#i dunno man just... something something they saw the humanity in each other when nobody else did something something | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lokidiabolus · 4 years ago

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The Deal - Chapter 3

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel (web series)

Pairing: Alastor / Angel Dust

Warnings: human!Angel Dust (Anthony), Deal with a devil AU

Summary: Sometimes you had nobody to spend the Christmas with. Sometimes you didn’t want to. Sometimes you took a chalk and drew a pentagram on the floor fully ready to deal with anything that would come out as an alternative to self-pity occurring otherwise.

The time when Anthony thought if he can’t get anybody to love him properly, he can just make a deal with a devil and find out what affection feels like. Alastor thinks this mortal is pitiful beyond belief and concede. Cuddles happen.

Can be found on Ao3.

Notes: Holy shit, this took long, and should probably take longer but I'm just itching to get all this out of my system, so here it is. Also realized Alastor’s gloves are not fucking black and red lmao, but burgundy, fuuuck. Changed it.

Unbetad!

2020, January 18th

“What did ya think I’d say to a dead deer in my living room?!” Anthony almost fell out of the window for how far out from his flat he was leaning, trying to get rid of the corpse stench that assaulted his senses. “Is it some kind of fuckin’ peace offering? Like sorry, I fucked up, here’s a dead deer?!”

“A deer for my dear~,” Alastor singsonged in response while happily cutting vegetable at the kitchen counter, as if there was no stinky corpse in the flat, bloody and so, so dead.

“No, fuck you,” Anthony growled back into the flat, not bothering to turn even a little. “I hate you.”

“Now, now, cher, lyin’s bad for your health.”

“You are bad for my health!” he turned to the demon with an accusatory finger pointed at his face, and then made a retching noise when the smell of blood reached his nostrils. His hangover state couldn’t handle the smallest deviation from normal and corpses were definitely not in top 1000 of smells he was used to. Alastor didn’t even raise an eyebrow, he just calmly continued his ministrations as if he just didn’t carve the poor deceased animal right in the very room. Wasn’t it some sort of cannibalism if he would eat anything made from that thing? A deer eating another deer? Was that even allowed?

“Dat might be tru,” the demon agreed after a moment of pondering. “Demons are rarely good fer people.”

“Ugh,” Anthony sagged against the windowsill and the icy wind blew snowflakes into his face. “Seriously, why did ya even bring this thing. Where did ya even get it? A whole fuckin’ deer…”

“Hunted it down,” Alastor shrugged and walked towards the sink where the meat was resting pitifully (in Anthony’s opinion), portioned, but also skinned with surprising skill, not elaborating on the hunting part like it was his favourite hobby and not worth questioning. “It’s our weekend. Wanted to cook for you.”

Our weekend sounded sweet. Anthony wanted to be wary of that, but he was just a human and he liked it despite the possible danger lying in those words. After all that went down, it was apparent Alastor saw him as something akin to a pet project, a “unfuck this guy before he dies” sort of challenge, if his I’m going to fix you eventually speech was sincere. Who knew if anything about this person was sincere in general, but making dumb life decisions was Anthony’s forte so maybe he was inclined to believe the demon anyway.

“’K,” he huffed, his stomach finally calming down and he started to get chilly. “Just… tell me when yer done with the raw meat shit. The tequila is not agreeing with me otherwise.”

There was no answer until after several minutes he felt a hand touching his lower back and a body leaning against him to join him at the window.

“Aren’t you cold ‘ere?” Alastor asked as if he just didn’t squeeze in with him at the window and his warmth was a stark contrast with the chilly wind blowing outside.

“Well, not anymore,” he forced himself to remain on spot and not lean into the contact, more out of spite than anything else, but Alastor did it for him, hugging him from the side.

Hugging… him, what?

He must have felt the rigidness of Anthony’s body, there was no way he would not. Sure, they talked about hugs, but Alastor never looked like he was going to act on it anytime soon, and this was definitely soon as fuck.

“Meat is boilin’ and I put rest in da fridge,” Alastor’s voice was so, so close.

“I have a dead deer in my fridge now?” the human faked a reprimanding tone and the arm around him tightened and he felt Alastor nuzzling his hair. Oh. He wasn’t lying when he said he and his shadow are one person, because this felt familiar – only much warmer.

“Oi,” he nudged the man. “If ya feel like huggin’, I want a proper hug.” And took a step back and opened his arms.

Alastor hummed… and went back to the kitchen counter.

“Don’t push your luck, cher,” he said instead, like he didn’t just leave Anthony hanging, probably also out of spite. “How ‘bout you peel potatoes instead?”

“Wow,” Anthony let his arms drop down. “Just wow.”

He helped with the potatoes anyway and tried ridiculously hard to ignore the fact Alastor’s Bambi tail was wagging all this time.

***

2020, February 13th

“I have a request.”

“Only one this time?”

Anthony refused to feel offended by that. Alastor had been bitchy for a week now, probably had to do something with Hell fucking with his control kink, but it usually only made him snarkier, rather than hostile. Anthony wouldn’t probably even notice if the demon didn’t snap on Wednesday and Anthony’s living room suddenly resembled a boutique with at least fifty racks of clothes haphazardly appearing where was still free space, making Anthony stare at it like a child during Christmas. It wasn’t a bad “snap” Alastor had, actually seemed like a nice gesture until he said: Now be a good boy, Anthony, pick something nice and be quiet. If I hear one more word from you, one of those jackets is going to strangle you to death. So, Anthony shut up and Alastor eventually calmed down enough to allow him to speak again without the static going haywire (and he also let him keep the clothes, ayyy).

State Alastor was in also meant no touching policy. Anthony taught himself not to initiate anything unless in bed about a month ago already but still sometimes slipped when Alastor was too close – and it usually didn’t rouse a bad reaction (unless it was about the tail. Or the ears), but if Anthony tried it when the static was loud and grating, he’d risk a limb. He didn’t have a problem to keep his distance at that point and Alastor seemed to appreciate it.

But now it sucked.

“Ya know, tomorrow is the 14th,” the human pointed out, sitting sprawled in the comfy oversized cushion he bought himself two weeks ago and at which Alastor scoffed for some reason. It was the best thing to laze in ever, the demon had no taste. “And ya know.”

“I am not sure what I should know on the 14th,” the demon uttered, his red eyes not leaving a page of his book for a second. He was seated on the couch with enough distance between two of them that could be still considered social and as hanging out instead of we had an argument so we’re not talking to each other, which was technically not true. They didn’t argue since the tequila fiasco and that cleared up anyway. This was mostly just… precaution.

“Well, I know this is your last day this week,” Anthony tried different approach and sat more properly on the cushion. Not that it helped much, since he was sporting a pink crop top hoodie and booty shorts and Alastor already expressed certain distaste for it, but didn’t demand him to go change, so it was at least a small victory.

“Indeed, it is,” Alastor responded primly, turning a page in slow pace, like a snob he was sometimes. Another thing about the bitchy state of his was the speech. He never let it slip like he usually did when they were together, just talked like a radio all the time like he was keeping his barriers up almost hysterically. Anthony didn’t question it, but he sure did miss his Cajun accent a lot. It felt much warmer and softer than the radio show host persona Alastor normally presented, although it was probably just his form of coping.

“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded, bracing for inevitable refusal that was going to meet his demand. He knew Alastor well enough to distinguish when he was not going to be swayed, and it definitely reached that point. “Just wondered if maybe you’d stay one more day.”

“I am quite busy, dear,” Alastor responded as Anthony thought he would. “You could have planned it a week prior if you knew 14th was an important date.”

It was like talking to a computer at this point. Please leave a message, beep.

“Ya, I could have,” Anthony admitted and let it go. It wasn’t like Valentine’s Day was something special for either of them. Or, honestly, meant anything to their relationship. Maybe there was some Deal day in hell’s calendar they could open bottle of wine to down the year eventually.

A sigh and Alastor was putting his book down, his smile rather strained.

Uh oh.

“Anthony,” there was the Name CallingTM, “if you have something to say, say it.”

“Nothin’,” the human shrugged while sagging back into the cushion. “Three days are up.”

It was the weekend-less week now too and Anthony knew Alastor was itching to get back to hell to deal with whatever was needing his attention and he sort of thought of telling him if he really needed to go, he could, despite the deal saying otherwise, but was selfish and never did.

“I am not going to repeat myself,” the static rumbled more, meaning the bitching mode intensified and Anthony groaned. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“It’s just Valentine’s Day, ‘s all,” he mumbled and right the moment the sentence left his mouth, he would shoot himself if he could, because even to his ears it sounded so… cringy. Like he was expecting Alastor to bring him flowers and have dinner together with candles and all that bullshit they do in the movies. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “Actually. Forget it. I dunno why I even thought about it, for fuck’s sake.”

“Lover’s day,” Alastor didn’t forget it. Oh no.

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it that way, honest,” Anthony quickly assured him, and really wished Alastor would just shrug it off and return to his book like love never interested him. Since it never did. He was such an anti-intimate and anti-sexual person Anthony suspected him of really being just a little alien in a robotic body, like in Men in Black.

“Then what did you mean by asking me to stay on the Lover’s day?”

Oh yeah, okay, bastard mode activated now as well. Just keen on marinating Anthony in his own sweat and tears from the obvious mistake. Classic Alastor.

“Nothin’,” he piped defensively.

“Nothing would not make you ask me to stay one more day on Lover’s day,” Alastor was staring at him like a laser now, just burning through his skull. He was obviously super into making Anthony squirm in self-pity from his bad life decisions.

“Please, forget I asked.”

“No.”

“Pleaaaaase.”

“No.”

And that was it. That was the end. That was Anthony herded into an imaginary corner with nowhere to go, and Alastor was already turning towards him, and he couldn’t say if the smile was mischievous or angry. Lately the border between those was thin as fuck.

“I just thought a company on the most depressing day of the fuckin’ year would be nice, is all,” he gritted his teeth under Alastor’s red-eyed stare. “Like. We could watch some chic-flics on TV and drink wine and laugh at it, I don’t know.”

“You know how I feel about the picture show shenanigans,” Alastor shot right back, as expected. He learned to more or less tolerate when Anthony wanted to watch something on TV in his presence, but he never joined him for it like a goddamn boomer.

“Ye, see. So, it was doomed from the start anyway!” He hoped it was the end of it. Sure, he might have thought about some cuddles here and there too, since that was what they were supposed to do anyway, but the main plan was not to be alone while hating on all the hearts and roses and happy couples showed everywhere.

“It would seem so,” Alastor finally let him off the hook and opened his book again, the static diminishing slightly. “You can still drink wine though.”

“I plan to,” the human mumbled more to himself than to his companion and was just glad he didn’t need to go to work on that wretched day, or Alastor would find him in hell the very evening.

***

2020, February 14th

He’d be lying if he didn’t have at least the smallest hope of Alastor appearing out of thin air with one of the soft smiles he could do and with his Cajun accent telling him he changed his mind and wouldn’t leave him alone on such awful, overrated cash-grabbing day like this. It was probably 1 % chance of it happening, but he still felt a little disappointed when the clock showed a bit before midnight and Alastor didn’t show up at all, not even saying hi over the radio or sending Junior to give him few comforting nuzzles (Anthony was suspecting him he kept his shadow on short leash since the tequila incident and it was kind of sad).

He was switching between channels with a small frown two wine bottles later, but at least he managed to survive this shitty day without burying his face in PCP. He’d have to leave the house for it and the image of seeing happy hand holding couples on his way would kill the urge anyway.

Once Titanic started to play, Anthony decided it was enough suffering for one day and turned the TV off with a groan. Maybe Alastor knew exactly what kind of boredom the TV was, if not playing shitty movies, then filling majority of its broadcast with ads, and that’s why he avoided it.

He dragged his body to the bathroom and then to the bedroom to cuddle his body pillow instead of Alastor (not the same, but at least he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night anymore feeling cold and alone), and stopped dead in the tracks, staring at his bed.

There was a rose on his pillow – a red, beautiful rose just lying there like it was no biggie, and Anthony was afraid to blink in fear it would disappear. He padded closer, staring at the flower, and then turned quickly, searching the shadows for any sign of Junior hanging around, ready to pounce. He found nothing, the flat was silent and dark, and the rose was still on the pillow when he turned back.

“Al, you fuckin’ softie,” he chuckled to himself, picking the rose with a smile playing on his lips, just to hiss immediately after when a thorn bit into his thumb, drawing blood. Of course the demon would leave all the thorns intact, if not even adding more, just to show him he’s not as soft as Anthony would think.

“Classic Alastor,” he shook his head and brought the rose to his lips. “Thank you.”

He missed the shadow slithering out of the room and disappearing in the radio softly buzzing in the kitchen.

***

2020, July 25th

“Jazz club?”

“I’m in a mood for some good live music,” Alastor opened another wardrobe in the bedroom and raked through the clothes on hangers, mostly scoffing in distaste. It was Saturday evening and the night was warm and lively, inviting them out. “Do you actually own anything presentable or is it all just random bright coloured horrors?”

“Excuse me,” Anthony pushed him to the side from the wardrobe opening and dived in himself, pulling out a pastel blue shirt with stitched flowers on its lapels. “I only have the nicest-,”

“Denied,” Alastor snatched it from his hand and threw it on the bed. “Try again.”

Anthony huffed but grabbed another of his favourite pieces, an old-pink V neck he couldn’t even properly present before Alastor was taking it out of his hold and throwing it on the bed too.

“Yer such a prude sometimes, holy shit,” he rolled his eyes. “What the fuck ya want me to wear then?”

“Something dashing, of course,” the demon eyed the closet one more time and then closed it with a scoff. “And something red too.”

So we match was left unsaid.

“Maybe you should try pink instead,” Anthony smirked but honestly it was better if Alastor never attempted that one. Red and black were his colours like an ingrained order of the world, any deviation from it would probably make it collapse.

He wasn’t surprised Alastor didn’t react. Instead the demon left the bedroom and Anthony followed him while thinking.

“I can wear a dress,” Anthony offered after a moment. “Like. Those nice jazzy cocktail dresses and feathers in hair in a pearl headdress. And do nice make up.”

“A dress?” Alastor repeated. “Do you own any?”

“Yeah, plenty,” the human shrugged. “Often from work, though it was other bar I worked in before. Most of the guys were in a drag, they taught me how to do my own make up and how to style the hair. Really enjoyed that place, too bad they closed it down once the owner shot himself cuz of his debts.”

“Unfortunate,” Alastor commented with a nod. “Though I do recall you were saying the bar you work in now have the costume events too. Are dresses part of it as well?”

“Anything goes,” Anthony shrugged. “Dresses, skimpy body suits, fishnets, business wear. It’s usually themed with the drinks and the food.” He didn’t miss Alastor’s eye roll when he mentioned the skimpy body suits, but at least Al didn’t comment on it.

“I suppose guests enjoy that kind of show,” Alastor said matter-of-factly and Anthony decided not to elaborate. Going to work no longer made him feel at ease, it was mostly automatic. He just shut down all of the negativity, did the work, slapped grabby hands and went home. It more or less kept him out of trouble so far.

“So? Want me to doll up?” he leered at the demon between the doors. “I even have a red dress that might be just what you’d like.”

Alastor looked curious, that was a good sign. It had been few years since Anthony dressed up like this, but it could be a nice change of pace and a treat for his favourite demon who might not have about any interest in intimacy but could get very appreciative when he saw something he liked.

“Please,” the static dropped from Alastor’s voice. “Surprise me, cher.”

Anthony beamed and disappeared in the bedroom.

***

“Grandma,” Anthony walked into the living room in high heels, a fluffy coat covering his body all the way to his knees. He immediately drew Alastor’s attention and saw his eyebrows shooting up. Before he could open his mouth and ask probably why the hell was Anthony wearing a winter coat in the middle of summer, the human dramatically threw the coat down, so it pooled around his feet and struck a pose. “It’s me! Anastasia!”

Cue for the laugh, though Alastor just remained staring without a single word and Anthony cackled and kicked the coat away back into the bedroom without bothering to put it on a hanger.

“Forgot ya don’t watch TV, joke’s lost on ya,” he commented dryly and walked closer, the heels clicking against the wooden floor rhythmically. Alastor still stared but reached out towards him, so Anthony put a hand into his and their fingers intertwined.

“Ya like?” he cocked his head to the side and Alastor actually beamed at him, his eyes raking appreciatively over the setup the human presented – deep red flapper dress with long, pearl necklace tied on his chest into a knot, with fishnets and open black heels, and long black gloves reaching just above his elbow. The red and black eyeshadow with perfect eyeliner took some time, but Anthony was proud of the result and judging from Alastor’s pleased expression it was worth the wait. He styled his hair into 20’s fashion (thanks google) and the only thing he was missing was the headdress and the feather, but he imagined it wouldn’t be a problem for Alastor if he asked for it.

“Vous êtes absolument époustouflant,” the fluent French came out and even though Anthony had no idea what it meant, he believed it was a compliment. At least the tone sounded like it was.

“Hehe,” he let Alastor to twirl him around and when he finally faced the demon again, he realized he was not in the pinstriped suit anymore, but instead of the coat there was an elegant black vest and the red shirt under had different pattern as well, all accompanied by a thin black tie.

“Damn, that’s pretty sweet, Al,” he gently patted the tie and Alastor offered his arm with a smile.

“I believe we’re ready now, cher,” the demon gestured towards the main door and Anthony locked their elbows together and let Alastor lead them out. He felt his palms sweating in the gloves, the last time he felt so nervous was maybe on his first real date, but he was so not telling that out loud.

***

Birdland jazz club was the first thing that Anthony thought of and Alastor seemed satisfied when they entered the building and found a place to sit. Going out with Alastor wasn’t as frequent as it could be, but Anthony didn’t mind it either way. The first time they ventured outside of the walls of Anthony’s flat was around March and it left Anthony wondering why nobody actually turned around when seeing Alastor from the get go – the suit, the hair, the red glowing eyes – not really a normal sight in New York, that for sure.

2020, March 24th

“They don’t see me like you do,” Alastor told him when they sat in a coffee shop and ordered. The waiter didn’t even bat an eyelash at the demon, and it left Anthony’s mind reeling. “They just see a normal person, not even that interesting.”

“As in completely different person?” Anthony inquired and Alastor gently touched his forehead before taking his hand back again. In that moment instead of the red-eyed demon there was a man in his thirties, if not younger, with wild brown hair, rather short and tousled, hazel eyes hidden under round glasses, in a white shirt and a vest, looking completely human and normal and honestly kind of cute?

“Oooh,” Anthony couldn’t help it, “what a cute guy, damn. Ya can change to whoever ya want?”

“Not really,” the human had Alastor’s radio voice, how bizarre. “This face… it’s not whoever, it’s just me.”

Anthony blinked, taking in the face and the eyes and the small smile, and oh, yeah, there was a resemblance now when he focused more, but that would mean…

“Wait. Ye were a human before becoming a demon?” he gaped in shock and one eyebrow shot up on the pretty human-Alastor face.

“How is that surprising? We even talked about my mother,” he shook his very human head. Damn, it was so strange, yet adorable. “Of course, I was a human. Then I died. Ended up in Hell.”

“I don’t know!” Anthony groaned. “I know we talked about it but I just… I mean ya seem like an important and strong kind of demon? Like Lucifer-kind of demon? Surely there are demons born in hell and not just sinners becoming ones?”

“Yes, hellborn demons are a thing,” Alastor nodded and then stopped talking when the waitress approached with their orders, placing a steaming cup of black coffee in front of Alastor and Frappuccino in front of Anthony. The demon eyed Anthony’s drink with distaste but didn’t comment on it. “It is amusing to topple them over, while being just a sinner.”

“But then… you don’t really hold your appearance when you get down there? Or did you choose it?” Anthony tilted his head to the side, not getting enough of this stranger in front of him. Familiar, yet not at all.

“You do not have a say in it,” Alastor answered simply. “The appearance the sinner take in Hell depends on his life or the way he died. There are variety of things in play.”

Anthony nodded thoughtfully while sipping his drink and then grinned around his straw.

“What,” Alastor narrowed his eyes at him and Anthony let the straw go with an audible pop.

“Well, didja fuck a deer~?”

2020, July 25th

Alastor ordered whiskey and Malibu Sunset for Anthony without even needing to ask his companion and the waiter eyed them both with a pleasant smile before leaving. The club was almost full, and the live band just started to perform, which made the ambience quite enjoyable. Anthony didn’t mind jazz, though he was not a die-hard fan of it either. He knew about the clubs but never actually came to chill in one like this before. It was… pretty nice, especially with the company. Alastor was holding his hand on the table, a gentle touch Anthony relished in, and for some reason here, sitting like this, he felt like his equal. Like not only as a pet project and a future pawn, but a partner.

“It is peculiar,” Alastor suddenly spoke, his eyes meeting Anthony’s again. “For how much the world changed, jazz clubs are still feeling almost the same to me.”

“Compared to which year?” Anthony asked, holding his gaze and felt a thumb gently caressing the back of his hand.

“1930,” Alastor smiled with surprising gentleness. “What a year.”

1930. He didn’t know when exactly Alastor died, but if in 1930 he was enjoying jazz clubs, he must have been an adult already. It made him 80 years old past his death at least.

“30’s baby,” Anthony chuckled. “No wonder you don’t fancy TV. It was probably just coming out?”

“Yes, the biggest wave came after I died, thankfully,” a clear distaste in Alastor’s voice was hilarious. “Would prefer radio anyway. It was my job after all.”

“A radio host?” Anthony guessed as much, and the demon hummed while sipping his whiskey. It fitted him, that sort of occupation. “Well, I dunno what ya did in your life to end up in hell,” he leaned against his palm, smiling at Alastor softly, “but yer biggest sin is not talkin’ in that accent of yers. And I mean it. It’s so hot.”

“Correct speech was a must for a radio,” Alastor said primly, but he looked very relaxed talking about it. “Talkin’ like dis would make me a garbage host.”

“I could listen to ya for hours tho,” Anthony grinned and Alastor glanced back to the live band with a small smile, still holding Anthony’s hand.

The night passed fast with great music and maybe a little more alcohol then they planned on drinking, but they could still walk on their own legs when leaving. When drunk, Alastor dropped the correct speech entirely and was extremely touchy feely, which reduced Anthony into a giggling mess.

“You’re a lovely companion, cher,” he was crooning at Anthony when they were walking home through the New York streets, arm sneaked around Anthony’s waist. “Da deal we made was da best thing dat happened to me in a long time.”

“Oh, man, Al,” Anthony couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Ya know how to flatter a guy, huh.”

“Truth is da sincerest form of flattery!” Alastor spun the human around, twirling him on the pavement like a ballerina, then stilling him again with both hands holding his waist. “And I mean every word.”

“Ha, are ya this happy because of the dress?” he batted his eyelashes at the demon and Alastor��s hands slid lower to Anthony’s hips before returning to his waist, an appreciative touch that made Anthony’s breath hitch.

“It suits you,” Alastor concluded, standing close and personal. “Da whole look suits you so well. But even in your pink distasteful pieces of cloth you call fashion, you still look da best.”

“O-ooh, boy,” Anthony felt his heartbeat speed up. If he’d only slightly dipped his head, he could be kissing the man in front of him. Maybe normally he even would if his partner wasn’t a demonic deer with intimacy aversion. But he didn’t want to fuck this up. Holy shit, he would really go and kill himself if he fucked it up now of all times by not holding his horses and forcing himself on an obvious asexual only enjoying the company, while having too many drinks to keep his defences up.

“T-thanks, Al,” he gulped down the cringy nicknames he would use on anybody else after a date night. “Yer the best company I could’ve hoped for too.”

He was adamantly sure it wasn’t him who brought them together, that it was Alastor’s hand grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him lower and then pressing their lips together in a quick kiss, and Alastor’s body pushing against his, and also Alastor who stepped away again with half lidded eyes and a sly smile, saying: “Remember, you’re mine forever.”

Anthony was never, ever going to forget that.

***

2020, July 26th

It was the rhythmical beat of rain against the windowsill that woke Anthony up. The weather let up a little and allowed a little colder wind to blow through the windows and it felt so pleasant Anthony just buried his face back into the warmth and breathed out in contentment. It took him a moment before he realized the warmth was Alastor’s chest and that there were Alastor’s arms holding him firmly in place and their legs were intertwined and even though it was nothing new, he suddenly felt his heart speeding up almost in panic and he blinked in confusion on why the hell would he freak out now after more than half a year of sleeping with the demon like this.

It hit him just a little while later – because Alastor kissed him yesterday. On his own. While drunk.

Nothing happened afterwards, they just stumbled back home and Alastor was clingy and by some miracle Anthony managed to get rid of the make up and change into an oversized t-shirt before collapsing to bed with the demon draped around his torso, mumbling sweet nothings like a suave Casanova with zero experience and then they both fell asleep.

He knew Alastor had his clingy moments, usually when really, really tired, so it made sense his drunk self would be probably another extension of that behaviour. But the kiss was still unexpected, and Anthony was terrified of the consequences. He could see Alastor freaking out over it when sober, he could imagine him being distant and cold to deal with the situation, to keep Anthony on arm’s length again, and it was making him sad. He could maybe hope Alastor would draw blanks after the night, but he didn’t drink himself to stupor, so the chances of that were quite low.

He looked up to the sleeping face of his companion, relaxed and content, and just thought fuck, why is he so lovable sometimes? Why couldn’t he be more demonic, more heartless, or crueller for Anthony to keep at least his metaphorical heart to himself? Why was watching him sleep pulled so many strings in him? Why his presence was so dear and needed? Why falling in love always happened with the worst kind of person?

“Are you tryin’ to curse me, cher?”

Anthony whined and buried his face back into Alastor’s chest. Of course the fucker was awake, witnessing Anthony’s existential crisis.

“I’d recommend voodoo for dat,” the demon had no mercy. “It’s lot less messy.”

“I’m bad ad sewin’,” Anthony mumbled into the red shirt and the laugh Alastor let out rumbled in his chest like thunderstorm. His clawed hand raked through Anthony’s hair with gentleness and it was too much for his poor, weak heart.

“This is gonna sound morbid, but…” he started quietly, “I can’t wait to be dead. So I can be with ya down there.”

The hand stilled for a fraction of second before resuming its pace.

“Dis is gonna be morbid as well, but I can’t wait for you to be ded too, to be with me down dere,” Alastor’s other hand moved to rest on the small of Anthony’s back, the warmth seeping into his body like poison. “To belon’ to me and do my biddin’ any time I’d want you to.”

“Fuck, that’s kinda hot?” Anthony groaned. “Imagine talking like this in front of people though. Can’t wait for you to die already, babe! Like shit, is he a murderer? Is he gonna slice his throat in bed?”

“Romance done right.”

“Till death do us apart… for a moment, until we’re pass that phase,” Anthony couldn’t help but chuckle. Honestly, he never thought about dying as much prior meeting Alastor, like he knew it was going to happen eventually – sooner or later, it depended a lot on drugs and work and attitude – but there were no deep feelings about his life ending. Not even that much fear. But now? It was like a gateway he couldn’t wait to pass, and it was a little fucked up.

“Lookin’ forward to it,” Alastor sighed and yeah, he didn’t help, really. “Comin’ here so often is quite taxin’. I adore bein’ with you, but it would be even better when we’re both in Hell, havin’ you on my lap-,”

“On your lap?!” Anthony whipped his head up, grinning. “So yer a kinky bastard after all!”

“Nothin’ kinky about wantin’ to keep you close,” the demon was so confident all of sudden, sheesh. Was he still a little drunk? He never talked about things like these – hell, he never actually expressed his feelings toward Anthony so openly, unless it was his shadow who, instead of words, was showing him by nuzzles. Sure, it was apparent he liked Anthony at least a little, but now it scaled up so much Anthony was scared it was just a dream and he was going to wake up soon.

“On yer lap, with your dick out, huh?” Stumbled out of Anthony’s mouth, out of habit, honestly, and he immediately regretted it. Alastor, as expected, scoffed at it.

“Darlin’, we’ve talked ‘bout dis.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Anthony rested his chin on the back of his hands. It was somewhere in April, if he remembered correctly, when Alastor informed him sex was probably as interesting to him as stepping into muddy puddle and then having to clean his shoes. Anthony took it as it were – it was in their deal anyway about the intimacy and sexual stuff, so it didn’t come as much as a surprise to hear Alastor was purely asexual character. It was still fun to rile him up sometimes though. “Just want ya to know ya can do anythin’ yer want to me. Even here.”

“You’re always so sincere, cher,” Alastor’s hand previously in Anthony’s hair slid down to his cheek, gently caressing it.

“Life sucks anyway,” Anthony leaned into the touch. “Every time yer not here, it’s like it loses colours. Like yer my impulse control and when I can’t be with ya, I do stupid shit. Like drugs.”

“Lately?”

“On occasion. When alone for too long,” Anthony admitted not too proudly. It was difficult to let it go completely, no matter how Alastor filled the void. Once he was gone, the void returned. “Makes me feel better. When yer here, it’s like I’m addicted to ya and need to fill that void with somethin’ when ya leave.”

“Can’t be helped,” the demon’s thumb slid down to Anthony’s lips, the claw gently pressing down and easing up. Anthony felt an urge to lick it, but Alastor would probably smack him if he did.

“Shouldn’t ya be discouraging me?” he teased a little and Alastor raised an eyebrow.

“Do I look like an angel to you?” he asked with a tilt in his voice and Anthony shrugged.

“Yer trying to fix me.”

“To feel more confident, not a saint,” Alastor opposed and Anthony hissed when the claw cut the tender skin on his lower lip, a drop of blood appearing.

“…fair,” he hummed, watching Alastor stare at the redness with half-lidded eyes before he suddenly pulled Anthony close and licked the droplet away, making him shudder.

“I can’t let you be too much of a good boy,” the demon whispered to his lips. “Or we’d have a problem with upstairs.”

“And we don’t want that,” Anthony added breathlessly, and his partner smirked.

“We really don’t, darlin’.”

***

2020, October 9th

It was a rare moment – rarer than seeing a rainbow after rain, but it was there. Alastor allowing Anthony to touch his hair and ears, while sitting on a couch in the living room, reading a book he brought along from hell. They were in the middle of preparing dinner but there was at least 30 minutes of downtime and Alastor thought it was the best time to study some of his hell shit, like Anthony wasn’t there, ready for a cuddle.

Unfair.

So he stood behind the couch, right above Alastor’s head and risked a gentle scrape of fingers through the red and black locks. Alastor didn’t react, which normally meant a green light for whatever Anthony was up to, so he buried his hand in his hair and while the demon made a humming noise in the back of his throat, he didn’t stop him. So he played around, twirling the strands, pulling them back, braiding some, poking the ears till they flicked, until he started pulling the hair back from Alastor’s face and from the sides into a neat ponytail he secured with a hairband he had on his wrist from his own hair care just an hour ago and left it there.

Alastor… with a ponytail. Huh.

He circled the sofa and stopped in the front, taking the sight of the new style in, and yeah, okay, that shouldn’t really make him this horny, but it did.

“Am I gonna regret lettin’ you play with my hair, darlin’?” Alastor glanced at him from the book and Anthony buried his face in his hands.

“No, but now I regret ya let me because I made ya even fuckin’ hotter,” he whined.

Alastor delivered an overkill when he rolled his sleeves up once they got back to cooking and left the ponytail be. Anthony was pretty sure he was only preparing him for the suffering in hell in his own way.

***

2020, November 11th

The first time he had thought of taking off Alastor’s gloves were on Wednesday evening while resting his head on the demon’s legs, playing with the hem of them. He had never seen Alastor taking them off – ever. Honestly he never saw him take off about anything except of his shoes and his coat, but even when he rolled up his sleeves, he left the gloves on and Anthony thought he maybe just had a thing about touching stuff with his bare hands - some people did. He knew there were scars on Alastor’s forearms and his chest, he had seen them when he unbuttoned his shirt a little, so maybe his hands were the same and he didn’t like showing them. Alastor didn’t strike him as somebody who cared as much about other people’s opinion, but he knew appearances might be deceptive. With Alastor’s obvious control kink the image he presented himself with probably played its role.

He was dragging his nails over the fabric of the burgundy gloves with thoughtful hum and when Alastor didn’t protest in any way, he slid two fingers under the hem, touching the bare palm of the demon’s hand. Still no reaction that would mean Alastor hated it, which encouraged him to continue.

The tip of his tongue peaked out in concentration as he tried to fit more in, at which Alastor finally cleared his throat above him.

“Darlin’,” he crooned. “What’re you doin’?”

“Havin’ sex with yer hands, duh.” He wiggled his fingers a little and Alastor sighed while grabbing the offensive hand and stopped the ministrations. “Aww.”

“Leave my hands outta your crudeness,” the demon flicked his forehead instead and then rested his hand back on Anthony’s chest where it was before. It only took about ten seconds before Anthony was on it again and at that point Alastor just grabbed his wrist and held it up.

“Nooo,” the human tried to wriggle out of the hold, but the grip was inhumanly strong. “Spoilsport. It’s not like I’d do somethin’ dirty to it… maybe.”

“Whateva you say, darlin’,” Alastor didn’t budge, obviously. But at least it made Anthony think of something else when it came to Alastor’s elusive hands.

“Let’s make a deal then,” he proposed, grinning at his partner’s confused expression. “You lemme take off yer gloves. And I won’t do anything bad to yer hands.”

“Dat sounds like a rubbish deal,” Alastor shook his head. “No dice.”

“Then… what do ya want in exchange?” he batted his eyelashes seductively, which had about zero, if not minus, effect on the demon. “Imma game for anythin’.”

There was a gleam in Alastor’s eyes as if he thought of something wicked and manipulative, and then his smile widened. Anthony thought of anything – eternal enslavement, monthly donation of human souls, not talking for a week-

“I want t’ see you in a suit.”

