#i just want healthy hair………. fighting the urge to shave it all off again and start from scratch bc i know it’d come out with the same result

[macroglossus]

man i have so many short hairs at the top of my head and i cannot at all tell what’s frizz and what’s new growth

[oakleaf--bearer]

what if nikola cut jons hair when he was with the circus

cw// -nikola cuts jons hair without his consent -panic attacks -tim hates jon (canon typical)

also on ao3

-

"Sit Still, Archivist. I Don't Want To Slip!"

Jon thrashed, desperately trying to get away. The gag muffled his pleas for her to 'stop, please stop, oh god, please'.

"If You Can't Sit Still Then I Will Get Upset!"

The first snip was far too loud. A small shower of hair fluttered down, tickling past his arm and sending him headfirst into hysterics.

Nikola tutted, or made a noise that could've been tutting if she'd actually had a mouth. "Silly Archivist, It's Only Hair!". She squeezed his cheeks in one cold plastic hand. "You Won't Need It When I Peel You!"

The scissors closed next to his ear, so close he could feel the cold metal of the blades, and he finally stilled, terror overtaking him and freezing his muscles in place. He didn't move as she continued to cut his hair, moving his head from side to side with a firm grasp on his scalp. Tears ran down his cheeks, saturating the gag. Every decisive snip of the scissors was like thunder in his ears, sending a cascade of hair into his lap where it landed against his trembling legs.

"You Cry A Lot, Don't You?" Nikola said in her horrible sing-song voice. "Tears Are Good For Your Skin, So I'm Glad You're Crying."

Jon shook his head, trying to hold back his sobs.

"None Of That. Stop Moving." She pulled on his strands harshly. "I Don't Want To Ruin Your Skin!"

Jon choked out a desperate plea against the gag. "Please, Elias, help me, dear god get me out of here."

-

Jon stared at his reflection, running a hand through the mess that was his hair. It was wildly uneven, with patches still long and stringy while others were cut close to his scalp. There was no order to his hair anymore, not that he'd been a particularly tidy person before the Circus had kept him tied up in a basement for a month. His wrists still ached. Being dragged back to the Institute should've been a relief, but all he was feeling was a deep exhaustion. So much had happened so quickly and Jon was rapidly loosing control. He couldn't even get his hair to look neat.

One of the stall doors opened. Jon dropped his hands and stepped away from the sinks, putting his back against the wall. Tim came out of the stall, glaring at Jon.

"What are you doing here? Still sneaking around? You following us to the bathroom now?"

"No, I- I just needed to wash my hands."

"Sure." Tim didn't sound convinced. He crossed over to the sink furthest from Jon and washed his hands, glaring at him in the reflection from the mirror.

Jon pushed off the wall and hurried to leave, desperately wishing to avoid an argument that he didn't have the energy for. Smoothly, Tim stepped in front of him, blocking the doorway. Jon didn't meet his eyes, just stared at the door over Tim's shoulder, quietly praying that he could leave soon.

"You look like shit."

Jon closed his eyes.

"Did you do that?"

He shook his head.

"What, didn't have the guts to fight back? Just stood there and took it?"

He flinched. The feeling of plastic hands against his scalp filled his mind, the gag in his mouth, muffling his screams, the cold press of the scissors against his neck.

Tim scoffed. "Yeah, thought so. Don't move."

He vanished out of the room. Jon stayed where he was, fidgeting with this sleeves. When Tim reappeared a few minutes later, he was carrying a plastic case and a hand towel from the breakroom. He pushed Jon backwards slightly, shoving him further into the room. Jon stumbled but let Tim manoeuvre him until his lower back collided with the sinks.

Tim dumped the case on the counter and snapped open the clasps, revealing a set of hair clippers.

Jon stared at them. "Why are these even here?"

"Martin bought them while he was staying in the archives." Tim said, tossing the hand towel over Jon's shoulder. "He still needed to cut his hair. You'd know that if you actually payed attention."

"Right." Jon ran a finger along the plastic casing of the trimmer. "Sorry."

"Stop saying that."

Jon fought down the urge to apologise again.

"Turn around."

The first brush of Tim's hand against his hair sent him staggering into the sink.

"Sorry, sorry, I- I'm sorry."

"Jon."

"It felt- I thought-"

Tim's voice was quiet. "You thought I was one of them?"

Jon nodded weekly.

Tim took Jon's hand pressed his thumb into the pulse point on Tim's wrist. "I'm real. I am not one of those things. I'm human."

Jon felt the steady beat of Tim's heart against his thumb and forced himself to focus on it, counting the steady rhythm of it.

"You okay for me to try again?"

A moments pause. More heartbeat under his thumb. Jon nodded.

Slowly, Tim raised his free hand to Jon's hair. Jon tensed, feeling Tim's fingertips against his scalp, knowing that there was blood beneath his skin, a heart pumping that blood.

"I'm going to need my hand back." Tim shook his hand gently, not enough to dislodge Jon but enough to get his attention.

Jon let go, immediately missing the touch.

"Is this going to be too much?" Tim held up the clippers. Jon shook his head. "Good. Turn around. You don't have to look, I just need to get to the back of your head."

Jon turned, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. Deep breath, Sims. Come on now.

The buzz of the clippers was nothing like the sharp snap of scissors, but it still made him feel sick. Feeling Tim press them gently into the back of his neck sent him reeling, gripping onto the sink as Tim methodically shaved off the longer portions. He paused every few seconds to brush away the loose hair with the back of his hand.

"Why did they cut your hair?"

Jon glanced up at Tim's reflection. He was staring at the back of Jon's head, not meeting his gaze.

"She said it would be easier to- To use my skin if it was all clean."

Tim didn't respond. He placed a hand on Jon's temple to tip his head back, swapping out the blades of the clippers for ones that would cut the hair longer. He started on the top of Jon's head, leaving the hair about an inch or so long. Some of the patches were still too short to fully match, but they were far more hidden. Tim was silent as he worked, but he was gentle. He didn't pull at the strands, just pushed at Jon's head when he needed him to move.

