#i just wanted to mute something TEMPORARILY and all of a sudden everything is gone skjsjskd

[ninas-gf]

oops i think i just broke my dash,,,

[castielle-deanna]

Rewind the exit

"Rewinding the exit wound, I'm holding on to you 'Cause I need words like anyone, and I need love like everyone With those words I'm strong enough, and I need love like everyone." (Rewind the exit by Volbeat)

Obligatory 15x18 Destiel fix-it. Partially inspired by the gorgeous art of Jackie @winchester-reload

2408 words. Read below the cut or on AO3

It's over. It took just a day – a painful, grueling whirlwind of a day, but it's finally over. Chuck's gone, the world is back on its axis as it should be, most of its population awoken from non-existence like it was merely a fever dream, but the factory reset was the last one in a row of tasteless jokes and it left things cruelly incomplete.

“Now, I'm getting him back,” Dean says. He doesn't specify whom he means – he knows it full well, and he's certain Sam does, too. “Don't know how, but I will.”

“Dean...”

“Don't. Don't say anything. I have to.”

“You can't start poking cosmic entities again! I know it's Cas, but -”

“You don't know, Sam, you don't!” Dean's voice wobbles as his volume rises, unbidden and unwanted tears gathering in his eyes. “Don't tell me you don't want Eileen back!”

“Of course I do, but not at any cost. We broke the world more than once, only just put it back together, we can't keep doing it over and over again.”

“It's Cas,” Dean chokes out, as if Sam didn't know, even though he said the same words barely a minute earlier. But something must be in the way he says the name, or maybe on his face while he says it, because Sam's frustrated expression softens, but the look of pity that replaces it is probably worse.

“He's your...” Sam hesitates, his loss for a fitting description clear as day. “Eileen...?” He finishes, intonation halfway between that of a question and a statement. Dean nods mutely, because of course Sam knows that, too. Because keeping it to himself is just impossible at this point and there's no real reason to hold it in anyway. “I'm sorry,” Sam says then, and Dean turns his back on him as a form of escape.

Oh, yes, it is worse. Because Sam lost people too, but somehow, his focus is suddenly on Dean's pain and only on Dean's pain. Too much, stop, I can't, Dean wants to yell, but all his energy is gone, sapped away; the way he sinks into the Impala's front seat is barely a thought more coordinated than a collapse into unconsciousness. Temporarily, Sam seems intent on stumbling around the car to take the passenger seat as usual, but in the end he pulls the rear door open, settling in behind Dean instead.

Dean's grateful for the distance, for being out of Sam's sight, and because he wants to give his brother the courtesy he is getting, he doesn't turn around, even when there's barely muffled sobs coming from the backseat. As he listens to the sounds of Sam's slowly subsiding anguish while less than an inch away from the edge himself, he doesn't think that any of it was even remotely worth it. Sure, they exist, and so does Jack, but it can't be called surviving when they lost everything they fought for, and suddenly there are limits to omniscient control that weren't there before.

Now, Jack's the Light, the Darkness and probably a million other things, because of course the Universe would decide to trust a 3-years-old nephilim with that kind of responsibility, but he was still powerless against their loss. All the Apocalypse World refugees are gone, like they never existed – which, technically is true; so are Eileen and C... Dean can't even finish the name, like he's reached the posting limit with the one out-loud use of it earlier. He wonders how he and Sam are still kicking, if anyone who died and was brought back is meant to remain permanently gone, why didn't they go, too, when the reset happened? Dying is not the hard part, staying behind is, if Sam's quieting sobs and Dean's... well, everything are to go by.

Jack appears outside the Impala, a pained expression on his face. He looks smaller than he is, and so, so young. He crouches down next to the open door on the driver's side, looking up at Dean.

“I have no access to the Empty, not without dying. I can't try to bring him back, I'm so sorry,” Jack reports without any preamble, and Dean's entire being feels squeezed. Of course he couldn't.

“It's not your fault, kid,” he croaks out eventually, and Jack nods solemnly in reply before moving over to the back door, opening it. Dean still doesn't turn.

“Sam.”

“Jack!” Sam sounds surprised, almost as if he hasn't even noticed his presence before. There's a rustle, the leather of the backseat creaks and the Impala wobbles slightly. Dean assumes it's because Sam slid over and Jack sat down.

“I found Eileen. She's in Heaven.”

“Is she... is she happy?” Sam asks, his voice pained.

“She is at peace, and in time, she will be happy. I opened up her Heaven, she is free to move around. She was on her way to her parents when I left her. She misses you, and asked me to tell you that she loves you,” Jack pauses, and Sam hiccups. “I offered her a chance to come back, but she knows it may upset the new balance. She decided not to risk it, but she'll be waiting for you.”

A loud wail-like sob breaks out of Sam, and it's too much for Dean to take, so he scrambles out of the car, desperate for air, for escape. With a sudden surge of energy he breaks into a run, blindly dashing past the church Chuck chose as the set for his famous final scene, past crumbling headstones, then trees until he runs out of ground and trips, falling to his knees. The sobs he fought so hard to keep hold of escape, and Dean screams to Heaven, to Hell, to the Empty and all of the in-between till his throat is raw, till all he wants is to curl up against a tree, to sleep, to black out, to d...

“Dean.” Sam's voice is strained. Dean doesn't ask how he found him, doesn't need to. “Let's go home.”

“I can't drive right now.”

“I know. Jack has already mojoed the car home, he'll be back for us.”

* * *

The Bunker is haunted. It's haunted by two faint apparitions of humanity who mostly pass each other by in the corridors like ships in the night, silent and distant.

Dean prays. Every morning, every evening, and most waking hours between the two, he prays. He doesn't know if Cas can hear him, but the faith that he can is all Dean has, so it has to be enough.

It's not enough. Yet Dean clings to it, because if he doesn't have that, he doesn't have anything. He prays out loud, he prays in his thoughts and he prays by touching the bloody handprint on his jacket. It's prayers he mumbles into his whiskey, sobs into his pillow, pounds into the punching bag in their gym, kneads into the dough he keeps making despite barely eating any of the resulting pies.

Sam is slightly quicker to get back on his feet. Dean can still see him wobble, of course he can, and he wants to help him stay upright, but considering himself the stronger brother, the protector, the grown-up, has never before been a lie this big.

When, a few weeks later, Sam suggests a simple hunt, a restless spirit not even strong enough to kill yet, Dean goes along not for himself, but for his brother.

When he lands in a broken heap after being thrown from a third-floor window, and he can see someone - who he assumes is Billie's successor – out of the corner of his eye, beckoning him, he doesn't go along for his brother, no matter how much he wants to, deep down. Everything hurts but he fights, and prays as long as he can stay awake.

When he wakes, nothing hurts but it doesn't feel real. He's back in the Bunker, under the covers on his memory foam mattress.

Someone sniffles just outside his field of vision, and Dean assumes it's Sam, or maybe Jack, but then the someone whispers his name. Dean sits up in a fluid motion, as if a spring wrenched him upright, and he turns his head to see tearful blue eyes.

“Am I dead?” Dean asks, because that's the only possibility, it cannot... he cannot...

“No. You're alive.”

“Am I hallucinating?”

“No, you're not,” Cas says softly and moves closer to lay a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean feels it. He swings his heavier-than-lead legs around and drops his feet to the floor, one on either side of Cas who stands rooted to the spot, holding on to Dean's shoulder with a tight grip.

“Cas,” Dean whispers and Cas all but crumbles, kneeling down in front of him. “Did you mean it?” Dean asks. There are other questions, hundreds of hows and whys, but this is the most important one, and Dean hopes he doesn't sound as much like a needy teenage girl asking it as he thinks he does. Cas doesn't seem to care either way, judging by the gentle smile on his face.

“Of course. I meant every word. I wasn't planning on telling you all of it, and I'm sorry for dumping it on you like that, but I thought that was my only chance.”

“I should've said it back. But I froze.”

“Dean, you don't have to say anything. When I said that just being in love with you was enough, I meant that too.”

“I know. You said you know you can't have what you want, but you can. You can have it, if you still want... it.” The 'if you still want me' part remains implied. I should have said it back.”

Cas looks taken aback for a moment, then he seems to gather himself. “Do you want to say it now?” He asks, blue eyes wide and bright as he fixes them on Dean's. “I love you.” His voice carries the same warm, earnest determination it did... then, and for a moment Dean can almost hear the squelch of the Empty behind him, until the staccato beat of his wildly thumping heart reaches its loudest, trying to physically fit itself into Cas' palm which by now is resting right above it.

“I love you, Cas.” Letting go of the words is not only easier than Dean expected, but it's also freeing enough to make him understand how Cas could be so happy. Wanting to hang on to that feeling, he opens his mouth to say it again, but the attempt ends up lost between Cas' lips as they paint a kiss onto his.

Dean lifts his hands to cradle Cas' face so he could pull him closer, until it's just right, until it's perfect, actually; and he deepens their kiss then swallows Cas' faint whimper before pulling away, resting his forehead against the angel's.

“If I knew what having feels like...” Cas whispers then trails off, dipping in for another brush of lips, and Dean meets him halfway, wrapping both arms around the angel's shoulders. Cas is solid in his arms, alive and there. Dean can't get enough of it, of him, and squeezes tighter, allowing the kiss to fall into incoordination, because suddenly its importance is only secondary to holding onto Cas. He buries his face into the crook of Cas' neck, nuzzling the column of it, and Cas tilts his head to give Dean space to settle in, which he does, possibly for good. He babbles soundless, unsayable words into the angel's throat; breathes in his scent; sneaks a taste of his warm skin, because he can. Cas' breath hitches under Dean's ministrations, and it continues to stutter while Dean pops the buttons of the angel's dress shirt open, one by one, eventually freeing him from the cloth altogether, dropping it on the floor.

