#i hurt that person in a very real way and i was morose for days after | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bvccy · 3 years

Note

Friend, if you are still open for request, can you please do Heliotrope with the Winter Soldier? 🥺 please thank you 💛💛💛

My dear 😭 I am so so sorry for how long this took! I just hope you can enjoy the fic. It’s a little bit spooky at the beginning, but WS is soft and so is our reader. And they get their happy-ever-after 💗

Thank you very much for this prompt also! 🌺🌺🌺

— PAIRING: soft!Winter Soldier x female!Reader — PROMPT: Heliotrope - walking in the sun, and losing each other — LINKS: Masterlist • love stones prompt list — WORDCOUNT: 2.1k

They had been living in darkness for months, and the oppressive cold that battered against the walls with fierce winds all day, and hungry howls at night — not that one could tell night from day in the sunless vastness, except by the ticking of the clock.

Hydra had installed that arctic facility at the mouth of a crater, covered by ice over the ages to conceal its dubious treasure. It was clear to the Soldier that the treasure was not made up of precious things, but it was only when the crew finished digging all the way down that he understood why all the scientists were there...

It was difficult for him to tell who the shuttle belonged to. It might have been some advanced technology from America, but then how did it get so deep down, so quickly? Maybe it was an old German prototype from the war, but it didn't look like any he'd seen before. Or maybe Hydra was just recovering their old property from past attempts... It didn't matter, he was just there to guard the scientists while they did the work.

The other soldiers stationed with him stopped taking the job seriously after the first three months, but he kept watch, and paid attention, and didn't miss the odd slimes that seeped across the floor out of those metal shells, nor the odd crunch as the scientists cut into something that looked soft and milky, but held like bone. And the smells, the cold metallic smells like iron dipped in silver... It sometimes felt like home, but he knew better than to let that grip him. And he kept watch.

The one chemist that doubled as the chef didn't make particularly good meals, but they were hearty, and if he was being honest, he was eating better at this isolated station than he did at the Base — felt freer too, almost in charge of his destiny, if one didn't count the frozen wastes he'd have to survive if he ever wanted to run. But the Soldier couldn't imagine why he'd ever wish to run.

Especially when she was here.

Studying the files of all the scientists on the mission, her portrait stood out as particularly sad, morose, with a bit of a death glare toward the cameraman. But when he actually saw her, she seemed sweet like a spring day and even happy to be there. She looked up into his eyes as she walked into the protected area to study their find, blinking up from beneath a mess of furs and protective equipment, but there was a smile crinkling around her gaze. As the months drew on and everyone got more bored with staying there, and loose with themselves, they'd sometimes play some music in the lab, and the Soldier didn't know why he liked it so much or felt the need to dance with someone.

The military staff initially had their own mess hall, a small room with a kitchenette where they could eat together, but then one of the doctors needed it to test the effects of temperature changes on some of the samples, and the place was... contaminated every since. Now, they all ate together. The girl who'd caught his eye tended to eat with her own team, the Geologists, but he could feel her looking at him sometimes, he noticed her lingering when he was around even if she was about to leave, and a few times she even dared approach him — under the excuse of getting the jar of sugar that was on his other side rather than reaching for the one next to her, or leaning down to get some plate she didn't need from right by his knees. It wasn't until she tried to reach a glass above his head, beyond her grasp, that he gave in and acknowledged her.

"Thank you," she said as he handed her the cup — the first time she'd ever said anything to him. Her voice suited her, but beyond its soft tones the Soldier was struck by being thanked at all. When was the last time that happened? What did one say in response?

"You're welcome?"

And he seemed so unsure saying it that he made her giggle.

She was inevitable after that, not because she was trying to be found but because he allowed himself to be around her, to guard her door while she chipped at stones and studied them, to sit near her during lunch — not right beside her, the Soldier still had a lingering shyness about that, but at least on the table opposite, from which they could look at each other if they wanted.

The long night was almost over, four months into their stay at this forsaken place, and the pair had taken to something really dangerous: in the small barn attached to the base, where some dry supplies were kept along with canisters of fuel, they escaped together while everyone else slept. He had led her there first, asking timidly whether she'd...

"Want to see something new?"

"Always," the girl grinned.

And so they found themselves piled on top of one another like firewood, almost not feeling each other beneath the layers of fur that kept them warm, but just being in each other's presence was... something. It was quiet without being quiet, with another real soul there, thinking its own thoughts in harmony with you.

The Asset wouldn't allow himself to fall asleep, though he did close his eyes sometimes and let the girl relax against him, and doze off, and during those times he allowed his arm to come down from where it propped his head up and wrap itself around her, holding her still — as if she were in danger of falling off some imaginary bed.

Nobody ever seemed to wonder where they both disappeared to, nobody noticed, which was why he was all the more surprised to hear shouting on that day. The Soldier didn't move, just tightened his arm around his little partner more. But when a bloodcurdling cry echoed through the vastness, he shook her awake.

"Wha—"

"Get up. The base is under attack," he muttered, reaching for the rifle laid beside him.

"That's crazy, who would attack us all the way out here?"

He didn't want to tell her what he thought, but only made her hide out in the shed while he went out to scout the area. Turning his radio on, nothing came through. There were no helicopters around, no trucks, no marks in the snow that anyone had attacked — at least, not from the outside. On the horizon, just the rays of a reluctant dawn were shining.

There was silence for a while, and then another symphony of screams rang out, muffled by the walls and the desperate shots of whoever was left inside, glass and metal knocked over, broken, and silence once again. Stepping away slowly, then more hurriedly, the Soldier returned to where he'd left the girl and picked her up by the elbow.

"Come on, we're leaving."

"Leaving where?" she cried out, confused and even slightly angry. "What's going on?"

"We're under attack."

"But our research..."

The Soldier dragged her to where the trucks were parked, and after the first flush of confusion she went along quietly. He gave her the rifle to hold while he looked in the back, making sure they had enough supplies for whatever drive awaited them — gas was there, some blankets too, and more ammunition. It would have to do. And without sparing another moment, he got in beside her and drove off. Against the rumbling of the engine as it drifted on the ice, a shrill scream cut through the frozen air and reached them, not sounding human nor animal nor like anything in the world, except perhaps a demon. The girl didn't look back, she wouldn't dare, she just looked quietly at the Soldier as she slowly understood. They drove into the sunrise as its rays burned away everything behind, and the snowdrifts buried it.

They didn't stop until the sky was bright as a midday, many hours later.

"Are we slowing down?" the girl mumbled sleepily.

"We're nearing a town," he said, eyes on the GPS. "Need to check that the road is clear. And that we are, too."

She stretched the shivers from her bones, but deep down she trusted the Soldier to keep them safe.

Getting out in what-felt-like days, frozen stiff, muscles aching from the shot of fear that penetrated down to her bones, the girl got out and reached for the sky with all she had. The air felt freer and fresher than ever before, even though it still hurt her lungs when it reached to their very bottom, but she loved such a pain — it felt like life.

The Asset walked slowly to her, just watching silently and smiling a half-smile at the sight of her all ruffled and soft, and safe.

"What do you think happened to the base?"

"Guess it's a mess by now," he hummed, bringing one gloved hand to feel around her head, her shoulders, down her arms, but always gently.

"We woke that thing up, didn't we?"

"You're the smart one, you tell me."

Her lips pursed — she never liked it when he teased her, but she tried never to reproach him for it, loving this sign of his personality shining through. "Are we far enough away now?"

"I don't know," he sighed, finally looking back into her eyes. "Are we?"

"The sun would kill it."

"How do you know that?"

She didn't answer but wouldn't look away either, and her determined gaze was enough for him. She did know more than he did, she'd spent months studying whatever that was, and that was fine by him. So long as none of it had managed to sneak on board.

"Stay close to me."

They walked around the car together and he checked the back, the wheels, then climbed on top and checked there too. Through the clearness of the day, he could even see the edges of a road that must've lead to that town. The car seemed clean, but they were close enough to a rescue that he'd rather not take any risks, and so picking up just a few useful things and one backpack, they started walking.

The snow got less deep and crunched beneath their boots, the wind was gentler downhill and even moved through the tendrils loosened from their hoods, shaking off the frost. In the distance, one tree stood tall, thin and dark and barren but alive, and over all of them the sun kept shining.

"We're almost at the road," said the Soldier, spotting a black snaking line a few meters ahead. He turned his head when he didn't hear anything back, but there was only the glint of sunlight on the snow.

Amorphous fog covered the horizons, and hills and dales of white, and suddenly the light felt very hot and burned his body as he turned frantically around and called for her. With mad fear, he traced back their steps up the snowy hill, nearly swimming through it as he called for her, terrified of the unthinkable.

Then, as if from the sea, a lone hand reached up and waved at him. Within one breath, he'd reached her, sitting in the snow just a few feet away.

"I'm so tired..." she huffed, burrowing like a rabbit. "Can't we rest a while?"

"You didn't rest enough in the car? Get up," he grumbled, pulling her up to her feet. He regretted snapping as soon as he saw her sad little face, and sighed. "I'm sorry. I was worried."

"I'm sorry too, for being so weak..."

Before thinking, he pulled her in and kissed the snow off her mouth. "None of that," he smiled as their lips parted. "Come on, we're so close. I'll carry you a bit if you want."

The girl shook her head mutely, face already flushed from frost but now truly heated. To be cared for, and worried about, and searched like that, and kissed... It put the life right back into her.

He kept his word and carried her in his arms at one point, but they both walked in the town together. Nobody knew who they were or where they came from and some had a few murmured questions, but by the time Hydra sent an extraction team for them, it didn't matter — they were gone, lost in the wind like two rays of sunshine.

#wint3r-h3art #Bucky Barnes #James Buchanan Barnes #Winter Soldier #Sebastian Stan #marvel #mcu #Bucky Barnes imagine #Bucky Barnes fanfiction #Bucky Barnes x reader #Sebastian Stan fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #Winter Soldier fanfiction #Winter Soldier imagine #Winter Soldier x reader #bv;fanfiction #bv;oneshots #bv;answers

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cno-inbminor · 4 years

Text

domus

a/n: here we have another short drabble dump! i wrote this up very quickly -- i’m still working on that long fic i’ve been talking about! i apologize for taking so long to put it together. pls take this short fic as an apology for now. stay hydrated, wear your masks, and be safe! love you all so dearly <3

plot: when kuroo tetsuro drops the hard-hitting truth that he’s fallen out of love with you, your first thought is to escape. but you find comfort in the least likely person: akaashi keiji, a boy you had grown up with out of forced family interactions, who always seemed so distant from you. yet you probably knew more about him than anyone else.

characters: fem!reader, ex-bf!kuroo, & family friend!akaashi

wc: ~3.7k, will probably have other parts in the future.

genre/warnings: angst with dashes of fluff; mentions of alcohol

pt. 2 | pt. 3

edit: now crossposted to AO3!

When you’re in love, you spend weeks and months wondering why time won’t stop. You sit and ponder over why you’ll have to die someday and leave behind the person you’ve dedicated your entire soul to, or what might happen if your death came early and you didn’t get to say goodbye. You wonder why the seasons seem to pass you by so quickly, that in the blink of an eye, you go from enjoying a cup of iced tea on the porch to holding a mug of hot chocolate inside watching snowflakes swirl in their journeys to the ground.

But when love ceases to exist, time seems to stop. The days drag for longer, the seasons crawl at a turtle’s pace, and the inevitable end feels less terrifying. You no longer fear the eventual sagging of your skin or the spider legs that grow at the corners of your eyes. You no longer cling onto a hope that there will be a lover’s hand holding yours at your bed of eternal sleep. You simply become, just you. Solitary, single, independent you.

It’s no longer you and someone else. The realization stings so badly that it physically hurts you, a whimper leaving your throat. You shakily reach over for the next blouse and fight back the tears, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip. The skin is chapped and broken to the point that you would need layers and layers of chapstick to save any semblance of it, a terrible habit that you wish you hadn’t possessed. It’s muscle memory, the way you fold the blouse in half, fold the sleeves in, bending it over your arm before it lands in a neat stack of other tops in your suitcase. Your eyes take a glance at the clock, and you gather you have about another hour before you needed to leave for the airport and make it on time for your flight.

You ignore the male figure hunched over on the edge of your bed, tuning out his pleas and broken promises. He begs you to give him time, to implore that it’s all his fault and he’ll make it work for the two of you. Tetsuro promises that he didn’t mean to and that it wasn’t anything you did, but you feel so empty inside that you can’t even find the energy to argue, to turn on him and say that he was pretending to take all the blame so it’d be a better explanation to all your friends. A relationship involves both parties, and while there were special exceptions, this wasn’t one of them. Something was clearly wrong with you, and you were okay with that. You were just tired of Testuro attempting to take everything onto himself.

“I thought it’d be best to come clean with you,” he says, throat hoarse from lack of hydration. “I know you would question it and I haven’t done anything, I swear, I know you’re amazing and don’t deserve to live a lie and—”

“Do you want me to say ‘thank you’?” You interjected quietly, morosely. Your hands slide open the underwear drawer and take out a week’s worth of underwear, bras, and bralettes. “Do you want me to express my gratitude in your honesty for telling me that you don’t love me anymore? You can easily buy a trophy online and make the inscription yourself. ‘Most honest man alive’? Is that what you want?” You ask, tone flat and not possessing the least bit of amusement and humor.

“Can’t you give me some time? I’ll try, I’ll try to figure out what went wrong, and I can love you again. We can still get married and everything, but please don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving forever, Tetsu. I’m just gone for a week, maybe more.”

“Where are you even going?”

“That’s none of your business,” you quickly reply, defenses back up as you make a beeline for the bathroom. You pick up all the toiletries you can, the ones that would be allowed in your carry-on. Strangers won’t care about your missing skincare routine and your complexion not looking its best.

“What if you get lost? Or kidnapped? What if people ask—”

“Easy. Just tell them I had a last minute business trip, family emergency, whatever floats your boat.”

“Can’t you see that I’m trying? I—”

“This isn’t just about you!” You snap, whirling around to look at him for the first time in the last hour or so. Testuro notices with a pang in his heart that your cheeks have sunken in slightly since he broke his revelation to you just last week, the eye circles darker than ever. But your eyes are soulless, dead, no shine or spark that he’d wake up to every morning even muddled with sleep.

“You can’t just expect me to be okay and continue to bend over backwards for you without question. The least you could do is give me my time, give me some space to think about all of it. That’s the bare minimum.”

And with that, you zip your suitcase shut, grab your passport (even though you probably don’t need it), keys, wallet, and phone, and walk as quickly as you can to the front door. The scheduled Uber will arrive in just a few minutes, and as you slip into a pair of flats, you can hear the creak of the bed and Testuro’s padded steps nearing you.

“Just be careful, okay? Call me if you need anything, anything. You’re still one of the most important people to me, so just – text me at some point. Let me know you’re alive at least.”

“You need to rest. You’re on call tomorrow,” you digress while opening the door.

“(Y/n)—”

“I’ll text you. Promise.”

And the door shuts behind you.

Your relationship with Akaashi Keiji is…hard to explain. In fact, you’re not even sure what to refer him as in your life. Anytime you spoke of him or attempted to explain, you’d fumble over words and draw blanks. While it was irritating and aggravating at times, you learned to just accept it.

Akaashi Keiji was the neighbor down the street, two years older, and someone who had known you since you were 8. Your moms were attached at the hip not longer after you moved to Tokyo, and that meant holidays were spent together, impromptu get-togethers and dinners were a common occurrence, and you saw him frequently at school. He was a quiet soul, gentle, but reserved. In fact, most of the things you knew about him were secondhand conversations from your mother talking about the family, because honestly his mom was basically your second mom now, and your mother trusted you with everything. His past, his troubles, his personality all relayed through your mom from his own, and when you saw him in the hallways, he wasn’t much of an enigma to you. Many other girls had found the mysterious air around him to be attractive, that the pretty setter who only ever smiled around his volleyball team and kept a tight circle of friends had something significant beneath the layers.

Keiji grew up with you, playing Smash on the Wii to pass time as your parents gossiped away. Sometimes, you’d play an intense game of Monopoly with him, a game that typically tipped in his favor. He never said much about himself, always relayed more about others that overlapped in your lives. The most he ever spoke to you about was when it came to teachers at school, even giving you some of his old notes and pointers. But even you could tell that he kept his guards up, and you wondered if he even classified you as a friend.

Your go-to explanation of Keiji’s standing in your life was a family friend. But that insinuated you were close with him, which you weren’t at all. No matter how many times he walked home with you (mainly at the pushing from his mother), no matter how many times he was forced to entertain you at dinners and holidays, no matter how many times he gave you a small smile in school, there was such a large gap between the two of you. He always seemed so different around his team, like they had the privilege of knowing the real him, and at times, you felt…jealous.

And the weird thing is that you can rely on him somehow – whether it be because he’d get an earful from his parents if he didn’t help you when you asked it or out of the goodness of his heart, he was simply always there. Sometimes, you were bold enough to text him about a show he talked about in the past, and he would reply quickly as if your unexpected, rare text about something benign didn’t faze him at all.

Yet despite the distance, despite the lack of any semblance of an actual friendship with him, he was the first one you thought of when all this happened. He was the one you wanted to see – maybe it’s because he was the closest thing to home, and you didn’t want to go back to your parents explaining everything. It’s been a while since you’ve been back in Tokyo, ever since you moved to Sapporo for your job and Testuro got matched for a residency at a hospital there.

At 7PM on a Friday afternoon, past the baggage claim with the sunset beaming in through the sliding glass doors, you stare at Keiji’s contact on your phone, thumb hovering hesitantly over the call button. You could count the number of times you’ve called him on one hand, but this was an emergency, right? Is this why your heart is pounding against your chest, so anxious that you feel like you’ll break into a cold sweat any time soon?

You jump into the deep end.

Your hand nervously brings the phone to your ear, waiting with bated breath as the dial tone echoes in the chamber of your brain. Part of you wants him to miss the call so you can avoid this awkward conversation, but another part of you desperately wants him to pick up as if he’ll be able to save you.

Oh god oh god oh god, you panic as the tone stops, there’s a pause, a rustle, and then a hesitant, “—Hello?”

You didn’t plan this out. You’re not ready for this. Shit, what are you supposed to say?

“—hello? (Y/n)?”

“Have you had dinner yet?”

Wow, you’re a terrible conversationalist.

“…um, I haven’t actually. I was about to warm up some leftovers?”

Your eyes focus on the taxis driving by, picking up passengers as they get waved down. Maybe you should just find a cheap hotel nearby, continue this conversation tomorrow.

“Well…I’m in town, actually. I just landed about 30 minutes ago and realized I didn’t have anywhere to go and I don’t really want to call anyone else and I don’t exactly know who else to call so I just, um, thought about calling you and asking if you’ve had dinner? Which if you’re busy and stuff, that’s totally fine, I should’ve texted you beforehand instead of springing this on you and—”

“(Y/n), it’s okay, alright? It’s okay. I’m not busy, so you can stop by. Did my mom ever give you my address?”

Keiji’s brief attempt to calm you down works, surprisingly. You allow yourself to take a deep breath despite the stale airport air, but it was some much-needed oxygen. This is going to be okay, Keiji doesn’t hate you quite yet.

“N-no, she never did.”

“That’s fine, I’ll text it to you. My place is about 30 minutes from the airport, I’d recommend getting a taxi instead of an Uber. I’ll order some delivery—”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“You still like the miso ramen from that shop not far from your house, right? They opened up a second store not far from where I live.”

How did he remember that? You’re pretty sure your own mother had forgotten that fact by now.

“Y-yeah, I do,” you smile to yourself. “I still think about it sometimes.”

“Sounds good then. Get here safely then.”

“Okay. Thank you loads again. I’m sorry for all this—”

“Don’t worry about it. Keep me updated, see you later.”

“Yeah, bye.”

Not 30 seconds later, a text arrives to your phone with an address, a keycode for getting past the main door, and other relevant instructions.

Keiji’s apartment is exactly as you expect it to be – prim, proper, neat almost to a fault, with minimalist decorations. The apartment complex he lives in is rather high-end, if the security guards standing outside the main entrance indicated anything. You almost feel completely out of place or like a bug on the wall as you step in after him, a rather comfortable silence between the two of you. His kitchen is spotless and almost sparkles back at you, and the only thing that seems out of place are the containers of your ramen he so kindly ordered for you.

“Your place is really nice, it’s really…you,” you comment, setting your stuff down at the door. Keiji indulges you with a quiet laugh, making sure that there wasn’t anything that would be in your way. His glasses are perched on his head, an old monochrome t-shirt on his shoulders and sweatpants hung low on his hips, yet in this apartment that almost seems like it should be in an interior design magazine, he looks at home. His ethereal beauty, the softness in his eyes, the gentle up-turned strands of his hair – he belonged here.

“The ramen came not too long ago, so it’s still hot. I’ll go ahead and put it together, you can put your jacket on the couch.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Instead, you fold your jacket over your suitcase and quietly make your way into the apartment. Straight across from you are doors to a balcony – darkness had long taken over the city, so you see nothing but your reflection at first. But as you near the plexiglass, the reflection disappears into the view and you almost gasp from the beauty of it.

Blinking lights, flashing billboards, and the brightly lit Tokyo Skytree peer back at you. It only hits you now how much you’ve missed home, and that even though Sapporo was one of the largest cities in Japan, it still wasn’t Tokyo.

“I never get tired of it,” Keiji chimes in while carrying your bowl of ramen to the dining table.

“It’s an amazing view, I can see why you’d live here,” you reply while moving away from it. The table also has two empty wine glasses, and just as you’re about to ask him why they were there, he returns with a newly opened bottle of chardonnay.

“I haven’t had a lot of time to restock the wine fridge, but I knew I was going to kick myself for not having a bottle of that dessert wine we had before you went off to college,” he said with mirth and amusement. “You remember that one?”

“Yeah,” you nearly splutter, almost flushing that once again, Keiji was remembering details about you that you didn’t even know. “Your mom wanted to throw me a graduation dinner and you made it back in time after finals. And she had a bottle of it and between the two of us, we probably drank most of it. Our parents said it was too sweet.”

He nods and sits across from you, elbows on the table as you mutter, “Itadakimasu,” and start eating. You finish your meal silently for the most part, making small talk here and there. Keiji refills both of your glasses and the two of you sip the wine demurely, and while he seems okay with the lack of an explanation, you’re struggling to find the right words.

“So what’s with the impromptu trip to Tokyo? Are you going to see your parents?”

“Should I try to lie to you?”

“It’s up to you.”

Oh, okay then.

But he looks expectant, as if he knows you wouldn’t lie to him – in fact, you’ve never lied to him before. There was never any need to, but did that just mean neither of you ever cared enough?

“Something happened with me and Testuro. I don’t want to bore you with the details, but at the end of the day…I just needed to get away, as cliché as it sounds,” you laugh brokenly. Keiji continues to carefully observe you with a stare that you can’t escape. “I don’t want to tell my parents – you know them, they’ll ask a million questions. Without thinking, I booked a ticket to Tokyo and…now I’m here.”