Once he was done, he dropped the clippers back in the box.

"Well?"

Jon ran a hand over his head. It was far tidier, if still a little messy. It was manageable. He could live with it. "Thank you."

Tim scoffed. "Don't. I just didn't want to have to see you looking like a walking guilt trip."

Jon smiled weakly. "That's fair."

"Besides, Martin would've worried. It's not healthy for him to care this much about you."

"I know."

"You're going to get him killed. You know that, right?"

Jon nodded. "I know."

"You just don't care."

Jon tried to protest, but Tim was already gone, slamming the door to the bathroom behind him. "Yeah." He sighed, staring at the sink full of hair. "Yeah. I deserved that."

[justkindaoverhereobsessing]

car crash, hot flash

You can all thank @indestinatus for this painfully parallel little ficlet. It’s not my fault. It’s hers.

_________________

“We all risk the chances of mistakes / cause we all need a little pain / Who knew that the absence of love is all it takes to change your mind / consider what you left behind / you’ve only walked into a / car crash, hot flash.” 

- Crow’s Feet by The Accidentals

_________________

Two months.

Two months, that desk has been empty.

Two months since Tony returned from Israel, two months since he last spoke to his best friend.

He misses her, and it hurts.

Two months have passed when her desk phone rings. Tony looks up at it, bemused. The calls happened some in the beginning, before people got the message that Ziva David had permanently vacated the line. Then, slowly, the ringing stopped, which hurt on its own merits. It’s almost like the world learned to forget her, just like Tony did, but… who could possibly be calling now?

It rings three times as Tony stairs at it, imagining an olive-skinned hand picking it up and a slightly accented voice answering, but that doesn’t happen. 

Nothing happens.

“You should get that.”

Tony tears his eyes away from the phone to look at McGee, who jerks his head toward Ziva’s desk—as if he could possibly be talking about anything else.

“No. No, it’s probably a wrong number.”

“You’ll never know if you don’t pick it up.”

“McGee, I’m not going to—”

“You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Tony stops, because he more than understands regret right now. Robotically, he stands and does as the probie suggested, wishing for a curly-haired Israeli to yell at him for touching her things.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I’m looking for Ziva David, is she available?”

“No,” Tony answers dully. 

“Who am I speaking to?”

“Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo,” he says automatically, but it’s without his usual perkiness. He’s ready to punch McGee, because there’s only one voice that would have made answering this call worth it—and really, why would Ziva be calling her old desk?

“Oh, Mr. DiNozzo! You’re her emergency contact, so I’m allowed to give you information. Can you take a message for her, please?”

“Yes,” he stupidly agrees before thinking better of it. There’s no telling when he’ll talk to her again—or even if he’ll ever talk to her again—so he has no business agreeing to pass on information. Too late now, though.

“Please remind her that her yearly dental check-up appointment is next Wednesday at 8:00.”

It’s so stupid—why the hell should someone else’s dentist appointment make it harder to breathe? “She won’t make it,” he tells the caller, sounding about as cheery as he feels. He clears his throat, trying to shake the tightness out of his voice.

“Then she should call to reschedule—”

“She moved,” he says shortly. “Out of the country. She’s not coming back. You might as well cancel this appointment and any others, because she’s gone.”

His voice is unnecessarily harsh by the end, snapping at the poor receptionist who hasn’t done anything wrong, and he slams the receiver down into its cradle angrily. “Don’t ever tell me to answer her phone again, McGee,” he snarls at Tim, whose face is infuriatingly apologetic and sympathetic. 

How fucking dare he pretend to understand how this feels?

Tony sinks down into his desk chair and rubs his hands roughly over his face, trying to scrub the ever-present image of Ziva from his retinas. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since her final exit from the bullpen, because he still pictures her there behind her desk. She’s always laughing in his mind’s eye, an all-too-familiar expression on her features—it’s the expression of someone who feels reluctantly charmed by Tony’s antics. Ziva seems so real when he imagines her that if he closes his eyes, he can almost convince himself that the past two months were just a painful dream, and that’s not healthy.

He misses her, and he’d been doing a good job of getting her out of his head.

It’s awful what one fucking phone call can do.

_________________

Six thousand miles and seven time zones away, Ziva sits on her front porch swing at the old farmhouse, her knees tucked up against her chest as she sips chamomile tea. Her hair is chaotic, unbound, framing a face that has lost weight over the last two months.

Two months.

Those months haven’t been easy. In fact, they’ve been entirely hellish. It’s been two months of solitude, two months of no contact, two months without everyone she loves. It’s been two months of fighting the current and fighting the urge to just swim down. Worst, though, is that it’s been two months without Tony.

She misses him, and it hurts.

She’s startled out of her musings by the shrill sound of her telephone ringing inside, and after a short debate with herself, she rises to answer it. It hasn’t rung in two months, probably because she has kept it switched off most of the time. Today, however, she’s expecting a call. It’s time to bite the bullet.

“Ziva David,” she answers automatically. Her voice sounds strange, emotionless and rusty from disuse. She can’t remember the last time she said a word out loud—it certainly wasn’t today. Maybe last week?

“Ms. David, this is Dr. Levitz. I’m calling to discuss your recent appointment. Do you have time to speak with me?”

Ziva David has nothing but time these days. “Yes,” she replies, quiet and tired.

Quickly, the doctor goes through the motions of confirming that Ziva is who she says she is, and then she finally gets to the bottom of why she’s calling. “Most of the tests from your physical came back normal, as expected—you are in very good shape. There was hCG in your blood, though.” Before Ziva can interrupt to ask what that indicates, the doctor continues. “That means that you are pregnant. Judging by the levels in your blood, you are about eight weeks into the pregnancy, but we will confirm that later when you have your first prenatal appointment. Congratulations!”

Ziva, numb, doesn’t answer.

“Ms. David, are you still there?”

“Yes,” she manages.

“I will give you some time to think, but please call my office at your earliest convenience to schedule a follow-up appointment.”

“Thank you.”

