#i don’t really mind in truth like valentines is not a particularly special day but the contrast hit me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sephirthoughts · 7 months ago

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Father: Verb

Summary: 11 year-old WMD Sephiroth is assigned a new handler/bodyguard, named Vincent Valentine.

rating: teen and up (prev chapter and ao3 linked at bottom)

Chapter 8: The Belly of the Beast

“You keep saying things that don’t make sense,” Sephiroth said angrily. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to confuse me, or if this is some kind of attempt at a joke, but—”

“You claim not to believe me, but you felt it, did you not? His pull on you. Your connection to him.”

He swallowed hard. “I don’t…know what you mean.”

“Never try to lie to me. I know you better than you do,” the older version said, with that softly inhuman smile of his. “That child is the reason I was able to find you, here. The reason I still exist, despite my body’s death. He is…an anchor point, in four-dimensional space.”

“Why? What’s so special about him?” Even as Sephiroth asked the question, he felt a thrill of numinous familiarity, as if he was on the verge of recalling some profound truth, that he’d forgotten.

The older version’s smile widened. “That’s right. Remember. Remember him, on your own.”

“No. No, I can’t,” Sephiroth insisted, shaking his head. “How can I? I’m not you, yet.”

“But you will be. The reason you remember that child, though you never saw him before, is because souls are not governed by time and physical space. They navigate by anchor points in the liminal space, created by events of great emotional impact, or a deep attachment to another human soul.”

Sephiroth frowned. “But why that boy, then? If it’s about attachment to another soul, shouldn’t our anchor be Vincent?”

“Vincent is not human.”

“Are you saying that Vincent…doesn’t have a soul?” Sephiroth said, aghast.

“He does not have a human soul,” the older version explained. “Chaos is woven into his being and has changed his nature, entirely. Cloud Strife, on the other hand, has a super-human soul.”

“What is that?”

“The only thing I can liken it to, is him carrying a brighter light, than most. Because of this light, he is able to draw people to him. Compel their loyalty and adoration. Make them attached to him. He has no idea he is doing it, of course, nor do others.”

“He must be pretty charismatic, then.”

“Not really. He does not seem particularly special, at all, at first blush. Outwardly, he is…rather small, and a bit too pretty, for a boy. His looks make him appear unimposing and even vulnerable. Inwardly, he is a morose, solitary, single-minded youth, in constant mental and emotional chaos due to a laundry list of traumas. And yet, everywhere he goes, he collects allies and admirers, like a sun drawing worlds into its orbit. That day he ran into us in the bakery, we began to be affected by his gravity. But something peculiar happened. He attached to us, as well, which he has never done with anyone else. That mutual attachment is what has enabled me to retain my sense of self in the lifestream, and overpower its desire for reunification. It was no accident that you met him precisely at the turning point of your entire life. His attachment to us drew him to you, at our moment of greatest crisis, and our attachment to him guided me here.”

Sephiroth arched a dubious eyebrow. “Are you seriously saying it’s all thanks to true love?”

“Love? What has love to do with two souls being bound together in eternity?”

“Can you hear yourself, when you talk?”

“I see we haven’t yet developed a sense of humor,” the older version chuckled. “No matter, you will have time to grow, in all aspects. You will become the man we should have been. The man we could have been, had fate taken a different turn.”

“You keep calling this a turning point, but I don’t understand why. What’s so significant about this moment? Why not go back further, to before all of this even happened?”

“We cannot go back, to before Cloud Strife existed. Even if we could, all we could do would be to prevent our own birth, which would defeat the purpose. This moment is the first hinge upon which fate turns. Not only for us, but for this world. Together, we will alter the crucial condition, and change the fate in which Vincent kills us.”

“It must be Vincent. But how do we know for sure? And how will we know we’ve changed our fate?”

“I represent a second pivotal moment. When we altered our fate, in that moment, the future timeline collapsed, and future versions of us ceased to exist. Now, my own time, which is your future—and by extension, me—are only potential outcomes. Once the path is truly severed, everything will be erased, all the way back to you. We will know, because I will cease to exist. Then, you will finally be free of our fate. Free to choose who and what you are, what life you will lead, and who will be by your side.”

“If that’s all true, why don’t you do it yourself? What do you need me for?”

“In my current form, I can only affect this reality in minor ways. I need a physical body, through which to channel my power. Your body, to be exact.”

Sephiroth balked. “What? Why?”

The older version laughed. “I am extremely powerful, little fool. Any body but our own would be destroyed by the force of the energies I command.”

“You want to…possess me? But doesn’t possession push out the original soul, and effectively kill the host?”

“Were I to possess a body that is not my own, that is how it would work. However, the universe makes no distinction between you and I. Since we are one soul, I can enter your body and coexist with your consciousness. If it eases your mind, I will only borrow control, when necessary.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Aside from the fact that I am you?”

“Because of the fact that you are me. If I was a time-traveling ghost, and I wanted to steal myself a body, this is exactly what I would say.”

The older version leaned down, and spoke into Sephiroth’s ear. Gradually, his blue-green eyes went wider and his lips parted.

“I—I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever it takes.” He looked up resolutely into his future self’s face and spread his arms. “I’m ready. Come inside me.”

The older version choked. “Please…do not say it like that.”

“What? What’s wrong with what I said?” Sephiroth frowned.

“Nothing. Nevermind. Before we begin, I must warn you, when we are connected by a body, some of my memories will intermittently overflow into your consciousness. It will be…painful. But this is the burden you must bear, to re-create the world.”

Sephiroth made a face. “The burden I must bear, to re-create the world? Gods, how did I ever wind up talking the way you do? You sound like a villain from a stage drama”

“Ha. One day, you may find out.” The older version smiled and held out his hand. “Come. Let us defy destiny together.”

Sephiroth hesitated, then reached out and took it.

Instantly, his vision went black, and he felt like he was spinning wildly in a soundless, lightless void. After a second or two, the extreme vertigo stabilized and his senses returned. He was still standing in his quarters, facing the kitchen. But the older version was nowhere to be seen.

“Are you here?” he asked, half under his breath.

I am here. Can you not feel me ins—ah, I mean. Feel my presence?

“I can, now. What do we do, next?”

Give me control.

Sephiroth consciously slackened his will and let the other take over. He was immediately assailed by that dizzy numbness again, but not nearly so badly as before, and he retained his sight this time. The other spun them around and jerked their head up, looking up at a spot in the ceiling.

Found you.

A serpentine smile spread across Sephiroth’s face. At the same time, there was a loud bang. The room went dark and the whole building seemed to shudder, as hundreds of electrical circuits blew out simultaneously. A moment later, the backup generators kicked on, and the emergency strips along the floors and around the doorways cast the room in amber light.

Sephiroth felt his limbs and torso warp and stretch, and saw their perspective move much higher up, as the other shifted his body into his own adult form. The door blew off its hinges with a bang, slamming into the wall across the way, as they stepped out into the dim, emergency-lit hall. In response to the noise, a patrol of helmeted Shinra guards came running, weapons drawn.

“Intruder! Identify yourself!” the leader barked.

The older version waved their hand. Purple bolts of lightning crackled down the hall, zapping the entire troop of guards, at once, and causing everything made of glass to violently explode.

“Whoa! When do I learn to do that?” Sephiroth asked, excitedly.

In Midgar, during your SOLDIER training.

That dizzy disorientation spun his mind around, and suddenly the scene before him had shifted. He was standing atop what seemed to be a massive, industrial supercomplex. The wind was blowing in his long, silver hair, and the sun was setting, in a riot of brilliant golds, over the sea.

“…is the gift of the goddess. We seek it thus, and take to the sky,” a voice was saying, behind him. A voice he’d never heard, and yet knew as well as his own. Achingly familiar, and somehow far away.

He turned around, to see two people. A big, burly young man in black, and an exceptionally beautiful young man in a burgundy coat, with auburn hair. He knew them. Genesis, the redhead, was seated on the bulkhead-like steel housing, reading aloud from a book, and Angeal, the man in black, was leaning against it, beside him.

These were his friends. His best friends. And yet, there was an element of bitter pain, in the joy that welled up inside him, upon seeing their beloved faces. These were people he had loved…and lost.

“Ripples form on the water’s surface. The wandering soul knows no rest,” Genesis concluded.

“Loveless, act one,” he heard his older voice say.

“You remembered,” Genesis said, snapping the book shut and hopping down from his perch.

“How can I not, when you’ve beaten it into my head,” he replied, in a bantering tone.

With that, weapons were drawn, and battle stances assumed.

“Don’t take Sephiroth lightly,” Angeal advised.

“Noted,” Genesis snorted, then they rushed in to the attack.

Sephiroth had no control of this body, in the memory, but he could feel everything, as keenly as if he were really there. As blades clashed and sparked, it became quickly clear that these two were superhumans, and that they were no match for him, even together. He blocked everything they threw at him, even their coordinated dual attacks, with perfect ease. What kind of monstrous strength was this?

As the fight progressed, high into the sky, full of exploding firebolts and deadly arcs of sword-light, that sliced the giant industrial complex to ribbons, Sephiroth realized with a dawning sense of wonder, how far he had yet to go, to be as strong as his older self.

Just as the simulation fell apart, around the three young men, and it became apparent this was a training arena, he lurched out of the memory, back into the present.

“Your friends,” he said breathlessly. “Genesis and Angeal. What happens to them?”

They are both gone. Maybe, one day, you will find them again, for my sake.

“I will. I promise. I will save everyone, this time.”

Sephiroth looked around, to see that they were just stepping out into the main hall, where the elevators to the other levels were. More troops of guards came rushing up and were tossed away, with a wave of his hand. Purple lighting crackled along the walls, and non-uniformed Shinra staff were screaming and running away, as fast as they could.

Your turn, little fool. Deal with them.

Sephiroth regained control of his body, which shifted back to its usual, teenaged form. With a flick of his wrist, a wall of flame tore through the Shinra Manor main hall, burning the woodwork black, and incinerating everything in its path.

All the sudden, a wave of nausea struck him. There was something…something about a wall of fire, just like this…

Focus. Shinra has dispatched its army. There are squadrons converging on the manor, with airborne support inbound, from the north, south, and west.

“Ugh, you take over,” Sephiroth groaned. “I’m…dizzy. I think I’m gonna—”

His vision went sideways again, and he was plunged headfirst into another memory.

This place wasn’t like anywhere Sephiroth had been, in the manor. But there was something eerily familiar about it. It was dark and musty, with stone walls and ceiling, like it was underground. A forest of huge, ancient bookshelves reached all the way to the ceiling, and were piled haphazardly with old books.

The aisles between them were narrow and cramped, and everything was strewn about and disordered, with books lying all over the floor, almost as if someone had dumped them off the shelves. He was seated in the center, at the large, mahogany desk, reading by candlelight, of all things. His black gloved finger scanned the lines of a project journal, written by hand, in ink.

“Sephiroth?” a voice said, from the center aisle.

He glanced up. It was a good-looking young man, in a black uniform, with spiky black hair and bright-blue mako eyes. Something about him made Sephiroth think of Angeal. That’s right. Angeal was his mentor. This one’s name was Zack. Another pang of bitter pain. Another one he’d lost.

“Uh. What you got, there?” Zack asked, uneasily.

Before Sephiroth had a chance to reply, the memory flickered and blinked, as if someone had switched the channel on an old cathode-ray television, and the scene changed.

Vincent staggered, clutching his abdomen, where a long, thin blade impaled him, all the way through, sticking out of his back. He stumbled forward, as Sephiroth yanked the sword out. Sephiroth caught him, before he fell, and Vincent leaned heavily on him.

A sea of flames billowed and roared all around them, accompanied by screams and wails, and the muffled thunder of explosions in the distance.

The sword wounds all over Vincent’s torso were oozing a black, tar-like substance, that must be his blood. The ragged holes in Sephiroth’s chest, torn open by shots from Cerberus, had already begun to knit back together.

“Vincent…do you love me?”

Vin—cent—do—y—love—

The memory spat him out abruptly, back into present, where his older self had turned the central area of the manor into an inferno, the heat of which made his eyes sting. Amid the calls of soldiers, from outside, and the sound of windows being smashed on the upper levels (probably by people trying to escape), Sephiroth stood, unmoved.

“What were you reading, in that book?” he demanded. “Why did you feel so…manic and strange, in that memory?”

It’s none of your concern. None of that will matter, after tonight.

“Wait, are you switching the memories, intentionally? Are you controlling what I see?”

There are things it will only hurt you to know. Things I wish with all my heart I could un-know. We are giving you a chance to live unburdened by all of that.

“What about Vincent, then! You said he kills us, but I saw you stab him! I saw you hurt him! Why did you do it? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?!”

Because we knew you would not understand, and that you would react the way you are reacting now.

Sephiroth wrested control of his body back from the other, with a violent wrench, and refused to move an inch.

Do not be childish. There is no time for—

“No! I’m not going another step until you tell me what you’re hiding from me!” he shouted, over the thrum of helicopter rotors, right above the manor’s roof, by the sound of it.

You will regret knowing.

“Not as much as you’ll regret not telling me,” he shot back.

Very well. But we warned you.

Once again, the vertigo overtook him, and he was plunged into the sea of memory. Before, it had been gentle. Linear. Coherent. This time, it was a rapid-fire cascade, thousands of tiny points of light in vivid colors, scene after scene, flashing by within milliseconds.

He saw Jenova in her true form, Hojo, Lucrecia, Vincent, Glenn, Rosen, Genesis, Angeal, Zack, Lazard, Rufus Shinra, and hundreds of other faces. This older version was far more than just him, from eleven years in the future. The others were all within him. All the future versions of himself, up to the last one. The one who learned how to reverse it all. How to reject destiny and rewrite fate.

He saw the last one choose death. Saw him navigate the lifestream, in defiance of the will of the universe. He saw all those futures, folding back on themselves and collapsing, as each turning point was ignited, like a fuse burning down. And his was the stick of dynamite, that would blow it all sky-high.

The claws of these potential realities had caught hold of him, and began to tear at his mind and gouge his flesh. He was bleeding. Coming apart. Losing himself in them. They were so much stronger. So much older. He was only a child…

Then he saw Cloud Strife. Saw him in brilliant blue and gold. Saw him as a child and a young man. Saw him cold, hateful, cursing, silent, angry, grieving, helpless, pleading, terrified, wounded, full of worship and admiration, and always so achingly, heart-piercingly beautiful. In that sea of darkness and chaos, he was the only constant, shining like a pole star. Guiding him back to himself.

Sephiroth grasped onto Cloud and finally managed to drag himself back from the sea of memory. But living an entire potential lifetime in a matter of seconds, was no easy thing to withstand.

When he emerged, he fell to his knees, clutching his head and curling into himself, screaming hoarsely. A visceral roar of unfathomable, wordless agony, that cut through all the other clamor and noise, like a sawblade.

The riot gear-clad soldiers outside in the courtyard faltered, looking alarmed and confused. No one had reported that any…creatures had got loose, but everyone knew the rumors of what went on here. Their commander ordered them to hang back, while he radioed CQ for advice. These units had never fought monsters, after all, and were ill-equipped to do so.

Inside the manor, a little boy was crouched on the floor, sobbing amid the flames and wreckage. But he never cried, Sephiroth told himself, frantically trying to wipe away the tears, as they welled up and overflowed, streaming hot and unchecked down his waxen face.

Do you understand, now? Some wounds can never heal. Some wrongs can never be undone. We had to erase all of those years from existence. To rewrite them, from a blank page. To do that, each of us had to die, to go backward, to find the next anchor point, and transmit our purpose to the next self, before we ceased to exist. You are the last. You are all of us. You are the one who will move forward, into the unknown future.

“I am all of us,” Sephiroth repeated dazed and wavering. “I am all—”

He broke off and fell forward onto his hands, dry-heaving, spitting foamy saliva all over the sooty, debris-strewn floor. When the fit passed, he pushed himself back up, panting and pale, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I am…all of us,” he said weakly. Then again, with a little more energy, as he staggered to his feet, his voice growing louder and steadier with each repetition, drowning the others in his head. “I am all of us. I am all of us! But you are only parts of me! You are phantom limbs! Echoes of a future that no longer exists! You’ve given me our knowledge, now give me our strength! I will forge the path you all died to create! I will rewrite fate, once and for all!”

Ah…no longer a little fool, we see. As you wish. All the power we accumulated, till the day the last of us died, is now yours. Use it well.

A prickling electric sensation rushed through his body from head to toe. His mind cleared and his senses became hyper-acute. Time slowed in his perception, as his power surged and pulsed, making his hair float, like he was underwater.

His black wing burst from his back, shedding inky feathers and glimmering, purple sparks, as it unfurled majestically, behind him.

He held out his hand and the great blade Masamune appeared, keen and cold and bright. Bloodthirsty as ever (also a good deal longer than he was tall, in his juvenile form). In his other hand he gathered the darkness—the agony, bitterness, hatred and rage—from the earth itself, drawing it into a jet-black orb of whirling shadows, in his palm.

Just then, the beleaguered Shinra forces finally stormed the manor, with a cacophony of shouts, and the hurried thumping of heavy boots, on the wood floors. At least a hundred soldiers, all told, surrounded the one boy, with glowing red targeting lenses in their helmets, like mechanical spider-eyes, and automatic rifles raised and ready to kill.

“Asset, drop your weapon!” the commander shouted. “If you do not comply, we are authorized to use lethal force! Stand down, now!!”

Sephiroth turned his head, to look at the man, and the ring of soldiers took a few anxious steps back, in unison, widening the circle around the silver-haired child.

There was a tense beat, like an indrawn breath.

Sephiroth smiled.

The spinning orb of darkness detonated, with the force of an atomic bomb. The earth quaked and the sky trembled. The soldiers were obliterated, the manor walls exploded outward, and the roof was quite literally blown off. The spherical shockwave that followed, immediately after the flash, reduced most of the outer wings of the building to ruin.

The helicopters flying overhead were knocked away by the blast and went careening out of control, streaking through the sky like dizzy meteors, before they smashed into the ground and the outbuildings.

Amid the falling masonry and flying glass, in that hell of destruction and death, Sephiroth walked calmly on, to the pile of twisted metal that had been the bank of elevators. Tossing away the destroyed elevator car, he uncovered the shaft; a yawning pit, that lead to the belly of the beast.

More helicopters were inbound, as well as more armored transports, in the distance, carrying Shinra troops. Spotlights were shone on him. Voices amplified by bullhorns demanded his surrender. The one-winged angel ignored them and stepped into the elevator shaft, vanishing from their astounded sight.

He closed his eyes, freefalling into blind darkness, till the last second, when he flicked his wing to slow his descent. His boots touched down lightly, on the worn, rust-stained concrete. Black feathers fell around him, like nightmare snowflakes.

That way. This storage area leads to the secret archives, and then the laboratories. That’s where the old man is keeping our genetic material. We’re going to destroy it all.

“Vincent first,” Sephiroth growled, through his clenched teeth, as he waved his hand and blew a huge steel door open, with an echoing boom.

Of course. They’ll have him in that lab. If he’s not in the arena.

“Arena?”

He’s the worst of the abominations they created—well, aside from us. They use him to dispose of all the others.

Through the door was a narrow passage, which led to the secret archives hall. It was exactly as he’d seen it in their memory, only a lot less uprooted and tossed about. For a moment. Then a tempest of flames swallowed this room, and all the dirty secrets it contained, and the god of destruction moved on.

Next was a large, dirty, mostly empty area, that looked like it had been used to house vehicles or heavy machinery, at some point. On the other side, was a concrete wall, with a heavy, steel door, and a much larger, garage-style door in it. A lazy swing from Masamune, and both doors collapsed, along with the entire wall, cleanly sliced into a hundred geometric pieces.

Sephiroth stepped through the dust cloud into what looked like a Russian base from cold-war-era spy film. It was so comically dark and industrial and outdated, he could hardly believe it could really be in use. There were even exposed pipes all along the ceiling, some spitting out clouds of steam. At the intersection of three hallways, he paused, tilting his head to one side, as if listening to some distant noise.

Then his eyes ignited with green fire, and a venomous smile curled the corners of his perfect lips. “Ah. It seems I’m not the only monster, here.”

THE AUTHOR HAS SOMETHING TO SAY genesis: are you fucking serious? we came all this way and we only get a cameo?? genesis: SEPHIROTH YOU SPOTLIGHT STEALING BITCH YOU WON'T GET AWAY WITH THIS zack: i'm just happy to be included! thanks everyone! angeal: angeal: who the hell are you guys talking to?

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sithsecrets · 4 years ago

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exchange | din djarin x reader

the crest’s one and only crewmember buys mando a few shirts, and he gives her a gift in return.

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2k words

mentions: none, this is fluff!

this is part 1 of my valentine’s week special! you can find the other parts here!

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You take notice of it when you’re doing the laundry.

Mando’s got the Crest cruising through hyperspace, course set for Nevarro, and you’re catching on up on chores in the meantime. The baby’s three little outfits are clean and stain-free, you’ve set aside a pair of your own pants for mending, and Mando… Mando, you come to find out, has two shirts. Total. As in, two shirts including the one he’s currently wearing under his armor. You know he had more than that the last time you did the washing, but— but shit, he got cut by a quarry last week, and another one of his beat-up long-sleeves ripped and bit the dust shortly after that. So yep, Mando’s small wardrobe is now even smaller, and that makes you sigh. Even now, the brown cloth you have in your hands feels thin and worn, rough fibers catching your fingers every now and then. You think about telling Mando that he needs some new clothes, but you know he’ll just put it off or insist that whatever he has now is fine. And so you decide that you’ll resolve the issue yourself, knowing that something from the bazaar will probably do.

Sure enough, you find just what you need. The textile vendor says he can match Mando’s measurements without a problem after you show him Mando’s singular extra shirt, and a droid whips up the garments for you right there. You come away with two black and two brown, all long-sleeves and all made from the same material Mando seems to preder. Two are a bit thicker than the others— something for him to wear in the cold— and you decide that they’ll do nicely for his needs. Back on the Crest, you leave the stack of clothes on Mando’s bed and then promptly forget about them, distracted by the baby’s antics further back in the hull.

Mando asks you about the shirts later, holding the stack out to you like he’s looking for an explanation.

“What are these?” he asks, and you’re too busy with dinner to make a big deal of it.

“Those are for you,” you tell him, cutting the heat under the stew you’re making. The baby’s trying to get his hands in the pot, so you snatch him up, settling the little green boy on your hip as you add the finishing touches on tonight’s meal. “I realized you had like, two shirts when I was doing laundry on the way here.”

Mando sounds absolutely floored. “You bought these for me?”

That earns him a little laugh, and you hand him the baby. “No, Mando, I stole them off an Imperial transport vessel. Yes, I bought them for you! What kind of crewmember would I be if I let you run around looking ragged?”

“I…” Mando trails off, settling the Child in his arms. “Thank you.”

And then the two of you don’t talk about it again, the matter quickly forgotten in the midst of the evening ritual and your departure from Nevarro.

Week later, the Crest touches down on a distant planet, a place you’ve never been that Mando knows well. He tells you that the three of you will be spending some time here, and that makes you happy. It seems like a nice place, and the locals are kind.

Two days into this little excursion, you’re about to crawl in bed, only or stop short when you see a little satin pouch sitting on top of the covers. It’s pale blue, blue like the sky on your home planet, and no bigger than your palm. Curious, you pick it up gently, examining the little white embroidery on the edge, the way the drawstring pulls the fabric together just so. It pulls open easily, and you dump the contents into your palm without a second thought.

Scores of pale, pearly little beads glint in the light, strung neatly on a thin, delicate chain. Nothing about the trinket is particularly special, but it’s the simplicity that makes it stunning, in your eyes. You’ve had jewelry over the course of your lifetime, naturally, but never anything so dainty and pretty as this. The beads and the way they’re strung are styles unique to this planet, and you’ve seen countless people wearing necklaces similar to this one over the past few days.

There’s only one person that could have placed this here for you to find, and you go up to the cockpit to speak with him not five minutes after his gift falls in your hand.

Mando’s a bit busy when you go up there, fiddling with something on his vambrace in the pilot’s chair. You feel a little shy as you come to stand before him, the string of beads dangling from your fingers.

“Did you buy me this?” you ask softly, and that’s when Mando finally looks up at you.

“I—” The helmet tilts in the direction of your hand, and it’s like he’s a whole different person. Mando becomes nervous, back stiffening in his chair as he looks from you, to the necklace, and then back again. “I, um. Yeah, I did.”

Just hearing him say it makes you feel lightheaded, but you tell yourself not to get your hopes up. “What for?”

Mando stutters terribly, but he does manage to give you an explanation. “You— Well, you got me those shirts a few weeks ago, and you take good care of the baby. And the ship. And me. I just— I thought you’d like it, that’s all.”

You study the beads carefully for a moment, admiring the way they shimmer in your hand.

“I don’t just like it,” you declare, “I love it.”

And then you’re threading Mando’s give around your neck, reaching behind your head to do up the clasp. The jewelry is just as light as you thought it would be, sitting daintily against your collarbones. Mando watches you do all of this, and not the hundredth time do you wish you could see his face.

“Thank you, Mando, really.”

He nods. “You’re welcome.”

---

“Ah, so my suspicions were correct.”

The sound of the fruit vendors voice catches your attention, and you find yourself face-to-face with her satisfied smile when you lift your head up. You’ve been doing business with her every so often for almost a week now, always intrigued by the selection she has to offer. She also likes the baby, and he’s more than happy to coo at her for a free morsel or two.

“Excuse me?” you blurt, completely lost here. The old woman shakes her head at you, white braid swishing from side to side behind her back, and the smile on her face only deepens.

“Your necklace, child,” she says, pointing at the beads strung around your throat. You touch it on impulse, the baby wriggling in your other arm, and grow even more confused.

“I don’t understand,” you tell her, feeling stupid now, but the old woman just laughs. Her wrinkled fingers are soft on your cheek, the mirth in her eyes unmistakable.

“You don’t have to be secretive with me, my dear,” she chuckles, “I knew you were the Mandalorian’s woman from the minute I saw the both of you together. No man watches a woman that closely if he doesn’t care for her. And now he’s gotten you a necklace, so.”

She punctuates this with a shrug, behaving as if the meaning of your new accessory should be obvious, and you think you might actually pass out.

“I—” You huff, grasping for the right words. “I’m not— I don’t know the ways of this planet,” you say finally, mostly because it’s the truth and mostly because you don’t know how to so much as mention anything else the fruit vendor’s said.

It feels like you’ve been slapped across the face, like someone picked you up and shook you and until your brain rattled around too hard in your skull. Mando knows this place, he knows this city... Custom and culture are sacred to him, even if they have nothing to do with his own, and you find it difficult to believe that Mando gave you this gift without first considering its meaning. This is the man who speaks with the Tuskens, a man who has committed himself to a creed, a man who never wants to be rude or imposing unless he’s dealing with an enemy—

No. No, Mando definitely bought this for you on purpose.

In the thirty seconds it takes for you to form these thoughts, the fruit vendor comes to realize that your confusion was no act. You must look terrible, for she puts a hand on your arm as if to keep you upright.

“My dear, surely— I mean, the two of you care for this baby, and he is always watching over you. I simply thought there was something there, several people in this market did. Forgive me, please, I had no idea—”

“No, no, forgive me,” you blurt, rushing to reassure the woman that she has caused no offense. “I had no idea what these meant. I would have— Maker above, I should have—”

The old woman’s bewilderment matches your own, and you realize that you’re raving like a lunatic.

“I have to go!”

And then you are going, going and going until you’re back on the Crest. The baby seems content to laze about in his pram, thank the stars, and you put him down almost without a second thought, mind racing a thousand kilometers a second. You clamor up to the cockpit like a woman possessed, the noise movement drawing you there. Sure enough, Mando’s right where you thought he would be, parked in his pilot’s chair and fiddling with something on one of his blasters. He doesn’t even turn to look at you when you come up, completely calm despite your frantic movement.

“How was the—?”

“Why did you buy me this?” you cut, bisecting his question with one of your own. Mando’s hands still at once, and he tucks the gun back in the holster at his side.

“Someone told you,” he declares, finally turning to face you. All you can do is nod, heart beating so hard it almost hurts. You can almost taste it, this thing you’ve been wanting for months now, it’s right there on your tongue— but you don’t want to speak, don’t want to be the first one to suggest it. It’s never worked out for you in the past, and with a man like Mando thrown into the equation, you’re not sure what that kind of bravery might get you.

Mando sighs, heavy and tired. You watch him more closely than you’ve watched anyone before in your life as he stands, coming to face you. It’s cramped in this little room, and if you took even just half a step forward, the two of you would be pressed flush. He doesn’t say a word to you, just stands there and stands there until you can’t take it anymore.