Dean doesn't mean it as a precursor to sex, there's not a hint of lust in his actions, and Cas appears to sense it but he helps Dean out of his layers anyway. The angel's slow touch ghosting its way up his bare stomach is reverent, light... as if he's expecting Dean to flutter away from underneath his fingertips like a fantasy, and Dean's so damn close to breaking he feels the cracks form, so it may just be an actual possibility. Cas' eyes are wrenched shut as he continues tracing patterns onto Dean's abs, over his ribs, every now and then flitting up to his collarbone, raking a blunt fingernail over it. Dean shivers - he has never been touched like this, he's never been loved like this, and it's too much to handle. He closes his eyes to stop the overload, but it makes it worse, because Cas' fingers are the real magic ones, now digging firmer into his sides, then pushing on his shoulders, and he lets himself fall back onto the bed.

Suddenly, the sensation of Cas disappears and Dean panics, eyes flying back open in terror until they settle on Cas standing still above him, intense gaze fixed on him. Cas is trembling, and if Dean thought having the wrath of God on him was intense, he had another thing coming in the love of an angel.

“Come here, Cas,” he mumbles, and makes space for Cas to lie down. When he does, Dean props himself up on his elbow, leaning over him.

Cas sighs. “I’m sorry for the way I left you.”

“You’re back now. That’s what matters.”

“When I heard you d-dying,” Cas falters and he gulps twice in quick succession, “I knew I had to fight my way back.”

“You're something else, you know that, right?”

“I hope that's a good thing,” Cas teases faintly, but his voice is so hoarse with emotions that it ruins the effect. Still, Dean chuckles, moving in to caress Cas' chest.

“I will show you just how good.” He attempts a flirtatious grin but what comes out instead is an almighty yawn. Cas laughs, obviously carefree and happy, his chest heaving under Dean's palm.

“Sleep, my love.”

“My love,” Dean echoes, barely a hint of a question in it, then fixes his mouth to Cas' for a lazy, drawn-out kiss. He fights the exhaustion creeping up on him as long as he can, but it wins out in the end, and Dean lets himself be pulled down on top of Cas, curling up into him in the process.

[chipper9906]

And Then You Were Gone, In A Rush Of Colors

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 6105

WARNINGS: Major Character Death (Temporarily), Violence, Blood

Status: Oneshot- Complete

Summary: He hadn't noticed, at first. Not until he stumbled back slightly away from Castiels body, eyes fixating on the open wound from the angel blade, and realising with a sickening horror that it was no longer a dark gray.

It was striking, so vibrant that it demanded his attention.

'This is red.'

Set during Episode 3 of Season 9, "I'm No Angel", in an alternate universe where you see colors the first time you touch your soulmate.

* * *

Dean never really liked the concept of having a soulmate. Except, that wasn't entirely true. He ate that shit up as a kid, seeing the happiness that radiated off his parents whenever they were together, his mom ensuring him that "Someday, you'll have that with your soulmate. And you'll be so happy to have found them, that you probably won't even notice the colors."

The colors...

How could he not notice them, if they were to appear? Nearly forty years of living on an Earth that consisted solely of different shades of a muted gray, he was fairly certain he'd take notice of seeing everything in a completely different way, no matter how happy he was feeling.

When he had asked a hunter that had found his soulmate what it was like out of plain curiosity, it was hard not to get frustrated at his attempts at explaining it. It wasn't his fault, of course. How do you describe something that the other person has never seen?

Obviously, it's not all about the colors. No, that was just a side part of what was really happening.

Meeting your soulmate, for the very first time.

Two souls destined to become entwined, finally being joined together. Like the final piece of a puzzle, where everything falls into place.

In his teenage years, the idea didn't appeal to him all that much. Despite being told countless times how his soulmate would be the perfect person for him, the idea that the person he is to spend the rest of his whole life with was already chosen for him seemed completely unfair. It would become such a huge part of his life, shouldn't he get to decide who he loves?

That wasn't the biggest problem, though. The problem was, as much as he hated to admit it, the thought of having a soulmate was terrifying to him. Not when he finds them, but when he loses them.

Because in their line of work, it's inevitable. Getting close to someone is a risky game that almost always ends in death and suffering.

The first time he had seen the effects of losing your soulmate was with his dad. He barely has any memories of his father before Mary was so untimely ripped away from him. He does remember how different his dad felt after. It became a rarity to see him smile, and he became cold and distant, even to his own sons. He no longer had the comforting touch of a loving wife, and now the only respite he found was at the bottom of a bottle.

Dean has already lost people he cared about, was keenly aware of the pain that brought on. But he knew that it wouldn't even begin to compare to the pain he would feel in losing his soulmate, and he just doesn't think he would have the emotional capacity to deal with it. He would fall right into the steps of his father; a bitter, ageing man who no longer had a purpose in his life than that of revenge.

Sometimes, he isn't sure whether seeing what happened to Sam with Jess validated his opinion more, or made him see the other side to having a soulmate. After all, he'd be blind not to see just how happy Jessica made Sam. He could feel it radiating off of his little brother the second he introduced him to Jess, and it had pained Dean slightly to see how happy Sam had been without him.

Once, and only once, when they had both had a bit too much to drink, Dean had asked Sam what it was like to have a soulmate.

"It was kind of like... I don't know, like being with them was as natural as breathing. Like you had already known them your whole life."

Dean had never regretted asking a question as much as when he asked Sam if he had a favorite color, as the smile on his face as he reminisced about his time with Jess dropped from his face.

"Yellow. It was the first color I noticed. It was bright and just... there. Screaming at you to notice. It was..." Sam trailed off slightly, bringing the bottle of beer up to his lips and drinking deeply from it. "It was the last color to go, faded with all the others not long after..."

Dean didn't need to hear the rest.

Seeing other people, strangers, out on the streets with their soulmate, seeing how blissfully happy they were would always ignite a deeply buried part of Dean that yearned for that kind of connection. But it was buried down for a reason, as he had come to accept that the negatives far outweighed the positives, especially for a hunter.

Now, every fleeting touch from a stranger that passed by, every accidental brush of a hand from a witness or an officer, every person he fell into bed with, he hoped that there would be no flash of color, no sudden spark of realization. He hoped that he would live the rest of his life in gray.

Then again, he is Dean Winchester. It seemed that God himself had it out for him, because his worst nightmare came true in the cruelest way that even he couldn't have seen coming.

To say that the past few weeks had been an emotional roller-coaster would be an understatement. First, finding out that the trials of heaven were going to kill Sammy, trying to stop Sam before he finished the last trial, only to realize the damage had already been done. And all at the same time, seeing the angels be cast down from heaven onto earth, feeling the dread in the pit of his stomach that one of them could be Cas.

As it turned out, it would have been easier. It felt like he was being pulled apart by fear. The fear of knowing that without some sort of miracle, that Sam wasn't going to make it. Then there was the other overwhelming fear, the fear that there was a reason that Castiel wasn't responding to his prayers.

Just... Not the reason he was expecting. Human. Castiel was human now. Human, and very alone. He wouldn't be able to zap on over to them in a millisecond as he once did. Metatron had spat him out in the middle of nowhere, and it killed Dean that he couldn't just drop everything to go find him and bring him home. No, he couldn't do that to Sammy. Not when he was hanging onto life by a thread.

If he was being honest with himself, he wasn't sure why he was praying to Castiel in the first place. It had become a sort of reflex to him how, whenever facing something that seemed out of his control.

Castiel was an angel. A soldier of God. He had fought tooth and nail through hell, to drag Dean's soul out of there. He had patched Dean's soul back together, knitted his ripped apart body back together, and placed his soul back where it belonged.

Castiel was pure power. Almost like a 'fix it' button, where having him nearby automatically made him feel safer, knowing that an angel had his back.

Then again, even if Castiel was still an angel, would he have been able to heal Sam? Castiel had said it himself, the trials were damaging Sam in a way that even he couldn't fix. So if that was the case, what was there left to do? What could he possibly do, to save the life of his little brother?

As he had said, only a miracle could save Sam now. Praying to the other angels was a risky move, considering he had managed to single-handedly piss nearly all of them off by putting a stop to the apocalypse. Who knew that putting a wrench in God's plan would anger a bunch of all-mighty beings whose only purpose was to serve God?

But then, the miracle was received, his prayer had been answered. An angel; Ezekiel, had taken pity on him. Knowing how angels actually were (Especially when he thought back to the way Castiel was the first few months he knew him), having an angel willing to help was... Very un-angel like.

Still, he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. If this angel said he would be able to save Sam, he had to take that chance, right? Even if it meant tricking his little brother into letting Ezekiel in, that was just a sacrifice that had to be made. He would take a pissed off Sam over a dead Sam any day.

For the first time in a long time, things were looking up. There was still the stress and worry in the back of his mind that Castiel had yet to find his way to the bunker, especially considering he had no way of contacting Cas. Despite that, Sam was getting better. Sam's coughing fits were now far and few between, and he no longer saw that dark stain on Sam's tissues that he knew to be blood. Once Sam was well enough again, they'd finally be able to go and find Cas, no problem.

Except, it doesn't work that way. Not when Ezekiel is telling him that Castiel is now a wanted man. That now the angels on earth, filled with fury at being kicked from their home, are pinning the blame solely on Castiel. They want their revenge, and Dean would be scared for him even if he was still an angel.

But he's not. Castiel is out God knows where, as mortal as they are, possibly with no idea that there are a group of seriously ruffled angels after him.

So that's how they find themselves where they are now, racing towards the room they had been told where Castiel is, with no clue if they were too late. If the reaper had gotten to him before they could.