Without saying anything else or waiting for the doctor to reply, Ziva ends the call robotically. She’s pregnant.

There’s only one possibility for the baby’s father, only one person she’s slept with in a long time. That man is on another continent, so very far away… Because of the emotional distance between them and the strain of months of silence, however, he might as well be all the way on another planet. 

Ziva has never felt so alone.

She rests a hand on her abdomen, reminding herself that apparently, she isn’t alone. In fact, she won’t be alone for the next eighteen years. In all the ways that matter, though, she’s more solitary than she’s ever been in her life. This is something meant to be shared between two people—meant to be celebrated by two people.

How can she celebrate, though, when she can’t even tell Tony? And how can she tell him after two fucking months of radio silence? When she knows damn well that she broke both of their hearts by sending him home on that plane without her?

Her eyes sting with the onset of bitter tears. A pregnancy… it’s not what she asked for; it’s not what she wanted. Life already felt difficult, but now it feels impossible.

She can’t stop picturing Tony’s face, though. He’s always smiling in her mind’s eye, even today. She likes to remember him that way, not the way he was in Israel. If she thinks too hard about his grieving beard when he couldn’t be bothered to shave, his breaking voice as he tried his damnedest to convince her to leave with him, the expression on his face as they broke their kiss before he got on the plane… she’ll break.

She misses him, and she’d been doing a good job of getting him out of her head. 

It’s awful what one fucking phone call can do. 

[snowflake-of-destruction]

Imagine Roxas’s reaction to Axel growing a beard

Now stubble was a tactile revelation to Roxas who never was able to grow facial hair the usual way, no matter how old he got. He either was clean shaven, or, if he desired a beard or a mustache enough and truly saw himself that way, he would wake up with it fully formed and be able to dismiss it just as easily, which he invariably always did within a few hours. 

Axel's sandpaper skin when he allowed a five o'clock shadow to form was irresistible. Roxas wouldn't be able to keep hands or lips off of him, or to refrain from silly sweet gestures like nuzzling his face against Axel's like he was possessed by the spirit of an affectionate cat, and the first warning lobbied about stubble burn just brought to light that Roxas not only didn't mind but enjoyed the idea of being marked even when it was by beard rash. The limits of the latter were soon tested, and opinion amended that it was not the same as love bites at at all. Subsequently, they worked together on a map of where stubble burn was and wasn't acceptable, a true couple's bonding activity, but Axel's stubble remained an object of fascination every time he put off shaving, which he did more often after being rewarded by Roxas's reaction.

This proved to be a dangerous gateway to attempted beard growing. It was an ugly process, full of random patches of wiry hair that refused to connect, stubble turned to sharper barbs as it lengthened, and trapped grease. The whole affair grew dark. 

Fighting broke out. Threats were lobbied. The beard was shaved, but resentment brewed after. Stubble was ruined as Roxas could only picture the disaster that followed before, one he never wanted to revisit. Previous positive reinforcement was replaced with conscious negative whenever Axel seemed like he was going to skip shaving. 

Unfortunately, even knowing Roxas's opinion, the urge to grow facial hair cropped up again after laying dormant for a few years. This time it was supposed to be different, and Axel used dubious means to convince Roxas to promise to let him have time enough to pass the awkward stage.

New horrors emerged. The beard became a fixation and beloved friend to care for. Axel doted on it almost as much as Turkey. Beard oil. Special clippers. Deep conditioning. Lengthy and obsessive daily maintenance in front of the mirror. 

And yet, somehow, despite the meticulous care, there was still food caught in it and, at no stage did it flatter Axel’s face in Roxas’s opinion.

Roxas abolished the beard once more, and Axel gave in, but it returned every now and again when resolve was wore down. Roxas was grateful when he gained allies in the fight.

"Gooe-ssss," Dulce hissed, slapping her father's face gently. 

"Da go sss," Salena chimed in, smacking her own forehead.

Axel bounced a baby on each knee and exaggerated his expression into cartoonish terror turned even more laughable when he couldn't keep the grin off his face. "There's a ghost, girls? Where?"

"Goose!" Dulce corrected, raising her tiny hands in exclamation.

"A goose?" Axel made his surprise theatric, while legitimately trying to figure out what his daughters were talking about. "A ghost of a goose? Is that what you see, sweet girls?" He turned his head and yelled into the kitchen. "Roxas! Get in here! The twins learned some new words!"

Salena took charge, grabbing a handful of Axel's beard, and, inevitably, a healthy chunk of pinched skin as well, in her pudgy baby fist. "Dada go ss! go ss da!"

Roxas ran in from the other room, dish towel in his hands and sleeved rolled up, but stopped short of the couch, struck breathless with love as he still sometimes found himself even now when he saw Axel, dumb beard and all, looking enchanted with their daughters.

"Go ss da!" Dulce slapped Axel's cheek harder, looking delighted. She then turned her small body toward her other father, reached out her hand to beckon and declared. "Yum!"

"Yum!" Salena agreed, flailing her entire body so Axel had to hold her more tightly so she wouldn't pitch herself to the floor. "Da go ss yum mm!"

"Now, yum, I know," Axel chuckled. "They must be hungry. Do you want to open up a few jars of delicious mashed peas? You can take Salena, and I'll keep Dulce, and we can get these howling monkeys fed!" He asked Roxas, bouncing the so-called howling monkeys again as he did so they would laugh.

"Sounds like a plan," Roxas confirmed and walked over to take Salena, who yelled a final "Go! Sss!" even while reaching for him.

"We'll feed the ghost too," Axel promised, standing to his feet now that he had only one child to rearrange hold on. 

"I think they are saying, gross," Roxas suggested. He touched his forehead to Salena's and she grabbed his much larger face with her small hands. "Is Daddy gross?"

"Goose!" Dulce interrupted while Salena just waved her hands while still gripping Roxas's cheeks so he'd nod in her place. "Da go ss!"

"Daddy has a gross, gross beard! Silly, Daddy!" Roxas was malicious in his glee as both twins continued to chant "Go" and snake hiss. 

