hands on the sides. “Okay. One, two, three!” And with a great heave, the two of you set off in your mission of caravanning the mermaid across the beach. You were immensely grateful for Tara’s steadfast support, immediate acceptance of the situation, and deceptive strength. You should probably get her a gift basket or something.

The two of you pushed and pulled the wheelbarrow up the beach, slowly trudging towards the house. Throughout the trek, you stopped where you could, but it was only a few second breaks at a time before the wind and rain forced you back into action. Eventually, you could finally see the house. The driveway. It was so close.

“Watch it!” Spencer called out as his tail brushed against a fence on a particularly sharp turn out of the main area and towards the residences.

“Sorry,” you and Tara both replied. You both maneuvered him around the edge of the fence and down through your backyard. Immensely grateful that your house was at the end of the road. Approaching the hidden driveway, relief began to settle in your bones. Almost there.

CLANK.

“Shit!” you yelled out as the front wheel popped off and rolled down the driveway. It spun once, twice, before clattering to the ground. You pushed against the unsteady weight while Tara ran to the left side, where it was now dangerously close to capsizing. Spencer curled into himself, gripping the edges tightly.

“Tara…” You struggled under the weight.

“Yeah, I got it,” Tara called out, out of breath. The two of you slowly pushed and pulled until everything was righted. The adrenaline coursed through your veins even after the fact. You crouched down to Spencer’s eyeline.

“I’m so sorry, Spencer. I’m sorry. So sorry. Spence…” you rambled as you held on tightly to the metal edges. Spencer reached a hand forward, his hold on the edge overlapping with your hand, your pinkies intertwined. All of you stood there for several moments, recovering from what could have easily been so much worse. You and Spencer locked eyes and unconsciously took deep breaths together. Inhale, exhale. Spencer gave you a nod after several long moments. You caught Tara’s eyes, repeated the motion, and you were off once more, albeit with a bit more effort.

Once you’d reached the back door, you secured your hold while Tara kicked it open, clearly having forgotten to lock it yet again. At least this meant Tara didn’t have to let go of her end of the wheelbarrow, which you knew would topple instantly if she did. For the first time in the history of living together, you were grateful for her tendency to never lock doors.

“Okay,” you grunted while lifting your end over the lip and into the laundry room. “The bathroom is on the first floor, so this shouldn’t be too terrible. Tara,” you looked over at her. “Could you go fill the bathtub, please?”

“Salt,” Spencer spoke up, soft.

“With lots of salt. The saltiest water,” you smiled, attempting to lighten the dark mood. Tara nodded, carefully putting down her end of the wheelbarrow so that it leaned against the dryer. She turned on her phone flashlight, letting it illuminate her path out into the hall. As she walked away, you lowered yourself down next to Spencer, kneeling onto the ragged towel that lay on the floor.

“I’m sorry…” you trailed off, unsure of how to express all the regret and fear you were feeling in this moment. You couldn’t find the words. Spencer flicked his tail gently.

“It’s okay,” he reassured you. Took a breath. “I mean, it’s not? That was really hard for me, actually. But I’ll be okay.” He looked up at you. “We’ll be okay.” Gingerly, your hand gripped the side of the wheelbarrow. Spencer reached out, threaded your fingers together. Your heart stuttered. Relief.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. Spencer whispered that it’s okay, rubbed his thumb over your palm. Dampness collecting where your hands met. “If there was a way to teleport you here, I would’ve done it, I swear,” you raised one hand in a scout’s salute. Spencer chuckled.

“I know.” He continued the repetitive motion of his thumb moving across your hand, the contact grounding, comforting to you both. You heard thunder roll in the distance, but it didn’t have the same impact on that heavy feeling in your chest as it did when you were outside in the storm. You were inside, now. Safe. Spencer was safe.

“I will say, I’m very impressed that we didn’t get struck by lightning,” you mentioned as Tara reentered the laundry room, her rain-soaked hair brushing against a towel she had thrown around her shoulders.

“What’s going on?”

“Just making fun of my choice to use a metal wheelbarrow,” you informed her. She snorted.

“Well, yeah. In a literal hurricane with lightning happening directly above us?” Tara tutted. “Definitely not smart.” She smiled to let you know she was joking. That heaviness behind your ribs lessened at the levity being brought into the situation. Things felt bleak on the beach. The humor was refreshing.

“Actually, the presence of metal has no effect on where lightning will strike,” Spencer spoke up. “That’s a myth.” The three of you sat in silence for a beat.

“Okay, how does he know that?” Tara asked, dumbfounded. You gazed at him, smiling. He mimicked the expression. Tara gagged. “Anyway…the tub is filled and as salty as I could make it. I left the container next to it just in case. Don’t sue me if I didn’t get the ratio right, mermaid man.” She shone the light in Spencer’s face. He scrunched his face, good-natured.

“Thank you, Tara.”

“Don’t thank me yet, because we still have to get you into the tub.” Spencer grimaced at that.

Having gotten into a rhythm of pushing a mermaid in a wheelbarrow that’s lost its wheel (what a weird night you were having), you and Tara were able to smoothly bring him into the bathroom. Spencer gently lowered himself into the tub as you and Tara held onto the wheelbarrow, trying to keep it from tipping over at the wrong moment.

Once Spencer was submerged from the chest down, you and Tara rifled through the bathroom cabinets and closets for some candles. At the end of your combined search, you had enough to keep a warm glow in the room. And enough from the hall closet for you both to get back to your bedrooms without stumbling through the dark. You eyed Spencer, the candlelight softening his sharp features. You felt a pull. Like the current dragging you out to sea. You didn’t want to leave him here, not yet. Tara watched this silent interaction before turning on her heel.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” she said quietly, slipping out of the bathroom and closing the door behind her. Suddenly, you and Spencer were alone again. You placed the candle in your hands down on the table next to the tub. Let out a deep breath.

“Now, this is very Aquamarine,” you joked. “We definitely have to watch it now.” Spencer smirked at the reference to one of your earlier conversations. The familiarity lightening the mood.

“Definitely,” he replied. The moment lapsed into a deafening silence. You watched his tail flit in and out of the water, immensely grateful for Tara’s insistence on living somewhere with a large tub. Who would’ve known that it would come in handy?

You reached over to the towel rack, grabbed the long, dark one and wrapped it around your shoulders, determined not to shake from the cold rain seeping through your clothes. Determined not to let Spencer see how much this affected you.

“You know, I read online that most fish aren’t all that impacted by hurricanes. If they’re not territorial, they just swim to deeper waters,” you spoke. Spencer ran his fingers along the water by the edge of the tub, considering.

“And did that fact help you feel better?”

You twisted your mouth into a frown. “Not really,” you answered honestly. Spencer nodded.

“Well, I’m not going to say I’m glad you were worried about me…but I’m glad you’re here.” You smiled. “And if you want to learn even more about what all of us do during hurricanes, you can always ask. You know I love to talk,” he grinned, cheeky. You playfully shoved him, the water splashing up as you did so. He lightly shoved you back, letting his touch linger. As he dropped his hand you threaded your fingers through his. Electric. It was almost as if the other day, Spencer letting you touch his scales, was some kind of breaking point. And now that you could touch, you couldn’t seem to stop. Not that he seemed to mind. He seemed to feel that same magnetism.

“You called me Spence,” he whispered, flexing adjusting his position so he could face you more fully. “Earlier, out in the storm. You called me Spence.” You started, suddenly all too self-aware.

“Yeah, it just kind of slipped out. Was that too much? I don’t know if you’re one for nicknames—"

“I liked it.”

“Oh.”