There's no time to lose. The two of them come to a skidding halt in front of the door, and Dean brings up a foot to kick harshly at the weak spot beside the handle to the door. The wood splinters and shrieks from the force, flinging open and nearly rebounding into the both of them as they charge through.

Dean was certain he had never had a feeling of relief taken from him as quickly as he had. The few seconds he caught a glimpse of Castiel, admittedly looking a little worse for wear, but alive. Then, his gaze had slipped over to the red-headed reaper crouched over him, angel-blade still firmly grasped in her hand.

"Cas?!"

The relief was yanked away before the blade had even pierced Castiel’s abdomen.

Charging at her doesn't get him far. Well, not towards her, anyway. Her hand is in the air, and then so is he, catching himself on the top of the kitchen counter before slamming into the wall, sliding back down to the floor. Through his disorientation, he sees a flash of movement where Sam tries the exact same thing as him, only to get the same treatment. Sam sails through the air, crashing into the closet on the other side and disappearing into a pile of neatly hung clothes and shattered wood panels.

The reaper kicks away the angel blade he had dropped, and he knows she's saying something, but he isn't listening. He's solely focused on being as quiet as he can, sneaking closer and closer and as she moves towards Sam.

Something shiny glints out of the corner of his eye, and he sees the handle of the angel blade sticking out from Cas. His heart constricts painfully at the sight, but now is not the time.

Now, this bitch has to die.

He yanks the blade out of Cas, holding it tightly in his hand as he approaches. Watching her strike Sam in the face once he struggles to his feet only adds fuel to the fire, making it all too satisfying to see the shock in her face when he pushes that blade right through her stomach, watching the bright flash of light pour from her entire slowly fade away.

He can barely hear anything through the sound of his blood pounding in his ears, staring down at the reaper's body with complete disdain. It's like a painful electric shock when he remembers why they're there, head snapping over to Castiel, hanging onto the foolish hope that he might have survived.

"Cas?" Dean asks, the blade slipping from his fingers and dropping to the floor, racing over to Castiel’s side.

"Cas?" He tries again, this time louder, as if calling his name louder might wake him up. He lifts his arms up, splaying out his hands on Castiel’s shoulders before moving them up to grasp desperately at his face, searching for any sign of life. A twitch of a muscle, the rise and fall of his chest, anything.

"Cas!"

His voice breaks as his throat tightens, the realization he had tried so hard to force away beginning to sink in.

That's when it happens.

He hadn't noticed, at first. Not until he stumbled back slightly away from Castiel’s body, eyes fixating on the open wound from the angel blade, and realizing with a sickening horror that it was no longer a dark gray.

It was striking, so vibrant that it demanded his attention. 'This is red' his mind helpfully supplies as he stared down at Castiel, dumbstruck by what he was seeing.

Castiel’s skin was no longer a light shade of white, now replaced by a tan color that, as he looks down at his own hands in shock, realizes it is nearly the same as his own, if not slightly darker.

In normal circumstances, he would be taking in his surroundings, drinking in all the new pleasing visuals, matching names to colors for the first time in his life.

That's not what he's thinking about right now. Right now, it's the gut-wrenching, heart punching fact that for the past five years, his soulmate was standing right in front of him, unbeknownst to the both of them.

Angels were never assigned a soulmate because, well, they don't have souls. But then Cas became human, and he must have developed his own soul. Or perhaps this was God's plan all along, for Cas to be the exception? The one angel to be given a soul.

After all this time, it was his best friend he was destined to spend the rest of his life with.

And now, Cas was gone.

He had always told himself that he didn't want a soulmate. That it simply wasn't worth the pain. Now, he wished he had known sooner. He wished the world had bloomed into color the second he pushed that blade into Castiel’s heart, the first time they met. Even if it made losing him all the more painful, what hurt more was knowing that all this time, he could have been with his soulmate.

It was too cruel, for him to find out the truth after Castiel had already been taken away from him.

"No..." Dean whispers in disbelief, standing up and taking a few unsteady steps backwards.

Already, the colors were beginning to fade. He hadn't had them for long, and yet, he could still see that his vision had begun to change. They were still there, but not as... Demanding. Not as there, in your face. They were beginning to dull, and Dean knew it wouldn't be long before everything returned to the murky shades of gray, black and white.

Something shuffles around over to the side, and he glances over to see that Sam had managed to get to his feet, staring down at Castiel’s body, laid out on the armchair. Dean's vision is brought back to Castiel, such a painful thing to see, yet he can't find it in himself to look away.

"Sam, he's gone," Dean tells him, and saying it out loud only seems to make it feel all the more real, does nothing but make the heartache in his chest grow stronger.

Sam moves forward, towards Castiel’s body, and drops down to his knees as Dean had, earlier before. Dean briefly wonders if Sam needs the time to mourn as he does, but then looks to Sam in utter confusion when he gently holds a hand over Castiel’s body.

In the commotion of everything, he had somehow almost forgotten that there was an angel taking shelter inside his brother. Watching an angel heal is still such a miraculous sight as it was the first time he saw it, the cuts and open stab wounds seemingly being erased, replaced by smooth, untouched skin.

As the last of the cuts disappear from Castiel’s body, Sam suddenly bolts up to his feet, stumbling backward at the movement and crashing back into the wall, collapsing down to the floor. There's a few seconds where he watches Sam in complete bewilderment before the concern for his brother wins out, taking a few steps towards him with his arms outstretched.

"Dean..."

So many times he had heard that deep, gravelly voice calling his name. He had heard it yelled in fury or in panic, heard it muttered in frustration, and heard it spoken in the most uninterested, monotone angel tone, back when Cas still followed the rules to a tee.

Hearing Cas his soulmate call his name now, had never sounded better.

"Hey... Hey! Yeah..." He spluttered out, rushing back over to Cas side and placing his hand on Cas side once again, letting it slide down to his leg as he takes in Castiel’s confused expression.

Castiel’s eyes go wide as he stares up at Dean, then snapping over to Sam's unconscious form on the floor nearby.

"And Sam." Castiel finishes, looking back to Dean, still with the wide-eyed expression on his face.

It suddenly hits Dean that maybe, Castiel was seeing everything in color for the first time, and he can't even begin to imagine how confused Castiel must be feeling right now, not only having no idea why he's suddenly seeing in color, but also how in the hell he's even alive right now.

Though, judging by the way he's looking at Dean, eyes darting down to the hand resting on his leg, he seems to be starting to figure the former out.

"Cas...? " Sam says in confusion, his expression matching his voice. "You're okay?"

Castiel doesn't seem to know how to answer that, remaining silent as he looks up to Dean, trying to figure out how he was okay after being stabbed through the stomach by April. It happened, he knew it had happened. He felt the agonizing, fiery pain as it pierced through his body, and within seconds, it was gone. Everything was gone.

Castiel couldn't help but feel slightly puzzled when Dean pushes up and away from him, his worried expression changing into a hardened, much more familiar guarded expression he was used to seeing from Dean.

As it turns out, Dean was right. Losing his soulmate had been one of the more incredibly painful moments of his life. And now that he had gone through it, he never, ever wanted to experience it again.

"Never do that again!" He demands, keeping his voice low and scratchy as not to reveal how vulnerable he was feeling right now.

Castiel blinks up at him in bewilderment before answering with a somewhat unsure sounding "Alright."

Not exactly the answer Dean was hoping for, but at this point, he was way too relieved to care all that much. He takes a slight step back, wiping a hand down his face as if he could wipe away the leftover adrenaline with it. There was a lot they were going to have to talk about, especially considering Castiel might not even know that he is his soulmate. It must be quite a shock to Castiel, both coming back to life and suddenly seeing everything in color, especially since no angel had ever had a soulmate before.

Once he drops his hand back down from his face, Dean notices that Castiel is still staring at him, as if he's seeing him for the first time in his life. It was starting to make Dean feel uncomfortable, seeing the way Castiel seemed to be analyzing every inch of him, his eyes frequently darting back to study his face.

"Cas, you... Stupid question, but you alright buddy?"

Castiel keeps staring at him for a few more seconds before he opens his mouth to answer. He doesn't speak right away, instead closing his mouth again and swallowing deeply, not taking his eyes off Dean's face as he finally responds.

"Your eyes..." Castiel murmurs in amazement, the faintest of a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. "They're green..."

A bark of laughter escapes Dean, relief bubbling from him after all that tension, all that terror. He shakes his head slightly, chuckling fondly at the gobsmacked sounding tone of Castiel’s voice.

His laughter slowly begins to die off, though he still has a small smile on his face, matching the one Castiel was giving him in return. At the same time, he racked his brain to figure out a way to bring up, well, this.

He wasn't sure if it had always been there between the two of them, if he had never noticed or perhaps, pretended not to notice it. But now, knowing that Castiel was his soulmate, it felt impossible to ignore. He wondered if Castiel felt it too, struggling to imagine any kind of situation where Castiel had felt it in the past.

But now, seeing the way Castiel was looking at him, he knew something had changed.

"Dean..."

'Screw words' is what briefly flutters through his mind as he drops back down in front of Castiel, grasping the sides of his face in his hands and kissing him for all he's got. He's well aware of the fact that Sam is still in the room, having seen him struggle back to his feet a few moments before.

Castiel’s eyes briefly widen at this as his hands shoot up to grab at Dean's arms that were still holding his face, feeling quite dumbstruck by what was happening. Something that he never thought could happen between him and Dean.

His fingers loosen their death grip in Dean's jacket, knuckles no longer as tight and wound up, relaxing into a softer hold. He can feel the slight tremor of Dean's muscles under his skin, still shaking from everything that had happened.

A somewhat awkward-sounding cough breaks them apart, and they both look over to a red-faced Sam, who is staring down at the floor as if there was nothing more important right now than the state of his shoes.

