#i cut my food so bad it almost bled if not did a lie

[little-mimikyuwu]

.

[plush-rabbit]

Uncertainty in the Household

Picture Perfect Series

TW: talk and action for miscarriage, slight manipulation

Word Count: 4.1K

A/N: I wanted to explore the reader and Danny’s relationship in this chapter, so i hope you like it, first part is p rough with the whole miscarriage, so you're free to skip to after the second - if you're uncomfy with that

-

Tears fall into your palms as your fingertips dig into your scalp, your belly- while still early in the pregnancy, still feels as if it’s protruding, and you sit on the shared bed, a faint smell of cigarettes and alcohol lingers in the air and you’re alone. For now, at least. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it were Danny who was the father. You want to kid yourself, to tell such lies that he could be the father, that sleeping with- that being forced into whatever sick game Ghostface has with you- that he didn’t impregnate you. You blame yourself. You should have taken the morning after pill, you should have purged yourself of everything and anything to make sure that you didn’t let yourself have his child. Your stomach twists and turns, a thin veil of acid on your tongue and you wonder how to explain this to Danny. If you even should. It’s still early, maybe you could get rid of the child before anyone has to know. Your eyes widen and you sit up, your eyes scanning the room and you let out a breath, nodding to yourself.

You can get rid of the child. No one knows. You made sure to throw away the pregnancy tests in a dumpster at a park and rip the receipts before anyone could ever see. No one has to know.

Loneliness, while always being your aggressor, has finally worked in your favor. You rush to put on your clothes, ignoring the burning desire to cry, your purse in your hand, you walk to the front door, pausing to leave a note to your partner.

“Went out, I’ll bring dinner.” Something short and simple. Marked with a little heart at the end that makes you feel a bit sick, like it’s something like a lie that you’re telling him. You place the pen down and grab the car keys, rushing down the steps. Each step down the stairs is something that feels heavy, chains around our ankle and the child- no, you can’t call it that. You know you’ll get attached. You’ve heard about the tactics that are used to pressure vulnerable people into keeping their unborn children, and you won’t be one of those. You can’t. Not now and you’re sure not ever. The car purrs to life, the steering wheel a bit too hot from being under the sun and you wait, letting the cool air fan against your already hot body and you reverse out of the parking lot.

-

You return with tuna, alcohol, fenugreek, a peppermint and aloe vera plant, a thin bag that is filled with peaches, different varieties of caffeine that you can already taste, and pineapple. Your hands ache, the base of your fingers sore from the heaviness of the bags that you stubbornly carried up to the apartment. You were not going to make multiple trips, that much was certain about your day. You hear his voice before you see him, a greeting cut off as he realizes just how much you’re carrying. Danny’s eyes widen, and he rushes off the couch, taking bags away and your palms are redden from the indents of the bags.

“Are we having a feast?” His hands are inside a bag and he pulls out wrapped fish, and he stops, turning to you, a tight smile on his lips that you don’t recognize. “I didn’t know you liked fish.” He places it down and watches as you carefully place a clinking bag down onto the table. “Alcohol too, huh? What-” he turns to you, a nervous chuckle filling the space of his words- “Did I forget a special date?”

You shake your head no, already biting into an unwashed peach, trying to ignore how many hands and bacteria have touched the fruit before you. “Just-” you speak with a full mouth and turn your head, covering your mouth with your hand and taking another bite. You swallow and take a gulp of air. “I was just craving fish is all. Why? Do you not like fish?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just that I- I just wanted soup, and-” your smile falls and he shakes his head. “I can get soup tomorrow. How long until the fish is down?”

“Actually-” you reach into another bag and pull out two containers- “I was able to buy some sushi on the way home.” You pull out a pack and slide the container to him. You spare him a glance as he stares at the sushi with an odd, angry feeling. “Oh, I’m uh, I have tomorrow off, by the way.” You meet his eyes for a minute and he gives you a nod, allowing you to continue.

“You’ve been throwing up lately,” he adds, taking a bite from his plate. Your heart sinks and you try to mask your emotions, turning around to grab a bottle opener from one the drawers. “I’ve been worried, you know. Maybe-” the chair squeaks and when you turn, he’s sitting down, an unopened beer beside his plate- “I should take tomorrow off too and we can go to the doctor. Just to see if you don’t have the flu or-” he tilts his head, his lips twitching- “if it isn’t anything else.”

A part of you wants to tell him your fear. You don’t want to be pregnant, and you hope that if you manifest it enough, it’ll be true. But you also fear that he wants a family and you’ll be the one ruining it for him. Maybe you aren’t even pregnant. Maybe it’s just needless worry over a few faulty exams, but you can’t risk it. Not now. Not if it has the chance to be someone other than Danny’s.

With a bottle opener in hand, you walk towards Danny, his eyes on you the entire time. You place the bottle opener beside his drink, a hand on his shoulder and the other brushing back his hair, combing it to the side. His hands leave his meal and rest against your hips, his gaze up at you and there’s a hint of a smile at his lips, and you lean down, pressing your lips over his scar that adorns his forehead.

“We have bills to pay Dan,” you mutter, “at least one of us should be responsible.” You close your eyes tightly to avoid tears spilling over, the hand on his shoulder tightening and when you pull away, he looks unbothered for a moment before giving you a forced smile. “Let’s eat, okay? You can tell me about your day.”

-

All it takes is one doctor appointment to confirm that you are not pregnant. It was just a scare. And as if life and everything else in control of you wanted to laugh, you bled through your underwear on the ride home. The vomiting in the morning was your body simply pretending to have the signs, your mind so strong that it created a falsehood of pregnancy, just because you were so scared and sure of it.

Life is odd for the moment. You tried so hard to get rid of the unwanted child and they were never there to begin with. You had to go through with the nervousness that consumed you. The call to the doctor, the waiting, the glances that Danny gave you as if he knew something. You wonder if he did know. He isn’t dumb, a bit dense when it comes to your feelings, but he’s smart in a way that matters. You hope that he doesn’t know, for both your sake and his. The little scare will be something that you take to your grave, hoping that it’ll remain just that.

The fan is turned on with a simple swipe of your hand against the light switch, the room filling with white noise. You sit on his couch, your body stiff as if it were the first time that you had visited his home. You still remember how it was. Dirty. You hadn’t expected that from him. There was trash all over, a sort of musty smell and an empty fridge. He hadn’t seemed embarrassed, but rather mildly inconvenienced even though he was the one to invite you over. However, now the place is as clean as it can be, the musty smell now replaced by a slight twinge of alcohol and tobacco, but with an overlapping floral scent from one of your candles. You can’t help but wonder if he minds that you added bits and pieces of yourself into his home. He calls it your home too, almost too eager to make sure that you know that you belong here, but even so, it doesn't feel like your home. It’s too empty, too devoid of your touch. You still feel as if you’re a guest, waiting and cleaning, tending to him when he needs it.

The simple fact of the matter is, this isn’t your home. Your stuff, your personal items that you decorated your home are still in boxes shoved under the bed. You miss your home. “I miss my home,” you say to yourself, tears pricking in your eyes. The rent was cheap, and the landlords were kind enough, but it’s gone. The place scooped up by some stranger and the thought has your stomach rising.

You’ve thought about leaving here. Perhaps not Danny, but maybe that would be a consequence of you leaving. It was too rushed. You were too scared of Ghostface invading your life again. You made a rash decision that the both of you now have to pay for. He lost his space, his privacy and you can tell he holds some resentment, the way he slams the doors close, how he locks the rooms and won’t speak to you until he needs something, until he’s pressuring you to kiss him with a half-hearted apology on his tongue.

You glance at the coffee table, old and cracked, the paint on the wood chipped and revealing the unfurnished finish. The photo frame is cold, a slight layer of dust over it, concealing your nervous smile and Danny’s wide one. He isn't happy, but he’s smiling. You both only have a few pictures with each other. It isn’t much, and you’re surprised that the photographer wouldn’t want more, but it can’t be helped.

The photo is placed back on the table, and you lay down on the sofa, grabbing at the throw blanket that you added. Your arms act as a pillow underneath your weary head, and you stare at the photo, training over how his arms are wrapped tight round you and how close that he holds you.

-

Daniel walks into his shared apartment with you, and he immediately spots your shoes in a different position than when he left. He frowns, walking further into the apartment, his eyes scan the room, his eyes landing on a crumpled bag of fast food on the table, the drink creating a water ring on the table. It isn’t like you to be so careless.

The drink rattles in his hand, nothing but cold liquid is inside the container. His bag is heavy as he leans it against the wall on the floor, and he finally finds you. You’re asleep on the couch, your body curled with the decorative throw blanket covering your body as the fan spins above.

He lowers himself to watch you, your soft breaths and the way your face is relaxed. You’re asleep and it brings him back to a time where you were under him, where night concealed him and he was able to hover above you. It’s much different now, you’re still scared but he’s able to kiss you, to have you rake your nails down his back and hold his hand as if it’s the only thing to keep you sane.

A calloused hand cups your cheek, your skin soft and blemished with faded scars that he’s studied meticulously night after night. You wake up with his fingers tracing over your face and he doesn’t make a sound, everything about him is stoic and he wonders how you are seeing this situation in your eyes. Are you scared? Do you know? Are you pregnant? What are you thinking of him at this very moment? You blink slowly at him and he’s reminded of a cat, watching and tired, and there’s a burning desire in him that wonders what you would do if he strangled you right now. Slowly, his hand lowers, his knuckles brushing over your cheekbones and down your jawline, touching against your pulse on your neck and he feels it quicken. Your eyes never leave his and he doesn’t look away. He’s sure that he could convince you that it was a joke or that maybe it was just a dream that you had. It’s been a while since you had such a vivid dream.

Your hand creeps from under the blanket and you hold the back of his hand, moving it back to your face, letting your lips press against the side of his palm in a soft kiss. “Danny,” you say in a sleepy voice as your eyes close. “How was work?” Your hand that holds his becomes limp and he watches as it slides down his hand, catching on the cuff of his sweater until it dangles off the couch.

It wasn’t smart of him to invite you to live with him. He was too reckless, too needy and desperate to have you beside him that he just wasn’t thinking. Even if you are naïve and easily pulled into a false sense of security, he can’t just explain his costume, he can’t explain the knife and all the careful cleaning kits that he has. This is all too risky.

But he can’t throw you out either. He’s become attached. You’re like a pet to him now, and as every disgruntled man says on television, don’t name something or else you’ll get attached. And now he’s fallen victim to it. It’s nice to have such an easy fuck around, to know that he cold do whatever he wanted to you and you’ll stay here with him, because the other option is much scarier. The corners of his lips pull upwards and he pulls his hand away, fixing the blanket above you and he rises from his knees with a sigh.

“Another dead body,” he says with a chipper voice that he can’t seem to hide. “All signs point to our residential serial killer.” It’s much too risky to have Ghostface visit you, you thought this as your safe haven, you have to know and think that it still is, but fuck does he miss your fear and how pitifully you cried. “You never told me why you hated him so much.” He has to bite the inside of his cheeks when your brows knit together. “I know he’s a killer, but did he ever hurt anyone close to you?”

Your eyes shift and you pull the blanket closer to you, the folds stretching across your frame and showing the curves of your body. “I’m not sure, I just-” you catch his eyes and he sees you visibly shrink away from him- “I’m scared of his mask.”

His mouth fills with saliva as he thinks about just how frightened you are. “What a shame, I was hoping to get into roleplay.” He could think about you know, how you'd hit and scream, how he could pretend that it was all part of the act and just hold you down, thinking about how you would put the pieces together and sob.

“That isn’t funny,” you say in a high-pitched voice, already cracking and sitting up to lessen the distance between the two of you. He rolls his eyes in response, standing up from his crouch with a hiss between his teeth. “People are dead,” you whine, as if he hasn’t been keeping up with the news with you. “He killed people.” You’re much more emotional than he thought, but you’ve held your mouth for so long, suffered in your silence and in your vulnerability; it's only natural you would have such strong emotions.

“Relax, it was a joke.” He takes off his jacket and tosses it beside you, watching as you pull yourself closer, further away from his jacket and only staring at it with confusion, as if he dared to have the audacity to throw something your way.

“A dumb one,” you say with with a pout, gripping tighter onto the blanket.

“I said relax,” Danny says in a stern voice, already done with the conversation. He may have been the one to start it but he was hoping for a more playful one, or rather one where you go along with him rather than try to fight him.

“Whatever,” you huff, and he sees you bundle the blanket in your arms, pushing yourself to the further end of the couch, looking at the wall with furrowed brows as your hand tries to discreetly cover your pout.

“Great,” he says sarcastically, turning around and walking towards the fridge. “Now, you’re angry,” he says loud enough for you to hear.

He rises back up with a bottle in his hand, toying with the cap, letting the ridges play against his fingertips. You don’t respond and he can feel his anger start to rise, something thick that lodges in his throat and makes it impossible to swallow. You aren’t answering him. Usually this would be a good sign, something that means he still has you wrapped around his finger, but it feels different. You aren’t moving from your spot, and you aren’t apologizing to him. He puts the bottle down, and runs his hand down his face with a heavy sigh.

“I think,” your voice is small, and he can barely hear it, but he can, “we both rushed into this… relationship. We should have taken it slow.” When you turn to him, he sees that your eyes are wet and you try to take steady breaths but to no avail. “I’m happy with you, but I don’t think we were thinking clearly when we chose to-” your eyes glance around and you look away from him- “to do this.”

His jaw twitches and he watches you, anger boiling inside of him, white-hot that makes it impossible to think and if he could, he'd grab the knife on the counter and stick it in your back but he can’t. Copper fills his mouth and he turns on his heel, the bedroom door slamming behind him, loud enough that he can hear your yelp and loud enough that it makes his ears ring. He wonders what the neighbors would think of it, but he can’t really bring himself to care. He’ll find an excuse, he always does.

His name is muted through the door and he rummages through the closet, pulling out a worn backpack and knocking a few clothes off the anger that he steps on. You enter the room just in time to witness him opening your drawer and throwing your things inside without a care.

“Danny?” Your voice sounds so fearful and it makes him stop for a second, and when he looks at you, your foot slides back out of the room. You’re terrified of him right now. “Danny, what are you doing?” You ask in a small voice, as you take a tentative step inside the room.

“You want to leave right?” He asks in a condescending tone, stepping closer to you with the back held tight in his hand. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll help you pack.”

“I didn’t-”

“Didn’t you say that we rushed into this?” With every word he stalks towards you and he tosses the backpack onto the bed, only to miss and have it slide down, the contents inside spilling onto the floor. You look away from him and that only adds fuel to the fire that is tarnishing him from the inside. “Didn’t you?” He shouts, slapping his hand on the dresses, rattling your bottles of perfume and creams. He stares at you, his nostrils flared and jaw tight as he tries to keep a sense of composure. “Did you or did you not?” He asks, his voice eerily calm as he lets his nails drag along the wall. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

“I’m sorry, Dan,” you cry, your eyes spilling over with tears. “I wasn’t thinking. Please, I promise, it was just a long day and I’m sorry.”

You’re pathetic and not in the way that he wants you. He turns around and you grab his arm, latching yourself around his forearm. His name is on your tongue and before you have a chance to finish it, he turns around, his hand raised, and mouth pulled into an ugly snarl. You let go of him immediately and try to shield yourself, but he aims for the wall instead. His palm stings and you let out a choked sob.

He can’t think. Not with you here. Not with his emotions running so high. Not when his palm stings and there’s something dark brooding inside of him. He takes a deep breath and he forces himself to look at you. You stare up at him with worry creasing your features.

“It's okay,” his words are still tense, but your body lowers its defenses slightly, and he knows he’s on the right track. “I was angry.” He pulls his hand away from the wall and rubs it with his other, the palm of his hand a light shade of pink. “Why don’t we have dinner, huh?” He tries to give you a charming smile, but it falls flat. “We’ll talk about it over dinner. You know-” he reaches for your hand and grabs it in both of his- “like couple’s therapy or some shit. How does that sound?”

You break away from his gaze, glancing at the floor, and he knows your habits and tics by now. You’ll scan the floor, and look up at him and smile and nod. You play your part so well, and if he had to be honest with himself, he can’t lose that. Not yet. Not when you’re so dependent on him and him on you. He waits for our smile, to give you his own to show that he’s okay, that his anger has subsided for now, but you never give him that. Your mouth parts open and there are tears in your eyes, your hand shakes and grows clammy in his. He calls your name, but you don’t respond. Your breath is ragged, sharp inhales and shaky exhales, and he follows your gaze to the floor under the bed.

In the corner of his eye, he spots white and his nails dig into your skin. “Go get me a beer, I’ll-” he looks down at you and your eyes are stuck, glued to the floor where you can see the face that has haunted you- “I’ll clean up, okay? Just give me a moment.” It isn’t enough, you’re still looking where the mask lays, the bottom half of the face peeking from under your undergarments. Your mouth opens in a silent question and when you look back at him, you’re scanning his face. His body runs hot, his mouth going dry and he says the only thing that can come to mind. “I told you I wanted to try roleplay.”

“I thought you were,” you hesitate, and your tongue peeks to wet your lips, “I thought you were kidding,” you say breathlessly, your words slow as if you were hypnotized and the truth of the matter is, is that you are. You’re ruined by the mask that lies on the floor, the mouth of it the only thing that you can see. You peel away from him and have your back turned to him, your arms coming up to give yourself a hug. “I’ll go get you a beer,” you say in a daze, and when you turn back, your smile is weak, and you can’t look at him for long, your eyes magnetized to the mask on the floor.

He’s left alone in the room, his nails digging into the palm of his hands and red in his vision. The worst part of it all is that he can’t go out tonight. Not when you saw his mask. You’re naïve, and easily spooked, but even you could put two and two together. Even your suspicions would start to rise as you questioned why there was a murder the night he went out. Why Ghostface hasn’t come back for you. You’d suspect him and he can’t have that, not when you’re already so fearful of him.

[the-last-kenobi]

bad things happen bingo -- passing out from pain with Obi-Wan? ps, good luck moving!! I know you can do it!! <3

Yes!! I got this request almost at the same time as @willowworkswithwords similar one, so I decided to do them both! 🤍 (and thank you for the well wishes!!)

(Note for anyone who is interested in making a request: I already have prompts for: Setting a Broken Bone, Tampering with Food/Drink, and Public Execution/Torture. All of the other squares are fair game!)

—

Obi-Wan lifted his head from the filthy stone floor.

There were footsteps rapidly approaching, three or four sets of them, urgent and hurried.

A weary smile tugged at his lips, straining the still-fresh wounds that bled across his face, seeping the taste of copper onto his tongue. It seemed his captors were finally in a hurry, which meant that rescue must be close at hand.

He wouldn’t lie here helplessly. The General clenched his teeth around a groan as he dragged himself to sit upright, his legs bound at the ankles and his hands cuffed painfully behind his back as they had been for days without relief. The room swam before his eyes. A bad sign.

Obi-Wan lifted his chin defiantly as the door to his cramped cell was flung open, and over the threshold poured four familiar figures, unfriendly acquaintances from his past two weeks in captivity. “Gentlemen,” he said derisively. A cut in his bottom lip split and began to bleed profusely.

One of the men remained in the doorway, peering anxiously up the hallways. The other three converged on the Jedi.

The leader, a middle-aged and heavily scarred Arconan, struck him directly across the face.