“If you didn’t mean it like that, Mando, it’s fine, but I just want to know—”

“I… I’m not good at talking.” These first words have you cutting yourself short, and Mando continues like you never spoke in the first place. “To people, I mean. I can do what I need to do to conduct business, but other than that, I’m useless when it comes to things like this.”

“You talk to the baby,” you offer, and Mando nods.

“I do talk to the baby. Sometimes I even talk to you, but not enough.” He takes in a deep breath, seemingly gathering the courage to continue. “That’s why I did this.”

Mando runs his fingers along the beads at your throat, and it takes all you have not to fall down.

“This… This said everything for me. Or it was supposed to, at least.”

You melt at that, shoulders sagging. “Mando, I didn’t know, not until today.”

“I know,” he says companionably. “It’s not your fault I’m a coward.”

“You’re not a coward,” you declare, shaking your head. Mando brings his hand up, pressing it to your cheek like he’s been doing it all his life.

“If I’m not a coward, what am I then?”

All you can do is smile. “You’re mine.”

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #my writing #valentine's week 2021

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astarryon · 4 years ago

Text

Promise Me

Red is a Wondrous Color

Warnings: Gentle jealousy

Chapter Summary: Spencer knew he started wearing scarves for a reason.

Masterlist

Chapter One: You’ll Always Have Me

It isn’t often that Spencer is left feeling powerless.

It happens on occasion. As unfortunate as it is, it’s a hazard of the job and comes with the territory, and, more out of necessity than anything else, Spencer has gotten very good at recognizing that there will always be those certain situations that he can’t control. His genetic predisposition to schizophrenia, always dancing at the back of his mind, the possibility of what awaits him in the future a constant taunt he’s never quite been able to ease. That nasty drug habit he’d picked up all those years ago, one he hasn’t acted on since finally getting clean but that his nerves always ache to feed when he gets just a little too stressed to cope. Those particularly difficult cases where the unsub turns out to be little more than a kid and he can’t seem to find the right words to get everyone out of a hostile situation safely, the results of which usually manifest in someone who the world didn’t try hard enough for dying right in front of his eyes.

But just because it doesn’t happen often doesn’t mean it never happens, and as Spencer wraps his scarf around his throat before exiting Quantico into the abnormally wintry air, his eyes fall upon your form standing in the distance, and — not for the first time where you’re concerned, though recalling how many times it’s actually happened is just a little too embarrassing to stomach for the night — he stops dead in his tracks in awe.

Red is Spencer’s favorite color on you. It’s taken some time for him to figure that out. Flashy as it is, you never have the chance to wear much of it in the field, which is a loss he takes the time to mourn whenever he recalls the team’s last Christmas party at Rossi’s, when you’d been clad in a dress of silk and crimson and insisted he sway along to Billie Holiday with you in the living room despite his meek protests. Something about that dress brought out the rose blush in your cheeks, set your eyes off with mischief and delight, made the fringe of your lashes appear that much darker. It also made his mind wander with thoughts he’s still not entirely sure he’s allowed to have, so he’d gazed at you as respectfully as he could and tried not to focus too much on the feel of your breath against his neck.

It’s a wondrous color, red. An enchanting color.

And you’re wearing it now as you stand with your arms crossed over your chest to serve as protection from the cold, though he’s not really sure how much that’ll help with the expanse of your legs, moonlit and glittering, bared to the wind. You’re also bawling your eyes out, and it’s noticing this that finally stops Spencer standing there like an idiot with his mouth hanging open and starts his feet carrying him toward you at a pace that would make Morgan proud.

“Are you okay?” Spencer asks, and he immediately has to squash the urge to kick himself. You’re standing here, alone in the cold, dressed like that and openly sobbing. It doesn’t take a profiler to see that nothing is okay for you right now.

Your eyes widen at the sound of his voice, and he might take the time to marvel at how cute you look when startled if he wasn’t otherwise preoccupied with concern for your well-being. “Oh,” you breathe, hands instantly reaching up to swat at the tears trailing messily down your face. It won’t do you any good, not with the black streaks of mascara staining your skin, but Spencer knows enough not to point that out. “H-Hey, Spence. I thought you’d have gone home by now.”

“Yeah, I was supposed to,” he responds, trying for a kind, reassuring smile and remaining unsure of whether it actually appears. Try as he might, he can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t want to pretend not to notice your pain, even though he knows you probably rather he do. What he does want is... something he doesn’t think he can have. “I got a little caught up going over my closing report. What about you? You left a couple hours ago, didn’t you?”

“I did,” you sniff, and Spencer is suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to reach up and wipe the rest of the tears from your face himself. “Um... I had a date, actually.”

“Oh,” he says, making a concentrated effort to keep his voice light. “And you... came back to the office?”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips, though it comes out more as a garbled choke. “Yeah, I guess it didn’t go so well. I was going to go home, but at some point I turned around and kind of just... ended up here.” You shrug, your eyes falling to the ground, and Spencer follows your gaze down to your red toenails, gleaming in the lamp light and contrasting starkly against the black of your strappy heels. “I just didn’t think I could handle being alone right now. So.”

It’s difficult not to make assumptions in that moment, and though he tries, he feels his chest swell with an inappropriate surge of protectiveness. Again, it doesn’t take a profiler to read the implications of this situation, or to know that something has to have gone terribly wrong in the three hours since he’s last seen you. He can’t do much about the crying — he’s never been good with tears, no matter who they’re coming from — but his mind tumbles violently with the possibilities of what all could have gone wrong on your date, and his limbs itch to track down whoever’s responsible for getting you to this point of emotional distress and... and... telling them off with some strong vocabulary at the very least.

But there’s no use in that. He can’t change what’s already happened, and he doubts you’d let him go and yell at whoever’s done this to you. Anyway, you’re standing here in front of him, wide eyed and shivering. He might not be able to do much about the crying — he might not even be able to do anything about the reason for your crying. But... maybe there’s a chance he can soothe the pain, at least a little.

“What about you?”

Your voice startles him out of his reverie, bringing him back to full consciousness of the situation at hand, and he’s embarrassed that he’s gotten so caught up in thoughts of defending you that he actually has no idea what you’re asking him. “Me?”

You nod, a wobbly smile edging at the corners of your ruby red lips. So much red. It really does suit you wonderfully. “Yeah, you. You don’t have any plans tonight?” He furrows his brow, searching your face for any hint of your meaning. Three seconds later, and his obvious cluelessness manages to pull a more substantial laugh out of you. “It’s Valentine’s Day, Spencer. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“I didn’t,” he defends, and it isn’t untrue. Morgan spent the whole day detailing his extravagant plans for the night, Will had sent in quite the rose bouquet for JJ, and even Hotch had been quite a bit more preoccupied with his phone than was typical. Valentine’s Day. Reid knows it’s a special day to the calendar, but it doesn’t hold any significance for him. “But, no, no plans. I was actually just on my way home to skim over Dante’s Inferno.”

You scrunch your eyebrows in a sarcastic manner, and Spencer’s just relieved that he’s managed to cheer you up enough that you let your eyes wander back to his face. “What is that, like, the sixth time this week?”

He shrugs a shoulder, unsure as to the reason for the flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “Classics never get old.” And then, because he’s an idiot with an ironically one track mind where you’re involved, he adds, “I... like your dress. You look really beautiful tonight.”

“You’re sweet,” you murmur, unsuccessfully attempting to conceal another sniffle. Not at all, actually. ‘Sweet’ implies deception. ‘Sweet’ makes it sound like he’s just trying to soothe your ego with flattery, which couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s not saying it because he thinks you want to hear it, he’s saying it because it’s the truth and he knows it like he knows the sky is blue and the earth is green. He wishes he could convince you to see it that way. “Shame it’s going to have to go to waste, huh? Guess there’s always next year.

“Well it... doesn’t have to,” he stammers. “Go to waste, I mean.” He’s not sure where the bravery for his outburst comes, and he doesn’t particularly care to pursue figuring it out. His senses are screaming at him, going into shock with the sudden uptake in adrenaline pumping through his body, but he only swallows and forces himself to finish. “Not if you don’t want it to.” You only blink at him in silent confusion, trying to puzzle together his meaning. His heart hammers against his chest so hard it’s a wonder you can’t seem to hear it. “There’s a planetarium in town that’s staying open late for the night. When you lay back in the seats under the projector and look up at the stars you lose your central sense of gravity and trick your body into experiencing a floating sensation. It can be kind of off putting at first, but it helps to hold onto something. Which—“ He should really quit while he’s ahead — “you could hold my hand. If you wanted to. And we could, we could go to the planetarium. Together.”

He watches as you blink, once, then twice, then three times, and all the while his heart’s pace never deadens for even a moment. When your eyes finally focus back on him, eons have passed and stars have expanded into supernovas, all within a few short moments. “You’re… Spencer, are you offering to take me on a date?”

Yes.

No.

... Yes.

The wind picks up suddenly, ruffling your skirt in the breeze, caressing the loose tendrils of your hair. The scent is so intoxicating that it nearly stops Spencer from noticing you shivering once again, and before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s unwinding his scarf from around his neck and taking a confident step toward you.

“Well, it’s like you said,” Spencer responds, wrapping the scarf over your bare shoulders. It’s grey wool and it doesn’t match your dress in the slightest, but he likes seeing you in something of his, and he especially like the way you instantly curl into the garment, inhaling his scent as deeply as he’d been inhaling yours off the breeze. “I don’t have any other plans, and it would be a shame for that dress to go to waste.” He offers his arm for you to accept, unable to pinpoint where this sudden burst of confidence is stemming from. He almost wishes Morgan were here to see it. “Would it make a difference if I promised to have you home by midnight?”

Again, you’re silent, save for another bout of sniffles. Spencer is horrified to see fresh tears brimming in your eyes, coupled with a wobbly frown, and is met with the sudden fear that he’s managed to screw this up — because he always screws things up for himself, even when he’s not trying and even when he’s actually just trying to find more reasons to smile. He’s made you cry now, too, which makes him no better than whichever monster ruined your night in the first place. Any second now you’ll recoil from his offer and tell him to get lost, at which point he will only be able to clutch his wounded pride, and—

You nudge his arm aside and barrel forward to wrap your arms around his middle instead, clutching him close and tight and squeezing just enough to make him feel like an offered lifeline. Well. If you hadn’t been able to hear his heartbeat before, there isn’t any way you don’t hear it now.

“I love you, Spence,” you murmur into his shoulder, and he’s so mesmerized by the perfect fit of your cheek against the base of his throat that he almost doesn’t totally register what it is you’ve just said. “I don’t tell you that near as much as I should.”

Butterflies. You’re prompting butterflies to flutter through his stomach. Like he’s nothing more than a twelve year old schoolboy with a crush on the sweetest girl in class.

“Let’s get going,” he chuckles, smiling down upon you with fondness as he steps back and winds his arm around yours. Huh. Maybe Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be so easily written off after all. “We don’t want to keep the stars waiting, do we?”

“No,” you laugh — actually laugh! — as you rest your head against his shoulder. “I don’t think we do.”

And as the two of you walk down the street, arm in arm, excitement and giddiness charging each and every one of your steps, Spencer can’t help but ponder the fact that he’d left work expecting one sort of inferno for the night and stepped out only to find himself engulfed in a different one entirely.

It’s almost kind of poetic.

—

Chapter Three: In the Name of Dry Shoes

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #mgg #matthew gray gubler #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #cm #fluff

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riversofmars · 4 years ago

Note

OR Thirteen wants to marry River - her previous self did the marrying but thirteen wants to do it herself thd proper way so travels to ask the ponds permission for their daughters hand in marriage ❤️

Thank you for a brilliant prompt! It got a little out of hand but what else is new lol. River is finally getting the wedding she deserves. Happy Valentine’s Day!

Ship: River/Thirteen

Rating: G

Word count: 4500

The Wedding of River Song

“So where are we going?“ River followed the Doctor around the TARDIS console as she was setting coordinates.

“Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.“ The Doctor grinned and pulled the lever to set them going.

“Well, will you at least tell me how to dress?“ River pouted crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her wife usually gave her some indication as to what sort of outfit would be suitable. Turning up to a safari in an evening gown was a mistake she intended to only make once. Today, for Valentine’s Day, however, the Doctor was being very secretive indeed.

“Don’t worry about that, got that covered as well…“ The Doctor winked and River sighed:

“Sweetie…“

“Just trust me, okay? It’s not quite time for our date yet. We need to make a quick couple of stops.“ The Doctor revealed as the TARDIS landed.

“It’s Valentine’s Day and you’re telling me you’ve got some other engagements before our date?“ River retorted trying her best not to show her annoyance too much.

“Yeah. Sort of.“ The Doctor scratched the back of her head, feeling a little nervous.

“Do you see how that doesn’t exactly thrill me?“ River raised her eyebrows with a sigh. The Doctor had never been particularly good at doing romance. She had gotten a little better since she had turned into a woman. She had, after all, made the effort to save River from the Library and reunite them in linear time but romance still wasn’t her strong suit.

“Well, yes but it’s not like you’ll be waiting in the TARDIS while I arrange things… plus, you’ll have company, don’t worry, you’ll have a good time!“ The Doctor grinned at her with excitement. She was bursting to tell her what she had planned but then, it wouldn’t be a surprise. After all this time, after everything they’d been through, she deserved something special and she was determined to give it to her. She was not about to ruined it when she had gone through so much effort to make today happen.

“Doctor…“ River groaned in annoyance, all she wanted to do was go for a candle light dinner. Was that really too much to ask?

“You trust me right.“ The Doctor stepped up to her wife and took her hands in hers.

“Unfortunately.“ River rolled her eyes.

“And you love me?“ The Doctor continued, her expression hopeful.

“I’m afraid so.“ River gave her a half-smile. She just couldn’t stay angry with her for long.

“Then do this for me, for Valantine’s, trust me that I’ve got something brilliant planned, just need to sort a few things out, okay?“ The Doctor smiled pressing a kiss to the top of her hands.

“You literally have a time machine, you could have sorted all of this out before now.“ River chuckled shaking her head at her. Why was she in love with such a chaotic idiot?

“Not really, it’s complicated, you’ll see. But there is something I need you to do as well, come on.“ The Doctor pulled her along to the door.

“You are making even less sense than usual, Sweetie.“ River huffed as she followed reluctantly. They stepped out of the TARDIS and found themselves in the front room of 13 Paternoster Row in 19th century London.

“Madame Vastra?“ River looked around confused as she spotted the mistress of the house head towards her with a smile. “Jenny?“ Vastra was accompanied by her wife and maid Jenny Flint who gave them a big smile as well. They had clearly been waiting for them.

“You’re a bit late, Doctor, we’ll have to rush to make the appointment.“ Vastra scolded but not unkindly.

“Sorry, it wasn’t easy to convince her.“ The Doctor smiled apologetically.

“Appointment. What…“ River looked from Vastra to the Doctor and back again. What was going on?

“Don’t worry, Professor, we will have a wonderful time, champagne?“ Vastra offered as Jenny went to the drinks cabinet and poured three glasses.

“Well, don’t mind if I do.“ River wasn’t one to refuse a glass of champagne but she was still confused as to what was going on. “Will someone tell me what’s going on here?“ She asked as she took the glass offered to her.

“Absolutely not.“ The Doctor grinned. “I’ll see you shortly.“ She kissed her wife’s cheek and before River could argue she skipped back into the TARDIS and threw the door shut.

“I feel like I’m missing something.“ River shook her head a little to herself as she watched the TARDIS disappear.

“Thus is the nature of surprises, Professor, but you will figure it out soon enough, I’m sure.“ Vastra smiled and took a sip of her champagne as well. “Strax, bring the carriage round, we must get going.“

——

“Is that…“ Amy stuck her head out of the kitchen. Was she imagining the wheezing and groaning noise that seemed to be coming from outside or could it be that finally, the Doctor was returning after faking his death? Rory had already walked up to the window and pushed the curtains outside to look out into the garden.

“I think it is!“ Rory looked around to her and a wide grin spread across Amy’s face.

“What are you waiting for?“ She pulled her shoes on quickly. “Come on!“ They rushed outside to find the TARDIS in their backyard.

“A whole year, Doctor…“ Amy called out when the door opened. “What…“ She lost her train of thought when she laid eyes on the blonde woman that stepped out of the blue box. Who was she? Had they been replaced?

“Ah yes, sorry, new face!“ The Doctor grinned when she realised why she was looking at her all confused. “Come here Amelia.“ Without waiting for a response she pulled Amy into a hug. “And Rory the Roman!“ She grabbed Rory by the jumper and pulled him in as well. The Ponds were too perplexed to protest.

“I… don’t understand.“ Amy looked the Doctor up and down when she pulled away. They had seen River regenerate so they knew it was very much possible, but this was a lot to take in.

“Yeah, sorry, this bit is going to be a bit complicated…“ The Doctor gave an awkward grin.

“River said you were alive, she didn’t mention you had… changed…“ Rory said trying his best to work through his shock.

“I haven’t yet, not for you, well technically… it’s complicated. You’ll see me again, the old me, about a year from now and you can’t tell him you’ve met me. Sorry. It’s just… in my time, where you are now, I can’t get to you, so I had to come to a time where I knew I wouldn’t run into myself and… I’m rambling, aren’t I, sorry, I… I’ve missed you both so much.“ The Doctor pulled them into another hug. She couldn’t put into words how much she had missed the two of them. Losing them in Manhattan had been one of the most painful experiences of her life. She knew she shouldn’t be going back in her timeline like this but she knew the Ponds wouldn’t be seeing her previous self for a while yet, the risk was relatively low. Also, there was no way she could do today without them.

“You really are… the Doctor?“ Amy grinned as the truth sank in.

“Yeah… very distant future but that doesn’t matter right now…“ The Doctor nodded.

“Have you finally, in the very distant future, realised it wasn’t very nice to keep us in the dark and waiting for so long? You better be taking us on an adventure, Doctor!“ Amy exclaimed having got over her shock. She gave her arm a playful slap.

“Yes, I am, sort of…“ The Doctor chuckled.

“Great! I’ll just grab our coats.“ Rory grinned making his way back to the house.

“But only if they’re fancy coats, you’re going to a wedding.“ The Doctor called out, stopping him in his tracks halfway down the garden path.

“Sorry, what?“ Amy didn’t know if she had heard her right and Rory came back.

“A wedding.“ The Doctor repeated. “My wedding, actually. To your daughter. She doesn’t know about it yet but… anyway, Mr Pond, how would you feel about me marrying your daughter? Again. Properly. I mean, that’s what you’re meant to do, right? According to Earth tradition, ask the father of the bride first?“ She grinned at Rory who looked back at her dumbfounded.

“I uh…“

“Okay, I’ll take that as a maybe… Amy?“ The Doctor looked to Amy hopefully who was as perplexed as her husband.

“Hang on… did you just say you want to marry River again?“ She asked, needing to confirm she was getting this right.

“Yes. Wasn’t exactly a dream wedding, was it, on top of that pyramid, in an aborted timeline and all that. River has never complained but… I did ask her a while back if she’d want to do it again, properly and she said yes, so… I mean, I didn’t exactly look my best on the day and look at me now.“ The Doctor grinned tossing her blonde hair in amusement.

“But you’re not wearing that, are you?“ Amy looked her up and down.

“What?“ The Doctor looked down herself.

“You look like you got that charming combo from a charity shop.“ Amy couldn’t help but point out.

“Well, I did.“ The Doctor retorted, she didn’t really see what was wrong with her outfit but she had anticipated this problem. “Well, I do have a suit in the TARDIS.“ She revealed. “You still haven’t said yes yet, either of you.“ She put her hands on her hips expectantly, looking back and for between her in-laws.

“Well, of course you can, you moron, let us get our Sunday best and let’s get going!“ A wide grin spread across Amy’s face. She was going to see her daughter get married!

——

“Where are we going?“ River looked out of the carriage window.

“To get you a dress of course.“ Jenny grinned with excitement.

“Well, I do have plenty of dresses, she needn’t have gone through all this trouble.“ River chuckled. “But I must admit, this is fun.“ It had been a long time since she had seen the Silurian detective and her wife, they were wonderful company.

“You haven’t got a dress like this.“ Vastra smirked and the carriage came to a halt.

“You haven’t seen the size of my wardrobe.“ River grinned but obliged and followed them out of the carriage. She nearly tripped over when her eyes fell on the shop they had stopped in front of.

“Is the penny dropping, Professor?“ Vastra laughed at the look on River’s face as they found themselves in front of a bridal store.

“You can’t be serious. She can’t be serious.“ River shook her head to herself, she couldn’t believe it. Her hearts jumped into her throat and she had to force herself to take a deep breath to calm herself. She hoped she wasn’t jumping to the wrong conclusions but how could she be?

“From what the Doctor said you have waited an awfully long time for this. Some things should be done the proper way.“ Vastra revealed confirming her assumptions. She took the professor’s hand to reassure her.

“Let’s get you a wedding dress.“ Jenny grinned and took her other hand as they walked her up to the door.

“I think I’d better, hadn’t I…“ River breathed, trying her best to keep her emotions in check.

——

“Alright, let’s get the flower arrangements done, come on people, chop chop!“ Nardole clapped his hands together.

“Who put him in charge?“ Heather mumbled and Bill laughed.

“I think it’s cause he used to work here once…“ She replied fastening the last garland of white flowers to the balustrade of the balcony.

“Just can’t get the staff these days.“ Nardole huffed carrying on with his mission to make sure everything was just right.

“Maybe that’s cause we’re not staff but the Doctor’s friends and guests?“ Clara offered ushering the next load of guests in. The guest list the Doctor had provided was quite the challenge to accomplish but what good was having a time ship if not to get your best friend’s friends together from all over time and space.

“You just see to it that you get everyone here on time.“ Nardole jabbed his finger at her making her laugh. Despite the stress of organising it all, there was a buzz of excitement in the air. Clara’s heart lifted for seeing so many familiar faces. She had seen so much of the Doctor’s past when she had been inside their time stream and she knew how important each and everyone of these people where to them.

“I think we’ve got everyone now.“ Me pointed out looking around. “A few more TARDISes wouldn’t have gone amiss though. Did we miss anyone?“ She looked to Clara who checked the guest list.

“No, I think now there is just one trip to Victorian London to do.“ She grinned. “Time to get changed!“

“This place is beautiful.“ Kate Stewart observed stepping onto the balcony accompanied by Osgood. Everyone was having a good look around before the ceremony started and the view from the balcony really was quite something.

“What is that music?“ Martha asked as she leaned onto the balustrade, marvelling at the twin towers in the distance. A mild breeze carried a melody with it leaving them in awe. The sun was just settling in the distance.

“Nobody really understands where the music comes from. It's probably something to do with the precise positions, the distance between both towers. Even the locals aren't sure.“ Everybody looked around to see the Doctor stepping out of her TARDIS. She was wearing a black tuxedo and bow tie, her expression was one of unadulterated joy as she beamed at the sight of all her friends gathered.

“Doctor!“ Bill exclaimed in excitement.

“Wow, that’s not what I expected.“ Martha was dumbfounded. Clara had told them the Doctor had changed faces but that was quite the change indeed.

“Is the tux too much?“ The Doctor asked, feeling insecure for a moment at everyone’s gaping expressions.

“No, it’s just right.“ Amy reassured her as her and Rory urged her to keep going.

“Is everybody here?“ The Doctor asked slowly as she looked around. She felt a little overwhelmed seeing everyone. So many friends that she hadn’t seen in such a long time and yet they had all wanted to come. She couldn’t express how grateful she was to all of them.

“I think we’re just waiting for the bride now.“ Tasha Lem spoke up. “How about everybody has a seat?“ She gestured to the rows of chairs to either side of the aisle.

“I best be on my way then.“ Clara grinned. “You don’t mind if we take your TARDIS, do you? Less bulky than the diner.“

“Sure, yes of course.“ The Doctor nodded with a smile as the TARDIS hummed in agreement. She couldn’t very well deny the Old Girl when River was her child in a way, too. Slowly, the Doctor walked to the front as Clara disappeared with her TARDIS. Her nerves were catching up with her now as she found herself the centre of attention. Tasha gave her an encouraging smile as the Doctor came to a halt in front of her.

“Are you quite alright, Doctor.“ She asked tilting her head a little and the Doctor forced a smile. This was a whole lot more nerve wracking than she had imagined. It had all sounded like such a great idea at the time.

“You’re not nervous are you?“ Jack teased leaning forward in his chair.

“No. I’m not nervous. Why would I be nervous. Not the first time I’m getting married, is it. This is perfectly fine, no big deal…“ The Doctor huffed trying to gather herself as she grasped her hands together in front of her to keep them still.

“Would you look at that, the Oncoming Storm, trembling in the evening breeze.“ Jack smirked.

“I’d like to see you do this.“ The Doctor shot him a glare.

“Maybe you will, one day.“ Jack laughed putting his arm around Ianto who was sitting next to him. “Or maybe you won’t, seeing as you didn’t pick me for best man…“ He feigned hurt. “Who is your best man anyway?“ He asked looking around. The Doctor was looking rather lonely standing at the front with just Tasha to officiate.

“Best lady, thank you very much.“ Missy walked along the side of the chairs towards the front checking her hair in a pocket mirror. Kate and Osgood exchanged concerned looks, Bill huffed:

“Who invited you?“

“Why, the Doctor of course.“ Missy smirked as she made her way to the front.

“Who’s that?“ Yaz asked leaning forward in her chair, sitting just behind Bill and Heather.

“That’s the Master, the Doctor’s oldest… I don’t even know what anymore…“ Bill replied. She couldn’t believe she was here and that the Doctor would actually have invited her.

“That’s not the Master…“ Graham looked on in confusion.

“Probably a younger version of the Master that you know.“ Kate explained and Ryan asked:

“What would make her invite her, she’s like her worst enemy.“

“Or oldest friend… It’s… complicated.“ Bill thought back to the time she had spent with the Doctor while he had tried to help Missy change. She couldn’t presume to understand the relationship between the Doctor and the Master. She hadn’t then and she didn’t now. But she trusted the Doctor and if she had invited her, she had done so with good reason.

“You made it.“ The Doctor stated as Missy came to a halt in front of her. She tried her best to ignore the concerned whispers amongst her friends. She had had to invite her. Things were complicated to say the least but she couldn't do this without her oldest friend. Things had gone too far with the Master she had last seen, she couldn’t forgive him, but with Missy… it had been the closest she had felt to the Master in millennia.

“Evidently.“ Missy hummed. “Well, I could hardly refuse my oldest friend.“ She looked her up and down. “You are old. Where am I in your time?“ She tilted her head, she could tell this Doctor was a whole lot older than the one she had last encountered on Skaro.

“That’s not important. I’m glad you came.“ The Doctor smiled, she didn’t want to dwell on what was yet to come for her, she just wanted to be happy for her being here.

“I wouldn’t miss the wedding of my best enemy, now, would I.“ Missy smirked as she looked at all the guest gathered on the balcony. Quite a few of them she remembered and was disappointed to find alive still. “But where is the bride?“

As if on cue, the TARDIS materialised at the far end of the aisle and the Doctor’s hearts nearly skipped their beats. The door opened and the Doctor let go the breath she was holding. It was Clara.

“No peeking, Doctor, I just need your in-laws.“ Clara grinned as she waved for the Ponds to go in while she went looking for her seat along with Vastra, Jenny and Strax.

“Clara, dear, don’t you look ravishing.“ Missy winked at Clara who turned a little pink but squared her jaw as she dropped into her seat next to Me. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the Master being here but it was the Doctor’s decision after all. The Ponds meanwhile disappeared into the TARDIS.

——

“I was gonna be cool and now I’m gonna cry.“ Rory took a deep breath, he had not been prepared for seeing his daughter in a wedding dress. They might not have been a traditional family but no matter what, she would always be his little girl, and this hit home. River was wearing a beautiful long wedding dress and her hair was pinned back with white flowers in it.

“And I thought I was going to be a mess.“ River chuckled and pulled her parents into her arms.

“Are you okay?“ Amy asked softly as they let go. She took River’s face in her hands, searching her eyes for an honest answer.

“I think so.“ River took a deep breath trying to compose herself. She couldn’t put into words how happy she was to see her parents again and how grateful she was to have them here now. It seemed as though the Doctor had put a lot of thought into planning this. The reality of it had yet to sink in. She couldn’t allow herself to think about it too much, she was worried that if she did, she would cry and ruin her make up.

“You’re not nervous are you?“ Amy chuckled.

“Where you in on all this?“ River asked, trying to wrap her head around it all.