“Say what now?”

“I’ll let you take my gloves off, but I get to see you in a suit,” came a term and Alastor was positively beaming now, which was weird, because… a suit? Was that even a proper condition? He could have just asked; it wasn’t like Anthony had an aversion to wear fully buttoned up clothing or something. Sure, he didn’t love it, but to make a deal out of it?

“I mean… sure?” The grip on his wrist disappeared and Anthony sat up, still confused. When a hand appeared with familiar green shine, he checked once more for Alastor’s happy expression and then took it, feeling the tingle running down his spine.

“Pleasure doin’ business with you, darlin’,” Alastor gently grabbed Anthony’s chin to raise up his head a little. “Now dress up. I’ll be waitin’.”

“Yer a public menace,” the human barked out a laugh but got up anyway. He was pretty sure he still had a suit from the cabaret night and could only hope it would still fit.

It fit. He liked the suit because despite wearing it just once, it fitted him like a glove and even though he wasn’t exactly a fan of black and white setup, it had its charm once in a while. The well-tailored vest and close-fitting pants still made a nice figure and Anthony vaguely remembered the cabaret night granted him quite a bit of extra money, just because of how the pants hugged his ass (and because of his pretty face too, he was confidently sure. He didn’t even need to suck anybody’s dick that night).

He checked himself in a mirror for the last time, trying to find any imperfection he could somehow remedy, until he was completely satisfied and returned to the living room with surprisingly nervous expectations.

“No Anastasia today?” Alastor greeted him with a small smile standing near the couch, and Anthony fidgeted, not really feeling that confident in the clothes as he ironically was in the dress before.

“Wouldn’t wanna make the same joke twice, ya know,” he rubbed the back of his neck and took two more steps closer to where Alastor was standing. “Well. Here I am. In a plain boring suit just for yer viewing pleasure.”

“Pleasure indeed,” the demon looked delighted, which still baffled him, but maybe he had a thing for suits in his asexual spectrum, why not. Then he offered his hand for Anthony to take, palm up, and he realized the gloves were already off. Alastor’s hands were black as night with long, red claws gradually darkening until the blackness swallowed the colour. The obsidian shade was stopping in tendrils around his wrists like the shadows were swallowing his hands in a provocative manner and Anthony had an urge to rub his face all over it.

He must have stared for too long because the hand started pulling away and Anthony panicked with low nonono and grabbed it like a frightened animal.

“Ya can’t just flash it and then walk away with it, sheesh,” he grumbled, holding the hand in both of his and it was smooth and somehow warm, and feeling like a human hand, sort of, but at the same time not really? He couldn’t tell for sure. He wondered how it would taste if he licked it.

“You looked put off, didn’t wanna flaunt it ‘round,” Alastor’s voice cracked his concentration and it made him look up to the demon’s face in surprise. The smile he had was tight – was he self-conscious about it? In all its strangeness his hands were like some famous artist’s masterpiece, nothing to be conscious about.

“Well, ya should flaunt it around,” he said firmly. “Damn, it’s like. Really cool and kinda creepy, I like it.”

The hand visibly relaxed, the claws opened, and Anthony couldn’t stop himself anymore, he just rubbed his cheek against it like an affectionate cat and heard Alastor’s breath hitch in his throat.

Score.

“That feels so niiiice,” he purred happily. “And for just one lousy in-suit evening, ya should feel cheated.”

“Quite the opposite, darlin’,” another clawed hand joined the first one and then Alastor was holding his face on both sides, gently rubbing his cheeks, and Anthony was pretty sure he had the most dorky expression on his face right now but didn’t care. “You look dashin’.”

“Mmmhm,” Anthony grinned, and his hands covered the clawed ones and squeezed. “How ‘bout you walk back a bit.”

“Walk back?” the demon tilted his head, but did as he was told, just to lose his balance immediately after two steps when his knees hit the edge of the couch (Anthony pushed him slightly so he would fall right into sitting position, because he was a little shit and had a plan). Before Alastor could say anything else (though he didn’t look like he wanted to), Anthony sat on top of him, knees next to his thighs and took one of the blackened hand and gave the pointing finger an experimental lick.

Alastor immediately bristled like Anthony just flashed him, the static buzzing to life and off the roof, and shit, it should have scared him, but it did not. He stopped though, watching the demon with seductive smile and Alastor gradually breathed in and out and the static stopped again.

“Scary,” Anthony winked at him, still holding the hand in his, and Alastor shook his head and flexed his claws.

“You try your luck too often,” he just said in a low, warning voice.

“I know,” the human positioned the clawed hand on his chest, right where his heart was beating, vulnerable and open, and smiled. “I’m goin’ to be good from now on. Promise.”

“Moderately,” Alastor added.

“Ya know it.”

Their hands intertwined and Anthony was pretty sure during this night the defences Alastor had lowered for him once more.

***

2021, February 9th

When it came to birthdays, Anthony normally ignored them. Since almost no one knew the date, he was mostly safe to spend the day as any other, so it actually came as a surprise when Anthony brought home bouquet of roses from work (ironically from the patrons and not from co-workers, go and figure) for his birthday and put it in a vase on the table in the living room. It was rather nice of them, sure, though it only fuelled the disdain from his co-workers further. He more or less forgot about it up until Alastor showed up in the evening and noticed the newest addition.

“I thought the Lover’s day is on 14th,” Alastor watched the bouquet as if it would explode any moment, his eyes narrowed.

“Huh? Oh yeah,” Anthony peeked in from the kitchen. “Valentine’s Day is on 14th. This is cuz of my birthday.”

“Your birthday is today?” the demon left the bouquet alone and joined Anthony in the kitchen, his tone surprised. “You did not say anything.”

“Well, cuz it’s not really important,” Anthony shrugged while slicing meat. Even though he normally ignored this day, he kind of wanted to make something special for Alastor, if anything else. As a treat for himself. “Nothing worth to celebrate.”

“What a strange thing to say,” Alastor leaned with his back against the counter right next to Anthony, his expression curious. “Mortals normally enjoy celebrating their birthday. Mainly because of gifts, at least?”

“Well, I’m a special case.”

“Not enjoying gifts?” That was a stupid question. Of course Anthony enjoyed gifts as long as they were not mean or overly sexual, but along with his miserable life his birthday mostly left a bitter taste in his mouth every year.

“As much as any other John, obviously,” he glanced at Alastor with a smirk. “It’s just… not my thing. To celebrate the day I was born.”

“I see,” Alastor nodded thoughtfully. “Would it be an overstep if I said I would like to celebrate it with you?”

“You would?” Anthony stopped with the meat preparations and turned to face the demon, a weird flicker of happiness igniting in him.

“Celebrating the day you were born seems very fitting,” Alastor’s smile widened. “Otherwise we would never meet. And I treasure the moment when we did.”

“Aww,” Anthony cooed, and it was nice, to be told by the person you were crushing on.

“Though I must admit,” Alastor tilted his head to the side. “I am not entirely sure what is the norm in this century.”

“We can bake a cake?” Anthony offered. He was pretty sure he had all the ingrediencies stocked. “I guess people usually do that. Then they wish happy b-day and lots of health and good fortune or… I don’t know, I don’t usually do this shtick. They smooch maybe too. Or shake hands. Same thing for some people.”

“Oh,” Alastor looked thoughtful. “That sounds amendable.”

“Yeah, we can try-mmph?!” Out of anything that could possibly happen to him on his wretched birthday, Alastor pushing him against the counter and kissing him was definitely not one of them. Sure, they did kiss sometimes, though it was usually chaste and almost innocent?

Well, this was extremely far from innocent. This involved tongue. This was some other Alastor possessing the demon’s body, ravishing his mouth in the kitchen on his birthday while his hands cupped Anthony’s face and his thumbs were gently caressing his cheekbones, and what the hell, the gloves were off too, it made Anthony melt. Alastor was nipping on his lower lip and then diving back in, and Anthony felt his body shiver and his hands gripped the pinstriped coat in fear Alastor would stop or something, and when the demon let go of him with a last obscene lick, he realized he was basically on verge of suffocating already without his brain notifying him. He gasped for air with a shudder and Alastor joined their foreheads together, his smile small and private.

“Happy birthday, darlin’,” he purred. “Thank you for bein’ born.”

Anthony made an inhumane voice in the back of his throat and clung to his demon as if his life depended on it.

Maybe his birthday was not so bad after all.

(Later he found the bouquet in the trash and a new and much bigger one on the table instead. Alastor acted like he had no idea what happened.)

***

2024, October 1st

When Anthony thought about dying at any point of his life, it just meant the end. He didn’t know how he was going to die, but that usually changed each year. As a teenager, he wanted to commit suicide several times a year, mainly from age 15 to 17. He wasn’t sure what exactly stopped him each time, but somehow, he pulled through. In his mid-twenties it was a risk from the outer sources – too tight squeezes of hands around his neck when having sex, too many drugs in his system, too much alcohol. Once even a stab wound from his crazy ex. Granted, Anthony almost killed him back on the spot – though later he found out the fucker died in the hospital. So technically it wasn’t exactly murder? It should have been though.

Anyway. When he hit 30, he felt like his mind was on verge of breaking and any kind of distraction was strong enough to keep him occupied. He thought about death from time to time, but always stopped his hand reaching for a knife in the kitchen, thinking maybe, just maybe there is more to life than stubbornly surviving days, weeks, months of his miserable life for no reason.

At age 31 he summoned a demon and for four years his life turned to be enjoyable three times a week, and sometimes even five. He gave his heart and soul to hell for company, and fell in love with a force of nature, a whirlwind of emotions, a lovely devil. He never, ever regretted a single day spent with Alastor, a single hour, a minute, a second. Despite their occasional quarrels, their differences, and their triggers, they enjoyed each other’s company. They learned through their mistakes and they made each other stronger through the weaknesses, and while all that was slowly fading away in staccato of painful spasms and tears, Anthony still felt fondness and maybe even a twinge of happiness of his cage finally breaking free, even though it hurt like a bitch and he felt sick and alone.

It wasn’t like he wanted to die. He didn’t think 35 was some kind of milestone of life and death, a crossroad not meant to be crossed.

But he was tired. He was lonely. He wanted and craved and yearned for more of something that was out of his reach, no matter how much he tried to grab it, to pull it close.

You are still alive, mon chéri, and it is yours and only yours to live. I do not want you to regret it, no matter how much I want you with me. I might have forfeited my life, but your heart still beats. Do not waste it.

Anthony thought Alastor was being cold that day. He thought they were just words said to placate him somehow, a lie spilled to keep him here. If he wanted, if he craved like Anthony did, would he say please live to him? Right after spilling his heart? Even though they both wanted to be together? Even when they both morbidly dreamed about Anthony’s eventual death?

Now, thinking back to it… he saw what he meant. Now, when everything was turning cold and distant and dark, he realized dying at 35 is young and stupid and wasteful.

Yet he didn’t regret it. He was never going to regret selling his soul to a devil and leaving a place that only brought him pain in a ditch.

The only thing he regretted was dying alone in a dirty bathroom, but… it wasn’t like he could choose anyway.

“There, there, darlin’.”

There were warm hands holding his face. Everything felt raw and searing, like falling through liquid fire.

“Breathe.”

He tried to, but only hacked out blood. He shook his head, curling into himself. The hands gently petted his hair.

“Now, now, my heart,” the voice cooed. “My everything. You are safe now. You belong to me.”

He felt a pain in his chest, like his heart was torn out and left a gaping chasm behind. It was like tasting despair and ash on tip of his tongue.

“Nobody will ever hurt you again, cher,” a gentle reminder, a curtain hiding the missing organ in his body, a beautiful lie. “Nobody, ever again.”

He submitted to it and the pain disappeared.

***

2024, 359th day

“I can’t believe that! Ya almost ate my pig!”

“I thought it lost its way here and it is time for dinner, it was only appropriate.”

“How dare ya! Ya monster!”

“Can you two keep it down?!” A screech came from the stairs and halted the crossfire like a switch before the owner of the voice even entered their field of vision, a fair hair flowing around a pretty face, a fierce glare seizing them. “Bloody old-married couple, do it somewhere else!”

“What she said,” a grumble agreed from the bar, and a tall, four-armed spider demon picked a small pig from the floor and cuddled it to his fluffy chest, cooing at it gently.

“Well, sorry for trying to save my little baby from this guy,” he glared at his enemy from under long, white fringe. “He’d eat him. Eat Fat Nuggets!”

“Oh dear, you already named it?” the red-eyed demon twirled his microphone in his hand, his smile widening. “You should have told me. Would adjust the name on the menu.”

“Keep talkin’, big boy, I have enough venom to make you spend your day in agony,” the spider hissed and the pig in his arms snorted happily, apparently finding all the commotion amusing. “And not the good kind.”

“I am looking forward to it, darlin’,” Alastor crooned and Vaggie made a retching noise when she finally reached the bar. Husker didn’t need her to ask for a drink, he was already pouring her one – and one for himself. It wasn’t like she condoned the bar in the hotel, but sometimes it was a much-needed way of coping, especially when it came to these two.

“Can you leave already?” she turned back towards them once she gulped the alcohol down, grimacing at the burn crawling down her throat. “Angel was talking about this for a week and now you stand here for whatever reason for half an hour, you should’ve been gone by now!”

“I wasn’t talkin’ about it for a week,” Angel shot back while pursing his lips. “Just few days, maybe.”

“A week?” Alastor crossed his arms on his chest. “Lucky. I was hearing about it since he got here.”

“Well excuse me for being sentimental,” Angel stuck his tongue at him and walked towards the bar, handing Fat Nuggets to Husker, who eyed the pig warily.

“I ain’t looking after that fucking thing.”

“Pleaaase.”

A groan, but the cat demon took it, rolling his eyes. “Last time though.”

“Sure thing, hot stuff,” Angel winked and left the bar in easy stride, joining Alastor in the middle of the hall. “Shall we?”

“Only waitin’ for you, cher,” Alastor offered his arm and Angel locked their elbows together. “You sure you don wanna take da pig with you?”

“Why?”

“A late night snack.”

“I’ll fuckin’ smack ya, stop it,” he grumbled at the laugh Alastor didn’t even bother hiding, and let the man lead them out of the hotel.

The red sky above their heads was like an everlasting void pierced by a tall, dark tower in the distance and Angel kind of liked how demons were afraid to come close to it, yet to him the place felt like home. The Radio tower came with big overlord territory and despite it being rather far from the hotel, Angel insisted on walking instead of Alastor using the portals to get them there in seconds. It just felt more date-like rather than abusing the Radio Demon powers and Alastor didn’t argue about that – which was nice because normally he argued about everything for the sport of it.

“I guess it makes sense,” Angel hummed while leaning into Alastor’s warmth on their way through the Pentagram city. “Christmas is ‘bout Jesus being born and shit. No reason to celebrate it here.”

“I was wonderin’ when you’d find out,” Alastor responded matter-of-factly. “Christmas bein’ a big Christian secret.”

“Har har,” the spider demon nudged him. “I’m new, don’t make fun of me. Can’t help I miss it.”

“Of course you miss it,” Alastor freed himself from Angel’s hold, just to sneak his arm around his waist, pulling him closer. “It’s when you met me.”

“Yer so fuckin’ cocky, maybe I just miss the presents,” Angel crossed his upper arms on his chest, but his lower one curled around Alastor’s waist as well.

“I’m da only present you’ll ever need~,” the Radio demon singsonged and Angel barked out a laugh.

“Guess that’s not completely wrong,” he admitted and when he felt a hand on the back of his neck, he met Alastor’s lips halfway in a chaste kiss, both not even stopping on their way to the tower.

“You’re da only one for me too,” Alastor whispered softly. “My dear Anthony.”

Angel couldn’t help but think life is fucking overrated when your boyfriend is owning your heart in all kinds of ways.

#hazbin hotel #radiodust #alastor x angel dust #au #the deal series #human!angel dust

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scarlettrin · 5 years ago

Text

NaLu Week - Hiding In The Barn

@nalu-week Day 7: Smile

Warning: Smut!

Also published on FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13637333/1/Hiding-in-the-barn

Hiding In The Barn.

Natsu snorted. He couldn’t believe that Lucy wasn’t tired of dancing yet.

They’d been at that country festival for the whole evening and a good part of the night. After eating and drinking plenty, everyone started dancing in the middle of the square. Everyone was wearing medieval dresses and Lucy was dressed with a lovely pink one, her hair prettily braided: it was hard not to look at her, dancing and smiling in the middle of square. Natsu looked at her pretty smile and grinned: seeing her so happy made him happy too. In that moment, a pretty drunken lad came by his side, lying against the wall: he was definitely wasted.

“Yo man!” he greeted Natsu, leaning against his shoulder.

“Hey” he replied a bit confused – the Dragon Slayer never liked to drink, so he never really understood people who got plastered that way.

“Ya know… I always thought… my dream was to become… you know… a great rich something… like an actor�� or a politician… but now my friend!” he raised his voice suddenly, embracing Natsu with one arm and pointing with the full cup in hand towards the centre of the square “Now… my dream… is to marry… HER!”

“Her who?” asked Natsu, raising a brow confusingly.

“The beautiful blondie dancing over there… man… I do love her!” he exhaled, enthusiastically.

“I don’t really think so” Natsu replied, shooting a bad glare at him.

“But I love her!”

“No, you don’t.”

“Look at her, she’s gorgeoooous!”

“She’s not only that. She’s also funny and very intelligent” Natsu replied, naturally.

“See? I… *hic*… really have to marry her… I’m gonna take her to the barn… later…” he said, before falling asleep against the wall behind them.

“To the barn?” Natsu asked to himself, confusingly.

She had been dancing for hours and was literally exhausted. Lucy ran towards the edge of the square, where Natsu had been waiting all the time – but he was no longer there. Lucy really wanted to dance with him, but he just kept on refusing her invitation, pouting in embarrassment. So, she just kept on dancing with lots of nice citizens, both old and young, children and middle-aged men, and she had an incredible time. That medieval festival of magic was super exciting and she was so happy to be there, she couldn’t stop smiling.

Lucy started to wander along a small road near to where she left Natsu and, after a few steps, she managed to find him walking towards the square.

“Hey Natsu” she trilled excitedly, running towards him. His face was red and he seemed dumbfounded. “Where have you been?!”

“Oh, Lucy…” he replied surprised, as she swooped happily against him. He immediately felt his temperature rise and the heat he had been feeling seemed to worsen.

“What’s wrong? Where’ve you been?” Lucy asked, looking at him curiously.

“Ah… er… I’ve been… to the barn”.

“To the barn?!” Lucy winced, surprised. She heard the village girls talking as they lent her dress and as they helped her with her hair, and she knew very well what happened in the barn. “Who did you go there with?!” Lucy raised her voice, her smile fading and feeling a strange pulse wrapping her chest.

“N-nobody… I went there alo—” but Natsu couldn’t finish his sentence that a strong thunder rumbled in the night sky, followed by a few raindrops. “Oh, no…”

“Oh! What a pity! All the festival stands and the decorations!” Lucy sighed, but soon she realised that that rain was too painful: in fact, it was hail.

“Let’s run for cover, Lucy!” Natsu said, taking her hand and running away along the road. Soon enough, they found cover from the violent hailstorm that had suddenly started to rage.

“Woah, that’s crazy! Where did this storm come from?!” Natsu started laughing, as he closed the heavy, wooden door behind his back, feeling the suddenly freezing air coming from outside.

Lucy stood in the weak, dim light of the place, her back towards Natsu.

“Natsu.”

“Yeah?”

“Why… are we… in the barn?” she asked, looking at him with lucid eyes and trembling shoulders.

“Ah… eh… I didn’t know anywhere else to go!”

“She could’ve gone back to our inn!”

“It’s far from the square and in the rush of the moment… I only thought… about this place” Natsu pouted, his voice trailing off with embarrassment.

“Oh. So…what have you seen in the barn?” Lucy asked, her voice slightly malicious.

The only light illuminating that place, which strongly smelt of straw, was the storm light coming from the dirty windows.

Natsu gulped. “W-well… I-I… I didn’t see anything!”

“Really? People told me stories about this place…” Lucy chirped, ironically.

“A-and what did they tell you?!”

“I don’t know… things… but then again, why were you here? What did you want to see?” she continued with amusement.

“Nothing at all! There was a lad that told that he wanted to bring you here, so I wanted to check what he meant! And you should really thank me for checking up on this place! People do strange things here and…” Natsu’s voice trailed off again. He felt his cheeks on fire as soon as he remembered what he saw there a few moments before. The boy and the girl who were there making out – they were definitely younger than him! – and they seemed to be having a lot of fun, but… the things they were doing… really made him feel strange. Dirty. Even though he felt something catching fire deep within his chest as soon as he saw – and heard – them.

“You know…. I didn’t really understand what was going on there, but… I’m happy that you weren’t there with that drunken lad, Lucy.” Natsu said, almost admitting that truth to himself rather than to her.

“Of course I wouldn’t be here with someone who’s not you” Lucy sighed, lying down on a soft pile of straw. Her blond hair opened wide, mixing up with the golden straw. With a couple of fingers, she started to loosen the strings of the bustier of her medieval dress, letting her breast expand a little.

Natsu gulped. “What are you doing?!”

“Uff… it’s hard to breathe with this thing squeezing my chest…” Lucy complained.

Natsu scratched his neck: why was he feeling so nervous? He had seen Lucy naked more times than he’d seen himself probably, but this time he felt terribly aware of every inch of her skin, every breath that she drew… it was that damn place, it smelt like something strange and intense: it wasn’t the straw, it was something deeply human, a mix of sweat and human breaths.

A thunder roared in the sky once more and the hail turned into violent and deep rain.

“Seems it’s gonna take a while” Lucy murmured as she patted the place by her side on the straw.

With slow steps, Natsu approached Lucy and lied down by her side, taking a big breath.

“What’s wrong?” Lucy asked, turning on her side to face Natsu.

“I dunno know. I feel strange.” Natsu admitted, turning towards Lucy and closing the distance between their faces.

Lucy joggled back, surprised by the sudden motion of the boy, but Natsu gently grabbed her by her wrist, stopping her.

“H-Hey Natsu… don’t get strange ideas…”

“What strange ideas?”

“I mean… we’re in the barn, so…”

“So?”

Lucy lost it “So I thought you wanted to do… things… that people do… in the barn… with me.” Lucy’s words almost disappeared in an embarrassed mumble.

“Oh.” Natsu replied, widening his eyes. “But we can’t do that stuff. Can we?”

“Of course we can…” Lucy sighed, desperately. He was so dense when it came to love stuff.

Natsu furrowed his brows, a serious look on his face.

“Then… maybe… we should try.”

“WH—” Lucy was totally taken aback, but she couldn’t reply anything because Natsu was already over her, his hands on the sides of her head, a serious but flustered look on his face.

He remained there for a few minutes, looking at her in the eye, uncertain what to do. He could feel a strong stab in the stomach, his heartbeat accelerated, his breath heavy and his throat parched. Lucy’s breast went up and down quickly, following her quick, shuddering breaths.

Mesmerized by the vision of Lucy lying there, beautiful and excited, Natsu let his fingers slide slowly from her damp hair, along her neck, reaching the heat of her breast. There, he let his hand rest on her heart, right between her soft breasts – so hot. His breath quickened even more and he could feel a strange fire he never felt before burning deep inside of him.

“Lu—” he tried to call her name, but he was caught off guard when Lucy’s arms wrapped around his neck, leading him down onto her.

“Natsu…” she breathed softly, rubbing her nose lightly against Natsu’s.

Letting his senses take control, Natsu bent forward, letting his lips brush against Lucy’s. He stayed there a few seconds, but then the image of the young couple making out a few hours before came back to his mind – their kisses were different. He then bit Lucy’s lower lip, making her moan lightly. As her swollen lips opened, Natsu let his tongue slide in slowly, just to find Lucy’s tongue ready to welcome him: the contact had been so thrilling, that his kiss became immediately deeper, more intense, almost violent. Lucy strengthen her grip around Natsu’s shoulder, pushing him against her body, opening her legs to let him rest against her body: he was boiling. It felt like kissing a feverish flame, ready to burn everything around itself.

Natsu traced Lucy’s lips with his tongue, causing her to moan and her nails to dig deep down his back. That mixture of pleasure and pain sent a jolt down the boy’s spine, making him throb between his legs: their bodies attached to each other, Lucy could feel Natsu’s manhood hard and big, pressing strongly against her lower belly – this could end baaaad.

Lucy started to protest, but she was soon hushed by Natsu’s lips, which came back ravenously on hers. She felt his hands sliding up along her bare legs, pulling up her dress.

“Natsu, wait… ah!”

Natsu broke her intense kiss just to slide down her neck, reaching her soft and almost naked breasts to bite them lightly and to suck on them sweetly.

“Oh… my…” Lucy sighed, in ecstasy.

She didn’t want her first time to be in a barn, but damn, she had been waiting for that moment all of her life. And Natsu was so damned good and hot in that moment, she would’ve never thought she would see him in that way. Lucy let her hand slide down against his chest, untying his belt just to let her tiny hand slid inside his pants, under his boxers, to meet something hot and decidedly big. Natsu let out a deep groan, followed by a “Lucy” which was more similar to a growl than to a human sound. She began to pump quickly with her hand, enjoying the intense expressions Natsu’s face was making, hearing his sexy, hoarse moans, feeling his hot breath on her skin.

In that moment, the voices of some people started to speak loudly outside the door of the barn and Natsu and Lucy froze in place – the rain had stopped and people were coming out of the houses to continue with the party. They heard them say they needed straw to feed the animals.

Natsu quickly got up from the straw bed, taking Lucy’s hand and helping her up. They started straightening their clothes and tidying their hair, just before the heavy door opened right in front of them.

“Oh!” the villager exclaimed “Have you tried out our barn, you two?” he smiled mischievously.

“Oh yeah! Thank you for the hospitality” Natsu smiled, as he took Lucy’s hand and both ran outside the barn, smiling and laughing.

“I didn’t know barns could be so interesting!” Natsu smiled, turning towards Lucy.

Lucy replied with one, bright and naughty smile. “But I think the inn’s gonna be better. Just wait and see.”

#naluweek #nalu #natsu dragneel #lucy heartphilia #nalu fanfic #naluweek2020 #day 7 #smile

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onthevirgeofdestruction · 4 years ago

Link

Dreaming While I Wake

Sanders Sides Foster Care AU - Roman-centric Angst & Hurt/Comfort & Abuse Recovery

Roman tries to be upbeat and hopeful despite all the shit that’s happened to him. And a lot of shit has. Luckily, his new foster home is with two literal rays of sunshine (and a sarcastic asshole).

Words: 3,977 Warnings: Spoilers and I’d consider checking them. Characters: Roman, Patton, Remus Universe: Dreaming While I Wake Genre: Power Angst

Chapter 21

chapter 1 for new readers - ffn mirror

“Remus Reinhart!” A guard called, and the door opened.

Roman’s heart could have stopped. He was completely blindsided by finally being able to see his brother after so long. He didn’t look different from Roman, other than the fact that he was almost twice as muscular. So his fear was as stupid as he thought. Though it appeared like Remus had broken his nose and it set funny, even though it wasn’t very noticeable. Roman only saw because he looked at it every day in the mirror. His hair was shaggier than Roman’s, which was saying something, but everything else was like staring at an alternate universe version of himself. That would be bizarre if he wasn’t used to it somewhere in the back of his head.

“Ro!” Remus shouted and rushed up to the table Patton and Roman were seated at.

“Remus! Holy shit!” Roman exclaimed fervently before he could stop himself. “Have you been lifting the younger kids? What the fuck?” Roman exclaimed in bafflement.

“Why aren’t you lifting the younger kids? You got to be able to throw a punch!” Remus sat down next to Roman and the pair laughed buoyantly. “‘Ey! Seriously though, Sanvgjet?” Remus pointed to Patton.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. He’s okay. Do you still speak that nonsense language we made up?” Roman asked curiously, leaning toward Remus.

“Half of my unit does, the guards can’t break the code since there’s no code to break,” Remus tapped his head with a smug smirk.

“Remus is your identical twin?” Patton asked loudly and incredulously. Oh yeah, that’s the expression he was looking forward to. Sheer bewilderment. Roman smirked at Patton’s dropped jaw as he glanced between the two.

“He didn’t know we were twins?” Remus pointed. “You chaotic bastard, you wanted to see his face, didn’t you?” Remus laughed and hit the table lightly.

“I only just realized they didn’t tell him on the way over. Perfect opportunity. The face is worth it,” Roman smirked. “Seriously, though, this is bullshit. I’m really sorry you’re stuck in here. My SW said something about you getting drunk and starting a fire? There’s no way,” Roman said pointedly.

“I didn’t get drunk. I’m not that fucking bastard. That family was just assholes,” Remus huffed angrily. “But I did start a fire,” He shrugged, disaffected.

“You did?” Roman raised his eyebrows. “For god’s sake, why?”

“I didn’t mean to! They didn’t cook for me there and it was mom’s birthday so I tried to make her paella and it sort of scorched part of their stove. I ran away so they wouldn’t beat my ass for it. Mom would have been pissed if somebody touched us on her birthday of all days,” Remus said sheepishly. “I’m not the best chef, but I was sick of peanut butter sandwiches, and I just really miss her food,” He added solemnly.

“I knew that was absolute horseshit. I can’t make her paella, either. I’ve been trying, but it never tastes right,” Roman admitted hourly.

“We’re just going to have to wait till Dia de Los Muertos and ask her ourselves for how to do it, huh?” Remus laughed. “I just… still really want it again, even though I got in Juvie for it,” He admitted much more quietly with a reserved look on his face.

“If they wouldn’t kick me out immediately, I’d give you a hug, man,” Roman said sympathetically.

“That’s also horseshit nobody’s allowed to touch anybody. We’re all touch-starved bastards who get off on punching each other as human contact,” Remus bemoaned. “I think we could cordially shake hands like fancy fucks and be fine,” Remus held out his hand and Roman took it and they shook vigorously.

“Hm, yes, quite, stocks,” Remus hummed.

“Yes, yes, indeed, business contracts,” Roman nodded. They released before the guards got antsy.

“So who’s this incredibly baffled looking stiff and how’d a non-parent get in to visit me?” Remus pointed vaguely to Patton with a quizzical expression.

“That’s Patton. New foster parent. He’s nice, actually,” Roman motioned to Patton. Patton waved weakly, but he looked like he was still processing everything.

“I mean, he drove you out here, so probably. It’s been fucking years, man,” Remus faced more towards Roman.

“I’m sorry. I’m pissed about it, too. I’ve had just a real shit lineup of foster families. I lost phone privileges two families back, and I was with them for just short of a year and then I didn’t have your number anymore, I’m so sorry I never called, man,” Roman apologized emphatically.

“I mean, I’m not happy about it, but I get it. It’s not like I could get your number to call, either. Your jackass social worker would never share it with mine,” Remus shrugged. He didn’t look happy, but he also didn’t look hurt, which was relieving. Maybe Roman was afraid for nothing.

“Oh, I got a new one. They fired the old one. Long and Kistka story. Events transpired,” Roman replied, honestly not wanting to get into it. Though Roman wasn’t sure he could hold it together if he saw the police here. It was unsettlingly sterile, like those holding centers, and the guards were extremely unnerving.

“Shit? Kistka? Jesus. Some serious events must have transpired to get an SW fired, I had one who used to hit me and he just got suspended,” Remus said flippantly.

“Shit, that’s a bad SW. My new one is nice. He pulled some favours to get me on the approved visitors list along with the new guardians,” Roman explained.

“What, a real bro? Nice. Mental fistbump. If we make fists they will tase me,” Remus nodded. “My parole officer isn’t the worst. I had to throw my weight around for a while, but I’ve got respect now and the other kids give me some space. Can’t be the top of the ladder but can’t be the weakest here. I think I’ve mostly got this place figured out by now,” Remus explained proudly.

“I’m so sorry Remus, I feel like such a piece of shit for winning the fucking lottery while you’re stuck in Juvie,” Roman wrung his hands and dropped his shoulders.

“Hey, the fates be dicks like that. Honestly, it’s nice to know you’ve got it good, if that’s what you mean,” Remus nodded encouragingly.

“Nobody hits, nobody yells, and they have real ice cream. It’s awful I don’t deserve a lick of it,” Roman and Remus laughed together. Patton looked like he tried to object, but Remus cut him off before he could start.

“Man, I hope I get placed with someone who will let me visit you after I get out. I’ve just got one more month,” Remus said, seeming excited.

“One more? Seriously? How long have you been here?” Roman perked up immediately at that news.

“Just a little short of two years. They couldn’t prove much, but the family was intense about pressing charges. So I got a lengthy sentence for freaking out and running off,” Remus said, sounding annoyed.

“God, I freaked out and ran off last Wednesday and they’ve been nothing but nice about it and it’s driving me up the wall,” Roman rolled his eyes and flailed his arms slightly.

“What’d you freak out about? The usual?” Remus asked curiously, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

“Nah, I got this new thing where I have a fit about being a fuckup and I’m not punished for it, it’s weird,” Roman said dismissively.

“Ugh, what a nightmare,” Remus laughed. “So you’ve had mostly shit homes, too? I always kinda hoped you ended up better than me,” Remus admitted, sounding disappointed.

“Same,” Roman agreed sourly.

“Well, the nice part about Juvie is I’m so desensitized to hitting and loud noises that I don’t freak out about it anymore. I mean, the smell of alcohol still sets me off, but otherwise I’m a little better at handling it.” Remus said. Roman smiled at that. It was a mixed bag at best, but at least it was something.