"There's no accounting for taste, but I know when I'm outvoted," Axel sulked, playing hurt but not sticking to it consistently, still blown away by his smart girls adding to their vocabulary. Soon, there would be full sentences and then full conversations. They'd be walking, then running, then going off planet, and the ends of the universe would be the limit. Though that line of thought could grow dangerous, so Axel kept himself to thinking only as far ahead as being able to teach them jokes and play tag as he walked ahead to the kitchen.

As soon as Axel was a few steps away, Roxas whispered to Salena. "Good girl. You remembered our lesson." 

"Go ss da yum," Salena babbled back.

"Yes, for telling Daddy he's gross, you and your sister are going to get blueberries." It had taken a lot of training. When Axel was out of the house, Roxas would say "gross" and pat his face, then give the girls pureed fruit. Once they learned the association, he rewarded them for copying him. Now it had paid off. 

Smart girls. Smart Pop. Axel would be clean shaven by dinner.

[sketchy-saram]

Winter Refrain

At long last! A promised story I somehow forgot to post, LOL.

 It’s been two long years since Felix left Vesuvia, but Advieh is about to get a surprise on the night of the Winter Ball. Will it be everything that they hoped for?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Felix? Yes, I saw him heading towards the gardens. He looked...healthy. Normal. Good luck, darling. I hope...I hope it works out for you both.” 

Hope. Such a small, fragile word, and yet it beat so strongly in Advieh’s chest, warring against doubt and fear with a strength that belied its size. What had started that morning as a vague, listless duty to attend the Winter Ball had become an anxiety that almost overwhelmed them when they heard that Felix was going to attend. And yet, within all the clouds of uncertainty, the tiniest fluttering of hope still lived, unwilling to surrender.

Maybe...maybe he remembers. Maybe things can go back to the way they were. Maybe… It was the ‘maybe’ that pushed them forward when their legs wanted to freeze up, having nothing to do with the chilly winter air. They pulled the skirt of their dress higher, resenting the weight of it that dragged them down and yet grateful for any spare second. By the time they had passed the gardens to the maze, their breath was already coming in soft puffs of white. There was no sign of him, and no one else to ask. Where would he go? It was disorienting. Before, Felix was never more than a stone’s throw from them. How could those days feel like a million years ago, and just yesterday at the same time? 

They tried to swallow; their mouth was as dry as the Nopal desert. Their blood pounded loudly in their ears, especially audible in the silence of the wintery wonderland around them. Large quantities of fake snow had been magicked up for the occasion; twinkling strands of fairy lights twined around the manicured bushes and trees, and floating lanterns of soft violets and blues lit the path for anyone who might wander this far. The effects were fanciful, romantic...and only vaguely noticed by Ad, their attention stolen. 

Any sign of that familiar smiling face, the rainbow hair,  the broad shoulders...

And then, everything seemed to stop in time as they rounded a corner, greeted by the large marble fountain with its ornamental owl...and a figure that was unmistakable even from afar, sitting on the edge of the pool. Ad sucked in a breath, not moving, drinking in every detail like it was water for their parched tongue. All feeling had been sapped from their body, except the heart thumping painfully in their chest--that continuous thud reminded them that this was real.

This was happening.

He looked a bit different, although the essence of him was exactly as they remembered. His hair had grown out; still shaved at the sides, but the deep blue locks were pulled back now into a ponytail that was curling at the ends. The color was muted for Felix, but it still wasn’t a natural hue, which relieved them for some reason. The childhood scar on his lip was there, and his eyes, cinnamon-brown, were still gentle as they stared up at the twinkling snowfall. His clothes were finely-tailored and exquisite--Wren must have been working hard in her absence, Ad thought, their mind wandering. So many things. So much to take in after such a long time.

The nostalgia was like a punch to the stomach, and all the emotions that they had fought so hard to repress threatened to destroy the dam that held them. The hands holding their skirt bunched the fabric, gripping it desperately, as if to find some semblance of balance. Errant tears blurred their eyes, and stung in the cold night air. 

Maybe...maybe this had been a bad idea after all. If he remembered, if he truly remembered, he would have found them first. There was no doubt in Ad’s mind of that, and the flutter of hope dimmed. Why did it hurt so badly, that knowledge, after so long? Maybe hope was more of a burden than a help, and yet it stubbornly stayed rooted. A flower that didn’t know when to die.

Is having Felix around, even if he can’t remember, better than not having him at all?

They knew the answer to that, as well as they knew their own name. So, after what was only a few seconds but felt like an eternity, Advieh began to pick their way through the snow, their face calm, their heart hammering unfettered. 

At long last, Felix turned to look in their direction, catching their intent gaze with his own. 

And he smiled.

“I’m sorry. I kept you waiting.”

His voice sounded deeper, more...introspective, somehow. Maybe they just hadn’t heard it in such a long time? It was a little teasing, which was reassuring, and yet there was definitely a wall they weren’t used to. They remembered the wall when they went to see him, after the...after everything happened. Advieh was used to walls. Why did this one sting so much more? They fought a frantic urge to tear it down, to beg for that easy familiarity that had once irked them so much.

“I didn’t know you would be here,” they said, trying not to sound accusatory. They could feel their lips trembling. Firmed them. “When did you get back to Vesuvia?”

They were still so far apart, and yet Ad couldn’t bring themself to take another step, or to cross through that gulf--not until they knew for sure, one way or another. Knew he wasn’t here to say goodbye again. Even after all this, I’m a coward, they thought angrily. But still, they stayed put. Maybe a person only had one heartbreak in them to endure.

“Just a few days ago. I stayed with Asra in his magic shop. I wasn’t sure I would come here, I guess.” His words were even, measured, and light on the surface. But the smile he gave Advieh was sorrowful. The pit in their stomach opened up further. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t...I don’t remember much more than before. I don’t remember you. I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t. I can remember days, times, events, but there are just...holes.” 

Holes shaped like me, Ad thought, the tears welling up again. They swallowed. Hard.