You watched the candlelight flicker, casting shadows that danced across Spencer’s face. You studied his expression, one of absolute sincerity. Like he’d tell you anything if you asked. Like he knew all the right words to say. Usually, you couldn’t say you felt the same. But right now? In your darkened bathroom at an ungodly hour in the middle of the night? You didn’t have to say anything else. You simply squeezed Spencer’s hand, and he smiled in return, his eyes crinkling in the process. You grinned just as wide.

“Alright,” You composed yourself as you pushed yourself up from the edge of the tub, reluctantly releasing his hand from yours. “I should probably get some sleep for however many hours are left in the night. Just yell if you need anything. My room is right down the hall,” you said as you started toward the door.

“Wait…”

You turned around, about to respond when Spencer stretched upwards and threw both of his arms around your neck, water splashing up and over the edge of the tub. You felt your towel scrunch up, your shirt dampen and begin to stick to your midsection, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You wrapped your arms around Spencer, equally as tight. Felt his fingers curl into your clothes, his chest rise and fall as he breathed. You tucked your head into shoulder as you hugged him back with just as much fervor, smelling that saltwater air mixed with something indescribably him. It was moments like these where you felt more connected than ever. Being with Spencer was like communing with the ocean itself. All its gentle, beautiful intensity. And sometimes, when everything lined up just right, you felt your own heartbeat sway in time to its rhythm, the timing of the waves, the direction of the currents. Right now, leaning over your bathtub with Spencer burrowing his face into your neck, vulnerable, you felt that interconnectedness. As much as you did that first time you touched. Or just earlier this week when he let you feel his scales. Everything now just as amplified. As though every ripple in this tub would echo out into the ocean. Every touch kicking up the waves tucked behind your ribs. It was exhilarating.

Spencer reluctantly let go, settling back into the tub, the water churning as he did so. You stood up straight, pulling on your top, chuckling lightly at the water that dripped down from it. You readjusted the towel around your shoulders and made your way toward the door, only looking back once in time to see Spencer already staring back at you, diving underneath the water once he’d been caught. Not even a hurricane could wipe the smile off your face at that moment. As you exited and gently shut the door behind you, Tara cleared her throat from the end of the hallway. You sighed.

“Okay, maybe you’re right,” you relented. Your eyes soft, trained on the bathroom door. “Maybe we are more than friends.”

Chapter Five coming on Saturday, August 13th

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[leiascully]

Fic:  Baseball Metaphors (15/15)

Part One  |  Part Two  |  Part Three |  Part Four |  Part Five |  Part Six|  Part Seven |  Part Eight |  Part Nine  |   Part Ten  |  Part Eleven  |  Part Twelve | Part Thirteen |  Part Fourteen

Thanks for sticking with me to the end of what, like Visitor, began as a one-shot and ended up a thirty thousand word journey.  It’s possible that this is the epilogue of Deathly Hallows of epilogues, and if that’s true for you, please feel free to ignore it and live forever with Mulder and Scully in the throes of some truly epic afterglow.  But I wanted to follow the thread a little further, and explore what their future might have been if this had been their present sometime in the middle of Season 3 (honestly, a terrible time to set it, given how many killer episodes and how much mytharc I ended up having to write out of their moderately peaceful life together).  I’m sorry to say that it’s safe for work, PG at most.

Jenny won't take elopement for an answer, so Scully relents and lets her help plan the reception.  Despite her dull taste in paint colors, Jenny turns out to have exquisite taste when it comes to planning weddings, and she and Scully talk flowers and place settings and the details of the reception dress for hours.  She coaxes out all of the details Scully never thought she cared about as Mulder watches, fascinated.  In another life Jenny would have made a great interrogator.  Maybe even in this one.  

They go to the wedding, of course.  The minister is boring and the vows are boilerplate.  Mulder slides his thumb smugly under the hem of Scully's dress.  She smiles like an angel and pulls him into the garden during the reception so that he can keep the promise his thumb made.  But they both cry, just a little.  It's not because of Ethan and Jenny, they swear to each other.  It's just the idea of weddings, of course.  It's the idea that they, one day soon, will be standing up in front of each other and saying their various versions of same old words that somehow still mean something every time.

Eventually, the baby is born, and their time with Ethan and Jenny peters out, except for Scully's occasional wedding planning dates.  She dandles the baby on her knee and discusses the merits of a veil versus a fascinator for the reception (the fascinator wins) while Jenny changes out the cabbage leaves in her nursing bra.  

They get married in her mother's living room.  Maggie isn't happy about the lack of a Catholic wedding necessarily, but she gives them her blessing as they join hands and promise themselves to each other, forever and ever.  At least the priest makes house calls, Mulder thinks.  They all sign the document afterwards and Scully's mother serves up cake and coffee.  It's all very civilized.  Scully glows in a dress she got from the department store.  Mulder touches the white rose pinned to the lapel of his new bespoke suit.  When everyone's plates are just crumbs and the cups are dregs, they hug Maggie and take their leave.  She presses a horseshoe and a bell into Mulder's hands.

"Melissa would have wanted you to have it," she says.  Scully cries.

That night in bed, they explore each other slowly, their hunger tempered now by months of indulgence.  He spends so long after his first orgasm coaxing gentle climaxes out of her that she reaches down and finds him firm again, and she slides her leg over his hip and takes him in.  They make love gazing into each other's eyes, as if each touch is part of a ritual that will keep them safe and whole and happy.

Only afterwards do they realize they forgot the condom.  

The train from DC to Portland, Maine takes twelve hours, give or take.  They spend most of it holding hands.  Scully pages through the issues of JAMA she's never managed to catch up on.  Mulder reads a treatise on alien behavior that someone sent him anonymously, sharing the most entertaining portions aloud with Scully.  

The B&B may or may not be haunted, but it's picturesque as hell.  They rent a car and drive into the woods and there it is, white clapboard and black gables spattered with wet leaves that the wind has pasted there.  The bed is deep and soft and they spend the weekend hiking, eating, drinking wine by the fireplace, and making love with no barriers between them, holding their hope cupped in their palms like a candle flame in a breeze.  

Scully doesn't get pregnant. It's just as well.  They keep going out on cases.  They dip in and out of the darkness of their own minds.  Krycek reappears, the bad penny forever turning up.  That's after the black oil, after the airport in Hong Kong.  

"I should have made him my best man," Mulder muses, when everything's over, because there's nothing to do but whistle in the dark.

"Frohike would have been a better choice," Scully demurs.  

At the reception, Byers gives a lovely toast and Frohike demands to dance with the bride.  Langly tries to DJ.  No one dances.  It's a small party, but Teena Mulder comes down.  She kisses Scully's cheek and presses a glass of wine into her hand.  "I said the seven blessings," she says.  "I always knew it would be you.  Fox will know what to do."  

He ducks his head.  "Thank you, Mom."

She reaches up and strokes his cheek.  "You're a good son, Fox.  I think you'll make a good husband."

"He is," Scully says fiercely.

Teena's eyes soften.  She nods.  They drink the wine and Mulder steps on the glass.  "Mazel tov," Teena says, and makes her excuses.

They don't tell anyone about the marriage, not even Skinner.  Scully wears her ring on the chain around her neck, next to her cross.  It seems safer that way.  They do move in together, quietly, submitting separate change of address forms weeks apart.  There's some kind of solace in coming to work in separate cars and opening the door of their new apartment to find the other one already waiting in a place that isn't filled with their own ghosts.  Mulder keeps his old place too; it's a convenient place to meet up with his informants.  

They fake his death there one day, when Scully is dying of cancer and Mulder is at the end of his rope.  He comes back from the land of the lost with a chip for the back of her neck.  Bill steps in front of him, a snarl on his face, but Maggie lays a hand on her son's arm.