That was a lie. How are you supposed to tell Keiji that he was the first person you thought of in an effort to run away? You and Keiji have never gotten personal before, he made sure of that. The last thing you want to do is weird him and scare him off.

“…did he cheat on you?” Keiji asked. His voice is darker in his inquiry, deeper than you’ve ever heard before. He has his hands folded in front of his lips and his eyes harden. Testuro may be an old friend to him, but you were in his life longer.

“Nonononono,” you quickly wave off. This isn’t the time to slander your…boyfriend? Could Tetsuro still even be your boyfriend if he no longer has any feelings for you? “Nothing like that.”

“That’s good to hear. If you want, you can tell me another time then. You’re welcome to stay here until you go back to Sapporo.”

You look up at him, eyes incredulous. Could Keiji really be this comfortable with you?

“I wouldn’t mind staying tonight, but I can stay in a hotel for the rest of the week that I’m here.”

“Nonsense,” Keiji refutes, standing from the table and taking your wine glasses to the sink. You follow with your bowl and he starts washing them before you can even offer. “Mom would kill me if she knew I let you pay for a hotel when I have a perfectly functioning bed you can stay in.”

“I mean, if it’s not a bother…”

“It’s not. The futon’s pretty comfortable, I’ve definitely fallen asleep on it plenty of times.”

“We can switch, I would never let you sleep on the futon for a whole week.”

“If you say so then. But for tonight, you can take my bed. Let me grab you an extra towel so you can shower. I’m sure you’ve had a long day,” he says while drying everything off, folding the kitchen towel neatly before heading off to his room. He returns with a large, soft grey towel and you shyly take it from him with a word of thanks, but he stays there in front of you, waiting for something.

“I’m really glad you picked up the phone,” you whisper softly, feeling the effects of the alcohol. You’re entering uncharted territory for the two of you, and this could either kill or strengthen this odd distant friendship. “I meant it when I said I didn’t know who else to call. You were the first person that came to mind and just…I don’t want to make this weird, like you can kick me out,” you begin to ramble. “Don’t feel like you’re obligated to take me in because your mom would be disappointed if you wouldn’t, you’ve already put up with me for over 15 years and it’s fine, I can be on my own and—”

Smooth, calloused hands delicately hold your face, large palms and nimble fingers cupping your cheeks. Your words die on your tongue as Keiji stares straight into your eyes, holding your gaze until your breathing calms down to a steady, languid pace. “You’re my friend, (y/n). So it’s good that you called me.”

“I’m your…friend?” You ask unsteadily, feeling a sense of disbelief.

“Yeah,” he confirms with the corners of his lips turning up slightly. “We’re friends.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Now go shower.”

“Okay.”

You’re fast asleep before Keiji finishes his own shower, his bedroom door left ajar as the hallway light beams through. He pauses in the midst of drying his hair with a towel, letting it bunch and hang off his neck as he cautiously pushes the door open. Keiji notices your even breathing and how much more relaxed you look in sleep. You’re curled up on your side with the blanket pulled up to your face and he can’t lie: it’s adorable and cute, and he shouldn’t really be thinking these things.

He sits on the edge of the bed in the little space that’s provided, lithe fingers reaching out to brush back a few stray wisps of your hair. Watching you sleep pulls him back into a fond memory he’s kept of the two of you, one that might’ve held very little significance to you but meant something so much more to him. He knows you know him well, he knows how much his mother babbles on about him, and adults were more prone to gossip than the rowdiest of teenagers – he’d be painfully oblivious if he didn’t think you knew that much about him, or more than the average friend.

But it’s comforting to him, sometimes. Knowing you, how kindly you think of others, he might not have to explain what he’s feeling in the moment. You would be able to know, and that soothes him to some degree.

Maybe he had a little bit too much wine as well, but ever so subtly, motions steady and unhurried, he deftly leans closer and closer until his lips brush the apple of your cheek. He lingers for no more than a few seconds and sits back up, gazing at you before standing. His hands adjust the blankets and make sure you’re properly tucked in. He pads away, shutting the door behind him as quietly as possible as to not wake you.

And when he’s found a comfortable position on the futon with his most comfortable throw blanket, he realizes, begrudgingly, that this week will fly by too fast for his liking.

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thescullyphile · 4 years

Text

Will You Be My...?

Snow clumped in fluffy piles atop everything in sight, the sky looking like a dirty whiteboard with its streaky grey clouds. Vermont was decidedly unfriendly in February, Scully thought after chasing a murder suspect down an icy alleyway. Now that the case was closed she could think of nothing better than getting warm and flying home the next afternoon. Mulder was the only thing standing between her and a hot bath, and she considered cursing him when he stopped at a very inconvenient convenience store (“Seeds, Scully.”) and prolonged her misery.

Finally, blessedly, he returned to the car and they puttered and slid their way to the inn they were staying at. It was a home-y, family run place, and the innkeeper, Beverly, sent them to their rooms with a thermos of stew and instructions to get warm. Scully happily obliged her.

An hour later and Scully was sure all her dreams had come true, bundled up in leggings and a sweatshirt after a bath. Thick socks muffled her footsteps as she padded to Mulder’s room, wanting his warm company. Her room had a couch, but his had an easy chair, which he had drug to in front of the television. Scully lingered in the doorway until he looked up, eyes a little morose. “What day is it, Scully?”

Sensing his mood, Scully edged forward until she was less than a foot away. He liked her close, she had figured out. “February 15.”

He nodded and leaned back with a sigh. “Another one gone.”

Scully paused in realization. She hadn’t even thought about it until he had mentioned it. Valentine’s Day. Both she and Mulder were single, or rather, in a committed relationship with their work. Valentine’s Day had passed without pomp or circumstance. “I didn’t realize you were such a romantic.” She said softly.

Mulder shrugged. He looked just past her eyes, his little tell that he was about to be vulnerable. “I don’t know. I just...Just because a person is good at being alone doesn’t mean they like it.”

Scully nodded. She understood all too well. “What would you have done, if you’d had someone?” At his hurt look she amended her phrasing. “If you’d had a girlfriend.”

He gave another noncommittal shrug, but Scully knew he didn’t want her to go yet. “Show me?”

That got his attention. “What?”

“Show me. Show me...what you would’ve wanted, if you would have celebrated.” She didn’t know what inspired her, only that she was tired of being alone.

Mulder’s long, warm arms wrapped around her waist as he pulled her onto his lap. Even after her invitation, she was a little surprised he had taken her up on it. Scully was stiff for a moment as he adjusted her over his thighs, relaxing against the side of the chair when his arm encircled her shoulder. Her cheek could fit perfectly against his chest, and she rested it there as he checked in. “Is this alright?”

Scully leaned her head more heavily against him, and he felt her nose brush his chest as she nodded. “ ‘s good.” She felt warm all over, a combination of her raging blush and the heat Mulder emanated, and she wondered if she was crazy. Surely this wasn’t her. Surely this wasn’t her Mulder. But it smelled like him, and it felt like him, and she felt safe.

It took a couple minutes of staring for Scully to realize that Mulder had been watching a cooking show. Onions caramelized before them for several minutes before Mulder shattered the peace with the crinkling of a plastic bag. He reached down and pulled it up by one handle with his free hand. “I didn’t even realize yesterday was Valentine’s Day until I was in the store and all the candy was half off.” He admitted as he jiggled boxes out of the bag noisily. “I was planning on eating them myself, but, uh, since you’re here, I wouldn’t mind sharing.”

Scully kept her eyes trained on her lap where he had set the chocolates. “Oh, you wouldn’t mind?” She teased gently.

Mulder took the sincere route, and she could hear his heart thud. “I’d like to share, actually.” He sounded vulnerable again, and Scully squeezed his hand in comfort. “Funny, I’d like it too.”

They both opened their own boxes, but Scully gave Mulder her orange creme and he knowingly passed her his caramel chocolates. Scully munched contentedly, Mulder warding off the cold for her, and he even gathered the courage to tell her about his first ‘real’ Valentine’s Day, when Rebecca Neilson broke his sixth grade heart. She chortled at his story and he looked pleased.

The little TV finally realized where it was broadcasting, and it succumbed to the snowy night in a flurry of static. The crinkly silence that followed saw Mulder rest his cheek against Scully’s hair. “Thanks for indulging me, Scully.”

He was more lonely than he tried to let on, but it was easy for Scully to see the signs when she knew them so well. “Indulgence implies I didn’t want to.” She felt his lips press against her forehead in gratitude and she sunk further into him, her side slotted neatly next to his. Her ankle tapped the top of his knee. “I’m here for you, Mulder, if you let me.” she whispered, as she snaked an arm behind his back to wrap him in a hug, her sweet, lonely man.

#the x files #x files #txfic #dana scully #fox mulder #what’s better than a Valentine’s Day fic?#a day-after V Day fic #plus they cuddle #so I hope y’all enjoy

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meetmymouth · 4 years

Text

the one where harry pays his ex’s rent (harry styles imagine)

READ PART 1 HERE Word count: 2,6k Disclaimer: not proofread.

She looks at the phone on the passenger seat. No one called her. Though, there was only one person who would’ve called her that night. She wanted him to call. It wasn’t because she left the house for attention but she at least waited for his text to either ask where she was going or if she was okay.

But it never came.

Once she parks the car in front of the too familiar white building, she grabs her phone and locks the car before going up the couple of stairs that led to Nick Grimshaw’s flat. They weren’t best friends but one: Y/N liked him and two: he lived close.

After a few minutes of greetings and hugs and sad smiles, Y/N finds herself in Nick and now his boyfriend Mesh’s spacious kitchen with a cup of tea in her hands. Nick’s dog Pig sits near Y/N’s legs in hopes of some cuddles and treats.

Mesh was the first to break the silence.

“Going to the shops for some fags, I’ll take Pig too, you two need anything?” bless him, he asks quietly as if he was speaking to a baby.

Nick shakes his head while Y/N could only muster a tiny smile.

And then there were two.

“Let’s sit,” Nick speaks softly and guides Y/N towards his spacious sofa.

She takes notice of the paused rom-com on the TV and she feels kind of embarrassed to have been interrupted the couple’s night.

After a minute of sitting down and looking at each other, she begins talking as if someone had just pressed her ‘on’ button. In between sentences, she starts shedding tears in frustration while at the same time trying not to think about how weird she might’ve looked whilst doing so. She needed a good cry and she was lucky for Nick’s presence.

She tells him everything after Nick gives his word that he didn’t know about what Harry did and that they hadn’t even had a proper chat in weeks.

“So you just left?” he asks later when she stops crying.

He takes the now long forgotten red mug from Y/N’s hands and places it on one of the books that was on the coffee table.

At the sight of her now cold tea, Y/N wants to start crying again as she remembers how Harry also makes a habit of leaving his tea go cold after a few sips. Just the thought of Harry in bed, the reading glasses sliding down his nose slowly and his soft, bare hands holding the mug makes her heart heavy.

“He spent thousands on her. It’s not even the fact that he spent his money on her it’s just-“ she sniffs once more.

She continues:

“Why? Why is he this daft? He always does questionable things out of kindness but this just- it ruined me. How could he not share something like that with me”

“Y/N I don’t even know what to say,” Nick too looks frustrated as he slides his long fingers through his equally long quiff.

She sighs and ignores the urge to throw up the mini tacos she had for lunch that day.

“Look. I don’t really know Camille, only met the girl once,” he admits hesitantly. “I don’t want to point fingers but you know H. What if she manipulated him?“

Y/N didn’t want to put the blame on her because first of all, she didn’t know her and didn’t know her side of the story and second, she wasn’t going to try and shift the blame since it was Harry who accepted to go through such thing. “I feel like shit.”

Nick gives her a broken smile and strokes her arm at the confession.

“Well... understandable.”

She honestly takes no offence at his bluntness; she knew Nick by now and knew him well enough to know that he was very straight forward and never spoke to offend his friends. In most cases.

When she opens her mouth, her phone lights up on her lap. At the cheesy smile of Harry that shows up on her screen, she takes a deep breath.

They both stare at each other until Nick grabs the phone between her thighs and places it face down next to Y/N’s tea. She feels instant relief as he doesn’t pester her about answering it.

“You can stay here tonight if you like, although I know it would make him feel like shit and I would really want you guys to talk this through. Have you at least texted him where you are?” he asks, watching her closely.

“I don’t care about how he feels. He deserves to feel like shit,” she basically scoffs.

“Just send him a text love, let him know you’re safe. I know him, he’s probably pulling his hair strand by strand right now” he tries again which makes her sigh and lean back.

Nick was such a weird person, she thought. In a good way. She met him through Harry but they hit it off as soon as Y/N gave him hell for his questionable fashion choices and his haircut. Since then, they kept in touch and at times, they invited each other over for drinks or dinner since they lived really close.

She felt grateful and loved and it made her even more angry at Harry.

Trying to be more sensible, Y/N reaches for her phone and texts him, ignoring the five missed calls.

At a friend’s. Don’t want to talk rn.

She never doubted his love and loyalty. Even in a situation like this, she knew he loved her. She wasn’t the type to go on and on about the possibility of her partner still being hung up on their ex.

She knew he wrote songs about his ex. A lot of them.

OK, when she first heard Cherry she felt like crying at first but then came to love the song so much so that she never once skipped the song when it came up on her driving playlist and even sang along.

She knew they both didn’t have time for what ifs and immature games like starting arguments about the ex. They were honest with each other and that was enough for them.

Well. They were.

She took pride in always being honest with him- maybe except the time when spent two days morosely contemplating how to tell him how she crashed her car into his motorcycle that left a tiny dent on the vehicle.

Call her selfish but she wouldn’t compare the two together.

“I think I’ll go,” she stands up, giving one last pet to the black pug who was yawning under the coffee table. This made Nick stand up as well.

He looked like he wanted to argue but he wasn’t the type to do so.

“The offer still stands. Just... just try to be open minded about this, yeah? I know what he did is wrong but still.”

“Thanks for the tea and sorry for throwing a pity party at your house,” she tries laughing but only a pathetic chuckle leaves her chapped lips which earns a slap from Nick.

“Come here you,”

They hug until Y/N sniffs again and Nick gives her a one last look.

“You alright to drive?” he asks once they’re standing outside, Nick’s foot squished between the door to keep it from closing.

Despite it being May, evenings were still chilly so she cuddles Harry’s jacket even more, as the faint smell of his cologne remained present.

She smiles- genuinely smiles at his thoughtfulness. “Yeah, it’s like a five minute drive. Thanks again. Mesh seems great, I’m really happy for you.”

He gives her a smile of his own and a side hug before she goes down the stairs, into the car. As she checks the left wing mirror and drives away, she smiles at Nick’s loud ‘love ya’ coming from behind.

When she arrives at the flat, she sees that the light outside was on which makes her feel woozy.

When Harry stays in London, at hers during the winter, he always tells her he would leave the light on since it would get really dark by the time she got home from work. It always made her smile and now it teared her insides apart because how could he be this stupid?

Part of her wanted to go inside, hug him real tight and say, ‘it’s okay, you’re just an idiot but I love you I love you I love you, let’s make a cuppa and watch stupid reruns of Corrie’ but she knew that wasn’t realistic. She knew that wasn’t fair on her, on both of them really.

She knew he knew that she was home because the Mercedes made a lot of noise and they both knew the sound by heart. She also knew that he changed his position on the couch numerous times because he was nervous and didn’t want to seem too comfortable when she came in.

After grabbing her things and locking the car, she walks to the door and then, she was inside the cosy flat.

Harry’s green Nikes were still where she saw them last when she first got back from work. The house still smelled like vanilla. She could still see the dust build-up on the small table that held their keys and other knick-knacks. It was as if nothing had changed and it made her want to break down and cry right next to Harry’s trainers because she was that pathetic.

She takes her shoes off, throws everything near them and goes inside where he could see Harry sitting on their well-loved pink sofa.

If she weren’t this angry and hurt, she would make fun of his greasy curls and pout.

When she was fully inside the living room, he slowly lifts up his head and looks at her. When their eyes met, she hears him sniff.

“You’re back,” he speaks quietly as if there was a baby sleeping in the other room.

She doesn’t reply. In fact, his question makes her angry. Didn’t he see she was back? Why was he breathing so hard? Why was that strand of hair in his eyes? Was she wearing a bra?

As soon as her minds drifts off to a weird place, she manages to turn it all off and concentrate on Harry.

She walks further into the living room and sits down on the armchair, wanting to keep her distance. Her hands immediately find their place between her thighs.

Minutes pass and she finally begins talking.

“I’m not even going to ask why you didn’t tell me. I just want to know why you did it in the first place because I’m really curious.”

He sniffs again but she knows it’s mostly because of hay fever acting up.

“She called me two months ago. She said she was in a lot of debt. She said she started renting this place downtown LA and that her and-”

“Bloody hell, where was I when you had a heart to heart?” She cuts him off, growing angrier by the second.

“The friend also left her alone at the house so she couldn't to pay the rent herself-” he explains but Y/N’s scoff shuts him up.

“And since you’re like, shitting money, you jumped at the opportunity?” she can’t help but mock him out of frustration.

Harry looks distraught as he slides his hands through his curls. The movement catches Y/N’s attention but she lowers her gaze so that she wouldn’t think about how soft his curls looked despite the grease.

He opens his mouth again, probably to tell her off for cutting him off for the second time but he knew better than that.

She then blinks twice when their eyes meet again, to tell him to go on.

“It was a mistake,” Harry starts, “I know and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away. You and mum always tell me off for being too nice and well, you’re right. Of course you are.”

When she doesn’t speak, he continues:

“I paid two instalments of her rent. I felt bad for her but I knew- I know that it was stupid of me. I know and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you or- or talk to you before,” he gulped and slid his fingers through his hair. “I knew I fucked up after the money went through. I now have nothing to do with her, I promise you. I know you’re angry with me. Rightly so. But please know that I’m sorry. I really am,”

He looks close to tears and Y/N sighs, going to sit down next to him on the sofa. This surprises Harry and he looks down.

“You’re just- you’re so nice, Harry. And I don’t mean it in a positive way. Sometimes your kindness backfires. And this is huge. You went behind my back.”

“Are you done with me? With us?” He practically whispers and it breaks Y/N. It tears her apart and she feels like her heart is in her mouth, wanting to escape and fall in their feet.

Stupid Harry, she thinks. Stupid, stupid.

“I’m serious about this, about us. That’s why I’m this angry and hurt, Harry. I’m so hurt. Do you understand that?” she says, earning a nod from Harry.

“I do. Baby, I do. I promise. I do.”

She doesn’t reply. Instead, another sigh leaves her mouth as their eyes finally found each other.

He looks like he’s contemplating something.

“I can go, give you some space or- or I, I’ll sleep on the-” Y/N cuts him off immediately, understanding where he was going.

“Don’t be silly. No one’s leaving this house anymore tonight. I just- I just want to sleep.” she admits quietly and looks down at her hands.

She felt drained. She felt like her body was too heavy for her to handle right now. She felt hungry and hurt and hungry and hurt, hurt, hurt.

When she next looks at him, her stare is hesitant; shy, almost. She knows it’s not practical. But she says it anyway.

“Will you- I mean, can we- can we lay down for a bit? I feel like someone’s suffocating me and I... can we just lay down?” she asks quietly, almost embarrassed. She knows it’s stupid of her. It’s pathetic.

She feels like a child, running away from her problems. But she knows they’re not going anywhere.

She wants to be selfish, unreasonable right now.

When she next looks at Harry, his eyes look almost glassy. He gulps as he slowly reaches to her, wanting to test the waters.

She doesn’t let him touch her but she stands up and stands in front of the stairs. She can see Harry’s socks at the top of the stairs and it makes everything hurt even more.

She turns back to Harry who was watching her from where he stood by the sofa. After a minute of silent conversation, he makes his way towards her and they slowly go up the stairs.

When they stand in front of their bedroom, she looks at him again.

She sighs as they go insides.

Later, she thinks to herself as she climbs onto their bed, clean sheets making her sigh in satisfaction.

“Come on then,” she whispers as Harry takes off his shirt but leaves his joggers on.

As he lays under the covers, he knows they’re far from okay. He knows it’ll be a while until they’re okay. But he lays there like a statue, not wanting to do anything to make Y/N uncomfortable.

She turns her back to him and hugs the covers.

When she doesn’t make any noise, Harry sighs and turns his head towards her, watching the back of hers. He doesn’t know how long he watches the back of Y/N’s head until a pain shots through his neck.

Later, Harry thinks. They’ll do it later.

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles smut #harry x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #fine line #harrysgucciloafers #my writing #harry styles blurb #one direction #harry x y/n

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babylooneytoonz · 4 years

Text

200 Followers Appreciation Post

I'll be very honest, two months back when I joined Tumblr, I hadn't expected that my writings will be read by many, and the last thing I had expected was to be followed. Now look far we've come, from 0 followers to 200.

A personal thank you and a lot of love to each and every follower of mine.

I think this is the best part of our fandom. We love each other like family.

As a little token of my thank you, I decided to publish two of my requests combined as one today. Hope you like it. 💓

Tommy Shelby x Fem! Reader

Request 1- Prompt "We can’t win. Either I have you and my soul sings but your cries, or we’re apart and your soul rejoices but mine dies."

Request 2- Reader was always in love with Tommy, thinking he can't love her back she starts writing cheap novels as a way to deal with it. Her books become popular and everything is cool until Tommy finds out about her hobby and notices similarities between her writing and real life.

Warnings - Angst

GIF Credits - @thomasshelbyltd thank you. ❤️

A Maid's Diary

You slumped against your desk, letting your head rest against the old wooden table top, your elbows on either side of your face. Your desk was a cluttered mess, with sheets of paper flooded all over. In your hand, you held a pen, as you were just seconds back, scribbling vigorously on a parchment as an idea had just hit you, and just as swiftly, the idea had vanished from your mind.

You couldn't forget and you couldn't forgive your best friend, Linda, for having betrayed you by sharing your diary to a local printing press, who had, without your permission, published your countless feelings that you had penned down in your little diary, without even your consent, although they didn't take the credit for it. You were still the writer, even though the publishers never published your real name on it, just a pen name.

As much as you hated to admit it, the little push made by your friend had worked tremendously and your popularity had grown amongst the lower middle class especially; as that is where you hailed from. They loved your modesty, they loved how humble and down to earth you were, although you were extremely talented.

Little did they know, that the book that had been published, as an act of mistake, was actually based on your life.

"What is it that you are reading?" Tommy pushed his round glasses over his eyes, as he looked through them and fixed his broody stare on his wife.

Grace was sprawled on the couch in his study, shimmering in a beautiful pearl white satin nightgown hanging loosely over her slender frame, her natural blonde hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She seamlessly brought up her ring studded hand to her hair, running her fingers through the locks as her eyes came to rest on her husband.

"Would you look at this Tommy?" She raised a red little book in her hand, showing it to him briefly, before she sat back more comfortably. Their son, Charlie, crawled about on the carpeted floor, playing with a toy train. "I don't know who this woman is, but if you read this book, you would feel like you are a bloody part of it."