For all their repetition in holo-dramas, Obi-Wan reflected dimly, a well-aimed slap across the face was nothing to be shaken off in a second. His vision blacked out for a few moments and it felt as if his head and limbs were all being pulled in separate directions; his stomach, already weak from hunger, rolled nauseatingly.

When he regained his senses, he found that the other two were handling him roughly, forcing him to lay on his back, pinning him in place as he began to struggle.

The Arconan loomed over him, a disgusted sneer on his face. “I promised I would break you, Jedi,” he spat.

“Well, you know what they say, don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Obi-Wan replied, still fighting the other two as they reached behind his back and broke the cuffs, yanking his arms out and pinning them to the floor. His limbs screamed in protest at the sudden change.

“I can keep it,” his captor hissed. “Sadly I won’t be around to witness it, but knowing it’s happening will be almost as good.” He raised his hand, and something gleamed silver in the dim light.

“No,” Obi-Wan said, and he thrashed helplessly, his muscles sore and unwilling, his head spinning, his arms and legs still pinned in place. “I won’t break!” he shouted, determined not to cave in to fear. “You cannot break me!” The Arconan knelt and in a single movement had placed the needle into the Jedi’s flesh and injected it.

“Are you a betting man, Jedi?” the Arconan asked.

For a single, suspended second, everything was fine. Obi-Wan was still trapped, still struggling, but everything was fine.

And then fire erupted through his veins.

-

A level above their heads, Cody’s soul seemed to lurch out of his body as an inhuman scream of pain reverberated through the halls.

-

Obi-Wan felt pain in every possible portion of his body.

Nothing so simple as an aching head or a broken limb, or even a whole-body feeling of weakness and discomfort that drugs usually caused.

No, this — this —

He felt as if he could suddenly feel each individual atom that made up his physical body.

And each atom was in unimaginable pain, shrieking, tearing, burning anguish, as if he were being torn apart slowly.

He felt, vaguely, that perhaps he was still lying on that cold stone floor, and that perhaps he saw the four Separatists fleeing out the door.

But nothing, nothing,

nothing compared

to the pain.

Obi-Wan’s next scream stretched his jaw so wide that he felt something snap. The anguish did not increase.

It could not.

There was no room for it to grow.

There was only this. Unceasing. Unendurable.

Pain.

And a face. Perhaps a hallucination. Cody, leaning over him, mouthing words Obi-Wan could not hear beyond his own deafening screams, the pain that drowned out all his senses.

He thought he saw Cody’s face crumple.

He thought he saw Cody cry.

And then the pain ate away at his eyesight and Obi-Wan thought of nothing and saw nothing.

-

Time moved so strangely.

He was awake, sometimes.

Other times, he was not.

It was not sleep. It might have been unconsciousness. Or maybe his senses simply stretched themselves too far and then resorted to empty, black numbness before they reset and all the pain came rushing back in. Like a void between true consciousness.

When he was in that void there was very little thought. But he knew that the void was never long enough, never enough relief.

But when he returned to himself, everything was so different.

One time he woke and found himself on a stretcher, watching the sky go by as he was rushed away, away, and he was screaming and thrashing and he fell from the stretcher.

The next time he was conscious, he was strapped to a med-bunk, and two medics were leaning over him, talking and talking and talking.

The time after that, he was lying facedown on the floor, which seemed odd, but there was no room to ponder it as he tore his throat out screaming again, and by then he was so used to the sound that it took him several seconds to hear it.

The next time he awoke, he caught a glimpse of Anakin’s horrified expression, felt faintly the strength of familiar arms lifting him up in a bridal carry he would have found embarrassing back when he still had a mind to think with. Obi-Wan’s eyes slid away from Anakin’s and he began, once more, to scream.

“—right here, Obi-Wan, listen to my voice—”

“Master Obi-Wan? Can you see me? I’ve brought you one of your potted plants. There, see? Brightens up the room.”

A hand caressing his forehead.

“Obi-Wan. Focus. Calm your mind. Your friends are with you.”

A machine frantically beeping. Someone yelling.

Glass shattering.

“Strong you are, Master Kenobi.”

“Please pull through. Please.”

A yellow sunburst.

“General? General, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Please, please, you have to survive.”

In and out.

Of consciousness. Of breath.

In and out.

Obi-Wan’s eyes fluttered open.

For a very long while, he was only confused. Somehow he was not surprised to find himself lying in a bed in the Halls of Healing, but he could not remember why he was not surprised. His limbs felt strange. Weak, and tingly. His head throbbed. Even his eyelids felt heavy.

It occurred to him that he was surprised that he could feel his limbs.

Why was that?

Memory.

His capture. The holding cell, two weeks of torture.

A drug that had torn him apart.

Endless pain.

Except, it had ended. It was over. He felt weak enough to simply fade into the bedsheets, as if all it would take was a slight nudge and he would just… cease to be. But the pain, the almighty god that had taken hold of him so completely…

It was gone.

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to breathe properly and found that tears were sliding down his cheeks. One slipped between his lips and he tasted salt.

A machine nearby beeped insistently, and a moment or an eternity later, Healer Che and Anakin both rushed into the room.

Anakin’s eyes flew wide. For a moment he reeled on the spot, mouthing silently, and then the young Jedi tore across the room and fell to his knees next to the bed, one of his hands scrambling for one of Obi-Wan’s and taking hold of it fiercely. Anakin tried to speak, but only managed a wavering “Thank the Force,” before he began to cry as well. He pressed his forehead to Obi-Wan’s hand and wept.

Healer Che, for the first time in Obi-Wan’s memory, also had tears in her eyes, although she did not go so far as to allow them to fall. She smiled at him from the doorway, some of the lines in her tired face melting away. “Welcome back, Master Kenobi,” she greeted him. “How do you feel?”

Obi-Wan considered this for a moment.

“I feel,” he said at last, his voice thin and hoarse, “like I’ve just won a very unfortunate bet with a very rude Arconan.”

[katnissmellarkkk]

Hiiii, so I decided to continue my combing through the books for random specific Everlark related content series. This one is Katniss and Peeta taking care of each other. This is Part One and only includes stuff from the first book because it was getting too long. 😭😅. Anyways, hope y’all enjoy.

-

I gently unzip his jacket, unbutton his shirt and ease them off him. His undershirt is so plastered into his wounds I have to cut it away with my knife and drench him again to work it loose. He’s badly bruised with a long burn across his chest and four tracker jacker stings, if you count the one under his ear. But I feel a bit better. This much I can fix. I decide to take care of his upper body first, to alleviate some pain, before I tackle whatever damage Cato did to his leg.

-

Since treating his wounds seems pointless when he’s lying in what’s become a mud puddle, I manage to prop him up against a boulder. He sits there, uncomplaining, while I wash away all the traces of dirt from his hair and skin. His flesh is very pale in the sunlight and he no longer looks strong and stocky. I have to dig the stingers out of his tracker jacker lumps, which causes him to wince, but the minute I apply the leaves he sighs in relief. While he dries in the sun, I wash his filthy shirt and jacket and spread them over boulders. Then I apply the burn cream to his chest. This is when I notice how hot his skin is becoming. The layer of mud and the bottles of water have disguised the fact that he’s burning with fever. I dig through the first-aid kit I got from the boy from District 1 and find pills that reduce your temperature.

“Swallow these,” I tell him, and he obediently takes the medicine. “You must be hungry.”

“Not really. It’s funny, I haven’t been hungry for days,” says Peeta. In fact, when I offer him groosling, he wrinkles his nose at it and turns away. That’s when I know how sick he is.

“Peeta, we need to get some food in you,” I insist.

“It’ll just come right back up,” he says. The best I can do is to get him to eat a few bits of dried apple. “Thanks. I’m much better, really. Can I sleep now, Katniss?” he asks.

“Soon,” I promise. “I need to look at your leg first.” Trying to be as gentle as I can, I remove his boots, his socks, and then very slowly inch his pants off of him.

-

I scoot my square of plastic under him so I can wash down the rest of him. With each bottle I pour over him, the worse the wound looks. The rest of his lower body has fared pretty well, just one tracker jacker sting and a few small burns that I treat quickly. But the gash on his leg . . . what on earth can I do for that?

-

I know the tracker jacker leaves draw out infection, so I start with those. Within minutes of pressing the handful of chewed-up green stuff into the wound, pus begins running down the side of his leg.

-

“What next, Dr. Everdeen?” he asks.

“Maybe I’ll put some of the burn ointment on it. I think it helps with infection anyway. And wrap it up?” I say. I do and the whole thing seems a lot more manageable, covered in clean white cotton.

-

I help him dress, leaving his feet bare so we can walk in the water, and pull him upright. His face drains of color the moment he puts weight on his leg. “Come on. You can do this.”

But he can’t. Not for long anyway. We make it about fifty yards downstream, with him propped up by my shoulder, and I can tell he’s going to black out. I sit him on the bank, push his head between his knees, and pat his back awkwardly as I survey the area.

-

When Peeta’s able to stand, I half-guide, half-carry him up to the cave. Really, I’d like to look around for a better place, but this one will have to do because my ally is shot. Paper white, panting, and, even though it’s only just cooling off, he’s shivering.

I cover the floor of the cave with a layer of pine needles, unroll my sleeping bag, and tuck him into it. I get a couple of pills and some water into him when he’s not noticing, but he refuses to eat even the fruit. Then he just lies there, his eyes trained on my face as I build a sort of blind out of vines to conceal the mouth of the cave.

-

I check his forehead and find it burning and dry. I don’t know what to do. Leave him in the bag and hope the excessive heat breaks the fever? Take him out and hope the night air cools him off? I end up just dampening a strip of bandage and placing it on his forehead.

-

I spend the night half-sitting, half-lying next to Peeta, refreshing the bandage.

-

Peeta sits beside me, leaning against the wall, his bad leg stretched out before him, his eyes trained on the world outside. “Go to sleep,” he says softly. His hand brushes the loose strands of my hair off my forehead. Unlike the staged kisses and caresses so far, this gesture seems natural and comforting. I don’t want him to stop and he doesn’t. He’s still stroking my hair when I fall asleep.

-

I give him more fever pills and stand over him while he drinks first one, then a second quart of water. Then I tend to his minor wounds, the burns, the stings, which are showing improvement.

-

Peeta’s stretched out on top of the sleeping bag in the shade of the rocks. Although he brightens a bit when I come in, it’s clear he feels miserable. I put cool cloths on his head, but they warm up almost as soon as they touch his skin.

-

I sit back on my heels and look at him with a mixture of sadness and satisfaction. A stray berry stains his chin and I wipe it away. “Who can’t lie, Peeta?” I say, even though he can’t hear me.

-

I gingerly lift my hand to my head and find it bandaged. This simple gesture leaves me weak and dizzy. Peeta holds a bottle to my lips and I drink thirstily.

-

He doesn’t seem angry about my tricking him, drugging him, and running off to the feast. Maybe I’m just too beat-up and I’ll hear about it later when I’m stronger. But for the moment, he’s all gentleness.

-

“You need to eat. I’ll go hunting soon,” I say.

“Not too soon, all right?” he says. “You just let me take care of you for a while.”

-

Peeta feeds me bites of groosling and raisins and makes me drink plenty of water. He rubs some warmth back into my feet and wraps them in his jacket before tucking the sleeping bag back up around my chin.

-

Rain drips through several holes in the ceiling, but Peeta has built a sort of canopy over my head and upper body by wedging the square of plastic into the rocks above me.

-

“I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it’s bedtime anyway,” he says.

My socks are dry enough to wear now. I make Peeta put his jacket back on. The damp cold seems to cut right down to my bones, so he must be half frozen. I insist on taking the first watch, too, although neither of us think it’s likely anyone will come in this weather. But he won’t agree unless I’m in the bag, too, and I’m shivering so hard that it’s pointless to object. In stark contrast to two nights ago, when I felt Peeta was a million miles away, I’m struck by his immediacy now. As we settle in, he pulls my head down to use his arm as a pillow; the other rests protectively over me even when he goes to sleep. No one has held me like this in such a long time. Since my father died and I stopped trusting my mother, no one else’s arms have made me feel this safe.

-

I set a good dinner out, but halfway through Peeta begins to nod off. After days of inactivity, the hunt has taken its toll. I order him into the sleeping bag and set aside the rest of his food for when he wakes. He drops off immediately. I pull the sleeping bag up to his chin and kiss his forehead, not for the audience, but for me. Because I’m so grateful that he’s still here, not dead by the stream as I’d thought.

-

Although I’m shaking in the biting wind, I rip off my jacket, remove my shirt, and zip back into the jacket as swiftly as possible. That brief exposure sets my teeth chattering beyond control.

Peeta’s face is gray in the pale moonlight. I make him lie down before I probe his wound. Warm, slippery blood runs over my fingers. A bandage will not be enough. I’ve seen my mother tie a tourniquet a handful of times and try to replicate it. I cut free a sleeve from my shirt, wrap it twice around his leg just under his knee, and tie a half knot. I don’t have a stick, so I take my remaining arrow and insert it in the knot, twisting it as tightly as I dare. It’s risky business — Peeta may end up losing his leg — but when I weigh this against him losing his life, what alternative do I have? I bandage the wound in the rest of my shirt and lie down with him.

-

“Are you cold?” he asks. He unzips his jacket and I press against him as he fastens it around me. It’s a bit warmer, sharing our body heat inside my double layer of jackets, but the night is young. The temperature will continue to drop. Even now I can feel the Cornucopia, which burned so when I first climbed it, slowly turning to ice.

“Cato may win this thing yet,” I whisper to Peeta.

“Don’t you believe it,” he says, pulling up my hood, but he’s shaking harder than I am.

-

Somehow, we make it back to the lake. I scoop up a handful of the cold water for Peeta and bring a second to my lips.

-

The hovercraft materializes overhead and two ladders drop, only there’s no way I’m letting go of Peeta. I keep one arm around him as I help him up, and we each place a foot on the first rung of the ladder.

-

“It’s my fault,” I say. “Because I used that tourniquet.”

“Yes, it’s your fault I’m alive,” says Peeta.

“He’s right,” says Caesar. “He’d have bled to death for sure without it.”

I guess this is true, but I can’t help feeling upset about it to the extent that I’m afraid I might cry and then I remember everyone in the country is watching me so I just bury my face in Peeta’s shirt. It takes them a couple of minutes to coax me back out because it’s better in the shirt, where no one can see me, and when I do come out, Caesar backs off questioning me so I can recover.

-

[damistrolls]

Odd numbers for Fatome!

1. Biggest pet peeves? How much do they annoy you? Are they bad enough to be a deal breaker if someone you were interested did them?

"I really don't have many pet peeves. A few sweeps ago, I would have had a different answer, though. I had been very adamant that my religious order was above criticism, and even perfectly reasonable arguments would get me incredibly upset. But it luckily hadn't ever been a dealbreaker. Probably because deep down, I knew I was wrong." 3. What are your turn on’s turn off’s?

"I'm not sure I'd like to answer something so private. Not to mention, I wouldn't have a good answer to it right now... My mind has not been in the right place for things of that manner." 5. What if your least favorite and favorite parts of your body? Any feature you pride yourself on? Then least favorite would you change it if you could?

"My least favorite part of my body at the present moment is my tail. I would get rid of it in a heartbeat, but considering I almost bled out just removing my fins, I believe it's unwise for me to try.

My favorite part, though... I'm unsure. My hair, perhaps? Even though I know it would be easier to take care of it if it were shorter, I really don't have the heart to cut it."

7. What is your least favorite food and why?

"I can only really have things that are easy on the stomach. I've always been quite sensitive with my food. With that in mind, anything spicy would likely be my least favorite." 9. What are any tics you might have? Any nervous habits?

"I tend to tap my fingers on things whenever I'm not doing something with my hands. That, or I will bounce my leg. I used to be far better at staying still, but nowadays, some part of me is always moving anxiously." 11. What is your earliest memory? Is it a happy or a sad one.

"My earliest memory... would have to be getting a cello for my wriggling day. It's a happy memory. But.. Ah... I haven't played in ages..." 13. If you could have any super power what would it be?

"If I could have any super power... I suppose it would have to be time travel. I'd like to go back in time and stop myself from making the biggest mistake anyone's ever made." 15. What would you do with the ability to see ghosts? Would they scare you or would you be interested in them?

"I already see ghosts. Not real ones, but... I constantly am haunted by the faces of the trolls that died because of me. Seeing true ghosts would hardly be a change for me." 17. How good a liar are you? How often do you lie to others.

"I'm a terrible liar, frankly. I really don't lie if I can avoid it." 19. How far would you go to be perfect? Are you ok with flaws?

"I don't know what perfect would mean, truth be told. Perfect means something different to everyone, so I wouldn't know how to answer this. Still, I'd like to be a person that hurts others less... To me, that would be perfect." 21. How much do you sleep? What is your typical night time routine?

"I don't sleep much these days. I find myself somewhat restless, yet I don't have the energy to find something more productive to do. I often just toss and turn until exhaustion takes me." 23. How good are you with choices? Is it easy to make decisions or do you struggle with them?

"I used to be great with making decisions. I was so certain of myself, aha... Funny, isn't it?

... No. I suppose it's not very funny. Anyways, I find decisions much harder nowadays. I often decide to not decide." 25. What is the worst thing you’ve done to someone? Do you regret it?

"... Do I even need to say? I fed hundreds of trolls to an uncaring god, because I was lied to. I regret it more than I can even say.

I... really should have known better... It's so obvious in retrospect that I was being used. I was so convinced that I was doing good, too..."

27. How good are you with computers? How much do you use them in every day life?

"Ah... computers are not my forté. I don't use them much at all." 29. If you knew you had less then a sweep left to live how would you use it?

"I don't know, really. I don't think I'd do anything special." 31. Which would you prefer you dying before your loved ones, or them dying before you?

"I feel as though it's kinder for me to bear the burden of being the last to die. That way, I need not hurt them by my early departure." 33. What are your stances on the spectrum?

"It's a vehicle for cruelty. If I could do away with it completely, I would, even at the cost of everything near and dear to me." 35. If you were empress for a day what would you do?

"I would do everything in my power to make Alternia a kinder, more safe place. It's the least I could do to make up for everything I had done previously..." 37. What do you fear loosing most? A possession, your senses, loved one, ect?

"I suppose I fear losing my kindness the most. It's really the only part of me that has any value." 39. What is your biggest dream in life and how far would you go to obtain it.

"I want to make up for what I did, in some way. I don't know how to do that, but I know that I'd go very far in order to fix things. I'd give up everything if it meant I could bring some relief to the people who I hurt." 41. Are there any people in your life you miss? What would you do if you could see them again?

"... Yes. Certainly. I miss my lusus, for one. He was the first casualty. I also miss Keirie, but I believe he is better off without me in his life. If I could see either of them again, I suppose I would just... apologize for everything I did to them. I don't know what else I could do, past that." 43. Do you consider yourself a material troll? If giving up every thing you owned meant eternal happiness would you do it?

"It's funny you ask that. When I was young, I was very material. That changed following the creation of the Children of the ETERNAL. It isn't just that I would give up everything for eternal happiness, I did give up everything, specifically to chase this particular dream.

Eternal happiness was the whole point of my religious orde-- my... cult. But no one ever achieved it."

[meabd]

Tricks of the Trade

Chapter 2: A Complicated Dance

It was nearly five o’clock when you approached the Heyu Teahouse. As you neared the entrance you caught sight of the slender form of the Eleventh Harbinger as he leaned against the side of the building, arms crossed, a look of concentration on his face. He startled as you stepped into view, his expression morphing into one of surprised pleasure.