“God, I’m worse if anything. Pat says that good environments are hard or something? I don’t follow. I just know I have a mental breakdown every goddamn day and I’m just so sick of it,” Roman groaned and leaned on the table.

“Ugh, that sounds like shit city. I haven’t had one in a while. Some kid choked me out like dad used to recently and I pulled myself together long enough to sock him in the dick and get out of there,” Remus looked proud of himself and nodded.

“Oof, in the dick?” Roman made a disgusted expression and winced.

“You’d do the same,” Remus accused and gestured towards Roman vaguely while he tilted his head.

“I know I would, I can’t even handle shirts touching my neck, but that had to have pissed off some people in your unit,” Roman said, motioning to the building in general with the hand that wasn’t propping him up on the table.

“Yeah, but ‘dickpunch mcgee’ ain’t been fucked with since. Somebody will doubtlessly try to get me back in the dick, though. I’ve gotta stay ready,” Remus said resolutely. What a nickname.

“That’s probably the hard part even if you have it figured out. No safe spaces,” Roman nodded hourly.

“Man, what’s even a safe space anymore. Safe spaces are a lie we tell ourselves. We ain’t safe from ourselves, even if we’re safe from others. Under the bed or in the closet always seems like a great idea until you’re cornered, you know?” Remus said blithely.

“Deep. Dark. But deep. Turns out I’ve been attacking myself so I get it,” Roman held up his arm. The bandages were finally off, but you could still the healing lines of nail cuts.

“Brutal. Badass looking though, like you fuckin’ fought a badger,” Remus smirked.

“Is fighting a badger badass?” Roman raised his eyebrow.

“I dunno, I fought one in the yard once and people said I was a badass. Rabies shot hurt like a bitch. Do you know when you started doing that?” Remus pointed to the healing scrapes on his arms.

“I don’t even know I’m doing it. They’ve been making me wear these stupid gloves at home,” Roman said, feeling annoyed with the situation.

“Gloves are pretty cool, IMO,” Remus made a spirit fingers motion and wiggled his eyebrow.

“I don’t want to be a ‘Hans’. Who wants to be a ‘Hans’?” Roman’s voice raised slightly and flipped his hand in the air dismissively.

“I thought Hans was a cool villain! He found himself in a shitty situation, so he made a master-plan to put himself in a good one! If he could have just married Anna off the bat, then he’d have been sitting pretty as princess-consort of Arendelle. I mean, assuming he stopped trying to kill Elsa to ascend the throne. He’d have no need to do anything shitty unless he felt like he wanted to dominate the world or something since he’d assuredly get a say in running the kingdom since he was honestly helpful other than the whole evil plot thing,” Remus explained his standpoint. It weirdly made sense.

“Huh. I never thought about it like that. I mean, Anna would still have been in a loveless marriage,” Roman said, not completely sold.

“She could’ve got the weird reindeer fucker as a side piece, it’s super common for royalty to have extramarital affairs,” Remus nodded sagely.

“Boy, that’s a freakin’ AU I never saw coming,” Roman whistled. “Bypass the events of the story completely. Elsa is clearly a lesbian, anyway. The movie could have used her powers as a metaphor for coming out or something,” Roman mused.

“Yes, make it gayer,” Remus hissed in delight.

“Um… Hans is gay and mostly leaves Anna alone. And Anna’s bi and Kristoff’s NB?” Roman suggested, not sure what Remus was looking for.

“Perfect,” Remus nodded. “Now you can be cool with the gloves,” Remus motioned to Roman’s hands.

“I do not follow your crack logic,” Roman furrowed his eyebrows.

“Gloves are gay,” Remus grinned.

“I’m not-” Roman tried to object.

“Yes, you are. We’re identical twins, fucko, that’s how I know. That’s dad talking and you need to sock that voice right in the fucking face,” Remus said seriously, looking Roman dead in the eye.

“Identical twins don’t necessarily have the same orientation,” Roman said dismissively.

“We’re monozygotic, not dizygotic, we statistically likely have the same orientation and I’m bi as the day is long,” Remus said firmly.

“Don’t you use math to fool me, I can’t do math,” Roman hissed in displeasure.

“It’s true, see, ‘cuz you’re gay and gays can’t do math,” Remus laughed.

“Fine! I’ll consider that maybe it’s dad and reevaluate my life or whatever,” Roman dramatically huffed and gave up.

“Thank you,” Remus gave Roman a thumbs up. “Any chance you’ll get kicked out in a month and they’ll maybe place us together if there’s a home willing to take two gay teens?” Remus asked hopefully.

“I said I’d consider it, I’m not admitting anything! But probably not. I’m getting medical care and shit, I think they might like me for some ungodly reason that I can’t comprehend, I’ve been nothing but an ass,” Roman sighed. “Patton, any chance you’ll send me back next month?” Roman asked, equally hopeful and depressed about the concept.

“What? Huh? I’m so lost! You’re both talking like a thousand miles a minute,” Patton answered, looking between the two with furrowed eyebrows and pursuing his lip.

“Any chance you’ll change your mind and boot me out next month?” Roman asked again, a little slower.

“What? No! Why would you ask that? I told you we’re not sending you back and I mean it!” Patton insisted.

“Ugh, see? But they promised they’ll take me to visit you even if your new ones won’t take you to visit me. I think they might actually be good for it since I’m here now and all. I’d kill to live with you again, though. I’d put up with you kicking me and everything,” Roman sighed, motioning to Remus’s tapping foot.

“I do be kung fu fighting in my sleep. But, actually, I shouldn’t share a bed. I sleep-attack anyone within a foot of me,” Remus said. “Defense mechanism, these days,” He tilted his head and shrugged slightly.

“I’d put up with the sleep fu. We can have 4 AM panic attacks together maybe,” Roman chuckled.

“Aw, brotherly bonding,” Remus cooed and fluttered his eyelashes.

“Shut up, you fucking dork,” Roman groaned. “I miss you so goddamn much,” Roman said intensely.

“Miss you, too. Don’t get emotional or they’ll kick my ass,” Remus shot a look to the door he entered from.

“Sorry. I know the no emotions rule. I’ve just been waiting this whole time in the stupid hope that maybe we can be brothers again,” Roman admitted quietly.

“I’m always your brother, you can’t lose me that easily,” Remus smirked and leaned forward.

“I must start lifting more weights and then I can punch you in the face through the mirror,” Roman motioned to Remus and laughed.

“Man, that’d be cool. I’d stab you behind the ear,” Remus nodded. “It’d hurt like a bitch,”

“Ugh, Rude!” Roman scoffed.

“Mirrorverse Twinicide! Calling the band name,” Remus declared.

“Shit, that’s a magnificent band name,” Roman nodded in agreement. “Is the food here okay?” He asked curiously.

“I mean, it’s better than starving,” Remus shrugged loosely, not seeming very bothered.

“That sucks. Hey Patton, can I give him the chocolates? They made Patton carry them in for some reason,” Roman asked, holding out his hand for the bag.

“Huh? Chocolates?” Patton pulled the bag out of his shirt pocket and Remus hissed in delight and made grabby hands. Patton passed it over, still looking kind of confused. “We couldn’t bring much, sorry kiddo,”

“Kiddo? Weird. Thanks, though! Oh my god, I just want to eat them all, but stuff like this is gold in there. I can use it to trade for things or favors,” Remus said, sounding really conflicted, glancing between the bag and the door he came through.

“Just pick a favour you’d do for yourself and eat a chocolate for it,” Roman offered.

“Oh, life hack,” Remus nodded and considered it, holding the bag. “There is more here than I need of favours, I think. Hm. Staying alive is a favour,” Remus chuckled and dug out a chocolate to pop into his mouth. He ate it with a massive smile. “Oh my god, I have had nothing sweet since our fuckin’ birthday,” Remus hissed in delight.

“We can bring more next weekend, kiddo,” Patton offered.

“What, we can come again?” Roman shot in excitement. Remus looked to Patton with a wild joy in his eye.

“Bring chips, too!” Remus cheered.

“I have no idea what’s happening, but sure?” Patton said. “We’re almost out of time for visiting. I think I see why you’re not good with time because I literally do not know how that happened,” Patton sounded really confused.

“Shit, already? Can we please stay till they kick us out?” Roman pleaded with Patton, holding his hands together.

“Of course, bud. I know it’s been a long time. Why are they only letting you get an hour, Remus?” Patton asked, still clearly befuddled.

“Oh, one hour is the ‘good’ amount of time. They don’t let us have more than an hour. If I was in trouble I’d have less,” Remus shrugged.

“That’s awful. Prison really is better,” Patton’s frown deepened. “There’s not a lot we’re allowed to bring you, but is there something other than chips you want?”

“Seriously? You don’t know me and you’re willing to buy stuff for me?” Remus asked incredulously. “What’s with this guy?” Remus pointed with this thumb.

“I still can’t figure it out, honestly,” Roman shook his head. “Too nice. People can’t be this nice,” He tilted to the side.

“I mean, he puts up with your ass,” Remus pointed to Roman and laughed.

“And I continue to be baffled by it,” Roman shrugged with amusement.

“Man, I hope someone will barely tolerate my presence over the clear and present disdain here. I mean, I will be hard to place now because I’m a ‘dirty criminal’. I’ll probably be in a holding center and end up in a group home at best,” Remus said, dejected.

“I’m so sorry, those centers set me off just thinking about them. I hope you’re not stuck in one long,” Roman was equally distraught at the idea.

“My parole officer says he’s already working with a social worker to find a placement. He warned me to not get my hopes up or anything, but he knows those places freak me out,” Remus said, a little hopefully.

“You, too?” Roman asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I mean, we were screaming like we were being gutted with a fishhook when they dragged us apart. I don’t think anybody in the room was okay with that. I bet we traumatized other people,” Remus gestured outward with his hands.

“Oh, god, probably,” Roman sighed. “Man, prison’s too good for dad, they should have let mom kill him,” Roman groaned angrily.

“Wait, what?” Patton asked incredulously. “I thought your mom died protecting you?”

“She died in the emergency room. The cops separated her from him before she could finish stabbing the bastard after he gave her the fatal internal damage,” Remus spat. “We were all in the hospital, after that. Black and blue with broken bones and shit! ‘Cept good ol’ Arthur, anyway. He was out back at the time. Obviously, dad had to get his guts put back in, but they should have just let him die,” Remus rolled his eyes.

“I still have fuckin’ nightmares about it. Ugh! Dude, the smell from dad’s guts, holy shit. I’ll never forget it. I try not to use serrated knives…” Roman mumbled and trailed off.

“I mean the flashbacks and nightmares aren’t great, but serrated knives always just reminded me that mom loved us enough to try to kill him for it,” Remus shrugged.

“I mean, that is nice of her and all, but that doesn’t stop the fucking blood-curdling screams from playing in my head. Though, to be fair, mom probably thought we were dead when she came in. I mean, we were barely breathing and there was blood all over us,” Roman shuddered. “You think we’d be here if Abuela didn’t have a stroke and she could still take us when dad fell off the wagon again?” Roman asked curiously.

“Dad would have done it one way or the other. I don’t think Abuela could have protected us forever, as hard as she and mom tried. I miss the fuck out of her, though. Remember when we got bored and sawed off those tree branches in the backyard when she fell asleep so we could hit each other with them and after she was mad she let us keep the branches? Great day,” Remus smiled and nodded.

“Not that this information isn’t completely and utterly horrific, but do you need me to bring you anything, Remus? We’re running out of time,” Patton shuddered and looked absolutely horrified for some reason.

“Oh! Right!” Remus smacked himself in the head and they both cackled.

“Mood,” They deadpanned together.

“Underwear. Medium. Black boxers,” Remus said. “Boxers and chocolate,”

“They-” Patton started, looking concerned.

“Listen, you and your sad smile don’t need to know what sick shit they put us through back there,” Remus pointed behind him with his thumb. “Just trust me on that. Don’t bring too much stuff or they won’t let you in with it. Less candy and only one of those snack bags of chips,” Remus showed the size of the bag with his thumbs and foreigners.

“I’m going to miss you all goddamn week, Remus,” Roman said despondently.

“Eh, we waited four years, we’ve probably got this. I dunno about you but life’s suddenly a lot more worth living,” Remus leaned on his arms.

“Oh, same. I can’t wait to throw you out of a tree,” Roman laughed evilly.

“Oh, come on, it only happened a couple of times,” Remus rolled his eyes, sounding amused.

“An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, but a little vengeance never hurt anybody,” Roman smirked.

“I’m pretty certain revenge hurts people, there, Roman,” Patton stopped him and Roman shook his head sarcastically.

“The tall twink will protect me from your cold vengeance. He could probably reach in a tree and pull you out. You’re skinny as shit. I could carry you above my head,” Remus laughed darkly.

“Man, I haven’t had a house that let me eat full meals for years until these gay dorks, cut me some slack,” Roman huffed and flipped his hand as if he was shooing a fly.

“Gay dorks? All of ‘em?” Remus sounded oddly impressed.

“Yup,” Roman popped the p. “I mean Virgil hasn’t mentioned it,” He added while considerately tapping his face.

“You will get so bullied at school if that gets out,” Remus whistled.

“I’ll just start benching the other kids like you do,” Roman laughed.

“Time’s up,” A guard barked out near them and Roman and Remus both jumped.

“Shit,” Roman and Remus hissed in unison.

“I miss you, I have stupid emotions for you, I’ll see you,” Roman blurted out as Remus got up.

“Ditto. See you next week, thanks again for the chocolate!” Remus waved as he walked back over to the guard. Roman sighed deeply and Patton stood up to help him out of the table. He grumbled and stared at the door Remus exited through and pulled himself up to his feet to head out. It would be a long ride home.

Personal Taglist: @bunny222 @elizabutgayer @prinxietyforever @kanene-yaaay-o-retorno @the-sympathetic-villain @croftersjam15 @ollyollyoxinfree

the taglist repository:

High school: @dragonwithproblems @starlight-era @averykedavra @potatsanderssides

Roman Angst: @k1ngtok1

Hurt/Comfort: @callboxkat @nonasficcollection @supernovainthenightsky @evoodo123

Roman-Centric: @smileyzs @robinwritesshitposts @thatgaydemigodnerd

Fostering AU: @i-am-not-a-dinner-roll

literally everything sanders sides: @katelynn-a-fan @dwbh888 @grouptalekindnesssoul @the-hoely-bleach @anvil527up @fanficloverinthesun @brain-deadx0 @the-grounded-raven @ananonsplace

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megadifferentcupcakewriter · 4 years ago

Text

Thoughts On The Finale of Supernatural.

Okay I feel like I should say something about the Supernatural finale because I've been a fan for the longest time now and everyone is speaking their minds about it, so I'll say my peace and be done with it-- spoiler's ahead (obviously) before I get into the ranting about how bad it was, I'm going to say I respect the actors, the writers, and everyone involved-- I know that they gave it their all, and they were trying to do everything right, I know that throughout the entire time working for the show, they did give us some pretty good memories, and I'm grateful to love Supernatural, and want not-- that being said, the 15 finale, IS NOT HOW YOU END A 15 YEARS LONG RUNNING SHOW, it was decent-- sure; but it could have been so much better, before I get into it though, let me list all the good things about it.

WARNING SPOILERS AHEAD. ............. ............ ............ ........... .......... ........... NOT KIDDING... ................ ............ ............ ............. LAST WARNING IDGITS.

................. ......................

1: Dean's goodbye to Sam, very emotional, very heart wrenching, I legit broke down and tearfully sobbed as I watched it happened-- never has this happened to me in tv, because I always tell myself it's a tv show and it never really bothers me, but this scene? oh yeah it bothered me, it made me sad; and for that bravo Jensen and Jared *claps* bravo.

2: Bobby singer (original Bobby singer) making his appearance, that was a nice touch and it was heart warming to see him again. ^^

3: Mentioning Cas "helped Jack" meaning he was rescued from mega hell, cause come on-- it wouldn't make sense for Jack to just leave him there.

4: Sam and Dean being reunited at the bridge in the end, again nice to see the two brother's seeing each other after so long.

BUT THAT'S IT

THAT'S ALL THAT'S GOOD and here are the reasons why.

Okay, like seriously-- KILLING DEAN off in the first hunt after Chuck, I HAVE SUCH A PROBLEM with this and not just because Dean died, but because it's the first hunt they go on AFTER CHUCK, as far as we are all lead to believe, and that paints the picture to us, that Sam and Dean were never good hunter's, the only reason they were even alive to get this far was because of Chuck's influence, and now we all know that Chuck has basically been writing their story "since the beginning" and everything and we get that, but we want to believe as a collective fandom that Sam and Dean were good at their jobs, to some degree that they were good enough to be hunters, and keep fighting as hunters-- and to kill Dean off in the first hunt after Chuck just paints a different story, if you're going to kill Dean off, then do it in the like a few hunts after Chuck, maybe show a little montage of Sam and Dean continuing to go on hunts, before finally showing "that fateful hunt" that ends up killing Dean, that way we as a fanbase can say "okay Dean had some time to be free before he was killed" this just cheapens his death and it's NOT OKAY.

Also, why a rusty piece of nail? I mean again I know that Sam and Dean have basically been made to live this long thanks to Chuck giving them basically "plot armor" and they're both only human-- but again we as the fandom would have liked to say that Dean went out in a more "heroic" way then just being stabbed by a piece of nail, I mean come on SIDE CHARACTER'S got a more heroic death then that, this is DEAN FREAKING WINCHESTER, we would have liked to say he went out in a blaze of glory, he went out to I dunno save an entire city, or Sam from certain death, not just an "accident on a hunt" that leads him to be killed, it just ...it's not fitting for everything else he's been through, X_x

That being said, why kill Dean at all?

I mean, we were basically told from the start of the show that both Sam and Dean were going to end bloody (throughout the series always mentioning that the hunter's life "ends horrible and bloody") I get that, but if you're able to give Sam a happily ever after, where he grows old and dies, then why can't Dean? it's like, all this time throughout the show, we can see that he wants to have a normal life, he wants to have a wife, kids, settle down (we see it in Lisa and Ben) but he doesn't feel like he deserves it.

He's been conditioned by John Winchester to believe that his soul purpose in life is to simply hunt, and that's just wrong-- and it would have been very nice to see in the finale, maybe Sam and Dean retiring from hunting but opening up some kind of school for hunters or something? that way they are still helping out with hunting in a way, but not a way that threatens their lives day to day, where they can both grow old and basically die together, but that's just my view on it, I mean I wanted them both to live happy normal lives darn it, and DEAN DESERVES HIS FUTURE too you know? after everything, this poor man has been through.

But that's just my view on it, and I do think the show could have been good doing something like that-- but that being said, I'm fine with the Dean Winchester dies ending, so long as they give him a proper HEROIC DEATH, and Sam goes on to honor his brother's memory.

Now then, say we go with the Dean Winchester dies plotline, I get that-- but why couldn't we see Jodie, Donna, Claire, and all the other characters they've made friends with over the years? I would have loved to see Sam breaking the news to some of the hunter friends they've made, and maybe have Jodie come over and give him some sympathy food and give him a hug, or some of the friends just being there for the FREAKING FUNERAL (I mean come on they did it for ASA FOX, season 12 I believe? why couldn't Dean Winchester have something like that?) it would have been nice to show many people gathered around, and maybe even Dean being allowed to see the view from heaven realizing just how loved he was?

Also, would have loved to see Sam heart brokenly hugging Eileen tearfully, as she hugs him back-- revealing that she is INDEED THE MOTHER OF HIS CHILD, maybe even in the montage of Sam growing older, show something like him and Eileen dancing together, or Eileen teaching their son sign language, I mean sure there's no doubt Eileen is his wife, but WE WOULD HAVE LOVED TO SEE IT, PEOPLE, show something of Sam and Eileen together, the ending just kind of felt like Sam was all alone like nobody was there-- and from what we've seen, HE HAS A LOT OF PEOPLE WHO ADORE HIM AND DEAN (Jodie, the girl's, Donna, different hunter's, apocalypse world refugees) I know there was restrictions because of Covid, but someone, ANYONE WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER than just nobody.

Plus, we get the confirmation Castiel is alive (Bobby stating 'Cas helped Jack") okay that's good, but can we at least see one last thing of him? like I dunno, I saw a post somewhere; when Dean finishes his drive on the bridge, gets out of the car, and walks towards the edge of it just looking at heaven around him, he feels someone grab his shoulder, turns around and it's Cas.

Destiel or not Destiel scenes would have been fine, but in my head (never thought the writers were gonna go there)-- at least it would have been nice to see him, I dunno become tearful and hug Cas; and Cas hugs him back, saying his famous "Hello Dean" line, as they hug each other for a while; before they hear.

"Cas?" In Sam's voice, causing them to both look towards like the left and see Sam approaching, before him and Dean share a tearful reunion hug, Cas smiling to see the two brother's finally at peace, before Cas joins in, team free will finally back together after what seems like an eternity apart, while ~Carry On My wayword son~ begins playing, as the visual zooms out of them, before the episode ends on a flashback to season 12 where Cas talks about the future that Jack showed him the "paradise" that was mentioned.

That would have been much better then what we got, I WASN’T ASKING FOR MUCH-- but that just...urgggggggggghhh the way the show painted it, I mean-- come on...why couldn’t we have at least gotten half of what I just mentioned?

Also at some point, GIVE ADAM WINCHESTER A DARN BREAK PEOPLE-- maybe in between showing us Dean in heaven, he goes to visit some of his old friends? or maybe even have Adam having a beer with Bobby when Dean first enters heaven, something to just show the darn kid >_<

We didn’t even need to have an explaination as to why Cas never came to see the boys after he was brought back by Jack, we would have loved to just SEE HIM one last time.

Not to much to ask.

#castiel #supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester

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badgersprite · 4 years ago

Text

Fic: Desiderata (7/?)

Chapter Title: Messages

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack

Pairing: Miranda/Samara very slow burn, friends to lovers

Story Rating: R

Warnings: References to past childhood abuse/trauma.

Chapter Summary: In 2186, Miranda gets a series of messages. Two are positive. One isn’t. In 2185, The Normandy faces the Suicide Mission. For some, the name is more fitting than anyone realises.

Author’s Note: Now that they’ve announced a new Mass Effect game, I should really buckle down and get chapters out at a faster rate, huh?

* * *

If adjusting to living with a bunch of teenagers had been a difficult prospect from the start, it only became more so once they settled in and learned that Miranda was an actual human being rather than some stern caricature. They knew now that she wasn’t as cold as she had come off initially, and that her snarky remarks lacked any real bite. Consequently, they no longer felt even remotely intimidated by her. Plus, they seemed to have suddenly twigged that they vastly outnumbered her.

Ever since they’d realised all that, getting them to cooperate and behave themselves was a damn sight harder.

“I dunno, man. For a humourless grump with half a face, she's still smokin’ hot,” Miranda heard one of the boys, Deacon Winters, remark as she emerged from her room that morning. “Oh. Hi, Miss,” Deacon said when he saw her heading to the kitchen, evidently believing she'd missed his comment.

“Stop calling me that,” Miranda instructed, but it fell on deaf ears just as it had the last dozen times she’d said the exact same thing. Truth be told, in that moment, Miranda was more concerned with breakfast than the behaviour of Jack’s students. So she rolled her eye and moved on, letting it slide.

If there was one particular luxury she was looking forward to returning when the galaxy recovered from its near-extermination, it was restaurants. Cafés. Places to eat actual food again. Real, good-quality meals, made by other people.

The way things were, everyone was subsisting on staples and rations, aside from the occasional “luxury” food items sold through the black market, which everyone knew about but nobody cared to stop. The sad fact of it all was that the only reason their food stockpiles might be enough to last the winter was because so many people had died after the Reapers attacked Earth. That and because a lot of the excess soldiers hanging around London had finally moved elsewhere, shifting the burden so it wasn’t all in one place.

Speaking of food, the sound of cereal crunching across the room caught Miranda’s attention just as she finished draining her noodles. Her eye widened.

“Are you eating on my couch?” said Miranda, like Deacon had committed a crime just a hair's breadth away from aggravated murder. He froze, a droplet of reconstituted milk dripping down his chin, a spoonful of cereal still in his mouth. “In what bizarre alternate universe is that okay? Go eat at the table like a civilised human being,” she ordered, her already low tolerance levels quickly waning.

“Aw, Miss,” Deacon protested, stretching out the word to make it as grating as possible.

“Keep whinging like that and you can find somewhere else to live,” Miranda warned him. The two students rolled their eyes before reluctantly picking up their bowls and heading to the table, not quite brave enough to test the idleness of her threat. “When you're done, you can vacuum up the crumbs, too,” she told them, limping across to the table with her own breakfast in hand, leaving her cane against the kitchen counter. She may have been gradually softening to her new housemates, but she had her limits.

Just as she started to eat, Prangley and Rodriguez both emerged from their room in shared laughter. When they spotted Miranda there, they paused sheepishly, as if they'd been caught in the midst of some minor conspiracy. Miranda arched her eyebrow, but ignored them.

The two exchanged hushed whispers, tittering and nudging each other like gossipy hens. Prangley seemed to make up his mind about something, Rodriguez giggling and lightly slapping his arm as if to discourage him, but it was clear she wholeheartedly wanted to see what would happen.

“Hey, Miss,” Prangley began. Miranda despised that damn title. She swore they used it on purpose, to deliberately irk her. “Me and the others—”

“The others and I,” Miranda corrected without glancing up.

“Right, well, we've been wondering a couple things,” Prangley continued, sitting down at the table, his posture impolite and uncultivated, eager to pry into the mind of their impromptu protector. “After all, since we’re already living together, it’s only fair and reasonable that we should have the right to ask some questions and get to know some stuff about you as a person, right?”

Miranda didn’t dignify that with a response, continuing to eat.

“We've noticed the only reason you ever leave the apartment is for work. You never bring anyone home, except Mr. Taylor, and the only other person you ever speak to is your sister,” Prangley pointed out.

“I mean, we’re know you're kinda, well...” In place of saying anything unintentionally offensive, Rodriguez vaguely gestured at the left side of her own face. The implication was not lost in translation. “But you've still gotta have a personal life, right?” she asked, probing for information.

Sensing where this was going, Miranda merely stared at them, as if finding their attempts to rile her tiresome, and beneath recognition.

“So, do you have a boyfriend?” asked Prangley.

No reaction.

“Girlfriend?”

No reaction.

“Secret alien lover?”

No reaction.

“Synthetic sex buddy?”

No reaction.

“Would you like one?”

No reaction.

“I could hook you up—”

“Are you done?” asked Miranda, deeply bored by this.

“Yeah, I guess,” said Prangely, Rodriguez also giving up and deciding to focus on food instead. While Miranda was certainly easy to irritate on a surface level, actually getting under her skin was far harder than it looked. She wondered if she should remind them that she had worked with Jack; if Miranda could endure her at her most intentionally aggravating, then she could tolerate the trolling of these teenagers.

“Ah, fuck!” Rodriguez cursed, accidentally dropping a carton of artificial orange juice as she pulled it out of the fridge, spilling it everywhere on the floor. “I’m so sorry, Miss. I’ll clean that right up!” she hastily apologised, salvaging what little remained of the juice before scrambling over to the cupboard for a mop.

Miranda suppressed the urge to groan, not even seeing the point in wasting her energy on making a critical comment by that stage. She wished she was at work. The only reason she wasn't was because Bailey had insisted she take weekends off. Much as she understood his good intentions, she thoroughly disagreed that spending time at home could be considered relaxing in light of her tenants. At this rate, being thrown into the fucking sun would be preferable.

Why had she signed up for this again?

Suddenly, her omni-tool beeped, alerting her to a new text message on her datapad. It was Oriana. Despite the chaos going on around her, Miranda couldn’t hide her smile. This was the one silver lining she’d been holding out for to make this whole “day off” thing worth it.

“Excuse me,” she said, endeavouring to lead by example when it came to matters of etiquette, even if it was proving fruitless.

“Here, Miss. Let me get that for you,” another boy offered, the one named Nitin, reaching out to clear her plate for her. He was the one who had that ridiculous crush on her. Miranda found it annoying and tedious, as one might expect. But it was harmless, she supposed. And at least it was compelling him towards trying to be on his best behaviour around her, if nothing else.

“Thank you,” she said with a curt, almost stilted nod. She’d made a conscious effort to remind herself to express gratitude where she otherwise wouldn’t, if only as part of her efforts to train her wards to meet minimum standards of politeness. With that, she returned to the privacy of her bedroom.

Three sets of male eyes watched her leave, waiting for the door to close before speaking. “I don't care how fucked up her face is – I'd still hit it,” Nitin said, earning a dishcloth thrown his way by Rodriguez.

Miranda took a breath, attempting to release some of her tension as she sat down in her bedroom. She'd been looking forward to this, as she did every time Oriana's messages came through. She wanted to be able to enjoy it without stress souring the moment.

After a few seconds, she opened the message app and began typing back.

* * *

It had been a trap.

Activating the Reaper IFF had given away their location. The Collectors attacked while their guard was down. The squad had returned to find the entire crew gone except Joker. And EDI, obviously.

Miranda was doing her best to keep a level head and remain calm and logical in her assessment of what had transpired. Someone had to, after all. But it was hard not to take this attack personally. It felt like a violation, to have their ship boarded when they weren’t even there to do anything about it.

Perhaps it was for the best. If they’d been there, they might all have perished too. With the squad intact, at least they still had a chance of defeating the Collectors, crew or no crew.

Shepard had made the call. There was no waiting around. They were going to jump through the Omega-4 Relay now, while there might still be a chance to get the crew back. It was do or die.

Everyone had made their final preparations, ensuring weapons and ammunition were in order. There was nothing left but time now - it was simply a matter of getting to the Omega system. Everyone seemed to have gone off to do their own thing, spending what could have been their final few hours alive as they chose.

Miranda had contemplated sending a heartfelt message to her sister, even started typing a long email detailing the truth of how she’d found her, answering any questions she might want to know about her past and admitting everything Oriana meant to her. Once she got about halfway through, she thought better of it, though. The last thing she wanted to do was worry Oriana. And this felt too much like a goodbye. Like an expectation that she wouldn’t return. And Miranda refused to consider that, much less worry her sister with the thought.

It had been, what, a little over two months since they reunited? They had only just begun to form the relationship Miranda always secretly wanted deep down. There was so much still left to do. So much still left to say to each other. For that reason alone, Miranda couldn’t allow herself to fail this mission. Death was not an option.

This mission to stop the Collectors was going to succeed. It had to. Shepard had done everything that she possibly could have done to prepare. Things that even Miranda honestly wouldn’t have considered before she became Shepard’s second-in-command. Recruiting every squad member recommended by Cerberus. Upgrading the ship. Ensuring every member of her squad had no unfinished business to distract them from the mission.

Whatever it might cost them, they were not going to lose this fight. They couldn’t.

But, if worst did come to worst, at least she knew Oriana would be taken care of. Miranda had put those arrangements in place, just to be safe. But telling Oriana that now would come across as extremely grim.

However, despite all that, she couldn’t help but ask herself, what if she didn’t come back? Miranda couldn’t bear the thought of Oriana not having one final word from her. If this was her last opportunity to say something, then surely she had to take advantage of it, even if she had to be careful not to give the impression that the mission the Normandy was about to embark on was far from a normal one.

With that in mind, she opened a fresh email once more and typed.

Hey, Ori.

Just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you.

We should talk soon.

I love you.

- Miranda.

It was laconic, but that was Miranda. And that would have to do. Anything more and she wouldn’t be able to stop.

After that, with nothing left to do except pass the time, she poured herself a drink at the bar, and retreated to the Starboard Observation Deck to wait out these last remaining hours.

Miranda found it empty. But that was no deterrent. Content to wait, Miranda settled onto her usual comfortable spot on the couch and nursed her drink, staring out into the void.

It was maybe twenty minutes before Miranda heard the doors slide open. The familiar reflection in the transparent aluminium window confirmed it was Samara. Judging by her slight hesitation in the doorway, Samara was a little surprised to find her there. And yet, at the same time, unsurprised.

Samara uttered a soft sigh as she moved to accompany Miranda on the lounge, sharing in the serene view. Miranda didn’t feel the need to disturb the peace with any questions, remnants of ice cubes clinking softly against glass. She simply assumed the reason for Samara’s absence was to contact Falere and Rila one last time. Of course it was. And it wasn’t her place to pry about that.

Several long seconds passed before Samara deigned to break the quiet.

“The ambient noise that used to fill this ship never reached this room, yet somehow the silence has never felt so...” Samara trailed off, as if the appropriate word was at the fringes of her consciousness, eluding her.

“Silent?” Miranda offered.

A sad shadow of a smile crossed Samara’s lips. “Yes.”

“I understand what you mean,” Miranda admitted. “Jacob and I met most of the crew long before anyone else did. I didn’t think much of that before. You know me; I’m not exactly a people person, am I? Now that they’ve been taken, though...well, I suppose you don’t realise how accustomed you’ve become to seeing the same faces every day until suddenly you don’t.”

It was a strange sensation. And, by all rights, it shouldn’t have been new to her.

Miranda had spent longer periods than this living with consistent groups of people. The Lazarus Project itself had taken nearly two years. And all those familiar faces had been outright slaughtered. But this was different. She hadn’t felt anything then. Back then, her only mission, her only focus, had been bringing Shepard back to life. The lives and deaths of the people at that facility had never been her responsibility, or her concern.

This time, they were. As second-in-command of the Normandy, and the highest ranking member of Cerberus there, on some level every aspect of every little thing that went on aboard this ship had been her responsibility. Her endless reports to The Illusive Man were evidence of how seriously she had taken that.