He sounded tired, but also frustrated. At least they knew now. Some of the weight of uncertainty lifted, only to be replaced by the desire to soothe, but continued fear of rejection. It was a combination only Felix had ever brought out of them.

“I can’t remember any of those old memories...but I still couldn’t forget about you. About meeting you. I couldn’t stay away any more.” Those words, said more forcefully, shook Ad out of their emotional stupor. Finally Felix stood, the crunch of snow under his boots a soft sound compared to his voice. He took a step closer to them. “Every time I try to remember being really, truly happy...I can’t. All those memories seem to have been with you. So maybe I can’t remember those times, but...I know that they were the happiest of my life. I would do anything to get them back. For you. For us.” Another hesitant step.

“Maybe it will never happen. But I know that I can’t run away from you any more. I tried. I tried to forget. And I thought...maybe if you had forgotten me too, you wouldn’t come here. That was a bit selfish of me.” Finally he gave another small smile, just a quirk of his lips. “But you did.”

By now he wasn’t so far away; maybe only a couple of feet. The boots gave him a little more height on them. The feathers of his cloak looked downy and soft. The swell of his chest under his doublet as he breathed the icy air was visible. How could he be the same person Advieh wanted so desperately, and yet not quite? 

But they also had an answer, after all this time. 

“I did.” They reached out, chilly hands finding Felix’s gloved ones. The white leather was soft, and although he started at the touch, he did not shy away from it. 

Maybe there could still be hope, even if it was a different kind of hope.

“Felix, I have to...I need to say some things. This...is all my fault. No, it is,” they hurriedly continued, when he automatically opened his mouth to deny it. It was hard, what they wanted to say, and yet once they started, it was easier than they thought. It felt like a confession of the worst kind of sin, but letting go felt so much better. 

“I was a coward, and I was blind. Worse, I was ignorant, and I stayed that way on purpose. I thought that there was a role I had to play, and so I forced myself to play it. I told myself I was trapped in a cage. But the truth is...the truth is that I locked myself in that cage. I held the key. I fooled myself into thinking I had no other options, because options and choices were frightening. And yet. You were the only one to force yourself inside. To hold open the door. To ask me to leave with you.” They had to stop, to compose themself, because their voice had ground to a whisper under the weight of the emotions. Everything they wished they had said. All the truths they held back before.

But not this time. Not again.

“And I...I didn’t take your hand. When the time came, I was too afraid to leave. I didn’t want to think of a way out, so I told myself we could both be locked in that cage together. That we could be happy enough that way, without words. Without commitment. And it...it almost cost you everything. I’m so sorry, Felix. I’m so, so sorry.” 

A few defiant tears escaped then, and Ad let out a noise of frustration, not wanting the indulgence. This was too important. And yet, there wasn’t much more that could be said. All there could be was a response.

Felix’s hands tightened on theirs, like he was fighting an intense urge to do...something. A million small changes raced across his face. Then, at last, he raised one hand and placed it ever-so-hesitantly on their cheek to brush away the tears. It was the most feather-light touch Ad had ever felt. They let out a trembling breath; let their eyes flutter closed.

“I feel like...I already forgave you. I don’t think there was ever anything to forgive. Not to me, anyway. I felt...insane, for having these feelings for someone I couldn’t remember. But you were always there. I know that memories make us who we are. They shape us into different people...and I know I can’t be the same man you remember, when I don’t have those memories inside me. But looking at you, I...want. I want you. I want to know you. I want to be even better than the person I was before, whoever he was. And he was an idiot if he didn’t tell you how much you meant to him. I won’t--”

“I love you,” Ad said, their mouth moving and saying the words before Felix could even finish his sentence. The sound of that declaration, said aloud, was a surprise even to them. Once their brain caught up, their hands flew to their mouth, an ‘O’ of shock, and clapped over it tightly. “Ah,” they said, in a high and reedy squeak that they were sure they had never made in their whole life, “I didn’t mean...that was so sudden, I….ah...” But their own embarrassment was temporarily forgotten as they looked up to see the absolutely radiant look of elation, surprise, and pleasure on Felix’s face. He took another step, closing most of the little distance left between them, and brought his other hand up to frame their face. 

“This is wild, and crazy, and I can honestly say I’ve lost my mind. But...I think I love you, too.” He laughed, a breathless sound that was an exhale of relief and a celebration, and then Ad’s feet lost contact with the ground as he lifted them up, the feel of his arms around them just the way they remembered. 

Maybe this wasn’t the same as before. But there was no reason they couldn’t start again. And this time, Ad thought, they would do it properly. No more hiding. No more secrets. No more shutting themself off for fear of the world, even as they stared out at it wistfully from inside a palace or a carriage. They remembered the last words the two of them had spoken to one another, in the Hanged Man’s realm that day while Felix’s life hung in the balance. Maybe the assertions he made then had been true all along. Maybe they would remember each other, and love each other, even if they had to start from zero again. Ad was never a big believer of fate...and yet, just this once, it didn’t feel like such a terrible thing, being fated to be with this man.

Felix had already saved them twice; once from a literal sword, and then from a miserable life in the cage they built themself. Yet here he was again, with no memory of them, his hand held out with no hesitation. 

This time they would grab it, they thought, and they would never let go of it again. After all, Advieh didn’t make the same mistake twice, and there were so many new ones waiting to be made...for the both of them. 

Together.

[stainyourhands]

29. “I thought you were dead.” JonJon

Lovett has a routine.

The rooster, its vocal box deep and scratchy with the disease, crowing a mating cry into the dawn light is Lovett’s least favorite part of it.

Mornings have never quite been Lovett’s thing. When he was still working in politics, he’d work until most of his colleagues’ alarm clocks rang, then close his blackout curtains. When he was working in Hollywood, one p.m. was the new seven a.m. When he was working at Crooked, even after he started joining Tommy at that unbearable - and, he realizes now, pointless - cycling class, he waited until the East Coast made the first round of hot Twitter takes before he really joined the world.

But now, blackout curtains are a luxury Lovett can’t afford, Twitter disappeared with the actual blackout, and Lovett’s in the best shape of his life with no-one, not even that damn rooster, to share it with.