“[Y/n], you look ravishing ,” he winked, offering you his elbow. You bowed instead, ignoring the gesture.

“Thank you, Tartaglia ,” he rolled his eyes at the use of his code name.

“None of that now. Call me Childe,” it was your turn to roll your eyes as he ushered you through the front door, one hand at the small of your back to direct you. The hostess was deferential to the young man, guiding you quickly to a private chamber on the second floor. The view over the harbor was breathtaking, and you found yourself distracted by it as Childe ordered for you both.

“You know, if we’re being honest I didn’t think you’d actually show up,” his comment broke you away from your thoughts, though you did not turn to acknowledge it.

“It’s funny,” you mused, eyes trained on the setting sun, “for as long as I have lived here I still haven’t gotten used to the beauty of it all,” he hummed in reply. Finally you turn to look at him, your gaze flickering over his formal Snezhnyan suit. He had no business looking as good as he did. “Why did you really ask me out this evening?” He cocked his head, his lips quirking into a bemused grin.

“Because you’re a beautiful woman with impressive connections with the highest powers operating out of Liyue Harbor,” his voice was matter of fact. The waitress returned with the bottle of wine he’d requested, pouring two glasses and bustling away.

“I’m not an idiot, you know,” you murmured, swirling the wine in your glass as you waited for him to taste it first.

“And I never said you were,” he countered, taking a healthy gulp of his own wine. “So who do you work for?” You took a small sip from your glass before answering.

“Lady Keqing oversees my work for—”

“I would appreciate it if you did not insult my intelligence,” he cut you off.

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you sniffed primly. The charming smile had not slipped from his face, but there was a newfound tension around his eyes.

“Come on Miss [y/n], whatever it is you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in it’s nothing the Fatui can’t handle. I’m sure we can, what is it you said? ‘Come to an equitable agreement’?” His smile was soft and comforting—and entirely false.

“Just what is it you’re implying, Master Childe?” You weren’t sure exactly what it was he thought you were, but you were glad to hear he wasn’t either.

“[Y/n], hails from Wuwang Hill, father deceased, mother deceased, brother jailed for petty crimes in Fontaine—is that who it is? Your brother is being held hostage and Fontaine's struck a deal with you?” Your mouth hung open, an expression of sincere shock. Childe leaned back, hands behind his head to enjoy the fruits of his detective work.

Little did he know, your shock was not because he was right, but rather that he actually bought your Cover. Sure, [y/n] was your real name, but it was also the name of a little girl who’d gone missing during the Wuwang Hill landslide. A little bureaucratic magic was all it took to assume her identity.

“It’s okay,” his expression softened as he leaned forward again, laying one hand atop your own, “I know what it is to care for family. You would do terrible things to keep them safe…” his voice trailed off as if he were remembering his own misdeeds. “I want to help you,” his voice was earnest. He was a damn good actor.

“I… appreciate the offer,” you gulped, attempting to tug your hand away to no avail.

“...But?” he pressed you.

“But they’d kill me,” and that part wasn’t a lie.

“Snezhnya is a formidable country. We have ways of helping… people like you,” he squeezed your hand in what you assumed was supposed to be a comforting gesture. It felt claustrophobic.  

“I don’t know,” you bit your lip, dropping your chin a scant inch so you could look up at him through your mascara thickened lashes. “I couldn’t possibly give you an answer right now,” he nodded, withdrawing his hand.

“I understand, of course. Take some time to think about it. The Tsaritsa is a strong Archon, you would be safe within our ranks,” you pursed your lips, hoping the tension in your face read as nervousness and not amusement. A silence fell between the two of you, though not one as uncomfortable as before. When the server arrived with your food, all seriousness bled away from Childe’s face as he thanked the young woman before refilled your wine glass.

The conversation shifted as the two enjoyed your meal. You weren’t completely at ease, but that was nothing special; you never were. Childe, having gotten his ‘proposal’ out of the way was a regular chatterbox. It was really quite impressive how much he said without revealing anything of substance.

He was a charming man, that was doubtless; his conversation skills were remarkable, he was an active listener, and his flirtations (though inappropriate, in your opinion) managed to steer clear of any touchy territory. He was beautiful, to say the least, with striking eyes and a well formed figure that would send any woman’s heart aflutter. He was the perfect Honey Trap.

But then again… so were you.

“This has been lovely, thank you,” you smiled at him with a bit more honesty than was advisable.

“Why does that sound like a goodbye?” He stepped closer into your space, his fingers grazing the delicate bone of your wrist.

“Because it is? I have to go to Master Shizhuong’s,” you backed away from him.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” he cajoled, “come take a walk with me, we could revisit that tree,” his eyebrows twitched up at the suggestive remark.

“No, thank you. Perhaps next time. I’m going to be late as it is,” you turned to leave but were halted by a hand on your elbow.

“When I asked you out tonight I didn’t just mean to dinner, [y/n].”

“That’s all well and good Master Childe, but I do have work to do. Now if you’ll excuse me—” he yanked you forward, pressing his body against yours. His lips brushed the shell of your ear and you shuddered to feel his warm breath against it.

“You don’t honestly think I’d let you out of my sight now , do you? That banquet doesn’t start for another hour at least,” there was a threat in those words, no matter how soft the tone was. You pulled back from him, shifting your features into what you hoped was a neutral expression.

“...I’m the dance coordinator. There’s a Yayue performance before the feast, I have to be there for the arrangement.” Childe’s smile was contrite and his grip on you loosened.

“Sorry, sorry, just being cautious you know,” he laughed. You huffed an incredulous sigh.

“Come on, ‘you don’t honestly think’ I’d run off to wreak havoc at a banquet immediately after your oh so considerate offer,” you tossed his turn of phrase back at him and he frowned.

“I would certainly hope not,” he brushed a stray curl out of your eyes. “See you there, then? That is if you have time for me,” he winked. Despite your better judgement you nodded your assent before making your way to the estate.

As you approached the back entrance to the mansion you let your fingers trace over the wood of the exterior until you found the right panel. As quickly and discreetly as you could manage you lifted it off its hinges and swapped the bottle that was inside with the note you’d had strapped to your upper thigh. You took a moment to lean against the building, one hand pressed against your chest. You took several deep breaths before straightening your qipao and heading inside. To any wayward onlooker it would seem as if you were merely collecting yourself. If who you thought was tailing you actually was, then you’d just solidified your cover as an indecisive and reluctant operative.

Inside the mansion you passed the dancer’s dressing room to enter Master Shizhuong’s private chambers. You removed the bottle from your bodice, dripping its contents onto the bottom edge of an ornately framed painting. Behind it lay the Master’s safe, containing valuable and important documents. Documents that you had on good authority were to be stolen by a Fontainèse spy that very evening.

You re-corked the bottle and returned to the dressing area, satisfied with your work. Launching into your Cover role you helped apply traditional makeup, tied ribbons, tightened bodices and arranged hair as the dancers gossiped amongst themselves. Ming, one of the youngest dancers of your ranks, sat quietly in the corner. You approached her, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Are you alright there?” You inquired. Her large doe eyes met yours and you could see the fear in them. She nodded.

“Are you… will you still help me tonight?”

Ming had come to you the week before with a sob story about needing money to help her sick mother. She shared with you her (rather convoluted) plan to bed Master Shizhuong, then blackmail him into providing her with the necessary funds. She’d asked for your help, imploring you to distract the middle-aged politician long enough for her to ‘prepare herself’ in his chambers.

You had, of course, readily agreed. You would never turn down a chance to take out an enemy operative. You almost felt bad—almost because, frankly she just wasn’t very good at her job. Her Cover was flimsy at best and her true intention—stealing classified documents from your host—was laughably easy to suss out. You smiled gently at the girl, a warm and comforting expression.

“Of course Ming. Anything for you. Please be safe,” you hugged the younger woman and felt her tears on your neck.

“No crying now,” you murmured, wiping a tear off of her cheek. “You’ll smear your makeup. Be strong; think of your mother and be strong ,” Ming’s smile was watery, but she nodded.

This is entirely too easy .

The entertainment had gone off without a hitch (because of course it had, you were damned good at your job) and you were engaging the Master of the house in a spirited discussion on the merits of the use of Cor Lapis in the production of chopsticks. You noticed your host’s eyes drifting over to the clock and you ran your finger down the seam of his sleeve, a coy gesture. Just as you were about to switch topics you felt a hand on your back.

“If I may be so bold, I believe Noctilucous Jade to be the superior material,” Zhongli’s smooth voice cut in and you inwardly groaned.

“Yes, yes, right as always Master Zhongli,” Shizhuong nodded with enthusiasm. “But—ah, excuse me please, I’m afraid I have an urgent matter to attend to,” he bowed before beating a hasty retreat. You hoped you stalled him for long enough for the poison to take effect. You’d be very disappointed if Ming lived long enough to get any of it on your host. You actually quite liked him.

“Hello Uncle,” you smiled pleasantly, using the honorific you reserved for when he was getting on your nerves. Zhongli’s head cocked to the side.

“My my, you’re in a mood, aren’t you? I take it your sortie with our resident Harbinger was not to your liking?” You blanched.

“I—you—he told you?” Zhongli chuckled.

“Bragged about it is more like it,” Childe’s voice came from behind you as an arm snaked its way around your waist. You fought hard against your instinct to flinch away. Zhongli inclined his head in greeting and Childe returned the gesture. “And I thought we had a lot of fun, didn’t we [y/n]?” You knew you were blushing but didn’t bother to fight it.

“Yes, ah, it was quite enjoyable,” your voice wavered just the slightest. Enough so that Childe’s grip on your waist tightened a bit.

“I must admit, I did not see this particular turn of events,” Zhongli remarked, his golden eyes lingering on the fingers tapping against your hip bone. “[Y/n] has never been out with a man, not once in the five years I’ve known her.”

“Maybe I was waiting for the right one,” you grit out from your teeth clenching smile.

“ Ming !” Master Shizhuong’s startled cry was muffled, but audible. The three of you turned in unison to stare at the hallway leading to the dressing rooms.

“Ming… no ,” you gasped, attempting to break away from Childe.

“Hold on—” he started but you pushed him away.

“Ming is one of my girls, I have to— I—” you shook your head before running towards the sound of the shout. You flung open the dressing room door, stopping only for a moment. You knew Zhongli and Childe were following you and you had to make a show of searching.

“Ming!” You screamed, continuing down the hall, throwing doors open as you went. Finally you made it to the master bedroom, your hands flying up to cover your mouth as a strangled sob escaped. You sagged against the door frame, making sure to hold your position until your companions had caught up. In the bedroom Ming laid slumped against the wall, dressed in nothing but her undergarments. The picture frame had been moved and the wall safe was clearly visible. Master Shizhuong sat on the bed, head in his hands.

“Oh no, no what did they do to you?” You stumbled into the room, dropping to your knees in front of her body. You reached out, hands shaking, as if to touch her, but felt yourself being yanked away.

“Don’t,” Childe’s voice was tight. “She may have been poisoned. Don’t touch anything ,” he barked. You felt your breath hitch as tears came to your eyes. These, at least, were more genuine than the one’s Childe had previously called you on. You liked Ming, you really did—she reminded you of yourself when you first started out.

You let that kernel of truth slip through your mask as you sobbed in Childe’s arms. He ran a soothing hand through your hair, pressing your face into the crook of his neck so you couldn’t look at her corpse.

“Shh. It’s okay,” he whispered. “Zhongli, can you handle this?” He must have nodded since you found yourself being tugged to your feet.

“No. I have to—I have to help her,” you protested softly. Childe shushed you again and led you from the room. “That could have been me,” you whispered, your voice hollow.

“It could have,” your companion agreed, though not unkindly. You allowed yourself to be dragged into the adjoining study. Gentle hands prodded you into an overstuffed chair and Childe knelt on the ground in front of you.

“I’m sorry [y/n], but I have to ask—did you have anything to do with this?” You tried to breathe in but the air stuck in your throat. Wordlessly you shook your head, tears still streaming down your face. You were certain your makeup was a disaster and you regretted your choice in mascara.

“Alright. Okay. Stay here. Zhongli and I will handle the rest,” he soothed, moving to stand.

“No,” you choked out, standing as well. “No, I have twenty nine other girls out there that need me,” you sniffled, wiping away the moisture on your cheeks. Childe stared at you, his face unreadable.

“Fine. But wait for me. You’ll need an escort home tonight,” you didn‘t argue. He turned to leave and you reached out without thinking. He stilled, looking down at your joined hands.

“I’m sorry. I… thank you,” you startled at the soft brush of lips against your forehead. He said nothing in reply, sweeping out of the room in a hurry.

Report;

Things have progressed well with Agent Pisces. Target believes me to be operating under duress and has made overtures to turn me. Agent Swan has been eliminated, Millelith on high alert. Will proceed with caution.

Dead Drop at Blue House compromised, Sanitized documents have been left there, please convey a new rendez-vous point ASAP.

Operation Blowback Intercept on hold until further notice.

I await further instructions.

Swallow

[anomander-dragnipurake]

Possessed Part 2 Chapter Four: Discussion

Back in the lab, the boxes were placed haphazardly all over the floor. E. Gadd was already sorting through them while Polterpup chewed on a bone in the corner and Gooigi seemed to just be sort of standing around, watching. They looked up and lifted a hand in a small wave as Luigi, King Boo, and Mario entered. King Boo even let Luigi return with his own wave. It was nice to see Gooigi again, though Luigi felt a bit bad about having not thought of them much the past however long King Boo had been possessing him for.

“Did you tell him?” E. Gadd asked, looking up from his work to swivel around in his chair to face them. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what he had to mean.

“Yes,” Luigi said. He would’ve still preferred not to but there was no way they could’ve kept it a secret for long no matter what.

“Good. I already explained to Gooigi so you don’t have to worry them.” That was one worry off Luigi’s plate at least. Whatever Gooigi felt about the situation was impossible to guess but that was how it was always was with them.

“You can fix it, right?” Mario asked, walking around the boxes to stand by E. Gadd at his desk.

“I don’t know yet but I’m going to try. I have to adjust the KBE blueprints some and might need to send you four out for more parts to build it. So it’s still days if not weeks away from being done. And I don’t even know if that time frame’s going to be an issue or not. How fast does it take for two souls to become one? At what point does separating them become impossible? There’s so much we don’t know.”

Neither King Boo or Luigi had thought to consider that before. What if they’d already reached the point of no return? If not how far away were they from it? It could potentially take weeks for E. Gadd to finish the KBE, that was a scary amount of time when under an unknown time limit.

“You two,” E. Gadd said, pointing at King Boo and Luigi, “You haven’t said anything about it but you must’ve noticed symptoms of what’s happening with your souls by now. About how long ago did they start? If we can pinpoint about when the process began, we might be able to calculate approximately how fast it’s occurring.”

Both of them thought back to when they’d first started becoming more aware of the other’s thoughts and emotions. They both came up blank though; their memories from before their trip to the Boo Kingdom were foggy and indistinct. Neither of them were even sure how long King Boo had been possessing Luigi for.

Which is your fault. If King Boo hadn’t been running around injecting Luigi’s body with every chemical he could find they would know more. Also, he would’ve gotten bored of the game sooner, possibly resulting in them not being in the mess in the first place. Or heck, if he just hadn’t possessed Luigi in the first place, things would be better for both of them.

‘How was I supposed to know this could happen? If anything, it’s your fault for making defeating you any other way so difficult.’

In the interest of keeping what little peace they could have Luigi wasn’t going to reply to that. “Longer than two weeks ago,” he said out loud instead.

“Much longer?” E. Gadd asked. “Or about two weeks?”

“Uh… I…” Luigi began before King Boo cut him off. “We’re not entirely sure because most of our time was spent experimenting with every inebriating substance we could get out hands on. As a result, we were barely aware of much of anything a lot of the time, let alone our thoughts getting closer, and we certainly can’t remember any of it well. So we can’t say when it started, only that it was longer than two weeks, probably by a fair bit. Before we found out about it was fun though, drugs, alcohol, and the ability to sleep are the only good things the living have.”

Why’d you have to tell them that? Luigi had had no control for any of it but he still felt ashamed and would’ve preferred no one ever knew of it. … Which was exactly why King Boo had told them.

Mario glared but as he opened his mouth to speak, King Boo cut him off.

“Before you get all mad at me about that, let me share just one more thing and ask a very important question related to it.” With an evil smile, he pushed back against Luigi’s attempt to make him shut up because mentioning that wasn’t necessary. Luigi didn’t want to think about it ever again. … Too bad, King Boo wanted to know why it had happened and there was a chance it might be useful information to E. Gadd. “On the day we discovered our predicament, I tried multiple ways to fix it myself. I only came here as a last resort after all. But the way that definitely should’ve worked but didn’t for some inexplicable reason was death. I tried to kill the meat suit but it wouldn’t die.”

“You did what?” Now Mario was really mad as he took a menacing few steps closer.

With an evil chuckle, King Boo pulled down the collar of suit, better revealing the mostly healed wound on Luigi’s neck. “I slashed his throat,” he said as he ran the thumb of his other hand over it, sending a shudder down Luigi’s spine. “Deep too. He couldn’t breath and he bled what seemed to be most of if not all his blood out. I even stopped his heart. And yet, he wouldn’t die.”

“You bastard!” Mario grabbed King Boo by the shirt and shoved his back roughly against the wall. He reared a fist back for a punch but seemed to catch himself just in time to punch the wall next to Luigi’s head instead of Luigi himself. “How dare you?”

With in inward chuckle, King Boo surrendered control to Luigi. Mario pushing him against the wall was suddenly the main thing keeping him up right as he shook from just the memory of that incident. It made him nauseous but he could almost recall what it felt like to lie there, bleeding out but not dying, not even passing out.

Mario jerked back with a stricken look. “I’m sorry Luigi, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine,” Luigi interrupted. “I uh… just don’t want to think about… that.” He wanted to say more but…

Having had his fun messing with Mario, King Boo took control back; steeling against the trembling and even pushing down the growing panic and forcing away the memory of it which Luigi wholeheartedly welcomed and assisted in. He then put a hand on Mario’s shoulder to push him to the side a bit to stroll past him. “Why did that happen?” he asked he strode over to stand in front of E. Gadd. “Why can’t the meatsuit die?”

E. Gadd looked shocked but quickly recovered, shaking it off before replying. “Hmmm… well I can’t say for sure without more data but my hypothesis would be that it has something to do with your souls merging. One of your souls is dead while the other is not, together you’d be something that’s sort of in-between, right? Meaning you’re neither fully alive nor fully dead and thus you can’t die. Oh uh… you may have actually discovered the secret to immortality, congrats! Hmm… I wish I could run all sorts of tests and experiments on you but… I can’t. My lab’s in shambles and there are lines I won’t cross even for science, letting a friend’s soul merge with someone so vile is one of them. I need the prioritize finished the KBE above all else.”

Luigi could’ve hugged him for that and with all he’s been through lately, he probably would’ve if King Boo wasn’t there to restrain him. … That hug with Mario had been more than enough for the day, King Boo refused to tolerate any more. So Luigi had to settle for a shaky, “Thank you,” instead.

E. Gadd grunted an acknowledgement as he spun his chair back to face his desk. “Speaking of that, I have work I need to get back to. Revealing your… stunt reminded me just how urgent his is.”