"That's her husband," she says calmly, and weathers the hurricane of Bill's fury and confusion while Mulder coaxes Scully to sit up, kissing her dry cheek and whispering to her about miracles.  She has the little bottle in one hand and her rosary in the other.  

"You can't let go," he says.  "I know I said 'til death do us part, but Scully, that can't be now."  He kneels at her bedside and sobs against her thigh while she strokes his hair.  

"I'll do it," she says, and he can hear that there isn't really hope in her voice, but she wants to spare him the agony of never having tried.  

She gets better.  They go to the doctor to discuss the ova from the facility Mulder found.  The specialist thinks there's hope.  It takes a few months, but eventually the test comes back positive.  "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Scully," the specialist says, and neither of them correct her.  The conspiracy they've been unraveling may be so much lint and chaff, but this is real.  They put their hands together on her belly.

When they find Emily, the adoption agency is only too happy to let them fill out the paperwork.  A nice young married couple, steady jobs, maybe a little on the dangerous side, but at least they've got good insurance and a government pension, right?  And it can't be so risky, if Agent Scully is pregnant and still going in to the office.  They have to tell Skinner after that.  He doesn't look particularly surprised. They fly their daughter across the country and settle, dazed and dazzled, into some kind of routine.

At least their new place has a bedroom for her, and one for the baby on the way.  They burn through a lot of their sick days, but Emily begins to grow and thrive and Scully's belly rounds.  Mulder helps her with her reading at night; Scully coaxes her through math.  It works.  They're a family.   When they bring home little William, Emily is delighted.  

Cassandra Spender disappears from a bridge in Pennsylvania.  Her son batters down the door to the basement, but they don't know much more than he does.  Scully was home with Emily when the itching began, not in her neck but in her brain, but it was bathtime for Emily, and there were stories to be read, and then Mulder to hold her in the dark, and she never left DC.  

Diana Fowley strides back into their lives, bearing news of a psychic child.  She studies the ring on Scully's hand (no point in secrets anymore) and their family photos on the desk.  "Congratulations," she says in a deliberately even voice.  The door closes behind her with a click.  She doesn't come back.

They go to Texas while Maggie watches the kids.  Somehow they end up in Antarctica, but somehow they get back with all their fingers and toes and a few more insights into the vast global conspiracy that used to be the lodestar of their lives.  They lose the X-Files for a little while, but they have other things that are important, like where Emily's other shoe is and whether there are any clean bottles to store breastmilk in and why Mulder's mother sends such expensive presents.

(Scully never goes to Africa.  Mulder never goes to Oregon.  Despite it all, they have their health and strength.)

They're happy.  They still argue.  One Christmas Eve, Mulder convinces Scully to leave the kids at her mother's and takes her ghosthunting for old time's sake.  One strange day through a series of strange coincidences, Scully meets her ex at a hospital.

"All the choices we've made," she says later, blurry after a glass of wine, "they've all led to this moment."

"I'd make the same ones," he says.  

"Me too," she says, taking his hand.  "You know, the kids are in bed."

"Are you propositioning me, Agent Scully?" he asks, mocking outrage.

"It's my turn," she says, and leads him into their bedroom, and he thinks they just might live happily ever after after all.

[thedepthsremember]

TRR 3.20 "A Warm Reception" what does that mean. does that mean FIRE i am on edge

I'm expecting it to go all nice and heartwarming, and then Anton shows up at the end. We shall see.

Officially longer than any other TRR book! We’re in uncharted territory now!

From what I saw from my roommate’s Liam playthrough, a lot of the carriage dialogue is mostly the same no matter who’s there, but, I do like this as a callback to awesome-storm Maxwell-Riley from the Homecoming ball, or Duke Whirlwind Dancemaster-Deluxe. With Maxwell, everyone keeps emphasizing how our lives together will be full of adventure and never be boring. ♥

You fools, take this chance to make out in the carriage! No! F O O L S 

Oh. Hello Ana! She’s got a new dress for us, of course. 

... Mehhhhh sorry not into that plasticy cutout look. Why do they keep doing that, it doesn't look like fabric. Sorry Ana, I’m gonna stick with what I've got. 

Maxwell says it doesn’t matter what Riley’s wearing, he and everyone else won’t be able to keep his eyes off her. :’) ♥ bro

Ana, a true friend (despite how I keep tossing out all her hard work) leaves us alone in the boutique. 

We are a storm... a hurricane… a mega punching robot... of love

sweet nervous boy. Riley literally said “I do” (well, ‘hell yeah’ in my case) and he’s still can’t help doubting a little. 

now makeouts?? nope, Madeline. Girl you are about to get stabbed. ANA, WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP HER, I’M SORRY, I’LL WEAR THE DAMN DRESS

(If we keep trying and then getting interrupted, only to finally succeed I will actually love that.)

Oooooo the reception hall is so pretty! Damn, they have really been outdoing themselves with the art lately. First the cathedral, now this. *__*

People coming up to tell us how we made them cry out our vows! Yessss tell us all about your tears! Our love is powerful, baby.

Took no screenshots of Hana’s parents so I can ignore that they came. 

NEVILLE?! WHAT THE F. RASHAD, DID YOU BRING HIM. DUDE. YOUR FRIEND IS SHITTY AND NO ONE LIKES HIM, STOP BRINGING HIM PLACES. 

You know, at the beginning of the tour we heard Neville wasn't even planning on coming to the wedding so I guess that's........ ssssomethingg..g..........…

like maybe he’ll get shot this time. aim better, assassins 

Anyway, better people now! Hello friends! 

Hana says we were like a fairytale! Even Drake is getting poetic. Liam sees how much we love each other. Maxwell has won the wife lottery. Excellent, so much love here. 

LMAO....... SAVANNAH EYEING BERTRAND LIKE, HUH.... MARRIAGE..... HOW BOUT..... THAT...…. :|

Me and Maxwell, poster children for impulsivity: YEAH, JUST DO IT JUST JUMP INTO MARRIAGE IT'S GREAT

Bertrand : *SWEATS BUCKETS* 

Hgnngggg I would stab a man for that wedding food right now. I picked Drake’s beef pork stew and oh my god...……. How do they always make it sound so good??? 

[pause to google feijoada recipe]

Time for toasts! Maxwell’s...….. awwww. ;___; 

He starts it as a Once Upon A Time story of how Riley was whisked away to love a prince, but her happy ending was swapped when she fell for the court jester instead. 

(Flashing back to the apple festival and Maxwell being excited to be jester. Good times.) 

My heart is bursting. I love our story too T_T 

Andddd he just blurts out about the hippo tattoo to everyone and covers it up with an awkward metaphor. That's a deeply Maxwell moment and I love it. ♥ 

Omg. Might regret it but I desperately want to hear Olivia's idea of a wedding toast.

EXCUSE YOU MADELINE, SCHEDULE SMEDULE. THE BRIDE DEMANDS TO HEAR EVERYONE RAPTURE ABOUT OUR LOVE

Olivia:  So soon after I met Riley I was like "I hate that bitch" Riley: a-awwww....thanks...…… 

I'M DEAD "LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT" I WON OLIVIA’S RESPECT! :’D BEST DAY EVERRR

I mean we also got married but like. you get it. 

“As we say in Lythikos, you’re still alive, so drink!” never change. 

Liam: Aww...…. He tries but falls back on being super formal, referring to me as "Cordonia’s newest dutchess” and me “being a friend to Cordonia and [him]”

It's ok buddy, sneak out whenever you're ready. Hana and Drake can cover for you.