"Apologies, Sam." Castiel is first to break the silence, seeing that Dean was trying his best not to laugh at the unapologetic sounding apology, even though he was feeling a little bit embarrassed himself.

"Yeah, uh, sorry Sammy." Dean adds onto the apology.

"It's just uh..." Dean looks out to the window, a new color catching his eye. Almost immediately, he realizes which one it is, and turns back to his brother with a grin. "I can see why yellow was your favorite color"

Dean wished he had a camera on him right at that time to record Sam's reaction. First, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion along with his tilted head, and Dean could physically see the gears turning in his head. Better yet was when it all clicked into place, mouth dropping open slightly, eyebrows no longer furrowed but instead raised up near to his hairline, eyes following his own finger which was switching between pointing at Dean, and then Castiel.

"You... Cas... Is he your..."

"You know Sam, it quite interesting how similar, yet also so different your eyes are to Dean’s. The base color is the same, and yet... I can see Dean’s in them, but at the same time, they're very much your own." Castiel notes, always the observant one.

"Huh," is all Sam can say to that, huffing out a laugh, looking up at the ceiling in exasperation. "Guess I owe Charlie twenty bucks now."

Before Dean even has a chance to ask what that even meant, Sam began to sway on the spot, quickly shooting a hand to steady himself on the wall behind. Dean was up from his crouched position in a flash, holding out his own arm for support if Sam needed it. It's only a few seconds before Castiel is by his side, concern on his face as he watches Sam try to blink away his incoming unconsciousness.

"Sammy?" Dean asks worriedly, ready to catch Sam if he was to drop to the floor.

"I'm okay. I'm okay... Just... A little wiped out. Think I hit my head pretty hard when that reaper threw me." Sam reassured them, raising a hand to his throbbing head as he spoke.

"C'mon, shake it off man. Cas got stabbed and he walked it off." Dean attempted to joke, though fails to deliver the line as well as he usually would through his concern.

"Yeah... How did you walk that off?" Sam asked, pushing himself back up and away from the wall, keeping one arm pressed against the wall, just in case. "We both saw it. You looked... You looked pretty dead to me."

"I don't know what happened," Castiel answered honestly, glancing down at his own bare chest and stomach, which was no longer littered with cuts.

"I felt April stab me, and then... Then I was awake."

"Hey, as long as you're alive, and you're you, I'm not going to question it too much," Dean deflected their questions, resting a hand on Castiel’s shoulders and giving it a fond squeeze. "You have no idea how glad I am to have you back."

Sam's pained groan snaps the two of them out of their gaze, gentle smiles replaced with worried frowns as Sam rubs at his painful head.

"I think... I think I need to go lie down for a while. I'm not feeling too hot." Sam mumbles to them, already stumbling past them and towards the door.

"Sammy," Dean calls after him, pulling Baby's keys out of his pocket and tossing them to Sam, who had stopped and turned in the doorway.

"Get yourself settled. Me 'n Cas need to talk for a bit." Dean instructs, gesturing at the dead body of April and the mess they had made in the scuffle.

Sam gives him a thankful, but weak smile in response, tucking the keys away in his pocket before making his way out of the room, heavy footsteps leading away through the hall before becoming too quiet to hear.

Now, it was just the two of them. Castiel has a hand on his own arm as he shuffled somewhat awkwardly on his feet, trying to figure out how best to approach the subject and break the silence they had found themselves in. Dean meanwhile was stuck between looking at Castiel and the dead reaper on the ground, a million questions in his head, no idea which one he should ask first.

"So, uh... We gonna talk about this?" Dean asked, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

"We probably should."

"You're gonna have to give me a minute here. It’s... A lot to take in."

"I don't really understand what's happening myself. Angels were never supposed to have soulmates."

"But you're not-"

"Not an angel anymore. But Dean, I'm not the first angel to lose their grace and turn mortal. It’s rare, and usually kept quiet, but it's happened. Never, in any of those times, has the angel been given a soulmate. It just... Doesn't happen."

"So, what does this mean? Do you have a soul now? Can that even happen?"

"I... I suppose I do. After all, it's not possible to have a soulmate without one." Cas summarised, placing a hand on his chest as if he might be able to feel his soul residing inside him.

"Wow. First angel to have a soulmate," Dean said with a small huff of laughter, giving Castiel a teasing shove on his shoulder. "Sorry I was the one chosen for you."

Castiel looked up to Dean with a confused frown, rearing his head back slightly at the insult Dean had just given to himself.

"Why would you be sorry?" Castiel asked

"Eh, well," Dean began awkwardly, shrugging his shoulders. "It's not exactly like you were expecting a soulmate, y'know? Must be kinda disappointing to find out it's me."

"Dean... What are you talking about?" Castiel asked, stepping slightly closer to Dean. "I wish you could see your soul as I once could. To see how bright it shines, how beautiful it is. If you could see it, you would know you’re wrong. You're a good man, Dean. I couldn't have asked for a better soulmate."

Dean looked taken aback by Castiel’s words, head snapping up from the ground to lock eyes with Castiel, looking to see how sincere Castiel was being with his words.

"If anything, I should be the one apologizing." Castiel added.

"What?"

"Dean, we both know you never wanted a soulmate. You were quite vocal about it. I'm not an idiot Dean, I know I don't fit into the category of your usual romantic endeavors, so I'm sure I wasn't what you were expecting. Besides, I..."

Castiel trailed off, an ashamed and infuriated look appearing on his face.

"I'm no use to you now. To either of you. My powers are gone, and now... I can barely take care of myself. I've only been human for a few weeks, and I already managed to get tricked and tortured by a reaper.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is... I understand. If you're not interested in... If you don't want me as your soulmate, I'll understand."

Castiel was expecting Dean to look relieved at this, perhaps even happy to hear he didn't have to be pressured into anything. To his surprise, Dean actually looked pained at his words. He could see his jaw shifting in place, and wondered if he was trying to work up the courage to say something, or if he was perhaps grinding his teeth.

The last thing he was expecting was for Dean to tug at his arms, pulling him forward into his chest. Dean wrapped his arms tight around Castiel’s back, knowing he wouldn't be ready to let go for a while. Castiel was warm against him, and he could feel the faint beat of his heart through his chest. A heart that, not too long ago, had stopped beating. The thought makes him tighten his hold.

It takes Castiel a few shell shocked moments to remember it was customary in these kinds of moments to hug back. He uncertainty lifts his arms up, deciding to match Dean's position and wrap them around Dean's back. He can feel the tightness of Dean's back muscles under his fingers, but they seem to soften a little once Castiel places his hands over them. Cas can't help but smile a little at this, feeling as if he still had a bit of the healing touch he once had as an angel.

"I don't care if you're an angel, or if you're human. I don't care if you can't do all the things you did for us before. That's not what I care about. I care about you, Cas. Not what you can do for us." Dean tells him, letting his hands slide from Castiel’s back to his arms as he pulls away from the hug, keeping a light hold on his hands. "I don't need you because of your power. I need you. I need you in that stupid trench coat and tie. I need you and your crazy obsession with bees. I need you and your compassion for humans. I need you and your rebellious nature. I need my best friend. I need my soulmate."

And before Castiel can get anything out in response, Dean gives him a warm smile, tugging him towards the door of the room.

"C'mon, Cas. Let's go home."

- - -

It wasn't all smooth sailing from there, as it never is. Dean knew the angels were still out there, still angry, searching high and low for Cas. Ezekiel knew it too, and it wasn't all that surprising that he brought it up one morning, demanding that Castiel had to leave for all of their safety.

Dean knew there was a time when he would have caved in. Ezekiel may have been the only thing holding his brother together right now, and there was no way he was going to gamble on his brother's life.

Things were different now, though. Dean had a soulmate now, how could he possibly abandon Cas to face the angels on his own? Ezekiel always sort of seemed like a no-nonsense kind of angel, so Dean had thought the best approach would be to present as much evidence as possible in Cas' defense. Even Ezekiel couldn't deny that it had been impossible for him to locate Castiel with his Enochian warding tattoo, and Dean brought up how impossible it would be to find Castiel, combining that with, not only how difficult it was to find the bunker, but also how damn near impenetrable the thing was.

That wasn't what swayed him, though. He had never really thought to bring up the whole soulmate thing with Ezekiel, and Ezekiel looked just as confused as they did when they found out, citing that it was impossible and that it had never happened before.

But as Dean began to explain further, he could have sworn he could see a flash of hope in Sam’s Ezekiel's eyes, the first sort of emotion he had ever seen from the angel. He wasn't too sure why until Ezekiel began talking about how it must have been a sign of God, how else would an angel have miraculously developed their own soul, then been given a soulmate?

Dean wasn't all that sold on the idea, finding it hard to believe that the big man upstairs had any interest in the two of them, let alone the fact that he was fairly certain God wasn't even home anymore.

Then again, Ezekiel had a point. If God is the only being that can create a soul, as the angels claimed, then how else did Cas get his soul? And if God did, how far back did this go? If he had been destined a soulmate since birth, was he also Castiel’s since creation? Did God pair them together, billions of years before he was even born? Was it part of God's plan all along, for Castiel to lose his grace, and to become human?

He didn't really know what to think. It was almost too much to think, and quite frankly, he didn't want to argue with Ezekiel about it. Not if it meant that Cas got to stay, here, at home, with Dean, where he should be.

One of the reasons why Dean was so unsure about having a soul mate was that he feared everything would change. He thought that the moment he saw his soulmate, he would be desperate to get out of the hunter's life and settle down like all the others, to go and find that white picket fence, apple pie slice of domestic life.