Unhappy but satisfied with that answer, King Boo turned back around to grin at Mario who was back to looking mad. “As soon as you’re out of my bro’s body, I’m gonna make you pay for everything you did to him,” he said, making it sound like a promise.

With an evil chuckle, King Boo raised an eyebrow. “Really? And how do you plan to do that? We’ve fought before, remember? Three times now. I won easily every single time. If it wasn’t for your bro here, you’d still be wall art.”

“I don’t care. You’re going to pay.”

Luigi wished he could take comfort in that but… he just couldn’t. Mario didn’t stand a chance against King Boo; three times were certainly enough to prove that. Maybe if he had a Poltergust he would but even then, he didn’t know how to use it, did he? It didn’t match his style of combat at all.

‘If he tries anything, he’s doomed.’ … So hopefully he wouldn’t. If he did, Luigi would have to try to convince him not to. But that was thankfully something he didn’t have to worry about right now, getting free of King Boo came first.

 -

Over the next however long, they sort of just hung out at the lab. E. Gadd worked, only occasionally calling Gooigi over to help with something. He called King Boo and Luigi over once for one more scan just for the sake of it and to see if anything had changed; it hadn’t. Other than that, none of them had anything more they could do right now but seemingly nowhere else to go.

It was Mario who eventually pointed out how late it was. Neither Luigi nor King Boo had noticed beyond taking note of Gooigi falling asleep in the corner but it was nearing midnight. King Boo’s magic and seemingly the whole half dead, half alive thing reduced their need for sleep – and other life sustaining things like food and water – making it easy to lose track of how late it was.

“Rest is for those without coffee,” E. Gadd protested upon the suggested he should rest and continue tomorrow.

Mario frowned at him. “While I agree, this is very important and needs to be done as soon as possible, it’s probably better if you rest.”

“I agree,” King Boo said. “If you fuck this up because of sleep deprivation or any other reason, I’ll make you death a slow one.” As much as he’d like it if E. Gadd could work on it 24/7, even he knew that the living needed sleep or they didn’t function properly. He’d rather it take a little longer to ensure E. Gadd did it right then rush it and probably result in something in it not working right and thus the whole thing failing.

E. Gadd groaned and complained in a way that was almost funny before finally spinning around and hopping off his chair. “Fine whatever. Let’s all get some rest. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” Mario said as E. Gadd walked off. He then turned to look at King Boo and Luigi, still leaning against a wall to the side. “You want to come back to the castle with me? It’s a shorter drive back here than to your old place. And we can car pool.”

“You… really want me coming back with you?” Luigi asked because anywhere he went, King Boo went too and no one in their right mind would invite King Boo over to their house.

‘Wow, rude! I’m perfectly good company.’ … That was so blatantly untrue it wasn’t even worth a response. … ‘When I want to be I am.’

“Of course I do, your my bro. Even if you got an uh… unwelcome passenger right now, you’re still welcome over.”

“Let’s go then,” King Boo said as he stood up. He was bored and sleep sounded nice right about now anyway even if they didn’t feel much need for it yet.

 -

Mario didn’t live in the castle itself – though he did have a room there that he stayed in sometimes – but a house very near it. Luigi had lived with him there until a few years ago when he’d decided to try to be a little more independent. Which actually was part of what had led into the original haunted mansion trap so maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

Regardless, the place was almost exactly how Luigi remembered, the red couch in front of the outdated TV, the kitchen doorway to the right, and the hall leading to the bedrooms, except messier. Mario had never cared much about tidiness the way Luigi did. … King Boo preferred tidiness too. … Finally, something they had in common so at least when their souls merged, whatever kind of person they’d become would still be neat and tidy.

‘No need to be so pessimistic.’ It dampened King Boo’s confidence that this would turn out fine.

Can you blame me for being pessimistic when you’ve been making my life a living hell for however long we’ve been like this? Honestly, as bad as the idea of their souls merging into one was, it would probably be better than continuing to exist with King Boo in control of his body. So I think I’m allowed to be as pessimistic and negative and whatever else I want however much I want.

‘You should really stand up for yourself more. It’s more exciting than your whimpering and cowering is.’ Though part of why it was exciting was that the whimpering and cowering had gotten old after being exposed to it for so long.

Fuck you too. Even if he wasn’t physically tired, he was mentally and he just wanted this nightmare to be over with already. He’d reached the end of his rope a long time ago. That earned a chuckle from King Boo, before he could properly reply though…

“You okay?” Mario asked, stepping in front of them.

“No,” they said out loud together because it was impossible for them to be okay in these circumstances.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Unless you’ve been hiding a way to get me out of this meat suit, then no, you can’t help,” King Boo replied.

Mario glared at him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“It’s fine Mario,” Luigi cut in before King Boo could reply with a snarky taunt. “I’ll be fine… hopefully. I trust the professor, if anyone can fix it, it’s him.” What if he couldn’t though? What if it was too late already? Or too late by the time he finished the KBE?

“Yeah, you’ll be free of King Boo soon, I’m sure, just got to hang on a bit longer.” Mario gave him an encouraging smile. Luigi had always been a little jealous of his confidence. “Let’s go to be now, huh? It’s been a long day.”

Ignoring him, King Boo strode past him towards the bedroom. For the sake of getting along… ‘Which room is yours?’ He was tempted to head for Mario’s room to mess stuff up but it would accomplish nothing.

The one on the right. Luigi wouldn’t have let him mess with anything anyway.

“Uh… goodnight then Luigi,” Mario called after them as King Boo started down the hall. “Sweet dreams.”

“’Night Mario,” Luigi returned before King Boo could close the door.

[renwritesstuff]

we are family

Day 4: we are family.

Describe or draw a familiar moment. Are they close, or estranged? Are they blood relatives, or family found with friends?

Two Traynors stared each other down, hands hovering over a small box. There were 5 empty shot glasses in a semicircle around them, flanking the pristine chess board between the pair.

Wiping her hands with a dish towel, Priya Suresh-Traynor pleaded with her family. “Dessert is almost ready, do you two have to do this now?”

“The fate of the galaxy depends on it, mum,” Samantha Traynor mumbled back, not breaking eye contact with her father.

“You heard the kid,” Geoffrey Traynor seconded with a lazy smile. “I need to know my little sprog‘s mind hasn’t gotten soft since she’s been away.”

“Soft?? Did you miss the part where I kicked Polgara T’Suza’s arse across the Citadel?”

“Vid or it didn’t happen.”

What are you, five??

...God, I wish I had a vid. Are there vids? I wonder if I can ask for one...

“I have a trophy proving it happened. And a witness.” Sam’s eyes flitted over to the witness in question, her gaze narrowing.

Commander Annelise Shepard held her glass of red wine in surrender. Her voice came out wet and shaky from her fresh sip. “She’s—” Shepard patted her chest from the cough. “—She’s correct. She electrocuted that asari good.” 

And got a shower as a prize.

That narrow challenge in her eyes switched to panic as Sam glanced back at her father, who was tsking in disapproval. “Neuro-feedback chess? ...Sammy. You didn’t.”

The Comms Specialist scowled. “I didn’t choose it, it was part of the tourney rules. Usually, yes, I have slightly more integrity.” Unless I really want to win, that is. “It was just a lark, father.”

“Well as long as it was on a lark you buried that smug asari, I guess you’re forgiven. ...still can’t top your Dad at 5-Shot Speed Chess though, I bet.” The older man blew on his knuckles theatrically and gave them a wiggle before resuming his position at the worn speed clock.

Oh, you’re on.

“Oh, you’re on.”

Priya gave an apologetic smile at Shepard, who had taken up perch at the kitchen counter partition. The bar seat next to her was empty, waiting for Sam to return from her tense game. The matriarch of the Traynor family was busy at the stove stirring the simmering pot of kheer on one burner while checking a boiling sugary syrup on another. The warm kitchen filled with the scent of Indian spices and jasmine rice bled over into the prefab living room area.

“I wish I could lie and say something like ‘they aren’t usually like this,’ but…” Priya shrugged and smiled fondly at her husband as the game began. The speed clock snapped with each hit as the older and younger Traynor dove into an intense exchange of pieces. “It’s actually a tradition when Sammy comes home.” She paused before clarifying. “A tradition since Sammy was proper drinking age, mind you.”

Annelise smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

Sighing, Priya tapped away her Omni-tool where a reverse countdown timer could be seen by Shepard. “I think it was One-Shot Speed Chess back then,” she admitted. “I swear we were a classy family at some point. ...I can’t recall when, precisely, but I assumed we had to have bumbled into it somewhere in the last 25 years.”

“I’m 26, mum,” Sam reminded loudly as she slapped the clock once more.

“We were definitely classy when you were one, sprog,” Priya snarked back. “I mean, you weren’t because you just ate and shat all day, but Geoffrey and I were newlyweds and still extremely classy.”

“Muuuuuuum!” 

Oh my God do we have to talk about me shitting my diaper in front of Shepard???

Annelise failed to hide a staccato of exhale-laughs behind her wine glass, amused by the exchange.

Oh my God why did we come here?

...Oh shit Dad almost had me there.

Oh shit are they doing this on purpose? Working together against me??

Betrayed by my own flesh and blood!

Sam had to do a few lazy blinks to push back the swimming in her head and vision. Those shots were creeping in fast aided by a full stomach of naan and saag paneer. But she resumed focus on the game at hand, giving the clock another slap as she nudged her white bishop in an offensive position.

“So, Comm—Annelise,” Priya fumbled slightly. “What are your parents like?”

Mum. Did you not watch any ANN profiles? 

Shepard’s sip of wine was casual, unruffled by the question. “Couldn’t tell you. Both gone. Mom when I was four from eezo poisoning, Dad when I was thirteen. Fire in our apartment building.”

What could have been a very awkward silence was instead filled with Priya’s empathetic tongue cluck (honed from years of practice as a registered nurse). “You poor thing. Too much life experience forced onto someone so young.” Her vigorous stirring motion never wavered. “Not to mention the life of a marine on top of all that. What a hand this universe deals us, hm?”

“Indeed,” Annelise agreed. She smiled sadly, her eyes inward as though weighing something. “This reminds me of the dinners I had with my brother and dad.”

Oh? Samantha’s head tilted so she could hear better. Her father was closing in on one corner of the board, but her queen sprang into a hole in his defenses.

“Oh?” Priya asked, echoing Sam’s own curiosity.

Nodding, Annelise rotating the now empty wine glass in her hand. “Dad wasn’t much for cooking, but John loved it. He loved grilling and barbecue. He’d usually save some of his courier paycheck for a good cut of meat at the store and try out different seasonings.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “I bet he would have loved your cooking.”

“I fear I know the answer, but where is ...John?” At Shepard’s nod, Priya continued. “Where is John now?”

Oh no.

Should have given your folks some notes, Traynor.

I didn’t think it was my tale to tell!

How are you this bad at relationships, Traynor??

“Also gone, right before Dad. Car accident.” Annelise chewed her cheek a moment. “You know, before the Skyllian Blitz, I thought I was pretty unlucky based on all that.”

“And now?”

“Well, everything’s kind of a shit show, so jury’s out on that.” Annelise looked over at Sam, who was getting louder and more erratic with her clock taps. “But lucky in other ways.”

“Oh good answer, love!” Priya crowed, snapping the towel in Annelise’s direction. “A for effort, superbly charming response.” Her Omni-tool started beeping, signaling the woman to pull the pot of rice milk off the burner and set it aside to cool before turning her attention to the syrup. “What were three favorite things your brother cooked?”

An exhale deep through Shepard’s nose as she held her chin in her hand. “Oh God, I haven’t thought about that in ages.” She nodded at Priya’s silent pantomime offer to refill her wine glass. “He loved ribeye steak. Kind of fatty for me, and too damn expensive, but… I dunno, I liked it because he liked it so much.”

Aw. Sam felt a pang of longing for Shepard. There was a fondness to the woman’s tone that didn’t come up often. 

How often does Commander Bloody Shepard have a moment to think about her family? Or talk about them?

We should work on that, Traynor.

Geoffrey piped up regarding one of his favorite subjects. “Good man! Good cut of beef. What temperature?” He pointed a finger at Annelise as though calling on a student in one of his classes.

“Medium rare.”

“Good man indeed,” Geoffrey agreed as he slapped the timer one more time. White and black sides pieces were dwindling as lines of attack thinned out.

“Let’s see, what else… He actually did a spiced mutton I really liked. Sometimes lamb. Both were dirt cheap for awhile in Seattle before the drought, so he made a lot of it.” Annelise smiled as she accepted a small round poor of kheer, a sprinkling of ground nuts on top. “Oh, and his ribs were to die for. John had this dry rub mixture he spent months tinkering with. Took damn near eight hours to cook, but worth it.”

Geoffrey exchanged a look with his wife before cutting back to the game. Priya nodded.“Oh we love lamb in this house. One of the many reasons we applied for colony life. No more ration stamps from those artificial trade wars with the Volus, and all our farming sustainable and available direct to the colony first.” Priya fired up her Omni-tool. “I have a lot of great lamb recipes if you’re—goodness! I haven’t asked how your cooking chops fare?”

Nudging a pawn over to take Sam’s knight, Geoffrey jibed. “A loaded question, dear. We all know our Sammy is completely dependent on Alliance-provided cafeteria food. How she survived four years at Oxford is a complete mystery. She should have either ended up three hundred pounds from eating rubbish or died of scurvy.”

Hey!

“You talk a lot of shit, old man, for someone who just got checked. And it’s called a dormitory meal plan, I’ll have you know. I had three square meals.”

I just probably didn’t drink water the entire time. All booze or energy drinks.

“Of cafeteria food, further proving my point. Also, check.”

Ugh. Also, what?

That exhale-laugh from Annelise almost pulled Sam away from her last ditch strategy. The Commander extended her own Omni-tool. “I’d love the help. While I can survive on a remote moon with just a knife and a canteen, I don’t prefer to. I did undercover work for a year after graduating N7, so we had to learn how to be human again. Cooking included. Some of it even some fancy five course meals meant to impress targets.”

“So you know where all the forks go and what they do?” Samantha asked, slapping the timer. “Check.”

“I definitely do.” Those green eyes glittered with mirth.

“Oooh, be still my heart.” Sam shot a finger-gun at her girlfriend.

Priya made some flicking motions with her fingers before an answering ping from Shepard’s wrist. “Well, here are some of Sammy’s favorites. Someone should have them, since the pride of my life can’t make toast.” 

“Hey!”

“I also made note of some of the ones with Sammy’s allergies.”

Annelise flicked through the holo screen, studying the recipes. “Curry, shellfish, and peanuts, right?”

You forgot public speaking and losing at chess to my father.

Sam’s mother clutched her heart theatrically. “You know! Oh Geoffrey, did you hear? Sammy trusted her with shellfish, darling!” Priya poured a ladle full of the syrup over a small pyramid of large cake-like balls that had been chilling in a dish. She brought the dish over to the pair of competitors whose game was nearing completion.

“Check! And I did, love! It seems our Samantha is serious about this one! ...or her commanding officer looked at her file.” He grinned at his daughter before reaching for one of the gulab jamun.

Scowling, Sam slapped his hand away from the bowl before slapping the speed clock again. She could feel a heat rising in her neck and jaw (hopefully it was just the alcohol). “No dessert til we finish the game! And check!” 

After a tentative bite, Annelise dug into the bowl of sweet kheer with enthusiasm. “I mean, you’re not wrong, sir. But I had the decency to act surprised when she finally told me. How was that again, Samantha?” 

Oh sonabitch.

“When we went out on a date in public for the first time and I stole a bite of your lobster roll and my throat closed and we had to go to the med center.”

Both of her parents barked her name at the same time. “Samantha Karuna Traynor!” Her father added, “You always were a sucker for lobster despite never learning your lesson. And check.”

“It was worth it!” Sam squawked. “It was delicious! Also: check mate!” The pawn she’d been nudging forward that her father ignored got promoted to a rook and was now perfectly positioned to box in his king. 

Geoffrey stared at the change of fortune, dismayed and swaying a little in his chair. The shots were clearly taking hold. He tipped his king over in surrender, bowed his head at his daughter, and grabbed the topmost gulab jamun. 

Samantha joined him with a second ball, the syrup coating dripping slightly. They raised their desserts in salute before taking a big bite.

Mouth full, Sam grinned up at Shepard who was standing next to her chair. “I had you there to rescue me, darling. I knew I’d be all right.”

“I hope that’s always the case,” Annelise smiled back as she kissed Sam’s forehead. 

Before she slowly dropped down to one knee.

[juniebjoneswrites]

Bring Me Home // Harry Styles

The Bargain (3)

I'm making a bargain. Selling my soul, if you will. When it's late at the shop and Seb refuses my help with the trash I am left alone. Most nights are okay and he comes back in minutes, others he takes much longer. I wonder if the Devil himself can hear the war inside me and, and like children in a school yard, steals those moments of intimacy between the two of us. He pulls my braids and dares me to meet him under the kissing tree. We both know I'll go.

Maybe the trash bag rips, or the top of the dumpster is jammed so Seb can't open it immediately. Maybe he's frozen in his steps, unaware of the passage of time, so the big man downstairs can whisper sweet-nothings in my ear like a lover. I feel his breath against my neck, a romantic lullaby to drift me into surrender. I sip it like wine. It would only get better with age and I know he knows how to make it last. Maybe Seb can feel him in a witchy-way and refuses to come back until he deems it safe. Seb would survive this horror film, I on the other hand would be the first one to go.

Cue my opening scene: It's obviously raining and the wind howls. I'm reading some teen magazine I plucked from the register stand and have large headphones on. I'm bopping to some hit new song I've burned onto my new cassette. "I'm gonna take the trash out," Seb says, holding it up.

"Oh I can do it," I offer.

He waves me off, "I'm just as good as I ever was, child. Just do what you do best. Read that story and disrespect authority," I never said it was a well-written movie. He goes into the rainy night without another look. Now you might think, 'Well he's a goner. Never going to see him again," but you'd be wrong. In all these movies it's the people like him who stick around for a while. Hes a good man, married young, reads his bible, and abstained from sex before marriage (I assume.) That's the trope and if you don't believe me you can look it up. He also fought a war so it gives him brownie points.

Cut back to the banger i'm listening to and the scandalous story i'm sucking into my young adult brain like it's cigarettes in an extravagant 60's movie. I would be the leading lady's stand in who finally got the spotlight after an 'accident' happened on set. I digress. The song hits the chorus and everyone's jamming along but the battery to my cassette player dies mysteriously and I'm left in deafening silence. Then the pulsing, buzzing sound from the lights take over. Taking off my headphones it gets louder and louder, I flinch at the screeching. Just as I look up at them thinking my ears may bleed, a whole aisle of lights burst. Silence again. Silence so deep I forget it's raining. "Just great," I think. I pop my overly large bubble gum bubble and roll my eyes, setting the magazine down. I redo my top ponytail with my overly large scrunchie and grab a broom because I think I'll just sweep up the shards of glass littering the floor and call it a night.

As I approach the aisle the two remaining, dimmed lights that survived the blast dare me closer, promising light. We know they're lying. I glance up at them as if to call their bluff and I want to rip them down just to show them I can. I'm getting angry. I have only just realized I've been angry my whole life. Haven't I? I want to lie down and make myself a bed of glass for the release and think it over. My foot crunches over them and becomes embedded into my shoe. I angrily reach for the shelves for support to pull the shard from the rubber of my sole but I slice my hand on a large piece. Surely it wasn't there before? How could I have missed one of that size? I gasp and clutch it to my chest. "You could have at least warned me," I cursed the canned goods and cat food.