“No, the Doctor only just picked us up! We will have to go back to our life to travel with her younger self again after this but… We wouldn’t miss this for anything in the universe.“ Amy kissed the top of her daughter’s head and gave her an encouraging smile.

“I am so glad you’re here.“ River smiled, her voice faltering just enough to betray the depth of her emotions. “So what do you think?“ She tried to play it off and took a twirl in her elegant white gown.

“Absolutely beautiful.“ Amy smiled, every inch the proud mother of the bride.

——

“Right okay, stay cool…“ The Doctor mumbled to herself taking a deep breath.

“You’ve never been cool.“ Missy teased and the Doctor groaned in annoyance:

“Fuck off, Missy…“

“Swearing now, too, Doctor? Things have changed, I’ll say.“ Missy chuckled, delighting in the Doctor’s obvious tension.

“I’m fully expecting you to have come with some evil ploy to ruin the day… but I’m still glad you came.“ The Doctor looked to Missy hoping she understood why she had asked her here.

“Well, if I hadn’t, who would have brought you these?“ Missy sighed as she pulled out a small box. She opened it to reveal two pale wedding bands.

“That’s…“ The Doctor’s eyes widened in shocked but Missy didn’t allow her to dwell on it and get overcome by emotion.

“Dark star alloy… beats whatever pathetic excuse for wedding rings you’d planned on.“ She waved dismissively. “I mean, I only met the Professor once that time in prison but I have an eye for these things… not sure yours will fit now though, you’re much smaller than I remember.“ She grabbed the Doctor’s hand to look at her fingers.

“I’m not small! Look who’s talking.“ The Doctor huffed, she was still taller than her. “Oi!“ She pulled her hand back.

“Be back in a minute.“ Missy winked and hit the button on her vortex manipulator, disappearing into thin air.

“I swear this place must be giving off the biggest concentration of space time anomalies this side of the known universe…“ Kate shook her head to herself.

“There we are.“ Missy reappeared only seconds later. “Don’t look at me like that, what’s time travel good for if you can’t even get your best friend’s wedding ring resized.“ She smirked as she checked the rings again.

“Thank you, Missy.“ The Doctor gave her a soft smile and reached out to give her hand a squeeze. She didn’t have the words to say how much this meant to her, she could only hope she knew. Missy didn’t respond at first, she didn’t seem to know what to say, perhaps, just for a moment, she was overcome with emotion herself, so she pulled something else from her pocket to move the conversation along.

“Got you this as well, you wanted to do this properly, didn’t you.“ She handed over a scarlet ceremonial scarf to Tasha. High Gallifreyan symbols were embroiled on it in golden cross-stitch.

“That’s from home.“ The Doctor realised it was the sort of scarf used to officiate weddings on Gallifrey. With the planet destroyed she hadn’t thought it possible to find one.

“Your keen observational skills amaze me.“ Missy tried her best with a sarcastic quip but she couldn’t quite deliver it under the circumstances. “Only borrowed though, who knows, maybe I’ll want to get married one day.“ She shrugged and went to check her appearance in her pocket mirror again, ensuring she wasn’t showing any undo emotions. The Doctor, in turn, swallowed her emotions as well, they both knew how much this meant to either of them, it didn’t need saying.

“Old and burrowed.“ The Doctor smiled nodding at the ceremonial scarf. “And something new.“ She pointed to the rings in her hand and then turned her attention to the TARDIS.

“And something blue.“ Missy smiled and gave the Doctor’s hand a squeeze, allowing herself one brief moment of letting her guard down.

——

“Right, I better go and sit down. Let the father of the bride do the walking.“ Amy took a deep breath. “Do not stumble and embarrass your daughter.“ She jabbed her finger at Rory who straightened his tie.

“You just had to say that, didn’t you, now I’ll be watching my feet the whole time.“ He huffed and River chuckled.

“How about you watch out for me instead, Dad, hm?“ She looped her arm around his.

“I think I can manage that.“ Rory smiled and pressed a kiss to the side of her head. The TARDIS wheezed and hummed behind them, drawing their attention to the console. There was a bouquet of exotic flowers sat on top of it.

“She’s really thought of everything, hasn’t she…“ River said softly as Amy fetched the flowers for her and handed them over. “I can’t believe she managed to do all this and keep it from me…“

“I think she’s had a lot more help than she would admit.“ Rory chuckled as Amy left the TARDIS. “Can’t pull off a Valentine’s surprise like this without accomplices.“ He smiled to his daughter who took another deep breath struggling for composure. “Ready?“ He asked.

“Ready.“ River smiled.

——

“Try not to cry, that would be so undignified.“ Missy mumbled to the Doctor but she never even took her words in. The moment River stepped out of the TARDIS, time itself seemed to grind to a halt, at least for the Doctor. The last rays of the slow Darllian sunset caught in River’s curls and the singing of the towers seemed to pick up with the light breeze. Their eyes met down the aisle and both the Doctor and River Song smiled, they didn’t need words, they both understood. An impossibly journey had brought them to this moment, surrounded by friends and family, a moment of pure joy and love that radiated through all of time and space. The Doctor thought of the towers as she listened to their enchanting melody. They’d been there for millions of years, through storms and floods and wars and... time… as she intended for her and her wife to be.

END.

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vickyvicarious · 4 years ago

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Ship Asks: Nate/Sophie. And I'm curious what your opinion is of pineapple on pizza?

To tell you the truth, I've never actually had pineapple on pizza so I dunno? But cooked pineapple has always been delicious in my experience so I feel like I probably wouldn't mind it! I'm boring and my favorite topping is just pepperoni, so.

Who buys flowers for the others: Nate does. Sophie really enjoys getting flowers, and Nate doesn't care about receiving them, so it wouldn't make sense the other way around. He isn't always great at remembering days when she would expect to get them (Valentine's, her birthday, etc.) but he never ever ever fails to show up with roses after she has been on a stage. He actually sent her flowers like that from afar more than once before the show began. Nowadays, he will sometimes give her flowers when her acting during a con was particularly inspired, as well.

Who makes the others coffee/tea: Sophie makes her own tea, at least when Eliot isn't around. Nate cannot be trusted to understand why different water temps matter for different teas, and he takes steeping time as a suggestion at best. However, he does make a pretty good cup of coffee.

Who eats the most candy on Halloween: Nate, actually. Sophie doesn't tend to like heavily processed foods. There's a few old favorites that she is fond of, but they don't usually have them in the US, so she doesn't eat a lot of candy. Nate doesn't go wild or anything, but with Parker around there's gonna be candy there and he sometimes will munch on it as he is doing something else. When they are in Europe, this kind of reverses as Nate won't go out of his way to get candy, but Sophie might impulse-buy ones she hasn't had in a while.

Who tries new recipes all the time: Sophie likes to eat lots of gourmet foods, but she doesn't actually like to cook at all. And she isn't great at remembering ingredients or identifying them by taste or smell, either. She just likes certain types of things. Nate can cook reliably, but he doesn't tend to get up to anything fancy. He's got a few things he knows how to do but if they want anything new they pretty much just go to a restaurant or drop in on Eliot.

Who genuinely likes pineapple on pizza: Neither of them. Sophie doesn't even like pizza much (or at least she says she doesn't. She always protests a little too much about greasy foods, it's a bit more that she doesn't want them than it is that she doesn't like how they taste.) and Nate likes meat lover's.

Who wears hats on special occasions: Both of them do! Sophie doesn't wear them as often, but she has hats for all sorts of roles, including some truly elaborate derby hats. She likes getting dressed up for special events and is fantastic at putting together outfits, including hats. Nate has a huge collection of hats that he wears on a fairly regular basis. At least seven tenths of them a white, black, or some combination thereof, and he likes to wear one that matches how he is acting that day as a little joke to himself.

Who likes ‘90s R&B: Neither of them, I think. Sophie actually really likes musicals (though she is a terrible singer), and Nate tends to like the kind of stuff he listened to growing up.

Who likes long walks on the beach: Sophie really does. She thinks it's romantic and likes to do so at sunset. Nate could honestly take or leave the beach, but he loves to watch her soak in the romance and even get lost in daydreams sometimes. When they walk, they don't hold hands but Nate offers his arm and Sophie crooks hers in his. It's very adorable.

Who buys wacky picture frames: Neither of them do. Nate doesn't actually tend to put a lot of personal touches into his living spaces, outside of a few spare photos and some books. The photos are really what matter most to him - and of course, his son's drawing. Sophie doesn't tend to keep that sort of thing around at first, but she slowly accumulates some pictures of her own. The first is one of her theatre group after their first show; then pictures of the team start creeping in. Still, they don't have a lot, and they use normal frames.

Who compares themselves to fictional/celebrity couples: They both do. Not very often or very seriously, but they will sometimes. Sophie tends towards celebrity couples or references to famous people she knows/has conned, whereas Nate sometimes makes literary references. It's never more than a quick comment, "I feel like ___ in this get up," "oh, then I'd be ___" kind of thing.

Who can solve a rubix cube: Nate can. Sophie can't, but that doesn't bother her. She's a grifter, if she does her job right Nate will solve the rubix cube for her (and he has).

Who would wear Hawaiian shirts on vacation/during the summer: Nate. Nate does actually take a sick pleasure in forcing the world to deal with his terrible sleazy outfits, and if it has been too long since he last played an obnoxious role he will sometimes dress up that way in his free time. He didn't used to be like this, but now he's gotten the taste for it. Sophie finds it disgusting but in a weirdly endearing way; rather than trying to get him to stop, she just gets in character to match. Sometimes they spend an entire date night just being horrible annoying tourists or whatever for their own amusement (because as soon as Sophie goes with it, Nate "yes, ands" right along with her).

Who wears mismatched socks because they can’t keep up with the pairs: Neither of them really does. Sophie has an excellent eye for clothing and will notice if she's going to put on something mismatched. She does sometimes not care if she is only lazing around at home, but in that case she doesn't generally wear socks so it isn't relevant. Nate doesn't have very interesting socks so even if he did mix them up half the time it wouldn't matter because he buys twelve of the same pair.

Send me a ship and I will answer with who does what!

#leverage #sophie/nate #nate/sophie #inbox games #anonymous #replies #these two are really cute though

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misscorn · 4 years ago

Text

Day 4

Free Prompt

👀 @sihjrweek the saga continues, read my previous entries for context 😋

***

"Richan, what was all that about?" An asked, leaving her spot on the porch and walking up to Ritsu.

Ritsu hadn't moved despite Saga now being out of his sight. The teen was devastated and completely clueless about what he should do in order to make this right. Should he chase after him again? Give him space? Should he even bother going to the library tomorrow?

"Richan?" An frowned, realizing that he was crying.

"I-I'm sorry An, I-I know its your birthday, b-but do you think you could go home? I want to be alone right now." Ritsu sniffled.

"What kind of a friend would I be if I left you all alone while you're like this? Come on, let's go back inside and talk about this." An managed to lead him back into the house and made him sit on the couch with her, but not before she grabbed some tissues for him. "Tell me what's going on."

Ritsu accepted the tissues, using a couple and doing his best to stop his tears. "I-I don't really want to talk about it, An." He frowned. "I know you're just trying to be a good friend, but...I just can't tell you."

"You can't?" An frowned. "Is that boy bullying you?"

"What? No!"

"Blackmailing you? Threatening you?"

"No, nothing like that!" Ritsu said. He was surprised at how quickly An had jumped to that assumption.

"Well, then why can't you tell me?"

Ritsu frowned. "Because it might...change things between us." He said. "And I can't lose the two people I care about the most in the same day."

"Richan..." An reached over, holding one of his hands tightly. "No matter what happens I will always be your friend."

Ritsu gave her hand a small squeeze and took a deep breath. "You can't tell anyone about this."

"I promise."

Ritsu stared at their locked hands as he spoke. "Saga Senpai is...special to me."

"Special?" An frowned in confusion.

"Yes. Special." Ritsu swallowed, losing some of his nerve and not elaborating.

An tried to piece together what Ritsu could mean by that. She'd seen Ritsu and Saga together at the library in the past, even on Valentine's Day she recalled getting a glance of the upperclassman. Now, they had spent White Day together...and Saga left after she found the promise rings...

"Richan...is Saga Senpai your boyfriend?"

Ritsu squeezed his eyes shut and held her hand tight. "Yes."

Ritsu waited to be yelled at, for An to rip away from him, for her to tell him that he was gross or just confused before storming out and never talking to him again.

"I'm sor-" Ritsu started to apologize when the silence lasted too long, but An cut him off.

"I ruined your White Day!" She cried out. "I'm so, so sorry Richan, if I had known I would have just gone home, please let me make this better somehow!"

"...You're not mad at me?"

"Mad at you? I'm mad at me! You probably had a whole thing planned out and I completely crashed the party!" An felt both humiliated and guilty. She had been third wheeling without even realizing it and now she had caused a fight between the two of them! She probably made them fight on Valentine's Day too!

"But...Saga Senpai is a guy...and you also like me." Ritsu said, confused.

"I know. Guy, girl, I don't care, you're still my best friend. You always have been and you always will be. And yes I like you, and I don't think anyone could possibly love you as much as I do, but...if you're happy then I'm happy." An said. Of course, there was a bittersweetness to it for her, but her heartbreak was her own to deal with.

"You're a great friend, Anchan." Ritsu said. 'Better than I deserve', he thought to himself. "Thank you."

An smiled kindly, hiding her sadness at the word 'friend'. "Don't thank me yet. I still need to find a way to make this up to you."

Ritsu tried to insist that An needed to do no such thing, but regardless she did her best to try to improve the night and get Ritsu's mind off the fiasco that White Day had devolved into, at least for a little while.

Still, Ritsu couldn't just pretend away the day, even if he tried.

He had to make this right.

Ritsu was not a particularly courageous person. Often his moments of bravery were actually moments of recklessness, but the next day he either had to steel himself for the worst or forever regret not trying to make things right with his first and only love.

"Saga Senpai..." Ritsu approached their library table timidly after class let out, his White Day gifts in his hands. He put the container of sweets and jar of white origami stars down, for once not caring about whether or not anyone was near to see or hear. This was more important than his own anxieties and fears.

To anyone who didn't know Saga very well he'd probably look completely normal, but Ritsu picked up on little cues that clued him in that something was very wrong.

There were faint bags under Saga's eyes, not noticeable at first glance, but upon a second look he clearly hadn't gotten a good night sleep. Usually he sat so relaxed in the library with his shoulders slouched and his movements slow, but he shut the book he was pretending to read in a quick, tense motion before his head jerked up to look at Ritsu.

"What?" Saga asked tersely.

Ritsu was no stranger to the single word (sometimes single syllable) responses he received from Saga Senpai from time to time, but this time it shot straight through his heart. Still, Ritsu took a deep breath and refused to retreat, no matter how bad he wanted to.

"These are your White Day presents. I-I never got the chance to give them to you yesterday." Ritsu said. "I also had a white rose, but I was scared I'd hurt it somehow if I tried bringing it to school. A-Anyway, I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am for what happened. I know I should've told you the whole truth about An, but I never lied to you. An isn't my girlfriend and I did reject her. I love you and only you and I'm not marrying An, regardless of what she or my mother or even what you might think." Ritsu had to pause as his strength wavered for a moment, his throat tightening in that familiar pre-cry way. "I-I don't want you to think these gifts are some sort of a bribe to try to get you to forgive me or anything like that. These were always meant for you so I thought it was only right that you have them. B-but if you don't want them-"

"What's this?" Saga said, reaching out for the jar and picking it up. He still hadn't looked Ritsu in eye yet, but the brunette hoped his curiosity about the present was a good sign.

"Th-they're origami stars. If you unfold them each one has a reason I-I love you written inside." Ritsu flushed red, embarrassed from saying such a thing out loud.

Saga turned the jar in his hands, looking at it from all sides. "There's a lot of stars."

Ritsu just nodded. "L-Like I said, you don't have to keep it if you don't want it. And I...I understand if you don't want to see me anymore..." He tried not to let on how much pain the thought of not seeing his Senpai caused him. He wanted to respect whatever Saga's wishes were, even if those wishes broke his heart.

"Why would I not want to see you anymore?"

Ritsu was both surprised and confused by the question. "Because you're mad at me?"

Saga huffed. "Yeah, I'm mad, but I still love you. I just need some time to fully get over it. But like hell if I'm just gonna step aside and let that girl pretend like she's your girlfriend or fiancée or whatever." He said, sliding the container of sweets closer to him. These were his White Day gifts damn it and he was going to enjoy them. Did Ritsu make these cookies himself? Fuck, why'd Ritsu have to make it so hard to stay mad at him? While Saga was trying to maintain his brooding and angry attitude, Ritsu was hung up on one thing he had said.

'I still love you'

Ritsu's breath was caught in his throat and he trembled slightly at those words, his emotions overwhelming him.

Saga Senpai...loved him?

Ritsu thought he had heard him say it before, but he had convinced himself that he simply misunderstood or misheard. Saga Senpai couldn't, wouldn't love him.

But he did.

"Hey, hey, hey shouldn't I be the one crying here?" Saga asked, standing and going to Ritsu's side.

"S-S-Sorry, I just-I thought that y-you wouldn't want to be with me anymore." Ritsu laughed past his tears, feeling relieved, stupid, guilty, happy, and above all adoration and love for Saga Masamune.

"Idiot. Of course I do. So stop crying, alright?" Saga said before picking up the jar again and taking off the cap. He plucked one of the stars out and started to unfold it.

"Y-You're going to read one right now?" Ritsu asked nervously.

"Yeah."

"C-C-Can't you wait till I'm not here or something?" Ritsu asked, turning pink.

"No." Saga finished unfolding it. "I love you because-"

"Don't read it out loud!" Ritsu interuppted quickly. Saga reading even a single one out loud would surely be the death of him.

Saga held back a smirk. "Fine. But, only if I still get that dinner I'm owed. And my rose."

"O-Okay...my parents are still gone...i-if you wanted to come over tonight..."

Saga grabbed his bag right away. "Let's go."

"Right now?" Ritsu asked, a little taken back by his eagerness.

"Mm." Saga gave a slight nod. "You're already a day late, I don't want to wait any longer."

Ritsu, excited and nervous, led Saga out of the library. He'd have to start coming up with Valentine's Day plans NOW to make up for the less than perfect White Day. Of course there was also the issue of getting his mother to finally accept that his arranged engagement was pointless. Without that, this would never be properly resolved. But, that was a problem for when Youko got back home. For now, both Ritsu and Saga were content to simply be in one another's company.

#sekaiichi hatsukoi #onodera ritsu #saga masamune #kohinata an #sihjrweek #this is my least favorite one so far but i hope someone gets enjoyment out of it 😊#again this one wasnt really proofread lmao

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duhragonball · 4 years ago

Text

Hellsing Liveblog Ch. 7-10

This is the “Dead Zone” arc, featuring Luke and Jan Valentine.

This arc is set around... uh, September 3rd-ish, I think. By now, Hellsing has had time to investigate this recent uptick in vampire incidents, and she calls a meeting of the “Convention of Twelve” to discuss her findings. This group represents the heads of various important agencies, political leaders, and noblemen, and the manga states that they “essentially” run the British Empire. I’m not sure how to read that, exactly. Kouta Hirano appears to be establishing one of two things:

1) Parliament Shmarliament, everything is really controlled by this secret group of oligarchs sitting at a table.

2) This is a collection of all the big wheels in British society, so they might as well be calling the shots even if they aren’t a true governing body.

I’m not terribly concerned about which one it is, since we left real-world Great Britain behind a long time ago. The Hellsing U.K. seems to put a lot more power in the monarchy, for example. Also there’s friggin’ draulas runnin’ around everwhere.

Anyway, Integra reveals that the vampires they’ve been killing lately all have microchips installed in their bodies. She says the chips “define the vampire’s status, behavior, intent, and aggression.” I don’t know if that means outright control or a more subtle manipulation. It might exaplain why the couple in Chapter 3 weren’t exactly being subtle.

Moreover, these vampires haven’t been following the conventional rules laid down back in Chapter 1. Vampire bites can turn a person into another vampire, but only if the victim is a virgin. Otherwise, they turn into ghouls. Destroying the head vampire will destroy all the ghouls he’s created. But that hasn’t been happening. The couple in Chapter 3 killed a lot of children, but they all became ghouls. And in Badrick, Anderson killed the vampire, but the ghouls remained active long enough for Alucard and Seras to fight them.

At least, that’s what Integra is saying. We never actually saw any ghouls in Chapter 3, and Anderson killed the vampire in Badrick off-panel, so we don’t know the exact timing. But I’ll take Integra’s word for it.

Something that got lost along the way was the matter of what happens to Seras if someone managed to kill Alucard. According to Chapter 1, she’d die immediately, but we never actually see that play out, and Seras is the only vampire created by another vampire in this story. We never see ghouls die en masse, either, because there’s never a situation where their master dies first, and the ghouls we see from here on out are these rule-breaking microchippy kind anyway.

Never mind that shit, here comes the Seras part. Walter has replaced her bed with a coffin. Apparently she had a bed in this dank-ass dungeon, and then one day Integra got a wild hair and decided “Oh, yeah, she should be sleeping in a vampire bed.” She’s been a vampire for like two months now. I feel bad for Walter, having to lug that big-ass bed down here, only to have to take the damn thing right back out. He must have known it was going to end this way. You’d think he would have said something before.

Seras hates this idea, but Walter relays a second order, one from Alucard: Seras has to sleep in the coffin. Well, that seems kind of redundant, but I guess Seras might have tried to sleep on the floor or something instead. The main thing I find interesting about this is that Seras is mostly irritated by Integra ordering the coffin, but she takes it much more seriously when Alucard is mentioned.

According to Walter, since Seras hasn’t drunk any blood, her powers will weaken... unless she sleeps in a coffin lined with soil from her birthplace. So maybe it’s an either/or deal. Integra was fine with Seras using a big girl bed because she assumed Seras would be drinking blood. But without it, she has to use a coffin, or she’ll be no good to the team. And after two months, it’s become clear that Seras has no intention of drinking blood, even bags of donated blood, like the one Alucard snacked on in Badrick.

Even Seras doesn’t know exactly why she won’t do it, which Alucard finds baffling. If this was a dealbreaker for her, she should have just died as a human in Cheddar.

But Al isn’t entirely unsympathetic either. His words are harsh, but they’re the truth: Seras is a vampire now, and there’s no going back. She keeps trying to resist this, but it’s already happened. Denial will only make this more painful for her. I think that’s part of the reason he offered his own blood to her in Badrick. I mean, there weren’t a lot of other options, but from an ethical standpoint, drinking Alucard’s blood seems reasonable, since it won’t kill him. The unspoken sentiment here is: Listen, I know this is difficult for you, and I’ll try to make this as easy as possible, but you need to do this and there’s no way around it. But even that doesn’t seem to work, and Alucard’s in no particular hurry, so he’s willing to table the matter. Which I suppose is how the coffin thing came about in the first place.

Walter also takes this moment to give the vampires their new guns. Alucard wanted something special for the next time he tangles with Alexander Anderson. Recall that Al already has a special cosmogun with an infinite supply of magic bullets, and he shot Anderson in the face and it didn’t stop him. So Walter builds him “The Jackal”, which is basically the same as his first gun, only even bigger and with a black finish. It also says “Jesus Christ is in Heaven Now”, which drives me nuts because I don’t know if that’s like a message to Anderson, or just some random thing. Kouta Hirano puts these nonsense religious slogans all over Hellsing, and I’m pretty sure he’s just doing it for effect, and not particularly concerned over whether there’s any religious significance to the words.

As for Seras, she gets a giant bazooka-looking think called the Harkonnen, named after a Dune character. One of these days I want to sit down and read Dune. I kind of feel guilty that I haven’t already, because then I could be writing this and get all excited for this moment. “HOLY SHIT!! IS THAT MOTHERFUCKING DUNE REFERENCE?!” Instead I’m like, ho-hum, yes it is.

Let’s move on. This arc is about the Valentine Brothers, two vampires who take the fight to Hellsing instead. They have a small army of ghouls, and their plan is to just drive up in a tour bus and storm the gate. Ghouls are mindless, zombie-like monsters, but apparently they can work a gun well enough, and Hellsing never imagined an enemy would try such a thing.

As soon as Integra finds out about this, she tries to evacuate the Twelve, but their helicopter gets destroyed, cutting off any chance of escape. Then Jan (pronounced “Yon” by the way), calls her on the comm system and threatens to kill them all.

So Integra calls Walter, who already knows what’s happening. Um, how? I feel like the anime explained this better. Maybe Jan’s profanity-laden threats were on a public-address system instead of just for the conference room. But it sure looks like Walter’s just chilling out in a windowless, underground room. But he already knows there’s no hope of reinforcements arriving to save them. He proposes himself and Seras using the ventilation shafts to get to the coference room, where they can defend the twelve, while Alucard can go on the offensive.

Alucard is amused to hear that Walter is going back into action, and calls him “Angel of Death”. We’ll come back to that.

So Walter’s pretty much on top of things here. No one ever considered anything like this happening before. Hellsing is supposed to be a secret organization, so a vampire shouldn’t know to come here in the first place. Moreover, no one dreamed that a vampire would plan it out so well, using ghouls in a military fashion. But he’s optimistic about their chances for survival, because...

Walter has super powers. Specifically, he has these magic wires he can use to bind and slice up his enemies, and this makes short work of the Valentines’ ghouls. He then repeats Jan’s taunts back at him. Okay, so I guess Walter did hear Jan’s message from earlier.

The problem I always had with this development was that it seemed awfully convenient for Walter to have super powers. But then, it took me a while to catch on to Anderson having super powers, and he took a bullet to the face. I think the conceit of the Hellsing world is that these “anti-freak” organizations have to have super-powered operatives, so they use secret techniques and alchemy or whatever to empower men like Walter and Anderson. It’s really not that hard to swallow.

Except that the first vampire-hunter we meet in Hellsing is Alucard, who is himself a vampire. So it seemed like the whole point was that he was the best suited for the job because he had the raw power to do it. Integra doesn’t seem to have any powers, and neither do any of the rank-and-file Hellsing operatives who get mowed down by the Valentines’ ghouls. So it always confused me for Walter to just go “Wassup, I have powers too.” But it only makes sense for Hellsing to have more than one card to play. Clearly, Walter used to hunt vampires on the regular before he retired to become a butler.

Between Walter’s wires and Seras’ giant gun, they manage to subdue Jan easily enough, but he reveals he has a partner, Luke, whose job is to tackle the second half of their mission: to destroy Alucard. Let’s check in on him...

Yeah. I was thinking about doing a blow-by-blow of this fight, but it’s kind of pointless. Luke talks a big game, and seems confident that he’s on a higher level than the vampires Alucard has been fighting recently, and for a hot minute, even Alucard believes that he might be a worthy adversary, “above even a ‘Category A’ vampire,” so he releases his “control art restriction,” to “Level 1″.

I guess I should back up and explain this. Alucard, like all overpowered anime characters, can hold back his full power and reveal it in stages. For some reason he has to announce that he’s doing this, like Windows 10 describing it’s own updating. Presumably, there’s a Level 4 where he usually operates, and that was enough for him to fight Luke evenly. But here, we see him jump all the way to Level 1, which allows him to turn into some shadowy form with lots of eyes and two dog heads.

Also, centipedes. The point is, this is all stuff Luke can’t do. He’s more of a “super speed gun-shooting” kind of vampire, so he’s immediately outclassed. Alucard’s dog form eats Luke and that’s the end of him.... OR IS IT?

Meanwhile, Jan’s ghoul army is beaten, but he still has reinforcements in the form of all the Hellsing soldiers they killed earlier. These men rise up as new ghouls and chase down Seras while Jan makes a break for the conference room where the Twelve are holed up. Walter tries to catch Jan, but only manages to rip off one of his arms. He makes it to the door, only to find...

Integra and the others all have guns, and they shoot him down.

All Jan has left now is his second wave of ghouls, except Seras manages to overwhelm them. At first, she was panicking, but then she freaks out and goes feral on them, to the point where Integra has to jump in and order her to stop. When she does, she seems to have no idea what just happened. This is mostly overshadowed by the sheer horror of Hellsing’s soldiers being reduced to the undead.

All that’s left is Jan, who refuses to talk. He has the same microchip implants as the previous vampires, and the people who sent him are monitoring him in real-time, which means they know he failed, and they can make him self-destruct before he can tell Hellsing anything. As he dies, Jan flips them all off and gives them one word of information: “Millennium.”

After that, Integra tasks Walter with destroying the remaining Hellsing ghouls, until Sir Irons, one of the Twelve reminds Integra that this is the duty of a commander. As Hellsing’s C.O., it’s her responsibility, so she agrees and starts shooting the ghouls in the head.