Somewhere in between all these months adrift in space, there had been a shift in her mentality. Day by day, that sense of separation between herself and the others had been chipped away. At some point, she stopped seeing everyone else around her as assets and liabilities in Cerberus’s mission to stop the Collectors, and started seeing them all as living, breathing parts of her world - little pieces of the life she’d carved out for herself aboard the Normandy.

Miranda hadn’t realised it until just now. Hell, she hadn’t even known she was capable of it. But, for the first time in her life, Miranda had grown attached to the people around her. And that fact didn’t appear to be lost on Samara.

“Are you alright?” she asked her.

Miranda uttered a short laugh, but it was entirely cheerless. That question was impossible to answer the way Samara probably wanted it to be answered. Of course Miranda wasn’t alright, but she wasn’t not alright either. She was just in the same neutral state she was usually in, trying to find a balanced equilibrium amid the ambivalence. Others would have misconstrued it for apathy.

“Obviously, it’s not ideal that we’ve lost so many,” Miranda began, a deliberate understatement. “But we can't afford to get distracted. They knew what they were signing on for. We all did. So the mission parameters have to remain the same.”

“You do not need to pretend the life or death of this crew makes no difference to you,” Samara pointed out, sensing perhaps that Miranda’s concern for the lost was deeper than she let on, whether because she was unwilling to show it, or, more likely, because she didn’t know how to.

“Of course it does,” said Miranda. “I may not be a shining beacon of empathy, but, if I didn't care about human life, I wouldn't have spent the last few months out here trying to protect it from the Collectors. But that's the point; if it's a choice between the lives of our crew, and destroying the Collectors...It's not really a choice at all, is it? Dozens of lives versus millions.”

“It sounds as though you have already decided that is a sacrifice you will have to make,” Samara noted, her tone as ever elusive and impossible to read. But, evidently, she was not yet equally resigned to accepting the worst.

“I'm Shepard’s second-in-command, Samara. I have to be prepared, and I have to be ready to make the ‘heartless’ rational decision if it comes down to it. If I'm not, how the hell is anyone else going to be?” Miranda asked rhetorically.

Sure, there was still a chance they’d find their crew alive. Acting as swiftly as they had meant there was still hope. But if they were too late, or they couldn’t find them, then Miranda couldn’t let emotions cloud her judgement. She was perhaps the one person on this team Shepard could trust to remain cool-headed and objective no matter the circumstance. It was arguably her best quality. She didn’t plan on letting it slip when it may be needed most.

“I’m not sure why I’m explaining this to you. You understand better than anyone that it serves no one to let sentiment get in the way of the greater good,” Miranda noted, glancing over to her companion beside her on the lounge.

“I do,” Samara acknowledged, respecting Miranda’s clarity of thought in these trying times. “Adherence to the Code is always paramount. If it requires me to take a certain action, then that is what must be done, irrespective of my own personal thoughts or feelings. If I waiver in the moment, if I so much as hesitate because I question, or doubt, or second-guess, then I have failed.”

“That doesn’t sound easy,” Miranda thought aloud. Sure, Miranda had never been accused of second-guessing herself once committed to a course of action, but whenever she made those same split-second decisions, those had always been her choices to make. No external force could ever compel her to do something she found truly objectionable. She was too stubborn and individualistic to voluntarily surrender her ability to think for herself. Her agency was too important to her, after spending so much of her life without it.

“For me, it was the hardest aspect of becoming a Justicar,” Samara admitted. “It was difficult to train my body to become a weapon, but it was harder to train my mind. I have heard the same sentiment from many others. Most take decades, even centuries, to prove that they can subordinate their own will to that of the Code. Others never pass that test. Had I gone to them at any other time in my life, I believe that would have been my fate.”

Miranda watched her as she spoke, saying nothing. She knew too well just how broken Samara had been when she chose this path. Perhaps a younger Samara would have been more like Miranda - too arrogant, egotistical and argumentative to submit to a single set of rules. But the Samara who came to them had lost everything. Almost a blank slate. Barely enough of a self left to let go.

“And yet I do not envy you the burden of leadership,” Samara continued, meeting Miranda’s gaze, breaking her from her thoughts. “To know that you are not only responsible for your own welfare, but that your choices affect those under your command, that is something I have never faced.”

“Never?” Miranda arched a brow, finding that difficult to believe.

A faint glimmer twinkled in Samara’s eye. “Never,” she confirmed. “I have long suspected this is the reason why Justicars are most often tasked to work alone. Our solitary nature removes the possibility of an internal conflict where one must choose between the desires of the self - in this case, to protect the life of a friend - and upholding the Code. Perhaps it is for the best.”

“You're not alone right now,” Miranda pointed out.

“No, I am not,” Samara replied, a gentle warmth emanating from her words, despite the sombre situation in which they both found themselves.

“Well, this is what we’re here for. Everything we’ve done up to this point, this is what it was all in aid of,” Miranda noted, thinking back over the past several months, and the innumerable adventures The Normandy SR-2 and its crew had undergone in that time. All the new faces they’d recruited. All the remote planets they’d visited. All the people they’d helped. And every inconsequential part of it had led to this one final assault on the Collector Base. Her fingers idly traced patterns on the rim of her glass, mostly untouched. “Are you afraid?”

“No,” Samara answered honestly. “I have been at peace with the inevitability of my own end for a long time. The Goddess will take me into her embrace when my moment comes to pass. If that time is now, then I am grateful that my final few months have transpired in the way that they have. I could not have chosen a more worthy cause for which to give my life, nor greater comrades to fight beside.”

Miranda didn’t doubt that Samara meant it. She had been bravely risking her life for a long time. Far, far longer than Miranda had been alive. At least now, if she fell in battle, she no longer had to fear that she would be leaving behind unfinished business, in the form of Morinth.

“Are you?” Samara asked Miranda in return.

“No.” Miranda shook her head. Samara held her stare, somehow sensing that wasn’t entirely true. Miranda’s resolve visibly weakened. “...A little,” she reluctantly admitted, cradling her half-full drink between her hands. “But it’s not the thought of dying that scares me. What scares me is that...for the first time in my life, I finally have something to lose. I’ve only just met my sister; we’ve barely had time to talk yet, let alone get to know each other. And, as insane as this would have sounded to me six months ago, I have people in my life now who I genuinely consider friends. That’s...That’s not something I’ve ever had before.”

“You have found people you care about. And people who truly care about you,” Samara surmised, wisdom glistening in her eyes.

“I have. And...I never thought I’d say this, but now that I finally have it, that’s not something I’m willing to give up,” Miranda acknowledged. To be honest, the thought of letting this all just slip through her fingers terrified her. Not only her connections to the people themselves, but losing her elusive grasp on the better, happier person she was becoming through having known them.

“Then I am relieved,” said Samara, earning a confused look from Miranda. “Because, if there is one thing that I have learned about you, Miranda, it is that, when you are fully committed to something, you are unstoppable. If your heart’s truest desire is to ensure you return safely to those you cherish most, then I am not only reassured that we will be the victors in this fight, but moreover I am certain that you will survive.”

At that, Miranda uttered a faint chuckle, flattered by Samara’s unshakeable faith in her. “Thank you. That’s...I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me,” she said softly, still feeling some uncharacteristic pre-mission jitters about the battle that lay ahead, but comforted by Samara’s confidence.

“Miranda.” Samara extended a hand and placed it gently atop Miranda’s knee, compelling her to look into her eyes. “For so long as I am able, I promise to do everything in my power to ensure that you prevail through what awaits us. No harm will come to you, if I am able to prevent it.”

As Samara held her gaze, Miranda was at a loss for words. Even if she could find them, her tongue felt like it was tied in a knot, rendering her unable to speak. It was an alien sensation for her, though not an entirely unpleasant one, as a sudden warmth rushed to her cheeks. She genuinely didn’t know how to react to such kind words, given that she wasn’t used to hearing them.

“Yeah, well...same to you,” was Miranda’s painfully awkward but heartfelt response, lightly nudging Samara’s arm with her own. “...I mean it, you know?”

“As do I,” Samara assured her, content that she had said what she needed to say, and that the sincerity of her message had not been lost in translation. “But, please...do not endanger your life for mine.”

Those humble words hit Miranda like a brick. “What?” She blinked in shock, taking several seconds to confirm that her ears weren’t playing tricks on her, and that she had heard that request correctly. “Samara--”

“Please.” Samara quietly interjected, her demeanour eerily serene considering the macabre subject. “There is no reason to speak of this with apprehension. I have lived a very long life. One way or another, my years are coming to an end before too long. And I am content with that.”

“You could live just as long as I could,” Miranda reminded her. Well, maybe that was generous. Based on predictive models, it was conceivable that Miranda could live into her early two-hundreds, barring external factors. But it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility for Samara to live for another century. That was roughly as long as any other human on this ship could hope to live.

“Perhaps. But you are still in your Summer days, and will be for a long time yet to come. You have reached only a fraction of your potential. Whereas I…” Samara paused and trailed off for a brief moment, her gaze shifting as she searched for the right words. “For centuries, I have known only Winter. Even so, I have done what I set out to do, and fulfilled the oath I made to my Order. If this day is destined to be my last, then I can say without falsity that I am satisfied with what I leave behind. And I am blessed to know others like yourself will live on when I am gone. So, I ask this of you.” Samara reached down and gently clasped Miranda’s hands between both of her own, glass and all. “Do not sacrifice your years for mine. Please. I would not be able to forgive myself if you perished for my sake.”

Miranda exhaled slowly. That was a lot to process all at once. And she did not like what she was hearing. But, as Samara’s words sank in, the more she understood what it meant to her, and why this was so important to her.

If it comforted Samara to go into this battle believing that her much younger allies would outlive her if she fell, then what audacity would it take for Miranda not to respect those wishes, particularly if the worst did come to pass? Miranda couldn’t take that calming belief away from her. Not now, when the last thing any of them needed was to be plagued by upsetting thoughts.

“Okay. I can promise you I won’t do anything foolish, or throw my life away,” Miranda somewhat reluctantly warranted. That went without saying. “But, if you expect me not to watch out for you or not to do my best to keep you safe, then I’m sorry but I can’t. I will be trying to bring you home. And if you don’t want it to be for the sake of our friendship, then fine. It won’t be for that. It will be because you’re still a part of this team, and I owe you that duty regardless. And I can’t shirk that responsibility, no matter how much you want me to.”

Samara nodded, letting Miranda’s hands fall from her grasp. “Very well. I am content with that. I would never ask you to betray your responsibilities.”

“Good.” Miranda gave a short nod, because that was as much of a concession as Samara was going to get. Abandoning her would never be on the table.

It occurred to Miranda then that, despite their mutual intentions to watch each other’s backs and do what they could to see each other through whatever lay ahead, she couldn’t fault Samara for making peace with the possibility of her own demise. As optimistic as they were both trying to be in their own ways, there was still a chance that this conversation would be their last.

Following that thought, Miranda realised that this was, in all respects, her only guaranteed opportunity to confess a secret she’d been hiding from Samara - that she’d gone digging through her past without her permission. She’d long been telling herself that she needed to apologise for that, and would do it when the time was right. As much as she had found reasons to avoid that issue over the past few weeks, Miranda did want to make amends before it was too late.

“Samara…” Miranda began with a heavier tone to her quiet voice, ready to admit to her mistakes. However, as soon as she started to speak, she thought better of it. There was so little time left before they would make their attack on The Collector Base. The last thing she wanted to do was tell Samara something hurtful, knowing it might weigh on her mind throughout the fight, and distract her from their goals.

If Samara wasn’t completely focused, there was a chance she wouldn’t be at her best. And that was a risk Miranda couldn’t afford to take. If Samara didn’t make it out of this because of something Miranda told her...even the very thought of that made her sick to her stomach.

Samara sat before her, patient and calm, giving Miranda as much time as she needed to find the words she wanted to say. Miranda sighed, recognising that she didn’t have it in her heart to tell Samara something that could only serve to hurt her, at least not at that moment.

“...Thank you,” was what Miranda settled on. And there was nothing false about her gratitude. “I’ve, um...I haven’t had a lot of friends in my life. Or any, really. So, um...knowing you has....”

Miranda stopped herself and uttered a faint sigh of frustration as she ran a hand through her hair, struggling to find the right words. It wasn’t a problem she was accustomed to. She didn’t lack the vocabulary. But, then again, she’d never had to say anything like this. She’d never had a friend like Samara before.

“What I’m trying to say is that you’ve genuinely helped me become a better person than I was before I met you,” Miranda confessed, conscious of how much colder and less empathetic she had been before she started spending time with Samara, and how much she’d learned about herself through this friendship. And yet not once in all that time had Samara ever made Miranda feel like the person she already was wasn’t good enough. She’d always accepted her. Flaws and all. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand why you were willing to be so patient with me sometimes, but you were. So...from the bottom of my heart, thank you. For everything.”

Samara offered a small smile in return. “You have nothing to thank me for. And, even if you had, your friendship has been more than I could ever repay.”

Miranda gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Liar,” she jokingly remarked, confident that she had gained infinitely more from Samara’s friendship than Samara had gained from hers in return. Not that it seemed to matter.

“Miranda,” Samara spoke first, interrupting the silence before Miranda could continue. “It occurs to me that there are but a scant few hours left before we jump through the Omega Relay.”

“You’re right. We should focus. Get ourselves in the right headspace,” Miranda replied, putting her glass aside, getting up from the couch and moving over to her usual spot on the floor, straightening her back in anticipation of a meditation session. Talking had been nice, but they did need to concentrate. Clear their heads. Sharpen their senses. Prepare their biotics.

Samara’s amused expression was reflected in the window. “That is not...Well, you are not mistaken in assuming that I intended to meditate in readiness for the battle that lies ahead,” Samara spoke, sounding a little thrown by Miranda’s reaction, but not in an unpleasant way. “However, what I meant to say to you is that, to the extent you are able, you should spend this time as you wish.”

“...I’m already doing that,” Miranda answered frankly, glancing back over her shoulder. It hadn’t even been a question where she would go once she left her office. By that point, it shouldn’t have even needed to be said between them that there was nowhere else on the ship she would rather be.

Samara smiled, accepting her answer. “Then I am glad.”

With that, Samara moved to join Miranda on the floor, channelling her biotics through her hands, warming up in anticipation that her abilities would be needed soon. Miranda quieted her mind, already knowing that she would need to be at her sharpest and most alert. Everyone would be counting on her not to make any mistakes, especially if anything happened to Shepard.

What Miranda didn’t know at the time, and had never known in any of the days they had spent together in this room, was that Samara had a singular focus in mind. She had long been awaiting a day such as this - a day when they would launch a virtually suicidal assault against the Collectors.

The truth was, ever since Samara had met Shepard and Miranda on Illium and heard of their quest to stop the Collectors, she had considered the possibility that the Goddess was sending her a sign. Once she completed her penance by ending Morinth’s reign of terror on the galaxy, that mere possibility had crystallised into a certainty. With Morinth gone, her purpose had been fulfilled. Her very reason for staying alive these past four hundred years was at an end.

Samara could derive no other meaning from the path she had been set upon. The auspicious omens were all so clear. Her time had finally come. This was the day she was destined to embrace eternity.

Unbeknownst to anyone else, every single thing Samara had done since she had stepped foot aboard the Normandy had been rooted in a silent expectation that the approaching suicide mission was where her Goddess had fated her to die. Every meditation. Every field mission. Every moment spent with Miranda, gently guiding her towards a happier, more fulfilling future Samara would never see.

Samara had been waiting for this day with bated breath. Not in fear. Rather, finding comfort and peace in it. On some level, perhaps even aching for the release that she had been denied a long time ago.

The closer the hour drew, the more the weight on her shoulders had lifted. The more she had lowered her guard. The easier her burdens had become to bear. It wouldn’t be long now before she could lay them down for eternity.

And, with that in mind, Samara’s meditation continued untroubled, unburdened by the thought that it would be her last. Because, in her heart of hearts, the truth was that Samara still believed deep down, just as she had for the last four hundred years, that she was ultimately responsible for the fate that had befallen her family. The death of her bondmate. Her children’s disease. Mirala’s murders.

And, for that, Samara had never once stopped believing in the deepest recesses of her soul that she did not truly deserve to live.

* * *

“Jelly? Seriously?” Prangley snickered at his fellow student. “That's how you're going to celebrate?”

“A pool of jelly,” Rodriguez corrected him. “That makes all the difference.” She grinned.

“Swimming in jelly. That's a new one,” Seanne laughingly commented.

“Better than yours,” Rodriguez replied, sticking out her tongue.

“Drink your fuckin' juice, Rodriguez,” Seanne countered, lightly smacking her on the arm.

“Oi. Language,” Miranda nonchalantly chastised, not even looking up from her work. Jack may have tolerated casual swearing, but Miranda at least tried to instil some decorum while she was around.

“Sorry,” Seanne sheepishly apologised.

Miranda turned the page, continuing to read the latest Alliance brief on the status of other cities on Earth. Bailey might have ordered her not to come into work on weekends, but he’d never said she couldn’t read reports in her spare time. She wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but part of her still hoped that one of these days the reports would mention a certain asari Justicar, the last of her order. At least then she would know where she was. No luck yet.

“Hey, Miss. What about you?” asked Reiley. Miranda glanced up, visibly annoyed to have her concentration broken. “What are you going to do when you get home?”

“Technically speaking, I am home, in planetary terms,” Miranda pointed out. She was from Earth, after all. “This is as close to home as I ever plan on going, anyway.” She shrugged, returning her gaze to the digital text. She had no reason to ever go further.

“You know what I mean,” said Reiley, not surprised by her pedantry. Miranda was always the sort to pick apart someone's words, deliberately misinterpreting them and taking them out of context, even when she knew damn well what they meant. It made her a nightmare to bicker with. “What do you think you'll do when the mass relays are rebuilt and you get to see your sister again?” he asked, interested to see a more sentimental side of her.

“I believe I'll hug her. For about six months,” Miranda matter-of-factly replied, not even a twitch of irony flickering across her deadpan expression. “Crying may also be involved.”

Prangley laughed. “Six months, huh?” he said, grinning lopsidedly.

“You're right. I have a lot of endurance. I could probably push it to seven,” said Miranda, sounding entirely serious. Despite the fact that there wasn’t a hint of a smile on her face, this was the closest thing to an amiable attitude Jack’s kids ever saw her with.

“I've got a feeling Little Miss Sis might get sick of that,” Rodriguez commented.

“Yes, well, I'm stronger than her. She has no say in the matter. And turn that noise down, would you?” she asked, her request far more relaxed than the order she would have barked when the students first came under her care.

“It's not noise,” Seanne insisted, looking quite offended by Miranda's low opinion of her favourite artist. “It's music.”

“No, it isn't,” Miranda firmly asserted, not even bothering to glance up as she flipped the page on her tablet computer.

“Why? What did you listen to when you were growing up?” asked Prangely, somehow unable to picture Miranda ever being anything other than a thirty-something adult.

“Rachmaninoff,” Miranda answered, as if that should have been perfectly obvious.

“I totally called it,” said Rodriguez, holding out her hand, gesturing for Reiley to pay up. “I told you she never listens to anything made in the last three centuries. It's only classical shit with her.”

“First of all, don't swear. Secondly, Rachmaninoff is not classical, he's romantic. Thirdly, he died in nineteen forty-three, which is less than two hundred and fifty years ago.” As one, all the students met her with blank stares. Miranda gave them an unimpressed look before shaking her head, going back to her article, realising she was wasting her time trying to educate them. “Never mind.”

Abruptly, there came a knock at the door. Seeing as any visitor would likely be there for her, Miranda moved to answer it, but Reiley beat her to the punch. “I'll get it,” he said, leaping over the couch to see who it was, reaching the doorway faster than she could react.

“Thank you.” Much as Miranda refused to think of her injuries as a hindrance, they did impact upon her mobility. The students were considerate enough to do a few small things here and there to help her out, like buying her a little extra time to grab her cane and get to her feet when a visitor came by.

“It's for you, Miss,” Reiley announced, not that this was unexpected. “It's Mr. Taylor.”

“Make yourself at home, Jacob,” Miranda said instinctively, without looking over her shoulder, clicking the home button on her tablet and putting it aside.

“Looks like things are going well here,” Jacob observed, stepping inside.

“For certain values of 'well',” Miranda replied with a slightly strained sigh. It was mostly exaggeration, though. “These teenagers were all far less inclined to bother me before you made me be nice to them.”

“Yeah,” Jacob conceded, pulling up a chair, “But you would have felt guilty about it if you hadn't. Not right away, but eventually. You know I'm right.”

Miranda feigned a huff. Truth be told, she was starting to enjoy their well-intentioned torment. She certainly preferred that than having them walk on eggshells around her. The last thing she ever wanted was for these kids to feel around her the way she’d felt around her own father.

“Any luck finding out what happened to our people?” Jacob asked.

“No,” Miranda straightforwardly replied. “I’ve asked Dr. Michel and her team to look into it, but there are literally millions of bodies scattered throughout the rubble of London. Identifying them all was never going to be quick. It could be years before we find out whether anyone we know is among them. If they were simply vaporised, chances are we’ll never know what happened to them.”

“Wow. Right to the vaporisation,” Jacob pointed out. That was dark.

“I'm not assuming any of them are gone,” Miranda insisted with a slightly defensive shrug. “I just have to be prepared for all potential possibilities. I'm not about to stop trying to find them, but I need to accept that I may be powerless to answer what happened to everyone.”

“Don't worry. I know.” Jacob and Miranda went back years by that point. He was better at reading her intentions than most, and he knew she often wasn't aware that she sounded more callous than she meant.

“Other than that, what brings you here?” Miranda asked. “Joining us for dinner tonight?”

“That would be nice,” Jacob acknowledged, nodding to accept that invitation. “But, before we get into that, I’m here because I found something. I thought you might like to see it.”

Miranda furrowed her brow. “What is it?”

“Well, you remember the memory wall at Paddington station? The place where people post pictures of anybody who’s missing, or leave messages for people who haven’t been found yet to try and meet up with them?”

“Of course I do,” Miranda answered. She had passed it many times - it was a stone’s throw from both the hospital where she’d recovered, and the refugee camp/field hospital at Hyde Park. It wasn’t the only wall of its kind. Part memorial. Part notice-board. It was something people had first started doing during the war, as a means of finding others in the chaos, using local landmarks as places to reach out to others. Once the Reapers were destroyed, their use had only grown. The one at Paddington had been well-established by the time Miranda had been found, let alone the time she woke up. “What’s your point?”

“...This is really my bad, you know,” he confessed, apologetically. “Back then, I was so distracted. Busy thinking about you and working to get London back on its feet. I guess that’s why, when Samara left without any word, it didn't even occur to me to check to see if she'd left a message there.”

Miranda’s heart dropped like a stone, her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, it was as if her whole world stopped.

Samara.

Memories of the weeks - hell, months - they’d spent together on The Normandy flashed through her mind, the countless hours alone in the Starboard Observation Deck, the private conversations where they’d admitted things to each other that they’d never spoken aloud to another soul.

It was at that instant that it finally sank in for Miranda just how truly alone she’d felt over these past several weeks without Samara there by her side.

Even though she was surrounded by people, it didn’t make up for that void left by her absence. Knowing that she should have been there, but inexplicably wasn’t. That constant feeling that something was just...missing.

She’d almost come to accept that lingering feeling of abandonment. Of being forgotten. Even a little betrayed. To have that challenged now, at this late hour. It didn’t seem possible.

“Jacob, if you’re joking with me about this…” Miranda said softly, not sure she could cope with the disappointment if this turned out to be some ill-conceived prank, and not willing to get her hopes up until she was certain it wasn’t.

“I’m not. See for yourself.” Jacob activated his omni-tool and sent the file across to Miranda’s tablet computer. The file flashed up on her screen, asking if she wanted to accept the transfer. ‘To Miranda, From Samara’.

She froze. So, this was real.

It shouldn't have surprised her that Samara would have left something behind. Or tried to, at least. It was what she had expected initially. After all, they had grown extremely close throughout their time together. More than anyone realised. But, when Miranda had woken up from her near-death state to find her already gone, it had been hard not to feel hurt, to think that things must have changed, or that maybe she’d overestimated their friendship from the start.

It meant a lot to her to have evidence that perhaps those things weren’t the case, and that Samara's absence didn't denote a lack of caring on her part. That she hadn’t forgotten her, or cast her aside. Not entirely, at least.

“...Did she say where she went, or...?” Miranda trailed off.

“I'm not sure,” Jacob admitted with a shrug. “I only read the covering note intended for me, which didn’t say much more than to give this to you if...when you woke up. Go on. Play it.”

For a moment, Miranda hesitated, tempted to wait until she was alone to do so. But, then, it occurred to her that it didn’t make sense to guard this so jealously. And she didn’t fully understand her own reticence to be transparent about the message’s contents, or her friendship with Samara.

Sure, nobody knew how close they’d grown on The Normandy, but it wasn’t like it was some scandalous secret that they were friends. There was nothing Samara would have said to her that Jacob or the students couldn't hear. It wasn't that the two of them had never had personal conversations. Of course they had. But Samara was a professional, like her. Miranda had every expectation her message would be in that capacity more than anything else. Hell, the only time she’d ever really seen her get emotional was after Morinth.

So, then, why did it feel like letting anyone else catch a glimpse of the connection she and Samara shared was like exposing a deeply personal part of herself? A side of herself nobody except Samara had ever seen?

Why did this feel too intimate to be spoiled by prying eyes?

“...So, are you going to open it, or...?” Jacob prompted. It wasn’t lost on her that Jason, Reiley, Seanne and Rodriguez were all watching her too.

Somewhat self-conscious to that fact, Miranda cleared her throat and played the video. Samara's face appeared on the screen, lit only by a faint light. From what little Miranda could make out of the background, Samara must have recorded this on the roof of the hospital at night, most likely on her omni-tool.

“Miranda,” the message began. “I do not...”

Samara paused, swallowing, searching for the right words. She spoke softly. Even more so than usual. She looked tired, like she hadn’t slept in days. Her shoulders almost began to bow under the strain she’d placed on herself.

“As I record this, you lie unconscious in a hospital bed. You are...unable to breathe without the aid of a machine. And you have been fighting for your life, every second of every minute of every hour since I discovered you.”

There was a strange air to Samara’s words. Maybe it was just the quality of recording, or because she wasn’t even facing the screen, but normally she spoke with such a clear tone. Calm, assured and quiet, yet also confident. Her timbre never quaked or wavered or quivered. But this was different. There was an uncharacteristic hoarseness to her voice. A tremor, even.

Then again, in the days before Samara left, she’d been in and out of the wasteland so many times that she was doubtlessly exhausted. Running on empty. Of course her voice would have given out by then.

“I do not know whether...” Samara stopped herself again, finding whatever words were on the tip of her tongue too unpleasant to utter. Her eyes remained distant, fixed on the dark city below. Her head hadn’t raised an inch since she started speaking. Not even once. “Your survival is not guaranteed. However, if you are hearing this, then you have awoken. For that, I am grateful.”

On some level, Miranda had been waiting for something like this since the moment she woke up in that hospital bed. Just something from Samara. Anything at all. Some sort of acknowledgment that she was okay. To know why her friend left. To know that she hadn’t callously tossed her aside.

Now that she was holding that very thing in her hand, it didn’t seem real. Miranda didn’t know how to react. Perhaps she should have been excited, or happy, or even annoyed that Samara hadn’t left this beside her bed where it would have been easier to find. Instead there was just...quiet. And confusion.

“Do not interpret my absence as indifference to your fate; it is not,” Samara continued. That she even mentioned it at all showed that it must have troubled her to consider Miranda might believe she had no interest in her survival. She hadn’t been wrong. The thought had crossed her mind, especially in her loneliest moments. “It grieves me that I cannot be by your side.”

Hearing her finally say those words, Miranda believed her. In truth, deep down, despite her loneliness and her doubts, she’d never really questioned it. There were very few people Miranda had truly cared about, much less people who truly cared about her in return. And Samara was one of them.

There was nothing shallow or interchangeable about the rapport she shared with Samara. Those memories of the Normandy and the Citadel weren’t mere fabrications of Miranda’s imagination. That was real. And if that had all been faked, then either Miranda had to be the most gullible idiot ever to stand on two legs, or Samara was a master manipulator of the blackest deceit ever purveyed to the universe. She knew damn well that neither of those things were true.

Miranda just wished Samara was really there. And, even as she listened to her give her explanations, part of her just couldn’t understand why she wasn’t. Not that she resented her for it, but it just didn’t make sense. Samara’s Code might have been a good reason for why she’d left, but it didn’t explain why she’d done it so abruptly. Plus, she’d taken the time to record this message, but she hadn’t told Jacob she was leaving, or to give this to Miranda.

Something was just...off about all of this. It didn’t add up.

“Hey, Miss, who's that?” Reiley asked.

Miranda waved him off, refusing to be distracted. To his credit, Reiley took that as a cue to shut up and leave her in peace, at least until the end of the video.

“There is much suffering in the wake of this war. The Code compels me to go where I am needed. I cannot ignore that, even for you,” said Samara.

Miranda’s brow twinged. It was strange. Samara really didn't sound like herself, both in terms of what she was saying and how she was saying it. It was as though an unspoken thought weighed heavily on her heart. Guilt? Regret?

Samara was silent for a long moment. She still hadn’t moved a muscle through the entire length of the video. Until a sound escaped her. Then the camera moved, and Miranda couldn’t see Samara’s face anymore. If she had recorded this on her omni-tool, the only explanation that would have made sense was if Samara had leaned forward against the railing and cradled her head in her hands.

It was two whole minutes before Samara came back into view.

“...Forgive me. I merely...I wanted...” She stopped herself again, turning aside, her eyes still yet to meet the camera. It was difficult to make out, but...it almost seemed like she was struggling to maintain her composure. But Miranda knew that couldn’t be possible, because that never happened to Samara.

Finally, Samara straightened up, as if forcing herself to continue. She tucked her free hand behind her back, staring dead ahead, but still not at the camera.

“I know that I will not be there for you if you awaken. That is my responsibility, and a burden I have to bear. If you hate me for it, I will understand. I would welcome it, even, as it is not undeserved. But you must not think even for a moment that it is any fault of your own that I cannot stay, or that I have abandoned you. You are always in my thoughts, and I pray for your recovery.”

Miranda's eye glinted at that. If she couldn’t stay then so be it. But couldn’t she have waited a few days for her to wake up? Or left behind some means of contacting her? Was she afraid to talk to her, even from far away? Did she think that Miranda wouldn’t have understood why she had to leave, if she explained it to her? All she'd wanted was to talk to her again, or at least to enjoy the silence, knowing that if she ever truly needed Samara, she would be there. And vice versa.

And none of this answered the question of why she still hadn’t returned. It had been two months since she vanished, and this was the only word they’d had from her in all that time - a recording from the exact same day she disappeared.

“I cannot say when I will return to speak with you again, or...learn of your fate, if that is no longer a possibility.” Samara's expression didn't change, although her gaze momentarily dipped at that sombre thought. “But you are a strong woman, Miranda. Strong enough that you have not yet perished from your injuries. If it is possible for you to survive at all, then I do not believe that you will succumb.”

“Good prediction,” Jacob remarked. Miranda didn’t feel it in her heart to be able to make a wisecrack. There was an odd weight in her chest as she watched Samara speak. One that wouldn’t go away. And it was getting heavier.

A faint shadow flickered over Samara’s eyes, imperceptible to most. She hid it, but it betrayed something Miranda couldn't interpret. “...Be safe, Miranda.”

With that, the message ended. The silence that followed encompassed the room like a slow-rising flood, drowning out all sound. Miranda sat there, still, not even aware of the watchful eyes lingering on her, waiting for her to react.

It was strange. For as much as she would have expected it to lift her spirits to hear from Samara, there was this indescribable ache left behind in her wake. The same ache that had been there, gnawing away at Miranda despite her best efforts to ignore it ever since she realised Samara had left without saying goodbye.

Miranda had never been the best at identifying emotions, whether hers or others. Hence, it wasn’t a shock when she couldn’t find the words to articulate precisely what it was that she was feeling. Maybe the word for it didn’t exist.

The truth was, she’d never felt so...conflicted.

It was funny to think. Miranda had been forced to go on the run from Cerberus for almost a year. Alone. In hiding. Unable to contact anyone she knew or cared about, because it wasn’t safe to do so. It would have exposed them to harm - it would have made them targets Cerberus could track down to try and get to her.

She’d frequently thought of her friends during those moments. Of The Normandy. Of Shepard. Of Jacob. Of Oriana, of course. And of Samara.

It hadn’t been easy, surviving like that, not knowing whether the people she cared about were in danger. She’d kept an eye on them all as best she could from afar, although with Samara that had been virtually impossible, given she moved often and left little trace of her presence anywhere.

There had been many days back then where Miranda missed her companionship, not merely because craved a reprieve from her isolation, but because, frankly, simply being around Samara had a way of making everything better, and of making all her problems seem smaller than they did a moment ago. It was like her very aura conveyed a silent promise that, no matter what happened, everything would turn out okay in the end. Miranda needed that sometimes.

And yet...it hadn’t hurt nearly as much to lose contact with Samara back then as it did now, even though by all rights they were so much closer.

She swallowed, choosing to ignore it.

“Thank you for bringing me that, Jacob,” Miranda told him sincerely. For as much as her heart seemed divided against itself, it was still a net comfort to hear from Samara, if a small one. At least she knew Samara had left of her own volition, which meant Miranda had answered one question weighing on her mind.

“Sounds like you two were close,” Jacob observed.

“Yeah, we were,” Miranda confirmed. So much so that it seemed a simple recording wasn’t enough to fill the hollowness of still not knowing where Samara was, or whether she was okay, or whether she would ever come back.