I turn around heading to the aisle with bandages and I could have sworn I saw something run behind the counter? I'm sure it was nothing. I rip open a box of gauze and wrap it around my hand like it's a war and I just have to make it back to the trenches to survive. I don't know where my trenches would be here, maybe the dumpster. Where is Seb?

Cut to Seb: He's dumped the trash in the dumpster and has headphones of his own on that we never saw him leave with. He's taking a cigarette break because this is an 80's horror flick and that's what they did back then. He's reading an old love story and certainly dreaming of his own lost love. He is completely unaware of his station's lights flickering on and off over the pumps even though he's using their light to read. It's okay, Seb, I'll keep myself safe. I'm armed with a broom after all, don't worry. It's only a little blood.

Back inside I've started sweeping the shards and keeping my eye on the shelves as well since this is a group insurgence and I refuse to be on the losing team again. I hum the song from earlier. Once I get to the chorus I forget my surroundings and close my eyes, singing to the broom, as one does. Making myself vulnerable to various attacks I realize I wouldn't survive an insurgence either. There's a noise behind me and I spin around to see nothing. No shadows behind the register, certainly no Seb, but still my neck prickles. I run my non-bandaged hand down the back of it and swear I can feel a breath. I spin around again and slip on a glass shard. I throw my arms around and grab hold of a shelf but there's no stopping this fall. The side of my head bangs against a sharp corner and I can immediately feel the bloody warmth on my face.

I am disoriented. My mind reels and I can't seem to catch up to my surroundings. I spiral through my mind for a reason, an answer. I can hear laughing but who is there? I see no one and still there is an unmistakable, deep laugh. A cold washes over me as I dig deep, deep, deeper for questions I can't remember, why can't I remember? This was more than a fall. I see shadows spreading at different angles, long and lean. I want to reach out for a hand but fear freezes me. I must look like the old woman in all of those Life Alert ads who's fallen near her bed. My mind gives me the only freedom I can muster and ask the questions they've all asked before me, "Who's there?" no answer. "Seb? Is that you?"

The laugh comes again. It's distorting and draining, dizzying and enticing. I want to hear it again. It obliges. There's something inviting in the way it slinks through the air as if it lives in it. I can feel it in my bones and I want to know it. The glass starts to shake and rattle and I think maybe an earthquake? Don't be stupid. Don't split up. Don't go in the basement. I know all these things and yet I find myself reaching for the glass as if it will transfer energy into me. Don't be stupid. Glass, crystalline, dusty old glass. Who knew it could be so enchanting? I squeeze it into my cut palm and watch the blood stain my wrappings. It laughs again. I feel drunk. "What do you want?" I half heartedly ask it. Isn't that what they always ask too? I can't remember anymore. I don't think I can remember a single thing other than what's in my hand. I don't think I really care.

"What do you want?" It asks back. Voice as smooth as velvet, alluring and demanding. I can see why the good always falls for the bad. I make no response, still thinking of nothing other than the glass in my hands. "Tell me," It says harsher.

The voice changes ever so slightly and I'm jolted from my nightmares. My mind releases and I can almost think. "What do I want?"

"Yes," it lulls me back.

"I want..." I squeeze the glass again, it shoots pains up my arm. "I want life,"

"You already have that," its voice takes on a melody.

"Not mine,"

"Someone else's?"

"Yes," My voice is syrup. "Give him mine," I cannot tell if I'm even speaking or thinking. My brain is slow. My body is molasses.

There's pounding on the stores glass doors and in an instant the shadows disappear. I can think again and I am cold all over. I hear the door swing open and Seb runs inside. He finds me slumped over on the ground, my face is bloody from the fall and my hand has completely bled through the gauze. He helps me up and over to the chair. He calls 911 and as they're on their way, sweeps up the glass. I want to tell him to be careful, to tell him that there's something over there but I can't speak. The words are stuck in my throat, sweet like honey. The only thing I'm left with are blurry memories and an overwhelming feeling of a thumb brushing my cheek seconds before Seb hit the doors. I open my hand and I find I'm still clutching the glass. The voice will find me again and we will make a deal.

I dream all this as Seb takes out the trash and, with every fiber of my being, I try to manifest it into existence. But the door opens and he comes back. I will try again tomorrow.

(1) / (2) / 3 / (4) / (5) / (6)

[rcris123]

“Com’ere, Isaac.”

The boy approaches with cautious step, as if the downed buck could still charge at him. He ain’t ever been on a hunt before.

“Gonna teach you how to skin a deer.”

He waits for Isaac to come next to him; a hand tucks the hair behind the boy’s ear. It’s a messy clump of brown hair, growing in all directions. He should cut it again soon. His son’s hand is small into his own as he passes the knife to him.

“Grip it firm.” Palm squeezes around the handle; Arthur’s follows. Isaac’s arm is stiff, hard to put into motion but he eases off soon enough. “You start at the belly.” Knife pressed harshly into the animal, only deep enough to pierce just the skin. “Slice it all the way up.” Motions follow. “Then you peel away at the skin with one hand.” Arthur demonstrates. “Yank hard.” And the pelt comes right off. “Help ye’rself with the knife.” The tip almost gracefully cuts the thin film holding the flesh and skin together.

Isaac was 12 or so back then. Never left his side since. Wherever Arthur went his son came with him. Exception made the official business, as Dutch gracefully called it. He can’t take a 16 year old robbin’, killin’ or just put him in any sort of vicinity to a goddamn gunfight.

Arthur ain’t got what it took to lose the kid too.

Isaac knows how to shoot. He taught him himself. He saw him using a gun; he’s got a revolver of his own.

Part of him is still scared, that kid ain’t gonna run away when he oughotta.

Some O’Driscolls caught them at a bridge, once. He told the kid to stay back; got off his horse, surrendered. Shot the man’s face just a moment later. Then the discharge of a revolver from behind and a thug grippin’ his shoulder in pain. Arthur put a bullet in the man’s skull just a moment later. Then ran out to get the rest as well. Isaac did good. Stood stiff, fear in his eyes, but he did good.

Then Blackwater...

Thank Christ Al’Mighty Isaac was with him away from that boat ‘cause if he got caught in that mess back there, he wouldn’t of made it out alive...

Then into the cold. He took the boy with him huntin’, with Charles. Isaac was more skilled with a bow that he thought he’s ever oughtta be; Charles insisted he use one himself. Arthur did; they barely scrapped two kills, then boy schooled him on the ins and outs of the bow ever since.

 Arthur took him everywhere he went.

They went hunting and fishing by the Lannahechee river, not that Arthur was a particularly good fisherman, but the camp needed its food and it was just some more time spent with his kid. The pelts they were gonna sell in Saint Denis for cash and bring that back to the camp too. It should have been peaceful.

Had it not been for those goddamn Lemoyne Raiders, shouting out who they were like the name meant anything and they weren’t just a bunch of low lives. They got them off the horses as if they weren’t allowed in the city. Isaac, the stern thing, howled back at them. Pistols out.

He barely had enough time to wrap his body around Isaac before bullets start pouring. He feels them lodge in his back, shoulder. He drags the boy next to a rock by the bridge’s edge; Isaac is shrieking enraged, trying to take shots.

“Head down, boy!”

As he rests against the rock it’s already hard to breathe, pain siphoning into his ribs. Isaac takes the riffle off his back as Arthur took the repeater. It’s sloppy shots from his son, downing the enemy by power not finesse, multiple bullets to the chest. Whenever the gun rebounds muscles ache. He needs to get to a doctor- soon... Isaac ain’t supposed to see this. Isaac ain’t supposed to be here. Arthur aims for the head, the neck. One more. One more-

The last standing body falls down. The swamp goes quiet.

Arthur takes out the breath he’s been holdin’ in for the next reload.

Christ. A hand swats at the wounded shoulder, prods in to check how deep’s the wound. He knows Isaac’s watching as he grimaces and retracts a blood-stained finger.

“Pa...” Kid’s breathing heavier than he is. “Y-you got shot.”

It wasn’t the first time he got shot... Isaac just didn’t remember. Wasn’t with him. There was a ‘I’m sorry’ that bubbles up in his throat, but he can’t put it on the kid to take care of him. Isaac ain’t needin’ to carry his foolishness.

“I’ll live.” He tries that chuckle, but it don’t come out right; he’ll just lean against this rock and wait for the pain to even out before he gets up. The horses scurried off to the trees lining the path.

“I’ll go get help.” Isaac stands up-

Hand grips the thin arm: “No.” A stern grunt, then a heave, and up Arthur goes, voice mellowed: “What am I gonna do if I ain’t got you to fend my back?”

Isaac’s mouth hung open, then his whole face scrunched up in some kind of shame he ain’t meant to bear. Oh, Isaac...

The boy whistles and the horses come running.

Arthur wastes no time getting up in the saddle. Bones shouldn’t ache when doing that, but so they do and there comes a puff of air to help bear the pain.

“C-Can you ride?...”

“Sure.” Overconfident and with a smile, while his back’s arched too forward. “Ain’t a few bullets gonna kill me.”

“It killed them...”

And Arthur ain’t no hero...

But he ain’t about to let the kid with no family.

There’s a doctor in St. Denis; they just gotta find out where, and that before he collapses of bloodloss- and they got told; and it’s right on the opposite side of town, next the church. He’s gotta make it till there; but his muscles hurt too much to tense and keep ‘im in saddle when he tries spurring his mare to a gallop-

Christ!

“PA!”

He tumbles down and wheezes, huffing through the agony, rolling on the pavement. A wagon all but ran him over. Then he’s strung up and it’s not his son’s arms that do so.

“C’mon I’ll get you to a doctor.” A low, gravelly voice. He could feel the breath fawn over his neck; smells of whiskey. “Not long now.”

The man dragged him along half the city. He didn’t get a good look at him, but he could still eye Isaac manning the horses just a bit behind them, all worried. He was brought into the doctor’s office and uncomfortably sat somehow sideways in the chair as the bullets were to be pulled out.

The man dragged Isaac out when he wanted to get in by his side.

Thank you. The boy ain’t meant to see him like that, ‘cause he screamed; ‘course he did. Biting his lips worked only up to a point: until they bled and that pain almost confounded with every other pain he’s feeling. He asked for a gag, mister doctor ain’t got any. Groaning and moaning it seemed to be ‘till the end then. Alcohol, sutures, agony and 20 dollars later he was free to stumble out.

Isaac wrapped his arms around his waist the moment he was out the door.

“Mister...” There the stranger still was, leaned against the wall, hat tipped over his face. Arthur gripped the doorframe. “Why you still here?”

“Wanna see you and the boy safely off.”

“Why.”

Man scowls, walks briskly away, offended.

Isaac places an almost delicat punch beneath his ribs:

“Ain’t you even gonna ask the mister’s name?”

“Sebastian. Castellanos.” The man stopped in the doorframe.

“Arthur Morgan.”

“Isaac.” Morgan.

“Thank you.” Arthur says just after.

Sebastian turned towards them again: “You think you can ride?”

“Sure~” Sarcastic, as if it ain’t already obvious he’s in no condition to ride. “I can’t, mister...” His back is throbbing; each breath comes ragged, with a wheeze as if he’s losing air somewhere else as well.

“Where’d you live?”

“Near Catfish Jackson.” Isaac said in a beat; kid knew how to lie too well and he ain’t proud of that... “Too far away.”

“I live near here, if it’s any comfort.” Sebastian said, opening the door for them to exist.

“Well, ain’t you a do-gooder, mister Sebastian.” Arthur stepped out, Isaac at his side.

“And ain’t you a little too loving to let your son watch you die.”

His kid again... What was it with this one and his fatherhood?-

“What does that have to do with anything?” Isaac sneered in his stead.

And Sebastian wasn’t rancid to the kid no matter how much venom Isaac put in his words:

“It’s ’cause I lost my child, boy.”

“I’m sorry...” Arthur blurted out not a moment later; chest’s a cage. Ain’t they all having a hard time... Christ the world’s turned wicked to have to kill a kid. He took a few steps in Sebastian’s direction; hand plunged in the satchel for money. He ain’t even caring how many he grabs to give the man. “Can you show us the place?” He shoves the money in the other man’s hand.

“No.” Sebastian crumbles the bills back in Arthur’s fist. “Come after me.” A step away, then back to the injured man: “Need any help?’

Arthur tried walking alone, more like limp his way to the place Sebastian was leading them to. Each breath he took was sharp, stinging, leaving his back and lungs to burn in its wake. He felt temperature rise in his cheeks and temples. He’s going to come down with a fever, and if he does he ain’t gonna be able to get out of the damned bed.

But he’s needin’ one. And they can’t have this man follow them back to camp-

Arthur stops, puts and hand in front of Isaac, tailing right behind him. That was a Molly-house. You could tell by the scantily clad women there.

“You one of them fancy boys?” he asks Sebastian. “A dandy?”

“It’s where I live.” A growl. No further questioning.

And still Arthur went along with it. Fortunately for the kid the place ain’t looking like a whore house downstairs, although one could clearly hear the commotion from above. Sebastian helped him with the stairs, even if he ain’t asked for the damn thing; they went down, in a sheltered room down a corridor. It was quite cool and the air ain’t as muggy down there unlike all of St. Denis. Arthur got laid into bed.

“Well you take a rest. And tell me if you need anything.” Sebastian said.

“Sure-” laying down hurt; but it ain’t so bad as long as Isaac’s still by him.

Soon enough, after quite the silence from all of them, Sebastian got called upstairs. So he was a dandy, or definitely a sportsman. Well, he means man ain’t bad looking, but he’s looking rather old to be the galivanting type. And he’s seen that one. Cowboys and outlaws had their way of finding themselves in places such like this; fairies they called it. But it ain’t all men here.

 Isaac fell asleep between his arms, curled in a ball. Arthur didn’t; pain kept him from it. Part of him feared of wheezing too hard and waking the boy up. He’d much rather feel like suffocating under the weight of his own throbbing back than have the kid worry over him.

His mind ain’t all here; cause he should really be thinking clearly about it all. There’s something here that feels unfit; a whore man saved their life for all they know, and refused money. Smells like he’s after something-

And there he was, comes downstairs with thuds, takes a look at the sleeping kid. Arthur tugs him just a lil’ bit closer. Man is dressed in really fancy clothes: a frockcoat, a pristine tie, new pants. And black hair’s slicked back with pomade, making it look shiny.

“How are you feeling?”

Was it attraction?-

Sebastian lays down a canteen of water, whiskey and some canned beef with a bread roll.

“Guess it’ll be fever, but otherwise fine. I’ll pull through...” A deep breath in. “You sure you don’t want the money?” You look like you need it- No, that ain’t it... “You still saved my life back there.” And for some godforsaken reason he’s still giving...

It can’t all be ‘cause of the kid... Or is it just some weird attempt at trying to set things from the past straight, redeem oneself somehow, through some act... If only it was to be that easy... Arthur ain’t redeemed just ‘cause he took in Isaac and tried to raise him. He ain’t done a good job at it neither.

“I can’t take it-” Sebastian was resolute.

“Not even if I were to pay for your, urhm... services?...”

That makes him laugh: “You ain’t in no condition for my services, Mister Morgan.”

A dry laughter: “At least lemme’ take you out huntin’.”

“Right now?” Sassy goddamn bastard o’course not right now. The man relishes in the groan Arthur gives, but he ain’t about to just give up:

“Then at least a whiskey-” Arthur insists, reaching his hand over to the bottle of whiskey Sebastian just brought in.

“Sure- But hunting’s soundin’ fine either way. You just get yourself on ye’r feet. For the kid’s sake.”

“What happened to yours?” Arthur just got blunt, passing the flask over.

Sebastian looked at him, then at the bottle, put it to his mouth and downed at least half of it in one go.

“Some men kidnapped her. Men I knew. Things got worse; I got here. Ain’t nothing more to it...”

The bottle’s passed down to Arthur. He ain’t daring taking a sip:

“Why this?... I mean there’s other ways of makin’ money. Outlawing-”

A cocked brow in reply: “Are you an outlaw, Mister Morgan?”

“Would it make any difference...”

“Only in making the Raiders territorial.”

“Goddamn Lemoyne Raiders...”

“So an outlaw.”

“Ain’t it obvious...” Arthur turned his head to the side, sighed, if only it wasn’t interrupted by a sharp jolt of pain in his chest.

“Ain’t it hard thou- raising a son an outlaw...”

“Ma’ Daddy was an outlaw.” Arthur all but spits. “Dragged me everywhere doing his wretched things. Then I watched ‘im swing.” A groan, tugging Isaac even closer to him; the boy still slept. “And I wish it would of happened sooner...”

Sebastian nods at that, says nothing more.

“I tried givin’ him more than I had. A life away from all this.”

“Ain’t we all wishing the same thing.” Sebastian scoffs.

“Then why not take the money-”

“ ‘Cause I almost got it all I need. Just a few more from a rich customer and-... Yeah.”

“You sound like someone I know...” Silence for a moment as they pondered the truth of what they just said; and it ain’t cause they’re lacking the money, but it’s something about this life that keeps pullin’ them in. “But I think we both know that’s not where it ends.”

“Ain’t thought I’m gonna get philosophy lessons from an injured outlaw...” and those words, that might of sounded mocking in other tones, now just sounded heartbroken. Then harsh: “You don’t know me.”

“It ain’t about that- It’s-” a wheezed sigh. “I guess it’s ‘cause I keep lyin’ to myself.” And he dragged Isaac into it, just ‘cause Arthur ain’t knowin’ how to put an end to all this mess.

“Then don’t. I will get out. On my terms. And maybe I shouldn’t have saved ye’r ass back there and left the kid an orphan.” Up and away Sebastian went.

 Yet somehow Arthur was still in his basement, with food and water...

[mycatshuman]

The Pink Item

WARNINGS: self harm, self punishment, negative thoughts, blood, please let me know if I missed any!!!

Pairings: Prinxiety

Word count: 1,627

Thank you to @civilsounds17 and @confusedbutamusedlolo for reading through this for me! I love you humans!💚💚💚

-------

"Virgil? Could you please go get some more sunscreen?" Roman asked as he pushed the cart through the store. Virgil hummed in agreement. Roman leaned over to press a soft kiss to his husband's face. "I don't want you to get a sunburn while on vacation, love."

Virgil let a rare smile spread across his face. "Thank you for looking out for me, Ro." Roman smiled and pressed a kiss to Virgil's lips before Virgil went off to grab more sunscreen for their trip.

Virgil wandered through the store to the healthcare products aisle, keeping his head down as he walked briskly past other customers. He just wanted to grab the sunscreen and get back to his husband where he would be with someone he could trust. He got to the sunscreen and quickly grabbed a bottle of sunscreen without looking and went to return to his husband when something pink caught his eye.

Virgil froze as thoughts from his past ran through his head along with memories of things long forgotten rushed to the forefront of his mind once more. To say he had forgotten would be a lie. He didn't forget, he had just pushed those certain things to the back of his mind so he could focus on the present and the things that made him happy.

Thoughts and memories swirled around his mind as he was pulled back to a time when his life wasn't so happy and full of such wonderful joy and his marvelous husband.

-----

Virgil grimaced at the harsh lights hanging overhead as he reached forward and grabbed the plastic package that held the product he was after. He walked to the counter to pay, earning a raised eyebrow from the cashier as they glanced at the pink product inside the packaging. He quickly thought up a lie. "My, uh, girlfriend, she needed some for our trip to the beach."