It's not what happened, however. Everything is pretty much as it was. But now, now there's one more addition to the bunker. Now, he has a second person to help fret over Sam with. Now, there's another voice, this one much gravelier, humming along to whatever song is playing on the old, crackly radio in the kitchen as he cooks. Now, there are warm touches and fond smiles whenever they see each other. Life is as it always is, but now, he has his soulmate. Now, he's happier.

One night, after a filling meal of burgers, as they lazed around the bunkers table with beers in their hands and their stomachs, Sam had asked him that now he could see them, what his favorite color was.

There was barely any hesitation for him, barely any time he needed to think. He simply looked over to Castiel, reaching out for his hand under the table, smiling affectionately at the man next to him before answering.

"Blue."

[deepsixsquid]

(Part 1) The Final Fest has come and gone and the victor has been decided... However, Nocchan and Doppel have one last score to settle...

*Both teams of Chaos and Order have dispersed and the night life of Inkopolis returns to it’s usual midnight bustle. But, in the distance, on the MC Princess Diaries station, floating next to the ruins of the NILS Statue, Doppel quietly looks up to the full moon and braces herself. Thoughts of her last encounter with her skull faced counterpart flash through her mind. What Nocchan said about her pursuits, her fight to prove her strength despite the fact that it almost lead to her demise, twice, it haunts her... Doppel knows all too well what dwells in Nocchan’s mind, hopefully she can show her reason, but such a thing is far easier said than done, and their last battle was a clear sign of that. Before she can contemplate further, the sound of approaching footsteps breaks the silence.* *With her inkbrush resting on her shoulder, Nocchan slowly makes her way to Doppel’s side, all while keeping her eyes on the ruined statue* “Ya know, not gonna lie, it feels kinda weird, seeing this thing again... Kinda surprised it’s still here, for the most part” *Doppel can’t help but smile and shake her head* “You still did quite a number on it. And this is only the outside, I bet whatever is, or WAS, on the inside is nothing but scrap now.” “You know what sucks though? I can’t tell anybody about this thing. Pretty sure no one wants to know that they came pretty close to being destroyed, and they didn’t even know about it!” “And yet, here we are. A lot of people were in this same spot not that long ago, looking at this thing. I’m sure there’s a few people out there who have some idea of what this thing REALLY is” *Nocchan lowers her bandana, revealing a rather confident smirk* “But I don’t think they’d know about how it got trashed so badly~!” *For a moment, Nocchan and Doppel couldn’t help but laugh. Before a familiar silence, accompanied by that same tension from their last chat, slowly began to sink in. Doppel turns to Nocchan, who’s looking over her right hand. After a deep breath, and a moment of hesitation, Doppel speaks up* “I know you’re very proud of your strength...and you have every right to be. You’ve fought pretty hard to get where you are...but-” *Nocchan clenches her fist and turns away* “Yeah yeah, I know. You’ll never let that go, will ya? I meant what I said though, I’m strong enough to handle things.” *With a slight dramatic flare, she points her inkbrush towards the wreckage* “If I can handle that, I don’t think there’s much I CAN’T handle. I saw some crazy things in there, some things I’m still not too sure about. But, none of that stopped me. I mean, c’mon, look at that, and look at me~! I’m still kickin, and it’s, well, I think I’ve made my point~” “You have, and I’m sure you’re better off not thinking about some of those things too much. Honestly, I’m not sure if I want to know what you saw down there. It just makes me think...what if this is a sign? This could just be part of something bigger, and this thing, alone, almost wiped out inkopolis, and then some...What would we do then?” “Well, if there IS somethin’ bigger than this, I’m pretty sure I can take it down too. It’ll be some time before whatever’s next shows up, so I’ll use that time to stay ready! By the time it’s here, I’ll be around to handle it.” *With a slightly stressed sigh, Doppel tightens her grip on her dynamo roller and looks up to the moon one more time. Gritting her teeth, she prepares herself.* “And that’s what worries me...You’re strong, yes. But, we both know that you almost didn’t walk away from that last moment. I’ve been thinking about this and, I’ve made my choice. Someone needs to keep you in check. Nocchan, and I’ll be the one to do it. While I was out there, during the Fest, it hit me that I can’t just let you run wild, not anymore. Left unchecked, you might do something reckless again, and you might not be so lucky next time.” *Adjusting her bandana, Nocchan locks eyes with Doppel before gesturing towards the statue ruins* “Then...let’s get moving. You already know I’m not gonna let anything stop me, not even you. If you’re serious about this, then you better bring everything you’ve got. No ‘going easy’ on this one.” *For a few moments, the tension nearly becomes tangible. In the past, their battles have been fierce and destructive but, this fight? This fight already promises to be different, and both sides have yet to make a move. Nocchan simply makes her way towards the massive statue, while Doppel stays behind to gather her thoughts, steel herself, and follow suit.* *Upon landing, both combatants step away from each other, allowing for a few more moments to reflect and assure themselves of what this fight means. Nocchan’s freedom to fight and test her strength against Doppel’s plea for her to consider how risky her actions can be. Beneath the light of a full moon, the only sounds are the waves crashing against the destroyed structure...* *Without a word between them, Nocchan and Doppel charge at each other, weapons in hand, and begin swinging at one another. Clash after clash shakes the stone beneath their feet, each strike more driven than the last. Nocchan’s flurry of Inkbrush attacks keeps Doppel locked in place, but the size of her Dynamo alone is enough to act as a shield.* *Unable to find time for an opening, Doppel jumps backwards with a quick spin, coating a portion of the area with enough purple ink to sink into and dodge a rush from her skull-faced counterpart. Nocchan wastes no time, frantically searching for her opponent without much luck. For a moment, she pauses, taking time to rely on sound rather than sight, which pays off when she hears the sound of something massive being brought down towards her from her blindside. With only an instant to spare, a quick roll saves Nocchan from, what would have been, a devastating attack that would’ve rendered most cephalopods unconscious.* *A  turquoise spark dances across Nocchan’s eyes as she darts forward for a counter attack, flailing wildly against Doppel’s weapon. in the midst of her rush, she uses Doppel’s guarded stance as an opportunity to jump on top of the dynamo and launch herself into the air. While airborne, she grabs a splatbomb and kicks it back down, aiming right for Doppel’s face. The explosion nearly knocks the dynamo out of her hands and causes enough of a distraction for Nocchan to mimic Doppel’s earlier “hideaway” tactic.* *Shaking off the splatbomb attack, Doppel uses the moment to catch her breath and focus. Closing her eyes and concentrating, she’s able to gain some insight on Nocchan’s erratic movements just in time to react to, and counter, a frontal attack with enough force to send the masked squid back a few feet, enough space for Doppel to lunge forward and slam her dynamo down with enough force to put a small crater into the statue, only to miss by a few critical inches.* *As the duel rages on, both sides show no signs of backing down as their blows start hitting their marks. Wild brush swings and calculated dynamo attacks leave the two battered and bruised, but more determined than ever to put an end to the fight. Things reach a fever pitch when Doppel manages to sweep Nocchan off her feet and follows up with a mighty overhead swing that leaves the skull-faced squid on the edge of unconsciousness in a small cloud of ink and dust.* *The sounds of waves and wind are muffled, the sight of the moon and stars are blurred as Nocchan struggles to stay in the fight.* ”Hell......no..... Not like...this..” *A growl through gritted teeth, a vow with a clenched fist, Nocchan staggers to her feet. Sparks of energy begin to jolt across her faintly glowing body as her eyes turn pure white.* ”I..won’t....” *Bracing herself, Doppel calls upon her own energy. An ethereal aura surrounds her and collects in the palm of her right hand, marking the beginning of a booyah bomb’s formation as Nocchan howls at the top of her lungs* ”I WON’T LOSE TO YOU!!” *Turquoise energy quickly builds up and wraps around Nocchan’s arm as she dashes forward, right hand outstretched towards Doppel, only to stopped short by a booyah bomb, slammed into her chest, as Doppel lifts it, and Nocchan, higher and higher into the air, preparing to detonate it* *Temporarily stunned by the impact, Nocchan tries to collect herself as she’s brought further up, into the air. Doppel’s voice, though slightly muted, is the only thing she can hear as she laments* ”I’m sorry about this....I really am...This’ll only keep you down for a while but...still, I hope you can-” *Doppel’s apologies are cut short when Nocchan’s eyes suddenly open, and her energized hand quickly grabs Doppel by the face. Was it instinct? Fear? or Rage? An answer that was lost when both Doppel’s Booyah Bomb and Nocchan’s Splashdown detonate, high above the ruins. A marvelous, multi-color explosion that can be seen for miles, shakes the area as both plummet to the ground...* *A finger twitches, a sudden gasp for air, and the sound of one struggling to pick themselves up. Nocchan rises with enough strength to kneel as she tries to catch her breath and come back to her senses. She drags herself over to her inkbrush and uses it to keep herself on her feet. A sense of shock and dread slowly washes over her as she turns around to see a badly wounded Doppel, her hand reaching towards the sky as small wisps of violet light leave her body, drifting toward the bright, pale, full moon. Her hand manages to grab something as she falls limp and the color fades from her. ”Hey...” *Nocchan slowly walks over, as a tear builds up in her eye* ”Wait...” *Doppel’s vision slowly fades to white as she hears Nocchan’s voice growing more and more distant* ”................Doppel?” *Before Nocchan can reach her fallen counterpart, a flash of blinding light catches her off guard, accompanied by the sound of a helicopter. A silhouette drops in front of her and a slightly distorted voice sends a chill through Nocchan’s body* ”Well...I’ll give you this, that was a rather impressive show. When i heard a report of trespassers, I had a feeling it might’ve been you. Thankfully, that light show was all the confirmation I needed”