It serves him right, Lovett thinks some days, that all he needed to stick to a diet was the extinction of all deep friers, pizza ovens, and delivery workers. He’s not even sure he remembers what a Whopper tasted like. He’s pretty sure he misses them, though.

The rooster crows again, a sad, strangled sound that scares every animal for a mile around. Pundit lifts her head from the end of the bed, whoofing back half-heartedly before dropping her head again.

Lovett laughs, scratching between her ears as he slides out of the covers, stretching his arms above his head. He grabs the knife from his bedside table and scratches a mark into his bedpost.

436 marks.

436 days since civilization bit off its own nose to spite the face of progress.

When the authorities first started to warn of a string of bizarre cases, they warned against forming a routine like the one Lovett has now. Trump’s commerce secretary begged people to go out, do things, be productive members of the world economy even as bodies were piling up in the CDC morgue. Talk show hosts and news anchors and Oprah urged people to fight the fear, fear isn’t productive even as the virus was spreading through Europe with the force of the Black Plague. Doctors spoke into every microphone they could find, warning that routine is the first sign of illness even as they knew they were no closer to a vaccine than they are to rebuilding civilization on fucking Mars.

Lovett still remembers the first zombie he saw. He remembers standing on the sidewalk, watching the middle-aged woman who used to give Pundit treats from her stoop repeat her morning ritual - a lather, rinse, repeat of mundane tasks like brushing her teeth and brewing coffee - until there was no coffee to brew and there was no water to brush her teeth with and there was almost no skin on her bones.

That was day 137.

Lovett’s lost count of the zombies he’s seen since.

Lovett wonders, sometimes, if someone stood on his sidewalk, watched him go through his routine, if they’d be able to tell that he’s still healthy. If only in the most literal sense of the word.

Pundit hops off the bed and stretches at his feet with a disapproving yip. Lovett snorts and pets her side. “Yeah, yeah, let’s see what we can scrounge up for breakfast, huh?”

Pundit barks happily, dancing around his ankles as he reaches for the last clean shirt he has - a threadbare red FotP shirt that had seen better days eight months ago - and pulls it on as they head through the house. The sun is just rising over the horizon, illuminating the furniture Lovett had bought when he moved to LA so many years ago, when he thought furniture was disposable and his life was only on an upwards trajectory.

It’s wearing out now. Lovett’s been marking out furniture on his scavenging missions, rearranging his living room in his head. There’s a loveseat in a house around the corner that’s a pristine red leather that he’s been coveting for weeks. If he can only find a way to bring it back. He’s debating skateboards. Four of them. It might just work.

His pantries are looking a little bare, too, as he opens them and roots around for the can of chicken he knows he’s been saving for Pundit. He mixes it in a bowl and puts half in her dish, sitting the floor so he can eat the other half next to her. “Not so bad, huh? I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

In the distance, the rooster hoots again. The disease can’t tell sunrise from eight a.m. The disease only knows routine.

Lovett sighs, calling “we know, we’re up! You crazy fucking bird,” before he can regret it. Before long, the rooster will be gone and Lovett will miss him, too.

Pundit finishes licking her bowl and crosses to the door, already pawing at her leash. Lovett’s honestly not sure if he’s trained her or if she’s trained him, but he gets up. He shoves his feet into his shoes and reaches for his backpack. He’s pretty sure there’s a street two miles west of them that is mostly untouched. If he’s lucky, he might be able to restock his soups and beans.

He pulls on Pundit’s leash, smiling at her “we’ve got a long walk today,” as he opens the door.

And freezes.

Mentally, Lovett makes a checkmark next to the 436th mark on his bedpost. He’s made it through 435 days and now, on the 436th, he’s finally lost it. He’s made it through the initial food shortages and the power outages, through the cutting of the phone lines and the end of their oil supply, through friend after friend falling ill, through more funerals than he can count. Lovett made it through all of that, only to fall ill on the most innocuous day of the most innocuous month of the most innocuous year.

Because standing on his doorstep is a hallucination.

He’s looking a little worse than he does in Lovett’s dreams. His hair is long around his ears, his face half-obscured by a scraggly beard that could use trimming if not a full shave, his clothes thin and threadbare and a large khaki duffle slung over his shoulder. But Lovett would recognize those eyes anywhere.

Jon Favreau has stepped out of Lovett’s dreams and onto his front porch.

“Lovett,” the hallucination says. His voice is sore with disuse, his tongue darting out to lick at his cracking bottom lip. “Lovett.”

Pundit rises onto her hindlegs, her front paws resting on his thigh. He’s a three-dimensional hallucination, then. Sometimes, Lovett’s mind amazes even himself.

The hallucination rubs her ears, murmuring something low and unsteady, before looking directly at Lovett again. “I’ve been walking for a year and a half to fucking get to you. Are you doing to let me in or just stare?”

Lovett swallows. “I didn’t know that hallucinations needed permission.”

The hallucination laughs and, even under the beard and the three layers of dirt, it sounds so much like Jon’s laugh that tears fill Lovett’s eyes. “Feel like a hallucination, somedays, but, I assure you, I’m completely real.”

Lovett shakes his head. “That’s not possible.”

The hallucination holds out his arm. His fingers are thinner than Lovett remembers, but they’re still wider at the knuckles, still tan and long and the fixtures of Lovett’s dreams. “Pinch me. Come on. Hallucinations can’t be pinched right?”

Lovett shakes his head. “This is ridiculous.” But he steps forward, reaches for the arm - fuck, it’s solid, his imagination is fucking amazing - and pinches, hard.

The hallucination - Jon, Lovett’s brain supplies, hope rising from the deep, dark recesses Lovett’s pushed it into for the past 435 days - yelps.

“See?” Jon asks, stepping forward. His body is warm. His chest is solid. Pundit barks at him, recognition and excitement warring in her wiggling body. “I’m me, I’m here, I made it to you, just like I promised.”

Lovett shakes his head, his voice choked and desperate, “I thought you were dead.”