That seemed to do it for the cashier and Virgil almost barked out a laugh. Him? Straight? It was such a ridiculous thought that he almost blew his cover to laugh. "Have a nice day," the cashier calls after Virgil pays and leaves.

Virgil clutched the plastic bag in his hand as he walked home, keeping his shoulders hunched and his hoodie pulled tight around him. Climbing up the stairs to his shared apartment, Virgil quickly unlocked the door and ducked inside. A brief glance around the living room told him his roommate wasn't home. He let out a breath of relief and shut the door, leaning back against it he closed his eyes for a few moments before pushing off the door and walking to his room.

Virgil opened the door and a black streak shot out to wrap around his ankles. He let out a chuckle and bent down to scratch between his cat's ears. "Hey, Salem," Virgil called. Setting down his bag, he picked up his cat and gave him a small hug. "Daddy's gonna get you some cheese. Yeah, imma get ya some cheese. I know you love your cheese."

Virgil grabbed a bag of shredded cheese out of the fridge and sprinkled a small pile on the counter for his cat. He let a small smile on his face as he watched his cat chow down on the cheese before turning back to his previous task. He walked back to his room and scooped up the bag on his way inside. The smile was gone.

Flopping down on his bed, Virgil dumped out the contents of the bag and stared at it for a few moments. Should I? He questioned. He had been feeling a little bit better, if not completely, since his decision to buy the product. He closed his eyes and let out a breath through his nose and went to shove the items away when a sudden buzz caught his attention. Dropping the items back on the bed he picked up his phone and read the caller idea before answering. His aunt, on his dad's side.

"Hey, Aunt Debby."

"Hello, Virgil. How have you been?"

Virgil shrugged despite his aunt being unable to see it. "Eh, it's been decent."

"That's good." The conversation continued until the inevitable. "Do you have a job yet?"

Virgil inwardly groaned. The darkness clouding his mind earlier seeping back into his mind. "No, I haven't."

-----

Virgil fell back onto his bed after the call ended and ran a hand over his face wearily. He was tired. Tired of being such a big disappointment to his family. More so on his dad's side but not the point. He just wanted to make them happy but nothing ever seemed to work. Nothing. It seemed as if as he got older, the more and more he just fell short of their expectations and they no longer seemed to be as kind as he thought before. He shifted and the crinkling of plastic reached his ears. The idea was back.

Virgil sat up and glanced at the package before peaking out into the living room. He was still home alone. He opened the package and pulled out one of the items. Setting the others in a drawer beside his bed, he sat back on his bed and leaned against the headboard. He inspected the item in his hand.

The item was small. Made of hard pink plastic. Its handle was straight before it bent slightly and then a wide rectangle of the plastic. The "head" of the item was covered with a clear plastic cover and behind it, silver sheets gleamed brightly. Overall, the item wasn't really threatening. In all honesty, it was unassuming. If found, it wouldn't raise too many questions. If used carefully, he could easily use his cat as an excuse. Not that Virgil wanted to drag his cat into this, but it was a good enough backup plan if the bracelets somehow failed.

Virgil also wore his hoodie most of the time, along with some brackets on his left wrist. So, it wouldn't raise any eyebrows to be seen wearing bracelets and hoodies. It wouldn't raise any suspicions at least. He had thought it all through. He wasn't gonna let himself be careless.

Virgil removed the cover and positioned the silver over his wrist. He hesitated. He didn't want to leave scars, that would eventually get him caught. Just small scratches that look like they could be a paper cut or made by cat claws. Those would be a lot easier to explain away. Of course, just being on the wrist would be bad but he just had to keep it there until someone noticed and blame it on playing with his cat a bit too rough and then pick random parts on his skin to make the scratches look like they were just random run-ins with a crazy cat.

He pressed down lightly and made a quick swipe across his skin. Pulling the pink item away he looked down and saw just a small spot of red. Barely a scratch. He hesitantly repeated his previous action, only this time he pressed slightly harder. When he removed the item, he noticed a more cat-like scratch that bled just a bit more. Just enough that he would need to get a tissue or something. It burned slightly. Virgil repeated the actions until he had a few catlike scratches on his wrist. Not even enough blood to warrant a bandaid.

Virgil inspected his work. His usually pale wrist had slightly splotchy patches of a reddish pink surrounding each "scratch" and some burned. This could be a way of punishing myself when I do things wrong. He thought to himself. He covered the pink item and set it in his bedside table. Pulling his bracelets on over the scratches, he then pulled the sleeve of his hoodie over top the jewelry. With a firm nod of his head, he went about his usual business. The slight burning of his wrist the only clue as to what he had just done.

------

The punishment system Virgil had set up for himself worked pretty well. There were times when he didn't do it at all for a few days. His skin healed and there was no trace of what he had done. His bracelets made the scratches more irritated but it was worth it to keep everything under wraps. The few times his roommate, Roman, caught sight of the scratches, Virgil was able to easily explain it away. It all worked out. No one knew.

Well, except for one person, and he only knew them online. They had never met in person. And Virgil kinda stopped telling them about it so as to stop bothering them with his ridiculous problems. It wasn't like he had a problem anyway. He didn't have urges to scratch. He could stop anytime he wanted. He hardly did it every day and not even every week. It was proof he was in control.

It was just for punishment. He screwed something up. He scratched. He made someone upset? He scratched. He got upset with someone over something they couldn't help? He scratched. He made someone think they had done something wrong? He scratched. Ate too much when they were running out of food? Scratch. They were just punishments.

It worked out. He would learn to do better.  

-----

Virgil closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose. "Virgil! Come and pick out some candy for the trip!" Roman called. Virgil pushed a small smile onto his face and turned his head to find his husband standing at the end of the aisle.

"Candy!" He exclaimed. Roman laughed as Virgil walked over to join him on their quest for candy. Virgil didn't turn back to look at the razors.

----

Everything taglist: @spxced-oxt @superwholocked-for-life @mirror2thespirit @aroundofapplesauce @roman-flair

[alicepink-me]

The New Guardian

Story Summary: Marinette Dupain-Cheng is an adult in the real world, guarding the Miracle Box in Master Fu's place. She's in love with Chat Noir, but refuses to tell him her feelings. New holders appear to fight the duo and shake up their lives. Marinette makes a tough decision about her future as Ladybug.

Chapter 12: The Council

2 Weeks Later:

Marinette laid in her bed, reading her kwami book. She bought it two weekends ago and had almost finished it. She could've been through it by now if her physical classes weren't so tiring. April hasn't worn her locket yet, so Marinette assumed she hadn't locked a compulsion inside of it yet, or maybe she wouldn't. Marinette didn't want to ask, so she wouldn't mention it.

There was an urgent knock at the door. Marinette and April looked at each other. They weren't expecting anyone and it was early on a Sunday.

April shrugged. "Maybe it's Rebekah."

Marinette hopped out of her covers and walked to the door. She flung it open to find a letter on the ground with no one around. Marinette picked it up and turned back to April. "A little ominous, don't you think?" Marinette ripped it open and pulled out the letter, rapidly scanning it. "It's a . . . summoning."

"Summoning?" April closed her book.

"Like a spontaneous, urgent meeting." Marinette corrected. "The council wants to see me and . . . " She flipped over the page. "It doesn't say why. There's only a time and location."

"Sounds like a trap." April chuckled. "They might be planning to kill you."

"Or maybe they think I'm overqualified to be in a class of preteens for history and want to change my schedule." Marinette suggested, moving to her closet. Jenn jumped at her feet, brushing against her leg. "I'm trying to stay positive here considering there is a fair chance the council hates my guts because of my guardian and my past. There's probably plenty of people that want me dead, but let's not think about that right now."

"Just avoid people like I do." April suggested. "The temple isn't bad if your avoid all humanity and drama." She pointed at her. "Send a bat signal."

"I'm supposed to prove myself to this terrifying council of elders. I cannot avoid them." Marinette sighed. "They could kill me. I need on their good side until later, so only positive thoughts."

"You mean panicked thoughts?"

. . .

Marinette walked down a creepy corridor that looked ancient. She held the letter from earlier in her hand as she searched for the right door. This sector of the temple was never repaired or updated at all. There was some loose rubble on the ground and the only light came from candles on the walls. Pieces of the structures were dilapidated and faded. This place was probably haunted and Marinette was probably about to die.

Marinette looked down at the paper again. Room 3 of Sector 1. Marinette could see a few doors up ahead as well as a stature. As she got closer she focused on it. She didn't recognize who the sculpture was, but it had a few chunks gone along with its nose missing. Marinette reached the first few doors.

"Four." Marinette read. She walked across to the other, smearing the dirt off as she tried to read the number. "Three." She said.

Marinette sighed and took in her surroundings. She still didn't know what the council wanted with her and she was insanely nervous, but running from this wasn't an option. Marinette steadily raised her fist to the wood before anxiously knocking. The door immediately opened before she could hit it a third time.

"Marinette, welcome." A man said, stepping aside. "Please come in."

Marinette lowered her hand and gave a shy smile before moving inside. There was a large oval table filled on one side with several elders wearing red and black laced robes. They all had stern faces and their hands laid folded in front of them. Marinette hooked her purse on the corner of a chair across from them and awkwardly sat down.

"Thank you for meeting with us, Ms. Dupain-Cheng." A woman said. "We realize our notification was a bit vague, but due to privacy reasons, we prefer to keep any information regarding the meetings in this room."

"I understand." She nodded. "So why was I summoned here?" Marinette asked, fidgeting her hands. "I hope all is well."

"We just wished to check up on you." Another said. She recognized him as the man Mint had called Master Mantis. "You are fairly new to all of this and you are uniquely special compared to our other pupils. Checking in is very important to us."

"Well the temple is amazing." Marinette spoke, her voice slightly shaking. "I enjoyed it a lot more than I thought I would and . . . my classes are very informative, although the teachings are a little biased."

One woman frowned, her nostrils flaring and eyes widening. "Biased? How so?"

"The lessons are taught by people who were at the temple when it disappeared a long time ago. Everything they mention is important and informative, but extremely one-sided." Marinette said. The crowd tensed. "Everything I had learned from my master was from his viewpoint, but I was glad to hear each side when I came here. It helped me understand the entire situation."

"Interesting." The woman replied.

"What about your guardianship training?" A man asked, clearing his throat, trying to ease the tension.

"Definitely . . . different." Marinette answered.

"I'm sure Fu taught you all the easy ways out." Another woman muttered, turning to the woman next to her.

"Actually his training was quite difficult." Marinette replied. "Master Fu said connecting with the kwamis and the Miracle Box itself was key to being a guardian. I spent months meditating and connecting my energy with theirs. Unlike the previous training here, I was allowed basic necessities like food and I was taught how to have a normal life. Even if the kwamis are a main priority, I'm supposed to keep them under the radar and the best way to do that is to keep a normal lifestyle."

"So you did cheat our traditions?" The first woman growled. The man to her right grabbed her arm and stopped her.

"I trained diligently." Marinette defended herself. "Master Fu was the best teacher I ever had and even though my classes here are great, I still believe that. My guardianship classes have strengthened my knowledge about the job and have made me a better holder. I will admit that, but Master Fu's training was still valuable. I-"

"I think that's enough for today." The second woman said, cutting her off.

"Thank you for with meeting us, Marinette." One of the men stood up and held out his hand. "We look forward to future discussions."

Marinette stood and shook his hand. "I do as well."

Marinette awkwardly turned and left the room as most of them glared. Luckily that situation was done and over with. That was too much anxiety and awkwardness for today. Every elder in that room practically despised her. No matter how hard they tried to hide it, their anger practically bled through their words.

Marinette felt for her phone, but noticed her purse missing. She must have left it in the conference room. Marinette turned around and walked back to the door, but stopped when she heard talking. The conversation sounded a lot more outspoken and louder than it was a minute ago.

"Can you believe all that nonsense praise she had about Wang Fu?" One woman asked, pouring a drink. "That brat has no right to sputter such things."

"Fu completely corrupted that girl's mind." A man scoffed, shaking his head.

"Marinette hasn't been here very long to acclimate to our ways, so it's no surprise." Mantis said. "It'll take time for her mind to understand our ways before she physically shows evidence of our teachings."

"Luckily we won't have to wait for that nightmare to happen." The other woman laughed, opening another bottle. "That girl was never one of us to begin with. She shouldn't have been given this opportunity to prove herself in the first place. It won't fix her."

"Oh please!" The first woman argued, laughing. "She wasn't even given a chance to begin with. She never was. That wasn't part of our plan and when we follow through with the rest of it, that'll show true."

"Marinette could've been great if Fu hadn't stepped in when he did." Master Mantis said, taking a drink.

"I don't know where this soft spot of yours came from, Mantis, but you need to cut it out." The first woman growled. "Once the trial is over . . . hopefully we'll never see that dreadful creature again."

"She must be charged for her heinous crimes, Mantis." A man said. "And I'd advise you not to communicate with her again till we're met in a court room." Mantis nodded.

"Why are we waiting to begin with?" The second woman crossed her arms. "She should be imprisoned immediately."

One man swirled his drink in his glass. "Maybe we should move the date up."

Marinette gasped, slowly stepping away from the door. She needed to get out of here. This entire temple and her training was all a big lie. She'd have to leave or else she'd be unfairly tried for crimes she couldn't stop. Marinette's heart sped up and she took off, sprinting down the long hallways through the temple. She needed to pack what she could and bolt.

What would Chat Noir think? No! She couldn't worry about him or at least she shouldn't. If she has to flea, the only place she can go at the moment is her old apartment, but that's in Paris. Marinette will see him again and the idea of it made her heart hurt. Every possible scenario of running into him flashed in her mind. What if it ended horribly? Oh who was she kidding, wasn't her luck bad enough already? She could handle nearly breaking her nose during class, but facing the man she's loved for years, well that's a death sentence.

Marinette reached the dorm areas of the building. She turned down her sector and continued sprinting. Her room was over two hundred doors away. Even if the council wasn't chasing her, she felt like her clock was ticking too fast. She needed in her dorm now, but it seemed to get further away.

. . .

Marinette burst through her door, panting as she scanned the room. Her breath hitched. Chat Noir sat relaxed along the windows, twirling his belt tail. His eyes were shut and relaxed, unlike herself. No April in sight.

"I was wondering when we'd see each other again, M'Lady." He smiled. "I surely hope that letter wasn't a goodbye." Chat's eyes opened as he turned to her, jumping at the sight. He gulped and his body froze. "M-Marinette . . . " He breathed, gaping.

"Chat Noir . . . " Marinette shut the door behind her without breaking eye contact. "You're here."

"I am." He replied, speechless.

Marinette's heart pounded. "Wh-"

"You're Ladybug." Chat said, taking a step forward. "I didn't know it was you when I got here." He explained. "Your room was under the name Ladybug, so I found it and I snuck in to see you, but I guess I know your identity now. Unless you're a miraculous holder at this temple too and I have the wrong room." He put his fist under his chin and looked up in thought. "We haven't really seen each other since graduation a few years ago, Marinette, so I suppose you could have been attending this school the whole time without my knowledge. Maybe I am in the wrong room."

"No, you . . . had it right." Marinette smiled and moved forward, beaming up at his emerald eyes. "I am Ladybug."

Chat's hand dropped to his side, his eyes widening. "You really are?"

"Of course. How could you be so blind?" Marinette grabbed his hand and held it. "I've been waiting here for you this whole time." She sprung forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing him tight.

"Really?" Chat hugged her back, happier than he's been in awhile. "I beat myself up over you leaving this whole time that I never thought you wanted me to come find you. I thought I was only intruding."

"Then why did you?" Marinette asked. "Why did you . . . find me?"

"You know me . . . always jumping into situations." He sighed. "I was thinking with my heart. I needed to speak to you even if it meant I'd lose you. Even if I had to chase you all the way to Tibet."

"Of course I know you." Marinette stared up at him. He was so handsome. His eyes sparkled when he looked at her. "I'm so happy you found me." Marinette slowly moved on her tippy toes, leaning her head closer to his, their lips inches apart. "I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't." She beamed, closing her eyes.

Chat Noir released a breath of laughter. Marinette blinked her eyes open as Chat pressed a finger to her lips. "I'm sorry, I'm saving that for the real Ladybug." He announced.

"That too bad. You were really good looking." Marinette's demeanor changed as she fell back on her heels and crossed her arms. She smiled. "How did you know I wasn't her? I thought I was convincing."

[ladytesla]

Combat Medic Devorak (an Arcana fanfiction)

The sky was an impossibly clear blue with a few clouds skidding by high overhead.  The air was crisp and delightfully cool, the trees were brilliant in their autumn colors…  It would have been a picturesque scene, Julian decided, if it weren’t for the screams of wounded men coming from behind him.

Glances out of the flaps of the medical tent were one of the only reprieves he had from his job. Medical school in Prakra had been grueling, with long hours of study, gross anatomy labs that went on well into the night, and barely any pension with which to buy food or the simplest of creature comforts.  But at least the specimens he had studied had been quiet and still.

Now, here on the outskirts of Milova, he was a combat medic.  Gone were the days of tending to children with runny noses and old women with arthritic knees.  Now he was immersed elbow-deep in death, in all its bloody, screaming glory.  He’d seen men cut nearly in half, their hands clapped onto the wounds to hold their own intestines in.  He’d amputated fingers, toes, entire limbs while the patient was being held down by sometimes as many as four orderlies.  He’d debrided gangrenous wounds, stitched closed gaping lacerations, all the while with his mind going a mile a minute, thinking three steps ahead about what to do next.  It was grueling, it was gruesome, it was mayhem… and yet somehow he loved it.

“Dr. Jules!”  Chovak, one of his orderlies, called him over. Julian broke away from his reverie and crossed the tent in long strides, looking over the man stretched out on the stained cot so many others had laid on before him.

“What’s this?”  He asked.  The man was pale and muttering to no one, his hands gripping the edges of the cot so tightly his knuckles bled white.  His lower half was unnaturally still.  

“Cavalry horse threw him,” Chovak murmured.  “Back’s broke, doctor.”

Julian frowned, gently palpating the man’s torso.

“Hello there,” he said cheerfully, “Dr. Jules here.  You know what they say about getting back on the old horse, hm?”  He carefully gauged the man’s reaction.  There was nothing, no focusing of the eyes, no sign that he registered that he was being spoken to.  

“Now, now, don’t mind me, just going to have a—” Julian moved toward the head of the cot and removed the man’s helmet.  As he did, he winced inwardly.  The back of the helmet had caved in.  Lord knows what it had done to the fellow’s brains.  He shook his head and handed Chovak the helmet.

“Twenty drops of laudanum, Chovak,” he said.  “Keep him comfortable.  If he’s lucky he won’t be here much longer.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Chovak’s face set like stone.  

“Try and figure out what his name is,” Julian said, clapping a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder to keep his attention.  “I hate writing out ‘Unknown’ in the ledgers.”

 The cavalry officer died quietly less than an hour later.  Julian had almost forgotten about him, so preoccupied was he with an archer who’d received an arrow clean through his shoulder.

“If you ever want to draw a bow again,” he cautioned, “you’ll rest that arm for at least a month.”  He’d paused to wash his hands in a water basin, and only then did he notice the empty cot.  He sighed to himself.  At least he’d been able to make the man’s last moments comfortable.