Hana: Hana wins the toast both for having the most insightful things to say, and also being LITERALLY THE ONLY ONE (besides Bertrand) TO TALK ABOUT MAXWELL. She also made me cry, so like, triple points. 😢 😭 I love her so muuuuch.

Drake: “I knew you were trouble when you walked innnn~” 

Those were some real nice things you said about me but YOU ARE THE BEST MAN. 

I know I'm great and we're all in love with me, but come on. 

Alright here’s Bertrand, he’s gotta talk about Maxwell. 

new big bro you will be NICE to your BROTHER or I STG

starting out rocky what with the “wow Maxwell made like so many mistakes” business. let him rest, it’s his day, good lord 

*snaps fingers in front of his face* BABS, FOCUS

OH. OH OKAY. HE TURNED IT AROUND. HE SAID HE LOVES HIS BROTHER IN FRONT OF EVERYONE. THE DANCING COMMENT AND EVERYTHING AND HE ADMITTED MAXWELL DOESN'T NEED TO GROW UP. I'M. OVERWHELMED. 

In which I will take any choice that turns Riley into a woo girl. And Kiara’s family continues to be my favorite. They’re coming over to Valtoria Revanasi all the time. 

After all that, my toast was … whelming. I did get my vows already, so I guess it’s whatever. 

First dance time! Aww this track is giving me HSS prom flashbacks. Michael I hope you're happy out there.

Apparently Maxwell picked the song, which can only mean he is a secret HSS fan. 

“Partners” is such a lovely title for these two. I've always loved the term, you're partners in crime, partners for life, but they're also dance partners.  

Number of times Maxwell has done the dip kiss: 4. This boy SMOOTH AS HECK. 

Bertrand is scandalized by our nonsense but Drake understands they should take what they can get.

(where are my boy’s damn jello shots) 

..... I think I just married Emperor Kuzco. 

Maxwell challenges Drake to a dance off, and holy shit Drake can dance. Or at least spin kick. I'm still fairly certain he has no sense of rhythm. 

....Drake did not dispute the best friend comment and I'm counting that as a win for Maxwell. 

time. for. CAKE????! 

Real life me is a little sad I don’t have cake. I do have fancy rice crispies from my friend’s coworker’s wedding. It’s no passionfruit cake tho :’( 

(they successfully distracted me from wait where’s Olivia with cake. How dare you take advantage of my short attention span.)

Maxwell and Riley have matching swords. I might cry. That's the best.

..... Incredibly tempting to fuck up and cut the table. But OUR CAKE ok doing this right. 

WHOA Bastien hello, where'd you come from.

Aww Madeline has pleased her goblin father.

Maxwell is so happy about the Cheetah cake SUCCESSSSSS [sneakily high fives Gladys]

[I hope Gladys gets cake. At least 3 slices for Gladys.]

Ooooh so Savannah and Drake's mom still came! She’s off taking care of Bertie. Bring forth the Walker matriarch, I wish to meet her. [ spoilers: we do not :( ]

Uh oh Savannah is pissed and I bet I know why~

Bertrand's only just noticed oh dear.

Savannahhhhhh pleeassssse. These two need to work on commutation so bad. I TOLD YOU TO BE DIRECT WITH THIS DUMBASS. YOU'RE STILL HINTING. 

Bride awkwardly hovers outside her own reception trying to get her fool friends to communicate AGAIN.

Like I'm pretty patient and Bertrand is family but oh my god I can't be there for everything

Riley is tired too, bless her. We could totally have snuck off with Maxwell at this point but no, here we are. 

Ok Riley's prize for taking the diamond option to help Bertrand one more time is that she gets to cause shenanigans. You know my girl loves a good shenanigan! 

Oh my god are we getting the band back together YESSSSS

Stop one: Drake. He knows Riley by this point and senses shenanigans a mile away. 

Drake: You don't need my permission, Savannah’s her own woman and all that.  Bertrand: But I'd like it. Drake: ok then FUCK NO. Bertrand: :’O

Bertrand making the shocked face is always funny. Same with his mad face. Really just Bertrand emoting = comedy gold.  

Drake fully won Maxwell's respect with the breakdancing, and he's won Riley's by realizing he has the power to make Bertrand do whatever he wants right now. 

Drake immediately regrets his abuse of power. Aaahaha ok, ease into it.

Somehow we talked Drake into singing. I'm just saying, this would have been so much easier with him last, when peer pressure was on the table.

Maxwell has been waiting for a moment like this moment his entire life, he'd pay to be part of this.

Liam would both do anything I asked and is always down for bromance time.

There is an option to panic and throw the bouquet at Neville. I have to try that at least once. But later. 

Man Riley should have demanded the boys reunite their quartet anyway. BEST WEDDING PRESENT EVERRRRR (after all their other gifts because those were actually really sweet)

Savannah: holy crap you're smiling  Bertrand: Well you make me happy so fukkin get used to it 

^Those are totally direct quotes. 

While I’m making other people happy - TIME FOR GIFTS! 

The book for Liam is a nice follow up to all his talk about how he wants to bring Cordonia peace. You’ve got faith that he can achieve his dreams! Aww.

Everyone else does surprised sprites but Drake is wary as ever. Smart dude.

Hana's gift............... Ok yeah let’s just...… move along. sigh. 

At least Riley succeeded through the roof with Maxwell’s gift, he was about to pass out with all the layers this gift has. Aww, that was so worth it. 

Honestly these were all kind of short. Meh. Maxwell’s was worth it, Liam’s was a nice second. 

Finally can we sneak off--??

MADELINE.............. I WILL STAB YOU WITH MAXWELL’S FANCY ACTION FIGURE, DON'T THINK I WON'T 

Time to see other friends! We go to Kiara first, which is good. I continue to be proud of her forever. 

Penelope is me at every party. Where are the dogs. I can people watch just fine next to the dogs.

HOOOOLY SHIT

DANIEL

D A N I E L

DANIEL IS HERE, TAKING SHOTS WITH LEO

What do you know :D I have friends! Well. One friend. And no family. They’re really determined to leave that open, huh. You know, I’m okay with it. 

Daniel, I admire your thrift, especially considering what it must have cost to come here on a waiter’s salary, but someone is definitely going to think you're here to serve food.

..... Whelp that came true immediately. Hey Regina. 

Leo goes off with him. I guess they're bros now! 

or .... well. I've seen the posts going around. Make this a trip to remember, Leo! ;) 

Awwww nice moment with Regina. Look how far we’ve come!  I've always liked her. She's a practical lady. 

GLADYS

GLADYS IS HERE TO LET US GET ALONE TIME, FINALLY. BLESS YOU GLADYS, I COULD KISS YOU but that’s for Maxwell 

Wait...... I'm getting suspicious. We're just. wandering away......… mmm :|

oh noOOOOOOOOOOooo--[all goes dark]

Aw mannnnnnnn Gladys D: Riley is never trusting anyone in this broke-ass country again. Remember how we kept talking about how in New York you can trust people to be upfront with their intentions???? 

[throws Daniel and Hana into a suitcase] COME ON MAXWELL, WE’RE MOVING BACK TO NEW YORK. 

IS THAT SOMEONE ANTON, GLADYS

:’((((((((((((

I’m so sad, I liked her. I hope we can still win her back to our side. She seemed so surprised every time we treated her decently, I think there’s a chance. She probably got into this plot before she got to know us. 

Things we know: 

Liam is the only LI who doesn’t meet you in the hedge maze if you’re his LI. On the one hand, getting the king to sneak out is a whole nother level, but also he’s likely to have a big part in next week’s plot. 