*Riza, aka: Agent 3. Once a Turf War celebrity, she grew bored of the spotlight. Fame and fortune were nothing compared to the rush of a fight. A brief encounter with a group of octarians and their commander landed her an Agent position in the New Squidbeak Splatoon, and lead her to a new kind of battle, one where she puts her life on the line. Riza has also earned the title of Nocchan’s nemesis, having faced her twice before. Their first battle still weighs heavily on Nocchan’s mind, as it was her first, and most devastating, loss. Now, after witnessing what she’s truly capable of, Nocchan has earned something both respectable and dangerous...Riza’s attention.” *Riza paces around the battlefield, taking note of the damages to both the statue and the two fighters* ”An off-limits area, a perfect place for a scuffle, I must say. Shame about your...”other” though. I had hopes for them. I suppose you were right, you really won’t let anything, or anyone stop you...” *Nocchan grips her inkbrush and takes a few steps forward* ”Is this all you came here for? Just to gloat or whatever? Get on with it already! ...Or do I have to-” ”Oh drop the attitude, for once. You can barely stand. Save your strength, or whatever’s left of it. From what I saw, I’m surprised you’re even talking, gotta give you credit for that” *Despite Nocchan’s best efforts, she can’t help but drop to one knee as she tries to stay awake. She looks back to Doppel, one more time, as the shock begins to take hold again* *Meanwhile, a bright light gives way to darkness. the sounds of voices fades, eventually replaced by the sound of...bubbles. Beneath a sea of black, something slowly rises to the surface. A hand breaks through, reaching towards the sky, dragging themselves up and standing on the water, as if it were solid ground. Doppel coughs, trying to get the water out of her lungs as she struggles to breathe.* *She finds herself in a monochrome world...The sea, a seemingly endless void that stretches as far as she can see. The sky, a dull grey, with small white stars that just hang in the air. The moon, what was once bright and glowing, now shares the same darkness as the sea she stands on.Even Doppel herself has lost her color and blends in with this...lifeless place.* *Taking in her new surroundings, she sighs and begins to walk forward with nothing but the sound of her own footsteps to keep the silence at bay. Despite walking, for what feels like hours, the scenery remains the same, it’s only then that Doppel realizes something, something her hand has been keeping a tight grip on...something with a faint purple glow...* *Doppel stares at the light in her hand, the glow steadily getting stronger as the small wisp hover just in front of her. it begins to pulse, like a heartbeat. Doppel puts her hand over her chest, and feels nothing. The wisp gently moves onward, almost fading out of view, when something stirs in the back of Doppel’s mind..” ”Move...I...have to move. I can’t stay...here?” *Before she realizes it, she’s walking after the wisp, and she’s picking up the pace. Thoughts start to fade into her mind, thoughts of friends,and past battles and challenges.* ”No...I...wait, I think I...I know?” *Looking towards the sky, the dull stars begins to twinkle, softly, one by one, as more thoughts and memories spring forth. Memories that feel familiar, but also unfamiliar. Memories of Nocchan’s perspective. How she became the fighter she is today and those she met along the way.* ”I can’t stop either...” *Now chasing after the wisp, running as fast as she can, even the moon’s begun to change and regain its luster. Memories of the day Nocchan and Doppel split, the booyah bomb that separated them and gave Doppel her own form, rush to the front of her mind. The many days she spent wandering around in a haze, trying to figure out her own life, the many questions she has yet to find an answer to, her encounters with Nocchan, and something that still weighs on her heart, even now, Nocchan’s words after their first fight “You make a good other...”* ”I’m...I’M NOT DONE YET! I CAN’T LOSE NOW EITHER!” *She reaches out and grabs the wisp again, holding it close to her heart. The faint light now glowing with a brilliant radiance. The waters beneath her feet begin to spiral as the stars fall into the whirlpool below. Doppel floats above it all, regaining her colors and feeling air rush into her lungs. Holding her breath, she dives down into the whirlpool, towards the blinding, swirling, star light as a voice starts to reverberate around her* *Riza continues to pace as Nocchan quietly begins to grieve* ”You know, for what it’s worth, you honestly surprise me. When we first met, I never would have guessed that a rookie would reach a level of power like this. I thought you were just another wannabe but, here we are. Look at what you can do! I’m actually, and I don’t throw this around lightly, I’m quite...interested, in what you can really do.” *Nocchan lowers her head, gritting her teeth while a tear rolls down her face. She struggles to get back on her feet while keeping a firm grip on her weapon* ”Just...shut up. Before I shut you up, dammit. Unless you’re that hellbent...” *A familiar spark darts around Nocchans hands* ”Remember this place? I kicked your ass and showed you what I can do once....I’ll be more than happy to do it again!” *Beneath her gas mask, a sadistic smirk creeps across Riza’s face. A sinister green aura begins to emanate from her body* ”All this, and you can still fight? Like I said, you surprise me. Maybe it’s time I return the favor?” *Riza and Nocchan take a single step towards one another when both of them are suddenly distracted by a loud “BANG” accompanied by a flash of purple light enveloping Doppel’s body as she slams her fist into the statue. Wisps fly down from the midnight sky, descending into Doppel’s body and lifting her to her feet before she opens her eyes that glow with renewed vigor. Her dynamo seems to spring to life and is drawn to back to its wielder’s hands. Nocchan takes a moment to brush the tears out of her eyes as Riza steps forward* ”Wait...Doppel? But...you-” ”Huh, now that’s new. And here I thought you were down and out! Will wonders never cease~?” *Doppel leans her dynamo on her shoulder with a smile and walks over to Nocchan. A pale aura coats her hand as she rests it on Nocchan’s shoulder. The energy soothes and revitalizes her.* ”Wait wait wait, what the hell’s happening here?” *Doppel just smirks, takes a few steps back and readies herself* ”Let’s just say, for now, I figured something out. But, there’s something more important to take care of. C’mon, you’re not quitting on me now, right?” *Still in disbelief, Nocchan shakes her head and fixes her bandana while keeping an eye on Doppel and Riza. The agent simply nods and offers a short applause* ”And so, here we are. I must say, this was a bit more than I expected but, I’m certainly impressed, nonetheless~!” *Riza puts her hand to the side of her mask, answering a call from the helicopter above* ”Have a team on standby but. don’t have them move until I say so...Now, give us some space” *As ordered, the helicopter moves away, about a mile from the makeshift battlefield* ”Right then, back to business, yes?” *With her Inkbrush at the ready, and a glint in her eye, Nocchan looks between Doppel and Riza.” ”I said it once, and I’ll say it again. Don’t pull punches, got it?” *In an instant, all three rush to the center of the field, weapons ready, auras blazing, and ready to give it this fight every bit of power they have*

***T O  B E  C O N T I N U E D . . .?***

[succubused]

until i see you again

i’m afraid that i'm miles away from yesterday and I'm alone

“You ever heard of multiverse theory?” Jotaro said carefully, still looking down at the book that lay open in his lap. The page he had been staring at for the past twenty minutes may as well have been written in a foreign language.

Kakyoin’s footsteps halted. “Multiverse?”

“Mm.” Maybe this was a mistake.

“I’m…not unfamiliar.” Papers shuffled against a table. “Though I couldn’t tell you that I understand it very well. Why do you ask?”

“Something Josuke said just—” Jotaro grimaced, momentarily grateful for the fact that he was facing away. “Don’t know if it matters too much.”

“I was going to say.” He heard the smile in Kakyoin’s voice. “I didn’t realize those starfish of yours would provoke such abstract thought. Could you pass me that pen?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank y—” He frowned. “Jotaro, you’re shaking.”

For a moment they both watched the tremor of the ballpoint pen he held that had betrayed him. Gently Kakyoin lifted it from his fingers and wrapped both of his hands around Jotaro’s, who had no way of knowing whether the cool palms would stop the trembling or make it worse.

“I guess it does matter,” he murmured. “What’s got you so upset?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“I—forget it.” He pulled his hand away. “Not important.”

The temporary silence almost allowed him to believe that Kakyoin would listen for once, until he felt him sit down on the couch beside him and remembered that he knew the man better than to think that was possible.

He crossed his legs. “Still think you can get away with that, do you?”

“I think I can try.” Jotaro smirked despite himself.

“You never learn.”

“Part of my charm.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I said forget it.”

“And I’m telling you that’s not going to happen.”

Reflexively he reached for the bill of a hat that wasn’t there, ran a hand through his hair nervously instead. When he finally looked up, Kakyoin was watching him with a look that was more concern than it was exasperation.

“You shouldn’t be worrying about me,” he said at last.

“I’m just going to get more and more insufferable until you tell me, you know.” He bumped his shoulder against Jotaro’s, eliciting the closest thing to a real smile he’d seen all day. “What did Josuke say?”

Jotaro paused, dropping his eyes back to his own hands.

“He’s the same age we were,” he muttered. “He’s just a kid. They’re all just—kids.”

Kakyoin remained silent, waiting.

“He’s a kid who had his best friend die in his arms. He’s pretty upset about it.”

“Well, I think that’s only to be expected,” Kakyoin said slowly. “But Okuyasu’s all right. He knows that.”

“But he was in a world where he had lost Okuyasu.” He tried in vain to stop his leg from bouncing. Too many nervous habits formed by a man who lived in terror of fear showing on his face. “Even if it was only temporary. He still—he won’t really admit to it but I think he’s messed up by how real it was. He was saying that he feels like both things are true at once.”

They stared at each other. Kakyoin opened his mouth and closed it, temporarily at a loss.

“And that’s why I started thinking about how he might not be wrong.” He swallowed. “You know. Multiverse means everything that could happen has happened. Somewhere.”

“I…see.” He looked at Jotaro’s hands. They were still shaking. “That’s what’s bothering you?”

“I…” He felt as though his teeth might start grinding if he clenched them any more tightly, but the prospect of saying it out loud made him nauseous, even though he knew he no longer had a choice in the matter. “Not exactly.”