“No,” Jon whispers, closing the last inches between them. He smells like sweat and smoke and dirt but, under it all, just a hint of Jon. Lovett sways forward. Lovett never wants to stop smelling him. “How could I die, when I still had you to get back to?”

Lovett makes a pained noise, pulling at Jon’s neck, tugging him down and into a kiss.

436 days after the world ended, Lovett starts living again.

[gold-eyes-vengeful-heart]

Apologies

((Runya goes to deliver an apology.

Contains 5.2 spoilers! Also some vaguely gross imagery and also parental mental abuse of an adult child in the second half courtesy of @semper-miles Merceus being an asshole, mind that warning))

===

When Runya approached on the back of his Shinryu-egi, he would admit he didn’t expect to find Blue carving big furrows into the shores of the crater-lake with his body.

He dismounted and dismissed the aetherial construct without looking, his eyes registering his amusement at the Weapon. He kept skidding along, tilted to one side, in a vain effort to—Runya imagined—scrape off the crystalline substance coating the former injury he had from the Ruby Weapon. Even spotting Runya wasn’t enough to get Blue to totally stop, either; sure, he got to his feet and came thumping over, but when he paused in front of Runya, it barely took a moment before he hiked up one leg and started scratching at the crystal with his knee joint. It left him balancing on one foot, but he seemed steady enough, even as he craned his neck to look down at the much smaller Miqo’te.

{Runya-friend Runya-friend}

The little eager calls bounced onto his mind like raindrops. He couldn’t help but smile lazily up at the thing, even. “Ah, so you haven’t forgotten my face after all this time?”

The sarcasm earned him a flurry of mild huffiness, but as Blue kept scratching, Runya kept eyeing that leg and the shavings of crystals he was scraping off in the process. “...I can presume you itch.”

And he probably, in turn, should have expected Blue to project that feeling into his head so strongly that his body immediately echoed it, with a penetrating tickle that he almost doubled over onto before he started to rub furiously at the spot. “Excuse you, that was uncalled for!”

{Yes it was.}

“No it wasn’t.”

{Yes.} The thought sat there glacially, refusing to be moved even by him. “...You just did that to amuse yourself, didn’t you?”

The glacier-facade cracked and trickled merriment, and the Weapon physically chuffed like a laugh. And in response, Runya just raised a hand to his forehead with feigned drama, sighing heavily. “Oh, heavens save me, he actually has a sense of humor.” A strange thing, that. He had to say, after seeing what he had done to an entire lab full of Garleans, he hadn’t expected Blue to be...well, quite this human.

And yet all the same he knew full well from that panic that he had had a couple times over that the Weapon was indeed still a weapon. And there was something...off in the depths of Blue’s mind, too, he came to realize the more he hung around the creature. It lurked not quite at the heart of Blue but frighteningly close, a tattered void-like slash in his mindscape like a gouge across a throat. Every time it occupied his thoughts, it drew him silently closer, beckoning him towards a tempting and all too familiar madness that both begged for help and bit furiously at any being that dared listen—it both threatened to consume him and yet also didn’t quite dare consume Blue himself, held in check by rocky scarred tissue mountainous around its edges but not quite enough to keep him away it would be too simple to peek in and see what memory lurked under the surface but all the same he could catch a familiar glimpse of dead eyes and mountains of bodies twisted and gored and cracked open like eggs but they weren’t human and some were tall and robed under the layers of char and gore—

He jerked back from the contact as the black yet vividly blaring, projecting scar threatened to consume his vision entirely. Even then, it dotted across his vision, bug-like, making him blink rapidly as he looked up at Blue.

For his part, the Weapon had paused with his hind leg half up in the air, and his head was very slowly cocking to one side until he nearly turned it sideways in confusion. Strangely, he didn’t seem to have even felt Runya’s intrusion into that mindscape incarnation of ancient mental trauma, and even Runya’s secondhand echo of it just concerned him more than alarmed him.

{??????} A cold fish-slimy slap of worry flew right into his face. 

“It’s quite fine, thank you.” He waved off the now-crouching Weapon, despite how his body twitched and burned with secondhand panic not his own. His hand shook as he ran it through his hair. “I...aah, I shouldn’t have gone poking into your mind so offhand. That was rude of me.”

{...Very rude.} The concern soured into a sulk and heated into an accusation. {I don’t look into YOU like that. Even if your whole mind is like that.}

The two words didn’t need to be explained, at least; Blue knew immediately what he had been looking at, and perhaps he wasn’t entirely wrong that Runya’s entire mindscape was little else but a vast wound in and of itself, with only the faintest hints of something more around the edges—and even then he couldn’t stop picking at it long enough for those little hints to take hold.

“Perhaps.” He still waved off the notion with one hand. “But I do swear that I won’t be nosy without good reason. Does that sound alright?” And the second he got a grudging agreement, he continued, leaning on his elbows on the tip of Blue’s jaw. “And I actually came here to ask you a question. You do know that Macbalor isn’t an enemy, don’t you?”

The Weapon’s discordant jangle of negativity clashed against his thoughts so ferociously it put him in mind of jars of marbles being thrown down the stairs. Loud. Disorienting.

“Ah, come now...” Runya waggled a finger in his ear as if it would stop it ringing after that...that. “It’s an honest question, Blue, if you don’t mind.”

But no matter how genuinely honest the question, Blue didn’t want to cooperate; he could feel that much. The Weapon snorted and the gust of ocean-smell wind ruffled his robes.

{Pilotnotpilotpilotnotpilot—} The confusion, Runya could nearly taste; Blue had wanted to run but he couldn’t with her exerting that pressure on his mind, no matter how subconsciously she did it—he remembered the small Garleannotgarlean being brought to him as a last resort and he refused until she broke through his will like butter but even then he fought the whole way down the corridor as she made him move—

Runya actually snapped his fingers at Blue as the right half of his vision and the left half of his vision disagreed so wildly so that his stomach churned with nausea—one eye stuck in Blue’s past and the other stuck in Runya’s present. “Ah ah ah, you’re going to make me ruin your lovely paint job if you keep doing that.” And his head felt liable to explode, but that was obvious, he hoped. “Focus, Blue. I would prefer not to get shoved out of my own head again.”