The poor guy is also still definitely in love with you, even if you softened the blow with the closure option. And he’s especially taking it hard if you’re with Drake. We’ll see how those things go together. 

Olivia disappeared! Before cake. For their plot to work, they still need her around to make her queen. She’s loyal to Liam no matter what, but I’m still holding out hope that befriending her or not is going to play a part whether that loyalty extends completely to you. 

She was also our strongest defense, what with all her knives and proclivity for stabbing. So Olivia is likely to be okay, but who knows if they will be. 

Do they have our friends? We didn’t see them after gifts. concern.

what do you think? 2 more chapters? Wrap up evil plots and then have good things, hopefully? or just keep adding chapters and then it doesn’t have to end hahaaaa 

[kanrakixystix]

In Focus | Promptis Week | Day 1

@promptisfanweek

Yes, I realize I’m a week late to the party but hurricanes and stuff happen so here I am making up for lost time. I can’t NOT write about my boys, after all! 

Day 1: Realization - The Moment They Knew it Was Love // Ten Years Later Rated: T for kisses Word Count: 1,207 Summary: Noctis wasn’t sure he could pinpoint exactly when it happened, but it was as natural as falling over.  Bonus: Inspiration Track

Read on AO3

From the moment he felt the soft jolt of a hand pressed on his back and was reintroduced to the dazzling smile that belonged solely to the shy blond with glasses, Noctis knew his life would never be the same. Back then, he felt hopeful, as though the answer to a silent, desperate plea for someone to save him from closing in on himself had been placed before him.

Prompto was exactly what he had been looking for. He was the friend that stayed up late eating junk food with him while they took turns switching between grinding their characters and reading the strategy guide. He was the one that Noctis called when he needed to get out of his apartment and wanted company in the middle of the night. He was the idiot that stuck by him and didn’t tease him when his eyes lit up at the sight of fireflies in the park during the summer.

Before long, his days ran together. Every second spent with Prompto, laughing, being lazy, and simply being beside him was a metaphorical drop of sunshine into his steadily filling jar of glass. Too many nights had passed where Noctis lie awake, staring at the stars out his window, wondering if Prompto’s jar was slowly filling with stars, and he cursed at himself for thinking about his best friend the way waxing poets thought about lovers. He tossed and turned, sleep avoiding him as much as it could. When Noctis did sleep, however, his dreams were alight with Prompto’s smile, and they would laugh before pressing their lips together. Come morning, Noctis could still feel the tingle left behind, and his fingers shook as he touched them gently.

-

“Noct!”

Noctis looked up from his homework, twirling his pen as his eyes locked with Prompto’s. The blond had a knack for being unfathomably adorable without trying. Now, as he pushed his bangs from his face and grinned at him, cheeks naturally flush, was no exception. Noctis smiled in kind.

“You’re awfully chipper. What’s up?”

Prompto’s voice hitched a little as he laughed, and Noctis was certain there was something particularly dreamy about him today. He blinked, tapping the pen on his knee as he waited for an answer.

“You’re not doing anything after school today, right?” He started, and Noctis definitely noticed the tips of Prompto’s ears turn darker as he continued. “I mean, you don’t have any royal duties to attend to or anything?”

The prince smiled wider and leaned closer. Part of him had expected Prompto to panic and pull away, but he remained motionless, like if he moved he would lose the confidence to spit out what he really wanted to know. Stilling the pen, Noctis bent his knee and propped his chin on it, staring at him suspiciously.

“I’m free tonight,” he replied carefully, and Prompto nodded.

“So, you wouldn’t mind coming to the park with me tonight? I wanna try out some of the setting on my camera, and just haven’t had the time to.”

Noctis shrugged.

“Yeah. I could use a night out.”

-

Autumn in Insomnia was when Noctis felt most at peace. He didn’t consider himself an aesthetic person, but any excuse to wear a flannel shirt over a t-shirt and some ripped, faded jeans…well, he was down for that. Stylishly casual. Prompto, on the other hand, settled for a striped hoodie and skinny jeans, a look that Noctis had to admit looked rather dashing on him. He tried not to stare, honestly, and he magically kept finding the rocks on the pavement nothing short of fascinating as his friend stopped every few feet to get a different shot with his camera.

Noctis didn’t mind at all, actually. Between the sound of acoustic guitars playing by the fountain, street vendors selling all kinds of delicious food, and the chill breeze dancing along the leaves of the trees, he was rather smitten. Add to it the cute blond that was lying on the ground to get the perfect angle of the sunset along the skyline, and Noctis was willing to bet that this was some kind of self-made heaven, and he was really still asleep in class.

“Hey, watch out!” Noctis barely had time to register the warning before he leapt out of the way of a cyclist who narrowly dodged Prompto was he pedaled around him.

Okay, so maybe Heaven wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Huffing, Noctis ran a hand through his hair and glanced down at the blond.

“Aren’t you done?”

“Just…about…” Noctis heard the quiet response, followed by a quick succession of the camera’s shutter. Rolling his eyes, he stood over him, legs straddling either side of his knees.

“Come on, Blondie. I don’t want to explain to your parents that I had to take you to the emergency room because some idiot on a bike ran you over,” he chuckled, and offered Prompto a hand just as the camera went off again. He had expected Prompto to take his hand then, but instead he watched as Prompto’s eyes stared at the back of the camera.

“Whoa. Damn.”

“What now?” Noctis sighed, still holding his hand out.

“This is a really nice shot, Noct.” His voice was slow, as though he had taken his own breath away. Intrigued, Noctis gave up on trying to hoist him up from the ground, and instead kneeled on top of him. As Prompto sat up, they came nose-to-nose with one another, and the chill from the autumn air did nothing to quell the heat that rose on the prince’s cheeks.

“Look,” was all Prompto said, and he shoved the camera in his face.

…it was more than a really nice shot. Multi-colored leaves fluttered against a purple and gold sunset in the background while Noctis, perfectly in the frame, smiled down into the camera. There was a rosy tint to his cheeks from the wind, and an otherworldly glow surrounded him as the sun dipped beneath the horizon.

“It’s perfect,” he muttered, and he batted his lashes, smiling as he admired Prompto’s work. He really had an eye for this sort of thing. Maybe he could seriously talk him into going to that fancy art school they had talked about once or twice.

“You really are.”

Noctis’s head shot up, eyes wide. The world seemed to stand still around them, everything falling silent in favor of the sound of his heart beating rampantly against his ribcage. Despite the sunlight fading into night, all Noctis could see was sunshine as that metaphorical glass jar overflowed, spilling light and warmth across his entire body.

He thought, as he cupped Prompto’s cheeks, that he would look back on this moment of realization and laugh, because it was just like any other day. There was no special occasion, no deep talks professing their undying love, nothing cliché like the movies. They were just Noctis and Prompto, best friends falling in love. They smiled as they kissed, slow and tender, and giggled at themselves when they went in for another, firmer kiss immediately after.

“I think I’m going to keep this one,” Prompto declared after a moment, and Noctis laughed.

“I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

[sonofhistory]

Someone asked me to describe home,

        Alexander Hamilton once had a home. Alexander once had a home in another’s arms. He once had a home on the right side of a cot in an icy cabin amidst a war. He once had a home with his lover’s soft breath on the back of his neck, careful wrists around his stomach for discreet touches. For a four year period of time, Alexander Hamilton had a home in a man with a three syllable name and a fire branded into his spirit. In a way, he wished he could forget the months of suffering he’d endured at Valley Forge. A playful youth, wisps of auburn red hair curling out from beneath his braid, his lover threading their gentle fingers through the strands and soothing his aching soul.