Kakyoin hadn’t seen Jotaro like this in a long time. He almost seemed like a teenager again, unsure whether or not putting things into words was what made them real, too afraid of what might happen if it was to take the risk.

“Everything that could happen.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It’s quite the concept.”

“If there’s a version of us for every possibility there’s a version of us where you didn’t make it.”

He looked up, surprised. Jotaro was glaring at the table again as thought it had insulted him personally.

“Oh,” Kakyoin said finally. “So that’s what this is about.”

“You could easily have died from the shock before I got to you.” Jotaro closed his eyes, trying to put the memory somewhere it couldn’t touch him. Pulling Kakyoin’s mangled body from the  water tower for a moment in which he was both dead and not dead, both with him and gone. “You didn’t have a pulse.”

His hand drifted unconsciously to his stomach, resting on the heavy patch of scar tissue. “I seem to remember you taking care of that yourself.”

Jotaro smiled weakly. “Yeah, but…”

“But I see what you mean.” Kakyoin’s expression grew serious. “There are versions of those events where we were not as lucky.”

“It feels so close sometimes,” Jotaro muttered. “It feels like that’s what happened. Or that I’ve lived half a life where it did happen. Sometimes I wake up and I don’t know if I’m me or if I’m him up until I look down and you’re…”

Cool fingers laced into his own once again and he looked up to see that Kakyoin had buried his face in his hand, despite having a disarmingly strong grip on Jotaro’s with the other.

“…and I just keep thinking about…how alone he is.”

“You’re wrong.” Kakyoin lifted his head. “He may be lonely, but he’s never alone.”

Jotaro tried and failed to speak, overcome suddenly by the fear of what words might allow the burning in his throat to turn into.

“I’m with him.” His grip tightened. “If it’s me who he lost, then I’m with him. No matter what version of me or what version of you, it doesn’t matter if I’m alive or if I—if I, I’m dead. Or if we never met at all. It can’t change this. Do you understand?”

He nodded mutely.

“And I can tell you that in any world where I died up there I died with no regrets.” Kakyoin shook his head. “Though there would have been…a lot of things I wanted to say to you. And it would be painful to know I had to leave without saying goodbye.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jotaro mumbled. “You…help.”

“You don’t…”

“What?” He blinked at the sudden drop in tone. “Noriaki?”

“You don’t think there would be a version where—where it was me who lived?”

“You mean—”

“Just me.”

“Ah.” Jotaro considered him for a moment. Kakyoin had taken his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose, having gone very pale. “I…”

“You don’t need to lie.”

“…Yes. I assume so.”

Kakyoin shuddered, and Jotaro pulled him into his arms instinctively. It struck the two of them, as it did so frequently, how close they had come to losing one another, how a split second of hesitation meant being brutally torn apart in any outcome but their own. And it felt horribly correct, that everything that they had narrowly escaped in order to remain by one another’s side was something that had come to pass somewhere, somehow, closer than they wanted to admit was possible and a lifetime away. They had been lucky and doomed in equal measure.

“I hate thinking about it,” Kakyoin admitted, his face still buried in Jotaro’s sweater. “It breaks my heart.”

“I know how you feel,” he said, softly enough to hide the cracks in his voice.

“Do you remember what I told you?”

“Well…” Jotaro chuckled. “You might have to be more specific. You tell me things all the time.”

“Desert.”

“Oh, I could never forget that.”

It had been a breathless confession in a language unique to frightened, lovesick teenagers. For all of Jotaro’s airs, especially back then, he had, in the end, been even more terrified of it all than Kakyoin. Sometimes Kakyoin thought about his expression once he had finally overcome his own heart in order to offer that first nervous kiss, the mingled shock and panic and gratitude and the way the lines of his face had softened in a way he had never seen before. He remembered suddenly wondering whether Jotaro had ever allowed himself to be loved at all.

“I told you that you would never have to be lonely again.”

Jotaro looked down at him with raised eyebrows before a rare grin broke across his face. “Yeah, it was sappy. I think I remember telling you that I wasn’t.”

“Yes, and I told you that you were full of shit.” Kakyoin returned the smile and pulled Jotaro’s face down to kiss him on the cheek, pretending for the moment that he couldn’t feel the still-drying tears.

“That much hasn’t changed.”

-

It always came down to the color of the sky.

Whatever part of him it was that painted his dreams, no matter how vivid they were, could never quite get it right; something about the sky was always off, either too dark, or too warm, or the wrong color altogether. Kakyoin glanced up at the lavender beyond the windows and smiled to himself. He had always liked it more when it was obviously wrong. After all, he could watch the sky play by the rules anytime he wanted when he was awake.

He was sitting on the loveseat with his legs curled beneath him, watching the dream pass through, when he felt Jotaro in the doorway.

“Oh. Hello.”

No answer, only a silence that Kakyoin was vaguely surprised to find felt weighted with shock, of all things. When he turned to look, Jotaro’s knuckles were white on the doorframe as though he feared collapsing entirely if he released his grip even momentarily.

“Noriaki?” he croaked after a long moment had passed.

“You seem awfully surprised to see me in my own dream,” Kakyoin said.

“Your dream,” Jotaro repeated, a little faintly. He took an uncertain step towards the window.

“It’s funny, you know,” he said. “Usually when I dream about you we’re kids again. Never thought about what you would have looked like if you made it as far as I have.”

“If I…oh,” Kakyoin breathed, tilting his head to get a better look at the slight shift of the planes of the otherwise familiar face, the circles under his eyes that were just a little darker, the early shadows of frown lines more prominent there than the echoes of laughter that marked the Jotaro he knew. “You’re him.”

He seemed to have become incapable of anything but staring, but Kakyoin had never hesitated to meet him in the middle. They looked at one another, Jotaro’s hand twitching as though he wanted to reach for him, but his near-fearful expression told a different story.

“You’re not real.”

Kakyoin smirked up at him. “From where I stand it looks like that describes you, not me.” He shrugged. “I guess we have no way of know—”

The movement that pulled him in was almost more of a lurch than an embrace, the grip of his hands almost more desperation than love, and maybe it was just equal parts of each, maybe the distinction didn’t matter anymore. Maybe it never had at all. He was still so much taller, had to hunch down to bury his face in Kakyoin’s shoulder to hide the shine of his eyes that threatened to betray him. It was exactly the sort of thing Kakyoin had learned how to look for.

“…you okay up there, big guy?”

“Shut up,” he mumbled, voice muffled.

Even as a dream Jotaro was heavy enough such that when his knees gave out Kakyoin had no choice but to sink down along with him, but still wrapped around one another, neither was inclined to complain.

“I don’t think I care.”

“About what?”

“If you’re real.”

“Well…” He pushed Jotaro’s head off his shoulder, holding his face with both hands. “Whether I’m real or not, I’m here.”

“I tried,” Jotaro said in a low voice. “I—I didn’t—you were already…when I—I tried…”

“Oh…no, you don’t—” Kakyoin stared up with a look of dawning horror. “You don’t blame yourself?”

“I couldn’t—I was too late.”

He watched Kakyoin’s hand close around his own, trying and failing not to think about the last time he had seen those hands in person. He had no way of knowing how close he came, and it haunted him, the not knowing whether he had been seconds or minutes or hours too late. All that he knew was that he hadn’t been close enough.

“I couldn’t save you,” he muttered.

“But—you did.”

Kakyoin held his hand in both of his own, his grip a little too tight to be one meant to comfort alone. Jotaro half worried, as though from somewhere far away, that he would wake up.

“You did save me,” he said. “I don’t know what—I don’t know what happened in whatever—I don’t know what’s true for you. What’s true for me is that you pulled me down from that tower and you—and I, it was close, it was, and it’s not as though it doesn’t affect me even now, but I did make it. Because of you.”

It still felt as though there was something sacrilegious about seeing Jotaro in tears, and even though he had long since earned the right to be there for it, Kakyoin often felt as though it would be kinder to look away. This time, however, he held his gaze until Jotaro had successfully blinked the glittering edge away, and both took a deep breath.

“That’s what I tried to do,” Jotaro said. “That’s exactly what I tried to do…”

“And it was enough. Our truth is just a luckier one than this.”

“Ours…that’s right.” He tilted his head to the side. “How…old are you?”

Kakyoin smiled gently. “I’ll be twenty-eight in a month.”

“Twenty-eight,” Jotaro breathed. “I don’t believe it.”

“You look about the same.”

“I just turned—”

“Twenty-nine?”

“Yeah…”

“You didn’t want anyone to know.” Kakyoin chuckled. “For the record, I wasn’t the one who told them.”

“Yeah, they—wait.” He blinked. “How did you…”

“Joseph told Josuke and they weren’t about to let you have your last late-twenties birthday in peace.” He laughed again. “But you were good about it. Maybe even happy for a minute.”

“So it was the old man,” Jotaro muttered, then shook his head. “Good grief.”

“You can ask them. Ask Josuke. Then you can’t tell yourself I wasn’t real.”

“Could just be a really good guess on my dream’s part.”

“Oh, certainly. Of course.”

And at last, Jotaro cracked a smile. “Can you tell me something, then?”

“Anything.”

“What are…what are you like?”

Kakyoin exhaled through his teeth. It would have haunted him if he were in Jotaro’s place, the constant wondering about what he might have become had he not been ripped from the world so quickly. Who he might have been, both to himself and to others.

“I started painting again,” he said carefully. “I was in the hospital for a long time and even once I was released I…you, actually, it was you who suggested I figure out something that didn’t involve standing too much. Still have the—there’s a sketchbook, just has pictures of you. You were pretty embarrassed because they were mostly just drawings of you sleeping by the window. And by the time I could walk again I was so used to drawing every day that I sort of just kept it up.”