"Is it one of those fucking love stories again, Grace?"

"It's much more than that, love. It's complex. It's like reading a person's life, living her memories."

"Right, well, I'm out, I've got a bloody meeting with Arthur at the pub." He stood up, sliding his hand into his waistcoat and pulling out the pocket watch, taking a quick glance at it. He then kissed his wife a goodbye, lifting Charlie up in his arms, "Be good, you cheeky little oaf."

Little did he know, how that would be the last week, that he was spending home with his wife. The next week, Grace Shelby was shot, and she couldn't make it.

As days inched by, Tommy started growing more and more morose. Although he didn't show it, those around him felt it everyday. The snapping and the yelling increased, and Tommy found himself sleeping less and less, and chugging down more and more of that alcohol to keep his mind at rest. There were weeks when Tommy didn't see his son. Although he felt guilty, for neglecting him, as the poor child had lost his mother, just like he had lost his wife, he couldn't bring himself to face him, as he reminded him so much of her.

Soon, weeks turned into months and finally, Tommy's agony subsided to a bit. It wasn't as if it was an overnight process, but somehow, over the course of time, Tommy didn't feel the hurt anymore, as he initially did— or maybe, he learnt to live with it.

One night, when the nightmares crippled him to such an extent that he found himself unable to sleep, he decided to go through Grace's belongings, something he had kept locked up in the attic, afraid to touch them. Holding a lantern in his hand, he walked up the flight of stairs, the old floorboards creaking underneath the weight of his foot as he stepped into the dinghy little room. In a corner, a brown crate was hoarded up, keeping all of Grace's belongings.

Pulling off the the wooden board that was nailed shut, he pried it off and ran his hand through the dust coated silk dresses, his fingers gently brushing against the fabric. He let out a weak, pained exhale, slowly sliding down against the floor, pulling his hand out as he started fumbling around his pockets for a cigarette.

With a lit cigarette in his left hand, he slid his right hand back in, feeling around the box until his palm hit something hard. Pulling it out, he saw a little red book that was now turning a shade of purple at the edges. The book was coated in a sheet of dust, causing Tommy to squint his eyes slightly and scrunch up his nose as he brushed the dust off its cover.

A faint smile, a fond remembrance of Grace reading this book with such enthusiasm brought a weak smile to his lips. He took a drag of his cigarette, pulling himself off the floor and pocketed the book, walking out of the attic.

It was his eyes, eyes that could hold an entire ocean in them, that captivated me. I often found myself looking at him, stealing glances, when no one was looking. A part of me begged for his attention, hoping, yearning that he would atleast give me a glance but he never did.

The more he read through the passages, the more he realized what Grace had meant. This was not just a book, it was someone's life, it was someone's feelings. The words were simple and not at all fancy, the backdrop set was not that of a fine mansion, it was a tiny little house, in a clamoured street, a family of five siblings, four boys and one girl, and the writer, who was just a servant. The writer knew the love she felt for one of the sons of the house was wrong, improper and it was forbidden because she was a servant and they were her employers but she couldn't help how she felt, no matter how hard she tried to forget. Tommy couldn't help but feel drawn— drawn to the writer's pain, her anguish and the feeling of being stuck at the end of a self destructive, one sided love. He knew what it meant to not get to be with the person you loved. He had experienced the pain, although in a different sense but somehow, he could relate. Although Thomas Shelby didn't show any feelings, he had eventually fallen head over heels in love with Grace Burgess and life with her had been a life of roses and poppies, while he was a crown of thorns; that Grace bravely adorned on her head.

It was a cold night, and I was freezing. I could feel my cheeks turning to stone and my hands fervously rubbing against my arms to keep myself warm. I could see them right in front of my eyes; the whole family. They looked happy. They brothers were teasing their sister, who had a look of dismay plastered over her face, and the youngest brother, who was just a toddler, ran about the parlour, sucking on his thumb. I wondered if it was selfishly wrong of me to think of him in this way, to imagine how our little household would have been, had I been bound to him by marriage. I wondered if it was a sin, wondering what I would have named our children if we had a handful of them.

Thomas found himself leaning back comfortably in bed, straining into his glasses, wanting to read more, although his body and his eyes were beyond tired. It was as though he could see a glimpse of his life before the war had been, right through someone else's eyes. He could see little Finn, perched on the carpeted floor, running his toy train all over it, making a weird engine sound with his mouth while John and Arthur teased Ada for something she had probably said. He could picture himself by the window, staring at the dimly lit sky, the illuminating stars, thinking of the moment Greta took her last breath, her frail hand falling limp in his warm one.

How unlucky had he been with women, he had watched the women he loved die, in in his arms.

As I scrubbed the dishes in the kitchen, I could hear the curses in the parlor. He was screaming at himself, bringing the dishes down, breaking them one by one. No one dared stop him, because no one wanted to be slammed against the wall or have to be the one taking a porcelain hit on his face. I wondered if I should step in, maybe give him some tea but I didn't. Maybe, he didn't need it. It was only later that I found out he had lost the love of his life.

He shoved the book aside and sat up straighter, running his palm through his face, his breathing shaky and rushed. He grabbed his cigarette box off the bedside table and lit himself a cigarette. Maybe reading this book had been a mistake, it was opening up all his raw wounds that he had buried away.

He was leaving. I wanted to ask him when he would be back but of course, that would have been such a silly question. And besides, he had a lot more on his plate, why would he want to speak to a servant? I stood behind the kitchen wall, listening to the solemn parting, the shuffling of feet, listening to them leave until finally I could hear them no more— I could hear him no more.

Years after years, I went on with life, with a smile on my face. I did what I always did in the mornings; scrubbing the floors clean, washing the dishes, preparing supper and doing the laundry. At night, though, I thought of him and his blue eyes. I wondered if there was any news, for I hadn't heard anything about him in ages. Maybe my prayers were finally answered, the war ended and they all were back home. Only they weren't themselves. The war had killed a part of them. They were the ghosts of war, left to meander the Earth until they finally died.

"Mr. Shelby?" Tommy sharply looked up, his eyebrows straightened into a visible frown.

"Yes, Mary?"

"Charlie's asleep, the supper's ready. I was wondering if I could get a night off—"

"Mary, you may. You have bloody worked hard enough to earn a night off. Go on then, hurry up, it's pretty dark outside."

He watched her leave, staring at the door before bringing his gaze back to the book, wondering if the writer was out there somewhere. And he wondered, and hoped, that she had finally gotten to be with the man she loved. She deserved it. She deserved all the happiness in the world.

I finally mustered the courage, after what seemed like eternity, to speak my heart out. I was afraid of rejection, but he deserved to know. I deserved to be free of this heavy secret in my heart. I didn't care if he would ask me to leave, stop coming to work from tomorrow but he needed to know I loved him. So, I stepped out into the chilly night, wrapping myself with whatever warm I could find. I walked and walked, until I was at his pub. Of course, he wasn't there. With a heavy heart then, I thought of going back home, through an alley, that was a shorter route. Little did I know, I was never going to get the man I loved for he already had the woman he loved, the woman from the pub; that barmaid. I saw the man I was in love with, from a window, the way I always imagined him to be with me, kissing her and stroking her cheeks. It was as though I heard a devastating sound somewhere close by, but it was nothing but my heart—shattered into two.

Thomas Shelby was many things, but he was not ignorant, or dumb. He slammed the book shut, shoving it on the bedside table. His heart was racing rapidly and he could feel blood rush through his veins. Arching his body forward, placing his elbows on his thighs, he buried his face into his palms. Every single detail in the book, every single piece of writing was something he had experienced before. It couldn't be a mere coincidence, could it? He slid out of bed, stomping through the hallway into his study until he was perched on a stool by the telephone his fingers frivolously moving against it. He knew what he had to do now.

"Pol?" He mumbled into the phone the instant he heard her on the other side.

"Tommy? It's fucking midnight, what's the bloody matter?" Tommy didn't mind he had woken her up. He needed answers.

"Do you remember a maid that worked for us?" He sighed into the receiver.

"Tommy, we have hired a dozen fucking maids, which one are you talking about?"

"She was with us when Greta died, when we went to war—"

On the other side of the telephone, Polly's demeanour softened. She remembered you, she even knew how you loved Thomas, but she could never bring it up to her lips, because she knew that you and Thomas had no future.

"Yes."

"Do you know where she is? And for fucks sake, don't lie."

Your coffee mug lay on the table untouched, smoke bellowing out of it in waves. Outside your window, snow drizzled from the sky, like tiny droplets of fur falling to the ground, your garden sheeted in pristine virgin white.

"Love, you have to bloody see this," your friend Linda's voice echoed through the closed door, loud enough to alert you.

"What is it?" You threw open your window, watching your bestfriend stand at the gate, her eyes fixed to your window, "Just get your bloody arse down here (Y/N), I have to show you something. Come on out, now."

Annoyance.

You practically ran down the flight of stairs, not even stopped to calm your breaths.

"Jesus, Linda, it's fucking snowing, I'm going to freeze to—"

"Sorry love." Linda gave you an apologetic smile, her index finger pointing towards the silhouette of a man leaning by your front gate, slowly sliding out of the periphery of gaze. Neither were you watching her. You were watching a ghost of your past, that stood leaning by the metal gate on your front door, a cap on his head, a long overcoat drawn over his scrawny body. He had gotten weaker than you had last seen him.

"Miss (Y/N)." His voice was curt, yet warm, without a trace of malice in it. After all these years, he was right here, on your doorstep.

"Mr. Shelby? Would you like to come in?"

He shook his head, rather, his eyes and you knew that he didn't want to talk in the confines of your home, under prying eyes. He slowly pulled out a book from his pocket and your eyes widened. Your fingers flew to your lips and you felt a rush of blood in your body, an instant feeling of being in the warmth of a fireplace. You wanted to reply, but you couldn't find the words.

"You read my book, you found me out."

"It wasn't that fucking difficult to figure it out, love."

"Jesus, would you please come in? It's freezing out here, you're going to bloody catch a cold—"

He cut you off as you turned to walk in, grabbing you by your arm, not hard, but firm enough to stop you from walking. He then pulled you towards him, your front hitting his hard chest, to look into his face.

"It was you all along?"

You didn't know what to say anymore. He had found you out. After all these years.

"I don't understand—" You whispered, shaking your head. You couldn't lie, his eyes were making you nervous and all the feelings that had simmered over the course of time were finally lighting up again. "I'm sorry, I didn't know it will get published."

"Do you believe in destiny?" He cut you off.

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to mentally think where he was going with this, "Perhaps, Mr. Shelby, but you need to be clearer than that."

"I didn't believe in fucking destiny, until this minute. I can't believe I'm fucking saying this—" You could see reluctance in his eyes, an inward fighting. You could see that he was thinking hard, probably having a hard time figuring out what he should say to you. "You remember Greta?"

You were hundred percent sure you weren't smiling, but had you been smiling, it would have withered.

"Yes, Mr. Shelby, the girl that died holding your hand, the girl you loved."

"Good, and what about Grace? The woman you saw at the fucking window."

Your cheeks reddened at the remark with embarassment, making you regret how he had read that part. That was a private thing between Thomas and Grace.

"I didn't mean to pry, I was just passing through the alley and I looked up and I —" You voluntarily bit on your tongue in an attempt to silence yourself because you knew you were babbling and your words were not making much sense. You needed to compose yourself, compose your thoughts.

"I married her, yeah? And do you know what happened then?"

You closed your eyes briefly, hoping he wouldn't see the pain in your eyes. When you blinked your eyes open again, you straightened slightly, almost taking a step away from him. He caught your arm, pulling you back to him.

"We have a lovely boy together, Charlie, he's three almost."

You wondered if Tommy was here to chastise you, to make you apologize, or maybe, your book had caused a rift in their marriage.

"She was shot. Fucking took a bullet that was meant for me. I fucking watched her die. Twice, (Y/N). I think it was my destiny. Will you ask me why?"

"Mr. Shelby—" You hopelessly began, trying to tell him how sorry you were about what had happened. But what could you do? It wasn't as if you had shot Grace.

"Just bloody ask me why."

You stiffened at the harshness of his voice.

"I- Why?"

"Because this fucking destiny had something else in mind for me. Perhaps it was you all along, the one I was maybe meant to be with."

Your eyes widened in surprise at his words, a sudden palpitating feeling in your heart, a sudden throbbing in the back of your mind. You pulled your arm away, wincing slightly at his sudden outburst, instantly moving away.

"Your words make no sense. Will you please stop?"

He parted his lips in an attempt to reply, but all that shot out of his plump lips was foggy winter air and he shut it. His hand flew to the side of your face, but he didn't touch you. He merely took a loose strand of your hair, curling it over his index finger. You could feel the sudden tension, his lips so close to you, you knew if you didn't stop him, he would kiss you. And later regret it.

"Mr. Shelby, this is a mistake. If I was your destiny, I would be the one buried in a grave and not the women you loved. I did love you," you spoke, hopelessly pulling yourself one step away but this time he didn't make an attempt to pull you close, perhaps having sensed your reluctance.

He raised his eyebrow, "Did?"

"I still do, but I don't think we were meant to be."

"I see," he almost stepped closer, reluctantly, fighting for control at the back of his mind. This was a new feeling. He knew he didn't love you yet, but at the same time, he knew he was in love with the woman from the book. The woman who had always loved him.

"Why?"

A single word can hold a vast meaning. A single word can have an answer that you could probably write a book on.

"Because Thomas .. We can’t win. Either I have you and my soul sings but your cries, or we’re apart and your soul rejoices but mine dies," you whispered in a low voice, tears shrouding into your eyes.

"Yet there's a bloody thing that binds us to each other. Something neither you nor I can see," he mumbled under his breath, sliding his hand into his pocket, pulling out a box of cigarettes.

You didn't know what to say to him. Your mind was fervently throbbing through your skull. Your heart leapt with joy but your mind didn't let you be at ease. He waited a few seconds but when he realized you had made up your mind, he decided he will not push you. You had given him the answer. You didn't want him. He nodded softly, letting his eyes wander down to your feet for a bit before giving you a last look as he turned his tail and started walking off, his boots crushing the snow as he started walking away.

And just like that, you realized that history was repeating itself. But this time, it was all your fault. You were letting him walk away when you could finally be happy.

"Thomas stop.." His name flew out of your mouth even before you could clamp your mouth shut. You saw him freeze, but this time, he didn't turn your way, but with his back turned towards you, you missed the hint of a smile that crossed his lips; the way you had stopped him meant that he still had hope.

"I would like to work for you again, does Charlie need a nanny?" You bit your lip.

It was nothing, but yet, it was a start. If destiny really wanted the two of you together then you wanted to try it out from the beginning, maybe make the man fall in love with you and not the woman who wrote the book. You wanted him to love you and not pity you.

"Twenty shillings, you stay at the Arrowe House, no further will be discussed on that, yeah?"

You gave him a weak smile, although you could not see his face.

"I'll see you tomorrow then, Mr. Shelby, first thing in the morning at 9."

He nodded and then, sliding his hands into his pockets, he walked away, his heavy boots crushing the snow underneath, generating a squishing, crunching sound until you could hear him no more. You couldn't wipe that smug smile from your face as you looked up at the sky, scrunching up your nose when you felt something cold; perhaps a snowflake had landed on the tip of your nose. It was a start, a start of a new day and who knew, perhaps a new life for you. Needless to say, you were excited.

#thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders x reader #200 followers appreciation #thank you for liking my work

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realityhelixcreates · 4 years

Text

Beta, Theta, and Me Chapter 9: Magic Carpet Ride

Chapters: 9/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Avengers (Movies) Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Relationships: Loki x Reader (But not right now),Drug Use

Characters: Loki(Marvel) Additional Tags: A/B/O, Sorta, More Of An Exploration Of Life And Self Expression Within An A/B/O Framework, Loki Does What He Wants, But Loki Does Not Actually Do What He Wants, Antagonistic Bosses, Loki Has A Throne Now, But It’s Not What He Wanted

Summary: Loki, paragon of self-sacrifice, must face down a cultural taboo.

Loki stared ruefully at the little bottle of pills on the table in front of him.

“You've got to be kidding me.” he said, “Your weak mortal medicine will have no affect on me.”

Tony Stark shrugged. “Works on Cap.”

“I am not your Captain Rogers. We are worlds apart.”

“The guy's a never ending science experiment. We had to develop insanely strong meds for him because, in the event that he actually managed to get hurt, our strongest stuff couldn't help him. But I have it on good authority that this'll do the trick. That authority being your brother. King of Asgard.”

Loki glared in scandalized disbelief. “You are telling me Thor actually took one of these?”

“Took some persuading, but yeah. After he came back down, he was pretty sure they'd work on you too, despite your differences.”

Loki's eyes flicked to you, then back to Stark, then to the bottle. “Hold your tongue. We don't need to discuss this any further. I will not poison myself at your command.”

“It's not poison!” Stark insisted. “It's a painkiller and anti-inflammatory. It will help you heal.”

“You cannot expect me to degrade myself for your convenience.”

“No, I expect you to lie for your convenience.” Stark shot back. “Though I don't see how hiding this from me,” he gestured at the chair, the neck brace, “actually helped you at all. You don't get anything out of it. Anyway, you really need to start cooperating if you want to stay. I'm trying to be lenient, but the more you complicate things, the more likely it is you'll be discovered. I think we all agree that would be bad.

As for you, if you want to come back downstairs and rejoin society, we've always got space for you” he said to you. “The baristas have been asking after you.”

“No!” Loki burst, “If I must befoul myself with your medicines to retain my lodgings, then I require her assistance to oversee things while I am...impaired.”

It had been an accident. Or rather, a lapse in personal judgment. You had left Loki after dressing him one morning, to fix breakfast, and Stark had shown up. And because he was your boss, and owned the building, you had just let him in. That's right, you had helped out the landlord. Your parents would be ashamed of you. You were ashamed.

And the silent fury Loki had been radiating when he wheeled out into the seating area and Stark had gotten a look at him as he really was made you surprised that he wanted to keep you around at all.

Stark had given him an exasperated earful, and then left, coming back this morning with a bottle full of small pills. You couldn't even come close to pronouncing the complicated name on the label, but from what Stark was saying, they were the kind of thing that should never be taken by a normal person. Not if they had been made with Captain America in mind. Not if they were powerful enough to string out Thor.

You were surprised Loki was even pretending to go along with this, considering the cultural attitudes to chemical medicines in Asgard. Really, you fully expected him to order you to throw the pills away once Stark left.

When you brought him his tea, he sighed deeply, his expression a mask of utter melancholic resignation.

“Crush one of those accursed pills into a powder and add it to the tea.” he said woefully. “Stay by me as I suffer this indignity. Be forgiving of any upcoming transgressions, I implore you.”

“Hey, I'm sure it won't be that bad.” you said, grabbing a cooking spoon, and carefully breaking the pill down into a fine powder with the handle. “It won't stay in your system for very long. Your body will filter it out and flush it away, and you'll be clean again.”

You brushed the powder into his teacup, and stirred until it dissolved. Then you handed it over to Loki, who stared into the cup morosely.

“Won't it be good to not be in pain, even just for a little while?”

“I thought that many times, when I was in the clutches-” He stopped abruptly. “I've thought that many times. It is always denied to me somehow. There's always a catch.” He took a long sip of the tea, and sighed again. “And so I am tainted. At least the tea doesn't taste any different. You are getting better at that.”

“Here, have a muffin.” you offered him your freshest creation. “It says on the bottle that you're supposed to take it with food.”

He accepted the muffin with all the graveness of a prisoner at his last meal, but he thanked you graciously, and stopped you when you started to leave his side.

“I will be rendered a senseless fool by this foul poison. You must stay close, so that I do not do something utterly moronic, like throwing myself from the balcony on the assumption that I can fly. I might not actually survive in my situation, and I dislike long falls anyway.”

“You're scared of heights?” you asked, scarcely able to believe it.

“No,” he said haughtily, “I dislike long falls. It is different.”

“Why do they bother you?”

“That is personal.”

“I've seen your dick.” you pointed put.

“You would not be the first.” he said, matching you for vulgarity.

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. Do you want more tea?”

Loki glanced into his empty teacup, bemused to see the bottom.

“Yes, I suppose I would.” he said, setting it down for you.

He had tried to teach you the fine art of pouring tea, and you had finally managed to do it without dribbling, but, as Loki put it, you also did it without grace. He didn't say anything this time, just tightened his lips in a sarcastic way, and took a sip.

At least you knew how to make tea to his specifications. It wasn't difficult, once you had figured it out. Just measurements and timing.

He had devoured his muffin, so you brought him another. Loki was extremely particular about flavors; not adventurous at all. Even banana nut offended his senses. But cream cheese met his approval in every application so far, even if he did complain about the texture of bagels.

“You'll have to get me an Asgardian cookbook, if this keeps up.” you said. “I might be able to whip you up something that reminds you of home.”

“I do not necessarily always want to be reminded of home.” Loki said. “And some of our dishes take many hours, even days to make. I need you for more than that. You cannot be in the kitchen at every moment.”

You would never admit it to anyone, but you got a surge of secret pleasure every time Loki said that he needed you. You'd always enjoyed hearing it from others, but it was so much better coming from a god.

Though it did make you wonder if the isolation up here was messing with your head a bit.

“Besides,” he continued, “enough cheese, bread, and meat will approximate the diet well enough. Asgardians have high metabolisms, and require many calories, and so do I. Our active lifestyles tend to make us big eaters as well, although I do not get my usual exercises these days.”

“If you would actually give yourself the time to relax and heal, you might be able to get back to that sooner.”

“Yap, yap, you nag like a bratty lapdog.” He scorned. Your eyebrows skyrocketed.

“Well gee,” you said with exaggerated shock, “if you don't want me here, just go ahead and say so. I'll go downstairs and be a barista.”

“No, you cannot leave me!” There was a distinct waver in his voice. “I will be polite. You won't leave me, will you? I didn't mean it.”

“Loki.” you said, suddenly feeling guilty. He sounded like a scolded little boy, on the verge of tears. “I'm not going anywhere. Don't worry about that. You should be more polite though.”

He reached out gracefully and took your hand.

“Dear lady...” he began, his words slightly slurred, and you finally realized that the medicine was taking effect.

“How are you feeling?” you asked, filling his tea again.

“Strange.” he said. “I feel light, but like there is a weight upon my eyes. Light, but like I cannot lift my limbs. One with this chair. Melting into the floor. I do not hurt...it's been so long...”

He really was starting to tear up.

You took his tea from his trembling hand and grabbed up a tissue.

“Here you go.” you said, dabbing his eyes gently. “Go ahead and enjoy it. Pain shouldn't be an everyday thing for you, if it doesn't have to be. You don't have to feel bad for enjoying a little bit of peace.”

“No, you don't understand. I don't deserve this. The pain was at least something familiar. I don't recognize this feeling. This lightness. It doesn't feel real.”