        As a child, he concluded that his home was with his family. His father left, his mother passed and that glowing light that seeped from the end of the tunnel grew brighter- beckoning him, even as he was separated from his older brother James. Alexander Hamilton not once had a home. Even Eliza’s comforting arms around his shoulder, her sugary sweet voice in his ear- begging him to bed. For that moment, those arms were his and he’d lean his head back to capture the taste of his cracked and dying lips to repay for not giving him a last. But they were never his, and instead Eliza’s creamy pressures took his place.

          Eliza was a goddess wrapped in a mortal's body, and his past beau was the earth- holding down his feet in iron fists. But Eliza was only in his cage and every petty little thing led back to his man. In the spaces of his brain he recollected when her hands slid across his shoulders- taking the place of his touches and his silent glances. Eliza was not him. Eliza would never be him. Her large dark doe optics glancing up at him as if he guarded the world in his palm with reliance- her gaze could never restore his. His were so glittering, his were so pure. When Alexander studied the tides reverberate around the harbor, in those crashing waves of marine and silver- Alexander saw his scrutiny. He was forced to stumble away as tears began to brim the rims of his lids.

        There was naught Alexander craved more in the world to have to peer up into his lovers visage because they were much taller than he was, he dreamed of calloused hands across the rip of his chest and yearned for the thrill of indecency. More than twice Alexander would slap a hand across his infatuates mouth, teasing a finger of silence across the line of his lips. Because Eliza was so sweet, and there was not anything of deprivation or desire or lust in their relationship. It was the idea that Alexander needed him, and they demanded him too. There was not one being in the galaxy that had made Alexander so complete- in his benevolence and the caverns of his soul- an empty place. It was replaced when his lover caught his wrist one night and twisted him up into a gut wrenching kiss. No alcohol brewing on either tongues or disgust written in.

        The tips of Alexander’s fingers turning frost bitten next to the fading fire, his lover’s boiling breath cupping his appendages and padding his fingertips across the wrap and cravat of his neck- untying it and tossing it aside before digging into the dip of his breeches. Heavy breathing and for the second- they weren’t so cold anymore. They could forget about the blood underneath their fingertips, they could forget about the growl in the pit of their stomach, they could forget anything but each other.

         Because for four years, Alexander Hamilton found home in a man named John Laurens.

         But, John Laurens was gone.

         And Alexander, was still here.

And I started talking about your hair color

         It was just light brown. But there was not a single “just” about it. It was John’s and John’s only. Lots of people had muddy hair- but nobody had hair like John. John Laurens had hair that Alexander lay and twisted his fingers in it all night. Threading and re ringleting again the strands into to separate organizations and paths. Alexander could never sleep, too involved in beaming at the way that John’s chest hovered every few seconds before lowering and steadily inhaling in again. A miniature circle of life happening right before his sight.

          Alexander chose to not fall asleep. In the chance that was too exhausted and was forced to shut his eyes- he always woke up with screams reverberating out of his throat. John would pin his shoulder down and force him awake as he flailed around wildly throwing fists, punches to the air. He’d sob resonantly, tears glistening his eyes and trailing silhouettes down his cheeks, John wouldn’t speak in this episode and would wrap his arms around his torso, humming comfortingly in his ear till he had fallen asleep again. Alexander ripped on his hair, a vigorous detail and marking embrace. In the morning they’d both wake, and when John winced while slipping his uniform over his arms- Alexander noticed the scratch marks he’d made in his frenzy.

         Maybe there was the perfect, almost mesmerizing way that his hair strung in front of his eyes. Like thicket of vines and ivy pines. It was never tucked behind his ears- classic as a required braid twisted down his spine. At the end of the day, Alexander tugged the crimson ribbon from John’s hair, hypnotized by the way it cascaded down his spine and flatten against his collarbone. When his shirt was slung to the ground, Alexander tamely pressed his fingertips against the line of purple bruises crescendoing across his neck like a string of amethyst pearls.

         Not ever a hair out of place, and they wavered in the wind, catching and flowing down his rear majestically. John Laurens’s hair was his roof, the topping foundation to the brigade. For John didn’t mind when Alexander caressed his bloody fingers through his scalp or used his cracked fingernails to brush the flowing shower. Alexander would narrow his focus through the somber of his New York bedroom, vigilant up with guided hope in his chest on the occasion that he would find Eliza fast asleep at his right side. For a glimmer of dependence, he thought it was John. But John’s hair wasn’t so dark, and Eliza’s didn’t gleam in the candlelight like John’s did. It was then he’d realize,

         John Laurens was gone,

        And Alexander was still here.

And the sound of your voice,

        John’s voice was a metaphor. Honey melting and stirring into a temperate cup of tea- he can’t see nectar with John. His voice was a waterfall, flowing in his ears. Miracles only happen in fairy tales, to Alexander- John was a fairy tale written perfectly for himself. A miracle in his creation. On the dusks he’d spring awake from his nightmares, the water filling his lungs from the hurricane or John’s fallen body in his arms he’d arose to John’s biceps around his waist, his head curled flawlessly into the L shape of his neck. His lover’s pleasant hum echoing in the war shell of his ear. The notes of the song meeting together like such stainless, melodic, puzzle pieces. John’s voice was Alexander’s song.

         He’d never consign to oblivion John’s rugged stubble on the back of his neck, or the calmly gasp on his cheek. Alexander always reminisced what they talked about on those bitter windy gloom, with frost slicking the windows. Alexander just listened to the sound of his speech, and in turn listened to his lover listening to him. It was the sound of his harmony that didn't go right through him, stuffing up his lungs and dragging him down to drown. John’s vocals caused him to float, and the pearling sea of navy swirls captured beneath his feet.

         His voice made him soar, piercing through the sky, senses heightened high, grating at his skin, for every little word, scraping down like sin, liquor on his tongue, bottle from within. The only music Alexander willed to hear was John’s in his ear, whispering how much he loved him. For Alexander, every rhyme looks the alike, but does not sound the same, every, “hello” that he spoke choraled like, “Come here”. Intimacy coloring his lyrics, taking all his words- Alexander would string them in the heavens.

         They deserved that.

And the taste of your lips,

        John tasted like melted gold. When Alexander tasted his lips, the collided stars bursted in his cranium, allowing him to see all the tincture he’d never seen- John was not just one shade, he was every last one. Their consolidation was like liquor and the separation, an after wash of burning rough liquor resting on his tongue. The needy sensation of craving to relish John Laurens’s rough, flaking lips on his own. In the cracks of his skin, Alexander could lick the blood and the biting. He’d catch John teething at the inner flesh of his cheek in a irritable bought. His lover would trace his touch across the tips of Alexander’s nails in contrast to own terrifying habits.

            “Now, what made you bite them this time, Alex?”.

          He’d never answer and chose simply. Falling in love with the way their hands felt intertwined together. When Alexander tasted his lips, he realized how much he’d been starving. Deprivation waving the pitting catacomb of his abdomen. He got John’s appetite in his jaw and Alexander dismissed that he was starving or that the moldy bread he’d ingested the day before simply hadn’t been enough. John satisfied his lust, John fed his soul.

         John tasted like satisfaction, pressed into a wine and as it passed his lips- he was impossible to resist. Alexander tasted the passion in colors shining bright, Alexander sensed the panic hidden beneath his eyes, Alexander tasted lust, written idols in the sky. It was magical how John put his anxieties to rest, in the flickering flame of the candle translucent in the night, he dove into his eyes, starved all of his fears and tasted all his dreams he kept coiled beneath his bones.