Luckily for the both of them, he listened and did exactly as asked. The Weapon took in a deep breath and audibly blinked, and the wild torrent of uncontrolled memory receded to just a trickle of faint impressions. {...Sorry.}

“Even if I didn’t have a literal safety mechanism for my brain, I still do not enjoy migraines and feeling as if I’m going to lose lunches I ate years ago.”

{Said sorry.}

“Just a reminder that it’s unpleasant, is all.” He gave Blue’s nose a pat, the claws on his gloves clicking lightly against the metal. “You have a very loud voice. Mine pales in comparison.”

{Like it though.}

Runya cocked his head and flicked his ears forward. “Well, there’s a good thing.” He wasn’t going to question why, particularly not when even the most tentative of pushes on that front met an unyielding wall. “I should be honored, I suppose.” {Work with. Not over.} But whatever that enigmatic remark meant, Blue wasn’t keen on explaining. Instead, the top hatch hissed open, and he wordlessly peppered Runya’s mind with the urge to go run, fly, run. To move. Boredom, perhaps, but the reasons were irrelevant to Runya.

(It was so easy to get addicted to that feeling of power—and that was even without the Resonance active. He could, for a while, be not in a carved-apart-sewn-together nightmare of a body, but in something fluid and powerful and vibrant in a way that even a normal, healthy body would never be able to give him.)

“Oh, as you wish, dear.”

— — —

Shifting patterns of light roiled over Legatus Silentius’ face, as he replayed the footage over and over. Footage not just of the VIIth Legion’s vaunted Ruby Weapon, but also of his Weapon, dueling fighting clawing flying biting, until it flew into a rage at the sight of the monstrous Van Darnus and tore her apart. He scrolled the recording back automatically, without conscious thought, his attention so focused on what was before his eyes that he almost missed the soft thuds of footsteps behind him. Almost.

“Sir?”

Ariadne’s voice. But it held hesitation, weakness, and when he craned his neck around to look sidelong at her, she stiffened.

“Have you come to bring me your sister?”

“No sir.”

“Hmm. The Weapon, then; have you captured it and dragged it back here?” Ariadne swallowed. “Sir, I came to tell you that Angerona is on the move. She disappeared again—“

“I did tell you,” Merceus interrupted lightly, “only to interrupt your father with news of your successes...not your failures.”

The reprimand set Ariadne’s shoulders even stiffer than before, but really, he had told her that her only purpose now was to drag her wayward sister back here. He had not, for a moment, insinuated that he would tolerate one of his blood failing him. “Were you expecting help, Ariadne?” He smiled. “This isn’t the first time she has very suddenly eluded even your sight. And Celia’s. I don’t care why; I just want her found again. That is the task I set both of you to: finding her, and also finding the Weapon that is key to irreversibly ensuring our dominance over the weak. I did not send both of my loyal daughters on such a simple task only for them to come crawling back demanding assistance with something they should have no issue with.”

His chiding done and met with silence, he languidly returned his stare to the screen, the projected light flickering across his eyes. To no one in particular, he spoke aloud. “The Seventh was always short-sighted. They just wanted to repeat their same old mistakes, expecting that they just had to work this time.” He chuckled. “We were on to something, with this Weapon. Even in the hands of the unworthy, it carved through one of Baelsar’s glorious projects. One of the others even steals our Sapphire Weapon’s name...”

The smile disappeared. “And yet, none of us could get it to fight even half as well. It disobeyed us, routinely made us override its mind just to make it move...It refused to show us this potential, and yet here it does just that in the hands of some useless savage.” Or at least, he was quite certain that had been an Eorzean; no one else would dare stand up to the Empire. “If you do drag that pilot back here alive, Ariadne, I will be very sure to squeeze whatever foul spell he’s cast on that thing out of him before I finally let Celia have a little fun with him. But if you have to kill him, very well. I will not have both one of my daughters defying me and our Weapon being used so casually by a savage.”

Ariadne frowned, as she came to stand by him, but not too closely. (Experience, perhaps, informed her how terrible an idea that could be. “He loses control of it...there, though. When that Darnus monster appears. That’s more like when it went berserk at Celia—“

“It would still be a grand help, Ariadne,” he interrupted testily, “if you were able to drag him back here so we can dissect him properly instead of guessing.” He would not be reminded of failures—

“It has to be fond of him, somehow, to let him do this...” But Ariadne visibly winced as Merceus walked over and painfully clapped her shoulder with an even wider smile.

“This family does not make friends with things, Silentius. Nothing ever could, with that beast, even if they tried. And if it wouldn’t willingly cooperate with the very people that gave it such power, there is no chance that it is willingly cooperating with an Eorzean, either.”

“Of course, sir.” She only relaxed once he let go of her, and she turned to salute to him. (A sharp, precise motion, born of practice unyielding until he had been satisfied with it.) “I’ll take a magitek ship and continue the search, Legatus. By your leave.”

He had half a mind to deny her, after she came crawling back empty-handed and begging like some pathetic worm. But...for the moment, his mercurial mood took a turn for the marginally more lenient, and he just dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Do not fail me again. Bring her back, bring the Weapon back, even bring the savages’ pilot back...or don’t come back at all.” And even then, he wouldn’t suffer such failure of his bloodline to live...but he didn’t need to say it out loud. Ariadne swallowing audibly was proof enough she didn’t need to hear it, either.

“Yes sir.”

He would find those three, even if he had to go out and find them himself. Even if he had to sacrifice all of what remained of his family and his men to do it. Even if he had to kill them with his bare hands. He would not tolerate such an insult to his pride as a Legatus to continue existing unhindered.

The Weapon was his. Angerona was his. And the savages all belonged to him, even if they refused to believe it. They would see, when he had the full extent of his power aligned...they would all see.

[hahnralph]

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Ex Employee Joining Back

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Want My Ex Back Letter