Meanwhile, Jan’s mysterious overseers talk amongst themselves, and their leader calls for them to resume their “research”. As devastating as this attack on Hellsing was, for Millennium, this was merely a test.

#2021hellsingliveblog #hellsing #alucard #seras victoria #walter c dornez #sir integra hellsing #luke valentine #jan valentine #i guess i should have said more about the valentine brothers as characters #they're all right but they don't stick around long enough to make much of an impression #i mean everyone loves jan because of his foul mouth but what else can i add to that?

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carrottuan93 · 4 years ago

Text

Haven’t met you yet | Mark

Masterlist (1/4) | part2 - part3 - part4

Starring: MK x You

Tags: Mark Tuan, Fluff, Destiny, Waiting, Christmas, Bookworm, Nerd, Love, Fate

Total WC: 2631

Foreword: You promise yourself you’re going to wait for the perfect love even if it takes forever but you’re already barging on it’s doorstep without even realizing that love has met you already in the first place.

It’s all about timing and seeking reassurance in all the right places.

It’s a chance you never want to miss and an opportunity that you wouldn’t trade for anything.

Learn to take risks and learn to fall in love along the way. Cause true love is patient and it’ll come when you least expect it.

Have you been good all year round? You never know what Santa has in stored for you this Christmas.

[Feel free to listen on the playlist that I made for this one shot :)))]

"Eunhee, I should probably take a break from your endless blind date setups. Nothing is working out for me, seriously." You heaved a sigh, slouching on the couch as you gave your best friend an exasperated look the moment you entered her humble bookshop. She's too excited for your love life ever since she and her long-time university crush Jackson became an official couple on your birthday when you celebrated it on Jeju last year. It was a really cold New Year’s Eve when you chose to reserve this romantic restaurant by the beach as the venue for your special day. Eunhee doesn't have any idea about Jackson's plan when you booked a flight to Jeju Island for a week despite the busy season. Since you wanted to play the fairy godmother role for the both of them, you saved Jackson from worrying and suggested that he'd do it on your birthday instead. And just like that, they spent the New Year countdown melting into each other’s puddle while greeting you a happy birthday. The things you do for your friend, if that ain’t salty for your part (it is, for being the third wheel), automatically elected you as the sole Queen of singles club after Neun’s grand exit.

Since their anniversary is just around the corner, they are planning to spend it once again on Jeju and Eunhee, for being the supportive sister from another mother that she is, will surely drag you with them at all costs since it has been your tradition to celebrate New Year’s Eve with your best friend. She is dying to set you up with someone so you won't be celebrating your birthday alone anymore.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I thought you and my friend Hae In will work out. What happened by the way? tell me about your date." She sat beside your spot after closing the shop and did the honor of pouring you a glass of your favorite merlot. This girl knows how to calm you down for sure. I mean she isn't your best friend if she have no idea that wine is your comfort drink. For whatever reason it is, you don't know why it helps to lessen your loneliness by drinking the night away. Maybe knocking you down into a deep slumber and finding yourself completely clueless the next day, alongside the horrible hangover can patch up the painful truth that you are still single up to this point of your life. In addition to the earthly and God-sent smell of neatly piled books crowding the interior of her paradise, Eunhee's bookshop is your go-to place at all times. You used to frequent this a lot during your childhood days where you first met her and together you shared the same passion and love for books and wine through all these years.

"He's too overrated for my type. Like I don't know why we need to talk about all of his exes and why his relationship with them didn't work out when we can sit and be comfortable with just talking about our interests, 'us' the present and not his past. He's a perfectionist per se and I don't like it when a guy shows disinterest whenever I told them about myself as some nerdy bookish girl who craves for a netflix kind of night compared to his ideal dream girl-next-door whom you can freely bring to a club the minute next." You look down on the red liquid in your glass, appreciating its refined and classic smell that is clouding your nostrils. You're way too excited to go home so you can finally sink on your newly changed bed sheets and savor the enticing smell of fabric conditioner which you cannot live without. You glanced outside the window, observing the couples walking together under the falling snow, as if Valentines day has come all of a sudden in the middle of December. Red roses are a popular gift for the ladies as you've observed and you cannot help yourself from wondering if someone will ever give you flowers on Christmas, particularly pink roses, which you really admire. You always dreamt of tending a bed of pink roses only for yourself because the sight of it makes you really happy. It's just unfortunate that they aren't in full bloom during this season that's why you can only wait for February to come so you could save the trouble of finding a lame date and just buy yourself a bouquet for Valentines. You can give yourself flowers and still feel like in a relationship with all the fictional characters on your novels. No one is stopping you from dating them in your mind, you thought.

“Ugh I can’t believe that guy. I thought he’s a good catch but actually a bummer for real. Don’t worry, I’ll choose better next time." She gave you a warm hug, patting your head as you lay your cheek on her shoulder. She released you and you gave her an 'I'm-okay-don't-worry' kind of smile. And you sat there for almost an hour talking about your other failed blind dates in the past week that all belongs in either Jackson or Eunhee's circle. You have no idea why none of them matched your personality. Either they are too wild or too boring for them to function as your potential boyfriend. No one could really captivate your specific taste in a guy. It's not that you are too picky and have a high standard when it comes to scouting a lover. You just have your own preferences when it comes to choosing someone whom you'll devote your precious time into. No relationship is perfect because everything is built out of flaws, misunderstandings, heartaches and drama but if you'll enter in a commitment at least choose someone who's worthy of that pain. You aren’t getting any younger and all you need right now is someone reliable, honest and trustworthy enough to not waste your feelings and emotion. You need a serious guy who will not take you for granted and who welcomes the idea of settling in the near future. At least someone with a nice job? Or a bearable attitude, outlook and philosophy in life? He doesn't need to be the most handsome or richest guy in the planet. After all, you always talk to God about giving you with someone who will really love all your imperfections and flawed nature. You always pray to the heavens above that maybe he'll cross the mountains and bring you the moon and the stars like they always did on the movies and in stories but you're fed with too much fantasy and began to think that maybe the guy for you was rather inexistent or an alien inhabiting a distant galaxy located in a million light years away.

"A break is all I need after all. I will be fine tomorrow at Christmas eve. Don't worry about me having a date on our dinner. I'll bring some macarons as an antidote for all things bitter for you and Jackson's couple party." It's your best friend’s first Christmas with her boyfriend that's why they are throwing a mini gathering for their family and close friends. You had this feeling that you will be the only one attending the party without a date so might as well go straight to the kitchen and grab a bottle of whatever wine you can get and spend the evening dancing on tipsy toes and the floor would be very much pleased to accommodate your drunken needs. But you will not gonna end up wasted on a party especially Eunhee will not be there beside you to take you home since you do not want to rob Jackson of his time with her. Their happiness always matters before you and that's what makes you happy, to see your best friend happy with the man that he really deserves.

"All right sweetcheeks. We'll not let you feel gloomy on Christmas eve. Good girls get a reward from Santa so you have nothing to worry about." She gave you a wink and clanked your glasses in unison as you both emptied the bottle of wine to your heart's content. You both agreed to watch a romantic holiday movie over a shared furry blanket and hear out your friend as she talked to you mostly of his boyfriend, as if you’ve read a book about the guide to 101 ways on how to fall for Jackson. Maybe the love bug bit too hard on your friend now that she really has the man of her dreams right on her fingertips, she can’t ask for anything else. Their love story is too underrated and you’re one of the living witnesses that a coin is never wasted on a wishing well. If you only joined Eunhee on her wishing spree every time you both pass by your University’s fountain of love, your coin bank would have gone empty by now. But you didn’t do it and saved all of your coins for yourself cause you really enjoy playing basketball in the arcades for fun. For all you can remember way back in college days, your friend is just one of the many timid girls who are cheering and admiring the ever-famous fencing athlete, business student and heartthrob, Jackson. You have classes together with him and that is how your job as a love guru began. You really deserve a raise because you did succeed on making them a couple. You could set up a dating agency and earn better than your current job for all you care. But amidst all the love advice that you gave to them, you’re the complete opposite of a matchmaker. Because love never finds your way despite making love work for the others. Love is sweet but a bitch most of the time.

If love finally came to Eunhee and Jackson, hopefully yours would come in a whirlpool, sweeping you off of your feet and rendering all the other love stories made in the history irrelevant. You love spontaneity and you’re up for the extraordinary. In fact, you already made a dozen of playlists on spotify and counting, awaiting to be dedicated to him. You may have weird habits, like using ketchup as a dip for your honey glazed donuts, and still act straight and sit the whole day finishing a book with your favorite espresso at coffee shops. You love taking midnight trips to the art museum and you wonder if he can appreciate the abstract the way it makes your soul come alive. You love travelling back to time and studying history and it would be a bonus if he’ll join you on the 3% mint choco enthusiasts in the whole world. And your list goes on and on and it’ll take a lifetime to introduce yourself to someone but you want to meet him soon. You can’t wait for that time to annoy the hell out of him and if he still chooses to come back after your endless nagging, that’s the time when you’re not gonna let go of him anymore. You know for yourself, you’re looking for an almost perfect individual but you’re ready to tear up your never ending list of your ideal guy if someone could really surprise you and made you want to look at the world in a different dimension. After all, an ideal can never be achieved in real life. You cannot make someone ‘the one’ but you can only search for someone and make them ‘your one’. Things may not come out the way you want them to be but things will work out if he’s your destiny. It might be hard to find the rarest form of love, which is true love, but you’re willing to go on a train trip bound to a destination you’ve never been to given that he’ll meet you at the end of the tunnel. Love isn’t hard. Love is supposed to be easy. You just need patience and it’ll come to you when you least expect it.

It's nearing 11 pm already when you feel lightheaded because of your wine intake and maybe due to the fact that your early sleeping schedule has been breached by tonight's unfortunate event. You bid goodbye to your friend despite her invitation that you should just sleep on her place and decided to call for an uber to save yourself from zoning out like a zombie because you can no longer walk straight with your clouded vision. Eunhee lives upstairs her bookstore because she manages her family's business when her father passed away that's why she isn't living with you anymore. You've grown to be independent now that you're living on your own after sharing the same apartment with your friend during your university days.

"Tomorrow night at 8. I'll text you the address. Don't be late, Y/n. Have a goodnight!” Eunhee tucked you up nicely on your seat and soon the taxi sped up passing underneath the city lights in the mood for the radio's yuletide playlist. You're a bit drunk to see clearly but you can recognize the faint Christmas lights flickering throughout the busy streets. In just half an hour, the uber came to a stop and you hopped off the cab as you made your way towards the entrance of the condo that you’re residing in. You walked past the concierge and romantic music is donning the halls screaming love is in the air but not for you cause it makes you suffocated. Inside the elevator you noticed that you'll join a couple on your way to a 5-minute trip to the 12th floor. You silently wished that nobody would enter in between floors so as not to slow down your fast lane to your unit or else it'll be another episode of 'You-are-single-fgds' slapping your face. Geez, you badly want a damn break but the couple is too absorbed in their own selves, doing whatever cringey couple thing it is behind you, so you chose to ignore their reflection on the elevator walls.

God spared you for that ride and luckily you reached the 12th floor in the fastest speed possible. You walked in a crazy zigzag pattern when you reached the front step of your door and you held on the handle to prevent yourself from falling directly on the ground. Your eyes are zooming in for the door lock as you punch in your keycode multiple times and still wonder why the door isn't granting you any access at all.

"The fudge why aren't you opening?" You tried all possible combinations already but to no luck, you are still denied. For the 10th time, the lock gave up on you and is now urging for a password reset when all of a sudden the heavens finally heard your prayer and the door automatically opened. You fell towards a pair of arms, as if on cue you are saved once again from falling directly on the floor. You grabbed on a pair of shoulders, and you felt like you've reached your bed already as your senses are welcomed with a lovely scent of fabcon, which for you is the sweetest scent in the world.

"Hmm. I can finally sleep now." You smiled the moment you felt safe and secured within the parameters of what you think of as your bed.

"Wait, you cannot sleep on my arms." It's too late for you to wake up because you're already dozing off to dreamland.

"Oh shoot. What am I gonna do with you?" You barged into someone's room and you haven't had the slightest idea of what you'll gonna do the next morning when you wake up.

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tiaragqueen · 5 years ago

Note

Tatara (Tokyo Ghoul) x shy female s/o ☺️ thanks

Guerdon

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Tatara x Chi She Lian clansman! Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,2k+

✂ Trigger Warnings: Isolation, manipulation, mention of death, possessiveness

[Edited]

***

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

I know I'm very late, and it's already the end of the month, but let's just pretend today's Valentine for the sake of the plot.

“I could tell you lots of things, they're gonna turn out useless. Sometimes you need to challenge your questions. You don't need to know everything.” - You Don’t Need To Know [Excuse Me Moses]

Tatara was among those people who couldn’t find the importance of Valentine day. He believed it was just a waste of time and money, because why would you present your loved ones chocolates and roses only during Valentine? What happened to surprising them on ‘normal’ days? Wouldn’t the gifts be much more memorable if they were given randomly, when your partners least expected it?

Excluding that pointless and totally unnecessary day, Tatara had never cared much about dating, anyway. As far as he was concerned, having a lover only brought more problems than benefits due to many factors: his nature, the unremitting threats from the CCG and other petty ghouls, the organization he participated in, and the inevitable tragedy. Sure, he wasn’t a workaholic, but he deemed his organization and its objective more important than anything else. Thus, splitting his time – especially for the sake of someone else – would be challenging.

Besides, Tatara was already content with his life. As long as he still had his brother and other members whom he secretly cherished, Tatara wouldn’t complain much.

That was years ago, though. A lot of things had changed since then, including his love life.

Frankly, you weren’t his girlfriend. You were just a member of Chi She Lian; one that he’d never really conversed with, let alone dated. You both had missions to do, and you both had stark differences in statuses. You were far from weak, though, and Tatara had heard some kind words from Yan regarding your proficiency.

However, nobody was perfect. You were shy, so painfully shy you couldn’t keep eye contact with anyone – particularly the higher ones – for more than three seconds. Tatara didn’t mind it, of course. It just proved that you were aware of your place and respect the superiors.

Before long, fate brought the unlikely pair closer than he’d expected.

A CCG investigator managed to locate his organization and eliminated nearly the majority of its members, forcing him to bring you along to Japan for a hideout. You initially refused, insisting on fighting the damned man, until Tatara knocked you out. It was a rather extreme method, but he knew better than to let you contend senselessly to death. An opportunity for revenge would surely come soon and he needed you to be on your best behavior.

But after joining Aogiri Tree and seeing its vast influence to the Japanese ghouls, Tatara realized that he’d gotten a lot stronger than before. He was certain he could easily take down that bastard without your assistance or anyone else in that matter.

No, as the other survivor, it was better for you to remain ignorant.

He didn’t want to admit that he feared your death someday, and how lonely his life would be without you. Eto might be his new leader, but she wasn’t a part of Chi She Lian. She didn’t belong to, nor did she come from his past the same way you did.

That was why he resolved to isolate you in some derelict apartment, although his original purpose was to deflect the enemies' attention.

And it worked more than he’d expected.

You’d gradually learned to crawl out of that poky shell and engaged in a small talk, mainly consisting of his condition and missions. You’d also begun to grow more attentive to his mood and always tried to help him whenever and however you could, even offering a sliver of your flesh when he lied about being hungry. And you did it all with a smile, gleaming eyes void of malice or reluctance.

It was such a heartwarming yet fragile view; one that would surely shatter to thousand pieces if you were to learn about the truth. Tatara almost felt bad for lying to you.

Regardless, he wasn’t completely frigid. He knew how to reward someone, even if it was exclusive to you.

And Eto just had to suggest a present for Valentine day, because it was the most ‘romantic’ event aside from Christmas. Tatara couldn’t understand how an ordinary day could be any more romantic than the others, but as long you got the gift, it didn’t really matter what event today was.

“[Name].”

To say that he felt awkward would be a huge understatement. How could he not? This was the first time he ever gifted someone, and to a woman nonetheless. He didn’t display his discomfort, obviously, instead shoving the present on to your hands as if it was a ticking time bomb.

“Open it.” he ordered simply, coolly because he couldn’t afford to lose his composure in front of you.

You reeled back in surprise and stared at him for further clarification. When he remained mute, you looked down and inspected the heart shaped box. Was this… what you thought it was? You’d assumed he wasn’t the type to celebrate such event – being a busybody he was – and you didn’t truly notice it, either. It was simply a special occasion meant for couples, created by those sentimental humans.

Still, it was nice to receive something once in a while.

Gingerly, you tore the dark pink ribbon and its matching wrapper and peeked in. A choked gasp left your agape mouth as you swiftly opened the lid and found several – and literal – hearts placed in such a way until they formed a heart shape. In lieu of ketchup, blood garnished the ‘candy’ equivalence like crimson strings connecting and binding the hearts together. You wondered if they were meant to represent your past in Chi She Lian, with the first two organs being you and Tatara as the survivors.

But that would be a crazy idea, wouldn’t it?

“This…” Had you were a human, you’d instantly throw the box away the second you sniffed a particular stench. For you, the ghoul, it was the best gift you’d ever gotten in your entire life. “This is amazing! T-thank you so much. You shouldn’t have to…”

“Nonsense.” he retorted. “I didn’t give it to you so you could pity yourself.”

You squeaked. “I-I’m so sorry!”

Sighing, Tatara stepped forward and squeezed your shoulder. It was a subtle and harmless action, but you knew he could crush the bone underneath if he so wished.

If the time when you’d no longer be needed came…

"Keep up the good work.”

… that gentle touch would be the last affection you’d felt from anyone.

Or him, because he was the only person you met every day.

Sparkles waned from your eyes as you bowed, clenching the box to keep the tears at bay. It didn’t matter if today was Valentine, you couldn’t feel anything else other than compliance.

And the reward on your hands was just a rock meant to deter you from leaving.

“Yes, Tatara.”

#yandere anime au #yandere anime #anime yandere #anime yandere au #yandere scenario #yandere oneshot #yandere imagine #yandere request #Request #Anon #Yandere tatara #Yandere tatara x reader #Yandere tg #yandere tokyo ghoul

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hillnerd · 5 years ago

Note

Romione au headcanon where they date and break up ootp and hbp happens same as it is

Sorry this took so long to write! Ended up being 8k+ words! Hope you like it! :)

Valentine’s day was the next day, but that meant very little to Ron. He had no romantic plans. He never had in the past, and this Valentine’s day was looking quite bleak. Angelina had scheduled a quidditch practice that day, and he knew he needed it. He was the worst player on the team- perhaps the worst player in all of history. What had he been thinking, trying out in the first place? The looks on everyone’s faces at the end of each scrimmage was enough to make him sick with nerves. He was always an eternal disappointment, he knew- but now the whole school knew.

He was moping by the common room fire, fingers pressed into his eyes when something miraculous happened. Angelina had gotten sick to her stomach in a nearby planter. She was ushered up to the hospital wing and diagnosed with Fwooper Flu, which had been going around the castle. Her getting sick wasn’t miraculous, but the rest of the team coming down with the Flu, and thus canceling practice? That was probably considered miracle worthy of Merlin himself.

Suddenly free, he realized the possibility of Valentine’s Day meaning more than just discount chocolate. It could mean spending the day with Hermione! On Valentine’s day!

Truth be told he’d spent every Valentine’s day with Hermione since he’d been in Hogwarts, but he’d never realized how much he fancied Hermione then. Maybe he had always fancied her on some level. Either way, he was fully smitten now and hadn’t a clue as to how to close the deal.

He’d given her perfume at Christmas, but she didn’t act any differently afterwards. She’d politely thanked him, and he’d not gotten anything special from her. She gave him and Harry the exact same, rather horrible, talking homework planners.

But she HAD kissed him earlier that year. It was only on the cheek, but maybe… Maybe that meant something? He couldn’t remember her ever kissing Harry.

Then again, maybe it was all in his head. Maybe she didn’t fancy him at all. Maybe it would be better to skip Hogsmeade and practice flying, official practice or no. Maybe he should give up on Hermione altogether.

After all, she was beautiful, and smart, and had people like Viktor Krum after her. Compared to all that, Ron had little to offer. He was a skinny freckled ginger, who was poor, horrible at quidditch, and got average grades. Sure he was good at chess and kind of funny- but that was not exactly heartthrob material, was it?

Feeling thoroughly down on himself, Ron was ready to turn in to bed when Hermione stepped through the portrait hole, arms laden with books that looked ready to topple. He quickly got up, took them from her, and guided her to the seat beside his own.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile. Thoughts of his lameness fell behind him as he took in her countenance, and her hair got all huge and staticky as she removed her scarf.

“What’s all this?” he asked, pointing to a stack of books impressively large for a Friday evening.

“Well, we have quite a few papers coming up, and I wanted first dibs on these for our papers. And of course I have Arithmancy and Runes on top of our regular classes. The Runes texts are perfect for my new translating assignment. We get to choose our own epic poems to translate, and I’ve been torn between two poems for ages, so I think I’ll just translate both, then choose whichever one I translated better. I also have a few books you might want to use on our Transfiguration essay that you can borrow when I’m finished.”

“Sure, thanks.” Half the time he didn’t really listen if she got deep into it on studies, but he always loved to watch her animatedly ramble. She had such a breathless flush to her when she went on about something, and he found it charming most of the time. Sometimes he would exasperatedly sigh at her, but it was mostly so he could get her to glare at him. Her glares were practically pouts, and she’d scrunch up her little sharp eyes at him, and somehow it made him smile even wider. She was the cutest indignant person he’d ever met.

“What have you been up to?” she asked, sorting through her books and laying them out.

“Basking in my luck. The team is all sick with flu, except me and Gin- so practice got cancelled!” he said with a smile, putting his long legs up on top of some of Hermione’s books. She made her usual glare and he grinned at her before he gave a rough swallow. “So… I was thinking we could maybe go to Hogsmeade together then, since I’m not busy anymore… I mean, if you don’t have plans or anything.”

“Well, I do have something going on midday—”

“Oh! Ok, well then nevermind—”

“But! I think we could manage to spend some time together before it,” Hermione finished, shooting him a twinkly little smile.

“Oh yeah?” Ron said, perking back up. “Ok then! Erm… Meet you at breakfast around nine and we’ll go together from there?”

“Sounds good.”

It was perfect! Ron had a date with Hermione! Well… No it wasn’t a date. She didn’t even look all that excited. She was looking through her bag for a quill, and not even looking at him. Should he push it and make it clear he wanted it to be a date? It was loads safer to not say anything. She’d probably laugh herself silly if he tried. But…

“Well, then…” Ron said, standing up and taking a centering breath.

“It’s-a-date! See-you-tomorrow!” he blurted out.

He said it all very fast, and before she could say a word, and before he could check to see her face, he bolted up the stairs.

“Oh bleeding hell,” Ron cursed himself halfway to his dorm. What had he been thinking? Well… Perhaps she hadn’t understood him? Or thought he didn’t mean it that way? Merlin’s hairy bumhole! What an idiot he was.

As he got to his dorm he found Harry staring at a pile of clothes on his bed, as if they were a particularly difficult riddle that needed solving. He looked up at Ron with relief.

“What am I supposed to wear?” Harry asked gesturing to the pile.

“Start with pants and work your way outward.”

“Really helpful, that. Thanks,” Harry said shortly, giving Ron a two fingered salute. He looked grim and pale faced.

“Is this for… er… Hogsmeade?” Ron asked, putting his hands in his pockets. He and Harry never much talked about girls. He didn’t particularly want to start now.

“Yeah…” Harry groused, putting a hand through his hair. Ron found a sudden reeling sensation twisting in his stomach, knowing he’d have to make the same sort of decision.

Luckily for them both, Dean, Neville and Seamus came in.

“Boys,” Ron said stoutly, gesturing them over with as much bravado as he could. “Harry’s not a clue what to wear for his date with Cho. Thoughts?”

The other boys looked over and laughed a bit but finally, after they all stared at the mound of Harry’s clothes for a good ten minutes, they decided on his nicest jeans and one of his jumpers that fit alright. Something that was nice, but not too nice.

“Don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard, yeah?” Seamus had said.

Late that night, when everyone else was asleep, Ron did a similar dive through all his clothes. He had nothing that could even remotely fall into the category of ‘too nice.’ Did he have anything at all that was even nice? It took a lot of digging, but he finally found the pair of jeans he’d received from Percy that summer, not a week before the prat had abandoned their family. Percy rarely wore anything as casual as jeans, so they were in a respectable state and fit Ron better than any other trousers he owned. He settled on the one jumper he had that didn’t clash with his hair. It was a little knobby with pills of fabric in the armpits- but not enough he thought Hermione would mind. Yes… Hopefully he would look alright for his first Valentine’s date.

_______________________________________________________

“It’s-a-date! See-you-tomorrow!” Ron blurted out before practically sprinting away from Hermione.

Hermione stared after him, her mouth agape as she processed what he’d said.

Surely he didn’t mean… Did he really say date? He couldn’t have possibly meant it as a real date, could he? But then why would Ron say anything like that? She’d hoped he would take some initiative and show interest in her, but wasn’t sure what to make of this. Did this count as him asking her out? Or were they just going to Hogsmeade together because he had nothing better to do?

She hastily gathered her books, not able to think of anything as trivial as runes when she was on the crux of a possible first date with the boy she had fancied for two years!

Oh! Ginny! She needed Ginny’s help immediately. Hermione had no idea what to do with her hair! Or what to wear! Or even if it was possible this was a date.

With as much speed as she could she Leviosa-ed the books and flung them onto her bed, not caring when half of them fell to the floor with a large slam disturbing Parvati and Lavender from a giggling conversation they were having.

She bound to the fourth year’s dormroom and luckily found Ginny reading a quidditch magazine on her four poster.

“Merlin!” Ginny exclaimed, taking in Hermione, who was panting and ringing her hands. “What’s wrong?”

“I think… I think things might be right, actually!” Hermione let out a high pitched desperate sort of laugh, before she squeezed herself around her middle in agitation. “I’m not sure, of course, because I’m never allowed anything to go smoothly in this area, but yes… Yes I think things are going very well!”

Ginny looked at Hermione with concern before putting a hand to her forehead.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t have Fwooper Flu.”

“I don’t have flu!” Hermione laughed. Ginny looked just as nonplussed as ever. “No… I— Oh Ginny, I think I might have been asked on a date!”

“What do you mean you think you might have been asked on a date?” Ginny smiled with incredulity.

“Well I was asked to Hogsmeade, and when we made our arrangements to meet up he said ‘it’s a date!’ So I guess, it’s a date?”

“Sounds like it!”

“But it is a common expression!” Hermione fretted. “Maybe it’s not!”

“Well, who asked you?” Ginny asked, seating them both on her bed.

“It was…” Hermione hesitated, biting her lip. Ginny had inferred Hermione liked Ron, but they’d never explicitly discussed it. It felt odd to confess her excitement if this was all a folly and Ron had meant to ask her only as a friend. It was a line she’d never crossed before, and the vulnerability of it made her tremble.

“Was it Ron?” Ginny asked quietly, a look of awe on her face.

Hermione silently nodded her head, and began to clutch at her arms again.

Ginny gave a broad toothy grin that made her resemble a smug Fred or George.

“The coward finally asked you out!” she crowed.

“We don’t know that he did! Like I said, it’s a common expression.”

“Not for Ron! Here, I can go and ask him—” Ginny moved to get up, but Hermione desperately tugged her back in place.

“No!” Hermione said in a strangled voice. “He can’t know I talked to you about it, because if he didn’t mean it as a date, and thought I thought it was a date and cared enough that I was talking about it and discussing it with his sister, then he’d think I fancied him, and he could be weirded out, and it could cosmically shift our dynamic, and then our whole friendship could be in jeopardy!”

“Hermione,” Ginny said putting a bracing hand to her shoulder. “You worry too much.”

“No! I worry the appropriate amount!”

“I won’t say anything, of course, but we all know he’s fancied you for ages. But even if it’s not a date, it can’t hurt to look nice for it and do a little bit of flirting.”

“Well, I came to you to help me with the looking nice bit, but as for flirting, I don’t believe I’ve ever been any good at it.”

“Just laugh at his jokes, and say nice things to him.”

“I do that already!”

Ginny arched an eyebrow.

“What?” Hermione replied defensively. “I do!”

“You kind of do, I guess, but you also go into scold and lecture mode a lot with him… I mean, he totally deserves it, but when’s the last time you complimented him?”

“I don’t know, the last time he did something worth complimenting obviously!” Hermione huffed, throwing up her arms.

“So, never?” Ginny laughed.