        Because after just one taste of his love, Alexander realized that he had been deprived his entire life.

how your eyes seem on my back,

         There was not just one location. Alexander Hamilton found references and subtle innuendos to everything John Laurens without even searching. John’s were a brilliant teal, inside he found ice from snowy mountains and elevations so steep, he saw castles building in the sky, sloshing salty sea waves crashing and rolling in, gentle tender tides. Every royal he saw was John Laurens’s eyes and every sunset in the heavens was flame to the fire of his regret.

          He should of stayed and fought, instead of cowered away in fright.

          He should've been by his side when he died.

          He should've made sure that the last things those beautiful blue eyes saw were his own gleaming down in resurrection.

           He should of touched his hand to his lovers cheek and kissed him goodbye.

         But he did not.

         And Alexander Hamilton would never know that last thing that John Laurens’s eyes ever saw.

         What was the last thing his wandered brain thought as he riveted up at the sky?

        He was desperate to justify John Laurens’s eyes, but to reveal his eyes you had to resolve the man himself. Because hidden behind his eyes, there was a man. A man more than his physical capabilities. To Alexander, John Laurens was more than just a man. Alexander constructed words for John when he had none, and John discovered the colors, when Alexander’s eyes blinded him. In the waves sloshing in his optics, Alexander slipped beneath the waves and was lost.

          Could he never be found?

           Alexander died the day that John Laurens passed, for he was still stuck in John’s eyes- and those were shut fast. His beautiful gaze tended a break from the wondrous sight of love. He marked into his eyes and saw starry moonless nights, and knew that he was home. His eyes weren't just blue, Alexander studied them- sometimes they chuckled, and sometimes they cried, but they always had power to console what was right. He saw every hue of life, a hint of his demise.

         Because everything would kill him, cigars on a smoking night, or alcohol sipping dew- they’ll all kill him in the end. Alexander chose the boy with the blue eyes- and together their spirits both died. Alexander didn’t need a milky sky on a sunny day- John Lauren’s eyes were the heavens and his mind was the center. At the end of the day, it never mattered because the sea and the sky both envied his eyes. Generous as he was, John would give one eye to the sea, and another to the sky- to make Alexander’s world more beautiful to live.

         Alexander sometimes regretted falling for the boy with the baby blue eyes.

         Only because he worried one day he’d forget, what it felt like to breathe underwater.

And how your skin feels like,

        The smooth skin of John’s back were a marble track that Alexander’s fingers danced upon. There were no creases or wrinkles on his skin, no messy freckles dotting the surface. His body was clear except for the symmetrical scars on both of his forearms and shoulder, one two inches above his heart. Sometimes the immigrant would turn over on the cot, and John would kiss his shoulder blades- and for that split second, the weight of the world was lifted.

        He’d trace a line connecting the two scars into a life line of fate and protection. It snapped when John was shot three times. Alexander was told he was found on his back, his pupils glaring straight up the silver lining in the clouds- that’s where he was now. Could he fly there? Alexander always envisioned their bare exterior fondling again in front of a fire on the cool stone base- he’d follow more lines from his fingertips to collect three more bullet scars in his nails.

         But Alexander never saw John Laurens again. So how could he collect his scars when there was no where to gather them from?

        John traced poetry in the freckles scattered across his nose- he not once read them out loud and somehow Alexander knew what they were about. He laid his head on top of his chest and listened to the ocean, like a tiny child with a sea shell to their ear. If Alexander recognized his younger self on a desolate island in the Caribbean, would he warn him about the boy with ocean eyes and marble skin? Or would even that not be able to discontinue himself from loving something to true.

         Because poetry was when his perception ceased thought and just felt.

        Alexander longed to learn the lyrics of his life, memorize each line so he could sing the most handsome song- both of their hearts entwined. There was inferno they both shared, sifting, flickering high- but when half the fire revolved to smoke- Alexander got burned. His skin charred and flaking, maybe he’d blow away into the shine.

          With John Laurens, Alexander danced beneath the stars, drinking it the night. He’d trace his fingertips along the curves, waxing and waning across his chest- ribs and collarbones collide. With John Laurens, he always found the north star in the man of marble stardust skin.

Until I realized,

         For four years, Alexander Hamilton had a home. He had a place, and had a purpose and he had a castle they had both built. Alexander found his home in a man named John Laurens. Only when he met him did he realize that his home set course for disaster, tumbling down to earth. In his haven, there was a man with honey colored hair, voice like a metaphor, who tasted of sweet wine, his eyes were like a sea of stars and was made of marble skin. John always told him he was a boy with glistening sand, skin. Some may say Alexander didn’t find a home, for perhaps he just found love. Because you cannot make homes out of humans, life isn’t a fire to keep you warm, arms are not walls to protect you.

         Lies. Alexander Hamilton will whisper proud and true. Because in a body beneath the soil, you’ll find Alexander Hamilton’s soul wrapped in a gorgeous satin ribbon in the space where a man's modest eyes once lived. How could he not have a sanctuary, when he was buried with him? A heart of gold stopped beating, two glistening optics laid to rest, god broke his heart to prove that he only takes the best.

        Alexander Hamilton once had a home.

         Alexander found a home in the boy with blue eyes.

They had expected to hear a place.

[violetbeachpod]

transcript: 11 - honeymoon phase

listen here

ROBIN:

Hey, everybody, uh. Robin here. Back at it again! Woo!

So. Personal updates. I got married. You were there, it was great, I have a wife now, it’s cool, it’s good. Uh. The cat is okay! He hurt his leg but he’s got a little cast, which is—very cute. It’s very cute and good and I want all of you to acknowledge that. I was away for a little bit, we went up to my dads’ place in Maine for the honeymoon, for, uh, isolation and distance from the weirder stuff in life, and what have you, so I haven’t actually listened to any of you folks’ tapes, except for, uh, Mae’s and Teresa’s? Sorry. Probably should’ve, uh. Done that. But I’m trying to maintain this good mood, and, uh, don’t wanna bum myself out. Not that you guys bum me out—you are. So wonderful. I care about you, I worry about you, but, uh. This whole—thing is scary as hell. Were that not clear.

But, I mean, I have updates. I don’t want to share them, because if my recollection is right, this is usually about when the happy lesbian starts dying, and, uh—that’s because of, like media traditions from the olden times, but, look, I don’t want to risk anything.  I’m sharing because I feel obligated to. So. Hi. It’s me.

This is our calm before the storm, I think. Which shouldn’t feel as comforting as it does--it is the security of a basement right before a hurricane. Before, see, because your basement doesn’t feel safe during the storm itself. It feels like you’re gonna die, you’re gonna die, you’re gonna die and flood and--

But beforehand, you’re going over every single disaster movie you’ve ever seen, every safety PSA from when you were a kid, and you feel secure. And there’s something to be said about the contrast of comfort and fear; that even the slightest illusion of comfort is bliss in comparison to terror.

But, look. Listen. Metaphors and similes aside, something is about to happen. We all know this. We’re seeing a dip down in Weird Shit T-M, but we’re on edge for a reason.

And I know this, because I got a message yesterday. An email. Not from—none of you would pull this, basically. I got an email, and the address was—blurred out. Like, I hovered and everything, and I just—couldn’t read it.

And it just said, uh. It literally said SOMETHING’S COMING, in all caps. I don’t know why it got sent to me, or anything, but, uh. That sort of proves that something is coming, right? Because, uh, it’s right there. All caps, bolded, italicized, underlined. Not struck through, so, bam, that—

Also, the text is in red, and there’s one of those email platform exclusive emojis of a sun wearing sunglasses. So. Summer? Is when things are coming? Maybe? Who’s to say.