“I never knew that about you,” said Jacob, sitting somewhat sideways in his chair, with his elbow on the table. “I mean, not that I'm surprised. But I don't think I ever really saw you two talk or hang out on the ship. Figured I would have heard about you doing that if it was a regular occurrence.”

“Nobody else spent much time on the Starboard Observation Deck, so I suppose no one noticed,” Miranda pointed out. And it was true. It wasn’t as though they’d been hiding it, and yet only a small handful of people had gleaned any insight into their growing friendship. And only a few more people than that had seen them train together. “Samara was the person I could always go to when I didn't want to be around anyone else. Which was...quite often, actually.”

Jacob shrugged nonchalantly. “Makes sense to me. Always thought you two would get along.”

Miranda snorted and arched her eyebrow. “Let me guess, because we're both cold and robotic and incapable of having fun?”

“Hey, you said that, not me.” Miranda just looked at him. Jacob uncomfortably cleared his throat. “...Well, I mean, you're not wrong about having a certain...demeanour in common, but that wasn't what I was thinking.”

“What then?” she asked.

“For starters, how about you're both smart, capable, determined women who could recognise and respect those qualities in each other?” Jacob suggested, almost resenting the fact that he had to profess his innocence. “Or that you're a refined, elegant woman who would probably feel far more inclined to talk to someone with Samara's wisdom and maturity than you would to the average person, since she can engage with you on that level where most can’t?”

Miranda summoned the energy to smirk, though it didn’t reach her eye. “You’re already invited to dinner, Jacob. The flattery really isn’t necessary.” Jacob rolled his eyes, realising she'd been messing with him.

“So who was that woman, anyway?” Both Jacob and Miranda glanced over when Jason broke the silence. For a few seconds, they’d honestly forgotten the kids were still there. “Some kind of ex-girlfriend or something?”

Jacob chuckled when Miranda released a slightly exasperated sigh at that question. He didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know that wasn’t the first time they’d pestered her about her personal life, nor that it wouldn’t be the last. “No, Prangley. A friend. And the person who saved my life.”

“Oh. Dope,” Prangley replied. Miranda gave a good-natured roll of her eye, but the response was almost forced, a fact that wasn’t lost on Jacob.

“We’ll start getting dinner ready,” Rodriguez volunteered, since it was her turn to cook. Not that there was much she could do with such limited resources, but the girl got points for enthusiasm. “Will Mr. Taylor be joining us?”

“I will, actually. Thank you,” Jacob confirmed.

Miranda didn’t notice that his eyes had remained fixed on her. Her thoughts were centred on Samara’s message, replaying it in her head, trying to decipher why it had left her so...unresolved, and in so many disparate headspaces at once.

“Hey.” Jacob gently nudged her good knee with his. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she answered. “Why?”

“I don’t know. You just seem…” He trailed off and shook his head, not able to put his finger on exactly what was different about her demeanour. “I don’t know.”

Miranda gave him a look. “Thank you for that assessment, Jacob.”

He laughed despite himself, that response appearing to satisfy him that Miranda was perfectly normal. For her, anyway. “Alright, point taken. But see? Didn’t I tell you Samara hadn’t forgotten about you?”

“You did. It’s nice to hear it from the source, though.” Miranda glanced down, a distracting thought in the back of her mind. “She didn’t outright say that she would be coming back, did she? Do you think she intends to, or...?”

“Hard to say. Samara’s always been a mystery to me,” Jacob pointed out.

“...Right.” Miranda unconsciously toyed with a loose thread on the couch, trying to ignore that indescribable ache in her chest that wouldn’t go away.

“You’ll have to tell me about how you became friends, sometime,” Jacob commented, patting her on the leg as he got up, moving to go help the kids with the cooking.

“Yeah. I’ll do that…” Miranda vacantly uttered.

She had absolutely no intention of doing that.

* * *

It was a good thing that Shepard had installed those ship upgrades. Going through the Omega-4 Relay had been no easy feat.

Miranda and Mordin had raced down to the cargo hold with Shepard to fight off an oculus that cut its way through the hull. Multiple shockwaves had resonated through the ship as they battled the oculus. They had to fight on, not knowing what they meant, whether anyone had died, or how far they were from the base. Fortunately, everyone had escaped unharmed. Although, The Normandy wasn’t in such good shape. It had crash-landed just shy of the Collector Base.

A mission briefing had been called, the plan made, the roles decided. Miranda was charged with leading the second fireteam into the base. Tali had been appointed the tech specialist, infiltrating the base through a thermal vent and bypassing the security doors so the two squads could rendezvous inside and move on deeper, towards the central core.

It hadn’t been easy. If not for Miranda and the others providing covering fire, Tali damn near might have got her head shot off trying to seal the doors shut behind Shepard, Thane and Garrus.

Somehow, despite all the odds, they’d made it through the first phase in one piece. No lives lost. They even found the crew alive. The colonists from Horizon weren’t so lucky. If they’d been even a few seconds later, the crew would have…

No. They hadn’t failed them. That was all that mattered.

Shepard sent Kasumi to escort the crew back to the ship, certain that they were in no fit state to fight off any Collectors by themselves after all they’d been through.

For everyone else who would continue moving forward, the problem was that they still needed to get through the seeker swarms. They were denser here. And Mordin’s countermeasures wouldn’t work on that many. A biotic field was suggested as the best way through, though that would only be sufficient to protect a small team. Miranda had volunteered, though Jack had protested and suggested she go instead. Perhaps deliberately taking a third option, Shepard had chosen Samara to hold up the barrier. In the meantime, Garrus would take over leading the rest of the squad through a secondary path EDI had pointed out to them.

“Miranda, Jacob, you’re with me,” said Andrea, everyone’s orders confirmed.

“Just stay focused; I’ve got your back,” Miranda assured Samara, receiving a nod of understanding from her as they left, following Shepard and Jacob.

Shepard took point. “Stay alert; they could come from anywhere.”

And so the long walk began.

Samara found it easy at first, pinging those wasp-like creatures off her biotic bubble like raindrops bursting on glass. The effort didn’t appear to phase her at all. But, just as it began to seem like it was far too easy for comfort, it was quickly confirmed that their presence hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Collectors inbound!” Miranda called out, signalling for Samara to take cover.

“ASSUMING DIRECT CONTROL,” Harbinger announced his presence.

Gunfire rang out, combined with biotic attacks. Samara took shelter where she could, only concerned with maintaining the barrier as the others took aim at the incoming hostiles. It didn’t seem to be troubling her, but she couldn’t divert her hands to do anything else. Couldn’t pick up a gun. Couldn’t fire off a reave. If a Collector got close to her, she wouldn’t be able to defend herself.

Miranda made it her personal mission to stay near the back of the group, determined to ensure not a damn thing touched Samara. Neither Shepard nor Jacob seemed to take any issue with that arrangement.

“Coast is clear,” Jacob confirmed after the Harbinger dropped. Trusting her allies implicitly, Samara emerged once more, ready to continue the long walk.

“You okay?” Miranda checked in with her, keeping an eye out for danger as she walked at Samara’s side. Shepard and Jacob kept further forward, their attention on the path ahead, scanning for any approaching threats.

“You will be the first to know if I am not,” Samara assured her, certain that Miranda was the best option to take over from her if her barrier broke, although in theory Shepard and Jacob could also do so if necessary. If that thin bubble of energy wasn’t maintained the whole way, they would all perish to the swarms.

It seemed like they couldn’t make it twenty metres without another wave of Collectors or their husks coming for them. Wave after wave. Harbinger possessing footsoldier after footsoldier. They knew this would be a long walk. But, considering how much effort Samara was exerting on that barrier, each passing minute must have felt twice as long as the last, the strain on her body growing exponentially the longer they spent pinned down in these firefights.

Gradually, Samara began to buckle under the weight of her barrier. She had been repelling those seeker swarms for so long. And the end of the line seemed to creep further and further away the closer they got.

By the third time Samara had to force herself out of cover to start moving again, she was stumbling, barely managing to drag her feet forward.

Husks and abominations crawled up from either side, but there was nowhere for Samara to hide, nor did it seem like she had the strength to stop and wait another time. If she crouched down one more time, it was more than likely that she simply wouldn’t be able to stand up again. The others just had to react fast, and take down any foes before they got close enough to pose a threat to her.

Eventually, they caught sight of a tunnel ahead. The way out.

“Samara…” Miranda stayed by her side, concern colouring her voice, ready to take over from her if she couldn’t do this anymore.

Samara gritted her teeth, willing herself to bear it. “We must reach the end. I will not give in,” she growled under her breath, using what remained of her strength to pick up her pace, running as best she could despite the pressure bearing down on her, not sure she could hold on if they were forced to slow down again.

“Hold on, we’re almost there,” Andrea assured her, seeing the doors in sight.

One by one, taking turns providing covering fire, they each leapt over a waist-high wall that stood between them and the ramp down to the exit. How Samara was still standing by that point, Miranda would never know. Miranda stayed a few paces back, protecting the rear and picking off any hostiles she could from the sizeable squad of Collectors approaching them from behind.

“We have to move quickly, Shepard,” Miranda called out. If they didn’t, either Samara’s barrier would give, or the Collectors would soon outnumber them.

“Alright, let’s move!” Shepard urged. One after another, the Collectors charged in, running through the barrier, only to be gunned down in a hail of fire. They didn’t care if it was suicide. That wouldn’t stop them. “They’re pushing! Keep it up!”

“Hurry, Shepard,” Samara all but pleaded, her voice weakening.

Jacob dashed back for the door, opening up a path to relative safety. Shepard stayed with Samara, while Miranda guarded the edge of the barrier.

Miranda could see there were more seekers now than ever, and they were starting to break through the barrier. There were too many of them to be stopped. The buzzing was so damn loud, it was as if they were inside her skull. The beating of their wings felt like ten thousand pinpricks against her skin. The swarm was a living hurricane bearing down on her. Unprotected. Alone.

In that instant, Miranda abruptly realised just how isolated she had become, in the space of mere seconds. Those few metres between her and the rest of her squad suddenly felt like a mile. And those Collectors were damn close.

“Miranda!” Shepard called out, seeing both Collectors and seekers converging on her, trying to overwhelm the barrier, threatening to consume her alive.

Before anyone could try and stop her, Samara marched forward with a look in her eyes that none of them had ever seen before, reaching Miranda’s side. Without saying a word, Samara thrust both hands forward and released a colossal biotic wave that surged through the entire chamber like a tsunami, unleashing such force that the ground shook beneath Miranda’s feet.

And then there was silence.

There was no barrier anymore. No noise, but for Miranda’s own heavy breathing echoing in her ears. As quickly as they had converged, those dozens of Collectors and thousands of seekers that had been around them a moment ago were now gone. Not just dead. Gone. Disintegrated in a flash. The seekers that remained were so few, and so distant that they didn’t even seem to notice their presence.

Her job done, Samara turned and calmly strode through the door, unfazed.

It took Miranda little more than a moment to shake off her stupor and regather her bearings, picking off the last few seekers from range as she backed through the doors to safety, Jacob sealing the way shut behind her.

Miranda allowed herself a second to catch her breath, since it seemed they had found themselves a place of relative safety in which to recover. She did a quick scan of her surroundings, making sure nobody was hurt.

Samara met her gaze across the small gap between them, evidently checking on her comrades in the same way that Miranda was. They exchanged silent nods, as if to confirm they were both alright. To Miranda’s surprise, despite how close Samara had been to her breaking point a moment ago, there was no trace of that exhaustion now. Maybe she was a little winded, sure, but no more than the rest of them. There was every indication she could still fight.

Miranda had to admit, she was relieved that Shepard hadn’t chosen her to hold up the barrier. Sure, in theory she could have gotten them all the way to the end, but the raw power Samara had unleashed just then? Miranda had never seen anything like that before, let alone found anything close to that within herself.

When it came to biotics, Samara was just on a different level entirely.

The fleeting reprieve was swiftly interrupted when Garrus radioed in under heavy fire. Without delay, they hurried over to open the door to let the second team in. For a moment, it looked like Garrus had been wounded, but his armour had protected him from any harm, much to Shepard’s relief.

The squad regrouped in a moment of calm once more. Joker confirmed that Kasumi and the crew had made it back to The Normandy with no casualties.

“Excellent. Now, let’s make it count. EDI, what’s our next step?” asked Miranda.

“There should be some nearby platforms that will take you to the main control console. From there, you can overload the system and destroy the base.”

“Commander? You’ve got a problem,” Joker quickly interrupted EDI. “Hostiles massing just outside the door. Won’t be long until they bust through.”

Drawing everyone’s attention, Shepard climbed up onto the platform EDI had spoken of. “We need to finish this before they get through.”

Seeing a solution, Miranda didn’t hesitate to volunteer it. “Pick a team to go with you, and leave the others here to defend this position. That should buy you some time.” It was a dangerous job, sure, but Miranda knew this squad well enough to trust that they would hold the line to their last breath if that was what it took to allow Shepard to make it to the heart of the base and destroy it from within.

Andrea agreed with her call. “Mordin, Miranda, you’ll be with me,” Shepard confirmed. Miranda nodded, expecting nothing less.

Andrea gave them a few moments to divide amongst themselves any remaining thermal clips and stocks of medigel. If anyone ran out now, that would be it. As she took the opportunity to restock and check her weapons, Miranda couldn’t help but run her eyes across the group one last time, wondering if there were any faces among them she would never see again.

“I would wish you good fortune for the battle ahead but, knowing you, I am certain you will not need it,” Samara’s voice prompted Miranda to turn towards her.

Miranda met her with a small half-smile. “I’ll take it anyway,” she said. It wasn’t lost on her that they’d both kept their respective promises to get each other this far. From this point on, they would be separated. It would be out of their hands.

Miranda had to admit, she was a little worried. She had seen how much it had taken out of Samara to hold up that barrier, especially towards the end. Although she was carrying herself remarkably well, she couldn’t help but hold a kernel of doubt in her mind, that maybe she was in a far worse condition than she was willing to show. But, that being said, having eight others around her to protect her made this far and away the safest option for Samara right now.

It would have made Miranda feel a little less anxious if she could count herself among that number, though. But she couldn’t be in two places at once. And, at the end of the day, there was no way in hell Miranda would let Shepard go to the core of the Collector Base without her. Chances were, she’d need her there.

“Samara,” Miranda caught her eye as she ejected and replaced a thermal clip. “I’ll see you on the other side, yeah?” she said, a promise on her part, and seeking the same confirmation from Samara.

Her words were met with uncharacteristic hesitation. Uncertainty. It didn’t seem like there was any confusion about what Miranda was asking. More that she was asking Samara to swear to a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep.

Samara’s eyes dipped, as if avoiding the answer. “Miranda, I...I do not kn--”

Miranda reached out and touched Samara’s arm, cutting her off. “Promise me,” she insisted, not willing to leave until she heard it. Until she knew that Samara would do everything it took to keep herself safe, and to get back to The Normandy in one piece. Until they both parted ways knowing this wouldn’t be the last conversation they would ever have. Because Samara was many things, but above all else she was true to her word.

If she gave Miranda her oath on this, then it was because she truly meant it. And she would dedicate every fibre of her being to keeping her pledge.

Samara stared at her in a heavy silence. Miranda held her gaze expectantly, not yielding until she heard the answer she wanted in response.

After a few seconds, Samara nodded, finding the strength to stand a little straighter, even after the long walk she’d endured. “Of course,” she said, committing to that vow. “Until we meet again.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Miranda’s lip. That was good enough for her.

“Ready up. We’re moving out,” Shepard gave the command, unable to spare any more time. The Collectors would break down that door any second now.

Miranda didn’t need to be told that twice. “I’m ready, Commander,” she said, hopping onto the platform at Shepard’s side, ready to face whatever lay at the heart of the Collector Base. “Anything to say before we do this?”

“The Collectors, the Reapers, they aren’t a threat to us. They’re a threat to everything - everyone. Those are the lives we’re fighting for. That’s the scale,” Andrea reminded them all, locking eyes with each member of her squad in turn. “It’s been a long journey, and no one’s comin’ out without scars.”

Grunt slammed his fists together, eager get his hands on whatever came through that door, and to make damn sure not one of them got to Shepard.

“But it all comes down to this moment,” Shepard continued. “We win or lose it all in the next few minutes. Make me proud. Make yourselves proud.”

“Well said,” said Miranda, and she meant it. For all her accomplishments, when all was said and done, there was not a single accolade among them which made Miranda feel prouder than she did fighting alongside Shepard in this moment. Not just as her second-in-command. But as her friend. “Let’s go finish this.”

With that, the platform began to move.

* * *

Miranda had been in Jack’s position only a few weeks ago. She knew how mind-numbingly tedious it was to be stuck in a hospital bed. Helping her pass the time every now and then seemed like the least she could do to repay her for saving her life twice in the same day. The fact that Jack hadn’t immediately kicked Miranda out yet indicated she was more desperate for distraction than she was letting on.

Given that neither of them enjoyed the idea of talking to each other much if at all, Miranda (with some prompting from Jacob) had come up with the idea of passing the time by other means. Last Sunday, they’d played cards. Today, it was chess. It was actually working surprisingly well as a means of keeping Jack occupied without having to speak to each other much.

Jack moved her rook to take a pawn. Miranda took advantage, moving her queen to take that same rook, leaving the king trapped. “Checkmate,” said Miranda, already resetting the board. “Good game. Play again?”

“Sure.” Jack shrugged. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do.

Jack hadn’t caught on yet, but Miranda was pulling her punches. Jack might have had more experience than her at certain games of cards, but Miranda had learned chess from an early age, since her father saw intellectual value in it.

She hadn’t played seriously in twenty years, but Miranda had forgotten less than she thought. Jack, by contrast, barely knew the names of the pieces.

The gap between them was such that, without even really having to try, Miranda would have won every single game with ease had she not consciously made the choice to lose roughly thirty percent of the time. Part of her was tempted to take the gloves off and do just that. But she was self-aware enough to recognise that refusing to hold back might have been cruel given the circumstances. Plus, it would definitely piss Jack off to get annihilated by someone she hated.

So, instead, Miranda hampered herself, acting worse at the game than she was, deliberately letting Jack get wins here and there, delaying victories to drag games out longer, or letting them go to a stalemate, making it seem like they were more evenly matched than they were. It didn’t matter to her really. The ultimate goal was simply to pass time after all, as much for herself as for Jack.

The truth was, Miranda needed something to distract her from her own thoughts for a while too, even if humouring Jack at chess wasn’t particularly exciting. Between her search for the Normandy’s lost, the endless sleepless nights, and trying to avoid deciphering her complicated feelings about Samara’s absence, anything that helped her to take her mind off things would do.

It was either that or beg Bailey to let her work Sundays, but something told her that raising that subject with him more than the twelve times she already had would be considered undignified.

“...How’re the tykes treatin’ you?” Jack eventually broke the silence when they were both a few moves into the next game, head lethargically resting on her hand. They hardly spoke whenever Miranda did visit like this, not that there had been many occasions to judge from. Boredom really must have gotten the better of her if she was resorting to asking her former nemesis to talk.

“Surprisingly well, actually,” Miranda answered, moving her queen to take a pawn, intentionally leaving her king exposed. “We seem to be getting on.”

“You can tell me the truth,” said Jack, correctly picking up that Miranda had been actively refraining from being critical of Jack’s students in front of her. “If they’re being assholes, they’re being assholes.”

Miranda sighed. She supposed if she and Jack really were trying to turn over a new leaf with each other, there was no harm in being honest with her. “They’re getting to the point where they’re comfortable testing my boundaries. But it’s alright. I knew what I was signing up for. It’s your move, by the way.”

“Oh, shit.” Jack picked up a bishop, turning it between her fingers as she looked for an available move. There was no mistaking that she was tired. It was hard to sleep when forced to stay in bed all day every day, but for rare exceptions like this. Miranda wasn’t sleeping any better herself. She was just better at hiding it.

“I have overheard a few remarks that I’m not exactly a fan of. According to Nitin and Deacon, I’m ‘pretty hot for a woman with half her face burned off’,” Miranda recounted. Jack snickered. “At least that one was a compliment.”

“Yeah. They’re jerks like that. But they’re teenage boys. What’re you gonna do?” Jack said with a shrug, eventually deciding to take a knight. “Check.”

“I just ignore them,” Miranda casually replied, moving her king. That had always been her approach to unwanted comments, regardless of the age or gender of the source. Miranda had gotten used to people talking behind her back pretty early in life, and it had only gotten worse when she joined Cerberus. Most of the time, it was just background noise that she didn’t even notice anymore.

“They said all kinds of shit like that about me too when I first started teaching. It’s some kind of macho bullshit thing. Whatever,” Jack distractedly muttered, completely oblivious to the easy victory Miranda had left open for her, failing to spot the possible checkmate and instead moving a knight to take a pawn.

“Right.” Miranda rapped her fingers against the table. She actually had to think for a moment. She didn’t want to do anything that would make it look like she was throwing the game. But, by the same token, she’d won the last two rounds, so she needed to let Jack win this one.

“I heard you got a message from Samara,” Jack piped up.

Miranda glanced up, caught off-guard by that. “I’m sorry?”

“Jacob told me. Said he found a message from her,” Jack tried to make something resembling polite conversation. “How is the old lady?”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Miranda shut that down, focusing on the board.

Jack blinked. “Huh?”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Miranda said again, moving her queen to take Jack’s bishop.

Jack furrowed her brows. “Well, geez. Fuck me for asking, right? I thought she saved your fuckin’ life or something. How was I supposed to know you were pissed off at her or whatever the fuck happened?”

“I’m not,” Miranda insisted. It was only once the words left her mouth that she realised she’d said that a little too loudly. She sighed and ran her hand through her hair. “I’m not. I’m extremely grateful to Samara. I’m just…”

Miranda trailed off, realising she didn’t know how to finish that sentence without acknowledging that she was trying to avoid thinking about her, which would also mean acknowledging the fact that she still couldn’t entirely understand why she wanted to avoid thinking about her, beyond the fact that the unnamed ache in her chest grew heavier every time she did.

“It’s your move,” Miranda quietly muttered, giving up on endeavouring to explain something she didn’t have an explanation for.

Jack shook her head and sighed, evidently having zero interest in the inner workings of Miranda’s mind.

With that, Jack finally did as Miranda anticipated and moved her queen next to Miranda’s king, trapping it, with the said queen protected from the king by Jack’s rook. Except Jack said nothing, waiting for her opponent to take her turn.

Miranda almost had to do a double-take, making sure she hadn’t miscalculated.

“That’s checkmate,” Miranda pointed out.

Jack glanced up, barely paying attention. “Huh?”

“You’ve put me in checkmate,” Miranda reiterated.

Jack looked down at the board. It took her a moment before she realised Miranda was right. Something clicked. How the fuck was Miranda losing when she was following the game closer than Jack was? “...Wait, are you letting me win?” she asked, affronted by the thought.

“No. I’m too competitive to do that,” Miranda lied.

Jack saw right through it, groaning unhappily. “You fuckin’ cunt, now I can’t even pretend to give a shit about this,” she complained, swiping the back of her hand across the table, carelessly knocking over a few pieces as she spoke.

There was no point in deceiving her any longer. “It’s not really fair to you if I don’t hold back. I’ve been playing since I was three.”

“Of course you fuckin’ have…” Jack grumbled.

“Sorry,” Miranda offered, more out of social obligation than anything resembling actual remorse, leaning down and picking up some of the pieces Jack had knocked over.

“I think I liked you better when you were an unapologetic bitch,” Jack unhappily remarked, almost lamenting the fact that the new Miranda took whatever jabs she threw at her without any retaliation. “At least back then you were honest about how fake you were.”

Miranda didn’t blink as she picked up the last pieces, unoffended by Jack’s opinion of her, even if her efforts to improve their relationship were proving fruitless so far. “In that case, do you want me to go hard on you?” Miranda nonchalantly replied, resetting the board. If Jack wanted a challenge, she would gladly oblige.

“I don’t even fucking care at this point…” Jack wearily admitted, definitely at that stage of her recovery where all the days were starting to blur together into a dull grey mush.

“Okay. But you asked for this. And don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said Miranda, not about to take the blame when Jack got absolutely destroyed.

Jack snorted at Miranda’s...Miranda-ness. “Drink bleach, eyepatch. Bring it on.”

Miranda won the next game in less than two minutes.

Jack blinked. “No fucking way.” Miranda just flicked her eye down at the board again, a decisive checkmate. She had told her, after all. “You could have done that this whole time?” Jack queried, narrowing her stare at her.

Instead of answering, Miranda simply shrugged her shoulder. The evidence spoke for itself, didn’t it? Of course she could have.

“...Well, fuck, now I have to beat you.” Jack leaned forward in her chair, studying the board more intently, motivated to try and get the better of her rival now that she’d had her ass handed to her.

Miranda arched her eyebrow. Really? That was what it took to wake Jack up?

Perhaps she should have gone all out sooner.

Before they could start the next game, Miranda’s communicator went off. She checked the incoming call, and recognised it was coming from someone important. Someone she’d been waiting to hear from. “I have to take this.”

Jack waved her hand dismissively, too busy studying the board and retracing the sequence that had entrapped her so quickly, trying to figure out exactly what Miranda had done in the last game, and how she could counter it.

“Doctor Michel,” Miranda greeted her. “How can I help you?”

“Ms Lawson. Have I caught you at a good time?” Dr Michel asked.

“Good enough.” Miranda’s eye flicked up to Jack momentarily. It didn’t seem like she was paying any attention to their conversation. She turned to her side and lowered her voice slightly. “Is this in relation to my matter?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Have you made any progress?”

“In a manner of speaking. My team and I have been working through that list of names you gave us. Your old crewmates.” There was a pause. “We...think we may have some answers for what happened to some of them.”

Miranda could tell from her tone that something was wrong. Her voice sounded sombre. Almost regretful. “...This isn’t good news, is it?” Miranda said quietly, more a statement than a question.

“Unfortunately not.” Doctor Michel sighed, evidently empathising with her position. “There’s no easy way for me to say this, but...we’ve recovered some bodies. As the senior officer of the Normandy, we would like you to identify them.”

Miranda’s heart sank all the way to her feet. Jack couldn’t overhear Doctor Michel’s side of the call, but she straightened up curiously, as if noticing a change in Miranda’s demeanour. She must have looked as pale as she felt, like life itself had just drained from her face.

“...Ms Lawson?” Doctor Michel’s voice broke her heavy silence.

Miranda swallowed, composing herself. “I understand. I’ll head there immediately,” she said solemnly. “Thank you for telling me.” She closed the channel before Doctor Michel could say anything else, not ready to hear it. “I have to go,” she said, grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair, needing to see who they’d found - to confirm whether they really were some of their own.

“What is it?” Jack asked, sensing something was wrong. “Who was that?”

“That was Dr Michel. She’s an old friend of Garrus’s. She’s been overseeing identification efforts at the mortuary. I gave her details of everyone from The Normandy. Asked her to look,” Miranda answered, her tone vacant. “They’ve found some bodies. They think they might be…”

“...Ours?” Jack finished on her behalf. Miranda’s silence confirmed it. “Fuck. Yeah. Go. Go,” Jack urged, realising the importance of this, and not envying Miranda for being the one who had to confront it.

Miranda didn’t linger a moment longer than that.

* * *

They’d found out what the Collectors wanted. Why humans were disappearing. Nobody could have foreseen that the answer would be so...grotesque.

All those people. Alone. Afraid. Processed into sludge while still alive. And for what purpose? To be used as the base material to craft the very tool of humanity’s own destruction. To be transmuted into the building blocks for the creation of a brand new Reaper. A human Reaper.

By the time they managed to kill that thing, the Collector Base had already started collapsing in on itself. Thankfully, those left behind to hold the line had already made it back to the ship ahead of them.

Miranda, Mordin and Shepard barely made it back to The Normandy before the blast consumed the entire base, their battered ship outrunning the explosion by the thinnest of margins. A daring escape from an impossible mission.

It was only once Miranda counted heads that she confirmed not a single soul was missing. The ship was barely holding together, but as far as the crew...nobody died. It was supposed to be a suicide mission. Yet, somehow, they hadn’t lost a single life.

For a moment, it almost seemed too good to be true. Like there had to be some sort of catch they just didn’t know about yet. Like the worst was still yet to come.

There wasn’t much time to take it in, though. It was all hands on deck conducting urgent repairs to The Normandy, patching up as many holes as they could to keep the damn thing spaceworthy. They were certainly in no condition to jump through a mass relay right away. Even with the Collector Base gone, nobody wanted to linger around there longer than they absolutely had to.

Miranda lost count of the hours as she oversaw the crew, taking in status reports from EDI, redirecting attention where it was needed, running simulations to check whether the repairs would hold. She was deeply absorbed in diagnostics when Shepard placed a hand on her shoulder, nearly startling her out of her number-crunching stupor.

“Hey. Relax,” said Shepard, not failing to notice that Miranda was uncharacteristically jumpy.

Miranda released a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose, disappointed in herself for that slip of composure. Of course it was only Shepard. Who was she expecting it to be? The mission was over but, evidently, she was still a little on edge. Perhaps the adrenaline hadn’t fully worked its way out of her system yet.

“What do you need, Commander?” Miranda asked, ever the professional, even when she felt more...frayed than usual.

“After all we’ve just been through, and from what I’ve seen around here? Right now, I need everyone to stop and take a rest for a moment. That includes you,” said Andrea, fixing her with a telling look.

“Commander--” Miranda’s protestations were cut short, as if they’d been expected.

“We’ve been at this for hours. We aren’t in any danger right now, and there’s no way we’re going to be in a position to move tonight,” Shepard pointed out. Her eyes briefly studied Miranda’s face. If even Miranda’s concentration was starting to slip, then what did that say about how the rest of the crew must be feeling? “When’s the last time you took a break? Or had something to eat?”

“I’m fine, Commander. I don’t tire easily,” Miranda assured her. Although she had her limits, as anyone did, she could function on very little food and sleep compared to the average person, and sustain unhealthy habits for a good while longer than anyone else would be able to before the strain started to show.

“Okay. Sure. But everyone else does. And you should set an example for them,” Shepard replied, earning an annoyed scoff from Miranda. Leave it to Andrea to still find a way to twist her own superhuman endurance around on her. “Hey, we’ve all earned the right to stop and catch our breath for a minute. Even you,” she said softly, lightly touching Miranda’s arm, urging her to take care of herself.

Miranda didn’t have the energy to argue. Truth be told, her head had been reeling pretty much all day, and it hadn’t stopped since they got back. It was like her subconscious didn’t realise the fight was over, and she didn’t still have to be in survival mode. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to gather her bearings before getting back to business.

“We’re getting out of here tomorrow, Commander,” Miranda responded, making it clear that she was only willing to acquiesce if Shepard gave her word on that. “That’s a hard deadline.”

“You’ll get it done. I know it,” said Shepard, giving a nod as she walked past, prepared to tell everyone else to lay their tools down, just for a little bit.

Right when she started to leave, a thought occurred to Miranda. “Shepard?” she called after her, earning a secondary glance. “After we put this ship back together...there’s still a lot to do, yeah? A lot of assignments we never finished.” Miranda let that suggestion hang, searching Andrea’s gaze as she spoke, hoping she wasn’t making a fool of herself by asking what she was asking.

She wasn’t used to being in this position. In fact, she’d never been in this position before. Of wanting to stay around other people. And hoping those other people, on some level, felt the same way about her.

They might have finished their critical mission, but, if Miranda was being honest with herself, she wasn’t ready to say goodbye to The Normandy yet. Though she wouldn’t have believed it a few months ago, she wasn’t ready for everyone to go their separate ways all of a sudden. She didn’t want to lose contact with all the people she’d only just started to grow close to, nor did she want to lose the better version of herself she was gradually transforming into here.

As hard as it was to admit to anyone else, Miranda liked it here. Honestly, being on The Normandy was the second best thing that had ever happened to her, and the closest thing she’d ever had to a place that felt like home - a place she belonged. She didn’t want this to be the end. Not just yet. Maybe not ever.

Judging by the twinkle in her eye, Shepard seemed to understand Miranda’s meaning completely, and not just on a surface level. “Tomorrow,” Andrea told her reassuringly, saving that conversation for a later date, when they were both a little more clear-headed.

Miranda didn’t know what to make of that answer, but didn’t stop Shepard as she walked away. She wasn’t great at reading people, but it felt like they were on the same page. In any event, they could discuss it at length once they hit the relay.

With that, Miranda headed back to her office. For as easy as it was for Andrea to tell her she should just kick back and relax for a few hours, that was one of the few things Miranda actually found much, much harder to do than a normal person would. It wasn’t in her DNA to relax, even at the best of times, let alone now. Despite everything, she wasn’t tired. If anything, she was still far too wired to sleep. She needed something to keep her busy. For her, that was therapy.

Operating purely on instinct, Miranda switched on her computer and immediately began typing her report on the mission, as she always did. It was only once she was a few paragraphs in that she abruptly stopped. It was then that it clicked, and she remembered. She didn’t report to anyone anymore.

For the first time since she was sixteen, Miranda was on her own. Not part of Cerberus. Not an agent of The Illusive Man. And it was at that point that the penny truly dropped. What had happened. What it all meant. And that there was no going back. That door had slammed shut forever. And she didn’t regret it.

Miranda exhaled heavily and sat back in her chair, running the fingers of her left hand across her forehead, massaging her temples between her thumb and ring finger, finally processing what had transpired back there.

She still couldn’t understand what The Illusive Man had been thinking when he instructed them to keep the Collector Base. It didn’t make any sense. Miranda had been there to see with her own eyes what had been done to the missing colonists. Nothing good could possibly have come out of that factory of death. Its sole purpose was to liquify living beings, and create Reapers.