 His thoughts were interrupted again by a series of yells and curses coming into the tent.  It was a mercenary, supported by a few of his comrades. “He needs a doctor!”  One of them yelled.  “You!  Go get your boss!”

“Make way!”  The other barked.  “Get out of our way!”

“Stop yelling around my patients!”  Julian snapped as he walked over.  He glanced over the man in the middle.  The right arm was hanging limp at his side, and bleeding heavily.

“Are you a doctor?” The man asked in a strained voice.

“Call me Dr. Jules,” Julian said.  “You two, lie him down here.”  He pointed to the empty cot.  The man’s companions helped him lay down, and Julian motioned Chovak over.

“What’s your name?” He asked.

“Who cares?”  The man spat.  “Fix my arm!”

“What day is it?”  

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Sir,” Julian frowned, “I’m trying to ascertain whether you have brain damage.  Answer my questions or I’ll assume you do.”

The two burly men on either side of the cot flinched, as though Julian had committed an egregious error by talking to their leader so.  The man on the cot sighed in resignation.

“Lucio,” he muttered. “And it’s Satur—DAMN YOU THAT HURTS!”

“S-sorry!”  Chovak withdrew from cleaning the wound.

“Don’t yell at my orderly, Lucio,” Julian admonished.  “He’s only doing his job.”  He glanced at the man’s face briefly before helping Chovak undo his shirt.  “Are you from the South, then?  You have that paint on your face.  What are you doing all the way over here in Milova?”

“None of your business,” Lucio grumbled.  Once he had been stripped to the waist, Julian could clearly see the injury.

“What was it?”  He asked, examining the horrible slash that extended from wrist to bicep.

“Longsword,” Lucio grimaced. “I killed him, but…”

Julian nodded.  He could see severed muscle and tendon.  The arm was useless.  And with a wound that big, infection could set in far too quickly.

“Well, the good news is you’re probably going to live through this,” he decided.  “The bad news is that arm’s going to have to come off.”

“What?!”  Lucio sat up and made to get off of the cot.  “No way!  Let me get another opinion!  You can fix my arm!”  His face suddenly went pale, and he sank back down on the cot again, groaning.

“You’re losing blood, Lucio,” Julian pressed him back to lay down on the cot again.  The mercenary made to sit up again, still cursing at him. Julian prided himself on his bedside manner, but this arrogant man was making him lose his patience.

“Now you listen here,” he growled.  Lucio paused.

“Your options,” Julian went on evenly, “are these: You can live with one arm, or die with two. Which would you rather?”  He folded his arms, glaring down at him.  “Make your choice quickly.  I’ve got other patients that need attending to.”

Lucio went even paler, and for the first time, the arrogance and sneer melted off his face.  Julian could see him for who he was now: just a man, and a frightened one at that.

“F-fine,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.  “But I demand to be seen to by the best doctor here.  One who knows what they’re doing.”

“Luckily for you, that would be me,” Julian said.  He glanced up at the two other mercenaries.  “I’ll need your help to hold him down.  Chovak, give him 20 drops of laudanum.”

“Yes, doctor.”

Julian went over to the instrument table and picked up his bone saw.  He had no time to think about how Lucio would scream, or the ‘thump’ the amputated limb would make once it fell lifelessly to the dirt at his feet.  No time to think about anything, really, except the moment at hand.  He turned and walked back toward the cot.  There was work to be done.  

[propagandaprincess]

The Human Huntress

Feysand

Chapter 1: The Kill

Chapter 2: Violet

Chapter 3: Dinner is served

Read on FFN: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13257773/1/The-Human-Huntress

Summary: The human Archeron sisters fought to survive until Feyre landed them all jobs in the palace of the High Lord of Spring. Nesta as a handmaid, Elain as a chef, and Feyre as a huntress. When Feyre kills a rare elk to be served to the gathering High Lords, they ask to meet the impressive hunter who killed such a beast, only to discover a strong-willed human huntress instead.   Rated M for future chapters. 

Elk...why the hell did she pick elk to serve these damn high lords? Feyre thought as she blew the hair out of her eyes.

Why not whitetail deer or a nice rabbit stew? I know she can make a grand meal out of those. But no she had to pick Elk, the one thing that required a full day trek across this cursed court.  She sighed outwardly as she pulled her mare into a trot, scanning the tree line for any signs of a gang of elk nearby. Finally she spotted fresh droppings to her east.

“This is about as close as your allowed to get girl” she patted her mare lovingly as she dismounted and tied her to a nearby pine.

Quickly she grabbed her bow and quiver of arrows to add to her arsenal of blades fastened around her thigh. With quiet feet she approached the droppings and examined them. Elk for sure but something was... off about it. She glanced up at the tree for more signs and found gashes in the tree bark above her likely caused by elk antlers but they were higher up than they should have been.

Fuck the male must be a big fucking elk.

From the freshness of the gashes she suspected the gang must have passed through less than an hour ago, but no hoof prints marked the soil.

Best to be careful than sorry, I’ve got 2 days to kill this beast, get it back, skin it and quarter it before Elain even starts on it. She thought as she crouched eastward toward where she thought they would be.

It was slow moving from here on out. No sudden movements, no loud noises, Mother help her if she suddenly got a tickle in her throat and fell into a coughing fit. It took her the better part of an hour to find the gang, lounging in a very small clearing.

What she found was again not what she expected. Instead of lots of cows and calves and one male. There were 3 male, two young, their antlers gleamed with velvet and blood as they shed their skin and one older male, the alpha one could say and he was...

Huge. That was the only word that came to mind. His shoulders held enough meat alone to feed her sisters for a week. His antlers almost seemed polished with varnish and his coat... Instead of being a rich walnut brown was white as snow.

Feyre let out a steadying breath and aimed at her target. As if he sensed his impending doom, the elk lifted his head from grazing and looked toward the tree line where Feyre was crouched. She didn’t waste second before she let that arrow fly to its target. Right behind the shoulder blade, straight toward the heart. It struck true. But the elk didn’t so much as flinch. He continued gazing at where she stood. The rest of the gang was in a frenzy. The few cows that were there ran off with their young the younger males followed after them. But the biggest elk held its ground. Completely unmoving.  

She had the second arrow knocked quickly but before she could let it fly, he charged.

She had less than a second to think before his antlers pierced where she stood. Thankfully she was able to scurry up the tree next to her in time. The magnificent white elk did not let up. He circled around and rammed the tree she hid in. Shaking pine needs across the forest floor.

Feyre shot three more arrows in its neck but they earned no more than a grunt from the beast. The tree was cracking under the pressure of his brute force. Without a moment's hesitation Feyre did the only thing she could think of.

She jumped on his back.

The elk bucked like wild horse trying to throw her off but she held steady onto his antlers that were as thick as the branches she just jumped from. She unfastened her biggest dagger from her belt and stabbed it forcefully in his neck.

The elk thrashed and bucked harder nearly succeeding in throwing her off. She dug the knife in deeper and then with all her might she slid the it across its neck, slitting it’s throat.  

As the elk bled out it fell to the ground. Feyre scrambled so she wouldn’t be crushed by his massive corpse. She watched the elk die she leaned up against the tree next to her trying to catch her breath.

Holy hell I’m going to make Elain pay for this. She wanted to stay put and rest a while but there was no time to waste.  

*****************

The sun was starting to set as she finished gutting the elk. She had to go ahead and quarter it just to fit it on the back of her horse. She strapped the antlers on to her saddle as best she could. There was no way she was leaving those behind after all the hell she went through to kill the damn thing. Her poor mare was panting hard when they finally reached the palace stables.

The sentries on guard whistled when they saw what a magnificent kill she hauled.  

"You've outdone yourself Feyre" Dominic shouted as she rode into the stable.

"Yeah but you look like you've slaughtered a whole fucking family with how much blood your soaked in." Shouted the other sentry, Philip.

She sent him a rude gesture as she made for watering her horse and unloading the carcass.

"You would be too if you saw the fight this one put up." She called back. For Fae, they weren't so bad. They were one of the few who actually treated her like an equal rather than "human scum" as some of the other High Fae that sometimes roamed the palace would say.

"Now are you both just going to stand there with your mouths watering or are you two lazy sacks of shit going to help me unload this beast? Elain is probably having a meltdown since this is supposed to be the main course for tomorrow night's dinner."

She hauled the antlers off and tucked them in her mare's stall. She would come back for them tomorrow, right now she had enough to carry.

"You could say fucking please." Dominic shot back as he and Philip made their way to help. The three of them made quick work on getting it back up to the palace.  

Elain nearly started sobbing with relief as they hauled the elk into the kitchen. A loud thud sounded as they heaved it onto the butchering blocks.

"Finally! Oh goodness you are really cutting it close. It needs to slow roast all night and then I need to roast the potatoes and..." She trailed off as she fluttered around the kitchen preparing stations and barking orders and the other servants. 

She turned to Feyre again finally "Will you get to work trimming the..." Was all she was able to get out before Feyre cut her off.

"Oh no, no, no. No way am I lifting another finger to help prep that elk. You wanted such a large animal to cook for the fancy meal so you deal with it. If you only knew what I had to go through to kill that damn elk..." She looked around at the scurrying servants as they worked. Most of the desserts were prepped and ready as well as the appetizers and such. Elain was in charge of the main course and all the trimmings to go with it. But Elain was just now getting out what spiced and ingredients she would need. She usually had all this prepared days before an event.

"Why haven't you prepared anything yet? And don't you lie and say you were waiting on me. You have a million other things to make I'm sure." She questioned her older sister with a sharp tone. If she was sneaking around with that damn High Fae again...

As the sisters bickered Philip and Dominic saw this as their queue to leave. With identical winks they left them to their work.

"I went to the village today." Elain stated quickly, hiding behind a pantry door as she searched for the right spices.

"Why the hell did you need to go to the village? You know we shouldn't be spending our wages. We are saving that for our passage to the continent."

I leave for one day day and she goes on a shopping trip. She knew she was being stingy but one of them had to be responsible. Despite her protests about helping Feyre washed her hands and started trimming meat off the bones, eager to do something with her hands that wasn't strangling her sister.

"I know, I know." Elain started, throwing her hands up defensively "I didn't spend much I swear and what I got was a gift."

"Why and who did you need a gift for?"  

For the love of God please don't say Lucien I thought we were over this he can't love you. She pleaded to the Mother that she wouldn't have to have that conversation with her sister again.

"A needed a gift for you of course!" Elain looked surprised. Like what she said was common knowledge.

"I don't need a gift it's not even my..." Birthday. Fuck it's my birthday tomorrow. She had seriously forgotten tomorrow was her own birthday.

"Feyre I know where we live is eternal spring and it's hard to tell that it's actually winter. But there is no excuse to not remembering your own damn birthday."

"Right, Winter Solstice, part of the reason for this stupid party tomorrow." Feyre added quietly as she returned to working.

"Well? Aren't you going to ask what it is?"

"Why would I do that when you're just going to tell me I have to wait till tomorrow?" She knew her sister well enough that she loved surprises. There was no way she would ruin her own fun.  

"You could at least show some excitement! I know you are worried about money but you deserve a little fun." Elain said stepping next to Feyre and taking the knife from her.

"On that note, you need a bath, desperately. Take some leftovers from dinner and go to bed."

"I thought you wanted my help." Feyre said indignantly.

"You'll just get in my way." And with that Elain pushed a container of food in her hands and she headed out of the kitchen and toward their quarters.

************

The palace really was beautiful at night. Moonlight showered the hallway, illuminating all the paintings she passed by on a daily basis. She rarely stopped to look, not allowing herself that luxury, but today she slowed her pace to admire the works of art.

She studied the swirls of color that made up each flower on the painting in front of her and how the colors and textures seemed to lift off the canvas. They didn't look real, they were extraordinary. A normal rose couldn't compare to the one in the painting. It was like comparing the beauty of a human like her to one of the High Fae that roamed these halls.

Feyre was so lost in the colors and contemplating how to mix paint to get that perfect shade of red that she didn't hear them approaching until they rounded the corner.  

High Lord Tamlin and Lord Lucien were deep in conversation as they left the study. It seemed they were up late making sure everything was in order for the other High Lord's arrival in the morning. Feyre didn't want them to see her but it was too late. Tamlin's piercing eyes found her as she started to continue to her quarters.

"Feyre! Finally back it seems." Lucien was the first to greet her. He was a kind Lord. He often times tagged along on her shorter hunts for rabbit or deer.

She knew there was no avoiding them. She couldn't be openly rude to the two males who had graciously employed her and her sisters when they so desperately needed money. But it was a struggle biting her tongue sometimes. While Lucien was kind, High Lord Tamlin had a short fuse. She heard rumors around the palace that in his anger he shredded just about anything in reach with his power. Some servants were subject to that shortly before she and her sisters were hired. Feyre always wondered if they were hired to take the place of those servants who had accidentally gotten to close.

"Yes, finally. But the elk is in Elain's capable hands now and I'm sure it will be delicious tomorrow." She tried to leave it at that and head on her way but Lord Tamlin decided to speak up as well.

"How many elk did you kill? Judging by the amount of blood on you it looks like a whole gang." His eyes slid over her body taking in her stained clothes but they lingered too long to only be starting at that.

Feyre tried not to let her fury show.

"It was a large elk that put up quite a fight. Had to slit it's throat in the end." She added extra emphasis on that last part.

Touch me and it's your throat I slit. High lord or no. She thought viciously. ��

After a moment she added "The strangest looking elk too. It's pelt was whiter than a sheep's."

They looked startled at that. At first Feyre was worried that they caught on to her subtle threat.

"What? That's impossible." Lucien balked.

"You think I'm lying? Pelts in the kitchen if you want a look." She pointed down the hall in case these spoiled High Fae didn't know where it was. She didn't feel like defending herself tonight. She was tired and just wanted a bath and to crawl in bed.

"I don't think she's kidding Lucien." Tamlin muttered as he stared at her again. Thankfully at her eyes this time.

"Holy hell. You killed a shadow elk." Lucien nearly whispered that. He looked... in awe.

"A what?" Damn Fae and their damn cryptic bullshit. She thought.

"A shadow elk. They are notoriously hard to track and very hard to kill. I've only ever seen one once on a hunting trip with my father when I was young. He tried to kill it and was nearly impaled by it." Tamlin explained.

"Ah. Yeah it was a bitch to kill. Hopefully it's tasty though. Well I'm exhausted. Goodnight." She replied shortly. Before they could bug her for any more details of the hunt. She quickly scurried away. When she reached the room her and her sisters shared she locked the door for good measure. She didn't like how the High Lord always looked at her. There was something territorial about his gaze. Like she was one of his belongings.

That thought sent a shiver down her spine as she washed up for the night. She ate her dinner in the tub and was almost asleep before her head even hit the pillow. But a knock on the door interrupted her slumber.  

It would be a while before Nesta and Elain came to bed. Worried that something was wrong she quickly robed and unlocked the door. Only to find the High Lord of Spring.  

"There you are. You ran off so quickly I didn't have the chance to catch you."

She narrowed her eyes at him. Hand still on the door knob ready to shut the door quickly if he made any sudden moves. Again his eyes trailed her body unabashedly.  

If you kick him in the balls he will throw you and your sisters back out on your asses and you will be back to square one. She reminded herself.

"Do you need something Lord Tamlin?" She asked curtly, politeness be damned, it was late and he had no business bothering her in her own quarters.  

"No, just a word actually. About tomorrow." He paused. Feyre lifted an eyebrow at him, curious as to what about tomorrow could possibly concern her. Her job was done until Elain decided she needed more game to serve up.  

"There will be a lot of High Fae from different courts here tomorrow, many accompanying the various High Lord's. But not every court is as accepting of human staff like we are." Like I am seemed to be what he wanted to say.  

Staff, servants, we are one step away from slaves here so don't think yourself so high and mighty for employing us. She kept that thought to herself, though. It was still generous for him to employ her and her sisters.

"What you’re saying is, keep hidden tomorrow."

"Unless called upon yes. By either myself or Lucien. Elain should be fine in the kitchen, I will assign Nesta to those visiting Fae that are accepting of humans. But I recommend that you stay here in the servant’s quarters for the day." He phrased the last bit like staying cooped up in my room all day was a vacation.  

"So I’m a prisoner." Feyre challenged. His mouth curved into a pompous smirk.  

"Of course not Feyre. You're never a prisoner. Like I said you are allowed to leave if I or Lucien call for you. I was actually wondering if you would join us for lunch tomorrow before the crowd descends. We would love for you to share the story of how you killed that shadow elk.”

She knew that this invite meant order. She learned that once when he was foolish enough to "invite" her for a garden walk once. In which she responded a simple no and stalked off. Only to find Alis, his personal maid, waiting in her quarters to march her straight back to him.  

"Of course Lord Tamlin." She replied with as much melancholy in her voice as she could get away with.  

"Please Feyre, call me Tamlin. Lord seems too formal for our... friendship." He paused before he decided on that last word.  

Yes since you buy all of your friends I'm sure friendship is exactly the type of word you would use to describe us.  

She ignored his request and simply stated. "Lunch, got it. See you then." And shut the door and locked it again before he could utter another word.

Not like locking the door would do any real good if he wanted to get in. But it made her feel safer regardless.

With a sigh she heaved herself into bed once more. Maybe she could snag some paper and a pencil from the library on her way back from lunch tomorrow and attempt to sketch those roses painted in the hall. She would need something to keep her occupied while she was locked in this room.  

Not a prisoner he said, but not free.  

[sympathyfortheblinderdevil]

Diversion: Ch.5

Other chapters may be found on my Masterlist, since Tumblr doesn’t like links.

Esme begins to deal with the fallout of John's discovery. There are some adult themes in this chapter. Adults have some adult thoughts. It's all very grown up.

Polly placed a phone call to Tommy and insisted that he return immediately to deal with John. “He’s gone wild Tommy. I don’t know what he will do if he finds Esme before you can get to him.” There was silence on the crackling line for a beat, then Polly speculated, “I don’t know what he’ll do to you. Please be careful… I’ve never seen him like this.”

Tommy had. One time before the war, John had nearly killed a man for putting his hands on Martha. He had broken the man’s jaw so badly that he couldn’t take solid foods any longer. He would have blinded him too, had the cops not come in when they did. For all of John’s easy-going nature, he was not a man to be crossed. He could be every bit as vengeful as Tommy and as vicious as Arthur.

“Where is Esme?”

“She went out just before John stormed in. Said she felt sick and needed some air.” She almost divulged that Esme was with child, but something made her pull up short. “I sent Finn to look for her.”

“Alright. I’m on my way.”

As Polly hung up the phone Esme came back in. She froze in her tracks when she saw the state of the place. Horrified, she looked around at the mess that John had left in his wake. Her eyes widened when she saw blood, streaked and smeared across her desk while her things lay scattered on the floor. Her mouth opened to ask Polly what had happened but was cut off.

“You’d better make yourself scarce. John knows” It was bad enough that Polly knew, but the evidence of John’s reaction brought her to a new low. A combination of terror, dread, and shame made her want to sink into the Earth and disappear. John was not a man to be trifled with, and answering for her actions was a terrifying prospect.

“How? How did he find out?” Polly gestured toward the kitchen, “He overheard us. He’s destroyed the shop and he’s liable to do the same to you if he sees you before he calms down.”

Esme's eyes were fixed on the brownish red swath of dried blood painted across her desk as Polly spoke, her mind churning. “Is he hurt?”