Hermione puffed up in response.

“That’s not fair! He’s done loads of things! He does things all the time! He’s very accomplished!”

“Well tell him that, and don’t wait for him to suddenly ‘accomplish’ something on your date.”

“Well you can’t go doling out compliments when people don’t deserve them.”

“I thought you said he was accomplished?”

Hermione squirmed. She was not sure how one should naturally segue way into complimenting when the act hasn’t been achieved recently.

“How?”

“I dunno, bring up past acts of valor or something? You’re a smart one. Make a cheat sheet for yourself and revise!”

Hermione nodded. That’s what she had to do. She needed to sit down and revise! She had no time, really, but she could manage this. Ginny agreed to help her with her hair and outfit the next morning, which left the rest of the night to think of some good compliments for Ron that she could apply in a natural way. And if it wasn’t a date, at least she was planting seeds that might blossom into affection later.

_______________________________________________________

Ron had never spent more time in front of a mirror. He didn’t have to shave all that often yet, but that morning he spent extra time making sure he didn’t have a stray whisker anywhere on his face or neck, made extra sure there wasn’t a pimple or anything hiding somewhere, and fiddled with where to part his hair a good ten minutes.

Before he knew it, he only had five minutes to get down the dining hall. He and Harry got the breakfast, both looking as peaky as Ron did before a quidditch match. It didn’t take long for Ron to spot Hermione among the students.

Her hair was looking extra tame and bouncy, like she had spent a lot of time on it. That had to be a good sign! She’d pulled back part of it from her face, and… her lips seemed to have a shine to them they normally didn’t. She looked lovely. Was this for him? Or was this for whatever her midday Valentine’s plans were?

She didn’t notice them at first as she was taking a letter from an unfamiliar brown owl. She had an intense look on her face as she quickly read the letter, seeming to come to herself as Ron and Harry sat with her.

“Oh good! You’re here!” she exclaimed, looking to Harry and ignoring Ron. “Listen, Harry. This is really important…. Do you think you could meet me in the Three Broomsticks around midday?”

“Well… I dunno. Cho might be expecting me to spend the whole day with her. We never said what we were going to do.“

"Well, bring her along if you must, but will you come?”

“Well… all right, but why?”

“I haven’t got time to tell you now. I’ve got to answer this quickly—” she said as she got some triangles of toast and shoved them into her bag, ready to leave the room.

Ron should have known she’d forget about their date. Whatever this plan was with Harry seemed to be more important to her than whatever plan she’d made with Ron. He gave a sigh and began to load up his plate, resigned to spend the morning alone, when Hermione stopped mid stride and turned to Ron.

“Well, come along then!” she said, looking at a befuddled Ron. “Make an egg sandwich with your toast or something! We can get more food after I respond to the letter.”

Ron quickly complied and gave a shrug to Harry, who was eyeing them with nothing short of complete confusion. Ron was highly confused as well, but felt quite cheery as he followed Hermione. It was easy to keep up with her, even when she was practically running, since his legs were so long. Hermione always took quick tiny steps wherever she went and it made her curls bounce in a unique was that Ron found adorable.

She was on one of her missions, so Ron knew it best not to interrupt until she’d finished whatever her little task was. She lead them to the Owlery and penned a letter before choosing a school owl.

“This is urgent,” she told the little owl. It hooted in response before taking off. They watched the owl as it got smaller and disappeared over the horizon.

“So…” Ron said, polishing off his hastily made sandwich. “Mind telling me what all that was about?”

She quickly explained her plan to blackmail Rita Skeeter into doing an interview with Harry for the Quibbler so he could finally get the truth out about Voldemort’s return. They were to meet at the The Three Broomsticks midday. Ron had never felt such relief, but also was in awe of how cagey Hermione was.

“That’s a brilliant plan!” he exclaimed giving her a hug. He hastily let go of her and gave her a moment to fix her hair he’d mussed in his excitement.

They went on to the village talking about Skeeter, Harry and a variety of topics in the same easy manner they always did. Ron didn’t know anyone he could talk to as easily as Hermione. Well, besides Harry of course, but it was different. He and Harry talked all the time, but much of it was laughing and shared looks and being able to just hang out. With Hermione there was this… spark. He didn’t know what it was. It just made the whole thing feel exciting, even if it was just debating over the difference between jam, jelly and preserves.

They went on to stare at the Shrieking Shack, recalling memories of third year.

Ron felt his palms begin to sweat. Was this a date or not? How could he make it romantic? Maybe he could do something chivalrous - like give her his coat if she was too cold? Or he could just use the cold as an excuse to hold her closely, and then look into each other’s eyes and, in a fit of passion, kiss each other.

“Are you cold?” Ron asked.

“No, I’m almost too warm, actually. I think I went overboard with my warming charms before we left the castle.”

Ron deflated. Well there went that idea.

“Er, Ron. You look nice today,” Hermione said stiffly.

“Thanks,” he replied, unsure of what to say. “You do too. Your hair is all shiny.”

“Ginny helped me with it.”

“Well she did a good job.”

“Thank you.”

“Welcome,” Ron replied before awkwardly looking away from her.

Oh, this was a disaster! What was he supposed to do or say? Did she look nice because of Rita Skeeter- perhaps wanting to give the woman nothing bad to print about her looks- or was she looking so lovely for him? ‘Your hair is all shiny.’ That wasn’t even a real compliment. What a tosser he was. He could do better than that, surely.

Despite his flimsy attempts at complimenting her, she was smiling at him. He loved the way her eyes seemed to sparkle a bit when she smiled like that. They reminded him of a rock in Percy’s rock collection he’d seen. It was called Tiger’s eye, and the shiny crystal had a special sort of soft lustre to it just like Hermione’s. Her eyes weren’t just brown, they had all sorts of honeyed hues to them.

“Your eyes look like rocks,” Ron said, before his eyes widened and his ears went red.

“I mean… Shit,” Ron cursed himself.

Hermione began to look angry.

“Did you really just say my eyes look like shi—”

“NO! I— fuck… No! I was trying to say they look like this special stone Percy had in his rock collection. It has all sorts of different colors in them. Tiger’s eye. Like… it was a really pretty rock, I swear! My favorite.”

Hermione stared at him in befuddlement before a smile broke out on her face, and her shoulders began to shake with suppressed laughter.

“Oh don’t laugh!” Ron rolled his head away from her, his face going red. After a moment of listening to her laugh, he found himself fighting a grin. “To be fair, in my mind it was really poetic.”

“I’m sure it was!” Hermione beamed at him.

“See, right there! When you smile like that! Looks just like it,” Ron enthused.

“That’s very sweet, Ron.”

His eyebrows rose as he looked down at her. So his rock thing had worked! Maybe he could try his other gambit?

“You sure you’re not cold at all?” he asked, giving her a hopeful look.

“Well, maybe my hands are a bit cold.”

Ron quickly grabbed her gloved hands in his own and held them tight. She was so tiny in every way. It amazed him how small even her knuckles were compared to his. He sandwiched her hands between his and began to rub them. He wished she weren’t wearing gloves- but it was still nice to have her so close and do something a bit more intimate than he’d managed before. _______________________________________________________

Hermione felt a thrill run through her as he took her hands in his. Even through her gloves she could feel the warmth of his hands burning through her. Everything about Ron was warmth and fire. His hair, his fiery temper, the way he could flush a deep red, and even how warm bodied he was. She’d be shivering from cold, and Ron would complain it was hot.

She wished she could bury herself in his embrace and feel warmed all over by him. He’d been rather daring, in his own way, trying to compliment her and holding her hands. Surely that wasn’t just friendly. It was notably different than his usual behavior. Perhaps she could test the waters and see.

“You know… I do think that warming charm on my coat is beginning to wear off.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up high on his face, and his ears were beginning to turn a rosy hue.

“Well,” he said before roughly swallowing. “Well, you can share my coat if you like.”

Hermione quickly nodded, and he opened his coat wide for her to bury herself in. She slowly skimmed her hands along his sides before she wrapped her arms around his waist. Her face cuddled into his chest and she let a breath out as he closed in the side of his coat and wrapped his arms around her.

“I-Is that any better?” he asked, voice a bit husky.

“Much,” Hermione sighed. She knew she couldn’t keep doing this for long. She’d lied when she said her warming charm was wearing off. It was still going strong and she was already feeling a bit sweaty and overheated like this, and Ron would no doubt feel the heat from her coat soon. It was worth the physical discomfort, though, to be wrapped in his embrace like this.

The heat finally pushed her to let go of him. Even though he was so much taller than she, he was stooped so low his face was quite near hers. His face was flushed a deep pink, most likely from having a girl the temperature of a hot water bottle wrapped about him.

“I just remembered! I need some quills,” she lied, as she pulled herself away from him, not wanting to cause him further discomfort. ”Would you mind stopping by Scrivenshaft’s?”

“Wha— Er, yeah that’s fine,” he said, looking a bit glum.

“We can stop by some place more fun for you, if you like. I can put off the quills.”

“Naw, I’d probably just spend my pocket change on something stupid. Let’s get you some quills.”

They made their way down the road and Ron patiently waited as Hermione found herself new set of quills at Scrivenshaft’s. She’d dithered between a lovely set of minty green quills that was a little overpriced, or some more practical ones. Ron ended up waiting outside as she began chatting with a clerk about paper thickness and its effects on paper charms and hexes. She hadn’t made up her mind which set to buy when the lady behind the counter wrapped the nice quills in a colorful paper bag with a bow.

“Oh, no need to wrap that!” Hermione called out as the final flourish was added to the bow. “I hadn’t decided if I was going to indulge myself and buy them or not.”

“But it’s a gift!”

“What?”

The lady pointed to Ron who was casually leaning against the building. “He paid for it while you were chatting.”

They weren’t inexpensive quills, and Hermione felt prodigiously guilty that she’d made up the story of needing them in the first place. She’d only said that to more gracefully detach herself from Ron and not embarrass herself. She knew he didn’t have much money to spend on something like this.

As she opened the door, he gave her one of his lopsided smiles.

“All done?”

“Yes,” she smiled back before biting her lip. “You needn’t have paid for my quills, though.”

“I wanted to.”

“But, they were rather expensive and—”

“I know how much they cost. I bought them,” Ron said, brusquely cutting her off. His ears were red again. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll probably end up borrowing them and forgetting to return them. So it’s as much for you as it is for me.”

“Well…” He had a look on his face that clearly said she was treading into dangerous territory. “Alright then.”

He grinned back at her and she simpered before gripping the package close to her chest.

It felt a merry day until the skies opened and rain began to soak them through. Hermione had a small umbrella on hand that was most definitely not big enough for both of them. The umbrella did little to protect them from the wind whipping the rain into their sides, so they ran all the way to the Three Broomsticks. They both laughed as they entered the pub and found a table near the fire.

“Y’know, I think we got wetter trying to share the umbrella between us than if we’d just hoofed it,” Ron grinned as he unwrapped his wet scarf from around his neck. He hastily added, “not that it wasn’t appreciated.”

“I think you’re right, I’m soaked,” Hermione agreed with a laugh, wringing out her hair a bit. She gave a shudder as she took off her coat and the cold prickled at her, but a blast of warm air quickly drove the cold away. Ron had his wand out aimed directly at her.

“Oh! You musn’t use magic!” she admonished, looking around them to make sure no one had seen. “If you get caught you could get in loads of trouble!”

“I’m near enough to seventeen. If it were in front of muggles alarms would go off or something, but a place like this?”

“The Trace follows you everywhere!”

“Well… kind of,” Ron said with a shrug, ordering them two butterbeers and holding out her chair for her. “They can’t know WHO did magic in a place, only that it was done. Unless they were specifically looking for me, in a place buzzing with magic like this, it goes largely unnoticed. All my brothers were able to skate by with spells in Hogsmeade, so I’m not too fussed.”

“Well you still shouldn’t do it in a pub where anyone could see you,” she warned, looking about the patrons. Ron simply leaned back in his chair, his rangy legs stretched out so far they almost reached the other side of the long table.

“It’ll be fine. One of the few perks from having a hundred older brothers is you know which rules are a bit more flexible than others. You get to sit back, watch their mistakes, and mostly not repeat them.”

“No, you find all sorts of new mistakes they couldn’t even imagine,” she smirked, thinking back to their misadventures.

“Well if your brothers have already succeeded in every way,” said Ron, putting out a dramatic hand, “you might as well fail uniquely and spectacularly.”

He had a conspiratorial smile on his face.

“I’d say the Twins are taking that approach to school,” she added.

“Yeah. Guess they beat me to that too,” he laughed, though his smile didn’t seem to reach his eyes. “Not really any paths left to blaze.”

“You are blazing your own path though, Ron,” Hermione protested. “You’ve done loads.”

“Hmm,” he said with a doubtful look, before thanking Madame Rosmerta for the butterbeers, and taking a long draw from his mug.

Hermione thought back to Ginny’s advice to compliment Ron. This was a perfect set-up.

“Y’know, I think that Ravencl—” he began.

“You are very accomplished!” Hermione interrupted Ron, her face red.

“What?” he incredulously asked, eyebrows raised.

“I said you’re very accomplished.”

“Oh go on,” he laughed with dismissive hand wave before chugging down some more butter beer.

Well that hadn’t landed well at all! What was she supposed to do? Specifics! She should lay it out like one of her essays. She’d studied up on it the night before, but why was her mouth turning to cotton and her brain turning horribly blank on how to say it? She had actually written out a list for herself and had it stowed in her book bag. She never had a problem answering questions in class, but right now she had no ability to speak.

“One moment!” she said, leaning down to fish the list out from her book bag. It took little time to find the parchment. It was rather long and she’d stayed up late to make sure she covered her bases. “Here it is. See! You’ve done loads!”

On autopilot she handed it to Ron like turning in an essay to a teacher. The facts were all there, and she was rather proud to supply her evidence, all neatly outlined in her even script.

The moment he took it from her hand, though, panic crackled through her. She reached towards the parchment to wrench it back, but it was too late— he was already reading it.

“What is this?”

“Oh! Er…” She couldn’t possibly tell him why she had compiled the list. What was she thinking, bringing the list out for him to see? He’d either think she was mad, or never want to look at her again for fear she was a stalker.

“I just … It’s proof of your accomplishments… good attributes…” she mumbled, glancing up to see what his reaction was.

Ron’s usually expressive face was wildly unreadable as his eyes went back and forth over the parchment. His ears began to redden as he continued on, and he shifted in his seat to sit up quite straight, intently studying it.

She needed an excuse for writing it. In her panic it took a moment, but she finally had it.

“When you got your prefect badge, and the twins were making fun saying it was unexpected you’d gotten the badge— I didn’t say anything to counter them, and I was feeling guilty about it, and wanted to let you know your good attributes and accomplishments. Perhaps it could have been a birthday gift. I shouldn’t have done it now… As you can see there’s a lot there…” she finished in a small voice. She stared at her lap unable to look up at him.

“You numbered them,” he said, bemused.

“Yes.”

“There’s a hundred and twenty three lines?”

“Yes… I know you must think I’m ridiculous for writing it all out but—”

His arms were suddenly around her, and she was pulled into a tight embrace. His cheek was pressed against the side of her forehead, and she could feel an almost imperceptible quake to his arms.

She’d never been hugged like this by him before, and was so stunned it took a moment for her to engage her arms and wrap them around his back. Had his chest always been so broad?

“Thank you,” he roughly whispered in her ear.

She nodded and leaned into his embrace further, closing her eyes.

“Oh, young love is it?” came a voice from behind them, startling them apart.

_______________________________________________________

Rita Skeeter stood at their table, looking bedraggled compared to the last time she’d bothered them. She’d always been overly polished and artificial— once the veneer was gone it wasn’t a pretty sight. Everything about her was chipped and worn looking, from her raggedy nails to her grubby raincoat.

“Harry and Luna should be joining us soon,” Hermione said, an imperious little look on her face. It was like her words willed Luna to appear, for the pale girl with the protuberant eyes worked her way through the crowded table to join them, a drink with a cocktail onion in her hand.

“Hello Ronald, I didn’t expect you here,” she smiled, staring at him with her grey eyes that just didn’t seem to blink as often as other people’s eyes. She was wearing a large woven poncho and her hair hung lankly from the rain. “It’s been perfect weather.”

“Er, I guess… If you like it when it’s bucketing down.”

“I do!” she said wringing out her poncho on the floor and getting some stares from local patrons as she flapped it in the air. Hermione had loudly started pulling out paperwork from her bag for Luna to look at, but Rita ignored everything. Instead she had out her acid green quill and had been scribbling away.

‘Harry Potter’s love life has taken a tragic turn as femme fatale Hermione Granger breaks his heart again, leaving him for his other, supposed, best friend Ronald Weasley. Weasley, who Potter valiantly saved in the heartrending second task of the Triwizard Tournament, was seen seducing Granger on an intimate date at the Three Broomsticks this Valentine’s Day. The two were entwined by the fireplace in an appalling display that left patrons gaping. One has to wonder how Harry could possibly forgive the two, the lanky ginger haired boy who has betrayed his friend, and the brunette who has broken his heart— ’

“Oi!” Ron cried out. “You can’t be writing claptrap like that about us.”

“You mean to say this wasn’t a romantic rendezvous between you and Little Miss Perfect.”

Ron opened and closed his mouth, unsure of how to respond. He looked to Hermione who was watching him just as avidly as Skeeter.

“We’re not the reason you’re here and aren’t your story. Harry is,” Ron managed, feeling quite proud of himself for such a diplomatic response. Hermione’s mouth was a hard line, but she began to nod.

“That’s right,” she added, looking away from Ron.

In short order, Harry arrived sans Cho, and the meeting was underway. Rita made her attempts to pry into his love life, but Hermione brilliantly shut it down and got the interview going in a trice. Ron couldn’t help but admire how she’d taken charge and put the horrid reporter in her place.

They sat nearby as Harry recounted what had happened the night of the Third Task. Every time he said Voldemort Ron felt a shiver go down his spine, but nothing left him quite as shaken as seeing the look on Harry’s face as he grimly talked about Cedric’s death and being tortured. He hated seeing his friend look so torn up and sporting such a far away sad look in his eye. He couldn’t look away though. If Harry had the guts to go through it and talk about it, the least Ron could do was sit and listen. Hermione’s eyes were filled with tears, but she wiped them away as soon as they appeared. Even Luna, who seemed to have a wandering attention span, was raptly watching the interview the whole time.

When it concluded Rita said a few acid comments to Hermione, but Hermione was beaming.

“Harry I’m so proud of you!” Hermione enthused once the reporter had left, giving Harry a hug. He feebly returned it.

“Well done, mate,” Ron added, clapping a pale Harry on the shoulder.

“It was nearly as powerful as that lovely article about the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks,” said Luna. She went off a bit about how she didn’t know when the article would be released, as the Snorkack article might take precedence. Ron vaguely knew Mr Lovegood, and had a feeling even someone as dotty as Luna’s dad would know he had a story worth galleons.

They walked out the door to find the rain had stopped.

“Oh what a terrible change in the weather… I was hoping to walk in it a bit more. It’s supposed to be a good cure for nargles,” Luna said vaguely before skipping off humming Ron’s least favorite song, ‘Weasley is Our King.’ In all the excitement, he’d forgotten about his ill-fated Quidditch tenure.

Harry gave a sigh, which brought Ron back to the moment.

“Want to head back to the castle?” Ron asked him. He knew it didn’t do much good to ask Harry directly how he was holding up.

“Yeah… You don’t have to though.”

That was Harry’s way of saying he wanted alone time.

“We’ll come with you,” Hermione said earnestly. Ron put a hand to her elbow, and gave her a look. She seemed to understand him and gave a small almost imperceptible nod. “But I do need to… to stop by the quill shop… Perhaps we can meet you in a bit at the castle?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll catch you at dinner,” Harry rattled off looking relieved before walking away towards the castle, hands in his pockets. Dinner wasn’t for another three hours at least. This one had hit Harry hard. Ron would have to get something to distract Harry when he checked on him.

“Let’s get him some sweets from Honeyduke’s,” said Ron, leading them to the shop and giving Hermione a teasing look. “‘Need to stop by the quill shop.’ You’re lucky Harry didn’t notice your sack from Scrivenshaft’s.”

Hermione gave a nervous laugh before biting her lip.

“Are you sure he needs space?”

“Positive.”

“‘Catch you at dinner,’ he says’” Hermione huffed. “Dinner is not for another three hours! It just seems an awfully long time to put off having company after going through something so difficult. You saw the look on his face having to live through it all again… It was clearly traumatizing. If it weren’t so necessary I would feel even worse for asking him to do it.”

“Don’t worry about it. He’s made of stern stuff,” Ron said with more confidence than he felt. “We’ll get him some sweets to tithe him over, then he’ll feel loads better when the article comes out and people are on his side again.”

“You really think this will work?”

“Of course it will! It was a brilliant idea,” Ron nodded. “And you handled Skeeter perfectly.”

Hermione was smiling at him and he felt the tinge of nerves from earlier come back.

“You handled her pretty well yourself,” she said a bit tightly.

“Yeah? Well…” he said putting a hand to the back of his neck. “Didn’t want her to get things sideways like she does…”

“Would it have been sideways to write that we were on a date though?”

His ears were on fire. His throat was so unable to produce sound he might as well have been twisted like a towel getting wrung out. Her eyes were boring into him, studying him as thoroughly as she did any tome.

“I… I said ‘it’s a date’ when I asked you to come to Hogsmeade,” he said testing the waters.

“But that’s a common expression, and I wasn’t sure if you meant it in the colloquial way, or if you meant it as a formal invitation,” she persisted. “Was-was this a date?”

“Well… to be honest…” But could he be? Could he tell her he fancied her? That her kiss on his cheek earlier that year had meant more to him than any other touch he’d felt in his life? That she smelled so good? That she made him actually look forward to studying because it meant more time with her? That she powered his Patronus more consistently than anything else? “To be honest, I’ve been wondering the same thing myself.”

“You’re the one who asked me!” said Hermione, throwing her hands in exasperation.

“Well which did you want it to be?” Ron asked, making a last ditch effort to know how she felt.

Her face turned scarlet. “Just answer the question!”

How come he had to be the one to lay everything on the line? He’d taken loads of risks already. He’d asked her out, he’d initiated some cuddling and hand-holding, he’d bought her a nice gift, held her chair out and done a drying charm when she was cold. He’d put himself out there fairly boldly… And if he’d misread this whole thing he wasn’t sure what the repercussions could be. Would the awkwardness dash their friendship to ribbons? Would she laugh at him for daring to think she’d like a nobody like him?

“If you are the one inviting a person out,” she began to lecture, “then you know which way you meant it when you said ‘it’s a date!’ That’s the basic structure of invitations, which you seem unable to grasp!”

“I just don’t want to ruin everything!”

“Oh, you’ve ruined plenty already!” Hermione snapped.

“Have it your way, then. I guess I just ruin everything.”

Ron stomped off to use his last few knuts to buy Harry some chocolate, but stopped to look back.

“You coming?” he growled at her.

Hermione petulantly looked away, but seemed to change her mind. Her hair had lost some of its sleekness and was bouncing in its usual wild fashion as she ran at him. He hopefully raised his arms out to catch her, and let out an ‘oof’ as she forcibly shoved the bag of quills into his stomach.

“Keep them!” she spat before tearing off for the castle, leaving a flabberghasted Ron in her wake.

_______________________________________________________

Hermione stormed her way to the castle and had to restrain herself from hexing a couple out of her way as they slowly ambled with their hands entwined. That was supposed to be her and Ron! Or was it? They were at this ridiculous impasse where he just wouldn’t tell her if all those little moments that meant so much to her were just friendship or something more. He’d been so sweet, and thoughtful, and bought her a lovely gift… And she’d shoved it right back at him…

“Oh well done, Hermione,” she cursed herself once she was finally alone in her dormitory.

She wasn’t even sure why she’d done it. He was just being so infuriatingly evasive, and she’d just snapped. She’d needed an answer. She’d needed to know without risking her pride being hurt. Maybe she’d have a chance to mend things at dinner. Ron wouldn’t abandon Harry after the hard day he’d had recounting the Third Task and that terrible graveyard. He could act as a buffer and they’d get back to an uneasy truce of some sort.

It took a while to calm her nerves and head downstairs to wait for the boys to come down. She sat beside the fire trying to translate her ancient runes poem, but found it impossible to concentrate. Would Ron even want to look at her? Would he have told Harry about her losing her temper demanding he declare it a date? She worried her lip until She gave a hiss and put her hand to her lip. She winced in pain and tasted a hint of blood.

“Hey. Seen Ron?”

She looked up to see Harry standing there looking peaked. She’d ruined Valentine’s Day for all three of them it seemed.

“Not since Hogsmeade, no,” she said, rolling up her parchment. “Did you want to get some dinner?”

“Oh… I guess…” Harry said with no enthusiasm at all. He looked about the room. She knew that look. He didn’t want her company; he wanted Ron. This was nothing new. Whenever Harry was down he immediately started looking around for Ron to cheer him up. Hermione couldn’t begrudge him doing this; she felt the exact same way. She and Harry got along very well of course, and she quite enjoyed his company, but neither of them were exactly the cheery sort. They were good at working out problems together, but just sitting and living their lives together? Having a good time? That was a bit more strained when they weren’t united with an actual purpose driving their conversation.

“Well let’s get some food. Where there’s food there’s usually Ron, right?” she asked, trying to bolster her spirits as much as Harry’s.

“Yeah… Right,” Harry said with a small smile.

But Ron wasn’t there. They each barely touched their food as they looked about for Ron and he was nowhere to be found as dinner came and passed. They finally gave up and went back to Gryffindor Tower.

“Are you quote sure he didn’t make his way to the dorm while you were there?”

“Er, well I was napping for a bit there, so maybe,” Harry replied.

He still looked exhausted and quickly withdrew to his dormitory, leaving Hermione by herself again. She sat by the fireplace again waiting for him, and it wasn’t until well past curfew when she heard the click of the portrait hole. Ron trudged through the portrait hole, his broom in hand, a miserable look on his face.

She moved from her chair and he gave a startle, nearly dropping his broom.

“Blimey, Hermione! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” he hoarsely let out. He was wet through and his boots were covered in mud.

“Where have you been?”

He looked to his broom then back to her with a quizzical look on his face.

“Fine… Why didn’t you come back for dinner? Harry was still really upset and could have used you here for moral support,” she said, her chin held aloft.

“I wasn’t hungry, and needed to get in some practice,” he said meeting her gaze, before dropping it. “I’ll check in on him in the morning and make sure he’s sorted, so don’t worry about it.”

“You shouldn’t skip meals.”

“Of the three of us, I’m the one who does it the least,” he said, voice tight. An edge filled silence choked them both.

“Well… It’s late, and I need to clean myself up…” Ron said after a beat. “See you at breakfast?”

“Alright…” she replied, cheeks beginning to burn.

His trainers squelched with every step he took as he headed towards his dorm. He had already taken a few of the steps, two at a time as usual, when he stopped his path.

“Hermione…” How was it he could say her name and it made her pulse quicken. “About Hogsmeade…”

She couldn’t bare it. He was going to reveal he cared nothing for her! That in her lonely desperation she’d somehow wildly extrapolated he liked her as more as a friend. She couldn’t hear him say the words. It’d make it too real.

“Don’t worry about it,” she cut him off. “I’ll see you both at breakfast.”

She retreated to her dormitory with such haste she was a bit out of breath by the time she reached her fourposter. She wanted to sob into her pillow, but refused to let herself, for fear of Lavender and Parvati hearing about it and reporting it to everyone around them. No. She’d never tell a soul that her dreams had been dashed; that she’d sabotaged a perfectly lovely time. Even if Ron had thought of her as a potential date, he’d never think of her that way now.

The next morning Ginny made her inquiries of how Hogsmeade was and Hermione forced a smile onto her face.

“We had a good time!” she said with forced lightness. Ginny raised her eyebrows, uncannily reminding her of Ron. She looked like she was about to question Hermione further, but with heavy thump Ron and Harry through themselves onto the bench across from Hermione.

Harry was looking remarkably better than he had the previous day. All he needed was a good dose of Ron’s company.

“Alright?” Ron asked, looking between her and Ginny.

“Of course,” Hermione said, taking a large gulp of orange juice. Ginny was called away by some of her friends, but gave her a look that clearly said ‘we have a lot to discuss’ as she left.

They ate their breakfasts and if there was any tension to be seen between Hermione and Ron, Harry seemed oblivious as he laughed about the state of Skeeter with Ron, and pointedly ignored the Ravenclaw table where Cho Chang was staring at his back.