“Well, you are real, and I am real, and the medicine is real. The feeling is the medicine acting on your perceptions, so it's kinda real, it's just different than usual, that's all.” you patted his hand, and he grabbed for yours.

“Will this feeling go away?”

“Of course!” you laughed, “don't worry, this is just temporary. It will help your neck, and when you're healed, you won't have to take it anymore.”

“What if I can't stop?” he asked. “I am...not good at refraining from...indulgence.”

“If no one brings you anymore, what could you do about it?”

“If I am healed enough to remove this brace? To move about freely? What could I not do about it?”

“You know, that's a good point. I think we'll have to find you some of that ultra-powerful super weed the cops keep saying totally exists, but no one else seems to be able to find.”

He gave you a sideways stare. “More poisons?”

“It's to help free you from the other poison. But there are multiple strategies for getting clean, if that really becomes a problem. It's not like I've never seen addicts before; I'll help you if you need me.”

He reached for your hand again, and missed.

“Blessed thing.” he blabbered. “You are a draught of Alfar wine, brewed under the starlight. The fresh breeze through the forests of Vanaheim, just after sunrise. You are the faithful moon, pure as gold.”

“And you are high as balls.” you teased, bashful about the flowery praise. You really shouldn't be pledging any more of yourself, but the allure of being needed-wanted even, was as addictive as any drug.

“You are the only once who may see.” he said. “I want no one else to see me like this. Stark especially. None save you may witness my dishonor.”

“Loki,” you mock-scolded, “if you keep looking at it like that, you'll impede your own progress. You'll fight it subconsciously, and just slow your healing down.”

“How, pray tell, should I look at it then?” he asked.

You took his hand, which was still waving around after yours.

“Look at it as permission. Permission to relax, to let the guard down and just exist for a while. You have everything you need right here, you can just be. It's okay to take some time to just be.”

“Just be what though? What is worth it for me to be?”

You shrugged. “A prince?”

“In exile.”

“A god?”

“Blasphemed rather than worshiped.”

“How about...my master?”

He squirmed a little in his chair.

“I could perhaps do that effectively.” he said quietly.

#betathetaandme #loki (marvel)#loki x reader

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dontasktheradiodemon · 3 years

Text

Snuit

Sir Pentious/Telly (@usedhearts) has a fancy black-and-yellow suit.

Alastor wants a fancy black-and-yellow suit.

Alastor

How does one gracefully segue into a topic with one's partner? Alastor doesn't know how other people do it; but the way *he* does it is by hovering nearby until Telly appears to have reached a pause in his work, and then immediately draping himself across Telly's coils. "So I saw my alternate last weekend!" Super smooth.

Telly

He'd grown used to this sort of thing-- when Alastor wanted attention, he certainly got it. But Telly smiled all the while, setting aside the set of tweezers he'd been using for some delicate work on his latest project. He leaned down to give Alastor a kiss before speaking.

"Which one, love? You have quite a number."

Alastor

And the fact that he waited at all was how he showed his love.

Smooch! "The one who—well." A self-conscious *ahem.* "The one from the same universe as your alternate that you had that tiff with."

Telly

"Oh!" Telly's brain and face took a few moments to catch up with his ears. His face scrunched briefly, before he smoothed it with a sigh. "Oh, yes. Terrible bother, all that between us two, but I suppose I'm far more grating and less gracious than you are-- in general, that is. Not all Pentiouses are created equal."

He primped a bit, stroking his hood. "So, what's this about your alternate?"

Alastor

"Oh, don't be silly! I'm *incredibly* grating! I just save up all my charm for you." A wink.

He sat up and wrapped an arm around Telly's shoulders. "And wouldn't you know it, after your alternate gave you such a hard time about working with me, *he* went and hired *my* alternate to assist with his security! Can you believe that!" (It was, of course, a far more complicated issue than that—but it didn't hurt to simplify it in a way that gave Telly something to feel smug about as Alastor meandered toward his *real* topic.)

Telly

And feel smug he did! Telly immediately puffed up a big more, his hood flaring a bit in pleasure. "Oh did he now? Well, well, looks like the sock is on the other tail!"

He let out a hissing laugh.

Alastor

"It certainly *is*! Now, don't you go taunting your alternate about it, because he'll figure out how it got back to you and then *I'll* be the one he's sore at." A huff. "But yes! My other's on the staff now! And he's got a spiffy new matching uniform to go with it, complete with everything from top hat to cuff links!"

Telly

"Don't worry, darling, I have no intentions of speaking with Ruddy about anything unless he deigns to speak to me first. And perhaps not even then!" He chuckled, giving Alastor another kiss.

"But a suit! How nice? What's it made of, do you know?"

Alastor

"Heck if I know! My alternate spent more time talking about this little radio lapel pin he got with it—I don't know what he needs it for, *I* get radio in my head—but it's something quality, that's sure enough! This is no cheap polyester off-the-rack suit!"

And now, with the bait laid... "Telly—my darling, my beloved, light of my afterlife..." He lay his head on Telly's shoulder and blinked up at him with big, endearing, doe-like eyes. "When are *you* going to officially hire me and give me a matching uniform?" LOOK at that darling smile. He's *definitely not* trying not to laugh, can't you see how serious he is.

Telly

Telly blinked. And then a quizzical look came over his face as he tilted his head, thinking. And _then_ a sly smile appeared and his eyes narrowed a bit.

"So, does this mean you're done looking for better snake employment offers? I know you spoke in the past about taking a job with another me, but bringing back things to help me-- but since we're all up on our feet, and tails, over here now, well, I can't blame you for seeking gainful employ!"

His fingers stroked his chin. "Though, I'm certain you're already my number two-- there aren't many that I would specially design controls for the airship for, you know, my love."

Alastor

A surprised look. "Telly, I've never been *looking* for better employment offers. That's an emergency contingency plan at best, not a *goal.* What I want is to be with you."

Ah yes—he was getting good at piloting, if he did say so himself. It was fun. "Sure, we all know I'm your de facto number two; but there's a big gap between de facto and official! Here's the thing: with all the cooking and homemaking I've been doing around here lately, I'm starting to feel a little like a housewife. And you know the saying, *behind every great man there's a great woman*—but in every history book, whose name is listed next after the president's? The vice president, or the first lady?" He smiled wanly.

"Now, I may not have any high political ambitions myself—but I *do* want to get *credit* for what I do. And people look at your contributions differently depending on whether you're helping someone because you're part of his organization, or because you're part of his household. I intend to be part of the organization. *Officially.*"

Telly

Telly tilted his head, listening as Alastor spoke, a soft thrum in his chest. He nodded and stroked his chin again.

"I see you're point, darling. But you want, what? Just a suit like the Egg Bois have? Or were you thinking of something more special than that?" He hummed, squinting a bit.

"You do know you'd literally only be able to wear it around the airship, since the public at large doesn't know about us, yes? It would be hard for you to explain to anyone at your hotel about it."

Alastor

"I was thinking more like a suit like *you* have, plus pants—but sure, you could put it that way!"

He sighed melodramatically. "Oh, I know. And it just kills me!" And it was why, in his heart, he wasn't really expecting anything to come from this conversation but a bunch of moaning and sighing. Not for several years, at any rate. Decades, maybe. Potentially centuries. He gave Telly a morose look. "Well... it'll be nice when I *can*, won't it?"

Telly

"It would! It would indeed." He laughed, and kissed him. "Perhaps sometime in the future-- truth be told, I'd like it if only I got to see you in it. Would make it feel special." He winked.

Alastor

"Oh, *I* see. Getting to see the Radio Demon dressed up in your personal colors, as a private little show, only for you—something like that?" He winked back. "Well, I *do* like making you feel special."

Telly

Telly purred and leaned close to flick his tongue against Alastor's cheek. "Exactly. You being dressed up all for me....what a thing."

He chuckled. "Hmm, I've been meaning to find a new tailor anyway-- I think something could be whipped up."

Alastor

Alastor tilted his head into the flicking and slid his free arm around Telly's waist to rub his back. *His* special snake. All his.

"Really?" His eyes brightened. "*Could* you? I realize it's not really going to make a difference until we can go public, but..."

Telly

"Yes, I think so. I could just say I've got a special Egg Boi to give it to." He threw a smarmy smirk at Alastor.

"I'll have to double check your measurements, but other than that, well, shouldn't be too hard."

Alastor

"Pff! A remarkably tall and willowy egg!" He laughed. "Well—sure! Why not?!"

Telly

"It's not like they'd care to check!" Telly laughed, too. "Alright, do you have a measuring tape? I can get down the measurements and then I'll visit the tailor soon."

Alastor

"Sure! Right..." He rummaged around in his pockets. "Here!" He'd been using the thing religiously lately, taking down dozens of measurements in his den as he tried to get his new altar organized.

Telly

Telly took the tape and then scrounged around for a spare notebook that wasn't already filled with calculations and designs. He poked Alastor's back to make sure he was standing straight and began to take down his measurements.

"I think you'll look darling in black and yellow..."

Alastor

Up he goes straight and tall as possible—he's been measured before, he knows the drill. "I hope so! We're going to be in trouble if I look bad in it, aren't we?" He grinned crookedly, "But then I look pretty good next to *you,* don't I?"

Telly

Telly pecked Alastor's cheek as he rounded him, taking the length of his arm. "That you do. Very good, in fact."

He laughed softly. "I can't wait to see the faces of Vox and those other overlords when they see you on my arm in my colors."

Alastor

"Oh, won't that be the day! The horror in their eyes when they realize just how *dangerous* we are together!" Resisting the urge to make grand gestures long enough for Telly to measure his arm was harder than he'd expected. "And the fact that they all underestimate you right now, *oh,* that's just going to make it even *more* delicious when they register that *I'm* in *your* colors, not the other way around."

Telly

Telly measured his other arm and then from fingertip to fingertip, before going down for the legs.

"Mm, yes, it will be deliciously vile of us. I want to see Vox blue screen and cease to function." He hissed, laughing.

Alastor

"I'd be happy to see him cease to function in *any* context," Alastor said wistfully. "What do you think happens to his big tech monopoly when he goes down? Is it strong enough to keep trundling on without him or are the shareholders going to start dismembering it and cannibalizing their holdings?"

Telly

"I would guess the latter, honestly-- Vox is what's holding all of that together, certainly. Without him, it's bound to fall. I could see Valentino and Velvet descending into the chaos and picking up the most scraps but, well...."

He shrugged, taking the inseam. "Once Vox is gone, the debris will be easy enough to sweep away." Telly smirked.

Alastor

"Valentino, I could see—he's already got a multimedia empire, it can't be too hard for him to diversify. Velvet... I don't know. I always got the impression she's more of an entertainer than a manager, but I hardly know, really."

Ooh, uncomfy. He looked up while Telly took his inseam. "One hopes! Maybe they'll start putting something *interesting* on television again."

Telly

"Heh! Perhaps you could diversify-- get your own show! I could see you doing well as a late night talk show host." Telly scribbled down the last of the measurements and straightened up, kissing Alastor's cheek.

"All done!"

Alastor

"Ha! Do they do any talk shows with invisible hosts? Cameras and I don't get along." His smile wilted a bit. "... I guess that *would* be the easiest way to get on air over here, wouldn't it?"

He slid his arm back around Telly's waist. *His* snake again.

Telly

"You could be the first!" Telly wrapped his arm around Alastor's shoulders, smiling at him.

"It's just an idea-- who knows what will happen in the long run? Maybe you could help bring back radio instead. I know Leclerq's apprentice is doing some to help that along."

Alastor

He gave Telly a pointed look. "And you don't think Leclerq would have something to say about his own doppelgänger attempting to *directly* encroach on his domain? While working for one of his worst enemies, at that?"

Telly

"I don't know! I haven't seen or heard much from or about him in a good long while, and I prefer it that way." He sniffed haughtily. "When we take down Vox, the landscape of Hell will be much changed, so who's to say what will happen!"

Alastor

Alastor grimaced. Somehow, he doubted his alternate had stopped caring just because he was spending less time in Hell. "If it was *me*—if I discovered that one of my alternates was secretly in bed with, say, V#x, and he started trying to broadcast on *my* airwaves—I would shred him to ribbons and leave his entrails draped over the gates of Hell as a warning to other Radio Demons."

Telly

Telly frowned, and turned to face Alastor, cupping his cheek. "Well, then, you'll just not do that last bit then. We'll figure something out, it's all just hypotheticals."

Alastor

"Yes. Right." He sighed. "Of course." It weighed on him, though, every time he thought of it. But there was nothing to be done about it now. They'd figure something out.

He offered a thin smile. "Well. In the meantime, I get a suit, right?" He leaned forward to peck Telly's lips.

Telly

Telly smiled back, his thumb stroking Alastor's cheek. "Yes, you get a suit." He accepted the kiss and wrapped his tail around Alastor's legs.

"Now, was there anything else, or is it time for a snack? I'm feeling peckish."

Alastor

Alastor glanced down, brows raised. "I would *love* to go get a snack... but it seems I'm a little tied up."

Telly

Telly purred, giving Alastor's legs a squeeze before loosening his coils. "I sssupossse I can free you....jusssst thisss oncccce." He hissed, winking.

Alastor

"Ooh. Keep hissing at me like that and maybe I won't *want* you to free me." He stepped free of Telly's coils and took his hand. "I'll have to offer you only the *finest* of snacks in return for your mercy. Shall we?"

Telly

"Yesss, only the finessst." Telly grinned, raising Alastor's hand to kiss it before nodding. "Let'ss go, darling."

#usedhearts #chat log

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mollymauk-teafleak · 4 years

Text

whose brow is laid in thorn (chapter five)

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Sorry this took so long! Online teaching is...well...

Huge thanks to my wonderful friends/betas @minky-for-short and @spiky-lesbian who are so endlessly supportive and wonderful.

Please reblog! Please leave a comment over on Ao3!

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Caleb watches his prince flounder through this war he didn't start and, as things go from bad to worse, he realises the only way he can truly help him.

TW: I feel like the mentions of violence increase in this chapter. I mean, Lorenzo's here now. so. you know.

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The forests were as silent as they had been the last time Caleb went through them. A fierce wind was whistling out on the moors and there was even some snow on the air just beyond their close knit embrace but, under the thick canopy, it was as if it didn’t exist. It was as if the world didn’t exist. The bitter air and slate grey clouds, it had all been swallowed by the leaves and the bark.

Caleb remembered how they’d swallowed his sobs the same way, the last time he had passed through here.

He stroked his horse’s neck as he rose further up in the saddle to look ahead through the trees. Though he hated leading Mollymauk’s side, his prince had insisted he be part of the scouts, saying he had the best eyes in the company. And anything Caleb could do to help right now, he would not leave it undone. They couldn’t afford to.

It was peaceful, at least. He had lost the hour in the silence, it was all just darkness and quiet and the beat of his own heart in his lungs. Even his horse’s hooves made no noise in the soft forest floor, carpeted in moss and pine needles. He would never have even known an entire company of armed warriors shared these trees with him. He could have been the only person on the planet.

Which meant no threats in sight as well, nothing his eyes or ears could pick up even in the stillness. Caleb cast a searching spell forward just to be sure but the only sparks of life were the nests in the boughs up above and a family of foxes curled up in their den. No hidden enemies to speak of. Not a hidden archer in the leaves or a sword wielding scout behind a trunk.

Which, inexplicably, didn’t sit well with Caleb.

He frowned and passed a hand over his horse’s neck again, to comfort the animal and, partly, to comfort himself. Unease had settled heavily in the bottom of his stomach on the very first day they’d ridden out from Asarius, a weight that had only grown as this campaign went on.

They’d all flashed so prettily in the sun that day, as the light had caught and turned to red silk pennants on the tips of their spears, Mollymauk in a suit of plate enamelled in purple and looking more a god than a prince, though a god that stopped to wink at maidens and accept flowers from their hands, who ruffled the hair of children who ran alongside their column, who passed jokes back and forth with common tradesmen. It had been more like a fair than a force riding out to war, Molly had known his role and he’d played it well. Caleb must have looked like a sour spirit, haunting his left shoulder all in black, but something had just felt so wrong that day and it felt no better now, a week on.

He sighed, his breath misting in the damp air. No one but a Volstruker would be morose at not meeting a single enemy yet.

Maybe it was just being here that put the tension in his stomach. This was the path they’d taken back into the empire ten years ago, after his...his disgrace. The word didn’t come to him as easily as it one had, the shame wasn’t so quick to rise. It was an old misery he felt, the memory of the loss and despair, how it had opened a pit inside his younger self to think he’d never see Mollymauk ever again. He ached for that young wizard, in pain and confused and so scared, chained in the back of a cart and bouncing painfully along to a fate he didn’t want to imagine waiting for him in Rexxantrum, crying to a love that couldn’t hear him and trees that paid no mind.

He deserved it, a voice that sounded like a whip crack hissed in the back of his mind, curling Caleb’s lip, he deserved that awful fate.

But the voice was distant, like it wasn’t coming from inside him but behind him. Caleb swallowed down a faint taste of bile and answered it vaguely it certainly was an awful fate. That would satisfy it for now.

He was getting better at it. Feeding the thoughts that had been placed inside him to fester and grow, giving them just enough and no more, aware of the distance between them and his own. It was a difficult game, one that could hurt him very easily, one he had to play with steady hands and cautious nature. Two things that Volstruker training had, fortunately, gifted him with.

Caleb took a deep lungful of the air and thought of that boy again, weeping softly and steadily in the back of that cart, unable to stop no matter how many blows his tears earned him. Unwilling to stop.

I’m getting better at it, he promised the boy.

Caleb patted his horse’s neck and turned back towards the column. He’d seen enough.

The tents had sprouted up like strange canvas mushrooms under the shelter of the trees. Good, flat ground was scarce so they were more scattered than Caleb would have liked, clusters of them growing together rather than as one cohesive unit. Too much space for any intruder to thread through and reach the heart of the camp.

But the tents were already coming down as he rode hard back through the outer ring of defences, the company waking up to begin another day of marching. Perhaps there would be better ground up ahead. Perhaps they would finally break through the trees.

And what would be waiting for them when they did?

No one called out to Caleb as he dismounted by the hastily strung up horse paddock, no one offered a greeting or asked about his ranging. Soldiers merely talked around him, laughing and joking and grumbling to each other as they woke up and rubbed the sleep from their eyes, acting if he wasn’t there. Caleb didn’t mind, he was used to it and there was no real malice in their disengagement. Something about his black uniform of office and the rumours that clung to it turned idle conversation away, it was the whole point of wearing it. That was the whole point of being Volstruker.

“Rest now, Frumpkin,” he murmured softly to his horse, patting their neck, “I need to go make my report but I’ll come back and see you get a good rub down before we have to set off.”

“Gods, you’re not still calling the poor animal that name, are you?”

Caleb turned to see Beau leaning against one of the posts hastily driven into the forest floor, smirking at him. She was dressed in a cold weather version of her usual monk robes, more parts reinforced with leather for better protection. No one was taking any risks on this campaign but it was still strange to see the old friends he’d last known as children dressed for war.

He was glad they hadn’t had to grow up as quickly as he did, that they could still be considered too young for this.

“Why would I call him anything else?” Caleb answered smoothly, “It’s his name.”

“One of the finest horses I’ve seen come out of the palace’s stables and you saddle him with a name like Frumpkin. It’s an insult.”

The corner of Caleb’s mouth twitched into a smile that he dampened. He didn’t need to smile around Beau, he never had. She’d always taken him as he was and was the first of them all to slip back into doing so after he’d come back. While the others were still unsure how to fit him back into the place the old Caleb had occupied in their lives, Beau was cursing him and scowling at him and punishing him in the training yard like she always had done. Perhaps it was easier when what you had wasn’t the conventional idea of being friendly.

Whatever the reason, Caleb was grateful for it.

“Thank you for keeping him for me all these years,” he said quietly, putting a gentle hand on the horse’s flank.

“Stubborn beast wouldn’t take anyone but you,” Beau shrugged, “Like rider, like horse, it’s the same as ever.”

Caleb grunted, “Where’s the prince?”

“In the command tent,” Beau rolled her eyes as she said it and for good reason. The idea of the Mollymauk they all knew in charge of armed soldiers was absurd, however good the act he’d been putting on for everyone else was, “Anything to see out there?”

“Nothing,” Caleb said, “Nothing but the wildlife whose homes we’re trampling through.”

“I’m starting to think the Jagenoths keep their brains in their damn swords,” Beau frowned, “Did they seriously send out an invading army but didn’t think to put at least some force on the borders?”

“The Jagenoths don’t,” Caleb said, voice flat and serious, “And they wouldn’t.”

“So we’re missing something,” Beau followed the thread of his thoughts easily and liked it no more than he had.

“We are. And we will not be ready for it when it comes.”

With that grim assessment, he began walking through the croppings of tents, making for the one at the centre with the royal standard looking rather forlorn outside it’s entrance, no wind to lift it. Caleb did not want to scare his friends and doubt his prince but his strategic mind was in despair at everything he saw around him. They were nearly as short on weaponry as they were the hands to wield them, food as the mouths to eat it, the bulk of the royal army’s resources having gone with the king to meet the main Jagenoth force.

Or, as it appeared at the moment, the only Jagenoth force. Caleb would have loved to believe that.

He’d wanted to be back before his prince woke up but he’d not been sleeping well and was already up and at his desk when Caleb ducked under the flap. When Molly saw him standing there framed in predawn light, the frustration and helplessness in his red rimmed eyes eased into relief. He knew he didn’t need to pretend in front of Caleb.

“It’s good to see you back,” he exhaled, “Any news?”

“Nothing,” Caleb put his hands behind his back, standing tall and drawn, “The forest ahead is clear, no sign of any enemy out postings or even anything to suggest a large group of armed soldiers are approaching from the border. No smoke, no hoofprints, not so much as a flattened fern.”

Molly frowned, setting down his quill, “The border? How far did you ride out, Caleb?”

“Three hours out, your majesty.”

Molly groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Gods, Caleb, that's so far. If you’d gotten into trouble, no one would have seen your signal, you’d have been on your own!”

“If I had the enemy would be down as many as they’d seen fit to set against me,” Caleb said evenly, “And we would know more about what they are planning than we do know.”

Molly didn’t seem to think that justified the risk, still frowning down at the map in front of him, eyes tracing the path Caleb must have taken on his scouting run.

“Just...don’t do it again. Please. I know we’ve not run into any trouble yet but if the first time we did was you getting hurt or...just don’t, please.”

Caleb felt a stab of guilt, not the sort that came from disappointing a liege he was sworn to or disobeying an order, the deeper sort that came from causing a friend to worry.

“I’m sorry. It just frustrates me, still knowing so little about what they’re planning. We should have at least met border patrols by now, if the Jagenoths are half of what they’re rumoured to be. If Lorenzo truly is at their head.”

Molly grimaced, standing and moving to where his armour waited on the stand by the cot he slept on. He always waited until the very last moment to put it on while simultaneously knowing he couldn’t let any of their soldiers see him without it. Before long the captains of the night guard would be coming to give him reports and he’d run out of time to move freely and breathe comfortably.