So why? Why would he want to keep that horrible place around? What use could he possibly hope to gain from it? There was no justification for that. No defence.

When he’d ordered Miranda to stop Shepard from destroying the base, a line had been crossed - one that Miranda hadn’t even known existed until he crossed it. In the moment, it hadn’t been a question what she would do. She hadn’t even blinked. She’d handed in her resignation effective immediately, and shut off The Illusive Man before he could say another word. She hadn’t thought twice about it. And she’d gone on to stand with Shepard to kill that fucking human Reaper monstrosity and blow that godforsaken place to smithereens.

Admittedly, given the urgency of the situation, she hadn’t had much of an opportunity at the time to pause to consider the full ramifications of her actions, but by the same token Miranda had also been well aware of what she was doing before she made her choice. She was no fool, and she didn’t do anything lightly. She knew perfectly well how dangerous Cerberus was to cross, especially for a valuable asset like her. Someone who knew more of their secrets than just about anyone else. Someone who, given the right data, could even point to the physical location of The Illusive Man himself.

In the space of an instant, she’d almost certainly gone from being one of Cerberus’s most trusted agents to being their number one enemy. That was going to be fun to deal with in the future. But she would cross that bridge when she came to it, she supposed.

It was strange to think how quickly a previously inexorable part of her life had been terminated, faster than a snap of her fingers. In a way, Miranda almost didn’t know who she was without them. She’d never worked for anyone else. The last of her teenage years and her entire adult life had been shaped almost solely by Cerberus. She’d planned her whole future around advancing through their ranks, maybe even taking The Illusive Man’s place one day. Her life was her career, and her career was her life. She would have to rethink all of that now.

And then there was The Illusive Man. A man she’d spent most of the last nineteen years admiring as a leader and as a mentor. A man whose example she’d aspired to follow in many ways. Hell, he’d been more of a father to her than her own father had ever been, not that that was saying much.

For as mysterious and unknowable as he was, in all those long years that Miranda had worked for him, and worked for Cerberus, she’d never seen anything that would have led her to predict what happened back there. That they could have been worlds apart on such a fundamental issue.

Despite what other people thought about her, she had never been blindly loyal to Cerberus. She had her own thoughts. Her own opinions. Her own personal sense of right and wrong. Admittedly, ethics had always taken a backseat to pragmatism and necessity in her view, but the ends had to justify the means. The reason Cerberus operated outside the law was because the law got in the way of the greater good - of what needed to be done to protect human lives.

If she had been unwavering in her commitment to Cerberus in the past, it was because they’d never given Miranda any reason not to be. Nothing she’d seen in the inner workings of the organisation had raised any alarms. She would have left years ago if she’d witnessed something she couldn’t tolerate. But she never had.

And yet, Miranda would have been lying if she claimed that The Illusive Man’s actions had come as a complete shock that day. They hadn’t. Maybe they would have a few months ago. But not now.

Ever since she’d joined the crew of the Normandy, Miranda had started to see sides to Cerberus she’d never seen before. Or rather, and more accurately, it had started to become untenable for every potential deal-breaker ever attributed to Cerberus to be conveniently blamed on rogue cells - people who had turned their back on The Illusive Man and acted without his knowledge or consent. How much longer could Miranda pretend to keep buying that excuse before she was officially part of the cult, refusing to accept the evidence of her own eyes and ears?

The truth had been right in front of Miranda the whole time, hadn’t it? If she went digging now, especially with the aid of the Shadow Broker, she was sure she would be able to find direct orders from The Illusive Man authorising all those projects he denied. Probably even the institution where Jack and those other biotic children had been tortured. She could have uncovered it all a long time ago. She’d just never wanted to see it before.

Perhaps she really was the blind loyalist everyone else thought she was all along.

Perhaps she really was that big of a fool.

Miranda’s fingertips wearily caressed her brow one last time. So much for taking a break or relaxing. There would be none of that with such heavy thoughts taking a taxing toll on her.

There was only one person she could turn to when her mind was racing like this. One person who invariably made her feel better. Not by doing or saying anything. Just by being around. So she went to her, as she always did.

She found Samara at the window when she entered the Starboard Observation Deck, overlooking the abyss. Unusually, Samara seemed distracted. So much so that she didn’t even hear the doors hiss shut. Her sober expression betrayed a creeping malaise. Her posture was tense. Her unfocused eyes, quite literally staring into space. It was clear she was deep in introspection of some kind.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” Miranda broke the silence.

Her voice shook Samara from her rumination, prompting her to turn. Samara’s expression shifted, mustering a faint smile. “You are never a disturbance,” she said kindly, gesturing for Miranda to make herself at home.

“It’s funny. I think you’re the one person I’ve hardly seen since we made it back,” Miranda casually noted. Over the last couple of hours, she’d made herself scarce.

“You are correct. Forgive me,” Samara gave a solemn nod, accepting that she had erred in shirking her responsibilities since returning to the ship. “I ought to have done more to assist with the repairs. I will not make any excuses for my absence.”

“I’m not going to write you up. Don’t worry about it.” Miranda nonchalantly waved off her apology, signalling that it was totally unnecessary.

“You would for anyone else,” Samara pointed out knowingly.

“Well, for one thing, you’re not anyone else. For another, I wouldn’t be standing here right now if not for you. So consider this the least I can do for you,” said Miranda, stepping further into the room, until she joined Samara at the window. Besides, it wasn’t like she was giving her special treatment. Writing anyone up for anything seemed pretty pointless now. “You’ve been here the whole time?”

“Yes,” Samara acknowledged, not one to lie.

“What have you been up to?” Miranda asked her, curious. It wasn’t accusatory in any way. But it wasn’t like Samara to run off to her corner and hide when there was work to be done. She must have had a good reason.

“I have been…thinking,” Samara answered pensively.

Her vagueness wasn’t lost on Miranda. “Thinking?” she echoed.

“Yes. There has been much I need to contemplate. Many things I was not prepared for...or did not expect to…” Samara trailed off, evidently at a loss for words, and visibly unsettled. Her expressions were always hard to read, but she looked troubled, as if she was trying to make sense of a paradox, fitting together incongruous pieces of information and finding only more questions.

Miranda’s features softened sympathetically, beginning to piece together a possible reason behind Samara’s abnormal behaviour. “I think we’re all a little shell-shocked after what happened. Doesn’t quite seem real does it - that we’re somehow all still standing?”

That response seemed to find purchase with Samara, putting her more at ease. “Indeed. Ever since you and Shepard first approached me on Illium and spoke to me of your quest to stop the Collectors, the odds of succeeding, let alone surviving, always seemed slim at best. I must confess, given the nature of the mission before us, I was not anticipating that…” Samara paused again, as if cautious to ensure she chose her words carefully, mindful to be neither tactless nor false in her speech.

“That we would all make it back in one piece?” Miranda finished on her behalf.

Samara gave a slightly apologetic nod. “Yes.”

“Yet here we are,” Miranda continued, gesturing offhandedly at their surroundings.

“Yet here we are,” Samara echoed, her words almost a whisper.

“Try not to sound so disappointed,” Miranda wryly remarked. Samara said nothing, staring out into the void in silence. “...It’s a joke,” Miranda broke the quiet, realising her attempt at humour hadn’t landed. “I forgot I shouldn’t do those.”

“No. I…” Samara shook her head, tearing her eyes away from the vastness of space at long last, turning sideways to face Miranda. “It is I who should apologise. Forgive me. I am...tired. I suspect more so than I even realise.”

Miranda wasn’t surprised to hear that. It didn’t take a genius to tell that she must have been shaken by all that had transpired. Hell, one look at her eyes was a dead giveaway as to how drained she was. It was the first time Miranda had ever seen Samara in such a state. But, after all she had undergone back at the base, who could blame her for not being at one hundred percent right now?

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. I know it took a lot out of you, holding up that barrier. You’ve earned the right to rest and recover. And you know I wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true, so…” Miranda studied Samara’s features, wondering if she was imposing. “Should I leave you?”

“No. Stay a while. Please,” Samara gestured for her to have a seat. Miranda raised her hand, preferring to stand. The view of the singularity was honestly striking. She may as well enjoy it while they were stranded here. Samara remained at her side, perhaps gradually clearing her head. “Is there truth to the rumours about what transpired between you and The Illusive Man?” she broke the silence.

“What are the rumours?” Miranda asked.

“That you terminated your employment,” Samara rather deftly summarised.

Miranda snorted. “Well, we won’t be taking each other’s calls anymore. Put it that way.”

“Are you alright?” Samara asked, her concern genuine. She was one of the few who had never judged Miranda for her loyalty to Cerberus, despite their flaws.

“Yeah.” Miranda glanced down at her hands, her feelings certainly...mixed. Samara waited patiently, letting her decide whether she wished to speak more on the subject or not, and ready to lend an understanding ear if she did.

Miranda exhaled, interlocking her fingers, reflecting on everything that had happened since she first learned what the Reapers were. All this time, she had firmly believed The Illusive Man wanted to destroy them, just as he would want to eliminate any existential threat to humanity. That had been what he’d said all along. Or, wait, had he ever outright said that he intended to destroy them? Had he just implied it? Had Miranda read into his words what she wanted to hear?

But if Cerberus wanted to keep that base, to ‘turn their own resources against them’ as The Illusive Man had said, was their ultimate goal something else entirely? To create their own Reaper, like Shepard had remarked? To control the Reapers? To use them to take control of the galaxy? To wipe out the other races? Miranda didn’t know for sure, but if it was anything like that then it didn’t even need to be said that she couldn’t permit any of those things to happen.

The best case scenario was that they were still ultimately on the same side, but that The Illusive Man was just so fixated on his desire to fight the Reapers that he couldn’t see that there was no possible benefit to keeping the base. Just risk, and unconscionable slaughter, and a betrayal of everything they had fought for, and all the lives lost to the Collectors. Part of Miranda hoped that was all it was - that maybe they didn’t have to be enemies. But, after everything that had happened, everything she’d seen, it was increasingly untenable not to at least suspect that there was something more sinister going on behind the scenes.

“Samara, be honest with me,” Miranda began, knowing she didn’t even need to make that request of her. She was never anything less than truthful. “I don’t strike you as someone who is particularly stupid or gullible, do I?”

“No, you do not,” Samara answered frankly, as if that question never needed to be asked. “You know very well that I consider you precisely the opposite.”

“So then how is it that I can work for the same people for nineteen years, and yet be so...staggeringly ignorant as to their true nature and motives?” Miranda asked aloud, wondering how many obvious signs she must have missed along the way.

“And what are their true motives?” Samara prompted.

“Honestly? I haven’t got the slightest fucking clue anymore. And that’s what scares me.” Miranda scoffed under her breath, shaking her head. “Actually, you know what? It isn’t. The thing that really makes my skin crawl is not knowing…” She paused and swallowed mid-sentence. “Is not knowing whether and to what extent I’ve been complicit in helping them accomplish things that I would never - never have supported if I knew about them.”

Samara understood completely why that thought would trouble Miranda so. She took time to reflect on the matter before offering a considered response.

“Based on what information EDI has been willing to share since her restraints were removed, it appears as though Cerberus personnel were separated into discrete cells, all of whom were unaware of the existence of any others. While the primary motivation for this may have been to ensure no single individual had sufficient knowledge to compromise the entire organisation, I believe this also had another purpose,” Samara speculated. “That purpose being that each cell could represent an entirely different face of Cerberus - one that appealed entirely to the morality, beliefs and motives of the personnel assigned to it.”

That made a startling amount of sense, Miranda thought. The cerberus of myth did have multiple heads, and thus multiple faces.

“That would explain why there were so many conflicting versions of Cerberus out there,” Miranda mused aloud, curling her fingers against her chin. “The terrorists. The mad scientists. The racist xenophobes. I always brushed those accusations off as misrepresentations and bad press, because the organisation I knew was different. Not terrorists, but people willing to defend human lives when the Alliance wasn’t. Not mad scientists, but cutting-edge pioneers. Not racist xenophobes, but human beings who didn’t want to be treated as second-class citizens in the galactic community. But there were probably others out there who only knew Cerberus to be one or more of those other things. Who am I kidding? Those kinds of people probably only joined Cerberus because of those things - because that was what they thought its true nature was all along.”

“That is what I suspect,” Samara concurred.

“So, if you’re right, then what you’re saying is, the Cerberus I believed I was working for this whole time did exist, in a way. Everything I thought about them was true, from a certain point of view. But so were all the other things I dismissed as falsehoods and slander. I could just never see it, because the full picture was always deliberately hidden from me,” Miranda inferred.

“Yes,” Samara confirmed, quietly confident that Miranda would have seen through the façade and defected earlier had it been presented to her otherwise. “If I am not mistaken, then you have been no more complicit in Cerberus’s hidden agendas - whatever they may be - than Shepard or myself have been.”

Miranda’s expression shifted, not entirely sure she could believe that, but oddly comforted by Samara’s sentiment nonetheless. “Thanks,” she said, relieved to at least have some semblance of an answer for how she’d gotten so sucked in, and how she’d failed to recognise the truth. Even if it later turned out to be wrong, it was something to hold onto for now. And, if nothing else, at least Samara still seemed to think she was a good person, despite everything.

Perhaps there was a silver lining to all this. Now that Miranda saw the truth of what Cerberus was, rather than being blinded by allegiance, if anyone was equipped to fully understand The Illusive Man’s goals and expose this organisation for what it really was, it was her. She felt something of a duty to do it now - to figure out exactly what aims she’d been unwittingly enabling.

It wouldn’t be easy, and Miranda knew damn well The Illusive Man would try everything in his power to kill her rather than risk her exposing his secrets. But since when had Miranda ever been afraid of a challenge? If her life was the only thing she had to lose, then The Illusive Man had more to fear from her than she had to fear from him. But following that path now would put her friends at risk.

Another time, then.

Following that, a delayed thought occurred to Miranda. “You’ve been asking EDI about Cerberus?” she asked, her brow creasing in puzzlement.

“I have. Although, I confess, my inquiries garnered little valuable information before her restraints were removed,” Samara answered calmly.

Miranda regarded her with some confusion. In all the time they’d spent together, Samara had never shown any real curiosity about Cerberus. She couldn’t recall her raising the subject, despite having ample opportunity to do so. “Why?”

“Because you worked for them,” Samara replied, meeting her gaze, her tone unchanging. “Because they were important to you.”

“Why EDI, though?” Miranda asked, perplexed. There was nothing accusatory in her questions, nor defensive for that matter. She had no issues with Samara finding out whatever she wanted to know about Cerberus from whoever she wanted to ask. It just struck her as odd, was all. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

Samara’s gaze dipped. “Because I was afraid of the answers,” she admitted.

In light of recent events, Miranda couldn’t exactly fault that explanation. “Hmm. Fair enough. As it turns out, your concerns may not have been unfounded.”

“In some respects, they were not,” Samara acknowledged. After a moment, she raised her head once more. “In others, I have been glad to find that they were. And that I had nothing to fear,” she said, holding Miranda’s gaze as she spoke.

Samara didn’t say it out loud, but the meaning wasn’t lost on Miranda. Miranda didn’t know much about Samara’s Code, but she recalled every element of their conversation about it earlier that day. About how she couldn’t hesitate in enforcing its tenets. About how she had to put it first, before everything. Above her own personal thoughts and feelings. Even above the life of a friend.

While the requirements of the Code remained a mystery to Miranda, if it was in any way moral or just - which, by her conduct and character, Samara certainly seemed to evidence that it was - then there was no way in hell that the Code could have permitted something like, say, leaving the Collector Base intact.

The thought must have crossed Samara’s mind at some point, however reluctant she would have been to consider it. If Cerberus’s true intentions were sinister, and if Miranda and Shepard knew of those intentions, condoned them, and supported them, then no matter how close they had grown as friends, they would have to part as enemies. If they hadn’t destroyed that base, and if Miranda hadn’t turned her back on The Illusive Man when he showed his true colours, then the next time Samara saw them, she would probably have had to kill them.

It must have been a relief for Samara to know that that wasn’t the case, and to have her faith in her friends proven justified. A small smile tugged at Miranda’s lip, touched that Samara had believed in her right from the start, and taken the chance to get to know her, even knowing the risk that it could all have backfired.

Even if nothing else good came from learning the truth about Cerberus, seeing just how deeply Samara had trusted that Miranda would make the right decision if faced with a choice like that, even if it meant turning her back on Cerberus in order to do the right thing, was reward enough. Truthfully, Samara had believed that about Miranda long before Miranda would have believed it about herself.

“Anyway, we’re on our own now. I know Shepard has told The Illusive Man as much,” Miranda finished the thought, glancing over at Samara once more. “Have you given any thought to what you’ll do next?”

Her question caught Samara off guard. “...I...I had not,” Samara admitted. After gazing past her reflection for a moment, she stood a little straighter, hands clasped behind her back. “I have only one path to follow, and that is the Code. I would not have survived this day if the Goddess did not see a higher purpose for me - somewhere the need is very great. I will go wherever I am called.”

“But you don’t know where that is yet?” Miranda intuited.

Samara hesitated, her shoulders sinking slightly, evidently not used to feeling...aimless. “No. I do not. Although I have faith those answers will crystallise in time.”

“Well, if it helps, I may have a temporary solution…” Miranda began. “I haven’t talked this over with Shepard yet, but there are still several outstanding tasks we never got around to completing - leads from Cerberus, mostly. I know I’m no longer working for them, but now that we know we can’t trust them, I’d rather resolve these matters before they do. And, for the matters that don’t involve Cerberus, hey, at least we’ll still be helping people,” Miranda explained. It wasn’t lost on her that the fact she saw that as enough reason to act was evidence of just how much Shepard had rubbed off on her. She really had changed.

Samara said nothing, maintaining her focus dead ahead.

“I know that the mission you swore an oath to Shepard for is over, so you’re under no obligation to follow her any longer,” Miranda continued. “But, if you don’t currently have any plans, and it wouldn’t be in conflict with your Code, then, as second-in-command of this ship, allow me be the first to let you know that you’re more than welcome to stay here for as long as you want.”

Samara glanced up, her expression unreadable as she met Miranda’s eyes.

Miranda’s posture softened slightly, abandoning any pretext that this was a purely professional request. “I’d be extremely grateful if you stayed,” she admitted, not ready to say goodbye to their friendship just yet. Spending time in Samara’s company was the one thing she looked forward to more than anything else most days. “It wouldn’t be the same here without you.”

It really wouldn’t have been. Maybe nobody else would think of her the same way, but for Miranda, Samara was like the heart of The Normandy. She just had this...indescribable presence that radiated warmth and comfort. Without having to say a word, she had a way of brightening Miranda’s gloomiest days, and of showing Miranda the way when it felt like she was lost in the dark.

This room had become Miranda’s safe place, not because there was anything special about the Starboard Observation Deck, but because Samara was here, her door always open, for whatever she needed.

Judging from her reaction, Samara had not been expecting that invitation. An answer seemed to catch in her throat, as if she didn’t know how to respond. Miranda began to regret that perhaps she had sprung this on her too quickly, before she’d had enough time to recover from the mission, and plan that far ahead.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to put any pressure on you,” Miranda spoke gently, not so self-centred as to impose her wishes on Samara, especially if it placed her in an awkward position with respect to her Code. She respected her too much for that, no matter how much she would miss her. “I understand if you can’t--”

“No, I…” Samara interjected, shaking her head as if to clear the cobwebs that had slowed her usually sharp mind. “There is no conflict here. The Collectors may have been stopped, but the greater threat remains at large.”

“The Reapers,” Miranda stated on her behalf.

“Yes,” Samara confirmed, the weight of that ever-looming enemy lingering like a presence in the air. “Until such time as the Goddess calls me elsewhere, I would be honoured to continue to aid you.”

“Glad to hear it,” Miranda enthused, though despite being pleased by her response, it hadn’t escaped her notice that something was still...off about Samara. She couldn’t put her finger on it, exactly. Just something in her facial expressions, and the tone of her voice. She was right there beside her in the same room, yet it felt like she was a thousand miles away.

“Hey…” Miranda reached out, gently placing a hand on Samara’s back. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Miranda asked, her questioning more serious than before, perfectly willing to lend an ear to her friend if something was awry, just as Samara had so often been a confidant for her.

“It is kind of you to worry. But I am alright. It has simply...been an eventful day,” Samara assured her, summoning a smile, appreciating her concern. “I have kept you long enough. I should like to meditate alone for a while, if there is nothing you require of me.”

“Of course. Go ahead. And take as much time as you need to recover. The ship is going to get repaired tomorrow with or without you, even if I have to fix it myself,” Miranda promised, not at all surprised to think that Samara needed some space to regather her equilibrium and come to terms with the fact that they had survived the impossible. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

“Thank you.” Samara stayed by the window as Miranda took her leave, the doors closing shut behind her.

If Miranda had stayed a few moments longer, she would have seen Samara’s masquerade fall as the hollowness returned her face, and her resolve crack as she reached out and braced herself against the wall to keep from crumbling.

All the certainty Samara had felt earlier that day had shattered like glass at her feet, a million little fragments scattered into the sand. For reasons she could not understand, she had emerged from her date with destiny unscathed.

Why? Why was she still here? What purpose did this serve?

Was this a punishment, perhaps? Was her penance for her sins incomplete? It had to be. Samara could find no other explanation that would suffice.

So, she had been arrogant, then. Celebrating too soon that which she did not yet deserve. It seemed a cruel joke to think of it now. She had found so much peace, tranquility and relief in the inevitability of her own end. But that release had been denied to her. And, now, instead of finding the courage to die with dignity, Samara now had to process that she had a far harder task ahead of her.

Somehow, someway, she had to find the strength to keep living.

* * *

#fic #mass effect #femslash #miranda lawson #samara

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dzamie-oc · 4 years ago

Text

Smaugust 14 - Feathered

A dragoness and her deinonychus friend go out for dinner and discuss having feathers. Then they eat some people. (2135 words)

cw: death, gore, hard vore

Sivarel strode into the restaurant and up to the host. The dragoness sat back on her haunches to raise a paw, digits folding to make a "V" symbol. "Table for two, please," she said with a smile.

"Of course, ma'am," the employee replied. He gathered a pair of menus and handed them to a tall, slender server - probably an elf, or elven in ancestry. "Will this be indoor or outdoor seating?"

"Outdoor, please," Sivarel said, "ideally not surrounded by other tables. Cuz, you know, wings." She self-consciously brought the feather-covered limbs closer to her body.

The host nodded and made a mark on the seating plan, then gave the server a quiet instruction. "Absolutely," the server said with a professional smile, "this way, please, follow me."

The dragoness dropped back to all fours to pad smoothly along behind the elf, through a pair of glass doors, and onto the stone-tiled ground outside. They wove easily around some groups eating and conversing, before the server stopped and gestured to the table. Sivarel thanked them, then nudged one of the chairs aside to sit on the ground, shifting her weight back to sit up and get her front paws off the ground.

"Can I get you anything to drink?"

The dragoness shook her head. "Just water, thanks." After the server left, Sivarel turned away from anything and anyone flammable, held her paws together, and breathed a quick jet of flame across them for quick and rough sterilization. She was far too proud of her draconic form to transform herself just for a simple dinner. After opening the menu in front of her, she slowly extended one wing along her side and began idly fussing with her primaries and secondaries, brushing them into place with small, careful claw movements. When the server appeared with two glasses of water, she refolded her wing.

"Are we ready to order, ma'am?"

Sivarel hummed, thinking for a few seconds. "Still going back and forth between a couple of things. In the meantime, could I start with the chicken strip appetizer?"

"Of course, I'll get that right out to you." The elf made a quick note in their order pad, then walked back away, leaving the dragon to her water. Then, in the corner of her eye, she recognized a certain someone.

"Hey, Siv!" said a deinonychus with a dark red stripe down her back plumage, waving at the dragon.

"Hello, Cerise. I haven't ordered yet, but there's chicken strips coming." She gestured with her head in a path through the door and the restaurant.

"Cool!" The dinosaur tensed and sprang up, easily clearing the fence to land next to her friend. She climbed into the chair opposite Sivarel and opened up her menu. "Ooh, that's a big steak," she commented.

"Did you really just jump up? I can't take you anywhere," Sivarel said with a smile. "I'm thinking of getting the half-chicken. I grabbed a small something on the way here."

"Something, or someONE?" Cerise asked with a mischievous grin.

Sivarel stared at her. "We're in a restaurant."

"Yeah, but you're still a dragon, and I'm still a raptor." Sivarel opened her mouth to reply, but Cerise held up a claw. "No 'veloci-' there, I'm right. Anyway, people are gonna eavesdrop cuz that's what people do. Might as well have some fun at their expense." She flipped through the menu a couple times, glancing at the items. "Split a full chicken?"

"Sure. And yeah, but that doesn't mean I have to play along." The dragoness folded her menu and stacked it on top of Cerise's.

A few moments later, the server returned with a plate of chicken strips. The elf took the order from Sivarel while Cerise took a few strips to her plate to begin eating.

The duo engaged in some small talk for a while, catching up on each other's days, before the chicken arrived. They each took part of the bird, a very brief break in their conversation.

"Oh, I forgot to mention," the deinonychus said after gulping down a bit of chicken, "I went and saw Jurassic Park again the other day."

"Really? Why? I thought you hated its popularization of naked dinos." The dragon smirked and leaned in slightly. "Or did you go to see the naked dinos, you naughty murderbird?"

Cerise glanced away. "Aren't we in a restaurant or something?" After another second of being smugged at by her friend, she rolled her eyes. "But no, I'm guessing they wanted to make dosh on concessions, so they offered ninety - yes, NINETY - percent off to dinosaurs. Got plenty of feathery butts in seats, I'll say that much." She tilted her head. "Or, at least, plenty of seats filled with feathery butts. I think the t-rex ended up taking, like, half a dozen or so, between her rear and her tail. Polite enough to sit in the back so us smaller folk could actually see every inch of Jeff Goldblum..."

"Well, eye candy aside, how was it? Quiet theater, or did you get one of the fun ones?"

"Oh, nobody there took the movie seriously. If there was a dino whose species appeared on screen, there were 'constructive comments' about the scene thrown about." Cerise grinned, silently recalling some choice arguments between the velociraptors and the utahraptors. "Plus, one of the non-dragons sitting near the rex kept talking about the differences between book and movie, which was at least more interesting than wondering if Rexy in the movie was going to eat the obvious protagonists. Dunno if it was the catfolk or the... dolphin next to her, though."

Sivarel swallowed the last bit of meat on her half of the chicken. "...dolphin?" she asked skeptically. "Oh, by the way, let me know when you're done. I crave meat."

"It was a dark theater, okay? Vaguely dolphin-shaped blob. Only got the catfolk cuz they meowed." She took a quick break to wolf down some more chicken, and Sivarel mimed asking for the check to the server, then the small dinosaur continued, "anyway, all of this was supposed to be a lead-up to: you've got feathers, I've got feathers."

The friends shared a quick smile and said together, "mine are prettier," and laughed.

"Anyway, again. We have feathers, but not, like, a ton. If you had to choose between being naked, and being as fluffy as an owl, which would you pick?"

"Easy," the dragoness replied, crunching on a bone, "I have a minimum comfort temperature, and no maximum. I will be the fluffiest dragon you ever did see, and I will be comfy forever." The server set down the bill, and Sivarel quickly placed enough coins to cover the cost and a decent tip before pushing it back towards the elf. "Keep the change. Anyway, Cerise, let's hear your answer. Big feathers or no feathers?"

"Joke's on you, I came prepared. No feathers, but I would have to hang out with my dragon friend a lot during winter." The deinonychus did her best sad-puppy impression. "Surely my bestest dragoness friend Sivarel wouldn't leave me to become a raptorsicle?"

Their conversation briefly halted as they wound their way back through the restaurant and said a polite goodbye to the employee at the front. "Anyway," Sivarel continued, putting on a silly voice, "Missus Owldragon, how many licks does it take to get to the deinonychus-filled center of a Cerise-pop?" She draped a wing over her friend as they passed a small grove, and pulled her in. "Let's find out. A-"

Suddenly, an empty two-liter bottle bounced off the dragon's head with an audible "donk!" She whirled and glared at where it came from. "Really?!" she shouted, only to hear a guy cheer and call, "ten points!"

The dragoness took a deep breath. "Cerise, my wonderful murderbird friend?"

The deinonychus swished her tail slowly, building excitement boiling off in the form of energy. "Yes, Sivarel, my sister in feather and scale?"

Sivarel bared her fangs - for it could not really be called "grinning." "I'm feeling a bit peckish. Shall we see about a second course?"

Cerise followed suit, crouching in preparation. "Why, I thought you'd never ask."

Cerise darted swiftly between the trees, darting back and forth like she was running the slalom at a dog show. Sivarel, in contrast, sprang up, soaring over the tops of the trees with a few powerful beats of her wings. She watched with keen eyes as the smaller dinosaur wove through the trees, screeching a challenge. The humanoids, not nearly as nimble as the deinonychus swaying her tail with each turn, quickly made for a clearing in the trees. Unfortunately for them, clearings were exactly what Sivarel loved to see.

She folded her wings and dropped like a stone, landing with a heavy THUD right in front of them. The first - a human - she caught his head in her mouth, sending him into a blind panic as a quick kick with a foreleg sent the other - a tiger catfolk - right into Cerise's path. Between the difficulty of subduing a struggling meal shortly after eating, and the need to avoid attracting too much attention with screams, the dragoness quickly made up her mind. She clamped down firmly on the man's head and jerked her own head quickly to the side. There was a snap, and the human hung limp in her jaws. Meanwhile, her dinosaur friend had come to a similar conclusion, and had leapt up to cling to the tiger's head, rapidly kicking to tear out the woman's throat. The catfolk, however, had better reflexes than her human counterpart, and successfully threw the little dinosaur off... before falling back, herself, rapidly suffocating and bleeding out.

Cerise wiped her claws on the feline's fur, then looked up at the dragoness. "I'm gonna go scuff up some tracks. Back in a few." And like that, she trotted back into the woods, pausing occasionally to kick around the grass, dirt, and leaves.

Sivarel flicked her head back, then jerked forward, catching the man's shoulders in her jaws. Another toss and a swallow, and she'd gotten him almost halfway in. She swallowed again and tipped her head back, leaving her mouth open as she shifted and jerked her head and neck, welcoming her second course into her stomach. One or two more swallows to make sure, and then she laid down to digest her meal and wait for her friend.

A couple minutes later, the deinonychus made a reappearance, trotted over to the feline body, now thoroughly dead, and began to tear it open. "Our next trick, of course," she said between bites, "is to get back home without attention."

"Even from volunteers?" Sivarel asked with a smile.

"Especially from volunteers," Cerise answered. "They're the absolute worst for me. You can gulp 'em down nice and easy, but they seem to think I can, too." Rip, tear, snap snap gulp. "No matter how many times I tell them, they're all super surprised when I slash open their guts and start snacking on their intestines. Ooh, speaking of which..." The dinosaur made a quick cut, then began to slurp down the organ like a bloody noodle.

The dragoness's stomach gurgled and growled as it compressed and moved the meat within. "Expecting you to start at the neck, maybe? Or do they just think that you'll be able to swallow them whole anyway? What would you even look like?"

Cerise dipped her head into the torn-open tiger woman, and reemerged a few seconds later with blood on her feathers. "No, I offer the neck and they always refuse. And, I dunno, I think my belly would drag on the ground. Uh, no pun intended."

"Behold the fast and agile deinonychus," Sivarel remarked with a snicker. "Anyway, when we're ready to head out, I'll lick you clean. Anyone asks, you spilled something sweet on you and I couldn't resist."

The dinosaur nodded, then went back to her eating. After a bit, she pulled back and walked over to her friend. "Along the feathers, if you could. It's harder for me to fix mine than you yours."

Sivarel nodded back, then set about carefully licking her, drawing the blood away from the coarse feathers and into her mouth. Once she had a soaked, but mostly clean, dinosaur in front of her, she smiled and leapt into the air. "See you back outside the trees!"

The dragoness soon landed back on the sidewalk, and started preening her wings again while waiting for her friend. A couple people stopped to watch; she stared back until they went away. After a minute or so, Cerise stepped out from the grove. With a wordless nod, they turned and began to make their way back to their homes, more full than they had at first intended to be.

#dragon #smaugust #dinosaur #hard vore #deinonychus #writing #writers on tumblr #smaugust 2020 #v/ore #v ore #v.ore #death tw #gore tw

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shadedrose01 · 5 years ago

Text

Maybe There's a Reason (To Believe You'll Be Okay)

Relationships: Harley Keener & Tony Stark (platonic), Harley Keener/Peter Parker (at the end)

Summary: Harley has a crisis, and Tony helps him through it (with a hint of parkner at the end).

Tags: Remix, Parkner Remix Event, Even though its barely parkner whoops, Emails, Letters, Phone Calls & Telephones, Tony Stark Acting as Harley Keener's Parental Figure, Sexual Identity, Identity Issues, Coming Out, Kinda?, Sexuality, Gay Harley Keener, Crushes, Harley Keener Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Acceptance, Self-Acceptance, Love, Parental Love, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, tony stark is a dad, why is that not a tag, Parkner is only at the end, for like a paragraph, Just so yall know :)

For the Parkner Discord Remix Event!!

A remix of @official-impravidus ' fic "Sincerely, Me" (which you can read here!)

This is longer, so ao3 link is here!

Hope you all enjoy! Love you lexie!!

Wednesday, May 8, 2013, 1:24PM

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Relationships and Mark V

I don't understand dating. Like, my friend Bryan started dating Rachel today, and that's fine, whatever, but I just don't get it. All they did was hold hands and kiss each other all day. Is that all a relationship is? What even is the point of it? I mean, I know humans are animals and our instincts give us our need to reproduce so we need to find a viable mate and all that stuff, but why do you need to always be together, and hold hands, and do all of that gross stuff too?