“He cut his hand. Bled like a stuck pig. Are you listening to me?” Polly crossed the shop to where Esme stood, “He knows. It’s best that you go to stay at my house for the time being.” “We have to warn Tommy.” Her dark eyes darted back and forth between Polly’s. “I’ve already done that,” she answered curtly. “John was bound and determined that he was going to that Carleton woman’s estate to kill Tommy, but I convinced him that it was better to deal with family business here.” “Oh, God,” Esme whispered and covered her face with her hands. “There’s no time for that,” Polly stated. Her voice was firmer now, but not unkind. “You’ve made your bed, now you have to lie in it.”

In the abstract, she had wanted to punish John. She wanted him to feel the pain of betrayal that she had felt, but with some minor flirtation with a nobody, not his brother. This was meant to be a bit of harmless revenge, and it had somehow gone all wrong. How could she have known that a meaningless comment over breakfast would draw a reaction from Tommy, not John? That a fictional plot that was meant to pique her husband’s jealousy would end with her craving the longing gaze of Tommy’s eyes. She needed to figure out a way to stop the impending firestorm that would no doubt end with more Shelby blood being spilled.

“Please, Polly,” Esme gritted her teeth and struggled to fight the tears that Polly forbade her to shed, “have Tommy come to see me before he goes to John. I need to talk to him before they meet.” “And just why would you need to do that?” “I need to know what he plans to tell John. I need to know what to expect. Please, Polly. If you care for me and for my children at all!” Polly’s guilt over meddling with John and Esme’s marriage made her inclined her to give in to Esme’s pleas. Although Polly was aggravated with the transgressions that Esme had fallen into, she couldn’t bear to see her in this kind of torment. Against her better judgment she acquiesced.

“I’ll get word to him that you are at my house. He will have to pass that way before he reaches Small Heath.”

***

 Tommy roared onto Polly’s street just after midday and parked in front of her house. He sat for a moment in the car, listening to the pinging of the cooling engine as he thought about what was to come. He’d done a lifetime worth of thinking in the hours that it took to drive from May’s place to the outskirts of Birmingham. He had formulated a plan that would stem the coming tide of chaos and save Shelby Company Limited from imploding, but he had no way to mend the hearts that would be broken by the carelessness of his actions.

He never should have let his sympathy for her cross the line. He should have taken the matter up with John, kept him in charge of the shop and close to Esme’s side throughout the workday. He thought of a hundred ways that he could have helped her cause besides becoming her confidante and allowing their friendship to become more intimate. He had used his good sense to stay clear of her in the past after all of her talk about getting lost had first lit the fire of passion for her within him. He should have kept his distance.

Countless times had he fantasized about running his hands through her tangled hair, pulling her face to his, and tasting her pouty lips. He had imagined how the warm curve of her spine would feel against the span of his hands as he pressed her body into his. His eyes slid shut and he inhaled sharply at the image of her creamy skin, her pink nipples, the dark patch of hair at the apex of her spreading thighs. Her back would arch and her eyes would close as she whispered his name, Tommy…And he would touch her like she’d never been touched. He would make her body sing, he would worship her, God, he would love her…

His eyes snapped open, burning with fire, and he struck the steering wheel with his fist over and over. “FUCK!” he roared and tore his hat from his head, slinging it into the passenger side of the car. His chest heaved with every breath, and he scrubbed at his face with his hands. The prospect of facing her alone, of confronting and naming the very thing that they had been dancing around, was causing his unraveling. If he had learned anything in the world that he inhabited, it was that things could rarely be divided neatly into categories of right and wrong. There were always shades of gray— a little sinner in every saint. This, however, was not one of those occasions. This thing with Esme would end today. He had survived the trenches in France, he told himself, and so he could survive an infatuation with his brother’s wife. He slicked his hair back and replaced his hat, and in doing so, he returned to himself.

She was at the door before he knocked, and quickly opened it to let him in. A red silk scarf held her hair away from her face, which only accentuated the wide open, hunted look in her eyes. Although he tried to hold the practiced neutral expression that he had cultivated over years of handling dangerous situations, he could not keep up his façade when he saw her.

“Tommy, what are we going to do?”

She fell into his arms and her shoulders began to quake with her sobbing. He stood like a stone, swallowing hard and flexing his jaw muscles in an attempt to hold to his resolve. Images of his fantasies about her flashed through his head. He simultaneously wanted to tear her dress off and have her on the rug of his aunt’s parlor and push her away to save himself. He pushed his urges down deep into his psyche and patted her on the back in a comforting manner. She separated from him, sniffing and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. He offered her a white handkerchief which was soon smudged with black kohl.

“We are going to do the only thing that we can. What we should have done months ago.” He kept his voice even. With fluid movements, he drew his cigarettes case and matches out of his pocket and lit one. He offered it to her, and when she declined he flicked the case shut and eased it back into his pocket. He was amazed that his hands were not shaking.

She turned from him and walked to a table which held cut glass decanters of whiskey, rum, and gin on a silver tray. There were leaded crystal glasses neatly arranged on a shelf behind it, and Esme lingered there, pouring drinks for Tommy and herself. For, as long as she focused on the drinks, she could put off facing what Tommy was saying to her.

“Esme,” his voice caressed her ears, “you know what we have to do. We can’t allow this to go any farther. Even though we haven’t used our bodies to betray John, the way we feel isn’t right.”

She turned to hand him a glass of Irish whiskey and spoke, “Don’t say his name to me and talk about what’s right. Has he done what’s right by me? You and I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Hmmm,” He nodded his head and took a drink, “You’re talking to me, now. Not Polly. There’s no need to sugarcoat what has been happening.”

“But we haven’t…”

“In our hearts, and in our dreams, we have.” Tommy’s nostrils flared slightly, and his eyes roamed her face, her neck, and the bit of collarbone exposed by her dress. He pulled his bottom lip into his mouth to wet it and seeing this Esme felt heat flush her face and chest. “You know we have.”

He was right. In the months that he had stayed away, while she was trying to conceive a baby with John, she would find herself imagining that it was Tommy whose body strained above her, that the velvety shaved head she caressed belonged to Tommy, and most shamefully of all, that Tommy’s cock was stretching her wide and making her come undone.

“Even now, Tommy continued, “with John thinking the worst and looking for both of us we are still drawn to each other.

She was weak in the knees from the thoughts running through her head. She sat down and immediately regretted doing so because the pressure of the chair only made the throbbing between her legs worse. “How do we stop?” she sighed.

He looked away. “I don’t know. I could go away, to London perhaps.”

Esme stared at Tommy, willing him to look her way. If what she was about to say didn’t sever his feelings for her, then nothing would, and they were doomed.

“Maybe it will be easier for us to forget all of this when the baby comes.”

Tommy turned her way. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, then closed.

Esme had gotten pregnant to stop her from wanting Tommy. She thought that some primal urge would kick in and make her fiercely loyal to John, but it hadn’t, not yet. She needed help. Nature had betrayed her. She prayed that Tommy would do what was right, because she didn’t know if she could.

Her words pulled everything painfully into focus, and he knew what he had to do. He swallowed thickly “You are goin’ to go home to your husband and forget that any of this happened.” He swallowed again and cleared his throat, his voice cracking as he tried to push the words past his lips, “because if you don’t....” “Because if I don’t, you’ll what? Cut me from this family?” She laughed through tears. “No, love.” A weary smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes grew misty at the memory. He had to look away from her to muster up the strength to finish. “If you don’t, it will tear this family, and all that we’ve worked so hard to build, apart.” He drew a shaky breath, “All of our schemes and plans, all of the things we’ve dreamt of for our children...gone. We can’t survive something like this. And what we want,” he sniffed, and again he cleared his throat, “what we want doesn’t matter.”

She knew that he was right, but that knowledge did little to quell the bitterness in her heart. It wasn’t fair that her husband could lie with impunity about where he spent his nights, but she was denied a little bit of comfort that she had found in the world. She had never gone to bed with Thomas. She’d only kissed him one time, and their physical contact had been fleeting. With all her soul she wanted to be lost in his arms, just once.

She was already paying for sins she hadn’t committed, and this would likely be the last time she ever saw Tommy alone, so she made a decision. She rose from her chair and walked to where Tommy stood. He kept his eyes from her, instead, he looked at the wall beyond. She took the whiskey from his hand and stood inches from him as she drained the glass. He kept his hands at his sides, not daring to move, but his eyes slid closed. Esme placed her hands on his shoulders and breathed his name. When he opened his eyes she spoke.

“You have made me feel worthy of love, Tommy. With just a look, a word, a touch, you have given me back what he took away. You, Tommy. Not some punter from the shop, not some bloke from the Garrison, but you.  It may be wrong, what we feel, but there has to be some good in a person who sews love in a deserted heart.”

Tommy’s will fell away from him and he slid his arms around her waist. He pushed the outside world from his mind. His whole existence at that moment was the warmth of her touch and the smell of her skin. She tilted her head up as he drew her closer, every part of him pressing insistently against every part of her. The room became impossibly quiet as his mouth found hers, and she melted into his body. Her lips parted for him, and he slid his tongue over hers, hungrily drinking her in. Her hands roamed under his jacket and caressed his back. The feeling was so exquisite that he could die in her arms and be satisfied.

It was she who pulled away, and he sighed at the loss of contact.

She studied him. Lost in the lines of his face, his cheekbones, his jawline, and his pale blue eyes, she could see his resemblance to John and to her son. She imagined that the new baby would be blessed with the Shelby good looks as well. She took another step back and ran her hands over her stomach. She had to let him go. 

OMG! Next up, Tommy will have to reckon with John’s thirst for revenge!

Let me know what y’all think.

[thepartyresponsible]

another fill! this is not a champagne fill. this is a coffee fill, which has stronger notes of bitterness and acidity.

@greythunderkat​, i am so sorry. your power is out, and you asked very nicely for a little more from the post-apocalyptic verse, and you probably wanted something at least a little sweet, and here i am, bringing you despair. 

this is how jason coped with the end of the world. warnings for character deaths (so. many. deaths.) and also for roy harper, which means drug references and trucker hats and bad decisions.

It’s a grotesque, Jason thinks, what the world has done to itself. It’s an obscene joke. He tells Roy, when he asks, that he’s not surprised, but that’s a lie. It had been a hell of a shock, watching Gotham rend itself to pieces. The kind of hit that falls so fast and so mean that you don’t feel it for hours. There’s just the sudden jolt, and then radiating numbness.

He remembers the desperate twist of sorrow that hooked in when he found Alfred on the floor, sweating through his shirt, cuffs already stained with vomit. He remembers scooping him up, remembers hating Bruce for doing this, for leaving another one of his blind, stupid followers to suffer alone. Alfred – imperturbable, unflappable Alfred – had seemed to weigh almost nothing.

The numbness hit about three minutes later, when he found Bruce’s body. After that, he didn’t feel a damn thing for six, seven months.

He buried Alfred and Bruce side-by-side, tucked right next to Bruce’s parents. He put Tim there, too, when he found his body, a week or so after the worst of it had worked through Gotham.

Tim didn’t die sick. Tim bled out in some back alley, got his face stomped in afterward. Jason doesn’t know who he was trying to protect, but he died with his mask on, like a good Bat.

Jason doesn’t hear a damn thing from Dick or Barbara or anyone else. Never finds their bodies. As he works his way out of Gotham, heads south like a migratory bird fleeing winter, he leaves messages behind, spray painted on every building he thinks they might check, telling them where he’s headed.

When he leaves those places, he does it again, leaves a breadcrumb trail of black spraypaint, bats and coordinates in coded messages.

But he never hears anything from any of them again.

He’s surprised by what the world does to itself, but not that he loses every single Bat in the processes. They’re all better-natured, nobler. Those who didn’t die sick probably died like little Tim, fists clenched tight until the bullet holes drained too much blood.

Bruce, of course, would’ve been proud of every single one of them.

Probably not so proud of the way Jason ran away, and damn sure not proud of the things Jason did in that first stretch of months after leaving Gotham, but Jason tells himself he doesn’t care. Bruce Wayne was never proud of him, so it’s not like he fell from grace. More like he just kept digging farther down into the muck he’s always been mired in.

It’s Roy Harper, incongruously enough, that steadies him out.

“Hey, Jay,” he says, months after the outbreak, as he rolls through the window of the warehouse Jason’s staying in. He smiles like it’s nothing, like he’s just dropping in after some work with the Titans. He smiles like the world isn’t gutted behind him.

“Fuck,” Jason says, too out of habit to remember sentence structure, too startled to compensate. He swallows the cold canned soup he hadn’t bothered to heat up. “What the fuck, Harper?”

“Been following your messages,” Roy says, with a shrug. He’s starved to bantamweight, and, every time he grins, Jason gets a pretty clear idea of what his skull looks like under that thin layer of skin. “Anyone else find you yet?”

Jason sets the can aside, climbs to his feet. Roy eyes him with a casual friendliness that almost hides the way he’s keeping one hand close to the knife on his belt.

“Just you,” Jason says.

“Yeah,” Roy nods. There’s a sudden, sharp twist of his mouth, a flash of something behind his eyes. “You’re the only one I’ve found, too.”

Jason figures they could fill graveyards with the list of names they’re trying not to say to each other. All those bodies stacked up between them, and he doesn’t know how the hell he’s supposed to climb to the top, meet Roy halfway.

“Sit down,” he says, finally. “There’s soup.”

Roy studies him for a second and then smiles again. Last time Jason saw him, he was in disgrace, but it’s probably a hell of a lot harder to find heroin now that the world’s dead.

He doesn’t look healthy, but he looks clean.

Hell, he’s the first familiar face Jason’s seen in months. Jason wouldn’t chase him off if he looked high out of his Goddamn mind.

  They don’t talk about it much. One time, when Jason wakes up to find Roy curled in on himself, rocking back and forth, he puts a hand on Roy’s shoulder and listens, carefully blank-faced, while Roy explains.

“I was in rehab,” he says. “Kinda remote. Grayson found it for me. We were fine for a couple weeks, then I guess someone remembered we were there. Whole fucking place, and just me. None of others were fighters.”

Jason didn’t try to hold Gotham. He knew it was a lost cause, and he chose, pretty quickly, not to die for it.

He wonders how long it took Roy to make the same call.

“It’s alright,” Roy says, mostly to himself. He rubs at his face, but he isn’t crying. His face is emptier than Jason’s. “I’m fine, Jay. It’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, “alright. Let’s get moving.”

‘’Sure,” Roy says, getting his feet under him. He wobbles a little on the way up, but he’s steady by the time Jason steps back. “Let’s go.”

  If Jason had a chance to pick, he wouldn’t have picked Harper. But he’s glad that he’s here. There’s an edged, insistent optimism to Harper. That’s probably what got him in trouble in the first place, but he can’t get into much trouble with Jason constantly within reaching distance.

Jason thinks that, anyway, until Harper comes laughing out of the forest, hyena-cackling, blood on his face, his hands, all down his Goddamn shirt, and says, “Jay! Jay, I killed a fucking bear.”

“With what, shithead?” Jason says, on his feet so fast that he’s almost dizzy with it. “Your fucking hands?”

“Arrows didn’t take it down,” Roy says. He leans over, hands on his knees, and laughs, giddy and high-pitched, off his head on adrenaline and maybe blood loss. “Got it with a couple of arrows, finished it with a knife.”

“You fucking idiot,” Jason says, tripping right into rage. “You fucking disaster.”

“Killed a bear, Jay,” Roy says, a little petulantly. His hat is missing, which serves to show off the ragged cut on his forehead.

“Fucking Christ,” Jason says, and doesn’t panic. “Fucking Christ, Harper.”

  The cuts aren’t as bad as they looked. He’s not hurt half as bad as Jason feared. But they’re low on antibiotics, almost out entirely, and Jason can’t sleep because he’s so damn worried that Roy’s going to up and die on him from gangrene, like this is some shitty WWI-era tragedy.

“You’re gonna get trench foot,” Jason tells him. “Your face is going to turn green and fall off.”

Roy laughs. He’s not quite as manic as he was earlier, but he still seems to find the whole situation somehow hilarious. “Better not,” he says, mumbling from his sleeping bag. “I’m definitely the pretty one.”

“The fuck you are,” Jason says. He stares at the ceiling above them, tries to remember how far away that town was, the one with the pharmacy that looked like it might still have something valuable left inside. “I swear to Christ, Harper, if you die--”

“Not gonna die, Jay,” Roy tells him. He’s serious now. Soft and blank, the way he gets when he’s sad. “I killed a bear with my fucking hands so I could get back to you, dumbass. I’m not leaving.”

“You killed it with a knife, asshole,” Jason says, but his heart tightens up in his chest, and he gets unwelcome flashbacks of finding Tim in that dark alleyway, the bright red of the suit, the dark red-brown of old blood.

He doesn’t want to lose any one else. He’s a long way from Gotham, and he doesn’t know where the hell he’s supposed to bury Roy if it’s not right next to the rest of his family.

  He sneaks out at dawn, leaves a message for Roy to stay in their stolen cabin, try to get some rest. Out scouting, he writes. Gonna find more food.

They have enough food. Hell, they have a fucking bear that they’re supposed to find something to do with. They have stacks and stacks of canned food. What they don’t have is enough antibiotics, and so he’s off to get more.

When he gets into town, he walks right into a trap.

Fortunately for him, the trap’s already sprung, and the trappers have their eyes set on different prey.

The man’s older than Jason, looks put-together in a way that is almost laughable, given the relative dilapidation of the rest of the world. It looks like he still bothers to comb his hair in the morning. He comes crawling out the half-collapsed mess of the pharmacy with a bag on his back, a gun on his hip, and dust all down the front of his shirt.

Jason watches in amazement as the man no-shit pauses to brush the worst of the dust and debris off of his clothes before he sets off down the street, straight for the group of men who are waiting to grab him.

Jason stopped wearing the bat on his chest a long time ago, but Roy painted it on the back of the stupid red hoodie he gave him last Christmas, and Jason feels the weight of that symbol for the first time in years.

The easiest thing, he knows, would be to wait until the fight’s over and then take out the survivors. That’s the clean way to play this, the safest way forward.

But there was a time when Jason didn’t put his safety in front of anyone else’s.

He’s never quite been a hero, but he used to be something better than what he is now.

When he kicks the sniper off the roof, it feels like some kind of resurrection. The bullet he puts through the leader is blinking awake after a long fever, settling back into a body he barely remembers.

It’s not what Bruce would’ve done. But this isn’t Bruce’s world. Bruce died, and took his world with him, and Jason’s been out of the world so long that it stings, stepping up to the edge, letting himself be seen.

When he calls down to the man below, he’s almost laughing, feels stupid and off-balance. Relieved, maybe. “Hey,” he says, “you’re a fucking lunatic, you know that?”

The man looks up at him. He’s calm, relaxed. He just shot four people in thirty seconds, and Jason hasn’t seen anyone move with that kind of beautiful efficiency since the last time he saw Nightwing having fun in a streetfight.

“I’ve been told,” he calls back, dry, amused.

It has been a long damn time since Jason spoke to a stranger who had anything other than threat and fear in their voice. It’s been a long damn time since he met anyone who moved like his people used to, back when he had people other than Roy Harper.

It feels like some kind of homecoming. It feels like crawling his way out of a second grave.

He gambles on trust, because he thinks, if he spends one more day in a dead world, he’s going to die with it.

“You grab any antibiotics?” he asks. “I’ve got a friend who did something stupid.”