If they saw him without the gilded plate and the glittering swords, they might remember that they were being led by their scandal sodden rake of a prince. That act had kept Mollymauk going after Caleb had been taken from him, it had been all he’d had through his darkest moments. And now it had to be packed away like a winter coat in spring, now its absence was all that kept this company together.

He was doing his best to hide it from their friends but the nakedness Molly felt without it, the vulnerability, was painted across his face when it was just the two of them.

“Perhaps their bloodlust has made them stupid. Perhaps this isn’t an invasion at all, just a tithe taking. Perhaps all Lorenzo wants to see is my father’s head on a bloody pike.”

Caleb winced internally at the defeat in his voice, “Your highness…”

“Caleb, I just…” Molly shook his head, the frantic, panicked edge fading from his voice, “I’m under no illusions about what will happen when we finally do encounter enemy forces. Let me have every moment until then. And...gods, please don’t let it be you in their way.”

Caleb exhaled, finally bowing his head, “As you wish.”

There was a long moment as Molly held his lobstered gauntlets in his hands, staring down at them like he was holding hands with a stranger. He was clearly rolling something around in his mouth, words he wanted to say but couldn’t. Caleb merely waited, patient.

“Has it been getting better?” his prince eventually murmured, pitching his voice lower as if Caleb’s intrusive thoughts were a physical presence with malicious ears, “The avoidance strategies, have they been helpful? I did worry coming through here again might be difficult for you.”

Caleb softened, managing a smile even as he still had to answer carefully, “I have found the last few days more comfortable than I expected.”

And he wasn’t lying. Feeling pity for the boy he’d been, as painful as it was to remember that hurt, it was so much better than hating him. It was such a delicate business but having Mollymauk quietly cheering for him, listening to him as he tried to work out what sentences were acceptable and what would make his old wounds throb with remembered pain, holding him when he slipped and stepping back when the intrusive thoughts roared too loud to allow Caleb any comfort.

In some ways, the close proximity of the camp, so much more intimate than that castle with its stone memories, was a blessing. Not many ways, but some.

“I’m pleased, Caleb,” Molly turned away from the armour and smiled back at him, expecting nothing, just genuine in his relief, “Help me into this damnable oven of an outfit?”

“Of course,” Caleb stepped forward gladly. If any part of him were to wonder why he took so much comfort and delight in being close to Mollymauk, he would answer it smoothly and confidently. He was Volstuker, why would he not hasten to armour his prince and be certain that he was as closely protected as possible?

Why would his heart not quicken as he slide a shirt of fine mail over Molly’s head, so carefully and deftly making sure it didn’t catch on his horns, as he sank down on one knee to carefully lace each fitted plate into place, working from the ground up until they were nose to nose?

Molly cleared his throat as they realised neither had spoken for some time, that silence had settled in now the sounds of metal scraping on metal had silenced. He fixed a playful smile onto his face, “Now, go tend that horse of yours. If you went that far before the sun’s even in the sky, you must have ridden poor Frumpkin hard. After everything that poor boy does for you, keeping his head high with a name like that.”

Caleb chuckled, a brighter sound than any he’d made all morning, “The name suits him, as I’ve told you all plenty of times…”

Molly nudged him gently towards the tent door, grinning, “It’s very you, I’ll give you that. I’ll see you when we ride out.”

Caleb gave him a quick bow in answer, striding back out into the gathering dawn. His stomach felt lighter than it had since he woke.

The days crept by with a maddening slowness as they skirted along the border of the kingdom. It was the same flat, barren landscape with it’s cropped dark grass and those black mountains in the distance cutting a ragged edge on the grey sky. It was impossible to tell what thin, pebbled soil was theirs and what was the Empire’s, the bleak sameness of the landscape doing little to honour the people who’d shed blood to forge it centuries ago.

Caleb wondered why all his training had neglected to mention that war was an awful lot of tedious plodding forward.

They poured over maps, they talked in the command tent long into the small hours of what would have been the morning if any of them had any concept of time anymore, debating in endless circles what the Jagenoths were planning, how the king was faring, what to do next. Molly would listen, unafraid to look exhausted and worn down in front of his friends, and eventually bring his hand down on the table for silence and give them the same, flat answer. They would do exactly as they were instructed. They would push on until they either met his father’s forces flush with victory or discovered their corpses mouldering in the dirt.

Birds would take wing, messages would be ferried along by magic, the same report would fly every day. And every day there would be no answer.

Caleb could tell Mollymauk felt abandoned. But he also knew it wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling to his prince.

Not that it made watching him go through this any easier. In fact, it was more of a sting, as Caleb would sit by Molly’s cot and stroke his heaving shoulders as he twitched and moaned through more nightmares. That he was having to go through this at the king’s command, after everything he’d done to him. That there was so little Caleb could do.

That same sense of frustration and helplessness drove him on that night, scouting again. He moved quickly over the short bursts of open ground, keeping low to Frumpkin’s neck and trusting his magic, his horse’s dark coat and his uniform to keep him cloaked in the shadows. When in the smatterings of trees, he walked him slow and steady, knowing the damage a hoof or boot crunching down on a stick at just the wrong angle could do. Moving like that, he very quickly lost sight of the company behind him, lost their slow creeping mass and the lights of the outer torches over a rise in the landscape.

Before too long, it was him, the wind and what stars could be glimpsed through the clouds. The whole plain seemed to open out, something inside him itching at the thought of the answers that could lie out there beyond the next rise of shadow. All he would need was a glimpse, one raiding party, one enemy torch in the distance, one footprint in the grass to tell him who had passed this way and when.

Caleb felt a tug in his chest and remembered his promise to Mollymauk. He’d reached the outer limit of what could reasonably be expected of him as a scout, more than halfway through the time his ride was supposed to take. If he went any further, he would be coming back after dawn and it would be impossible to hide the fact that he’d disobeyed. If he really pushed it, he would have to camp out here or risk Frumpkin coming up lame.

But then he would think of the exhaustion in Mollymauk’s eyes, the way his shoulders slumped when he turned to his armour and faced another day of wearing this personality that didn’t fit him. He would think of his prince, his friend, crying hoarsely into his pillow and not hearing Caleb as he tried to comfort him, sounding for all the world like a lost child unable to understand why his father had left him behind.

Caleb took a long slow breath of cold night air and pressed his heels into Frumpkin’s side, urging him forward. Just a little further, he would return just shy of dawn. After all, his only promise to Molly, technically, was that his blood wouldn’t be the first spilled. And if his training was worth anything, it wouldn’t be.

More bursts of frantic speed across the hills bracketed by near silent creeping through copses of trees. Caleb poured all of his energy into his senses, hearing everything from a mouse skittering down by Frumpkin’s hooves to an owl’s call from high above his head, seeing every shift in the texture of the darkness around him, even smelling deeply to try and pick out the sour scent of unwashed solider from the bite of night air. If he was going to disappoint Mollymauk, he would at least be as careful as possible.

Hours slipped by unnoticed, he lost himself in the glut of information flooding through him and the regular rhythm of his ride. It was tasks like this that brought him the most peace, when he could fully give himself over to his magic, float along through repetition and the hard drag of air in his lungs, when he could feel purposeful while disengaging entirely from the tangled magpie’s nest that was his brain. Times like this, Caleb could remember why he’d always had this ravenous hunger for magic, why he’d loved it so much.

He remembered why he’d fallen prey to Ikithon so easily.

But right now, it was his and no one else's. He was pushing forward to save his home, to help his prince.

The border with the Empire was the clean kind, the neatly cut kind formed by politics rather than geography. With the land changing so little, the only reason Caleb realised how far he’d actually gone was when the sky shifted from black to the hazy grey of dawn.

Guilt stabbed through him at the sight, the only thing in hours that had jolted him out of his razor sharp focus. He brought Frumpkin to a halt in the middle of a collection of trees that couldn’t even be called a wood, only now realising how his poor horse was breathing hard underneath him. He patted his neck, pulled an apple from one of his many pockets and murmured softly, knowing that Mollymauk and his friends wouldn’t be so easy to forgive him. They must be worried sick about him, he was meant to be back at camp hours ago and it would be half a day yet before they knew he was okay.

He couldn’t hear the whip crack, not quite, but his scars prickled with a heat the cold morning couldn’t possibly hold and there was a sharp echo reverberating between his ears.

Cursing himself for a fool, Caleb slid from the saddle, pulling the aches and strains he felt closer rather than pushing them away and knowing he deserved to feel every one. He pulled his water skin out from the saddle bags, letting it trickle out in a steady stream so Frumpkin could drink first, their breaths misting in the clammy dawn.

“I am a pig headed idiot, Frumpkin,” he sighed, pushing fingers through his horse’s mane, “All this effort and I don’t even have anything to show for it. I was just so certain…”

Just as he was about to rest his forehead against Frumpkin’s nose and let himself have a moment of self pity before getting back into the saddle, he felt something shift on the very edges of his magic. It was like seeing a shadow flicker in the corner of your eye, a second’s movement that threw everything off balance but was so hard to catch.

But there was very little faster than Caleb. He’d been through Volstruker training twice.

He left Frumpkin to crop at the carpet of leaves underneath them, moving forward on foot. All doubt, all emotion of any kind was locked down tight as he broke through the tree line and slunk forward in the direction of that single vibrating thread. It led him forward, over to the next ridge, though the closer he got the more some instinct pressed him down further into the shadows until he was crawling on his belly to peer into the bowl of the hills.

And when he saw what was cradled there, hidden down where it would be hidden from any view but the one Caleb now had, made him glad he’d hidden. What he saw was an army.

Not a raiding party. Not a band of cutthroats sent to harry the border towns. Not a company like theirs. He saw a full, broiling Jagenoth army. He saw racks of arms ready to slice the air in two, along with whatever stood in their way. He saw mercenaries with smiles as dangerous as the swords at their hips. He saw slavers, spearmen, archers, crossbowmen, rank upon rank of soldiers who fought at their masters command. He saw twice, three times, four times their own numbers and, in the middle of all of them, a standard that was rarely seen outside of Shady Creek Run but, when it was, brought blood and terror.

And, out at the edge, where no eyes but his own would see it, he saw a collection of black clad figures sparring against each other with blows that even from here looked brutal, the weapons they trained with had real edges on them. The smell of magic that came off them was thick and smoky like gunpowder, though heavily masked. Masked to everyone but those whose own skin reeked of it.

They were Volstruker.

Caleb felt no surprise, he was sunk too deeply into battle mode for that. He simply inhaled slowly and steadily, very deliberately not looking for any familiarity in the way they moved and struck out. Another moment to make sure he’d catalogued absolutely everything that lay before him while feeling absolutely nothing, then he slipped back down the hillside. Back to Frumpkin, kicking himself into the saddle and riding out without another moment’s pause.

He had to get back to his prince, his friends. He had to tell them their doom lay less than a day’s ride away.

Mollymauk’s hair ached deep at the roots by the time he heard those hoofbeats, the ones he knew immediately belonged to Caleb.

He hadn’t allowed the camp to break, insisting they stay exactly where Caleb would know to find them, refusing them even an inch until he was back and safe. Later, he would realise that his fit of pique had earned them all another day to live.

But not that moment. That moment had been nothing but relief as he’d pushed past Yasha and burst out of the command tent, seeing a lathered, wrung out Frumpkin drawing to a halt right in the centre of camp. An equally exhausted Caleb slid from the saddle, thin shoulders heaving and wiping spit from his cheek. He came down so heavy that Beau had to jump forward and catch him, barely keeping him on his feet.

Molly couldn’t even muster any anger, it was just joy to have him whole and back in the fold of his protection. He ran up and took him from Beau, gripping his shoulders tight, and grinning like a fool.

“Thank all the gods, Caleb! You must have ridden halfway across the kingdom, look at you! Come in, we need to get you something warm to eat, I-”

His mildly frantic relief died as soon as he saw Caleb’s eyes. Even as the rest of him was exhausted and ragged, his eyes were alert and hard like chips of ice.

“Molly,” his voice was low so it wouldn’t carry amongst the tents, to the many eyes that were on them, warily curious as to why the prince’s Volstruker had been gone all night, “We need to talk.”

Once inside the tent, Caleb wouldn’t so much as look at the broth Caduceus was determined he drank, standing stiffly in the centre with his hands wrapped around the bowl. Molly searched him up and down for any signs of injury but the only thing that was troubling him was clearly the weight he carried behind his eyes.

“Your father will ride out to the north and find nothing. The Jagenoth army is here, every man of them not a day's ride from where we sit. Lorenzo’s standard flew outside of the largest tent, though I didn’t see him personally. Their numbers outstrip ours by far and they are better outfitted, by what I could see in the torchlight. I’d estimate just below ten thousand warriors, a third of them mounted, another third with some kind of long range weapon. And…”

He seemed to steel himself, something like shame creeping into his eyes, “They have Volstruker. Five of them by my count.”

His words drew soft curses, widened eyes, stiffened shoulders as the shock rippled outwards. But Mollymauk turned inside himself and found nothing, only a bleak kind of amusement. It seems your pet monsters have gotten loose, Father. I hope it tastes bitter.

Caleb bulled on before any of them could ask him how he was feeling about that, “We have no hope of defeating them in battle and we are too close to skirt them. Our only hope is to turn now and ride hard back to the capital or even try and make it to the King’s army. Even then, we will still be short of numbers and exhausted but it is all we have.”

“We can’t lead them back to the city,” Caduceus shook his head, usually placid face tight with anxiety, “It is practically undefended and full of innocents.”

“Without that option, we have nowhere to run even if we do manage to get clear,” Yasha’s voice was tense, “And if they catch us in a full retreat…”

“It would be a bloodbath,” Beau finished shortly, her arms folded so tight it was like she was embracing herself and trying to give some comfort.

“A bloodbath from the rear or a bloodbath from the front,” Fjord snorted, tapping his foot as he always did when he was stressed, “Those are our choices, then?”

“Is there any way to get a message to the king?” Yasha’s brow furrowed as she thought, unused to being trapped in situations she couldn’t maneuver herself out of either with her mind or her greatsword, “Surely he’ll have noticed by now that he’s riding to meet an enemy that isn’t there?”

“His Volstruker will have some kind of magical manipulation to bait him on,” Caleb’s voice was still flat, even when he spoke of people who were supposed to be his, “An illusion or a mirage of some sort, torches in the distance, flattened land to suggest they are withdrawing perhaps . And you can be sure any messages we send out will be noticed from this close, as powerful as they are. Even if we could, there would be no time for his forces to reach us.”

“Then why didn’t they notice you?” Beau countered tightly, “If you got that close? If these are your people, isn’t there some secret way you know that can take them down?”

“I know the same tricks they do,” an edge of emotion entered his words now, a tension that threatened to snap, “I know the same magics. But I am only one against five, weaker than they are into the bargain, less firm in my faith. I am not enough.”

“That’ll do.”

Molly spoke for the first time, voice calm and commanding the way he’d been practising since he was a child. He rose from his camp chair, drawing every eye to him, trying to stand tall enough to shoulder their fears and doubts.

“I’ve made my decision. We are going to ride out and we are going to meet this army.”

“My prince, there is no way-” Yasha started to say but Molly shook his head.

“We’re not going to give battle, not at first. I’m going to do the one damn thing I’ve ever been good at with this job. I’m going to call for parley and I’m going to talk to Lorenzo. Whatever rotten deal my father made that has gotten us into this mess, maybe there’s something I can offer the Jagenoths that will make it right again. Gold or wardship or...or a marriage contract with some Dwendalian countess, I don’t know…”

He daren’t look up at Caleb in the beat of cold, heavy silence that followed those words.

“But there will be a price and that price may not necessarily be blood.”

There was a collective intake of breath, whether it was admiration or despair Molly daren’t ask.

“And...if Lorenzo isn’t the type to be bartered with, your highness?” Yasha asked evenly, letting the ‘which you know he isn’t’ go unsaid but lie underneath her words.

Molly hardened his eyes and gripped the swords at his sides, “Then we take as many as we can down to hell with us. Every Jagenoth that falls will be one less to threaten our city walls. Caleb?”

“Yes?” his friend sounded so much further away than the tent would allow.

“If it comes to that, your job is to kill Lorenzo. Not to take out the other Volstruker, not to protect me. If we must fight, he does not walk off that battlefield alive, understand?”

He wasn’t used to ordering Caleb around, the words felt sour on his tongue as did the silence that followed. It was only a moment, barely a heartbeat, but from a man that had been trained to obey it was an eternity that very clearly showed his upset.

But finally, his Volstruker murmured, “I understand, my prince.”

“Thank you,” Molly let his sincere gratitude show in his voice and that crack let the emotion start to bleed in, let his shoulders start to tremble, “All of you...you’re all my dearest friends and you’ve done so much for me. If any of you want to turn back now and leave this company, you go with my blessing. Asking you to die for me...I refuse to do it.”

Beau was the first to answer, giving a derisive snort and coming up to nudge him sharply with an elbow, “We’re not dying for you, idiot. That murderous asshole is standing in our home thinking we’ll just roll over and give it to him. Seeing the look on his face when Caleb spills his guts? That’s worth dying for.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to put it quite like that,” Yasha gave Beau a fond roll of her shadow ringed eyes, “But the sentiment is the same. This will be something we finish together.”

“However it ends,” Fjord nodded firmly, loosening his blade in its scabbard.

“And you are rather convincing when you want to be, Mollymauk” Caduceus chuckled, “Perhaps it will come to peace after all. Stranger things have happened...like us all standing here facing impossible odds with smiles on our faces.”

That broke the lingering tension, making them all giggle helplessly like they were children again, facing their first time sneaking out of their bedrooms after dark. Like this was the start of some grand adventure rather than the end of one. Molly felt such a rush of warmth in his chest as he met Caleb through teary eyes and saw him chucking too, for a moment there was nowhere else he’d rather be than in this cold, filthy tent facing death.

“Well then,” he eventually sighed, jaw aching from grinning so hard, “Let’s put this silver tongue of mine to the test.”

Mollymauk tried so hard not to appear afraid. He really tried.

For once he was glad of his ridiculous horned helmet and the way it shielded his expression from the soldiers around him.

The Jagenoth army came into view over a rise in the landscape, a neat, black row of ants in the distance marching towards them in perfect step, banners snapping in the wind and sun catching on the deadly points of their weapons. They came in perfect synchrony, row after row of them, one two, one two, one two, devouring the distance between the two forces.

And they just kept coming.

Yasha and Fjord held the enormous black banners high, where they couldn’t possibly be missed, but as those soldiers came on and on and on, as Molly’s tongue dried to a desiccated fruit rind in his mouth, he couldn’t suppress the certainty that this lot of trained killers would just ignore their request and plow right through them, trampling them into the dirt without even a pause.

But finally, at the last possible moment, the Jagenoths halted. There was a thin strip of land still between them, less than a league separating him and his friends, the soldiers who followed in devotedly, from death. The silence that fell was broken with the snorting of horses and the restless clank of people shifting nervously in suits of armour but it still weighed heavily.

After a moment, Caleb spoke softly at his side, eyes filmy with magic, “He’s beckoning you.”

Mollymauk didn’t need to ask who he meant.

“Well then,” his voice cracked on the very first word and he had to hastily clear his throat and start again, come on you fool, you’ve been an actor more than half your life, you won’t flub your lines now, “Well then. Yasha, Caleb, Fjord, with me. Beau and Caduceus, hold the army. If you see anything done that breaches the terms of parley, attack.”

With that, he urged his horse on, never daring to look back and see if his friends would actually follow him. When they did, of course, he’d hate himself for doubting them.

The fact that only one rider broke from the mass like a droplet of black oil, ploughing forward to meet them, showed exactly what Lorenzo thought of the threat they posed to him. As the formless shape of hulking iron resolved itself into a vaguely humanoid silhouette, Molly took a meagre scrap of comfort from the fact that he was at least in his human form. When he was coming for their blood, he would look much different.

They stopped their horses a few metres from each other and walked the rest of the way, Molly flanked by his friends, Lorenzo needing nothing but his bristling carapace of sooty metal, swathed in hooks and cruel leather straps, and the glaive stowed at his back. The closer that got, the more Molly realised how his pretty, glistening armour with all its jewels and shine made him look like what a foolish boy would dream a prince wore to battle. He was a tawdry illustration from a fairytale. Lorenzo was an experienced killer.

“Well, well, well…” Lorenzo spoke first while he was still loping up, hailing them as if they were friends, his voice a low pitched drawl in an approximation of a nobleman’s polite tones that showed how he’d risen from dirt to lead his army on the backs of slaves, “It’s awful decent of you to come offer yourself on a silver platter. Saves us the trouble of carving those pathetic excuses for soldiers I see behind you into meat.”

Molly swallowed hard and drew himself up, acting as if he hadn’t heard the insults, “Lorenzo. I assume you speak for the Jagenoths?”

“I’m killing for the Jagenoths, boy,” Lorenzo removed his warhelm so they could see his lazy grin, the anticipation in his eyes, “But aye, I speak with their voice in this matter.”

“Then I offer this to you,” Molly kept his firmly on, “Whatever wrongs my father has done to you, whatever snags there have been in your business dealings, surely all out war is not the best way to seek repayment?”

“Depends on what you’re repaying,” Lorenzo sneered, “And I bet you don’t know half the mess your daddy’s gotten himself into. Allow me to educate you instead, gold don’t pay some debts, boy. Sometimes blood’s the only way to tip the scales back.”

“Then you and your kingdom are fools,” Molly replied, letting some contempt creep into his voice as the insults rubbed some already frayed nerves raw, “Out there in Shady Creek Run, you have no resources of your own. Your crops file nine harvests out of ten, there's no metals of any use in those mountains of yours, no lumber, no gems. Hence why you trade in flesh, a commodity most kingdoms turn their noses up at. Think of what I’m offering you. Money, trade, the chance to rise as a kingdom by marrying its crown prince to whoever you choose. I’m offering you the chance to actually see your people grow, rather than scraping out a living in the swamp and selling their children to you when they can’t make their rent.”

There was a moment’s pause after he finished before Lorenzo burst out laughing, showing rows of plaque chewed teeth as he guffawed.

“By all the gods, boy, haven’t they trained you up nice, eh? Got you all dressed up and taught you the right words to say, just like a pretty little parrot. Convinced you that you were a prince.”

Molly felt Caleb shift beside him, magic crackling in the air. He shot him a desperate glance, pleading with him from behind the metal slits in his helm. They absolutely could not afford to be the ones to break the peace here.

He swallowed hard and tried to put some more measure in his voice, “Perhaps if you brought my offer to your lords and let them decide whether they would rather see profit or-”

“You don’t understand, do you, boy?” Lorenzo was still chuckling like this was the funniest thing he’d seen all day, “What my good lords of Jagenoth want isn’t profit or trade or to see some pretty tattooed whore of a prince in their daughter’s bed. What they want is to see your father suffer. What they want is your head.”

That struck Molly somewhere just below his chest, “Mine?”