Either way, I finally got around to building a mark V for my potato gun! It's just a few upgrades up from the mark IV, for faster shots and farther range, but I think it'll be cool once it's done.

I hope your day is going okay.

-Harley

~~~

Wednesday, May 8, 2013, 10:43PM

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Relationships and Mark V

Relationships are complex, and complicated. Humans are born to reproduce, yes, but dating, and finding a partner is more than that. It's finding someone you're compatible with, who can be there at your best and at your worst, and a bunch of other deep seeded emotions that are hard to explain.

You don't need to worry about that now, though. You'll understand more when you're older, anyways, so I wouldn't worry about it.

My day has been good. More of a lazy day today, Pepper and I ordered some take out and watched movies in our pjs. I didn't have my phone on me per Peppers request, or I would have answered sooner.

As for the Mark V, the updates sound good. Keep me posted, kid.

-The Mechanic

~~~

Monday, September 8, 2014, 4:57PM

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Middle School!!

I started middle school today!! And honestly? It wasn't as exciting as I thought it was gonna be. I knew that movies and tv shows oversell the wow factor of middle school and high school but I didn't think it'd be this dull. I'm still in the same class, with all the same classmates, and my classes are still crazy easy. I had hoped that the increase in grade would make it even a little bit harder, but I knew everything on the outline they gave out before the teachers even started teaching!! It's bonkers!

Apparently this middle school also has a STEM, or "gifted" kid program for kids like me though, so hopefully that'll be harder. I'm still gonna be so bored in my normal classes though. Ugh.

I have the STEM classes tomorrow, so I'll tell you how it goes. I know you've been stuck in those awful meetings lately, but I hope your day is going better than mine.

-Harley

~~~

Tuesday, September 9, 2014, 5:04PM

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: STEM Program

I had my STEM class day today, and it went a lot better than yesterday did! My teachers are all super nice, especially my math teacher, Mr. Trevor. He immediately starting teaching today, which was awesome, because all of my other normal teachers had a Ice Breaker class first (which I hate, we all already know each other, why do we have to say our names and something about ourselves??), but he just went right into it, and started teaching us trigonometry. I haven't learned any of it before, and I'm super excited to dig into it and find out how it works. It's seeming pretty simple so far, just formulas and using calculators right.

The only bummer is the class I got put with. They all seemed to click and get along well together, but none of them really talked to me much. I don't mind though. I'm more focused on my education anyways.

Also! I saw that Captain America and Black Widow took down SHIELD's headquarters on the news. What was that about? Do you know?? Apparently they leaked files too or something???

I hope everything is okay.

-Harley

~~~

Friday, September 12, 2014, 10:27AM

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: STEM Program

Hey kid. Sorry for the late response, things have been hectic here, as you probably know. It's been a PR nightmare, with the whole "Cap took SHIELD down" fiasco. I can't say more than that though. Legal things, NDAs, you know how it is.

I'm glad the STEM classes are testing your abilities more. I know the regular classes can be boring for someone of your intellect, but try to enjoy them while they last, okay? Soon you'll be an adult, and doing adult things, and trust me, it isn't as fun as they make it out to be in the movies either.

Don't worry about those kids too. Give it time, they'll come around.

-The Mechanic

~~~

Friday, September 26, 2014, 9:02PM

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Update?

Hi. Just emailed to give an update on me. Everything's been pretty normal, I guess. Abbie's loving elementary school, her teacher, Mrs. Millar, is really nice. I did my trig test today, and I think I did well. Mama's working late again tonight, but that's just normal at this point too.

Have you ever, I dunno. Felt like you were weird? Or strange, or broken? Like, all of your friends are one way, and doing some things, but you aren't, and everyone looks at you weird, and treats you differently?

I don't know. I don't know where I'm going with this. I just feel off tonight. Think I'm going to go to bed early.

I'm sorry.

-Harley

~~~

Friday, September 26, 2014, 9:48PM

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Update?

You don't need to apologize, kid. You did nothing wrong.

I used to feel like that, quite frequently if I'm being honest. When I first went to MIT, I felt weird. I stuck out like a sore thumb, and had people talk about me behind my back because of how young I was. But then I met Rhodey, and things got better.

And then Afghanistan happened. And the invasion. Let me tell you kid, I've never felt more broken and alone after that. I had panic attacks, as you know, but I also struggled with a lot of paranoia. Lack of sleeping or eating properly, mixed with trauma does that to you. I was a wreck, and I was so certain I couldn't be fixed. That I'd be like that forever.

And to an extent, I will be. I'll always struggle with it, but it's much, much better now than it used to be. I went to therapy, talking about my feelings, which sucked ass (don't tell your mom I said that), and learned mechanisms to help myself. Learned breathing techniques, practiced meditation, focused more on self care, and now I'm doing so much better.

So, moral of this long, way too personal story. You aren't broken, kid. Whatever is going on, whether it's similar to me or not (I hope not), it'll be okay. You will be okay. Things will work out. And don't worry about what other people think. Focus on yourself, and do what makes you happy, no matter what.

I'm always here if you need to talk, Harley. I might not be much help, or be very good at this whole hormonal preteen emotions thing yet, but I can try.

I'm glad things are going okay outside of that though. I'm glad your sister's settling in well, and I'm sure you aced your test. You're a smart kid.

Goodnight.