As they rose to go to their first class, Ron pushed a small box across to Hermione. It had a bit of mud on it, but otherwise it was still the same beautiful pristine box of mint green quills he’d bought her.

“Thought you might want these before class.”

He was keenly looking at her. Sometimes she thought of Ron as quite clueless, but then he’d look at her like this and she’d feel utterly naked and seen. His blue eyes were looking right through her, surely.

“Thank you,” she let out, a bit breathless.

“What’s that?” Harry asked.

“Nothing!” They simultaneously replied, even though it was everything.

#romione #my fics #hillnerd writes #ron weasley #hermione granger #au #fanfic #my writing #harry potter #hogsmeade #ootp #order of the phoenix #Anonymous

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jeaniegreysummers · 4 years ago

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saint honesty || scott & jean

summary: jean goes to scott’s grave and makes a deal with the phoenix. scott is resurrected, but the fire never brings you back quite the same. they reconnect, and agree to keep how he returned to themselves, at least for now.

when: valentine’s day, 19 days after the murder of scott summers

trigger warnings: grief, death, murder mention, violence

featuring: scott summers

JEAN: She woke up that morning with a weight on her chest. Winter sunlight split by shadows shone across the bedsheet, and she knew that for what wasn’t the first time, she must’ve fallen asleep in Scott’s bed. Sometimes she came in to talk to him and found herself drifting off against his shoulder. Other times, she went to search for the clothes she’d left or a book he recommended for her to read, and ended up lying there wondering what it would be like if they both went back to the Institute, if they accepted the fact that there was only one room there with both their names on it, if they stopped kidding themselves that they could ever go back to being friends and nothing else.

A smile gently curved onto her face as Jean reached down to thread her fingers through Scott’s hair. If he found her here, he didn’t typically leave, not after the third night she woke up screaming and the house was shaking, not after the third night when she broke and admitted that she still needed someone there, and the best someone was, and always had been, Scott.

Her hand stilled, and she realised it wasn’t Scott’s head resting on her stomach, and his arms weren’t around her waist. Instead it was a small gray tabby, and as Jean let out a sigh, Streaky stretched out his legs, hitting her lightly before he made his way off the bed towards the kitchen to grab food.

A long time — or at least, what felt like a long time as she lay staring at the ceiling, the chip of the paint in the corner where Clint patched up Scott’s last visor mishap — passed, and all Jean could think of was how spectacularly everything began to spiral out of control. . Every time there was a shift of floorboards, every time she heard a knock on the door, every time she felt an unfamiliar aura make its way into her apartment building, she thought the Enforcers were coming for her. It was only a matter of time, after all. Telekinesis left no signs, no forensic evidence. With Charles’ help, her bases were covered, even if she knew the other man wasn’t particularly comfortable with it.

She was a lot more uncomfortable than she had been in the Raft, too.

She pushed herself up, hugging her knees to her chest. When Scott went down, when he was killed, it was so easy to lash out, to make people hurt. She felt Logan tear through that Enforcer’s skin and she didn’t regret the pain that pulled through her, bringing her back to another battlefield when she was the one who left, the one who died in Scott’s arms instead of the other way around. Now, it wasn’t easy. All she could think of was the fear running through that man’s head, the family he thought of in his last moments.

Jean didn’t even leave bodies for the families to bury. She didn’t even hesitate. She didn’t hand herself in, didn’t fight back against Erik when he said they should leave. What kind of person was she?

Not one that deserved Scott Summers. Maybe that’s why the universe took her from him.

The media was condemning her kind. Her parents knew she was back, and they still refused to look at her as she was. They would’ve brought her back, if she could pretend to be something else, to be normal. They would take her back if she went to Metro General, begged her supervisor to forgive her for speaking out against her recommendations, and played the part of perfect daughter turned doctor, with no X-gene to speak of. Charles was breaking, Erik was burning, Rogue had been noticeably different since things went sideways — and Scott was dead. . Coming back to that fact was inevitable. Every thought began and ended with him. She knew that since she was fifteen years old, had never really been shy about it, so it wasn’t a surprise. For the rest of her life, she would be thinking about Scott. She would be wearing the ring he chose for her, bundling herself into one of his sweaters, staying in his bed instead of her own until the smell faded and she was left wondering whether she remembered what it was like after all.

He was dead. But did he have to be?

She shifted again, hearing Streaky let out a meow in the kitchen, impatiently eager for breakfast. Layla said Scott was her husband. There was every chance that the younger woman was being a pain in the ass (as she’d proven) but she did, admittedly, know something of the future. Was an engagement enough to satisfy that?

Jean hadn’t even said yes, so she doubted it.

Erik’s mind came alive when she touched him on the Raft. Her hand was on his shoulder, and suddenly there was fire pushing his abilities forward, bringing metal up from the hull, allowing them to do whatever they wanted with ease that most people couldn’t even dream of. Rogue burned, and shone so brightly that Jean couldn’t look at her, simmered with a heat that knocked the breath out of Jean’s lungs and took her life before giving it back. . The Phoenix was here. Jean couldn’t escape it now any more than she could every other time she tried. It brought her back. It always brought her back — but there was someone else it saved once before.

Scott Summers.

Jean pushed herself out of bed, grabbing another of Scott’s sweaters and pulling it on over her head as she went to satisfy Streaky. A quick text to Kara, informing her that Jean would be out when she came around to pick up their cat and to just use the key stuck to the top of the doorframe, and she made her way out into the bitter cold, walking with more determination and focus than she had since she died with blood blooming through her uniform, filling her with cold she hadn’t felt since the space shuttle.

The Phoenix kept her warm, always. It came back around no matter what she did. She’d already destroyed so many lives, already made her own choices and given a piece of this power to someone she loved almost entirely because they shared that same bitter vengeance, that same all consuming anger. There were no missing moments, this time around. Jean Grey made those decisions. The Phoenix wasn’t the bad guy.

She was there within nine minutes. She’d timed it, over the past few days, coming here every morning to stare at the words that were burned into the back of her retinas now. Scott Summers. 1987 - 2020. He fought for us.

Jean took a sharp breath, pushing her hair back as the wind rustled gently through the graveyard. This place felt so solemn, uninspiring, empty — a far cry from the life she wanted to breathe back into it. Into him. . She was making a terrible decision. She was inviting a cosmic entity into her life. She was begging with it. She’d already given part of it away, already allowed Erik to be burned at the same time, to be consumed. God knew if he would even manage to survive it, and then she would’ve killed her father. Jean alone would be responsible.

But she couldn’t find herself to care, not while she looked at that name, not while she reached out to find his mind with her own and came back with nothing. She was making a terrible decision, but it was the only choice she could live with.

“I-” Her voice came out loud despite the relatively low volume. Silence had a way of magnifying even the smallest movements. She chewed at the corner of her lip before settling down on the fresh dirt before the stone, mud staining her knees as it had when she skidded to hold him, last breath already lost to the wind.

She felt stupid. She was glad no one else was there to witness what she was attempting. A part of her, a small part, hoped it wouldn’t work — that she would open her eyes and she would be in the White Hot Room and then at least she could have a version of him, instead of being trapped somewhere with nothing.

“I know you’re there,” she tried, stronger this time, no quieter. “I know I don’t need to talk for you to hear me, but I want to. I want to say this. I want you to know I mean it.”

Nothing happened. No flames flickered, no warmth rose in her. Jean wasn’t sure what she expected. She’d been pushing it back for so long, she wasn’t surprised if it told her this was something it wouldn’t do.

She had to keep trying. . “You know what he meant to me,” Jean said, swallowing thickly. “What he means to me. That’s why you brought him to the Room, isn’t it? It’s why you … it’s why you let me see him, one last time. You knew I loved him, so you gave him life, again. You did that for me. And I … I never told you that I appreciated it.”

It was a cosmic entity. It wasn’t a scorned friend — but sometimes it felt like that. Jean could never hope to put her relationship with the bird into words, not if someone else was around. Not if it wasn’t just her and it.

“I didn’t understand what you were trying to do. I still don’t, not really. I don’t understand why you want me, why you’ve ever wanted me — but I’m guessing it’s something to do with why he gave me this ring. I’m guessing you two have more in common than you think you…” Jean stopped, letting out a groan as she tipped her head back. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “You’re in my head. You know everything I’m thinking. You always have. The things you made me do, the things you … the things you made me want to do, disgust me. You terrify me. You terrify everyone.”

Now here it came, the moment of truth, the second when Jean discovered whether she was truly different from everyone else the Phoenix had inhabited and torn apart or if she was just the latest in a long line to think she was special and be proven sadly wrong.

“But I don’t care about any of that, anymore. You can … you want me, right? I can feel that. You keep coming back, even when I push you away. And if you want me, you can have me. You can have anything you want, anything you need. Whatever great, cosmic fate you have planned for me, whatever purpose you have designs on, whatever worlds you need to conquer or cosmos you want to cross, I’ll be there. I’ll do it.” . The Phoenix was fire. It was life incarnate, but that life came from the ashes of people and creatures it deemed lesser than. It was cosmic, larger than anything Jean could imagine, a deity like they described in books of old that set bushes aflame and came down with short, cryptic messages that raised entire cultures and countries in its honor.

Messing with a power like that was dealing with the devil, but the worst had already happened. There was no coming back from that.

“Bring him back,” Jean whispered. “Let me bring him back, and I won’t fight anymore. I won’t push you away. I won’t be afraid. I’ll trust you to keep me safe — to keep us both safe. I’ll be with you. We’ll be together, just like you always wanted.”

Something shifted. It was imperceptible. The wind didn’t pick up, or stop. The leaves didn’t settle on the path. Jean’s hands didn’t burn with repressed fire. They didn’t glow as she curled her fingers into a fist against the name. Warmth didn’t creep up the back of her neck as she closed her eyes, breathing in the sharp air, feeling it curl in her lungs.

Nothing changed, but she knew it had listened. She knew she’d see him when she opened her eyes.

Jean lived for one more moment in darkness, one more moment in pain, and then she looked up.

SCOTT: There was a park. There was a grassy knoll, there were children playing, there was a sunny sky and there were birds in the sky. There was gunfire and screaming, there was blood and gunpowder. There was rage burning in his gut, hotter than anything he’d ever felt. There was a swelling in his chest. He couldn’t decide if it was love or a simple side effect of the blood filling his chest cavity, but it hurt.

(The pain did not help him decide which was the cause. Love hurt, too. Love always hurt. Wanting it anyway was how you knew it was love.)

There was a desperation building in his chest, growing with each beat of his doomed heart, because he had known. From the moment that bullet tore through him, he had known. He remembered begging, remembered Logan, please, remembered the relief that came with looking up into his best friend’s eyes and realizing that Logan would do what he was asking. It had been a terrible thing to ask. He had known that. He’d known it the instant the words passed his lip, but he hadn’t taken them back. He couldn’t. He loved Logan, but there was someone else. There was always someone else.

His life began the day he met her. There had been a Scott Summers before that, but he was --- less. He was lost. He lived in a world he did not understand, a world he could not understand. It was a world on fire, a world bathed in so much red that there was no room for anything else. No other colors, no other hues. It was red, it was all red, it was always red, but only for him. Only for Scott. To everyone else, the world was vibrant. It was bathed in cool blues and warm yellows, it was a rainbow of contradictions. Scott wondered if that made things easier or harder, wondered if all those colors made you feel warm and loved or if he was better off with his red. . (He’d never liked red much. That was the funny thing. As a child, before that plane crash and the hell that followed, his favorite color was blue. He was wearing a blue shirt, the day the plane went down. He still remembered that. It was his favorite. It wasn’t destroyed in the crash, but he never did get the smell of smoke out of it. He still smelled smoke sometimes, even now. Maybe it was never the fabric of that blue shirt that stank of it --- maybe it was only him.)

Jean was the first person he’d ever met who understood the world Scott lived in. He remembered the first time he met her, remembered the way she strolled over and sat beside him on that park bench. He remembered the way his heart stuttered in his chest, remembered wondering years after the fact if his body had known, somehow, that she was important. The universe had. The universe had always known. When she sat beside him, there’d been a gust of wind, like the sky his father had always yearned for was now breathing a sigh of relief on Scott’s behalf that she was there, that he had found her.

The universe, in that moment, had adjusted in that moment. That was what Scott would say years after the fact, when Hank asked him how he felt the first time he saw her. The universe adjusted forever to her slight presence. That was what he’d said. He wasn’t wrong --- he knew he wasn’t.

In that way, in the way that mattered, Jean Grey had been present at the very beginning of Scott Summers’s life. She had been there for the creation of the universe --- she was the creation of the universe. She watched him come into the world, protesting and screaming and stubborn because it was all he had known how to do, all he had ever known how to do. She taught him how to do more. How to be more. If Scott Summers was a good man, it was because Jean Grey had made him one. She was there for his beginning.

She was there for his end, too. . Death was a funny thing. It didn’t happen all at once. It took several minutes for a body to shut down entirely, and it happened in stages. You stopped breathing. Your heart stopped pumping blood. Black spots danced across your vision until they overtook it entirely, until you could no longer see. At some point, the pain left you. Everything went numb, and you were floating in a sea of black, a world of nothing. You were aware and not aware, you were alive and not alive. You were burned, you were about to burn, you were still on fire. You were everything and you were nothing all at once.

The last thing Scott Summers was alive for was Logan Howlett’s words echoing through his mind. I love you, Slim, playing on a loop, over and over and over again as his best friend did him one final favor, as he demonstrated just how much he loved him. And then Scott was dead, and he wasn’t. His neurons were still firing, even if not at a rate that signified any hope of coming back. His heart stopped pumping blood, his lungs stopped filling with air, black spots danced across his vision until they overtook it entirely, until he could no longer see. The pain left him, and he was numb. He was floating in a sea of black, existing in a world of nothing. Some things came through, but not all of them.

But she did. She always did.

Scott couldn’t feel her hands cradling his head, but he’d known that they were. He’d known that her fingers were digging into his arms, he’d known that she screamed at anyone who came close. He’d known that she’d loved him. He’d always known that. . Her words came through like a ghost, and if Scott hadn’t been burned, about to burn, still on fire, he might have laughed at that. Here he was, dying in her arms, and she was still a ghost to him. She was always a ghost to him, always haunting him. Scott had been chasing a ghost since he was fifteen, been watching her slip like vapor through his fingers since that day on the park bench when the universe readjusted to account for her place in it. He was dying, he was dead, and Jean Grey was still a ghost, still his ghost. He had always been haunted.

Scott had listened to her promises as the world faded away, had longed more than anything to listen to her, to open his eyes, to keep his damn promise. He’d promised her. He’d stood across from her in that White Hot Room, and he’d sworn he’d never die on her. It had been a foolish thing to do, a selfish thing to say. No one could make that promise, not even a man accustomed to chasing ghosts.

There hadn’t been enough of him left to form thoughts of comfort to project to her then. There hadn’t been anything left but ash, and he remembered an ache that cut through the numbness, the kind of pain that had nothing to do with the bullet in his chest or the claws in his side. He’d wanted to comfort her, and he was too late. He was always too late.

There was a park. There was a man with claws and tears in his eyes, a voice that he knew better than he knew his own telling him he loved him and doing him a favor Scott had been selfish to ask for. There was a grassy knoll, there were children playing. There was pain and there was love. There was screaming. Some of it might have been his. . And there was a girl with red hair and green eyes. She was his entire world, his universe in a petite frame. He had loved her more than he had ever loved anything or anyone. He had loved her so much more than he had ever loved himself. She was everything, everything. She said his name like it meant something, and when it was on her lips, Scott had believed her.

There was a park, and there was a girl with red hair. She sat beside him on the bench and his life began. Her voice was in his head, and she told him he could be more. Scott had believed that, too. She told him he could be good. She laid the groundwork for a redemption he had not known he needed. She had loved him. Scott had known this.

There was a park, and there was gunfire. There was blood on her shirt, and the world ended with a quiet sigh and an echoing thought. I loved him. Should’ve listened. There was a freshly dug grave and her name carved in granite. She was a ghost. She was always a ghost. Scott knew he would never love anyone the way he had loved her. He’d been right.

There was a park, and there was a girl with his head cradled in her lap. There was blood on her shirt. It wasn’t hers. She was whispering all the promises he’d made and broken, and Scott had ached for her. He had longed for her, wanted nothing more than to give her everything he had promised and failed to provide. He’d loved her. She had known this.

There was a park, and there was a girl.

And then there was nothing.

(Dying, Scott had heard once, was easy. Whoever had said it had never died before. It hurt, even when it didn’t. Even when you were numb, it hurt. Dying was only easy when it was over. Everything was easy when it was over.) . One of the kids asked him, once, what happened when you died. It was after a hard fight, and not all of them had made it out because that was how it went. Scott did everything he could do to protect his people, his children, but he could never quite manage it. In the end, they died. They knew it was inevitable. Some of them were afraid of it. Some of them weren’t. They were all curious.

This girl, with her fiery green eyes and bright red hair, had been a ghost of someone who knew the answer to the question she was asking. Scott remembered wishing Jean was there to answer the question instead, because she’d always been so much better with the children than he was. Scott never knew how to let them be children. He looked at them and, more often than not, they were soldiers. He was in a classroom writing on a blackboard and he was in a graveyard looking out among the tombs. For mutants, there was no difference between the two.

What happens to you, this girl had asked, hoarse and desperate, after you die?

And Scott had been a few months fresh from the grave then, still regaining his bearings, but he’d shaken his head all the same. I don’t know, he’d said. It was the most honest he had ever been.

His death, before, had not been his own. He was sick and he was dying and then he was somewhere else. He was in a room of white and it was warm and he was not alone. He remembered wondering if it was what Heaven felt like. He remembered thinking he was a lucky man. He remembered a ghost who no longer disappeared like vapor the moment he went to cup her cheek.

He remembered that this room was not for him. . It was the bird that had gathered his soul into the White Hot Room before, the bird that took him to be with Jean, but the bird wasn’t here now. The Phoenix had no interest in storing Scott’s soul away when Jean was not there to greet it and, truthfully, he found himself grateful for that. The White Hot Room was Heaven only because Jean was in it. Without her, it would have been Hell.

(Without her, most anywhere felt like Hell.)

And so, there was darkness. There was a sea of nothing, an ocean of numbness. There was aware-and-not-aware, there was conscious-and-not. It wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t torturous. He wasn’t happy, but had he ever been?

There was a park, and then there was nothing. There was nothing for a long time.

And then, there was air in his lungs.

Scott Summers didn’t come back with a gasp of breath. The universe did not readjust to his presence. It never had. Scott Summers returned to the world just as he had left it --- with a quiet intake of breath and a grassy knoll beneath his feet.

His eyes were closed, and he didn’t open them. His face was bare, absent of the lenses that would keep the bomb in his head from going off. He didn’t open his eyes, but he didn’t need to. He felt her. The wind ruffled his hair, and the skies drew a sigh of relief.

And then, the noise broke through. Everything at once, washing over him with a vengeance. Rogue was in the mansion, looking in the pantry and thinking about what they would do with all those cans of soup now. Hank was in his lab, locked away and wondering if Scott might have known the answer to this equation, as if Scott had ever known any answer Hank didn’t. Dani was in her room. She had not come out, and she did not plan on it. . Scott knew all of this, could hear it in his head as clearly as his own thoughts, and he should not have been able to. He felt hot, like he was running a fever, but there was no weakness to it. He felt like he could do anything. He felt a rush of adrenaline like nothing he had ever experienced. His thoughts were scattered into a million pieces, and none of them made sense.

He had died before. He had come back before. It didn’t feel like this. He suspected he knew what did.

“Jean,” he whispered, her name like a prayer on his lips, “what did you do?”

JEAN: They met in a park.

The irony was lost on her for the first few days after he left (after he died. Left implied he had a choice. If Scott Summers had a choice, it wouldn’t involve walking away from her. If Jean was certain of anything, she was certain of that), the fact that their story began and ended surrounded by trees anchoring into the earth, great foreboding structures that had been there long before they had and would remain long after.

She was fourteen years old, the first time she saw him. She was fourteen years old and wearing a dress that used to belong to Sara, the nicest thing she owned, and she was hearing her sister’s voice in her head as she walked up to the kid sitting on the park bench. People like you, Jeannie. Just show you’re listening, and they’ll like you even more. Sara always knew exactly what Jean needed to hear, just the right way to tell her to talk less and listen more without encouraging the defensive side of her to rise up in her chest. She was wearing her big sister’s dress, and she had the mission in the back of her mind constantly repeating, and she was trying to stand up tall like her mother always told her to, and then she sat down on a park bench with a kid in red glasses and scuffed sneakers, holes on the ends of his shirtsleeves, and she realised none of that mattered. . Scott didn’t want her to be the best parts of other people, those parts that Charles always maintained she could bring out with her abilities. Scott didn’t want her to be anyone other than who she was, and she loved him for that, right from the very first day. She thought about saying it, so many times. She thought about screaming it even more, when Scott was in the Danger Room and he worked his way through a simulation, exhilarated from the team effort, and there was a bright grin on his face and Jean felt as if she was fit to bursting. She thought about yelling it across the quad when she left for medical school, and wished she had instead of just waving and blowing him a kiss that he caught and held to his chest as the car drove away.

She thought about it a week in when, without planning or intending it, they both appeared in the Institute’s kitchen at ten past one in the morning, rifling through the cupboards for something to eat. Scott, ever the strategist, managed to procure some chocolate sprinkles, while Jean set about finding ice cream. They crumbled up gingerbread biscuits, and they ate out of the same tub with two spoons. Jean found herself wondering whether it would taste better on lips that finally, finally curved upwards as she made a joke about how they were definitely getting kicked out for insubordination if anyone ever found out, so they better keep it to themselves.

They kept a lot of things to themselves, over the years. There was no one who knew Jean better than the man under her fingertips now, the person in the coffin six foot under whose energy and presence was always undeniable in a room, electric in a way that you didn’t need to be Magneto to feel. . When she was ten years old, they moved to another house in Annandale-on-Hudson, a bigger place to reflect her father’s improved salary. Jean didn’t notice much of a difference since she was never expected to share a room anyway, but there was one significant change. There was a swimming pool in the backyard, just a metre from the decking, and every June her father would remove the cover like he was unveiling a magic show, a flick of his wrist and a bright grin on his face, ever the showman.

Ta-da! he would say, and immediately he would be bowled over by his children, already decked out in swimsuits and goggles and cheap sunglasses that came as gifts with magazines. Liam and Roger were the worst for pushing, but they never pushed Jean — she was the smallest and the youngest, and their father would tear the world apart if something happened to her.

Jean had a habit for attracting that specific kind of father figures.

Julia, though, she didn’t share the boys’ fear, or Sara’s care for her sister. She decided to take revenge for Jean getting first dibs on the basketball hoop on Christmas Day six months before, and when the time was right, when Jean was running towards the pool with an inflatable beach ball to throw to her brother, Julia tripped her up and Jean was falling face first into the water. . She knew how to swim. At least, she knew the technicalities of it, but she’d never done it without armbands, never attempted it without her father holding onto her waist or her mother’s gentle encouragements. Jean didn’t know how to float on her own, and so everything started to fade away. She could hear screaming, and music playing, and she could see the sun through the water, but everything was so dull. Nothing was alive. Nothing was bright. It was peaceful, she found, and then there was a splash, and she was back on the deck and choking, and Julia was crying so hard snot was coming out of her nose in bubbles, and her father didn’t look her sister in the eye for a week.

It felt like that day every day since Scott died. Jean tried to explain that, on the phone. Her mother said this might be for the best and Jean felt bile rising in her throat as she said no, no it could never be, she felt like she was drowning and gasping for air, she felt like Julia was pushing her under. Elaine either wasn’t listening or didn’t appreciate Jean saying her sibling’s name, because she went quiet, then, and just repeated what she’d said before.

Jean hung up mid sentence. She was floating — no, she was drowning — and again, everyone was screaming on the shore. They were jumping in to save her. They were pulling her from the waves, but all she could do was feel like Julia, with her bright red face and her burning guilt and her father’s resentment.

If you were drowning, you had a number of choices. . You could let yourself sink. Jean tried that. The Phoenix brought her back anyway. This was not an option.

You could try to get to the surface, flailing and kicking. This would most likely result in you being pulled even further under. Jean tried that, in the Raft. She allowed them to clamp that collar around her neck, hoped that the draining of her powers would help her to feel something other than overwhelming rage or coldness. It didn’t, and it dragged Erik down too, and Charles. It hurt the people she loved. It proved her selfish. It caused those agents to die. This was not an option.

Finally, you could allow yourself to float. You enabled instinct to take over, and science, and all of those wonderful, inevitable things to bring you up to the surface until your back was barely cresting the water and you could breathe, and you could see the sun, and you could breathe.

And you could see the sun.

That was the only option.

The Phoenix was inevitable. It was coming for her whether she wanted it to or not. She’d tried fighting. She’d tried dying. She’d tried being its friend, its companion. She’d tried everything. Using its powers to bring back the man she loved seemed like the only conceivable option. . She missed seeing the sun, revolving around him, her body pulled to his whether he was on the other side of the room or pressed beside her on the couch or on another continent fighting forces they both knew all too much about. She opened her eyes, and the certainty she felt (the first glimmer of it since he died, the first moment she realised exactly what she needed to do and what she’d done right) was rewarded.

It was done. It was inevitable. There was no going back.

She was looking at the sun.

Jean scrambled to her feet, using the stone in her haste to stop her feet from skidding in the wet mud. She’d been just like this as she ran towards him, slipping and desperately clawing to get there on time and failing. She wasn’t going to let him slip through her fingers again, not this time.

It almost seemed like he might, and then he opened his mouth. His voice was just the same, his eyes were squeezed closed, his hands were reaching slowly towards her. He could feel her presence. He knew it was her. He said her name.

She crashed into him, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist, fingers digging into his back. A reply was impossible, her lips opening only to let a cry escape them, of relief and disbelief and exhaustion all crashing over her like waves on the beach they never got to. She grasped onto him, hands running down his back and feeling lines she knew like those on her palm, and then she pulled back, eyes immediately going to his chest.

No hole. No blood. No death.

No death. . Her attention then finally went, with a catch of the breath in her throat, to his face. The last time she saw it like this, clear and with no red obscuring her view, they were in the White Hot Room. They were dead. But that didn’t last, would never last. Her name lingered in the air even moments after he said it, and she brought her hand to the side of his face, thumb catching on his bottom lip.

“You promised me,” she whispered, and against everything she imagined would happen in this moment she found a breathless laugh escaping her chest, hurting her stomach with the unfamiliarity of it. “And I promised you. We come back to each other. I brought you back to me.”

It brought him back. She could feel the warmth off his skin even more than normal, the energy barely repressed in his head, and she wanted to whisper a thank you to whatever was residing inside them both, now. She wanted to be terrified. She wanted to know how to feel, and make it only one word, so she could try to fix it.

But all she could think of was him.

“Scott.” His name was lighter, now, was said with the kind of bright adoration she would’ve given to him at seventeen years old when she was trying to make him see, or at twenty-three when he learned how to juggle just because he thought it might impress her (and it did), or thirty-one when he reassured her that she really wasn’t old, that thirty was the new fifteen, that he would bring her down to a park and recreate their first meeting if that proved it to her … . Jean’s focus shifted from his breath against her thumb and the beautiful rise and fall of his chest, eyes moving up to his. Her heart was thudding behind her ribcage, and she felt as if she was mere moments from flying for the first time, standing on the edge of the Blackbird ready to careen off into danger. “Scott,” Jean breathed, “baby, I … open your eyes.” Her other hand went up to curve against his jaw, then moved to curl into the hair at the nape of his neck. “I want to see you. All of you. It’s okay. Open your eyes.”

SCOTT: There were moments in your life that you knew you would never forget. It was one of the first things his father taught him, one of the only things Christopher saw fit to drill into his sons’ heads in between trips and test flights and anything that got him out of the house and away from the family he pretended weren’t a burden on him. He’d called them defining moments, moments that you knew were going to stay in your memory until the day you died.

Some of them, he’d said, were good. They were things like the first time you ever flew a plane, things like the day you landed perfectly in the middle of a storm as if the winds and the rain were nothing, things like every single time you made the sky yours. (He did not, Scott realized later, use the birth of either of his sons as an example of a good moment. Scott would spend the rest of his life wondering if that made them bad ones instead.)

Other moments, inevitably, were bad. They were the day the doctors told you the mass in your uncle’s head was going to kill him, the day your CO told you they were discharging you effective immediately, the day they threatened to take away your pilot’s license because you took things into your own hands when you should have stopped and listened.