“Yes,” Lorenzo nodded idly, eyes creeping up the length of Molly’s body like he was deciding where to make the cut, “Your daddy stiffed them once too many times so they’ve decided his son and heir will be their price. However unimpressive that son may be.”

Molly hated the fear that chilled his bones at those words, that strangled the words in his throat as he tried to speak.

“Why’d you think we went to all that trouble to fool your daddy, get him to ride out on a wild goose chase after our shades and set you off on some busywork? It were never him we wanted. We wanted you, just as you are now with a handful of farmhands at your back and a pretty piece of glass for a sword. And didn’t it all work out so nice?”

Molly’s mouth twisted, “I see Ikithon has been giving you more than just Volstruker.”

Lorenzo spread his mailed hands and gave a wry smile, “You’re the losing side, boy. Got to expect the smarter rats to jump ship.”

“So…” Molly shook himself, forcing the words up, “If I let you take me, do whatever you want with me, that will be the end of it? My people go free?”

He’d expected the sharp, poorly concealed hisses of rage and dismay from his friends, the hands flying to weapons. He was ready with a raised palm, willing them to hold themselves, praying their loyalty outstripped their love for him.

“How very noble of you,” Lorenzo cooed in a mocking tone, before his voice turned to iron again, “And maybe that was the plan my lords gave me. But now I’m here...now I see that rabble you call an army...now I have your capital city just a few days ride from here...maybe now I want more? Maybe now I’ve got me a thirst.”

Molly felt sickness roil in his stomach, “You’d go against direct orders? You’d start a war that would cost you hundreds of soldiers without their permission?”

“Do you think they’ll give a flying fuck about permissions when I hand them the crown of Dosal still red with your family’s blood?”

“Dawn,” Molly croaked, “Give me until then and I’m yours. To kill or to carry back to Shady Creek Run, whatever you wish. On your word that that will be the end of it.”

Lorenzo smiled, a thick and nasty smile, his hand flexing, arm raising, “Do I look the patient type to you, boy?”

Molly saw how it all would happen. The barest second and that glaithe would be free, the blade would come swinging with it’s sharp whistle, no time to dodge, no time to free his own scimitars, all his hours of training meaning less than nothing as that razor edge bit into his neck and severed his head neat as snipping off a stray thread.

He saw it all. But it didn’t happen.

“What in the fuck-” Lorenzo grunted, his arm stilled in the air, muscles tight as iron chord but unable to move.

Beside Molly, Caleb had his hand out and his eyes were hard, the smell of magic rising off him like steam, “Drop your arm. Turn and walk back to your own. This parley is done, you have your terms.”

“You godsdamned pup-'' Lorenzo spat, eyes full of hatred as they fixed on the source of the magic holding him back. His face reddened and the smell of his own magic began to rise.

“Lorenzo!” Mollymauk raised his voice, the sickness turning to panic as he realised that the glaive was now fixing to whistle out at Caleb instead of him, that if it did battle would erupt and so many would die, “This is a parely for gods’ sake. We’re under a peace banner. You’ll get to kill me in less than a day, let it be enough.”

“Molly!” Caleb groaned, pained, his magic starting to slip in his distress and letting Lorenzo’s arm move an inch more.

“No,” he snapped, voice firm and tone hard, “Both of you, stand down. Lorenzo, you want it to get back to your lords that you can’t even keep to terms of parley? How long do you think they’ll keep feeding an oathbreaker?”

Lorenzo’s lip curled but at the very last second it became a sneer rather than a roar of rage. He relaxed his muscles and Caleb dropped his spell.

“I ain’t no oathbreaker, boy, but pay mind to which oaths I made and which I didn’t. Dawn it is then, you come out weaponless and alone before the light touches the base of that hill there. And be warned. You know my trade. You see my ink. You know that I can make you pay hard for every second you’ve made me wait.”

“And that will be the end of this?” Molly pressed, feeling strangely little for someone who had just signed away his life.

At that Lorenzo only smiled and let his eyes roll over to Caleb, poorly concealed hatred crackling in his gaze. It was clear that this wasn’t a man accustomed to being bested, even in the smallest ways. Caleb had dared to stay his hand and now Molly suspected he’d slipped down one place on the list of people Lorenzo wanted to kill tomorrow.

“Well we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

At that he turned and strolled lazily back to his horse, never once giving them so much as a glance.

It was odd, to feel so alone in the midst of other people.To feel like the only person in the world when your friends were at your elbow.

They’d fallen back a little ways to set up a camp as best they could in the windswept plain. There was a hush about the company now, a dismay like they were all reeling from what just happened. Seeing the hope on Caduceus’ face fade, seeing the bitter anger flare in Beau’s eyes as she realised what had happened, it was all too much. Not waiting for permission, Caleb had rode Frumpkin past them, unable to bear it.

And now he stood alone at the paddock, running a brush over and over across his horse’s black coat even after it did nothing, just needing to do something. His duty pulled him towards the command tent, towards Mollymauk, but the thought turned his stomach. How was he supposed to watch his prince, his friend, retreat further and further into himself, dull his eyes and shut himself down as he waited for death? How was he supposed to stand by and watch it happen and know he could do nothing at all?

So instead he hid. He was ashamed at himself for it but at this point it was like pouring a flagon of water into the sea.

He replayed the parley over in his mind, turning it over to look at it from different angles, even when it’s sharp edges cut into him. He saw everything he could have done differently, all the ways he could have turned the tide. He could have snapped Lorenzo’s arm, found the strength from somewhere. He could have slipped into his mind, changed his words, made him take it back. He could have cut him down where he stood.

And it would change nothing, you fool.

Hopelessness crashed over his head like a tide again and it was all Caleb could do to keep his feet under the weight of the myriad ways he’d failed and everything it would cost.

Still wallowing in self pity instead of doing something useful I see.

At first Caleb thought it was just his own mind berating him as it often did. But then it sunk it, a moment too late, that the voice was so much clearer and sharper than it usually was. And it wasn’t his own.

An overpowering sense of revulsion filled him as his mind was invaded, enough that he couldn’t fight back. He’d felt it before but the sensation of someone else seizing control of your brain was so awful, so gut wrenchingly wrong in every way, that having it done brought him to his knees every time. Helpless, alone, no one around to see his distress, all Caleb could do was bend double and retch into the grass while his master slipped into his mind as easily as sliding on a well worn pair of boots.

I would have hoped to find you stronger, Bren. This is the Volstruker’s element and yet you are here whining instead of glorying in it.

Caleb could only moan thinly in response, mouth full of bile. His master only used his old name when no one else could hear them, they were supposed to shed them, burn them away, when they joined the order. But each of them knew that the master kept them carefully catalogued, ready to be used to hurt them as effectively as any torture device.

Well, at least you now have a chance to please me and show me you remember who you are...and who your master is.

“I don’t...please…” Caleb whispered, tears running from his cheeks to soak into the ground below.

Silence, Bren. Listen. It appears our relationship with Babenon Dosal has reached the end of its life. You are to defect, immediately, and present yourself to Lorenzo of the Jagenoths. He will find a use for even such as you.

Caleb’s brain could hardly take in what was being said to him, every inch of him shaking like electric currents were running under his skin, “No...no, the prince is my-”

The prince is what I say he is to you. And now he is nothing. I appreciate that you can, at least, summon some loyalty to your former position but I am hereby changing your directive. You serve Lorenzo now. Leave immediately. Do not let me down, Bren. You know the cost.

The revulsion fled as quickly as it had come on and Caleb was left to slump on the ground, tremors still running through him, stomach still painfully contracting as his body tried to remember what it was like to master itself.

It was a long time before he could rise, before there was enough strength in his limbs to hold him. His mind was a flurry of whip cracks, his back burned as if the wounds were minutes old rather than years, his fingers itched to tear his shirt away and find some relief in the night air.

You know the cost.

It was only an echo but upon hearing it, Caleb’s jaw clenched. He forced himself to hold still, he dredged up every scrap of training he could remember, filling his nose with the smell of smoke and burned wood to remind himself who he was and what he was.

Just once, he turned back and looked at the command tent, glowing with warmth at the centre of the camp just a few meters away from where he stood.

“Molly,” he rasped, voice raw and pained, “I’m so sorry.”

He knew his prince couldn’t hear him and saying it out loud brought him no comfort.

Caleb left Frumpkin tied where he was.

It would be easier to approach the Jagenoth camp on foot.

Molly paid little attention to the hours in between hearing Lorenzo’s last words and ending up back in his command tent, slumped down onto his cot while his friends sat around him, too stunned by dismay and grief to even argue much. All he could think of was that smile Lorenzo had worn as he’d turned away, what the cost of that smile could be.

I’m going to die, he thought vaguely, trying it on for size, trying to get his brain to accept the fact. He found he could muster little in response to it.

“We cannot let this happen!” Beau raged for the third time in the last half hour. And just like the other times, no one had anything to say to her.

“It’s our one chance,” Molly found himself saying, hearing the exhaustion in his own voice, “If he can have me, he might leave the rest of you alone. He might leave our people alone.”

“Might,” Yasha repeated, her voice bleak and hard like ice.

“Yes, might,” Molly sighed, “Might is better than nothing.”

“So you’re just going to give up?” Beau snapped, tight and tense as a drawn bow as she paced back and forth, “You’re just going to walk up to them like a lamb offering itself up to be slaughtered?”

“It’s the only thing I can do,” Molly leaned back against the canvas, eyes closing though all he saw behind them was that smile again and the image of his father’s crown covered in his mother and sister’s blood, “I can’t fight him. I can’t lead you all to some insane one in a million victory. I can’t talk to him. But I can let him have me and then...then maybe…”

He trailed off, shaking his head, unable to muster the energy to even find the words. Beau’s anger ebbed, showing the fear beneath.

“I’m a terrible prince,” he eventually murmured, eyes opening to not even meet their eyes, voice low and thin as a candle nearly out, “I can’t lead people, I can’t sway people or save them, I can’t ease their hunger or soothe their worries. I thought...I thought maybe I had enough base cunning and enough patter to act like a prince but...that’s all it's ever been. An act. A role I never even wanted. And now...well it’s all caught up with me, hasn’t it? The best hope I have is to die with some dignity and hope it's enough to save all of you.”

“Molly…” Yasha groaned, her voice a soft, sad whisper but it couldn’t reach him.

“An hour before dawn, all of you are going to retreat,” he continued, “Before that even, if you can manage it. I’m putting the lives of the company in your hands, save as many as you can.”

“Molly!” she was exasperated now, her usual calm completely fractured.

“This isn’t a debate anymore,” he shook his head, making himself stand though it was like moving a puppet with half its strings cut, “Just do as I ask. Let me try and accomplish something good with my death. And...if you ever get the chance, if the gods allow it, drink to my name.”

They had no answer to that. It was something of a relief.

“I’ll say my farewells in the morning,” he waved them out limply, “Just send in Caleb and…”

Finally, something pierced through the fog. Frowning, he lifted his head.

“Where is Caleb?”

“After the parley he, uh…” Fjord shrugged helplessly, “He was upset. I think he went to stable Frumpkin, you know how he does.”

“That...that was some time ago,” Caduceus put in slowly, “Hours.”

“I’ll go get him,” Beau shrugged, “Whatever…” She disappeared through the flap, still stomping, shoulders tense and face flushed. Yasha looked after her with soft, sad eyes but didn’t follow, she knew her well enough.

Molly expected the fog to close up around his head again but it didn’t. Something ran around under his skin, a sensation that something was wrong. Which was laughable, seeing as he was about to be killed as soon as the sun came up and possibly all of his friends alongside him at the whim of a madman.

Still, it was there and it irritated him just enough to keep him alert and frowning as more time than should have passed by.

And it was enough that he wasn’t surprised when Beau walked through the tent again, all of her anger replaced by complete and utter shock.

“A messenger,” she said, voice hoarse like the words surprised her even as they left her lips, “A messenger from the Jagenoths, she had the insignia and everything. She gave me this, said it was for your eyes only and just...left.”

This was a piece of paper, folded and sealed with a clumsy black seal like a smear of soot. The design was a crude hook shape. As Molly took it the feeling got worse until it was buzzing like an insect trapped in his skull. It was enough that he hesitated before breaking the seal but their eyes were on him, wary and hesitant and needing to see their prince be brave.

The writing was done in a hurry, the ink splotchy and smudged. Molly had one of those moments where complete insanity threatened to take the place of dread as he imagined Lorenzo’s huge oni fingers trying and failing to hold a quill but it died quickly.

When he read the words, there was no more fog and no more distance. Everything was real and close and far too much, pushing the air out of his lungs and constricting his chest until he couldn’t breathe.

Boy, I accept your challenge. Single combat it is, me against the little pup who thought he could snap at me and not pay for it. If I lose, my army turns heel and goes home empty handed. If I win, I kill you and we consider the debt repaid. I was so looking forward to slaughtering every last one of you but your pup made a good point. I get to hold faith with the Jagenoths while my steel gets to see true battle. I’ve never tried a Volstruker before but I’m looking forward to tasting the tears of grief on your face as I push my blade through your heart.

Lorenzo.

“Molly? Molly, what does it say? Hey, it’s okay, just breathe…”

Yasha had taken his arm but Molly barely noticed, he only looked up and found Caleb’s eyes there to accept his own. Of course he’d slipped in while they’d been distracted, of course he chose now to return. At least he had the grace to look ashamed.

“Caleb...” Molly rasped, tears running down his cheeks and dripping from his jaw to strike the letter, obscuring the words as if that would mean they’d never been.

The man he loved could only meet his eyes and smile sadly.

“Oh gods, Caleb, what have you done?”

#widomauk #critical role #mollymauk tealeaf #caleb widogast #royal au #tw violence #yasha #beau #fjord #caduceus #lorenzo #cr fic #please reblog and comment!#feed your local fic writer!

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carolyncaves · 4 years

Text

Hello again everyone, and welcome to Wei Wuxian goes to Gusu, Part Two. Also, the Untamed Spring Fest is long over, but this is my belated entry for Days 24-26: Gentle, Harmony, and Nest, which rounds out the complete set. 4913 words, golden core angst continued, copious tenderness also continued, vague mental illness plus thoughts of death/dying (it’s still wwx), wangxian vibes intensify (it’s still lwj), lxc is around too, minor caretaking, numerous rabbits

part one | also on ao3

Wei Wuxian awoke, and he had so little idea where he was or why that for a second it could have been before, and all of it – Lotus Pier and that mountain in Yiling and the Burial Mounds – could have all been a long, fading dream.

He was empty, though. He didn’t even have to reach for it – it was a conspicuous scoured ache. He was in Gusu, crumpled in failure. It was inescapably real.

Wei Wuxian hadn’t slept well in weeks, so he was both surprised and unsurprised he’d dropped off so early and still made it well past sunrise. And that Lan Zhan hadn’t awoken him, even though the day would have started long ago for the inhabitants of Cloud Recesses.

There was movement in the jingshi – Lan Zhan had been at his desk, reading something, but he’d noticed Wei Wuxian was awake and had risen to come over to him. Wei Wuxian rolled blearily out of the bed. He blinked in the sun-washed light of the dwelling.

They were alone – Lan Xichen wasn’t waiting for him too. Suibian was still in the sword stand, though Bichen was now at its master’s side. The table held one person’s breakfast, kept warm with a talisman.

He was a little dazed that Lan Zhan hadn't berated him or, he didn't know, the sky hadn’t fallen down around him now that he'd revealed the truth to someone. To be honest the shock might have been making him a little woozy. That was what he felt – light and otherwise empty.

He was very fortunate, then, that Lan Zhan had arranged this meal for him – generous and formal, as if he were a guest visiting with honor – and didn't seem to be asking anything of him in exchange for eating it.

Lan Zhan sat down at the table with Wei Wuxian, even though he had obviously eaten hours ago. Lan Zhan poured chili oil in his porridge and set it in front of him. Lan Zhan made him a second cup of tea when he finished his first. Lan Zhan did not speak – there was, of course, no talking during meals at Cloud Recesses. For once, Wei Wuxian was happy to keep that rule.

It was only when he was finished, and they had sat there in silence long enough that it was clearly ‘after breakfast’, that Lan Zhan spoke. “How?”

That was a short and nonspecific question, so Wei Wuxian answered it as shortly and nonspecifically as possible – after Jiang Cheng’s core was crushed by Wen Zhuliu, Wei Wuxian had discovered a way to give him his own, and he had fooled Jiang Cheng by going about it a roundabout way but was diverted by Wen Chao before he could rejoin him.

If he was lucky, he would never be forced to give more detail than that.

Wei Wuxian had not been lucky for a long, long while.

Still, for now, Lan Zhan only nodded. He’d probably spent half the night going over everything Jiang Cheng had said to him while they were searching for Wei Wuxian together. He’d just needed Wei Wuxian’s version of the story to fill in the gaps.

The silence stretched again. Wei Wuxian didn’t want to volunteer anything to fill it.

“Jiang Wanyin is a fool,” Lan Zhan said.

That was so far down on the list of things Wei Wuxian had expected to be confronted with that he hadn’t even managed to reach it yet. “What do you mean?”

"He knows his core was destroyed. He had it magically restored, though an opaque machination of yours, and when you reappeared afterward you were wielding demonic cultivation and refused to use your sword." Lan Zhan's cup hit the table hard, for him anyway. "Can Sandu Shengshou not add to two?"

Wei Wuxian let out a laugh despite himself, at Lan Zhan’s protective grouchiness, but he quickly sobered. "I told him something wholeheartedly and he believed his shixiong. Is that really his fault?"

Lan Zhan looked lost at him. "Very well. You are also ridiculous. Do you prefer that?"

"You're right. We deserve each other. I mean Jiang Cheng and me.” Wei Wuxian certainly didn’t deserve Lan Zhan. Something occurred to him, and he put forward a sudden burst of energy, leaning forward to argue his case. “Lan Zhan, my three month absence and the flute and the ghosts were very distracting! I think you should give me some credit! It’s only because I so convincingly threw up so much smoke – quite literally, I might add – that Jiang Cheng was fooled!”

Lan Zhan didn’t take the bait. He continued looking upset, and not riled at all.

Wei Wuxian did not have the appetite to play upbeat forever. “Lan Zhan,” he tried to wheedle, but it came out more morosely than he’d intended.

Lan Zhan winced as if struck. Wei Wuxian did not want to do that to Lan Zhan. Before he could think of a way to make it better, Lan Zhan had risen. “Come,” he ordered.

“Where are we going?”

“Come.” When Wei Wuxian still didn’t manage to move right away, Lan Zhan added, “Somewhere simple. Come.”

Wei Wuxian didn't like that he'd needed to be told that. But it did help for him to know. He went.

The paths of Cloud Recesses were not crowded. Most likely everyone was engaged in their daily study or tasks, and Wei Wuxian suddenly wondered what it had taken for Lan Zhan to be with him. He has sect duties to attend to, Lan Xichen had said to Jiang Cheng. He has been tasked with repairing the sect’s scriptures, he’d told Wei Wuxian. Lan Zhan hadn’t been permitted to come to Yunmeng, or otherwise Wei Wuxian was now quite certain he would have. But here he was now, leading Wei Wuxian up the back mountain in the middle of the day, apparently uncaring if anyone saw them or not.

He didn’t know how to ask that, though. He couldn’t say ‘Lan Zhan, are you making trouble for yourself by seeing to me?’ He didn’t know what he would do if the answer was yes.

He would have to insist on returning to Lotus Pier immediately. He would have to endure the sword flight back.

He was selfish. He didn’t ask so he wouldn’t have to do those things. Not yet.

Lan Zhan took him to the hidden clearing where the bunnies lived.

At the sight of the soft, white creatures, Lan Zhan’s secret flock, Wei Wuxian felt a thickness in his throat that completely eliminated any possibility of speaking. He merely looked at Lan Zhan with what felt like a pinched and desperate expression and hoped his question would be conveyed.

Lan Zhan guided him with small touches to sit down on a low stone. Then he bent down and carefully scooped one of the rabbits into his arms, and settled it in Wei Wuxian’s lap.

Wei Wuxian cupped it, warm body and soft fur, with both hands – the reflexive response to a small animal. “Lan Zhan?” he managed. He stroked his hand down its back, rubbed the downy spot behind its ears.

“I find them soothing,” Lan Zhan said, in a small voice. “I hoped …” He looked away, like he was ashamed.

A traitorous tear finally escaped Wei Wuxian’s eyes, which meant several more sympathizers followed. “They’re marvelous, Lan Zhan. Thank you very much.” He hugged the bunny close against him – gently, of course, but holding that living, beating thing to his cold, still center.

Lan Zhan immediately turned and started to collect more rabbits for Wei Wuxian.

He ferried them in ones and twos over to him, and when they began to overflow from Wei Wuxian’s lap – which didn’t take long – he coaxed Wei Wuxian down off the rock and into the grass and lay more bunnies alongside him. Once he’d apparently decided the supply at hand was adequate, he settled himself directly next to Wei Wuxian and put his arm once more around his back.

Wei Wuxian had no objection to this touch – it was more pleasing than any or even all of the rabbits, as lovely as they were. But it was uncommon – he hoarded his memories of Lan Zhan’s contact as preciously as any stones – and as he sat limply, three rabbits resting in the circle of his own arms, he couldn’t help but wonder at it. “Lan Zhan, why do you keep petting me like I’m one of these bunnies. Are you trying to soothe yourself?”

No sooner did the words leave Wei Wuxian’s mouth than he realized of course he was. Lan Zhan was plainly beside himself, to anyone who knew him at all.

“I’m okay, Lan Zhan. It’s only a little spilled milk.” He let his mind wander down a wistful trail. “It’s natural for you to be disappointed our epic rivalry in cultivation is ruined.”

“You are not. It is not.” Lan Zhan took an almost-unsteady breath. “I am not.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for the type to try to avoid competition, but I suppose I won’t hold it against you,” Wei Wuxian continued. He was parrying, saying bald and callous things so he could avoid thinking about the raw ones, but Lan Zhan was growing only palpably more distressed. Wei Wuxian had to stop.

“I’m sorry,” he said, before he could think about it. “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

Lan Zhan’s arm squeezed him fervently, but he didn’t speak. He was waiting for him to elaborate. Maybe he meant 'about what?'. Wei Wuxian couldn’t help but think it would be more reasonable if he meant 'what were you not wrong about?'

“When I said it wasn’t your concern. When I called you ruthless, and accused you of not cherishing our relationship." When Wei Wuxian had spoken those words the first time, they’d felt true – he’d been an angry sort of terrified Lan Zhan would press further and intrude on the ways he was compensating for the things he now lacked. Repeating them now, in the gentle respite of Gusu’s hospitality and Lan Zhan’s literal embrace, they tasted like ash on his tongue. "I’m sorry I called you Hanguang Jun. I was trying to make you mad at me, saying hurtful things on purpose. I know … I know you …" Care seemed paltry, next to everything Lan Zhan did and was. Wei Wuxian couldn’t find anything better.

Lan Zhan’s free hand circled his bicep, slow and barely restrained. A silent I do.