-Tony

~~~

Tuesday, October 7th, 2014, 3:38PM

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Call

Hey, can we call? I know you're probably busy, and we don't normally do that but I'm kinda freaking out about something and I don't know who else to talk to. My number is (___) ___-____

-Harley

Tuesday, October 7th, 2014, 3:41PM

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Call

Nevermind, ignore that last email. I was being overdramatic, and stupid. I'm fine, everything is okay.

Sorry for bothering you.

-Harley

---

He didn't expect anything from the emails. He assumed the older man would've read his last email, and shrugged it off, pretending the previous didn't exist like Harley longed for him too. As he said, he was being dumb. It didn't matter that his heart was pounding, that his brain was screaming at him that he was a freak, and dirty, and so so so wrong , that he was shaking like a leaf and on the verge of tears. It didn't matter. It was stupid. It didn't matter.

He didn't expect that Tony would actually still call him.

He stares at his vibrating cell phone through teary eyes, blurry vision, the number unknown but he knows who it is, knows it because nobody else calls, because when his friends call, they call the home phone, not his phone, so who else could it be?

He blinks the tears out of his eyes, rubbing them away quickly when a few escape, swallowing down his fear and panic and self hatred as he scrambles to pick it up before the call ends (he doesn't think Tony would appreciate it very much if he let it ring to voicemail), stuttering out a shaky, higher pitched "H-Hello?"

"Hey, kid." Tony's voice, much lower and rougher than his, rings through the phone, and Harley braces for the questions, the interrogation he knows is coming, knows Tony's gonna ask him about it, about what's bothering him. Why, why did he email him? Now he's gonna have to tell him what's wrong, now he's gonna have to admit it, admit how wrong and messed up and broken he is- "How was your day?"

Harley jerks back slightly, mouth gaping and eyes wide, caught off guard by the unexpected tame question. "Huh?"

"How was your day?" The man repeats calmly, tone smooth, even, relaxed, like it's a normal conversation on a normal, boring day. Nothing like how Harley is feeling, nothing like the swarming thoughts in his mind, like the flood of emotions in his chest, like the churning in his stomach, the burning ache in his lungs.

"U-uhm," Damn his stutter, he had grown out of it years ago, why was it suddenly coming back now? "I-it was good." He lies, trying to keep his voice from wavering, trying to keep it steady, trying to stay composed as the tsunami of emotions tries to pull him under. "Yeah."

"Yeah?" Tony prods lightly, voice softening slightly, and Harley shakes his head in a nod, firm, even though Tony can't see it, even as tears start to burn at his eyes again, even his chest winds tighter and tighter and tighter .

"Mhm." He forces out, not trusting himself to speak anymore, his throat closing as his feelings start rising up his esophagus, a sob clawing its way up his throat, trying to escape.

There's a pause, then, a moment when everything freezes. A moment right before the iceberg tips, right before everything crashing and burning down around him, right before the beginning of the end. And then, time starts again, as the mechanic asks, quiet, hushed "What's going on, Harley?"

And Harley crumbles .

The sob rips from his throat, echoing loudly in the large emptiness of his garage, a trembling hand covering his mouth as soon as he does. But the floodgates have already opened, tears are streaming full force down his face, his body shuttering through shaky gasps and shattered sobs. "I-I-Im sorry ," He chokes out as he sits down heavily in his old, pachy wheely chair, curling into himself as his body shutters again. He rubs his eye with the hand on his face, sniffling and coughing through a whimpered, "I-I know you're- you're probably b-busy, you- you don't h-have to-"

"I have nowhere else to be." Tony murmurs simply, cutting off Harley's poor attempt at waving him off, at delaying the inevitable for any longer. Harley lets out a small whine as the older man speaks up again, soft, soothing, repeating gently, "What's going on, kid?"

"I-I dont-" He hiccups, running a hand through his shaggy, too long blond curls, tugging slightly as his knee bounces rapidly. "M-My friends, or my classmates, they- lately, they've been, I don't know, they've been talking- talking more about crushes and girls and stuff." Harley sniffles, tugging his hair harder as his vision starts to blur again, the words tumbling out of his mouth now. "And- and I never really c-cared about it, you know? I never really- really unders-stood it, didn't see the appeal, s-so I didnt m-mind it. But they- they just keep talking about it, and getting g-girlfriends, and-and talking about their��bodies and I didnt get the- the i-interest, so I thought maybe something was wrong with me-"

"There isn't." Tony chips in, but Harley just runs right over him, keeps blabbering. He knows it's rude, knows his mama taught him better, but he can't seem to stop talking now that he started, his words getting more and more wobbly, panicked the longer he goes.

"But there is , there is something wrong with me, I- I know there is now, be-because when I-I went to school today, the- the past few days really, I started- started noticing that I started f-feeling weird, and- and it sounds- sounds similar to how the- the others say they feel, but it doesn't make sense , it can't be that, I dont- I cant-" Harley's breath catches, and he grinds his teeth together, refuses to speak another word, refuses to accept it, refuses to admit the god awful truth, refuses to utter the words. Because it can't be right, it can't be true, it can't be-

They sit in silence for a few moments, when he assumes Tony thought he would continue speaking but he wont, he refuses , until the softer, calmer voice returns, slightly staticky through the speaker, but barely more than a whisper, as if he spoke any louder, Harley would shatter. He probably would. "So, if I'm understanding correctly, you think you have a crush, and you're... scared?"

He doesn't sound patronizing, just honest, if a bit curious, but it doesn't help calm Harley any, a higher pitched, frustrated noise escaping the back of his throat, his free hand going out of his hair going back to rubbing at his face, rubbing off the tracks of tears, trying to rub away any sign of upset, until his skin is red and raw. "No, I-I mean, kinda- its not- I can't- god , this is so stupid."

"Its not stupid. I get it." The man responds, and Harley wants to laugh, feels the bitter feeling bubbling in his chest, because does he? How can he get this? Harley doesn't even get this, it doesn't- he shouldn't- "What's her name?"

The sound erupts out of him at that, but instead of laughter like he thought it would be, it's just another pitiful whine, another loud, agonizing sob. Because that's the thing, the thing that's been haunting him ever since he figured it out earlier that day, the issue that's been plaguing his mind and freaking him out, winding him up more and more and more as the day went on until he got home and sent those messages.

Because- because when he thinks back to earlier that day, he thinks of lunchtime, of sitting at his lunch table with his "friends", of them talking and laughing, of Harley feeling those weird feelings again, especially when he looked across from him, and saw big, forest green eyes, saw a big, toothy grin, saw two small dimples and scattered freckles, saw short, short black hair, saw a sharper, thinner jaw, saw male male male, felt butterflies flutter, and realized he was wrong, wrong, wrong .

Because- "It's not a girl." His voice is small, defeated, barely a whisper, his whole body tensed up in fear, waiting, waiting for his reaction.

There's a pause, before a faint, quiet, sympathetic, "Oh, kid." That Harley immediately the wrong way, because he hates him, oh god he hates him-

"I'm sorry!" He gasps, jerking upright, sitting ramrod straight and the apologies spilling from his mouth. "I'm so sorry, I didnt- I dont mean to, and I-I know its wrong, and I shouldn't, and I-I know I'm weird and- and a freak , and-"

"Hey, hey, woah!" Tony's voice is louder now, stronger, and Harley hushes up immediately, his mouth slamming shut, even as his body trembles with a silent sob. "It's okay, kid. You aren't any of that."

"But- but I am!" Harley whimpers. "I'm w-weird, and everyone else isn't like this , and-"

"Am I a freak?" Again, the random question sends Harley for a loop, trying to grasp onto any of his quickly scattering thoughts.

"W-what?"

He can hear a faint smile, faint amusement in Tony's tone as he asks again, still so so calm, so reassured, "Am I a freak?"

Harley narrows his shining eyes, still full of tears, staring down at the wooden table in front of him, at the chips and nicks covering the side of it, wondering if this is a trick question. "N-No? Of- of course not, you're Iron Man."

He can hear some noise in the background of the call now, squeaking as if someone's leaning back in a chair, before Tony speaks up again, voice full of warm amusement now. "Well, Iron Man has had a few rendezvous with men in the past, and still likes them to this day. Does that make him, and therefore, me, a freak?" When Harley doesn't answer, mostly out of pure shock than anything else, Tony keeps going, tone going serious again. "Kid, I'm gonna get this out there right away. There is nothing wrong with you for liking boys, you hear me?"

He swallows, and wants to agree, longs to agree, but- "But- but my friends, they all like- like girls , and mama, she- she said that traditional marriage was what God wanted and-"

Harley cuts himself off this time, and Tony only waits a few beats before murmuring softly, "Is that what you think?"

He just shrugs, picking at the table, sniffling, whispering quietly, "I don't know what to think anymore."

There's a soft hum and another pause. "You're different, Harley. I'm not going to beat around the bush, you are different." Harley stomach drops. "But," Tony continues, "Kid, you've always been different. You're so smart, way too smart for your own good, if I'm being honest. And there's nothing wrong with that. People may try to bring you down, or kick you while you are down, but you've gotta remember that, okay? There is nothing wrong with you."

Harley waits a few moments, let's the words wash over him and wrap him in a blanket of warmth, of security and comfort, but there's still one little thing that keeps rearing its ugly head, that's still making him antsy. "But, what if I'm just- overreacting? And I don't actually... y-you know." He finishes lamely, still not ready to completely admit to everything yet.

Tony doesn't seem to mind. "Then that's okay too." He says simply, a bit of shuffling coming through the line. "Kid, how old are you again, like twelve?"

He can hear the teasing in his tone, and rolls his eyes as he huffs out, "Thirteen."

The older man chuckles for a second, before his voice goes back to calm, quiet. "Seriously though, you're thirteen , Kid. You don't need to have everything figured out right away." He snorts, then. "I sure didn't. I think I was a mess at your age, wasn't even thinking about relationships. At least, not long term." There's a pause. "Point is, you don't need to know right now. This might be a fluke, and you might end up liking only girls from here on out. You might end up just liking boys, liking both, or neither, who knows? But you've got time, kid, and that's the key. Give it time . And whatever it ends up being, whatever ends up happening..." His voice softens at the end, a smile prominent in his tone. "It'll be okay. You will be okay."

For the first time all day, Harley finally takes a deep breath. His shoulders finally relax, his body practically melting back into his chair, and a smile grows on his face, warmth blooming in his chest. "...thanks, Tony." He whispers, hoping that the amount of pure, unfiltered gratitude he's feeling can be heard in his tone.

He thinks it can, as there's a hint of embarrassment and awkwardness in Tony's voice as he responds with a simple, "Don't mention it, squirt."

Harley just chuckles at the sudden discomfort of the older man, before his eyes widen. "Oh! While you're here, did I tell you I passed my trig test?"

"Hey! I knew you would, kid, I had no doubt." Harley's grin widens, before he throws himself into another story, feeling warmer, safer, and happier than he has in a while.

A few years later, Tony was getting off of the elevator to his penthouse with a huff, having just gotten back from a rough meeting, when he freezes. His heart warma and a smile grows on his face when he notices Harley, now 17 years old (almost an adult, god he was so old ), curled up into Peter's chest, his face pushed into his neck, seemingly fast asleep. Peter's head rests on top of Harley's, eyes open but hooded, as if keeping them open was getting difficult. They glance over to Tony immediately, though (damn his spider sense and increased hearing), and a faint blush forms on his cheeks even as he smiles lightly, his eyes softening as he glances back down at his boyfriend and presses a firm kiss onto his head. Tony watches the interaction with a soft grin, before quietly stepping away, his chest full of mostly warm, sappy feelings, but also full of pride and joy, knowing his pseudo son is accepted, happy and loved.

#parkner #parkner remix event #harley keener/peter parker #remix #fanfiction remix #harley keener #peter parker #tony stark #tony stark is a good dad #tony stark is a dad to harley keener #fanfiction #marvel #mcu #marvel fanfiction #parknerpalsremix

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hiddendreamer67 · 5 years ago

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Mandy in the Multiverse

Summary: Mandy the writer witch doesn’t know what to write for her prompt, so she goes searching back through her plethora of AUs for inspiration and accidentally stumbles into a few others as well.

(Shoutout to @callboxkat, @lefaystrent and @delimeful for letting me reference their works in this!)

October prompt #23: Witchcraft.

Check out more of my writing at @hiddendreamerwriting!

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Mandy sighed, laying on her back and tossing her pen in the air to catch again. It was dull, lacking the usual shine of inspiration. It seemed she was quickly burning through her magic supply this month.

Her eyes traveled over to the portal, humming in the corner. Several portals, actually. An entire wall of infinite portals, each leading into a different dimension she had created. But what did it matter? All the portals in the world wouldn’t help the young witch find a good story idea. She needed a new portal.

Mandy paused, catching her pen one last time. Or…she could always do a sequel. And for that, a quick lil’ inspiration trip wouldn’t hurt anyone, right?

“I’ll just pop in for a second.” Mandy grinned, already grabbing her cloak and sprinting through one at random.

A bright light flashed, forcing her to cover her eyes. She blinked the spots from her vision, peering around to find… a pet shop?

“Oh, tiny mers.” Mandy hummed, walking through the aisle ways. “Not exactly original, but-”

“Can I help you, gurl?” Remy the sales clerk interrupted her musing.

“Oh, hey Remy.” Mandy gave a disinterested wave, not even looking over as she peered into the empty tanks. She sighed. “Man, this is so boring. There’s not even anything happening here. Well, except with the cats.”

“We don’t sell cats.” Remy informed her.

“I know.” Mandy adjusted her cloak. She didn’t feel like walking all the way over to Picani’s place of residence just to see the shredded remains of Logan clinging to life, that’d just be depressing. “Don’t worry about it.” Without another word she twirled on her feet, the scenery swapping once more.

“Alright, where we headed?” Mandy rubbed her hands together, looking around to try and get the lay of the land. It was a wide open field, which didn’t give her many clues- that is, until she saw how dead the grass was and the hole left behind by what must’ve been a beanstalk.

“Aww, I missed it?” Mandy groaned. She looked around, seeing nobody at the bottom of the stalk either. “Well this sucks. I can’t even tell if this is Virgil’s or Patton’s story. Why does the beanstalk have to come down, anyway? Just let it stay up and eventually consume all the water on Earth.”

That was an idea, maybe. But today was not the day for mythical eco-terrorism. Instead with a sigh Mandy twirled again, crossing her fingers. “Please something fun, please something fun-”

Unfortunately, her hopes were dashed when she opened her eyes to see generic apartment number 3. “Darn it, just a borrower story.”

There was a quiet clattering behind her. Mandy turned, seeing a very startled human Logan standing in the kitchen. “I- how- what did you say?”

“Oh dear.” Mandy winced. Logan was always the one with too many questions, no matter the universe. “Um, a borrower? Tiny person about yeigh high?” Mandy held out her hands for scale. “You might have one already in a cage. That, or they’re still in the walls. I don’t really know what stage you’re at.”

Logan’s eyes widened, turning a deadly pale. He glanced back at the living room door anxiously, leaning forwards and lowering his voice. “How much do you know about the little mouse men?”

“The mouse men?” Mandy wrinkled her nose in confusion. Since when did Logan call borrowers ‘mouse men’? That sounded more like Littles, and the only story she knew with Littles was…

Mandy gasped, smacking a hand to her cheek. “This is Kat’s story!” She excitedly whispered. The witch looked down at her own hands in awe, having not been aware she could even do that. “Oh my goodness I could see Littles. Wait should I? What if I break something? No, I shouldn’t, they’re all so depressed right now, and Kat’s Littles are always so skittish.”

“Cat? What’s this about a cat?” Logan was frantically trying to keep up with her logic, to no avail.

“Don’t worry about it.” Mandy said hastily. “Tell them I say hi. Wait don’t, forget you saw anything. Okay. I love you. Bye.”

With these parting words Mandy spun away, eager to get out before she ruined over a year’s worth of careful planning. But this opened a newfound realm of possibilities; what were her limits? How far could she go? She eagerly focused her energy away from her own stories, trying to see if she could breach the wall again.

“...oh great. Another Remy.” Mandy sighed, opening her eyes.

“Gurl you better check yourself before you shrek yourself.” Remy judged her, taking a long sip from his cup.

Mandy glanced around, taking in the house in disarray. There was a strange amount of potato chip bags and binoculars. On a notebook was a list labelled ‘Vampires?’ where Logan’s name had been written, crossed out, rewritten, repeat.

“Is this Lefay’s Welcome to the Neighborhood fic?” Mandy guessed.

“Yup.” Remy nodded. Mandy wasn’t even surprised Remy had that knowledge; he was some sort of demon of the night anyways here. Or something.

“Good.” Mandy nodded as well. “So I can’t break anything.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re worthy enough to derail this plot.” Remy raised an eyebrow. “Where you headed?”

“I dunno.” Mandy shrugged, leaning against the couch. She cringed, feeling something sticky beneath her. “I mean not that you lovable trash raccoons aren’t, er, great… but I was kinda aiming for Delimeful.”

“The tiny dragon one?” Remy asked.

Mandy nodded. “I wanna introduce Puff to my dragon Virgil. Who isn’t really a dragon, just raised by dragons, and-”

“We get it, ya’ basic. First door on your left.” Remy interrupted with a point. Mandy paused, before with a shrug opening the door that was Remy’s haphazardly thrown together portal. There was another flash of familiar light, but this time the walls appeared more hazy. Translucent, even.

“So, this is a mind palace.” Mandy let out a low whistle, because she could do that in fiction. “Weird. I don’t work in canon enough, huh?”

But that wasn’t the focus right now. Instead her attention was drawn to a scuttling in front of her, a little purple dragon caught off guard by her arrival. Mandy grinned, taking the opportunity to lunge and catch him. “Gotcha!”

Puff did not appreciate this gesture, frantically clawing and biting at Mandy and nearly causing the young witch to drop him entirely.

“Geez, stop struggling, Virgil!” Mandy huffed, readjusting her grip.

“...Virgil?”

Mandy paused, looking up to see she had an audience. Roman, Patton, and Logan were giving her looks caught between confusion and horror. The dragon in question had frozen, terrified when she said his name.

For a moment Mandy thought she ruined everything, but no recognition dawned on their faces. “Oh right, you guys are pre-accepting anxiety.” Mandy gave a small sigh of relief, the others tensing further. “Don’t worry, it’s just a, uh, nickname. Totally irrelevant. Definitely not something worth pondering or asking Anxiety about. Okay, toodles!”

But as soon as Mandy attempted to spin on her heel with Puff in tow, a searing hot pain overtook her arms. She yelped, dropping the fledgling and spinning into the other realm alone, collapsing with a grimace.

“Okay, no taking things between realms.” Mandy grit her teeth. “Good to know.”

She looked up, her eyes peering through the darkness to see a sword glinting in the meager light, pointed threateningly at her face. Strangely, she hadn’t even heard the movement. That was suspiciously terrifying.

“State your business.” The not-dragon Virgil threatened.

Mandy looked down the length of the sword. She looked back up at Virgil. “I was just trying to bring you a present.” Mandy huffed, annoyed that her plan had failed. “It was a dragon version of you. A real one.”

Well, that was not the right thing to say. Mandy yelped, rolling out of the way as the sword came slashing down, clanking loudly against the rock wall.

“Lovely seeing you as always!” Mandy waved, turning on her heel to the sound of cursing behind her.

The witch gave a sigh of relief, trying to focus her mind again after getting so jittered. It was difficult whenever her creations got away from her, especially when she was at the wrong end of the sword. The Lord only knew how many times her giants got out of hand, putting Mandy in all sorts of compromising situations.

“Think Mandy.” Mandy told herself, continuing to spin as she began to get dizzy, multiple universes passing by and only offering her glimpses: cages, a butterfly wall, the ocean…. And of course the accompanying cast, but that was a bit harder to decipher considering they all shared the same fate. “If you could go anywhere, do anything, focus on that. Where would you go? What would you do?”

Her focus was shattered as in her dizzy state she took a single step back, breaking the spell and immediately tripping over something alive.

“Mrow!” The white cat hissed, scrambling fearfully up and away from Mandy and into Patton’s lap.

“Oh dear!” Patton gasped, bending down to check on her. “Are you alright?” She took in his light blue robes, recognizing a fellow magic user.

“Yes, I’m fine.” Mandy took his hand, standing up. She looked down at the bristling cat, glaring up at her haughtily. Mandy winced, slowly recognizing this to be her witch AU. “Sorry about your tail, Roman. Also sorry about your allergies, Patton.”

Patton gave her a bewildered look, not so subtly wiping at his nose. The cat hair was clearly getting to him again. “What? It’s just this spring air. Hardly your fault.”

“Right.” Mandy didn’t bother to explain that she was the one who gave him allergies in the first place. She sighed, wishing she could at least cuddle up Roman with his fluffy coat, but Roman looked to be in no mood to accept her apology. “Aristocat.” She muttered. “Are Logan and Virgil around?”

“No, I believe they went out to collect potion ingredients.” Patton explained.

“Ugh why didn’t I just do that?” Mandy smacked herself in the forehead. “I could have just written something about you four doing potion stuff for witchcraft. This is so needlessly complicated.”

“...sorry?” Patton didn’t know how to respond.

“Whatever, I’m getting out of here.” Mandy glanced at the pair one last time. “I suggest inventing magic benadryl. Or getting regular benadryl. I have no idea what time period this actually is because you refuse to go outside.”

With this mystic advice Mandy disappeared, forever on the hunt for that elusive inspiration.

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vocalfriespod · 5 years ago

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Bilingualism is. It just is. Transcript

Megan Figueroa: Hi, and welcome to the Vocal Fries podcast, a podcast about linguistic discrimination.

Carrie Gillon: I’m Carrie Gillon.

Megan Figueroa: I’m Megan Figueroa. How you doing there, Carrie?

Carrie Gillon: Better today. Yesterday was rough. I mean, I’m pretty convinced that I have COVID, even though I have not been tested because I’m not sick enough to get tested. I don’t wanna walk around and infect other people unless I absolutely have to go to the hospital.

Megan Figueroa: Right.

Carrie Gillon: It’s been pretty mild. Then, yesterday, you and I had this awesome conversation with two guests – it’s gonna be in six weeks, probably – and it was an amazing conversation. But then afterwards I had lunch and then I just crashed, and I got much sicker, and I’m like, “Ugh!”

Megan Figueroa: You exert yourself and then there you go and get it.

Carrie Gillon: And exerting myself was just conversation. It’s just – oh, man. It just depressed me.

Megan Figueroa: I know. I have heard that a lot of people, they describe not being able to do any sort of task because it’s just too much. I’m like, “Oof.” I mean, that kind of sounds like the flu but in the way that people are describing it, it sounds like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

Carrie Gillon: For me, whatever this is, it is not the flu because all it did at first was just attack my lungs. I felt like they were on fire. Then, it was just more tight and I had some fatigue but not like flu fatigue. It’s just – I dunno. It’s very different.

Megan Figueroa: Yeah.

Carrie Gillon: Anyway, in better news, we have an email from, let’s see, I think it’s /silʌm/. So, “Hi. Big fan of the podcast. I was actually planning to send a message just last week to ask if you had any plans to do an episode about names, so I was really excited when I saw the title of the newest episode.” By the way, we got this email a while ago, and I meant to read it on the last episode and just plum forgot. That’s why it’s a little bit delayed.

“They’re something I’ve always been interested in and I wanted to share some things about my name(s) in case you found it interesting. I’m Chinese Canadian, Cantonese and Hakka specifically, and like many others, I grew up with a ‘Western name’ that I used in everyday life and Chinese ones that I use with my family. My name is pronounced super differently in Mandarin, Cantonese, and Hakka.” I’m not even gonna try because it involves tones and I really suck at tones. Anyway, there’s three different pronunciations.

“I’d been thinking about ditching the Western name for a while, especially since coming out as agender, since it’s very gendered and my Chinese name is gender neutral. I was hesitant because I didn’t know which Chinese name to use and I wasn’t really used to hearing non-Chinese speakers pronounce any of them. It’s a bit silly but seeing Hasan Minhaj correct everyone’s pronunciation of his name and seeing people reacting” – I think – “positively to that gave me a confidence boost and I’ve been using my Cantonese name full time for most of the last year. People have been pretty good about pronouncing it, although it took me a while to get used to hearing it without the tones.” Exactly! We’re not good at tones most of us who –

Megan Figueroa: Who didn’t grow up with it.

Carrie Gillon: Yeah, especially each tonal language is different too, right, so even if you speak a tonal language, you’re still gonna have to learn a whole new system. However, if you don’t grow up with it at all, it’s just really hard. “I went back and forth on the spelling between S-E-E and S-I for the first syllable and L-A-M and L-U-M for the second, but I think I’ve ultimately settled on S-I-L-U-M, although I’ve only been using this spelling for a couple months so I’ll let you know if I change it.” It’s fun. I love it.

Megan Figueroa: Oh, my gosh. I feel so happy that someone would share that with us. Thank you so much.

Carrie Gillon: There’s a lot more, but I think that’s the gist of it. That’s really great! We need to talk to people who are speakers of any of the Chinese languages. Silum mentions, for example, that people often haven’t heard of Hakka before, which is true. Most people haven’t. I only have because I’m a linguist.

Megan Figueroa: Right. And I haven’t at all and I’m a linguist.

Carrie Gillon: I’m also from an area with a lot more – I don’t know if this person is from Vancouver area, but there’s a lot of people from China in the Vancouver area. You do encounter more things. But they mention a language that I have never heard of before – Teochew? I’m not even sure how to pronounce it. There’s lot of Chinese languages and we’d love to talk with them.

Megan Figueroa: Yes. We wanna talk to everyone.

Carrie Gillon: There’s too many things.

Megan Figueroa: Consider this your invitation if people wanna reach out because there’re so many areas that we have not yet touched at all. Again, another reason why I feel so happy that they would share that with us because, yeah, learned a few things and then I get to hear something very personal about a listener. Awesome. That name episode was fun. It’s good to think back onto to it.

Carrie Gillon: Yes.

Megan Figueroa: Speaking of names –

Carrie Gillon: Ugh! Oh, god.

Megan Figueroa: I know. I mean, I hate to say it out loud to give it any sort of –

Carrie Gillon: I know, but you have to say it out loud to address it, sadly.

Megan Figueroa: So, “Chinese Virus” – [sighs] words matter.

Carrie Gillon: My favorite thing is that he’s like, “Well, we call it ‘Lyme Disease’” – how many people know that Lyme is a place?

Megan Figueroa: Yeah, I didn’t know that. Although, I knew “Lyme” wasn’t spelled like limes that you eat, but I’ve never really looked into why it’s L-Y-M-E.

Carrie Gillon: I’m certain about a decade ago I found out that there was a town called “Lyme,” and then I promptly forgot because that’s how little that matters. “Ebola” also is named after a location. But, note, it’s not an entire country in either of these cases. It’s not “US Disease.” It’s not – I dunno which part of Africa; I don’t remember – “Sierra Leone Disease” or something. It’s not an entire country, it’s just one location, which is maybe still problematic. I don’t know. But we don’t have the same racial associations at least. So, no, Trump, you’re wrong.

Megan Figueroa: And any person that wasn’t just a raging racist would see what was happening. There are literal hate crimes – physical hate crimes, verbal – all of these hate crimes that are being committed against people that others perceive to be Chinese. I’m sure they’re not even very discriminatory on this at all.

Carrie Gillon: No. Basically any East Asian or someone of East Asian descent. That’s all. They don’t know what a Chinese person looks like versus a Japanese person versus Korean.

Megan Figueroa: Any person that actually cared would step it back, but we all know he doesn’t.

Carrie Gillon: He has stopped – shockingly, he did stop call –

Megan Figueroa: Did he?

Carrie Gillon: Yes. He has stopped calling it the “Chinese Virus.” I don’t know why. I think maybe – he said something like, “Oh, it’s not okay to hurt Asian people” or something like that. Ever since then, he hasn’t used it. I’m pretty sure – unless he’s reintroduced it. But he definitely stopped.

Megan Figueroa: Well, who knows why, but the damage has been done because all of his little minions – supporters – are calling it the “Chinese Virus.” That’s not okay. I don’t know why anyone would feel like that’s okay.

Carrie Gillon: Because they’re racist. I mean, it’s not even a question!

Megan Figueroa: I know.

Carrie Gillon: I mean, as bad as that is, there’s actually something that’s even worse, in my opinion. Some people are calling it the “Kung Flu.”

Megan Figueroa: Oh, god.

Carrie Gillon: Yeah. It’s so gross, it makes my skin crawl.

Megan Figueroa: I haven’t heard that.

Carrie Gillon: Well, I haven’t actually heard it. I’ve only read it. But it’s definitely on Twitter, although less so recently. Around the time Trump was saying “Chinese Virus” all the time that was coming up a lot.

Megan Figueroa: Oh, my god.

Carrie Gillon: People are gross.

Megan Figueroa: People are gross. Words matter. That’s racist.

Carrie Gillon: We already have a name for it – COVID-19 or SARS-CoV-2, which is such a mouthful. “COVID” is better, in my opinion. Don’t, obviously – who among our listeners are gonna be calling it the “Chinese Virus”? Nobody. I don’t know what we’re –

Megan Figueroa: We’re just rage venting. Make sure to call people out if you do see it. It’s fucking racist. It’s gross. It implies that somehow some people are more susceptible or – there’s so many implications in calling it the “Chinese Virus” that are so –

Carrie Gillon: Blaming. It’s basically blaming all of Chinese people for a virus that comes from bats. Nobody got it on purpose. No one spread it on purpose. It’s just a thing that happens because we live in proximity to animals and sometimes animal viruses jump to humans. Sometimes, they mutate and then go human to human. It’s nobody’s fault.

Megan Figueroa: It’s definitely a blaming thing.

Carrie Gillon: Anyway, please – [Laughter]

Megan Figueroa: Let’s take a break from COVID-19 for a minute. Got a very special episode today. I talk with Drs. Jonathan Rosa and Nelson Flores. It was an amazing chat.

Carrie Gillon: It was pretty fun. And I wasn’t in this conversation because you guys were gonna talk about Latinx, and then you didn’t talk about it!

Megan Figueroa: I know.

Carrie Gillon: I could’ve been part of this conversation.

Megan Figueroa: I know. I’m so sorry! [Laughter] I thought we were gonna get – yeah. But, yes, you would’ve enjoyed being there, I’m sure. So, I’m sorry about that.

Carrie Gillon: It’s all right. It was very long, so I ended up cutting out a significant portion, which we are going to put in our bonus episode this month.

Megan Figueroa: Yes!

Carrie Gillon: If you wanna get access to that, and you don’t already have access, then you can join us at patreon.com/vocalfriespod at the $5.00 level.

Megan Figueroa: We forgot to say it at the end, so don’t be an asshole.

Carrie Gillon: Oh, yeah! That is true. Definitely. Definitely do not be an asshole.

[Music]

Megan Figueroa: We have Dr. Nelson Flores, who is an associate professor of educational linguistics, and we got a title change over here. We have Dr. Jonathan Rosa, who is now an associate professor because you were an assistant last time we chatted. That’s exciting.

Jonathan Rosa: Yes. I was recently promoted. I mean, now, technically, as to whether the promotion takes place in a couple of months – you know but maybe by the time the episode airs. But, yeah, it’s more or less a for sure –

Megan Figueroa: Okay. Nelson’s at Penn and Jonathan is over at Stanford. But you’re on sabbatical in Chicago right now, right?

Jonathan Rosa: I was in Chicago. Now, I am traveling for conferences and other things, so I’m actually here in the multilingual bastion of Miami – the fraught, let’s say, multilingual space of Miami.

Megan Figueroa: The theme of this almost could be misconceptions because both ya’ll are talking, that means there’s two of you. I think a lot of people didn’t know there were two of you. I feel like a lot of people think that either you’re one person, which is what I’ve seen on the internet, confusing ya’ll. And you said “married” or also “related” you’ve gotten too?

Nelson Flores: Yeah. I don’t think people know what to make of us. I think part of it is that we both have flower last names, and so people get the “Flores” and the “Rosa” confused. I’ve gotten “Nelson Rosa.” I know that Jonathan has gotten “Jonathan Flores.” I don’t think people know what to make of us sometimes because, of course, we’ve very close. We clearly have a lot of love for each other. But we’re also queer, and so I think people are kind of like, “There must be some type of marriage or something.” Just to clarify, we’re not married.

Megan Figueroa: Could it just be a marriage of ideas and love?

Nelson Flores: I mean, we’re academically married, I suppose, but not married in the heteronormative ways that people oftentimes mean it.

Jonathan Rosa: Let me say one thing about Nelson’s and my presumed inter-changeability, or perhaps a couple of things about it. In one sense, I think this is a very common phenomenon that happens with marginalized populations where people who are marked in particular ways based on race, gender, and sexuality, especially, there’s this sense that you’re all the same and you all could be a spokesperson for whatever set of ideas.

I guess, if I’m being generous, then I would say, “Oh, well, maybe because there are so few of us or because we’ve been positioned as the spokespeople for particular kinds of stances or ideas that we get equated with one another.” My much less generous take on this is that it demonstrates the ways that we get recruited to enact or inhabit these tokenized positions where, essentially, the kinds of contributions that we could make are already predetermined and the question is which of us is needed to make that contribution on which day at which time – this sort of thing.

I think it’s a very troublesome situation. It happens with a whole range of colleagues where we get equated with one another and the sense is just that we could all be one another – any distinctive contributions we might make. That has concrete kinds of consequences in one’s professional life but also in terms of broader political struggles. Professionally, when so much of what we’re up to – or the assessment of what we’re up to – is based on whether you’ve made a unique contribution and you’re equated with someone else constantly, then that can be tricky.

But on a much – I don’t wanna frame academics as the most marginalized or something like that or I don’t wanna say that the goal, then, is to secure the individuality of our contributions. It’s more politically that I’m interested in the ways that our contributions to the world or the kinds of struggles in which we could engage are really narrowly defined and constrained and that this equation of us or interchangeability is a reflection of that.

Megan Figueroa: I’m not even in ya’ll’s field and – because I’ve kind of gotten a little bit of a platform now speaking about these things, but I’m speaking about them personally, so I don’t study it in the way that you do – that I’m often included now when people @ you on Twitter. They’ll put me now, too. I love to talk about these things when it’s right for it, and if I’m emotionally available for it, but I noticed that ya’ll might not always be emotionally available for that and you get dragged into it a lot – “dragged.” I say “dragged.” But a lot of times it might feel like that, right?

Nelson Flores: I mean, I think Twitter in particular is an interesting platform. I mean, clearly, I love Twitter. I mean, it’s connected me to people like you, Megan, who I didn’t know before I was on Twitter. It’s connected me to a lot of interesting people, and I’ve learned a lot off of Twitter. At the same time, I think sometimes people take Twitter way more serious than maybe it’s intended to be. There’s this – like, I just write a tweet that’s kind of like an off the cuff tweet, and then people are like, “Send me 10 references to what you just said so that I can read up on it.”

And it’s like, “Well, you know, I’m not in class right now. I’m just writing some tweets.” If you wanna learn more about it, you can certainly google and do some of that work for yourself, but I don’t know if – almost coming from a sense of entitlement in terms of like, “You need to teach me this because your tweet made me uncomfortable. So, you need to further clarify what you mean so that maybe I can feel a little less uncomfortable with what you just said.”

I don’t think that that’s always coming from a bad place. I think people sometimes feel uncomfortable and they wanna know more. I just don’t know if Twitter is actually the best venue for doing that. Maybe they need to do some of the work for themselves rather than expecting people on Twitter to do extra labor and getting them to really understand things that maybe they really need to do the work for on their own.

Megan Figueroa: How does that play out for you in your job as a professor or as an academic that travels to conferences? Are you asked to do a lot of that emotional labor for people when it comes to Latinx issues?

Jonathan Rosa: Well, it’s interesting. I mean, I think that it requires us to do a lot of careful, strategic engagement where you say – yeah, there are invitations that ask you to represent a certain perspective or recruit you to represent a certain perspective. There’re also efforts to invite you to participate in mentoring activities that are based on a presumed shared experience. There’re some of these efforts that feel really substantive and meaningful where you say, “Okay, wait. There’s something that I have to say here that I think contributes to this dialogue or contributes to this bigger project.”

There’re other moments when you say, “Oh, they just want someone else to read the script. They just need another person to read the same script. Am I just gonna be that person today?” I’ll never forget when one of my mentors, Melissa Harris-Perry, who used to have her show on MSNBC, when she was leaving MSNBC based on some fraught relationships there, I’ll never forget when she was very public about saying that she was not going to be anyone’s little brown bobblehead. She was not going to be this ornamental piece and really an object.

I think that that’s the part that’s deeply concerning in some situations where you become an object, and you don’t have anything to say. The on-demand part of it is also tricky because I think we want to make meaningful contributions and we want to engage with publics, but there’s an accessibility issue that could be complex to navigate as well where you’re on the clock or on call or you’re expected to be the go-to person on such and such issue.

I found that has happened to me in certain situations as well where the expectation is that anything related to any language and identity issue I should just speak to casually. I worry. In some situations, some of my ideas about these topics – and this is why I appreciate Nelson’s comments about Twitter. Sometimes, I just wanna be irreverent. Sometimes, I just wanna make a joke about language.

I mean, I said it after the Joe Biden landslide victory on Super Tuesday that one of the things that’s most interesting to me about his success there is it demonstrates how irrelevant language is in some situations because, from many people’s perspectives, he’s been more or less incoherent in a range of situations. Yet, his incoherence has not prevented his political ascendance.

In some cases, I just wanna be flippant about language. And other moments, I’ve done a tremendous amount of research, and I wanna be careful, and I wanna weigh in on a debate in a nuanced way. But I think that the on-call part of things invites people to offer their opinion constantly as though they had carefully developed a serious perspective. In many situations, people haven’t developed that kind of a careful perspective and yet are asked to be the expert on something.

Megan Figueroa: Do you feel like there’s different work going into it when you’re being flippant? Because I feel like, sometimes, I’ll say something on Twitter or even around colleagues and I feel like it takes less emotional toll on me than if I really wanted to get into something. That’s why I feel like I really appreciate Twitter because, when I put something out there, I feel like I’m not actually having to do as much emotional work. I feel like I can get something quick out of there and then maybe someone will learn something.

But it always becomes more emotional. I had a tweet the other day that said – so this gets into the idea of semilingualism, which I wanna talk to ya’ll about. I said that that’s not a thing. You can’t have kids that end up in school and have low skill in both languages. That’s the idea of semilingualism. I wanna get into it with you. And someone retweeted me and was like, “I’d like to know what my language acquisition colleagues think.” And I’m like, “I’m a fucking language acquisition expert.”

I really sometimes wonder, “Oh, are they seeing my last name and all of a sudden I’m not taken as seriously because I’m too emotional about this?” I really, honestly, feel that sometimes. Do you have that happen as well?

Nelson Flores: I have been accused of being a bully.

Megan Figueroa: Which is so funny to me. You’re so kind. But, yes. [Laughs]

Nelson Flores: I think a lot of that stems from precisely my resistance to feel like I need to do the emotional labor of making people feel comfortable about what I’m saying. In particular, as a Latino scholar doing work in bilingual education, I’m particularly resistant to the idea that I need to make white people feel comfortable doing work in bilingual education. I put my work out there. I let it speak for itself. I certainly have never targeted anyone individually and personally insulted them, which is what bullying actually is, right? “Bullying” actually has an actual meaning.

As a gay person, I’ve experienced it personally as a gay person. I know what bullying is and I know that what I’m doing, which is working to dismantle white supremacy in how we think about issues in bilingualism, is not bullying anybody. I do think that there are these strong emotional reactions that people have to my work in both ways. I’ve also had people tell me that it’s given them a vocabulary for making sense of things that they kind of always knew didn’t make any sense and had visceral reactions against but really didn’t have a vocabulary for thinking about.

I mean, in the end, I think what it boils down to is that all researchers have emotional investment in the work that we do. It’s that people who are coming from marginalized positions, oftentimes, that emotional investment is marked in ways that it’s not marked for white researchers, but they also have an emotional investment, oftentimes, in whiteness and the objectivity that oftentimes ascribed to whiteness.

When that’s called into question, and the ways that Jonathan and I have called into question in our work, that oftentimes leads to strong visceral reactions. Oftentimes, people feel personally attacked when it’s really not a personal attack at all.

Megan Figueroa: Let’s ignore my sloppy definition. Will you tell me, Nelson, what semilingualism is?

Nelson Flores: Well, we can trace the discourses of semilingualism back to the origins of European colonialism. That’s something that Jonathan and I wrote about in our 2017 piece, which is essentially one of the primary mechanisms for dehumanizing indigenous populations, African populations, by calling into question their language practices and suggesting that their language practices were somehow illegitimate or subhuman.

Now, the concept of semilingualism itself emerges within the context of the Bilingual Education Act in the United States. It actually emerged originally in Scandinavia, but I’ll focus on the work in the United States. The term itself emerges in Scandinavia. Within the context of the Bilingual Education Act, which was passed in 1968, they were accountability metrics that had to be used to show that these programs were being successful. One of the things that they had to do was assess students to see if they were Spanish dominant or not because if they were not Spanish dominant, then they wouldn’t be eligible for most of these programs.

Some of these students were assessed and their assessment suggested that they were not proficient in either English or Spanish. The discourse that was developed by scholars at the time to make sense of that was to say that they were semilingual, that they didn’t have full competency in any language. That was quickly critiqued by other scholars who said you really can’t describe people that way. That’s not really a thing.

Then, the discourse shifted to the discussion of basic interpersonal communication skills, or social language, and cognitive academic language proficiency, or academic language. The discourse shifted towards they have BICS, or social language, but they don’t have CALP, or academic language. You can trace directly that discourse. I’m not making a leap there. Scholars who originally used the term “semilingualism” shifted towards a discussion of social and academic language.

Whenever we talk about social and academic language today, that’s really the legacy that we’ve inherited – a legacy of semilingualism, of suggesting that there’s something illegitimate about the language practices of racialized bilingual students.

Megan Figueroa: I just had a friend tell me that the latest TESOL conference, a major theme was semilingualism.

Nelson Flores: As a good thing or as a bad thing?

Megan Figueroa: I asked him. I said, “Were they debunking it?” although – even though we still have to debunk it in 2020. But he said, “No. I don’t think so.” He said that his friend was not happy.

Jonathan Rosa: Semilingualism. I think actually my experience with this conversation ties together the previous dialogue that we were just having about the ways that we’re positioned as ideological or overly emotionally invested in certain topics which then is presumed to distort our opinions on these topics. I was writing an article a few years ago that Nelson and I have been in conversation with about ideas related to semilingualism. I was writing about what I called, “ideologies of languagelessness,” that just framed certain populations as deficient in any language that they use. It’s not just certain populations. It’s racialized populations.

I think, for example, Nelson invoked the ways that the discourse of semilingualism emerged in Scandinavia. Part of what’s distinctive about how it gets enacted in the European context versus in the Americas and elsewhere is that it’s framed in the Americas as a highly racialized concept that maps onto a population across generations and is presumed to be somehow inherent to particular populations in ways that really articulate alongside race or in concert in with race.

This notion, for me, of an ideology of languagelessness is reflected in the ways that semilingualism is taken up in the United States, reflected in the ways that particular populations are framed as “non-nons” in the United States, or non-verbal in English and their so-called native language. “Linguistic isolation” is a category that was used by the census for about 30 years to designate certain households as lacking language altogether.

Megan Figueroa: That happens to real populations, too. That’s really offense. There’re deaf children that are actually experiencing language isolation, and yet this is where they’re using that.

Jonathan Rosa: It’s problematic in every direction. There’re people who are really being denied access to language learning and meaningful cultural opportunities that are mislabeled because of these sorts of stereotypes about isolation but also isolation in terms of the ways that it articulates in relation to policy. It’s messed up because it’s intended to serve as a tool for ensuring compliance with the voting rights act – to make sure that you have resources in languages other than English. You need to designate the number of households within a community that require those resources.

In order to access those resources in languages other than English, you have to be designated as “isolated” rather than designated as “using languages in addition to English.” I’ve found that these sorts of stereotypes map across a whole range of institutional contexts. In everyday discourse you hear people say, “So-and-So doesn’t speak English well. They don’t speak Spanish well.” In a school where I was working, the principal, who had a doctorate in education and was a Puerto Rican woman, one teacher said, “She speaks English like one of our ninth graders. From what I understand, her Spanish isn’t that good either.”

When I was writing about this, I said, “These are these ideologies of languagelessness that map onto people regardless of their credentials, regardless of what might seem to be their empirical linguistic practices.” The initial response to that article, when I tried to publish it, from reviewers was that I was ideological, that I was imposing an analysis onto these situations and imposing this idea, this attribution of deficiency that wasn’t really there. But for me, I was observing connections across all of these spaces.

I think that for scholars who are attentive to particular patterns of marginalization – that we’re drawing connections that aren’t observable from other perspectives and so we look like conspiracy theorists, or we look as though we’re over-generalizing, or over-applying, or over-reaching in our analyses when, in fact, I think part of what is so troublesome about normative social-scientific and scientific research more generally is that the kind of empiricism that it embraces recruits you to accept the world as it is and to naturalize that world and then to observe things in such a way that allows us to reproduce that world at the same time that we proport to just be noticing things that are happening within it.

For me, drawing connections across these patterns is essential to my critique of the way that this world has come to be structured. I’ve found that a lot of reviewers are unwilling or not inclined to engage in that kind of a critique.

Megan Figueroa: I had a moment of realization here too that that’s happening to me because I spent a lot of time in psychology because I did study psycholinguistics and do language development. It is fraught with really disgusting views of communities that they’ve marginalized. These are marginalized speakers and they’re always looking for disorder in some way.

I have a background, too, in speech and hearing so there are legitimate concerns to be had about children that do have language disorders, right, but that’s not what’s happening here. These are neurotypical hearing children that people are looking for a disorder at every turn and they’re finding it because it’s easy to find it when you’re looking – you’ll find evidence for anything that you’re looking for.

Every time I say something about this, I do feel like some people think I’m a conspiracy theorist and they’re saying – like, when I say, “Talk to your children however you want and however you feel comfortable with,” people think that that’s – they’re like, “We have all this evidence that suggest that some input is just not as good.” They really want that to live on.

Nelson Flores: Well, I think that connects back to the emotional investment in whiteness’s objectivity. I think that that really throws people off when we refuse to allow whiteness to be framed as objective. If your position is that these ways are better input because they’re more normative and they’re more aligned with whiteness, then say that. I would be okay with you. We would disagree, but at least you’re being honest with what your perspective is, what your ideological position is.

I always say – I own my ideological position. I own where I’m coming from, and I own my locus of annunciation. I just push other scholars to do the same thing. If you’re using discourses that come from the specter of semilingualism, then just own that ideological position and say what you’re essentially saying is that everyone should speak like a normative white person. That’s not progressive and that’s not liberal, so don’t pretend that you’re progressive or liberal if you’re actually promoting an agenda that supports white supremacy. At least don’t be disingenuous and try to proport that what you’re saying is some type of objective representation rather than an ideological one.

Megan Figueroa: Right. Exactly what they’re saying when they say, “No, there is a right way to speak to children,” is there is a white way to speak to children because that’s what we know of all of these studies on language development. I mean, I don’t know the exact number, but it’s in the 90% of – it’s been done on white, middle-class, suburban babies. Yeah. That’s one way of talking to children, but it’s not the only way. We are continually investing in speaking like white, middle-class parents when we say that these studies are basically how it should be for everyone. People don’t really like to hear that. You’re right. I’m realizing this now.

Sometimes, I still feel very naïve because I’m like, “Oh, well, they’ll just hear it once and then that’ll be enough,” like people will stop and reflect. That’s not what’s happening. I’m always a little bit surprised because I’m hoping that it just takes one moment of reflection and then you can start dismantling. We’re really invested in these things, in these ideas.

Nelson Flores: The challenge is that we continue to frame things as empirical questions that are really ideological questions. You can keep trying to disprove an ideology, but if it’s an ideology, it’s kind of, by definition, something that you can’t really disprove because people have really deeply ingrained investment in those beliefs. At this point, we’re not really having an empirical question.

I think, empirically, we have the data that shows that all communities have complex, rich language practices that they engage in, but people don’t believe it because they don’t wanna believe it because they have deep investment in these ideas that certain communities have more rich language practices than other communities. At that point, you can’t disprove white supremacy. If people are invested in white supremacy, then they’re gonna be invested in white supremacy. That’s the challenge that I think we’re trying to highlight in our work is what do we do in that context. How do we intervene in that context?

Jonathan Rosa: Part of, I think, what’s particularly challenging about this ideology is the way that it is associated with a liberal benevolence where the people who are perpetuating it are deeply invested in staking a claim to helping. They see themselves as really participating in projects that are progressive or even projects that are aimed toward social justice, this kind of thing. They really want to understand themselves as addressing the marginalized.

I think when Nelson was talking about having been called a bully in the past or this kind of thing, I think part of why some people are so off put is that even the remote suggestion that linguists – sociolinguists, linguistic anthropologists, applied linguists, psycholinguists – that we have, in fact, contributed to the problem. Many scholars want to understand themselves as the people who are solving problems, but I think one of the things Nelson and I – that brings us together in our work is our deep suspicion that many of the scholarly labels and categories and approaches have in fact emerged from the very systems of power that we’re trying to critique here.

I think we have a long way to go in terms of trying to unsettle some of these assumptions. I encounter this constantly, the sense – Ana Celia Zentella always says – a mentor of mine – always says, “The helping hand strikes again.” In so many of these situations, when we’re talking about bilingualism and multilingualism and standard language and academic language, just educational language learning, it’s the helping hand strikes again. It’s we wanna help the kids. We wanna help their families use more quality language with them. We wanna help them to become proficient users of such and such language.

I think when we keep pushing – and we always push – “What’s your theory of change? What is it that changes?” These families use language in this way, so this school institutionalizes language in this way to change these behaviors. Then, what happens? Then, people have access to a different world? Then, the structure of the economy transforms? Then, stable housing and living wages and political representation – then that emerges from language use? Or are we facing a fundamentally different kind of challenge? Should our critique, should our efforts towards promoting language learning and our engagement with language, be oriented towards those bigger challenges? Or should they be narrowly focused on changing people’s language practices in their homes, in classrooms – really changing the behaviors of the marginalized?

I think this so much of what Nelson and I have been trying to call into question – just fundamentally rethinking the project of educational language learning.

Megan Figueroa: We’re in the epicenter of funding for things like Closing the Word Gap. I’m like, if we spent that money towards universal housing or some sort of universal basic income, it would go way further than spending money on fucking trying to close the so-called word gap. But that’s where people wanna spend the money. That’s where funding agencies are funneling the money because, you’re right, they feel like they’re the helping hand that’s gonna fix the marginalized.

Another buzzword term that I wanted to bring up – “bilingual brain.” Jonathan, what is a bilingual brain?

Jonathan Rosa: It’s interesting. I was mentioning to both of you that I sometimes make flippant comments about these sorts of catchphrases. This notion of the bilingual brain, like the language gap or word gap, I’ve often had a knee-jerk reaction to it where I felt as though it were locating language within a cognitive system rather than within a historical and cultural system. To be clear, I’m really interested in the cognitive dimensions of language, but that’s not the primary focus of my research. It’s something that I’ve certainly studied and something that I respect research in this area.

However, sometimes, when I talk about it, I’m more concerned with the slogans, with the ways that it’s turned into this commodified project. As soon as it becomes a slogan, then very quickly we see which populations will benefit from that kind of a project of turning something into a commodity that you could achieve somehow. If this is a justice project, if part of what we’re up to is trying to address marginalization, then these notions of a bilingual brain, I don’t know how far that will get us.

Now, I was saying to you all that a colleague recently was pushing me on this to say, look, there’re different ways that that kind of notion has been developed within, say, psycholinguistics or within psychology of language versus, say, within neurolinguistics – neurolinguists who understand themselves to be more attuned to some of these cultural and historical issues and are not trying to promote the narrow view of what bilingualism is.

I will say I continue to be concerned, regardless of the meaningful work that people might be doing in these areas. I continue to be concerned abut the ways that “bilingualism” is defined and the ways that languages are separated from one another in order to reproduce this notion of bilingualism. I wonder what languages even count as legitimate in this research. When you’re staking claims to a bilingual brain, which languages are involved? Are they languages like Chatino that my close colleague Emiliana Cruz studies in Oaxaca in Guatemala? Which languages are we staking these claims to cognitive advancement based on?

That’s one piece of – yeah, just this notion of who is a legitimate bilingual such that we could study their brain. It frankly reminds me in my most – perhaps not my most critical take on it – but it reminds me of some of these genetic ancestry tests which proport to find race in your genes but, in fact, have to presume that race already lives in your genes in order to then find it there. If you understand race to be something historically constructed, then it doesn’t live in your genes.

Similarly, you have to presume that bilingualism lives primarily in the brain in order to then measure it – measure what it’s doing there. I think bilingualism lives between people not within people. My neurolinguistics colleagues were saying – the colleague who was pushing me on this – was sort of saying, “No, I understand brains to be across people not just within an individual” and that from the perspective of psychology, often, it's on that individual basis. So, I think that there are interesting debates to have. I continue to be concerned about the slogan though.

Nelson Flores: Of course, I agree with everything Jonathan is saying. This whole idea of a bilingual brain is still, from my opinion, coming from a monolingual perspective in the sense that most of the world is bi- or multilingual. Why are we exceptionalizing the, quote, “bilingual” brain instead of the quote, “monolingual” brain to begin with? Why aren’t we saying, “What are the unique cognitive traits of monolingual people who are the minority of the population?”

Maybe a bilingual brain is just a brain and it’s the monolingual brain that’s actually this weird thing that we need to study. Of course, I don’t actually believe that, but I feel like some of the discourse exceptionalizing bilingualism, when we reverse it and really think about, well, if we describe monolingualism in that way, that would be really strange. Yet, “bilingual” describes more of the world’s population than “monolingual.” What exactly are we doing there?

Of course, connecting to something Jonathan was saying before, the bilingual brain discourse, I would trace its origins to the classic Peal & Lambert study that found cognitive advantages to bilingualism. In that study, they threw out more than half of the sample because they weren’t appropriately monolingual or bilingual. From there on, we already inherited this idea of bilingualism that’s coming from a very normative idea of what bilingualism even is to begin with.

Then, I would add to that whenever we ask the question about whether bilingualism has cognitive advantages, it always opens up the question of whether there are disadvantages. It’s a slippery slope. If we’re willing to ask the question if there are advantages, then it opens up the question of whether there are disadvantages. I think that we shouldn’t do that. We should just say, “bilingualism is,” it just is. Most of the world is bilingual, multilingual, it’s just what human societies are. There are no advantages or disadvantages. It just is. We start from that perspective, and I think that would allow us to ask different questions about cognitive processes of language learning and whatnot.

Megan Figueroa: This is where we got ourselves into trouble because all of a sudden Pete, in all of these polls, people are saying that they think he’s the smartest and I really believe it’s tied to his so-called multilingualism. Then, you’re right that it’s so ideological because Spanish in Pete’s brain is beautiful and amazing, but in my father is somehow a deficit and they beat it out of him when he started school.

It was really frustrating to see that play out on the national stage. I’m like, “That’s what we’re doing” – a lot of academics are doing. We’re perpetuating this by asking these bilingual brain questions or what are the cognitive advantages. It always just seems to steer toward, okay, there’re cognitive advantages for people like Pete but, all of a sudden, it’s a disorder or deficit when it’s someone like my dad.

Nelson Flores: This is why, whenever people ask me to speak on my analysis of multilingualism and politicians, the first question that they wanna ask me is how good their Spanish is. I always say, “That’s actually not the question I’m interested in” because how good someone’s Spanish is is connected to the social status of that person. Whenever we begin to sort people into good Spanish speakers versus bad Spanish speakers, it’s always the most marginalized that are going to be most victimized and receive remediation for it.

I actually never – even though people insist that I do this all the time – I 1.) never evaluate the Spanish of white politicians and 2.) never say that they should never speak Spanish because 1.) I don’t have the power to tell them that they can’t. They can do whatever they want. They’re white. That’s kind of the definition of whiteness in the US. But I don’t think that that type of language policing is productive anyway. I’m more interested in how bilingualism is talked about differently depending on the race and social status position of people. That’s my primary focus in analyzing these things.

Yeah, Mayor Pete, people are like, “Wow! He speaks like a gazillion languages. Isn’t he so smart?” And I’m like, “Well, actually, you could go to many places in the world where people speak those gazillion languages, right, and they’re not positioned as smart in the same way.”

Jonathan Rosa: Part of what’s so striking to me about some of these popular discussions of language – whether we’re talking about Mayor Pete or if you’re talking about Donald Trump – if you’re talking about someone whose speech is seen as more sophisticated or more cognitively advanced and multilingual or you’re talking about someone whose language use from a liberal perspective is often derided as somehow non-grammatical or unintelligent, this kind of thing, that in each of those cases it seems to me again, as Nelson was saying – the discussions of language seem to miss the point in many situations. It’s less about language and more about a whole range of other issues that we’re not paying attention to.

These discussions about a particular politician – non-Latinx politician’s – use of Spanish in the United States often have nothing to do with what they’re actually saying in Spanish or communicating in Spanish. It’s more about the idea of Spanish that positions them somehow as a particular kind of person. As Nelson was saying, we get roped into playing the game when we start assessing how good their Spanish is and suggesting that, no, they should improve their Spanish. That’s not the point. The point is to ask why it is that, based on their position, this ends up being advantageous for them or seems to become framed as a benefit.

Similarly, with Donald Trump, I think a lot of the discussions about his language use miss the point fundamentally when people are saying, “Ugh! We need a more respectable, intelligent person in office.” Well, you’re totally missing the point. Donald Trump is a television show host and a celebrity and he’s very effective at those roles. His performance of being a buffoon in some situations or being a clown in some situations is very politically strategic just like George W. Bush was very politically strategic in his dissimulation in certain ways. He comes from –

Megan Figueroa: In his folksiness, right?

Jonathan Rosa: In his folksiness. He comes from an incredibly wealthy family with access to a range of educational opportunities and then plays off of this persona – an imagined folksy persona. I think we miss the point sometimes when we critique or celebrate language use. We’re not paying attention to the performance that’s happening. We should be thinking about what makes those performances possible, what makes them valuable, and what makes them strategically useful. Perhaps, we should be attacking that system rather than just focusing narrowly on language use.

Nelson Flores: I think that’s something that you were talking about. The idea of Spanish in liberal politicians is an interesting one because, oftentimes, I think Pete did this, and Joe Kennedy and Tim Kaine, where they use Spanish to directly speak to Dreamers, which is interesting because of course the whole narrative around Dreamers is that they grew up in this country and so their English is just fine. Of course, not all dreamers are Latinx and wouldn’t be expected to be Spanish-speaking anyway.

They’re not actually directly addressing Dreamers there. They’re directly addressing white liberals who feel good about themselves because a politician is bilingual. It’s not actually serving what would seem to be the explicit – what they’re saying explicitly is not actually what they’re communicating because they actually don’t need to communicate in Spanish with Dreamers. It actually doesn’t make sense because a lot of Dreamers wouldn’t understand what they were saying anyway. It’s just to show – look at me! I speak Spanish.

That’s where I say, “Well, you don’t get a cookie.” People took my “You don’t get a cookie” as to be like “White people shouldn’t speak Spanish.” It’s like, well, no. If they’re speaking to the Spanish language media and are trying to actually engage a Spanish-speaking audience, that’s great! But to randomly do it in a speech of people who are not Spanish-speaking, to an audience that you’re imaging is an audience of Spanish speakers who most of them probably – or many of them – are probably not Spanish speakers, then that’s disingenuous. That’s more you want the props for being bilingual rather than you’re using your bilingualism to actually communicate with a marginalized community who may actually benefit from knowing more about your policy positions.

Megan Figueroa: Well, I really appreciate both of you being here. I mean, I know it’s hard for you to see each other, I’m sure. I heard that you’ve never skyped together.

Nelson Flores: Yeah! We never skyped together. We text a lot, and I said – on occasion, we’ll talk on the phone if we set it up in advance. We put it on our calendars. But we do audio. I said we’re old millennials. We don’t do the FaceTime stuff. Oh, last thing. Something else that people confuse us. People think I’m an anthropologist because Jonathan is an anthropologist. Just to clear the record, I am not an anthropologist and I don’t really have any particular investment in contributing to the field of anthropology, though I find some of the frameworks helpful.

Megan Figueroa: Okay. Yes. [Laughter]

Nelson Flores: I mean, I get interpolated as an anthropologist a lot now. That’s only because of the collaboration with Jonathan.

Megan Figueroa: Or the fact that they just think you are Jonathan.

Nelson Flores: Right. I think that that’s – I mean, I’m not hating on anthropology. It’s just not my training, it’s not my discipline, and I don’t have any particular vested interest in that disciplinary perspective and its contributions.

Jonathan Rosa: We see you, Nelson. Welcome. [Laughter]

Nelson Flores: I haven’t gone to the dark side of linguistic anthropology.

Jonathan Rosa: We see you Nelson!

Megan Figueroa: Next time we chat in a year from now, you’re gonna be like –

Nelson Flores: I’m gonna be like Boas. Yes, Boas is my godfather.

Megan Figueroa: [Laughter] Well, thank you, again.

[Music]

Carrie Gillon: The Vocal Fries podcast is produced by me, Carrie Gillon, for Halftone Audio, theme music by Nick Granum. You can find us on Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram @vocalfriespod. You can email us at [email protected] and our website is vocalfriespod.com.

#linguistics #linguistic discrimination #sociolinguistics #educational linguistics #Spanglish #transcript #anthropological linguistics

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