(Scott wondered if the day that plane went down would have been a good moment or a bad one to his father, had he lived through the experience. It was terrifying and traumatic, but Christopher Summers had always been happy any time he was in the sky. And how, Scott wondered, could you be closer to the sky than he had on that day?)

These were the moments, his father had said, that you would remember until the day you died.

And he’d been wrong. . Scott had died twice now, felt the life drain from him slowly with the fever that left him both burning and shivering and felt it exit quickly with a bullet in his chest and adamantium claws in his side. Neither way was preferable to the other. He had died twice now, both times painful and terrifying and alone despite his head pillowed in the lap of someone he loved, and those defining moments remained just as clear in his mind as they had the day they happened.

Death didn’t steal the memory of the first time Jean kissed him, sitting on his bed after the space mission that brought the Phoenix into their lives. Death didn’t make him forget the dress she wore when she sat next to him on that park bench, couldn’t force him to lose the way her smile made him feel like he could walk on air.

It didn’t separate him from the bad moments, either. Dying couldn’t change the fact that he’d been helpless to save her on that space mission to begin with. It couldn’t let him leave behind the pit in his stomach that he’d experienced when that blood pooled across her shirt on the battlefield, couldn’t allow him to discard the memory of claws in her side or the way he’d been unable to make Logan stay when all was said and done.

His father always said that those moments would be with you until the day you died, but they were stronger than that. Those moments were Scott. Those moments made him who he was.

She made him who he was. . Should he really be surprised, then, that she’d brought him back? Scott would have done the same for her. If he’d had the power, if the Phoenix had chosen him instead of her, he would have resurrected her in a heartbeat. There would have been no hesitation, no thought. This moment, Scott thought, was a defining one. He just wasn’t sure whose moment it was.

She crashed against him all at once, and Scott should have been angry. He should have been furious, should have been seeing red. Scott Summers died for his people, became a martyr in a park full of children playing and bullets flying, and part of him had wanted that. Part of him had always thought that that, more than anything, was how he could help mutantkind. The best thing Scott could do for his people, he’d thought, was die for them. That was where he could be useful.

But Jean was his people, too. And Jean needed him.

There was no anger --- not towards her. If he were a better man, perhaps, he might have found some. He might have considered the consequences of this, might have wondered what the Phoenix would want in return for such a favor, what the government would do now that a man they’d murdered as a show of force was no longer in the ground. Scott was a strategist, and he should have thought of those things. He should have hated it. But Jean was in his arms, and her hair smelled of the same shampoo it always had. She was warm, and he felt her heart beating against his chest, and there was no part of him that felt anything towards her but love.

He loved her. Death could not take that, either. . “I’m sorry,” he said, choking on the words. “I broke my promise. I didn’t --- I never meant to do that.” Maybe some part of him had always wanted to die for their people… but not like this. Not with Jean close enough to catch his body before it went cold, not with her mind in his for the first time in years, not with the ring he’d been clinging to for years in her hand instead of his pocket, not with Logan’s claws in his side. “You brought me back to you,” he repeated, and there was still no anger. He should have been angry. He should have been so angry.

He knew, of course, what this meant. He could feel it in his chest, the same way she’d described it all those years ago. It fills you up, Jean had told him once. Makes you more you. Scott remembered thinking he’d hate something like that. He’d never thought of himself as good, never considered himself much of a hero. To be more himself, to have every emotion he couldn’t comprehend made larger… It had sounded like a nightmare. But that was what was happening within him now. He could feel it, like a fire settling in his soul. And he didn’t hate it. He felt… numb.

(Maybe, he thought, he was still dead after all. Maybe this was what death was --- standing across from the person you loved with your eyes closed, and not feeling any of the things you were meant to feel.)

She said his name, and the world started spinning again. He hadn’t realized it had stopped. His breath caught in his throat at her request, because Scott would have done anything for her. He would have torn the world to pieces if she’d asked, but this… . When was the last time he’d opened his eyes without something obstructing them? He wasn’t sure if his time in the White Hot Room counted, wasn’t sure if seeing a world that existed only for the two of them meant quite as much as seeing the one his father had walked in, the one his mother had shut out with her bedroom curtains, the one he’d died in. (Twice now. He’d died twice.) If he opened his eyes now, what would happen? Scott hadn’t used his powers without the assistance of the ruby quartz lenses since they first manifested, and they were stronger now than they had been then. And he didn’t know where he was now. He didn’t know where they had buried him, what he might tear to pieces if he dared to look at it.

Swallowing thickly, Scott shook his head. “I --- I don’t want to hurt anyone, Jeanie. I don’t want to hurt you.”

JEAN: She’d been through so much, most of it self inflicted, to get to this point. Jean never saw how Scott grieved, not with her own eyes, but she felt it. She saw it in memories of her fellow X-Men, broadcast like movies at an open air cinema every time they looked at her. Jean Grey was no longer her name, not when the Phoenix brought her back to life. Jean Grey was a synonym for violence, and chaos and betrayal. Jean Grey was a phrase people said in hushed whispers, like they were afraid if they said it three times in front of a mirror she would appear and the flames would engulf them. It was said with fear, and anger for their leader, and sympathy and pity and regret. It was said with an edge of bitter longing and endless jealousy dripping from Emma’s lips, the same thing Jean gave back to her in abundance. (The White Queen had always been one of few who saw Jean for what she truly was, who knew what Jean Grey meant before the rest of the Institute caught on.)

Jean Grey wasn’t her name, not anymore. It meant something else, something smaller and insignificant, and larger and all encompassing at the same time.

For a moment, as she sat on the edge of the thin bench in her cell on the Raft, she wondered if that was why she wanted to become Jean Summers so desperately. Jean Summers sounded like a different person. She sounded like a better person. She sounded like the kind of person Jean should’ve become, if the world hadn’t torn her from it almost more times than she could count on one hand. . That moment passed, and Jean realised the truth. She didn’t want to be a Summers to run from the name that was tarnished, now, from being brandished over a gravestone time and time again (she wondered if Hank kept the granite in his lab, stored away nearly under the school, or if every time she was buried and rose again he consciously made the decision to kid himself into thinking it would never happen again. Hank McCoy was a logical man, but the Phoenix … it burned through all lies, all deceptions, including the shadow that suggested the world could be explained in a series of noughts and ones).

She wanted to be a Summers to be with him. With Scott. The only man she’d ever loved, the only person she would ever love with this white hot flame inside her. She loved him before the space shuttle, before the bird, and after. She loved him when he was pushing her away and when he was pulling her closer. She loved him when he was angry, or sad, or scrambling for answers, desperate for their next step to become clear. She loved him whether he was dead, alive, or in between, standing in front of her in the White Hot Room, nowhere near as solid as he was now but still comforting in his familiarity.

She wanted to be his wife. She wanted it more than she could put into words, more than the ring around her finger could ever show. They said until death do us part, but they had defeated even that vow — they kept their promises to each other, so Jean knew they would need to change those words if they ever managed to get to the top of the aisle.

In sickness and in health. For richer, for poorer. To love and to cherish, until death itself is conquered. . “No,” Jean said, hurriedly, shaking her head as she ran her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, throat thick with a lump that formed the second he started to speak. “You didn’t. You didn’t. You’re here with me. You didn’t break your promise.” You never will. The thought was broadcast loud and clear into his mind, a mind that Jean soon found had changed.

What did she expect? That someone could go six foot under, that they could feel blood rising in their throat and a bullet lodged between their ribs and not change? That she could bring Scott back and he would continue on as he had always been, the way he was so familiar after the White Hot Room?

She wasn’t the same person she was before any of her deaths. She was hardened, stronger in a lot of ways, weaker in others. She told Emma she wasn’t helpless, but since Scott was killed she felt it. This great, cosmic power, this Omega level telepathy, the strength of her telekinesis — none of it mattered, not if it meant she was scrambling through mud to get to Scott before he died, getting there just a minute too late.

But she hadn’t. He heard her final words. She could see them, on the outer edges of his mind. He heard her bitter declaration, heard her desperation, her screaming and her pain. Jean remembered telling her patients that death could have dignity. It was as much a part of life as birth, as necessary as breathing for however long you could. When someone slipped away, she recommended, you should let them. Screaming would do nothing. Let them go peacefully. Break into shards when they were gone.

Jean didn’t follow her own advice. She couldn’t. She needed to reassure Scott, needed to make it good for him, needed to make it feel like he was just falling asleep. He knew she wasn’t capable of that, that’s why he asked Logan to end it before she came. He might not have realised that was his reason, but Jean knew it had to be. . “I brought you back,” Jean repeated, and for a moment, just a fleeting second, for the first time since she could remember, she looked at Scott Summers and couldn’t read his face or his mind.

She had no idea what he was thinking. It didn’t terrify her like it should. Nothing did, anymore.

She thought of all she had to tell him, of the Raft and Erik, of the Phoenix splintering on the field, of the power burning in Rogue’s hands that they both decided not to speak about, ignoring the weight of tension that made the air in the room so thick Jean could scarcely breathe. She thought of the younger woman on the other side of the door, how familiar eyes widened when she looked down at Jean’s orange sweater and Jean felt the Summers coming off her in waves.

Rachel. Her name was Rachel. Jean always liked that name.

“No one else is here,” she whispered, and now, he came back to her. He came back to her just as he first appeared, just as he was on that park bench and a thousand years after it — scared of what he was capable of, thinking of others, blaming himself for the power that lived within him.

She always thought it was beautiful when the red reflected off her cheek, when the Danger Room was bathed in its glow like neon lights at a dance club. Red was her favorite color long before she met him, and then it made sense.

“It’s just you and me.” It had always been just them, even surrounded by people, even surrounded by those they considered family. There was even more bonding them now — and just as it happened with Erik, the power didn’t fade as quickly as Jean thought it would. It settled in Scott’s mind, made itself at home there. . She couldn’t blame it. His mind was always the most spectacular place to be.

Jean reached up, pressing a kiss to the middle of Scott’s eyebrows, her thumb going afterwards to rub at the line of frustration that remained. “You could never hurt me,” she said. “Please. Trust me. I can hold it.” Her hand dropped down, fingers brushing against his. “I want to see you.”

She leaned in, nudging her cheek against his so he would help close the distance, before she rested her forehead against his. Her voice was wet when she spoke next, though her eyes were clear as sky — there was no pain here, not when she could feel him, all of him, right in front of her. “You’re always the only thing I want to see.”

SCOTT: When a person died, they became something more than what they were. They stopped being a person with flaws and complex emotions, and they became an idea instead. Scott had seen it happen, felt it happen. His father was a flawed man. He abandoned his family over and over again, left them flailing and uncertain and watching the door wondering if this would be the time he chose not to walk back through it. Even as a child, Scott had known that Christopher Summers was a man of many flaws, a man more complex than a seven year old could puzzle out.

His mother, too, had been a whole person before her death. Scott was old enough now to understand that the way Katherine locked herself in her room with the curtains drawn for days at a time spoke of the same darkness that existed within his mind, the same quiet storm that had been raging in his soul for as long as he could remember. There were words for it, he knew. There were diagnoses that could be made, explanations that might have made him feel less alone, but Scott had never ventured to have them said aloud. Some might have said it was because he preferred clinging to that lonely feeling. He wasn’t entirely sure that assessment was incorrect.

Neither of his parents was perfect, but the crash had changed that. When they died, he’d built them up in his head. He’d forgotten all those nights of staring at the door and wondering whether or not his father was coming home, forgotten the hunger pains that came when his mother was too tired to cook despite having spent the entire day in bed, forgotten the way he was the one who walked Alex to the bus stop every morning and made sure his lunch was packed and helped him do his homework. None of those things existed when he woke up and realized his parents were gone. They weren’t real people anymore, weren’t whole. They became fragmented, existed only as the good parts of what they’d been. They were sainted by the tragedy of their deaths. . Jean had been, too. She had always been a good person, but she hadn’t been perfect and when she was alive, Scott had known that. It changed with her death. He built her up the same way he built up his parents, made her into something she’d never been --- a saint. And it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to hold someone to standards you’d made for them while they were in the ground, wasn’t fair to take away their personhood in order to help yourself cope with their loss. Jean was whole. She was a person, even when she was gone.

Scott supposed the same was true about him.

He was a person. He was made up of bad things that tended to outweigh the good, a patchwork quilt of issues and flaws that few people could stand to look at for more than a few minutes at a time. He was a destructive force of uncontrollable abilities, a nuclear explosion that was bound to go off sooner or later, and he was whole. Just like Jean, just like his parents. He was a messy, complete thing until he was gone. . He remembered the last time he’d died, remembered coming back and reading those words written in the book someone had placed at the front of the room at his funeral. He remembered skimming the pages with his heart a stone sinking to the bottom of his stomach, remembered understanding that none of it --- none of it was true. Scott Summers was not flawless. He was not selfless or incapable of anger or pride, was not always right, but those things disappeared within the pages of that book. The things that made him whole, the things that made him complete, they were washed away by the fever that burned him into nothing. And he’d gotten them back, he’d come back and reminded everyone that Scott Summers was stiff and overly formal and awkward and uncertain and arrogant and angry, but it didn’t stop it from happening again. He knew that.

Ghosts didn’t get to be whole. They didn’t get to hold on to the pieces of themselves that made them who they were, didn’t get to go back to who they’d been. They were transparent, they were intangible, they were perfect. Death was the only way to achieve perfection.

The first time he’d come back, he’d been terrified that everyone would be disappointed when they remembered just how flawed he was. That fear was here, too. He was alive, but he wasn’t yet whole again. Not until he let them all down. Not until he reminded them all who he was.

Not until he opened his eyes.

He felt, suddenly, like a child in a darkened room with their head hidden beneath blankets. The monsters can’t hurt you if you can’t see them. That was a child’s logic. You can’t hurt other people if you don’t look at them. That was Scott’s. . “Jean, I…” He trailed off, taking a breath and shaking his head. “I promised I’d never die on you. I promised you’d never have to live without me, I promised I’d be safe.” She was right --- he was here with her. But he’d still broken that promise. He’d still thrown himself in front of a bullet, still begged Logan to end it so she couldn’t see. As if dying before she got there would make it hurt her less, as if a broken promise was less broken if the person didn’t see you go back on your word. Scott promised her, in that White Hot Room, that she would never know a world without him in it. He swore to her that she would never have to breathe air that his lungs couldn’t grasp. It was a lie. He’d lied to her.

How long had it been? Scott realized suddenly that he had no idea. Had he been dead for hours or for years? Had his body rotted into bones beneath the dirt where he stood, or had it remained in one piece just waiting for him to reappear within it? How much of her life had she lived without him now? How much of the war he’d died fighting was left to win or lose?

He didn’t mean to reach out, didn’t mean to let his mind go to the mansion and the people inside it, but this new fire within him was difficult to control. It roamed the halls he’d grown up within, it poked its head through doorways, it looked for answers, and Scott felt a little sick. It was an intrusion, wasn’t it? It was Nathanial Essex prying his mind open and making him remember only what it was convenient for him to know, it was Jack Winters using telepathy to keep him docile. Scott pulled back so quickly it might have hurt if this fire was a tangible thing, might have left bruises where it snapped back into his mind with more force than he’d ever thought possible. . “I’m different,” he observed, curiosity coloring his tone. “I feel different. Did it --- Did you do that on purpose?” If his tone had been different, it might have sounded like an accusation. It might have sounded like a man demanding answers, a man angry to have had pieces of himself stripped away without his permission. But Scott’s tone was too flat for that, the only thing lilting it that subtle curiosity. He was different now. He knew why, and so did she. What he didn’t know was whether it had been intentional, whether she’d meant for it to happen. He didn’t think the answer would change anything. He didn’t think it was a thing that could be changed.

He knew before she told him that they were alone, could feel the empty air around them with the same certainty with which he felt her. And there was a burst of relief that came with it, a hint of comfort. Scott loved his family, would have died for them, had died for them. There was nothing in this world he wanted to protect more, but right now… Right now, there was only one person capable of viewing him as something whole. There was only one person not still entwined with the ghost of him.

She kissed his forehead, and his brow unfurrowed slightly with the gesture. She was speaking, she was saying please, and when had Scott ever been able to deny her? When had he ever hesitated to give her what she needed, what she wanted? He trusted her more than anything, far more than he had ever trusted himself. The nuclear weapon pounding in his head was not something he could trust himself to control… but he trusted her. Scott sighed, breath trembling in the exhale, and nodded.

“Okay,” he agreed. “Okay.” And then, slow and unsteady, Scott Summers opened his eyes.

JEAN: They weren’t kids anymore. Jean knew that, felt it in every fibre of her bones, in every beat of her heart. When she looked over at Scott mid battle, it wasn’t a simulation. It wasn’t the hundredth time running through Danger Room scenarios, it wasn’t Jean throwing discs for him to fry mid air on the lawn outside the Institute, it wasn’t them pressed up against each other on the couch reading through tactical strategies and trying to pinpoint which of them would work for their team, putting both of their unique perspectives together to bring them to the final conclusion.

They weren’t kids anymore, but sometimes she forgot. Sometimes she was dancing in the kitchen in the morning making waffles, and she felt him behind her, and she turned around just in time to catch the flush of color that spread up from his neck to his face, disappearing under those red shades, as if he was still embarrassed to be caught in the act. Sometimes she dragged him along to games nights and passed a bottle of wine between them, hoping desperately to brush her fingers against his for even the briefest of moments, and she allowed herself to laugh as they tried at charades and for just a night almost forgot that six months before she’d been dead, and he’d been alone.

They weren’t kids anymore. They never would be again. Most people would think that pushed them further apart, made them go to others, to search for something else in other places, but instead they just grew together. Scott Summers was tied up in Jean Grey, for better or for worse, wrapped around her little finger and her heart and her ribcage, meaning every beat of her heart just reminded her how he wasn’t here, anymore. . But now he was. The Phoenix always said it would bring her the world, and now it had finally delivered. The pain it caused, the devastation of Logan putting his claws through her side, or the look on Rogue’s face as Jean was thrown back on that battlefield, all of that was forgotten, if not forgiven. (It could never be forgiven, not even with Scott standing in front of her.)

At sixteen years old, a year into the X-Men, Jean realised something. She was looking at battles as a whole, taking in the bigger picture like she had to when someone’s mind presented itself to her. She was considering it holistically, finding herself overwhelmed within an instant. Then she watched Scott. He seemed to be on top of everything at once, but as she pulled it apart, as she kept watching, as she kept falling in love with him, she noticed that wasn’t the case.

Scott took it one plan at a time, one step at a time, one breath at a time if things were going particularly sideways. She could do that too. She could do that now. Everything else faded away, the Raft and Erik and Charles and the fact that she was letting down every friend she ever had because she was selfishly focused on the fact that she was empty, the fact that there was no light at the end of the tunnel that she could see aside from flames.

“You are safe,” she said, and if she wasn’t standing in front of Scott she might’ve lied to herself and said it wasn’t desperation making her voice go thready, stopping her from taking shaking hands away from his face and his hair. “You are safe. You’re here. I’m never going to let anyone hurt you again, okay? No one is ever touching you.” . He died choking on his own blood. He died with her name as one of the final thoughts that moved through their newly reinstated bond. He died as the man she loved but took for granted, without even meaning to. Jean tried to protect him with distance, in the past. Now, she knew the only way to keep him safe was to be right beside him, to hold onto him with everything she had.

If he would have her.

“Different,” Jean repeated, swallowing thickly. She searched his face, well accustomed to reading it with his eyes an absent part of the equation. He was so beautiful. He’d always been so beautiful. A vision in red glasses, that’s what she’d said to Sara with a sigh, throwing her legs over the side of the couch as her older sister rolled her eyes fondly, knowing what that meant. “Different how?”

She knew what he meant. She knew what it felt like, to have the flames move through, to have them burning through every lie, every truth, every moment of self deception. The Phoenix revealed all you were trying to hide within yourself, all the things you hated and all the things you loved.

For Jean, it only made her feelings stronger, her emotions wilder. Erik … Erik changed in another way. His anger became cold. His thoughts were unreadable.

Scott’s mind was still loud and clear. It was travelling, moving through the city, taking in the people he thought of first, reading them — but it was him. Undeniably so. Jean knew every inch of him, every corner. . “No,” she admitted, finally, licking out over her lips. She pulled at her lower one with her teeth until she could taste metal in her mouth, and she stopped worrying at it. “I didn’t … I didn’t plan-” Jean took a breath, trying to steady herself. For a brief, stupid second, she felt fourteen again, so desperate to prove herself to the untouchable Scott Summers that she would lie about her capabilities just to be chosen for a mission he was on. “I knew it was a possibility,” she finished. “The same thing happened to Erik. It’s … it’s a long story.”

A long story that she was going to have to tell, at some point. Scott told her what she missed, when she was gone. He allowed her to look through the months, years, of his pain and grief, allowed her to take whatever she needed to.

Jean would do anything Scott needed. She would make a deal with death to bring him back to life. She would burn the world to the ground. She would fight and kill the people who touched a hair on his head. She would do anything, whether he asked her to or not.

(That wasn't Phoenix's darkness. Those shadows were entirely Jean’s own.)

The words, the question, almost slipped past her lips. How you feel about me … has that changed? She didn’t bring Scott back to finish what they started. She knew no one came back the same. She knew she pulled back, knew she wanted space even if it wasn’t what she needed. But she was selfish, and looking at him now she had to know, had to quantify, whether the changes that were tearing through him altered the one thing she’d always held as complete and utter truth. . And then he opened his eyes, and she didn’t need to question that anymore. She resented the fact that she had, even for a second.

There was a flash of red, and Jean felt the air knocked from her lungs, the burning turning to electricity on her skin. It wasn’t just where he was looking, either — it spread from her own face down to her arms, travelling all the way down to the ground where it settled in with the earth and mud he’d come from.

It was like levitating for the first time. Like breaking down walls on the Raft, feeling the way the metal crumpled with a brief flick of her wrist. It was falling through air, plummeting towards the earth, and then the split second when Warren would catch her around the wrist and she would feel the flip in her stomach as she was pulled up, soaring through, weightless.

It was walking into a room and knowing every thought that ran through someone’s head. It was Scott leaning in, kissing her again that first night in his room, loving her even when death stared them in the face and other people would be too terrified to reach out, to touch.

Scott was never scared, not really. Not in the way Jean was, terrified to walk through the door, terrified to fail, terrified of death. Finally, Jean understood why. . She also understood why he wanted to be burned by her. Standing in the middle of Scott Summers’ flames, feeling the power wash through her before it faded, she got it.

With the bird, nothing could touch her. Nothing even came close. Scott opened his eyes, and the trees around them blew back with the force, and he was radiating, and she was burning.

But she didn’t move. It protected her, like it always did. Like it always would.

“You could never hurt me.” There were tears running down her cheeks, split by the smile growing wider on her face. She looked over him, taking in the sight she’d seen only once in the White Hot Room, that moment when they promised each other forever and then some because there was no beginning, no end, nothing but each other.

Jean thought they could only have that in death. She’d been wrong. They could have that right here, right now. No one could touch them.

She could see Scott, and that was all that mattered.

“You have the most beautiful eyes,” Jean whispered, a laugh of disbelief following her words. A realisation came, then, and her hand stilled on his jaw. “Rachel has mine, but … they’re warmer. Just like yours.”

SCOTT: When you were a kid, you were supposed to feel invincible. You were meant to think yourself immortal. That was what Scott had always heard, what people said, but he’d never found it to be true. Even before his father’s plane fell to pieces around him and the parachute that should have carried him safely to the ground burned above his head, even when he was seven years old, Scott had never felt invincible. He’d never felt invulnerable, never felt light.

Other people felt it, he knew. He’d seen Alex run around in the yard terrifyingly fearless, seen him fling himself into leaf piles and snowdrifts as if no one had ever told him that he didn’t have wings strapped to his back, as if he didn’t remember what it felt like to fall from far above the earth with only a burning parachute strapped to his back that wasn’t slowing the fall enough. (And maybe he didn’t --- Scott had never asked how much of the crash his brother remembered. He’d never wanted to know.)

He’d seen it in more than just Alex, of course. The first time he met Bobby, he remembered feeling as if he’d been punched in the chest because the boy with the bright blue eyes and the myriad of jokes had that same terrifying fearlessness as his brother had. Hank was more reserved, more like Scott, but even he had let himself have fun from time to time. Warren had flown as if he never learned how to put his feet to the ground, as if he didn’t need the earth as long as he had the skies. (Scott remembered a burning sort of jealousy at that --- Warren, he’d thought, would have understood Christopher Summers far better than Scott ever had. Maybe if Warren was his son instead of Scott, Christopher wouldn’t have felt the need to chase the skies until it killed him.) . And Jean, Jean had had so much of that reckless abandon within her that the first time he saw her fling herself at one of those simulations in the Danger Room, his hands didn’t stop trembling for hours. They hadn’t been friends then --- Scott hadn’t been friends with any of them then, had been so desperate to make sure they needed him around as a leader that there hadn’t been room left to try to make them like him --- but the idea of her falling, of her acting just as recklessly and beautiful in a battle where the stakes were higher had terrified him.

He’d never felt invincible, never felt invulnerable, never felt light. There were days when his chest ached for reasons he couldn’t understand, mornings when his limbs were filled with lead and he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, afternoons when he understood his mother’s locked bedroom door than he’d ever admit. It was not the only part of his mother that he understood intimately, wasn’t the only thing he had inherited from her. Katherine Summers, when finally faced with certain death, had had a chance to avoid it. There was a parachute on that plane, there was a way out, there was a lifeline, and she’d passed it on to him. She’d strapped that parachute to his back, she’d gripped his shoulders so tightly it hurt, she’d shoved Alex into his arms. She’d told him she loved him, and then she’d proven it by dying for him. And Scott understood that. He understood what she’d felt, in that moment. He understood why she’d done what she had.

When Scott acted with recklessness, it wasn’t because he thought he was invincible --- it was because he knew he wasn’t. It was because, given the choice, Scott knew it was better that he get hurt than someone else. He knew the world could spin on without him far easier than it could without Jean Grey. . If their lives were a game of chess, Jean was the Queen. She was the most powerful piece on the board, the one whose survival changed the outcome of the game. On a battlefield, her presence was what made all the difference in the world. She was the difference between winning and losing, the thing that stood between them and dying. She’d saved them all on that space shuttle, saved them on that battlefield, saved them when she asked Logan to do what he did. She’d saved Scott so many times he’d lost count, saved him over and over again every single day.

Scott wasn’t like that. He was the pawn, the soldier, the martyr. If he died, the world spun on. The battle was still won. His people still lived, lived better perhaps, because a sacrifice had been made. You could sacrifice him at the beginning of the game, he could fall minutes into a battle, and it still wasn’t lost. There was still just as much a chance of victory as there had been at the start, if not more. He didn’t save people. He didn’t keep her from burning on that space shuttle, didn’t stop her from bleeding out at that battlefield, and he hadn’t asked Logan to do what he did to save anyone but himself. Jean was a hero, and Scott ---

Scott was something else. He wasn’t sure what.

And he certainly didn’t know what he was now. . He was safe. She told him he was safe, and Scott wanted to believe that. He really did. But… Had it ever been true? He wasn’t safe on that plane, with a man who claimed to be the most talented pilot of his generation behind the controls. He wasn’t safe with his mother’s hands gripping his shoulders, with those three words echoing in his ears. He wasn’t safe with that parachute on his back, and he certainly wasn’t safe in any of the years that followed. Safety was stripped from him when Nathanial Essex strapped him down to machines and picked him apart with his words, his telepathy, his medical instruments. Safety was kicked out of him when Jack Winters found that beating him was just as effective in gaining his compliance as entering his mind and with a fraction of the work. Safety died in a space shuttle, on a battlefield, in the yard of the only house that had ever felt like home with Logan’s claws in its side.

But Jean said he was safe, and she had never lied to him. Jean said he was safe, and she had pulled him from his grave to prove it. There was air in his lungs, his heart was pumping blood into his veins instead of his chest cavity, and he didn’t hurt. Wasn’t that what safety was?

He nodded when she spoke, and the word seemed to bounce around in his head, seemed carved into the skies above their heads, seemed to be echoed in whispers with every rustling of the wind through the trees. Different, different, different. Maybe that was all he was now --- different. He considered her question, taking a deep breath and tasting the world on his tongue. Did it taste different because he’d died, or because of how he’d been brought back? Had the world been this crisp before that bullet tore through him, or was it simply sharper now? . “I feel…” He trailed off, uncertain. Scott had never known how to describe what he felt, was never good at deciphering the thoughts in his head. Death didn’t change that. He was different, but he was the same. He was still Scott, even if he wasn’t sure he was just Scott any longer. “Everything,” he settled on at last. “I feel everything.”