“Me, too. Lan Zhan. I’m sorry.”

“There is no need,” Lan Zhan said, “so long as you stay.”

Wei Wuxian let himself absorb that for a moment. The benediction that Lan Zhan would forgive him. But … "I can't stay forever, can I? I will eventually have to go back to Lotus Pier, and attend cultivation conferences, and rejoin the world." Wei Wuxian made himself smile ruefully. "Tempting as it might be, I can't hide here in Cloud Recesses forever, kept like another of these rabbits."

Lan Zhan didn’t dispute his comment directly. That meant he knew Wei Wuxian was right and he didn't like it. "We have time."

Wei Wuxian didn’t know if there was enough time in the world. He didn’t know what difference time would make. He didn’t voice that, though. He was done arguing with Lan Zhan.

“Is there anything else I need to apologize for? My brain is a leaky sieve these days, Lan Zhan – have I done anything else cruel to you for which I need to repent?” It was hard to understand now how he’d been so sharp with Lan Zhan, who had taken it all from him and only returned stiff, anxious concern.

There was a hesitation. Lan Zhan asked quietly, “What was your intention?”

“Hm?”

“It was only by chance you were thrown into the Burial Mounds and forged your tool and the yin tiger amulet. You would not accept my help – you would not have sought it out. Did you intend to wield the raw yin iron from the start? When you came down from the mountain after the removal of your core, what was your intention?”

Wei Wuxian stared at Lan Zhan’s knee long enough that Lan Zhan shifted forward and captured Wei Wuxian’s eyes. Wei Wuxian sighed. He knew he would not like the answer. "I thought probably I would die quickly in battle, and then the secret would go to my grave.”

Wei Wuxian had been right. Lan Zhan's expression at that was ... agonized wasn't a wrong word. Considering how Lan Zhan had reacted to the revelation about his core, considering how he'd been treating him... he couldn't imagine how Lan Zhan would have received his death. How stricken he would have been.

"Fortunately, I met Wen Chao,” Wei Wuxian said, which was a truly bizarre sentiment considering what had followed.

“Your golden core is gone, and your body and temperament are being devoured by resentful energy,” Lan Zhan said mournfully. “It is not fortunate.”

“I’m here, Lan Zhan. That’s fortunate enough.” One of the rabbits reached its snout under his cupped hand, sniffing inquisitively. Wei Wuxian felt himself smile. He lay his hand over its eyes, blinding it momentarily, but then in payment he dutifully stroked its fur. “The wicked tricks aren’t really so bad, are they? Didn’t they save us from Wen Ruohan?”

“You saved us,” Lan Zhan agreed slowly, like he didn’t quite see the correlation. Wei Wuxian didn’t know that he understood his skepticism – Lan Zhan had been discussing the price, so Wei Wuxian was reminding him of what it purchased. Lan Zhan elaborated. “It’s not whether they are valuable, or right or wrong. Your use of them is harmful to your wellbeing.”

Wei Wuxian thought about the powerful tearing energy that flowed through him when he played Chenqing. He thought about all the blood he’d spit into the soil of the Burial Mounds when he’d made it. He thought about how he felt empty and tired all the time, and how even now he couldn’t be completely sure where the absence of his core ended and the disintegration of the black smoke began. He thought about how it didn’t matter – now they were one and the same – and how nothing mattered, and how everything mattered but he was powerless to change any of it. He thought about anger – at the Wens, at Lan Zhan, at Jiang Cheng, at the war council led by Nie Mingjie, at everything – and how even that now seemed distant and beyond his reach. He’d felt a burst of it when Lan Xichen tried to persuade him to pick up the sword. It had flagged quickly, and now numbness and an almost pathetic gratitude and affection for Lan Zhan were all that remained of him.

“You could play Clarity for me,” Wei Wuxian said. “Actually, Zewu Jun mentioned you’d been studying other scores. You can play whatever you think is suitable.”

Lan Zhan looked deep into Wei Wuxian’s face. Wei Wuxian didn’t know if he hadn’t been expecting that out of him, or if he thought it was rich for Wei Wuxian to be asking for it now, after refusing so many times – but at length, Wei Wuxian could swear he could see tears in his eyes. “Some of the scores are experimental,” Lan Zhan said. “I have tested them, but please note their effects.” Then he turned in place so he was angled away from Wei Wuxian and conjured his guqin.

In this way, his back to him, Lan Zhan managed to play without leaving the thin bubble of air heated by their mutual warmth. Their shoulders even touched. Wei Wuxian tried not to lean on him. He didn't want to add any more weight, push Lan Zhan more out of his regular alignment than he already was.

Then again, what was the point of him being here? How could he let Lan Zhan help him without letting himself impose?

He couldn't, then. He couldn’t be selfish any longer.

But Lan Zhan wanted him to.

It was a tangle in Wei Wuxian's head. He couldn’t parse it, didn’t have the will, so he just sat there and let the music wash over him, let Lan Zhan play until he was done, and then obeyed when Lan Zhan suggested they go back.

When they returned to the jingshi, Lan Xichen was waiting for them.

///

Lan Wangji observed the way Wei Ying’s demeanor closed in on itself again when he caught sight of Xichen. It was dismaying, but in a distant way – compared to all that had already dismayed him, it was nothing, and as long as Wei Ying remained here, it had no real significance.

Of course, that second thing relied on Xichen’s support.

“I’ve ordered tea to share, if there’s no problem, Wangji.”

He was giving Lan Wangji the option to defer if he still wished to, as he had last night. Lan Wangji could admit it was tempting – there was a part of him that wanted to wrap his hands around Wei Ying alone together in the jingshi and hold him until those tight shutters unfurled themselves again. But they would need to give some account to Xichen sooner or later, and Wei Ying was in a calm state. There would be nothing to gain by delaying.

They sat down at the table and were served. Wei Ying made a few frivolous comments, a thin but genuine attempt at normalcy, and Xichen responded with good nature, but the unignorable topic hung in the air. When the chatter lapsed, Lan Wangji tracked Xichen’s eyes around the jingshi. They stilled on the sword rack – on Suibian, set obviously to the side.

Xichen drew a breath.

“No more,” Lan Wangji said.

“Wangji?”

“We should talk no more about the sword. It's irrelevant.”

Lan Xichen looked concernedly at Lan Wangji, and Lan Wangji stared steadily back.

“It’s a serious departure.”

“Xiongzhang, we must achieve harmony in the cultivation world over Wei Ying’s new style of cultivation." He didn't address Xichen's comment about the sword directly at all.

The crease deepened in Lan Xichen's brow. "That's a tall order.” He surely also had reservations about whether it was a correct course at all. “Are you certain this is the best way to proceed, Wangji? Is there no other solution that’s being abandoned too quickly?”

“No.” Lan Wangji understood now that Wei Ying had been shattered beyond repair, and any other solutions had been shattered with him. There was a narrow path before them, and danger lapped on either side. But if it were possible to see Wei Ying to the other side of it, to avoid suppression by the various sects on one hand and annihilation by his own cultivation on the other, Lan Wangji would see it done.

Xichen’s gaze slid over to Wei Ying – who watched his teacup firmly. “Well … if Wei-gongzi continues to be inflexible, I suppose it is the immediate remedy.”

He had the wrong ideas. Lan Wangji did not correct him.

///

Wei Wuxian did not contribute much to the conversation, but neither Lan Zhan nor Lan Xichen seemed to expect him to. They determined the main obstacle would be Jin Guangshan – and that tipping the scales away from him would be a matter of ten thousand small words instead of a few big, bold ones.

“Sect Leader Jin will not easily let the matter of Wei-gongzi’s amulet go,” Lan Xichen pointed out, mildly as anything.

He was right. That settled like a lead ball in Wei Wuxian’s stomach, but hard problems were not solved in a day.

They also determined – and got Wei Wuxian to agree – he would stay for now, and they would revisit the matter in two weeks and not before. This felt strangely as though Wei Wuxian had been about to go under the sword and he’d gotten a reprieve. It didn’t matter that it was temporary, and all together brief. It felt infinite in comparison to the smother of expectation, and suddenly he could breathe.

He spent the afternoon intermittently walking the circumference of the jingshi’s garden and being in nature, trying and mostly failing to read a few of the books Lan Zhan had brought from the library pavilion he thought might interest him (“Only if you are looking for something to occupy yourself,” Lan Zhan had stressed), listening to another round of Lan Zhan’s healing music, and working fixatedly but not very fruitfully on the design of a talisman. He ended up sitting with his knees in his chest in the circle of Lan Zhan's arms – limp with what he had finally accepted was exhaustion. When night fell, Lan Zhan opened the jingshi's doors and they sat close beside each other on the threshold of the porch, looking up at the stars.

In that beautiful, settled silence, Wei Wuxian eventually said, “I don't know what to say to Jiang Chang.”

“You will be here for at least two weeks,” Lan Zhan replied. “Perhaps much longer.”

“I know, but eventually I’m going to have to go back, and I don’t know what to say to Jiang Cheng.”

“We have time to consider it. That and other things.” Lan Zhan shifted his hand ever so slightly where it rested on his knee. Almost as if he wanted to do something with it. “You must be careful with your use of demonic cultivation. It would be best if you allow other people to act whenever possible, and only use the amulet when there is no alternative.”

“That’s a nice idea, Lan Zhan, but it’s hard when I can’t justify it. Not also using the sword, if it means I can’t do all the things I used to.”

He could only do it if he had someone beside him who knew, who could compensate and step in. But the only person who knew, and who could know, was Lan Zhan.

"I cannot leave Cloud Recesses,” Lan Zhan murmured. “Uncle has forbidden me." Then, he immediately countered with, "I will ask Xiongzhang to intercede with him. He has already been convinced to have you here and to allow me to spend time assisting you. We will tell him …”

"Lan Zhan, you don't have to do that."

"I would not be doing it because I have to.”

Wei Wuxian lay his hand over Lan Zhan’s. He curled his fingers around it, loosely. “I know. I just mean it would be hard for you, too. When you can’t justify it.” There should be no reason Wei Wuxian needed a guard and companion, so it would be impossible to explain to anyone – Lan Qiren, Lan Xichen, Jiang Cheng and Shijie, the whole cultivation world – why Lan Zhan would remain at Wei Wuxian’s side.

It was a nice thought, just an impractical one.

Lan Zhan must’ve agreed with him, because he didn’t dispute this. Instead he finally asked, “Was it painful?”

Wei Wuxian often avoided thinking about it, but when pressed, one thing he remembered was the messy nest Wen Ning had made out of his outer robe to cushion Wei Wuxian’s head. Wei Wuxian had tried to refuse him, claiming it would get dirty. “Use mine,” he'd offered.

“You’ll be cold, Wei-gongzi,” Wen Ning had replied. “From the ground.”

“Won't you then, from the air?” He'd given a thin laugh. “I don't think my being cold or warm is going to matter much.”

Wen Ning had just looked at him mournfully.

He also remembered screaming.

"It wasn't that bad,” was what Wei Wuxian said. “I was unconscious for the worst of it. Mostly just a little sore when I woke up.”

Lan Zhan gave him a long look. Maybe that was too unbelievable – that something so hard would be so easy. "I thought you were telling the truth."

"It doesn't matter now, does it?”

“It matters.”

“But Lan Zhan, don't you … Aren’t you upset enough? I don't want to torture you with the details."

“Wei Ying. It matters.” There was a lengthy pause. “Does it hurt still?” Lan Zhan asked, so quiet it was barely there. Having the core be gone, he surely meant.

Hurt was the wrong word.

When Wen Qing began the procedure in earnest, he’d felt his life leaving him. He’d known his heart would falter and stop by the end of it. He was feeling its last weak beats, drawing his last plaintive breaths, and his throat had tightened in mortal panic.

He lived on, of course, but afterwards he’d still known he was dying – could feel his body slowing down and drying up without the bright warm thing that powered it. He’d been prepared for that possibility from the beginning. He understood it, that his dying body was going to ache and shrivel around him. He’d just needed it to get him down the mountain, get him back to Jiang Cheng, ideally get him in front of an enemy sword so there wouldn’t be any questions about it. As the days passed, it seemed like it might.

The days had turned into weeks. Yiling Tea House had turned into the Burial Mounds. That empty, dead feeling never went away. Wei Wuxian just realized he wasn’t actually going to die from it.

That had been surprisingly hard to deal with.

Wei Wuxian slowly bent forward until he was crumpled against Lan Zhan's chest. Lan Zhan put his arms around him immediately – the embroidered fabric of his robes rich against Wei Wuxian’s cheek, the drape of his sleeve enshrouding him.

“No, it’s just gone now.” The words felt thick in his throat, so he repeated them. "Lan Zhan, it's gone."

Lan Zhan’s lips pressed against the crown of his head. “Wei Ying,” he said, in a tone of voice that sounded like ‘I am here’ and ‘that means nothing’ all at once. Wei Wuxian dug his fingers desperately into Lan Zhan’s robes. He could do nothing, certainly, but it didn’t mean nothing. For him to give up the past day for Wei Wuxian meant something. And the next two weeks, that meant something, too.

Wei Wuxian would try to absorb as much of that meaning as he could, funnel it into that empty space inside him. He would use it for fuel, when it was over. He could perhaps push himself very far on it. He slumped against Lan Zhan’s warm chest and willed it to seep into him.

Lan Zhan stroked his hair – slowly, lightly, the same quiet way he spoke. Lan Zhan wiped dry the intermittent tears that slid silently down one side of Wei Wuxian’s face – those on the other side just seeped into his robe. Lan Zhan hummed to him, a song he’d heard only once before, drifting in and out of consciousness in a dismal cave.

Wei Wuxian’s whole world was the expansion and contraction of his chest. They sat under the light of the scattered infinite stars.

Eventually, after the heavens had turned quite a ways above them, Lan Zhan gathered Wei Wuxian up and took him to bed – settled him down on the edge of it, removed his ribbon and combed down his hair, coaxed off his clothes and dressed him in one of his own sleeping robes. He lay him down and arranged the blanket over him, the way he’d done the previous night.

This time, though, once Lan Zhan had made himself ready for sleep, he got in and joined him. Lay right next to him in the bed, not even a hint of modesty or hesitation, tangling their knees and tucking Wei Wuxian’s head beneath his chin so every inch of them was close.

“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan asked – and it meant Is this all right? Lan Zhan obviously expected it would be, since he’d gone on and done it first, but he was giving Wei Wuxian the opportunity to voice the contrary.

Wei Wuxian wouldn’t have known he wanted it, but it turned out Lan Zhan was quicker than him, at least when it came to these things, because he did. He pressed his cheek into the warm skin of Lan Zhan’s neck and snaked his arm around his waist. “Lan Zhan.”

That night sleep went back to eluding him, spent hours standing ruthlessly out of reach – but instead of being alone in the darkness with his sharpest thoughts, he had Lan Zhan’s precious weight for company.

///

“Xiongzhang,” Lan Wangji said, on the porch of the hanshi. “What about a marriage?”

Lan Wangji had appeared at his brother’s door so early Xichen was still in his sleeping attire, but he still invited Lan Wangji inside and gave the inquiry due consideration. “Certainly Jin Guangshan would be appeased, or at the very least distracted, if the Jiang sect would agree to form that alliance. But Jiang-guniang has already indicated no quite publicly, at the victory banquet, so it will be some time before the matter could be reopened. Besides, I thought we agreed it was unwise to let Sect Leader Jin consolidate power unilaterally.”

“Not a marriage for Jiang Yanli. Or the Jin sect.”

Wei Ying had gone far astray, nearly to the point of catastrophe, but Lan Wangji now realized he had also been in error. He had been overly fixated on getting Wei Wuxian to come to Gusu.

The best solution, the only lasting one, was for him to go to Lotus Pier.

part three

#cql #mdzs #the untamed #fanfiction #wangxian #it takes lan wangji just over twenty four hours to decide the logical course of action is to marry wei ying #if you look closely you can pinpoint the exact moment it occurs to him #and he never looks back lmao #so apparently some deep part of my subconscious is absolutely committed to getting lwj to marry into wwx’s family at lotus pier #I gave it a throwaway line in one of the spring fest fics and now here we are #I tried to decide if I was being objective here but other than sad/less fun endings #I felt like the only way to substantially change what comes next #is for lwj to feel like he's in a societally-recognized position to be able to back wwx up #instead of just watching from the sidelines feeling dismayed #and maybe some of the weight of the highly respectable lan clan can be thrown around #to support the powerful-but-vulnerable wwx and the new-and-insecure jc and jiang clan #against the very rude (and regrettably powerful) jgs #that’s my concept here #and in canon lwj spends this whole period going ‘what the heck is wwx’s problem’#alongside the obvious ‘oh no he’s going to get hurt’#and he still ends up trying to help him at nightless city and fighting god and the elders lmao #so now in this scenario he ~knows~ wwx’s problem #and gets frightened by wwx’s condition and his almost-death #he’s shoved off that precipitous love-wei-ying cliff even faster lmao #this a/n is just me trying to justify my sappy plot decisions okay #look at all these tags okay end TED talk #my fic #wwx #lwj #lxc

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squidproquoclarice · 4 years

Note

All the questions for the relationship meme :^)

All the questions for Sadithur (as discussed!), done. This one’s going largely under a cut because it’s long! Numerous other people requested a single answer, but since I got this one, please go ahead and refer to this for it.

PRE-RELATIONSHIP

How did they first meet?

He came to rob her house for survival supplies, and instead ended up rescuing her from being held prisoner by the men who’d murdered her husband. Not exactly a meet cute.

What was their first impression of each other?

Uhhhh, well. Arthur’s first impression of Sadie was “poor shocked woman who’s had her house broken into, her husband murdered, and been attacked herself by O’Driscolls for the last three days”. And Sadie’s first impression of Arthur is probably “large strange man who was in my house, shot the bastards who broke in, and is clearly a violent man himself, even if he saved me, and I’m not inclined to trust pretty much any man right now, let alone one with a gun.” Not the most promising beginning.

Did any of their friends or family want them to get together?

Hosea definitely hoped for them to become a couple at some point if they survived what was to come, even though he knew at that time neither of them was in a good place for it. Hosea’s very much the cheerleader for his kids being happy, to judge from his trying to get Abigail and John to reconcile, and given I’m sure he knows about Eliza and Isaac, he knows how lonely and traumatized Arthur is, and also sees the remarkable rapport and ease of manner he develops with Sadie. I also think Abigail, who loves both Arthur and Sadie deeply, kind of hoped for it also. She knows how lonely they both are, and sees how they are around each other, and we know she’s definitely a bit of a romantic and a believer in the power of love. I suspect Tilly might have leaned in that direction too, because Tilly’s perceptive AF, and Arthur’s Big Bro. Who felt romantic feelings first?

Arthur. Understandably so, as his grief for Isaac and Eliza is further in the past than Sadie’s for Jake. It was still only a matter of a couple of months difference, though. Did either of them try to resist their feelings?

Not so much resisted as restrained. They readily accepted they felt that way, and that the person they felt romantic feelings towards was more than worthy of it. They were just questioning whether it was right and fair to put those feelings on the other person. Both of them had concerns--Arthur felt like he had nothing to offer Sadie and had no right to impose on her like that with his feelings, and Sadie had concerns that Arthur would just be bulldozed into a relationship from just being happy to be wanted, and she was unwilling to hurt him like that.

If you had told one of them that the other would be their soulmate, what would they think? Almost immediately the two of them click in a profound way and they’re very close and comfortable with each other. The trust and affection and deep friendship is already there, so I don’t think they’d be shocked to hear they’d be so important to each other. But they would likely have both been very surprised at the idea of also being together romantically and sexually at some point. Not as a reflection of the other person being unsuitable, but because after so much trauma and self-loathing and loss, neither of them could imagine having that in their lives.

GENERAL

Who initiated the relationship, and how did it go?

Neither of them really made a move. It just sorta happened as a slow change over a couple of years from friends to a cohabiting queerplatonic couple to spouses.

Did they have an official first date? If so, what was it like?

In a sense, their first date was that shopping-and-gunfighting trip to Rhodes, which was pretty memorable, and shows off their immediate easy chemistry and battle couple potential. But in terms of a genuine romantically intended “first date”, not really. They were essentially a QPR by the time they admitted to now having romantic/sexual feelings as well, so things were intense and committed enough already that they didn’t need a date. They just moved right towards getting married.

What was their first kiss like?

They both had resolved to admit their feelings to each other after the wedding of two of their friends. Then they got a little tipsy at the wedding, ended up saying a bit too much, and Sadie took the initiative and kissed Arthur. Given he kissed back very enthusiastically, she could be pretty sure he wasn’t just playing along with her. But they realized they needed to talk, so they tabled it until the next day when they were sober again and could talk about it.

Were they each other’s first anything (kiss, relationship, etc.)?

For Sadie, no. She’d been married very happily to Jake. For Arthur, this was the first relationship with solid grounding and a solid future rather than youthful fantasy like Mary, and he’s surprised at how easy it is to be with Sadie, including being vulnerable, because of that trust. It’s also the first time he’s had sex and actually really been comfortable and enjoyed it rather than just being left feeling awkward and even more alone, given he comes across very strongly as some type of asexual (I write him specifically as demisexual) and didn’t have opportunities for the emotional intimacy he needs to be interested in sex. Both of them actually had their first kiss in a same-sex romance, though Sadie wasn’t able to acknowledge hers as romantic until much later.

What’s their height difference? Age difference?

Given Roger and Alex’s heights, and their corresponding relative heights in-game looking accurate to that height differential, I put Arthur at 6’ish and Sadie at 5’4”ish, so there’s an 8 inch height difference. As for age, it’s canonical that Arthur was born in 1863. I have him as a July birthdate, so he’s 35 for the early bits of the game, and 36 for most of it. Sadie appears to be 30ish (she’s definitely no 24-year-old), and I write her as having been born in April of 1868. So she’s 31 for all of RDR2. That puts their age difference as a smidge under 5 years.

What’s their relationship with each other’s families?

Both of them have lost their biological parents by 1899. Arthur’s only bio sibling (David) died even before Arthur even knew him. Sadie lost an older brother (Henry), and she’s become estranged from her younger sister Caroline, though they patch that up. Arthur has yet to meet Caro, though, as she’s been living in Oregon. So the only real family in question was the gang, and clearly Sadie was not only accepted by them, she actually stepped up and led them.

Who takes the lead in social situations?

Sadie tends to, and Arthur readily relies upon and defers to her experience there. He’ll be the first to admit his life didn’t exactly teach him the boundaries and everyday pleasantries of Victorian social order, and sometimes that’s to the good. Sadie’s not exactly a paragon of it herself as a hardscrabble farm girl who doesn’t defer to misogyny, but she’s aware of some of those rules, boundaries, and undercurrents in a way Arthur isn’t. So he’s not too proud to let her take the lead in a social situation, or to ask her advice in dealing with something without giving offense.

Who gets jealous easier?