It’s, what, April—twenty-second? Yeah. That’s today. April twenty-second, one-oh-seven PM. So. Summer starts on June twenty-something-th. The twenty-first? Or. Second. Whichever. So I think, like, that’s when it’s gonna hit the fan. Solstices, and all. They’re important. Symbolically, temporally, and hey, if we’re not judging things symbolically and temporally first, what have we been doing in these last five months?

Do people still say that? Shit hits the fan? I haven’t heard it in years, but, uh, I’m not really good at paying attention to that sort of thing. Which is bad, considering, but.

You know.

Here’s what I know.

Something’s coming. We don’t know when, but we have guesses. I’m—I’m.

I’m not sure what to think. I’m not—afraid, but I’m definitely not comforted, either. Maybe anxious is the best word, but it still feels off.

Concerned? No, too emotional.

But something’s coming, and it’s not gonna be good.

Also, the email’s subject was “Just Checking In!!!!!!!!!!!?” with, like, twelve exclamation points and then a question mark. So that’s why I clicked. I don’t think it’s spam.

Uh. Ran into an old friend the other day! Well. Middle school bully turned high school acquaintance. Johnny Parsons? He goes by Jack now, because he started to think that the Johnny Carson thing was annoying. Which it was. But. Whatever. I don’t know why I’m calling him a friend. He was kind of terrible to me, and, like, he stopped but never made the time to apologize, so. Whatever. We weren’t close, during high school, but he was slightly more decent.

But I ran into him the other day. He, uh, said he saw wedding photos online, and, uh, that he was happy for me. But something about his eyes were off. That’s why I mention this encounter with standard Straight White Dude number four-hundred and twenty—that wasn’t intended to—whatever, but—like, you know the type. When I ran into him, this man, who was wearing the whole salmon-shorts-blue-button-up-boat-shoes number, which I didn’t even know had found its way into this town, but he—halfway through our greetings, he just—

Left. He was gone. Like, his body was still there, but it’s like when we found Teresa. Like—

So, he was different, for a moment. Eyes all dilated, glassy. And then, he was back. Pupils back to normal in a flash—like, a literal flash. And the conversation continued, like it was nothing. He didn’t say anything of it, so I didn’t comment. Don’t want to drag in that dude to our weird mystery adventures.

It wasn’t zoning out, before you ask. It was—Look, I know zoning out. It’s—basically what I do, lately. He was totally focused, which was—weird, for him. We had, like, one bonding moment, in high school, and it was when we both just completely blanked on all of the instructions at our ACT prep class and we were assigned to be partners.

But he was focused, and then a flash, and he was out, and then another, and he was back in it.

Weird, right?

That’s the ending to everything any of us say to each other, now. Weird, right, weird, right, weird, right. Ugh! I’m so sick of it, it’s so overplayed. None of us even like overplayed. We all try and push ourselves away from overplayed. Hating cliche is the glue that holds this group together.

Like, we’re gonna argue about what’s weird. Like, okay, so, whatever, everything’s weird. Everything that has happened to us in the past four months is weird! It’s beyond weird, and I am so sick of using that adjective!

We need a better word! I am so sick of just using the word weird and expecting it to be effective.

Semantics are weird.

Right?

That was—I’m kinda proud of that joke. I liked it a lot. I came up with it on the spot, and—It’s genuinely fun. I think.

Here are some suggestions for better words than weird. I’m pullin’ up the old thesaurus in my brain that I used to write bad poetry in high school—I’ve become a bit more Hemingway-esque, since then, but, like, in the brevity way, rather than the sexism thing. But. Here is a list of words that are better than weird. I hope that, for future reference, we can stick to them:

Bizarre. Far-out. Bizarr-o. Freaky. Eerie. Fun and funky. Fresh garbage. As if from a dream. Supernatural. Off color. Eccentric. Offbeat. Outlandish.

Wild and crazy? Out of this world.

Out of this world.

Can we bring that one back? I like it. And I think it suits the situation at hand.

Christ, what am I even doing? I sound like some terrible English teacher. Eugh.

Said is dead, weird is—feared?

Not quite. Let’s check out that rhyming dictionary—

[beat]

Okay, so it’s either feared or disappeared. Neither of which are too exciting, which is a bummer, I think. If there’s no opportunity for a fun rhyming phrase, there’s no need for anything to happen. And that’s just the facts, there. I am a writer. I have a MFA. I know these things. I know them.

Oh. Wow. Cool. Time stopped again.

Sorry, just gotta add that in, so you know Because, hey, it’s still one-oh-seven PM. Love that. That one hasn’t happened in a little bit, for me. Dunno about y’all—again, I have not listened to your tapes, and again, I am genuinely sorry for that. I will when the world is, like, a little less terrible and overwhelming, and also, when I’m not receiving emails from alternative-universe-folks.

Unless you guys are receiving those emails too, and I’m missing that by not listening. I think that stuff goes into the group chat. I didn’t put it in there, though, so, uh. Who’s to say? Not me, certainly. Never me. I don’t know, uh. Anything. Ever. At all.

That’s the nature of humanity, or something like that. Was it Tolstoy who said that? Or Plato?

Ugh. I’ll google it later. It’s just--

Here’s what I know about the nature of humanity, which is just about as much as anybody else.

It’s good. I genuinely believe that. If it wasn’t good, inherently, I don’t know what I’d do with myself. I think I’d rot, wilt, shrivel up.

And I’m usually close to wilting, anyway. That heavy weight in my chest makes me feel like wilting.

[music kicks up--a simple beat, synths, drums, piano. at the end of the world, says a muffled vocalist, it’s just you and me. you and me.]

I gave Teresa a haircut last night at three A.M. She knocked on our door and told us that she needed it that moment. Elaine offered, but then I mentioned her junior year high school roommate, whose hair she dyed, and she shut up right there.

We listened to shitty lo-fi hip-hop and it felt right, somehow, that moment. I’ve been--

I’ve been so close to wilting, but in that moment, three-forty-seven A.M., my friend and my wife and her bad music and our cat and a pair of clippers--

In that moment, I think I grew. Not in a--huge, development sense. I didn’t change. I just felt good, y’know? I felt like, for once, the world was okay.

And the weight was gone.

My point is--

My point is that, we have to be good, in spite of the--my brain is saying weird, and I’m refusing it. To each other. I’m not saying we have to, like, elf-on-the-shelf it. That’s weird. We have to be kind--and not just to each other. To these new people too. To salmon-shorts Jack’s alternate universe self. To Mae. To--to everybody that’s new. This is terrifying for them. We have to--

We have to be kind, we have to make sure that they don’t shrivel up. Because there’s nothing worse than that.

I’m so afraid of shrivelling up.

So, so afraid of it.

Elaine helps. The cat helps. You guys--you all help. I think everybody needs that. I think all of you need that.

If we love each other, and we love everything that we can bring ourselves to love, I think we can overpower the weird--fuck!

Time is moving again. Sometimes, and here’s my theory, just my good ol’ idea: to get time moving again, you have to wax poetic for eight hours, cuz then time gets bored and wants to make that clear to you. If you are pretentious enough about love and life and all of the other big meaningful things that are out there, you can literally control time?

How metal is that?

Do teens still say metal? I am so, so tragically unhip. I hope they do. I like that as a descriptor. I don’t think it’s a good replacement for weird, but I think that we should use it more often.

Okay, okay, so, signing off--yeah, yeah, signing off. Gotta do that. We all do that. I just waxed poetic! I could have used that for signing off, but no. Ugh.

Here’s what comes next:

[static]

[confused]

Here’s what comes next:

[static]

[insistent]

Here’s what comes next.

We need to--

[and the static picks up: long, resonant]