He wondered if she’d felt it too, if this was what she’d meant all those years ago when she’d said the Phoenix only made you more of yourself than you’d been before. Was feeling every beat of his heart like an earthquake a part of that? Was hearing every thought in the streets beyond the trees what was meant to happen here?

(Had he come back just as broken as he’d been before? Was the only thing really different about him the placement of the cracks?)

She said it wasn’t on purpose, and Scott couldn’t decide if that made it better or worse. She hadn’t planned to bring him back with this, hadn’t known he would be more in the same way that she was more, but she had known it was a possibility. She had known that it was an option. Should he be angry that it hadn’t deterred her? Should he be grateful?

And why couldn’t he feel either?

“Erik?” The name was a quiet rumble, an uncertain huff. “Did he… Did you have to bring him back, too?” What had happened after that bullet tore through him? What became of his family after Logan sunk his claws into Scott’s side? Where was Logan? Was he safe? Did everyone else walk away from that battlefield? Where was Rogue? Where were Bobby, and Warren, and Kurt and Kitty and Shatterstar and Charles?

(He should have asked that already. Why hadn’t he asked?)

There was something inside of him, and he felt everything and nothing at the same time. Would that change the more he got used to it? Would he stop feeling strange and go back to feeling normal the more time he spent on this side of the grave? And did he want to go back to feeling as he had before? . Slowly, light cracked through his eyelids. There was a brief flash, a moment when he felt his optic blasts rising up and he knew the world was was going to end and he was going to be the reason. He saw red, would make the world red in return… but then the heat died down. The colors of the world flooded him all at once. He saw the grass --- it was green. The sky was a deep, rich blue that he’d forgotten, and in that heartbeat he understood with perfect clarity why his father had loved it so thoroughly. There was brown bark on the trees, the granite stone bearing his name was gray. (‘He fought for us,’ it said. Scott wondered who had picked that out. He wondered if his throat was supposed to ache like it was. He wondered if anything he felt was right.)

And Jean --- he saw Jean. She looked happy and sad at the same time, a familiar glow reflected in her eyes. It was red. Her hair was red, her shirt. (One of his sweaters, wasn’t it?) The rest of the world was bathed in a rainbow of unfamiliarity… but Jean was the same. She was red, just like everything was meant to be, and Scott had been wrong before. He’d thought his favorite color was blue, like the shirt he’d been wearing the last day he ever got to be a child, and he was wrong.

Blue was the color of his sky, the reflection of the thing his father had always loved more than him, a lovely image of a life he never would have had. It was nice --- for a moment. For a flash, it was peaceful. It was almost home, but it wasn’t.

Red was the color of her hair. It was the color of her eyes when she held back the storm for him, the color of the shirt she’d stolen from his drawer, the color of the fire that burned in her soul. It was the only color he would ever see without risking the world’s end, and Scott realized very suddenly that he was okay with that. Jean was red, and she was home. There was no almost about that. . She smiled, and that numbness washed away. He didn’t feel nothing anymore --- he felt it all. Her grief, her rage, her love for him, he felt it all. It was beautiful, it was red, and he was home. He was home.

He huffed out a quiet, uncertain laugh and nodded. “You’re the only one who’s seen them,” he said quietly. Only Jean and Alex, though the latter hadn’t seen them since he was a child. She continued, and Scott felt his brow furrow, felt a cold sense of understanding creep over him. Rachel. The name was unfamiliar --- but he got the feeling that it shouldn’t be. Rachel, she’d said, had Jean’s eyes and Scott’s warmth. Pieces of both of them. “Jean…” His voice was cautious, uncertain. “How long was I…?”

JEAN: Safety was never a resource that was in short supply, growing up. Her father was preoccupied with his work more often than not, but on weekends when he finished his lesson plans and his students stopped emailing and phoning with their harried queries, he would bring Jean into his office, sit her on his lap, and let her type away on his computer, pretending as if she was writing a textbook on Soviet Union era military uniforms just like she’d seen John do her entire life. Her brothers would run in, fighting each other with swords made of foam and balloons, plastic weaponry banned after the great incident of Christmas 2005. Once her father became tired of the intrusions, he would push Jean off and tell her to go to her mother, who would be predictably in the kitchen, rubbing her hands on her apron and watching attentively over Sara and Julia in the back garden, lounging around the pool.

It wasn’t until Annie died that Jean realised there was nothing her parents could do to stop the world taking that security from her. Her entire life up until that point, she felt invincible, untouchable. If she fell in the playground, her teacher was immediately there to patch her up. If she failed a test, her mother provided cocoa to cheer her, lit the fire because she knew Jean liked watching how it flickered amongst the coal. When she started to realise that she might be different, that there was something in her that needed a name put to it and started with looking at girls as well as boys, Sara was on her bed, bringing Jean’s head onto her lap, running her fingers through her sister’s hair and talking about everything but the issue at hand until the word stopped being so terrifying and started being safe too, just like everything else. . But when Annie died — when she went running out after the frisbee Jean threw into the road, never once stopping to consider the consequences because as far as she knew, they didn’t exist — Jean’s mother ran out in that apron. She dropped the dish she was holding, and it smashed onto the drive. She called for Jean’s father, and her voice wasn’t like normal. It was a scream, something Jean never heard before. John and Elaine rushed forward, Annie’s parents heard the commotion and appeared at their front door, and all the adults crowding around her friend didn’t bring her back.

They tried to lie to her, after that. John and Elaine sat with Jean in the living room and told her that Annie felt no pain, that she was in a good place, that it was part of life to die as well as run and play. Jean listened to them say it, and she kept their dishonesty deep inside her chest, because she knew.

She’d heard Annie’s thoughts. She knew what it felt like, at ten years old, to bleed out in the middle of the road. She knew how the bruises on her ribs ached. She knew the darkness that she was fading into, knew that Annie was terrified the entire time.

Jean knew everything Annie ever thought. In those split seconds before her friend vanished completely, Jean saw her life flash before her eyes. She took all those memories, all those feelings. She didn’t know now if she was entirely Jean Grey, or if she had simply absorbed pieces of other people on her way through, taken the bits that seemed the best. . Because Jean, despite Scott’s opinion, wasn’t the best. She wasn’t even close. Yet again, she threw the frisbee onto the road. She gave the Phoenix to Erik. She stood back as her parents lied. She allowed the Accords to continue, even knowing she had the power to bring it down. She stole from the people she loved. She didn’t stand up to lead the X-Men, didn’t go back to Cerebro like she was supposed to, didn’t tell everyone to keep fighting, that the war was far from won.

She told Lorna to stand down. She begged the younger girl to leave, to stop herself from turning into just another Jean Grey.

X-Men weren’t supposed to give up. They weren’t supposed to die, either. Terry didn’t believe that Scott was gone forever, and now, here he was in front of Jean. Layla said they’d be married, and they might. They might, now.

They could do anything they wanted.

I feel everything. Jean felt the words settle deep in her chest, clench at her heart just as they did when those messages came through her phone from Erik. She tried to reach him, now, tried to span out and touch the edge of his thoughts, but he was consciously absent. “Feel everything with me,” she whispered, and it probably didn’t make sense, he’d been gone, he’d been dead, he didn’t know what happened — but she needed to say it. “We’re together, Scott. I’m not going anywhere, ever.” . She wanted to ask where he went, but she had the feeling she already knew. She wanted to ask if he saw Annie or Sara, but those were Jean’s ghosts, not Scott’s — though the latter mixed for both of them, their traumas inexplicably intertwined.

That’s what happened when you loved someone, Jean knew. You took their best and their worst. It never felt too bad to her when it was Scott.

“No,” she said, shaking her head to reaffirm it. This should’ve been the first thing she told him, but she knew there was no manual to this kind of thing, this sort of conversation. “No, Erik … Everyone is-” Fine? They weren’t, far from it. This time, Jean didn’t need to rely on memories or notes of condolences in a sympathy book. She saw it first hand, felt it. There was no going back to the invincibility she felt before. She might be untouchable, but the people she loved weren’t.

At least, they weren’t before. She was changing that, now. The Phoenix reinforced Illyana’s weapon. It changed Rogue, in ways that Jean didn’t dare to think about. It went into Erik, and now Scott. She was protecting the people she loved the most. She wondered if Rachel would see it that way.

“Everyone is alive,” she finished. “They’ll be waiting for you. They missed you.” Even at those words, though, Jean made no movement to leave the grassy knoll they were standing upon, the empty grave she hadn’t looked back towards but Scott had. She wanted to look at him, wanted to feel him, wanted to savour his presence just for a moment longer. “I got in some trouble,” she said, deciding to save the rest of the story for when they were safe, when they were home, wherever that might be. “Erik helped me. A … a piece of the bird went to him, I think. I don’t know if it’s permanent, or-” . She didn’t know a lot of things. She wasn’t Scott. She wasn’t the tactician, didn’t go through plans meticulously and have back ups for the consequences sure to come from her more reckless encounters. She was just a woman that worked on passion, heart and gut instinct, and all of those had been ripped from her the second that bullet entered his lung.

Jean almost wondered if that woman would ever come back to her, but Scott opened his eyes, and he looked at her, and she saw that love reflected back — that endless, unconditional, all encompassing kind of love that she never needed to doubt and never would — and she realised there was a piece of her left anyway.

For him.

“Good,” Jean said, with a huff of a laugh. It wasn’t nearly as light as she wanted it to be, far wetter than she intended, but he didn’t seem to mind. “No one deserves to.” Neither did she, but that went without saying, and wasn’t something Scott would appreciate hearing, she knew. They were both good at defending each other, not so much themselves.

Confusion creased his brow, and Jean wiped the tears from her face with the heel of her hand. “Weeks,” she whispered, “but I missed you.” Did she have to justify it? Inevitably she would, considering the deal she made to find him here, but never to Scott. He knew her before she knew himself. “She’s ours,” she explained. “She’s ours, but she’s not from here. She’s from another world — a darker one.” Jean hadn’t believed that, back when she didn’t have him. What world could possibly be worse than the one where Scott Summers bled out needlessly in a park? . She curled her fingers in his hair once more, leaning her forehead against his and sucking in a breath before she stepped back (not enough to let go, of course. Her fingers reached to entwine with his, not eager to leave his touch for even a second). “They’re looking for me,” she said. “They’re looking for all of us. We … we should get somewhere less open.”

SCOTT: The world was a dark place. It was a dark place when you were a child and you couldn’t figure out whether or not your parents loved you or not, it was a dark place when your mother gave you the answer just before going up in flames, it was a dark place when you were all alone in an orphanage with a man who saw you as an experiment to pick apart instead of a child to hold close. The world was dark when you were a mutant teenager with uncontrollable bombs tucked away behind each eye, and it was dark when you were a little boy whose mother's skin was the wrong shade and whose eyes were the wrong shape. The world was dark whether you wore red sunglasses that colored everything the wrong way or not, whether you were a man or a boy, whether you were mutant or human. The world was a dark place, and it was only getting darker.

Years ago, Scott thought, he might have felt more shock when that bullet tore through him on the battlefield. He’d never been able to convince himself that he’d die of old age, but he’d never quite entertained the possibility that a government agent would shoot him down in a park full of children for no reason beyond speaking in a tone that was just a little too harsh. The government had never quite been trustworthy when your DNA looked like Scott’s did, but it had never been this bad, either. Years ago, the events that transpired in Central Park would have been an unknowable tragedy. The world would have been soaked in shock, and justice would have been served.

But things were getting darker. . When that bullet tore through his chest, when he tasted blood in the back of his throat and realized he was dying, Scott had felt a lot of things. He felt grief, he felt anger, he felt rage and sadness. He supposed he’d gone through his own split-second grieving process the moment that realization hit him, five cliche stages stacked up into a single heartbeat. He’d felt a myriad of emotions --- but surprise hadn’t been among them. There was no part of him that couldn’t believe the events that transpired, no piece of him that could claim he hadn’t seen it coming. The moment the announcement came out about the Accords deepening, a battle like that one in Central Park had gone from impossible to inevitable. Things would always come to a head eventually, and on that grassy knoll, that was exactly what they’d done. It was the exclamation mark at the end of a sentence that had been written with the same ink used to sign the Accords. It was always going to happen.

Scott wondered if this moment was just as inevitable. If his death was the unavoidable consequence of what the Accords had become, what did it say of this one? Was this their fate, he wondered, his and Jean’s? Were they really built for an endless cycle of death and rebirth, the Phoenix pushing them along every step of the way? She loved him too much to let him die, and he loved her too much to resent that. It was this fire burning within him that brought him back, but it was her love that breathed that fiery life into him. Meeting her was the first moment of his life that mattered, the first moment he really felt like someone. It made sense then, he supposed, that she’d be there when he was born again. It all made sense. . In a lot of ways, it was the only thing that did. Scott couldn’t comprehend the things swirling around inside of him now, couldn’t wrap his head around the fire that relit whatever life was inside him, but he understood Jean. He understood why she’d come out here, understood why she’d positioned herself over his grave until he was standing on top of it instead of buried within it. He would have done the same for her, if he could have. If the Phoenix had chosen him on that shuttle, Scott wouldn’t have hesitated to bring her back after she fell on that battlefield. Her doing this… It made sense, even if a part of him wished it didn’t.

Feel everything with me. Wasn’t that all he’d ever wanted? Wasn’t that what he’d been chasing since he was a kid on that park bench, listening to her tell him that he mattered? Scott swallowed, throat feeling hot, and he nodded his head. “Me either,” he promised, as if it was one he could keep. As if they weren’t standing over his grave now, as if his own name wasn’t carved into granite behind them. “I’m --- I don’t want to leave you, Jeanie, not ever again.” And he didn’t have to, did he? This thing burning inside him, this everything that made him different in ways he didn’t yet understand, it was life itself. What could possibly take him from her when he had that? What obstacle could possibly hope to stand between them?

There were questions she wanted to ask. He could feel them, as if they were tangible things hanging in the air. He didn’t know precisely what they were, but… He could guess. There were, after all, questions that were obvious when someone was recently back from the dead. Did she know that the Phoenix hadn’t taken him to their White Hot Room when she wasn’t in it? Did she know he’d gone to neither Heaven nor Hell?

Did she know that, without her, all Scott could ever hope to do was float endlessly and miserably on a numb, empty sea of black nothingness? . He didn’t know how to tell her, didn’t know how to describe nothing. There were no words you could string together to describe a thing that did not exist, no way to explain something that wasn’t. You could try, he supposed. You could use words like empty, or dark, but they weren’t quite right. For a thing to be empty, there had to be a space with some possibility of being filled. For a place to be dark, the concept of light had to exist to contrast it. Scott had had neither of those. Even nothing, as a concept, could only be applicable if the word something was at its heels.

She didn’t voice the questions aloud, and the relief nearly knocked the air from his lungs. And there were two sides to that relief, two reasons for it, because everyone was alive. Scott had died for his people, and his people had lived for him. Jean walked away from that battle, Rogue was okay, Logan was alive. The world had been right, even when Scott wasn’t around to see it. He nodded, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. But then he paused a moment, took a beat to consider their situation. “What are we gonna tell them, Jean?” How did they explain how he’d been dead and then not, how they’d carved his name in granite only to find him standing in their living room some time later. It wouldn’t be the first time, of course, wouldn’t be a unique occurance, but it still needed an explanation. It still needed to be put to words, and Scott didn’t know how to do that. . And there were other things to consider, too. Jean got into some trouble, the kind of trouble that Erik had needed to get her out of, and Scott knew that wasn’t good. His eyes flickered to hers, studying her without that tint of red lenses standing between them, and he was quiet a moment. “Are you okay?” It was a stupid question. He’d been dead, been buried in the ground beneath her feet. How could she have been okay? He wasn’t, when it was him. He nodded at the explanation, eyes still searching hers. “What about me? Is this… Is it permanent?” He wasn’t sure if he was asking about the fire burning in his chest or the fact that he was drawing breath through it, wasn’t sure if he was inquiring about the Phoenix or his life. Both, maybe. Would he have this piece of the bird within him indefinitely? If it left, would he still be alive?

(And what answer, for both questions, was he hoping for?)

She made a joke and, in spite of everything, Scott smiled. He didn’t know what would happen next but, for the moment, he was alive. He was drawing air through his lungs, his heart was beating, and Jean was telling jokes. It was better, he thought, than it had been a few moments before. Whether it lasted or not was irrelevant. “Not sure I agree with that,” he admitted, “but I guess it’s been a while since I’ve seen them, too.” He didn’t even remember what color they were. Brown, maybe, like his mother’s. (He hoped they were like his mother’s.) . The answer to his question wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, wasn’t years or decades or centuries. Weeks wasn’t bad, all things considered. Weeks was pretty good. (So why did he still feel grief burning in his veins?) “She’s ours?” There was a quiet disbelief to the words, a gasp of surprise. “From…” It was a lot to take in. A daughter, a girl named Rachel with Jean’s eyes and his fire, a girl from a world that had been darker than this one had managed to become. Scott wondered if they were headed in that direction now, if her world was this one with a different name. “How old is she? Is she… okay?” Had he been a good father, in that other world? Had he been enough?

Jean’s hand was in his, and Scott still had questions. Why were they looking for her? Was it because of him, because of what he’d done in that park, or had something else happened? Would they be after him too now? (That one was easier to answer --- he knew that they would.) But there was time for those questions later, time to discuss when they weren’t out in the open where anyone could see them. He hesitated a moment, looking into her eyes again. “Do you, uh… Did you bring my glasses?”

JEAN: She’d always been a big picture thinker, always been someone who couldn’t step forward and focus on one specific detail no matter how hard she tried. Jean was either overwhelmed by the situation in front of her, or she was juggling a hundred and one plates in the air at the same time. She told Erik he needed to bring it back, needed to tone it down and funnel every thought and experience through a true north, and while it might seem as if Jean was preaching from a high place that she didn’t occupy herself, she’d never been an island. Jean Grey was a unique person, she had her life and her motivations and her experiences, but she also recognised that the whole was far, far greater than the sum of its parts.

Scott was her other half, her true north, the one that everything came back to one way or another, a magnetic forcefield like she’d felt in Erik’s mind condensed into the man standing in front of her now. Nothing made sense unless she could talk it through, and she could only talk, really talk, with the man standing in front of her — the man who could be screaming at her right now, could be demanding answers as to why he was back in the land of the living, why she dragged him from the Earth and put the fire in him that she’d been trying to run from her entire life and never quite managed to hide from.

She thought she was alone, all those months. She thought she felt the cold. As it turned out, she doubted the firebird ever left. Jean never imagined being grateful for that fact, but stranger things happened.

He could be mad at her. He could be turning away. He could be blinking and letting another blast come forward, could be testing to see just how much force the Phoenix could really stand up against at this short of a range, but he wasn’t. He was looking at her, and she was seeing that warmth reflected in his eyes that she’d seen, but not felt, in the White Hot Room. . This wasn’t the kind of fire the Phoenix could bring. This was a kind that was uniquely Scott Summers, there long before that space mission, long before the radiation cloud, long before Jean died and left him alone like he’d left her.

But they weren’t doing that again. “You better not,” she whispered, but there was no humor to it. There was no disbelief, either. Scott died only a matter of weeks ago. The dirt was still fresh on his grave. So many had been turned to ash and dust in his memory, and now he was back — did that make Jean’s destruction of them even more devastating than it already was? Would she feel those killings even deeper in her bones when the relief of Scott returning faded?

He died only a few weeks ago, but nothing told Jean to doubt his words now. If Scott Summers promised her something, he would follow through. He hadn’t left, not really. She just needed to pull her weight, too. “I’ve never wanted anyone but you.” She never needed anyone like this. For so long, Jean was the glue holding the original team together. She was the teacher, guiding the younger X-Men to a life they were destined to lead. She was a doctor, patching up mutants that came through the doors of the emergency room or appeared on her doorstep. She was a fixer, but Scott fixed her, and she didn’t know what to do without him.

Time, so they said, healed all wounds, but the gaping one Scott left deep within her chest wasn’t one that Jean ever wanted to disappear. She never wanted to take a breath while he was gone without feeling the ache of it, never wanted to forget that he’d been there, not for even a second. . This was the only option she could live with. Telling the others, though, pretty much ensured that the very valid concerns would be brought up, that her friends and family would look at her like the girl they should’ve kept a tighter leash on. “I …” Jean didn’t think that far ahead. She wanted to say that Scott was the tactician, that she was focused on getting him up from six foot under, but it didn’t feel like an entirely foolproof argument. “Not the truth.”

The second the words were out of her mouth, they settled in the bottom of her gut. They didn’t sit well, never would. The idea of lying to the people Jean loved the most was a sickening one, but with everything falling down around them, with the world out for their blood, she didn’t think bringing up the fact she welcomed a devastating, potentially maleficent, cosmic entity into her life, gave a chunk of it to Magneto unintentionally, and then used it to bring her boyfriend back into the fold.

They had enough to worry about. Jean was a fixer. She created solutions, not problems.

“It won’t exactly come as a surprise,” she said. “You … you came back, before.” The specifics of how that happened still weren’t exactly clear, though Jean knew now it was likely the Phoenix’s interventions. Whether that was to help Jean or hurt her, she wasn’t entirely sure. “We’re X-Men. Terry didn’t even believe you would stay gone this long.”

Jean hated her for that. She thought about ripping her apart, atom by atom, but she didn’t. She didn’t, because Terry’s words got this idea ticking around in her head, rattling around until Jean had no option but to try it.

She hadn’t planned what to do after. . Scott asked whether she was okay, and Jean wanted to laugh. She wanted to because it was typical Scott, because the question and the look on his face reminded her so intensely of when he took a nose dive off a dinosaur in the Danger Room just to prove he would look out for her no matter whether it was real life or a simulation. She couldn’t quite manage it, though, and so she settled for meeting his eyes again, feeling the wave of power wash over her, a soft smile hanging on her lips.

“I am now,” she said, and it was the truth. She could lie to herself, she could lie to the world, she could even try to lie to the Phoenix though she knew it would never work, but she couldn’t lie to him. At his next question, Jean bit down on the corner of her lip, the smile fading. “I don’t … you’re back. I made a deal for your life. It won’t go back on it.” The power surge was something that Jean never mentioned, something she never thought about (though had she? In her subconscious mind, did she ask the Phoenix to help Scott let loose, to give him the power to do what was necessary? It was likely).

Red was always Jean’s favorite color. She only recognised it as such, though, after the park bench — when she sat beside another kid who jumped up when she said his name, and they were screaming at each other in words and in their mind, and she was weird, but he still sat down. He still wanted to be her friend, still trusted in her when months later they were on the same team, going out to face the big bad world with only each other and their friends at their sides. Now, though, as she looked into Scott’s eyes, she realised she’d been seriously underestimating brown, so dark it was almost black. . “They’re good,” she said, voice thick and feeling as if she was going to start shaking at any moment, adrenaline and relief and regret building up under her skin. “Nice. You look … really good.” Definitely not dead, which was a step up. (Maybe Remy was onto something when he looked at her with a raised eyebrow. Maybe Jean was losing it. It stood to reason Scott would be the one to bring that realisation to the surface.)

She nodded, index finger hooking around his thumb, then moving to trace the outline of his hand. “Ours,” she repeated. “Mid to late twenties, I guess? We didn’t really … there’s a lot we didn’t get to talk about. I wasn’t myself.” Jean wasn’t the kind of person she would like to rely on when she came to another universe. “She had memories of you,” she continued. “Good ones. Not so many of me.” It didn’t take a genius to work out why that was. Death clung to Jean as much as life did, whereas Scott always seemed more steadfast.

Seeming was a dangerous thing.

“Kitty knows her,” Jean said, and all of the younger woman’s pushes to bring kids into the picture made sense with how she’d been acting since she reappeared. “You … I can bring you to her, if you want. Soon.” As soon as Jean managed to take her eyes off him, as soon as she was sure he was really there and not just a figment of her imagination — but he was so solid under her touch, his breath against her cheek, that she couldn’t help but release the tension from her shoulders. . Her head dropped onto his shoulder, and Jean rested there, swaying slightly, for a long moment before she realised Scott spoke again. She looked up, blinking a few times fast. “I brought you back from the dead,” she said, the words filling her with hope and light disbelief. “I’m so sorry I didn’t think to pack a pair of shades.” Jean hesitated, thinking for a moment, then reached up to loosen the knot of Scott’s tie. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” she muttered as she worked, “but I never want to see you in a suit like this again, Scott Summers.”

The tie slid between her fingers, and she moved to put it over Scott’s eyes, tying it gently around the back of his head. Her hand trailed down his cheek one more time before she let her arms fall to her side, reaching for him. “We’ve got some at home,” she said, knocking her shoulder gently against his. “I won’t lead you wrong.”

SCOTT: The world had been burning for most of his life now, bathed in a red that only Scott could ever see. That fire had followed him --- from the wreckage of his father’s plane to the tortures of Essex’s ‘orphanage’ to the underground sewers where Winters let him squat. There was a time, after that park bench, when he’d thought he’d left it behind, but he never had. Not really. It found him in the space shuttle when the world went dark for a heartbeat, on the battlefield where blood blossomed across her stomach, in front of the mansion where Logan’s claws dug into her side. That fire ate away at him over and over again, until it was Scott bleeding out on some dusty battlefield, until it was his flesh being pierced by Logan’s claws in a gracious act of mercy.

It wasn’t the kind of fire that could be doused, wasn’t something you ever got away from. Even death couldn’t free him from it. The fire was still there, still burning, but it felt different now. Before, the fire burned up the world around him, but now… Now, it was burning inside of him.

He didn’t think he wanted it to stop.

It was the fire, after all, that brought her back to him. On that space shuttle, in the White Hot Room, on the lawn of the mansion where she appeared after months of being gone. It was the fire that brought him back to her, too, the fire that allowed him to finally, finally keep his promise. He smiled at her whispered words, the joke that wasn’t a joke, the ones that should have been hissed with disbelief because he already had. He’d died on her, let that bullet rip through him, begged Logan to end it before she could see as if he could hide his broken promise by kicking the remnants under the table. He’d already broken his promise to her… but he was back now. He was alive again. He came back to her, just as she’d come back to him over and over again. . (Maybe, at the end of the day, that was what love really was --- two people who always came back together, even when the world wanted them apart.)

She spoke again, and Scott let out a quiet breath. “You have me,” he whispered. “You’ve always had me.” Even when she didn’t. Even when she was gone and he was clinging to anyone who’d have him, even when her death carved holes in him and sent him into other people’s arms, other people’s beds. Scott Summers had always belonged solely and completely to Jean Grey. Emma had known that, had deserved better than that. So had Colleen. Everyone had always paled in comparison, always been a temporary fix. He’d always wondered what sort of man that made him. Right now, with her hand cupping his face, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

There were other things, of course, that he should care about. Jean didn’t know what to tell their friends, how to explain how man dead weeks before was alive again now with no reason behind it. Scott didn’t know, either. He went into every situation with a thousand different plans, but this one? How did you prepare for the aftermath of your own death? How did you come up with contingency plans for how to keep drawing breath after your lungs filled with blood and your heart stopped beating? “We’ll be vague,” he decided. “We’ll hope they don’t ask too many questions. We’ll --- We’ll try not to lie to them.” They’d have to lie a little, inevitably. They’d have to pretend to a certain extent. Everyone would worry otherwise, and that was the last thing either of them wanted. . He doubted Jean had wanted this, either. Scott brought back with the same fire that had burned her out before, the same flames threatening to swallow him whole. This probably wasn’t how she’d meant to bring him back, but what could be done? No one got to die and come back without consequence. No one got to cheat death without giving something up. He nodded, trusting that the process, at least, was solid. He was here, he was alive, he was breathing. He didn’t know how he felt about it, but he knew it was true.

And besides, they had other things to attend to in the meantime. They had Rachel, this girl who was theirs and not theirs, this woman who was only a few years behind them in age and yet had their blood running through her veins and their lessons in her head. Or… Scott’s lessons. Death, it seemed, came for Jean no matter what universe she was in. He felt a little nauseous at the thought. “We’ll get to know her together,” he promised quietly. “If she’s… If she wants to.”

But not now. Now, he had a world to catch up on. He had things to consider, things to do. Enforcers shot him dead for trying to help children. Scott doubted they’d gotten any kinder since his death, doubted his people were any safer now than they had been in Central Park with bullets flying. Something needed to be done, and Scott was going to do it. He cracked a faint smile when Jean spoke, closing his eyes as she untied his tie and positioned it over his eyes. “Only sweatpants from now on,” he promised, reaching out to take her hand. Her shoulder knocked his, and his smile widened slightly as she spoke. “You never have.”

#char: scott summers #texts

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