Arthur would have, early on. He was far more insecure in himself (and as Sadie admits, he’ll always be a little more fragile than her in that realm), but he was probably more likely to morosely turn doubts on himself as a perceived inadequacy and personal failure rather than to get jealous of Sadie. Being romantically or sexually jealous really kind of requires insecurity and lack of trust, and they’ve moved far beyond that.

LOVE

Who said “I love you” first?

I had to double check. Arthur said it first when he proposed to her, but Sadie immediately followed it.

What are their primary love languages?

For both, I think Quality Time/Acts of Service. Showing love for both of them is in spending time together doing things, doing little things for each other, and basking in that friendship that’s the solid foundation of everything between them. There’s a bit of Physical Touch in there also due to both of them being somewhat touch-starved. I do think Arthur has some Words of Affirmation in there as well, because sometimes he truly needs to hear praise and affection deliberately and unequivocally stated to be able to believe it’s real, and Sadie’s come to realize that and respond to it.

How often do they cuddle/engage in PDA?

They’re not really an overt PDA couple. What they have they consider generally very intense but private. They do like to cuddle in private, and small touches here and there are common enough.

What are their favorite things to do together?

Just spend time together, to be honest. It could be reading together (silently or one of them aloud), playing music together, doing chores, cooking, spending time with the kids, training horses, lying in bed talking, or anything. They just genuinely enjoy each other’s company.

Who’s better at comforting the other?

It’s a learned skill for both of them since neither was great at articulating feelings, but the months at Las Hermanas when they were both healing psychologically while Arthur was healing physically did a lot. They’re both fairly good at nonverbal comfort, and reaffirming each other.

Who’s more protective?

Pick a day. It can vary. ;) I think we see in-game they’re both fiercely protective of each other. I do think Arthur has the knack of being protective of her in a non-patronizing, non-paternalistic way, which Sadie appreciates. It’s still been hard for her to accept that needing and taking help isn’t admitting she’s weak. Arthur kind of had to get over that notion during his TB convalescence because he constantly needed help for things.

Do they prefer verbal or physical affection?

A mix of both. Usually not big overt dramatic demonstrations, since that’s not their dynamic, but quick little affectionate touches (on the arm, the cheek, etc.), using fond nicknames and pet names, and things like that.

What are some songs that apply to their relationship, in-universe or otherwise?

I’ll keep working on this and probably post some of my Sadithur playlist at some point.

What kind of nicknames do they call each other?

“Art” and “Daisy” are their private affectionate nicknames, given Sadie jokingly calling him “artsy Art” as he’s an artist, and Arthur admitting he couldn’t come up with a fitting nickname from “Sadie” and just rearranging the sounds a bit. After Sadie used it in-game, “honey” is probably the most common pet name they use.

DOMESTIC LIFE

If they get married, who proposes?

Arthur did. That’s not because Sadie is a traditionalist by any means. But I do think there’s the part of her that likes to know she’s not steamrollering someone, and that they got to take their own initiative. Then especially in Arthur’s case, I think he needed to ask. She needed to be sure that Arthur wanted to be with her, rather than it being a case of her wanting him and him going along with it from being happy to be wanted by her. I also think he needed it too to prove to himself he could be confident enough in what he had to offer Sadie to ask, and to stand equal to her.

What’s the wedding like? Who attends?

They had a very small wedding at their home in Chuparosa, for several reasons. One is because they’re just not the type for huge demonstrative parties for their own sake, even if they enjoy them when they’re celebrations for someone else. Neither of them really likes being a massive center of attention. Two, they were fairly alone. They’d made some friends in Mexico, but aside from Charles (who they knew went to Canada), everyone else from the gang was a mystery to them. Three, they kept it small and quiet also since they’d sorta accidentally ended up playing fake married since Arthur’s admission to Las Hermanas in order to stick together. So everyone already assumed they were a married couple, and they didn’t want it to become a big obvious thing. Sister Calderon was the officiant (since it was a secular wedding of two avowed non-Catholics), and their friends Pedro and Juanita Estevez from Las Hermanas were the witnesses. Dr. Felipe Garcia, Arthur’s doctor who’d also become a friend, also attended, as did Albert Mason, who they’d found in Escalera a few weeks before on yet another wildlife photography expedition.

How many kids do they have, if any? What are they like?

Mild Sunrise spoiler ahoy, but as of 1908 they’ll have four: Beatrice (born 1902), Matthew (born 1903), Susanna (born 1905, adopted by them in 1907) and Andrew (born in 1908). I also see them as likely taking in some older kids later once Susie and Andy are a bit older, because Arthur in particular would be passionate about the need to try to give a couple of orphaned and/or homeless teens and near-teens a home. He knows the kind of people who take you in, or if it doesn’t happen at all, can make a huge difference. As for personality, Bea’s very much a fierce no-nonsense sort but very protective of the younger kids, Mattie’s a sweet boy who’s going to become a gentle giant, and as for Susie and Andy, I’ll wait to see what they tell me. Andy’s not born yet, and Susie’s both very young and dealing with the trauma of losing her family to Micah’s gang, so she’s understandably not showing much of her true personality just now.

Do they have any pets?

Aside from a lot of horses? They ended up with a black cat (Dido) at the very end of 1899, adopted during the first weeks of Arthur’s convalescence at Las Hermanas and helping keep him company during all that bed rest. Then they picked up a stray dog (Dusty) in Armadillo in 1901 during fighting the cholera epidemic--this is the Armadillo “Mutt” in-game. The most recent addition is a border collie puppy (Dorothy), who they’ve adopted from MacFarlane’s Ranch in 1907, given Charlie the border collie being there in RDR1.

Who’s the stricter parent?

This ended up being something of a big fight, actually, and probably the first huge blow-out in their marriage. Sadie felt like she was the only one providing discipline and accountability as Bea got old enough to start to need it. Arthur understandably was feeling his way through parenting since mostly what he has is negative examples from Lyle (physical abuse) and Dutch (profound psychological abuse). Even Hosea’s parenting was sort of indirect and elusive sometimes. So he was being very hands-off on discipline out of a need to make certain the kids knew they were loved, and to not worry that he was hurting them. But he couldn’t do that and leave Sadie all the heavy lifting while he gets to be identified as the “nice” parent and the joybringer, and the two of them came to realize that. I’d say they’re about even now.

Who kills the bugs in the house?

Both of them. Neither is squeamish by any means.

How do they celebrate holidays?

Usually fairly quietly at home with family, but with remembrances of things dear to them. Songs and music, decorations, favorite foods, little family rituals. They like to keep that kind of thing alive where they can.

Who’s more likely to convince the other to come back to sleep in the morning?

Sadie. She knows how hard farming is, so she’s up and at it when there’s work to be done. But she never had Arthur’s long years of anxious need to stay busy no matter what so he was proving his usefulness.

Who’s the better cook?

They’re both pretty decent at it. Sadie actually likes cooking, but she doesn’t like being expected to do it just because she’s a woman, so she’s rather protective of that notion. Arthur came to it late, as kitchen duty was one of the first light jobs a TB patient at Las Hermanas could have after being allowed off total bed rest. Given how bored he was by then, cooking became something really exciting, and he found out he actually enjoyed it, both the kind of soothing ritual of all those steps, and then producing something tangible by it.

#arthur morgan #sadie adler #sadithur #rdr2 #ship overview meme #actuallyhansolo

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narukoibito · 4 years

Text

worthy of love anyway

A gift for @hillnerd / @hillyminne for all the amazing Harry Potter quarantine activities and for being just a kind, wonderful person!

Summary: The image of his own reflection caused a burst of desperate desire in his heart. The shiny badges and trophies. Proof that he was as cool as Bill, as brave as Charlie, as funny as the twins, as smart as Percy, as beloved as Ginny. He fell asleep fitfully as resentment burned in his gut as he remembered Harry’s flippant dismissal. What’s interesting about that?

Ron Weasley, the sixth son, in six scenes.

FF.net | AO3

Note: Lyrics from "Three" by Sleeping at Last. It screamed "Ron" to me from the very first listen. This is my first Ron-centric story. I hope it does him justice.

i. Maybe I've done enough, / And your golden child grew up. / Maybe this trophy isn't real love, / And with or without it I'm good enough.

"Look at me!" Ron said, his voice filled with awe. He only saw himself in the mirror — but instead of his skinny, gangly self, his reflection was taller, fitter than Charlie, and handsomer than Bill! There was an air of confidence to his reflection, whose Head Boy badge and Quidditch Captain badge glinted cheerfully, almost as brilliantly as the House and Quidditch Cups he carried with ease. Older, cooler, happier Ron gave him a wink.

"Can you see your family standing around you?" Harry answered with excitement.

"No — I'm alone — but I'm different —" Ron explained what he saw, glee bubbling up inside him. He desperately drank in the sight of himself, of everything he had ever wanted. But he tore his eyes away from the mirror to look at Harry, wanting to gauge his reaction. "Do you think this mirror shows the future?"

"How can it? All my family are dead." The hurt and pain that shined in Harry's eyes made Ron falter. "Let me have another look —"

"You had it to yourself all last night," he protested. "Give me a bit more time."

"You're only holding the Quidditch Cup, what's interesting about that?"

Only? Pressure built up in Ron's chest.

"I want to see my parents."

"Don't push me —" Ron was surprised by Harry's hard shove, but was even more taken aback by his burning look.

The noise in the hall immediately disrupted the conversation. Ron quickly dragged away Harry, who seemed reluctant to leave. Even after they returned to Gryffindor tower, Harry seemed angry, which confused Ron and fueled his frustration. He burrowed deeper into his bed and drew his blankets closer, holding tight to the image of what he hoped would be his future.

The image of his own reflection caused a burst of desperate desire in his heart. The shiny badges and trophies. Proof that he was as cool as Bill, as brave as Charlie, as funny as the twins, as smart as Percy, as beloved as Ginny. He fell asleep fitfully as resentment burned in his gut as he remembered Harry's flippant dismissal.

What's interesting about that?

But when the morning light crept in and woke Ron from his deep slumber, the resentment had faded away, leaving only a resounding hunger. After a hearty breakfast, he was ready to enjoy the rest of his holiday with Harry.

Harry, on the other hand, seemed distant and detached. For the second day in a row, he pushed his food around on his plate as he stared unseeing at the eggs, the burning hunger in his eyes not matching his appetite.

"You're not eating anything," Ron said, but Harry shook his head at Ron's attempt to add food to his plate. He couldn't help but glance at the empty spot beside him, wondering what Hermione would have said to get Harry to eat.

Back in the common room, Ron tried to coax Harry out of his mood, offering to play chess or Exploding Snap. But Harry simply stared listlessly at the fire, his knees drawn toward him, looking cold and alone. Ron thought back to why he was here rather than back at the Burrow. He thought of the curt, unfeeling letter from Harry's relatives. He thought of the mixture of shock and painful hope on Harry's face at the embarrassing jumper his mum sent.

"I know what you're thinking about, Harry — that mirror. Don't go back tonight."

"Why not?"

"I dunno, I've just got a bad feeling about it — "

Harry shook his head, reckless determination radiating from his body.

Ron fiddled his new jumper, poking a finger through the yarn to make a small hole. Maybe Ron couldn't be what the mirror showed him to be. Maybe Ron couldn't replace the things that Harry saw. But at least he could try to be there for Harry.

ii. Maybe I've done enough, / Finally catching up. / For the first time I see an image of my brokenness, / Utterly worthy of love.

This was going to be the worst Christmas ever. He pressed his face further into his pillow, trying to will away the holiday. Bill and Fleur had been trying to engage him in some pre-Christmas cheer, but all Ron could think about was what today was like for Harry and Hermione. Were they shivering by a small fire and a tin of beans, looking ragged and worn? Or were they looking far better than when he left, determined, happier, complete without him?

He flopped over in the bed onto his side and wrapped his arm around himself.

It was still early if he was right about the amount of light parting the darkness through the window, and no one else in the cottage was stirring. He considered trying to sleep but knew it was useless. When he closed his eyes, it was like he could see her, running towards him, large tears streaming down her pale face, her hands reaching up to hold onto him. Him wrenching his arm away, wanting nothing more than to see the hurt and rejection shine in her eyes — for her to feel just a modicum of the pain he had felt those weeks — years, watching her put Harry first. Just like everyone else.

Ron! Hermione had cried, begging him to stay.

He felt sick to his stomach now, remembering the fury, the wicked satisfaction of being able to hurt her. He never wanted to hurt her, but he always seemed to. He had left, abandoning her and Harry and everything he had stood for in one fell swoop. The moment he had flung off the locket and Disapparated, all of those awful feelings had lifted, and in their stead, horror, dread, and guilt took hold.

Immediately, he tried to go back. The campsite was deserted, and he had felt ridiculously left behind.

Maybe they're better off without you, he thought morosely. Hermione would cry, and Harry would be there for her. They would comfort each other over what a prat he was, the weakest link, unable to handle the hunger, the hopelessness, the Horcrux.

Ron curled his hand into a fist. He had to go back, he had to make amends, he had to do what he had set out to do, perhaps had always prepared to do, the moment he pushed open that compartment door on the Hogwarts Express where the boy with untidy hair sat alone in second-hand clothes like him.

He closed his eyes.

He missed her.

"...Ron?"

He started at the sound of her voice, scared it had been his imagination, but he knew it was her. Hermione. Her voice was coming from the direction of…his pocket? Then he heard her again.

"…broke his wand…"

Ron fumbled out of bed, pulling out the Deluminator, which he carried everywhere. It looked exactly the same, but he heard her. He was sure of it. Hope bloomed in his chest for the first time since he left. He clicked the Deluminator, and the light went out from his room, only for a ball of bluish light to appear outside the window. It pulsed, beckoning him.

This was it.

He changed as quickly as he could, shoving his maroon pajamas and other things into his rucksack. Anticipation buzzed under his skin as he hurried out to the garden where he knew the little ball of light would be waiting for him. The light snow flurried around him as the hovering ball led him behind the shed. When they were hidden from view, it floated toward him and went straight to his chest, into his heart. It pulsed, achingly hot inside him, flooding him with memories of Hermione fussing over his homework, dancing with him at the wedding, lying Petrified on the hospital bed, brushing her lips against his cheek before tryouts, holding his hand at Grimmauld Place.

And Ron just knew what he was supposed to do; he knew the ball would take him where he needed to go.

He disappeared with a loud crack.

iii. Maybe I've done enough / And I finally see myself / Through the eyes of no one else. / It's so exhausting on this silver screen / Where I play the role of anyone but me.

His forehead stung from where the stupid badge hit him, but he barely noticed over the swell of emotion in his chest. Harry swept past him, up the stairs.

Ron stood motionless until there was no other sound in the empty common room aside from the occasional crack or hiss from the fire before he leaned over and picked up the lime green monstrosity. His fingers curled over the blaring words, POTTER REALLY STINKS.

He was feeling more and more like he had made a mistake. But why didn't Harry get it? If he had put his name in the Goblet, why hadn't he done it with him? The Goblet probably would have chosen Harry over him anyway — everyone always did. But they would have done it together. It would have given Ron just a sliver of hope, to have had just the chance of some of the endless glory of his best friend.

You might even have a scar now, if you're lucky… That's what you want, isn't it?

He sunk into the couch, staring at the fire. Unbidden, he remembered watching Harry all those years ago, when he had found the Mirror of Erised.

The guilt that had been lurking settled at the pit of his stomach, which had felt hollow for days. Hadn't he promised himself that he would be there for Harry? Didn't Ron know best of all everything that Harry didn't have? The way Harry had pressed his hand against the mirror.

You're only holding the Quidditch Cup, what's interesting about that?

Bitterness surged up, pressing against the guilt.

Ron had pushed aside his feelings then, hadn't he? He had put being Harry's friend first. He has always done that because — because Harry was his best friend.

He just wished that Harry would try to do the same for him.

iv. And I finally see myself / Unabridged and overwhelmed, / A mess of a story I'm ashamed to tell. / But I'm slowly learning how to break this spell, / And I finally see myself.

The bark was rough against his palm as he leaned against a tree for a moment. His muscles ached from the damp, miserable cold. He had been wandering around for hours, staring hard into the darkness, waiting, willing for Hermione or Harry to appear. What he would give to hear her say his name again.

He told time by how long it took for his hands to go numb, and he would have to remember to recast a warming charm. Maybe he should rest at the base of the tree and try again in the morning.

Just as he was about to lie down, silvery light caught his eye. When the corporal doe materialized, Ron nearly yelped out in surprise. But the cry died in his throat at the sight of Harry emerging out of thin air, with a look of wonder and hunger. What was Harry doing casting his Patronus? Instinctually, he followed Harry, who followed the doe deeper and deeper into the thick forest.

Without prompt, Harry broke out into a run. He was so quick, Ron worried he would lose him to the shadows. He stopped when the forest opened up to a clearing. But the silvery light of the doe had vanished, leaving only darkness. He strained his eyes, trying to find Harry.

Suddenly, a blue light appeared, revealing Harry and a small lake before him. Ron's breath caught in his throat, but somehow he felt compelled to stay quiet. Harry raised his wand, and Ron pressed himself against a tree, his heart clamoring loudly against his ribs. Harry spun around and knelt to the ground, the light from his wand reflecting on the black ice before him. He leaned forward, nearly pressing his face against the pool. After a few moments, he rose and began to pace.

All this time, with the Deluminator light inside him, Ron's primary concern had been to find Harry and Hermione again. It had taken his entire focus. But now, with Harry just a few feet away from him, suddenly all the fears and doubts began to fester again. The apology looming in the recesses of his mind sounded trite. What would they say? Would they even want to see him again? The cruel words he had said to them before he left rang in his head like a bell.

What if it was too late?

A sharp cracking sound jolted Ron from his reverie. He looked up, wide-eyed, to see that Harry had stripped down to his pants and was placing his wand on the ground. He couldn't…

Ron leapt up from his spot just as Harry jumped into the lake. Harry sputtered for a moment, his breath coming out in broken gusts of white. A chill ran down Ron's spine when he spotted an ominous glint around Harry's neck. Harry took one deep breath and vanished beneath the black depths.

Harry didn't reappear.

The locket, Ron realized with swelling panic. The locket must have made him do it.

He scrambled from his hiding spot to where his friend had just disappeared — movement catching his eye, but all thoughts scattering from his mind.

The dark waters reflected his pale, drawn face back at him, his blue eyes gleaming with rising fear as the seconds ticked away without Harry resurfacing. Not the face of a hero, not his brothers' or his sister's, not the glowing one in the Mirror. But the only one that could save Harry now.

The reflection's expression changed, becoming brazen and determined. Ron bit back a swear and dove into the icy waters.

v. Now I only want what's real, / To let my heart feel what it feels. / Gold, silver, or bronze hold no value here, / Where work and rest are equally revered.

The weight of the gold felt heavy and yet was lighter than he had imagined. Not that he had ever imagined this, he thought as his finger traced over the green ribbon. He looked up from the medal, out into the lake, the waves shimmering back at him. The breeze brushed against his neatly trimmed hair.

Ron wasn't sure what he was supposed to be feeling. The way people looked at him now was different, but he didn't feel any different. Was this how Harry had always felt?

"Hey." The wind carried Hermione's soft voice to him, and he turned. She was looking up at him, smiling despite the line of worry between her brows. An identical First Order of Merlin glinted from her chest. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugged, watching as she joined him on the rock. The smell of whatever potion she'd put in her hair made his lips curl up. "Wanted a moment away," he said, stretching his arms behind his head. He casually let one rest behind her, giving her something to lean on if she wanted. "I'm too famous for my own good."

She huffed in amusement before they lapsed into a comfortable silence. There was the sound of the lake, the leaves rustling in the breeze, and the murmur of everyone closer to the castle behind them.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked finally.

"I don't know," Ron admitted, watching her face drop. He swallowed nervously and fiddled with the tie Hermione had knotted too tightly. "I was thinking…of going to Australia with you. If you want."

Her eyes shined brightly, even as her face screwed up. She looked beautiful with the sunlight streaming through her hair.

"Yeah?" she asked in a small voice.

"Yeah," he said, pushing some of her soft, fuzzy hair from her face. "I'd even fly in an aero - thingy whatsit that Harry was talking about the other day."

"Aero-plane," she enunciated, swatting his hand away, sighed — not in disdain, as he had imagined months ago — but with amused affection. "And I already told you that it doesn't make sense to go that way."

She then launched into a long-winded explanation of the challenges of Apparation across long distances, bodies of water, and the complications of international Apparation customs.

Sometimes he still couldn't believe it.

Least loved, always…

He shook the words away and smiled gently at Hermione.

"Come on," he said, interrupting her as she began discussing the pros and cons of Portkeys by taking her hand in his, lacing their fingers the way he had dreamt of since his fourth year. He looked over his shoulder at his family, where he saw Ginny practically shielding Harry from nosy strangers trying to get a closer look. His heart ached at the obvious absence there, and he squeezed her hand. "Let's join the others. I'm starved."

"Honestly, Ron!" she huffed predictably. "We ate just before the ceremony."

"Carrying this thing around my neck takes a lot of energy." He laughed.

vi. I only want what's real. / I set aside the highlight reel, / And leave my greatest failures on display with an asterisk, / Worthy of love anyway.

He stared hard at the mirror, his tongue caught between his teeth as he carefully adjusted his ginger hair with a comb. The damn butterflies in his stomach wouldn't stop fluttering.

"You look good, dearie," the mirror said in a cheery voice.

Ron eyed his reflection skeptically, but it only gave him a wink.

"You do," Harry confirmed from the door.

"Yeah?" Ron asked, pulling at his new and fitted robes.

"At least this time it doesn't have lace."

"Har har," Ron said, but he smiled now at his reflection. Midnight blue was Hermione's favorite color. "Do you think I should have a smudge of dirt on my face, for old time's sake?"

"If you want her to kill you."

They were laughing when Ginny popped her head in, arching an eyebrow at her brother and boyfriend. "Time to take your places." She gave Harry a long look of appreciation. "You clean up nice, Potter."

"I'm the one getting married today," Ron grumbled, lightly elbowing Harry, who had flushed a deep red. Harry flashed him a sheepish grin, but Ginny stepped closer. Ron bristled under her critical gaze, but she suddenly pulled him into a hard embrace, forcing him to bend downward awkwardly. All that Quidditch training was making her way too strong.

"Oi! Watch the hair!"

"You look great," she said fiercely, hiding her face in his shoulder in a way that reminded him of when she was twelve. And just like that she was pulling away with a bright smirk on her face. "Though I still think the puce looked better on you."

He scowled as she skittered out the door.

"Better be quick before Mum comes to get you!"

"Come on," Harry said, patting him on the back. "Big day."

"Yeah," Ron said, his face already starting to ache from smiling.

He took one last glance in the mirror.

He'd never looked happier in his life.

#Ron Weasley #Harry Potter #Hermione Granger #Ron/Hermione #Romione #fanfiction #hillminne #hillnerd #gift #i wrote a thing #My writing #mirror of erised #harry and ron are brotp for life #ron weasley is a good friend #couldn't resist adding Ginny #horcrux hunt #three by sleeping at last

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