He rubbed the back of his hand against his stomach, considering.

“Your ex-wife and I get along great and it freaks you out,” he continued. “But she says she always suspected—first time she saw us in the same room. We think it’s funny, you don’t. And of course there’s Jolyne too.”

“Jolyne,” Jotaro repeated faintly.

“When you’re busy with your dolphins and your starfish and whatever it is you do down there she stays at home with me and she—I don’t think she was too sure about me at first but she’s warmed up. She’s a funny kid. Said she wants me to teach her how to tie cherry stems into a knot.”

“Still doing that, are you?”

“What, you’re still pretending you don’t love it?”

“You’d have to tell me.”

Kakyoin shook his head, smiling. “You know, you were just talking about this.”

He studied their hands rather than meet Kakyoin’s eyes. “About what?”

“Another truth. Multiple versions of events being real at the same time. About—you, I suppose, although it feels strange to say.”

“I have been thinking about it a lot,” Jotaro admitted. “But there isn’t really…anyone I would want to talk about it with.”

“That’s the worst part, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“How alone you must feel.”

There was no point in lying to him. There never had been.

He felt, as he always did when he was close to tears, that he had crossed some invisible and catastrophic border, and it was one he certainly hadn’t come near in a long time. It was something about Noriaki, a distant enough memory such that he had nearly been able to tell himself he imagined it altogether; but no matter how close or far away, in this world or the next, he had always been everything Jotaro needed to feel safe enough to stop hiding the fractures that cracked his heart’s surface, if only for a moment.

It was a cruel trick, he thought, that the deepest of them had been caused by the loss of the only person who had ever been able to make him acknowledge they were there in the first place.

And yet, dream though he knew it to be, as he rocked forward to rest his forehead on Kakyoin’s shoulder, he couldn’t help but feel that the touch of his hands was too familiar to be entirely false. Not quite in the way of a memory, either. His palms were crossed with scars that Jotaro had only ever seen as open wounds, but he knew them all the same. It felt as though he briefly remembered moments from a lifetime he had almost, almost been able to call his own.

“I can’t imagine what you’ve been through,” Kakyoin murmured into his hair. “I’m so sorry.”

Jotaro took a deep, shaky breath.

“I miss you,” he said. “It’s been—and I thought—they said it would get easier. But it’s—it’s been ten years and I still—every day, every fucking day I think about you. I can barely even sleep because I see you when I close my eyes, I see…I see…”

Kakyoin tightened his grip when he fell silent, and he waited. For a moment they stayed like that, Jotaro trying not to think about the last time he had been held in such a way.

“You didn’t deserve go to like that,” he said in a low voice.

“And you don’t deserve to live like this.” Kakyoin stroked his hair. “It must be lonely.”

“…Yeah.”

“You’re not alone. You know that, don’t you?”

He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

“I’m with you. I’ll be with you until the end. You’re never alone.”

“You’re gone. You’ve been gone for ten years.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“I don’t know what I believe.”

“Did you believe in me?” He lifted Jotaro’s face one last time, such that he had no choice but to meet his eyes. “Even just once, the things I told you, did you believe them at all?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I did.”

“I won’t leave that world until you do. I’m always with you. Do you believe me?”

“I don’t know. I wish I could say that I did.”

“Can you try?”

“I can try.”

“Then that will have to be enough.”

“I loved you, you know?”

“I know.” He reached up to brush the single, eternally uncooperative curl out of Jotaro’s eyes. “I loved you, too.”

-

When he opened his eyes, the loneliness that had faded into a dull ache over the past decade weighed on his heart as heavily as on that first cold morning when he had pulled awake into a world Kakyoin was no longer a part of. It had been all the more agonizing due to the space of a heartbeat during which he had forgotten, and had looked around reflexively for cherry-colored hair.

Jotaro stared at the other side of the bed, untouched as always. He had never thought to ask himself why it was he left it that way. He half expected to blink and see him there, older than he had ever had the chance to become, with the same too-wide smirk on his face.

Your legs could take up a king size bed on their own, you know.

Yeah. Good thing you’re short.

It was as though he remembered conversations that had never taken place, or that he had overheard himself having from a great distance.

I could learn to leave space for you.

When he locked his hands together to stop them from shaking, he wondered briefly why it was that he cared. He was alone, after all. If there were a weakness, it was hard to imagine a better place to show it than here in the silence that belonged to him.

Yet somehow, for the first time, the silence of that empty room was not only his own. It was defined by the absence of something more than just his voice, the absence of someone else who should have been there. Another voice, silenced so completely, and the empty spaces it had left behind, the space Jotaro had left in his life without even realizing he had been waiting for someone who could never come home to him.

The silence was Kakyoin’s as much as it was Jotaro’s.

In another life it’s your voice that breaks the silence, the way you always knew how. In another life I am not alone in this place.

He flinched when the phone rang, gazing down at it for a long moment before reaching for the receiver.

“Hey, Jotaro!”

Jotaro rubbed at his eyes. “Shit. Are they—are you waiting for me?”

“Kind of. I figured you were gonna meet us there but, you know.” Josuke’s voice rose in embarrassment. “Wanted to be sure.”

“It’s fine. I’ll be there. Tell them there’s no need to wait.” He paused. “Josuke?”

“Yeah?”

“Who was it who told you?”

“Told me what?”

“My—you know. My birthday.”

“Oh. Who’d you think? I mean, it was my—it was the old man.”

“It—was?”

Noriaki.

“Why’d you sound so—Jotaro, you okay?”

I wish I could tell you I’ll see you soon. I don’t think this world is through with me yet. I wouldn’t be vain enough to say that it needs me, more so that I can’t justify leaving so many things unfinished when seeing them through would leave things brighter or safer for the people who will stay behind when I’m gone.

“What? Yeah. Yes. I’m fine.”

“You sound kinda hoarse.”

I have so much to tell you.

“I—don’t worry about me. Just, uh, let them know I’ll be late.”

A million lifetimes away I’ll see you in the morning. In this one, where the truth is something colder, I can only remember to dream of you.

Until I see you again.

[fullmetalscullyy]

I love your latest oneshots you've written. Could you write a royai oneshot where Roy has just finished forming his whole team and and a general intent on making Roy's life miserable assigns them a mission which goes badly and it's not Roy's fault but later in his office the general chews roy out in front of his entire team and Roy is upset about it so Riza comforts him and reminds him that they all signed up for this, knowing that not everything would always turn out well.

this was an interesting one because it took me a little while to get the ball rolling. it was a challenge! but those are the best prompts aren’t they ;)

sorry it took so long! i hop you enjoy it anon

“What the hellwere you playing at Mustang?”

The General was in his face now. A bit of spit hit Roy’scheek and he tried his best not to flinch.

Tried.

“Not only did you fail spectacularly,” General Park beratedhim. “But you put your entire team in danger because of your incompetence.”

No, you set us up to fail from the start. You sent us on a doomed mission –

“I told General Grumman it was a mistake to promote you toColonel,” he growled, continuing to pace in front of him. This charade ofberating him – in front of his whole team, just to add insult to injury – was allfor show. It was meant to intimidate. Roy hated to admit it was working. Notfor his sake, but in terms of his team. They had only been working together fora week. They’d all readily agreed to work with him to achieve his goal, howeverthe first mission they were sent on, their commanding officer failedspectacularly, causing the escape of their two perpetrators?

It didn’t instil confidence. Quite the opposite.

He wouldn’t be surprised if they transferred a week later.

General Park had assigned Roy a mission which he knew would be doomed from the get-go,however orders were orders and in his newly promoted position of Colonel he wasn’tgoing to argue.

Ishval had certainly taught him how to suck it up and get onwith it.

Roy shuddered, feeling instantly dirty at the thought.

The mission was simple. On paper. In truth it was rife with inaccuraciesand inconsistencies. The thieves were a duo who had robbed a store, with clearevidence present at the scene, however the General stated in the report thatthey had a clear alibi for the robbery.

What?

Roy tried to question Park about it, but he had been dismissedbefore he’d even got the chance.

How convenient. It was almost as if the General wanted him to fail.

If Roy didn’t know any better, he’d say Park orchestrated thewhole thing to make Roy slip up.

In short, the thieves escaped, using dynamite to collapse abuilding to cover their tracks. They were idiots, but they were destructiveidiots, and that was dangerous. It had almost cost Roy the lives of his newteam mates.

“You are inexperienced,incompetent, and if I was your CO I would have you demoted right here and now!”General Park stopped, his face mere inches from Roy as he tried to intimidatehim further.

Roy didn’t even flinch.

Not getting the desired reaction, the General scoffed,turning away and striding to his desk.

“You are dismissed. General Grumman wishes to speak to youimmediately. Get out of my sight,” he spat, not looking up from his paperwork.

“Sir,” Roy replied with a crisp salute. He resisted the urgeto make a different gesture.

He breezed past the team and out the office. There was no fucking need for the General to makethem stay while he chewed Roy out. No fucking need.

“All of you return to the office,” Roy stated evenly. Hisvoice didn’t betray an ounce of the anger or indignation he felt.

A chorus of “yes, sirs” sounded as he left them to walk toGrumman’s office.

There was a pause in the steps, as he expected, but with amuted sigh even Hawkeye turned and followed the team.

That conversation would happen after. He… He needed to speakwith her. He needed her to tell him just wherethat mission had all gone wrong.

They had been temporarily assigned to General Park whileGeneral Grumman was out of town on business. Park had never liked Roy, and hewas still trying to figure out why. Often, he thought it was because he was afraidof Roy and just how quickly he was ascending the ranks. Dear old General Park hadn’treached the rank of Colonel until his mid thirties and here was Roy, a Colonelin his mid-twenties, ten years earlier than Park.

Nothing like a sixty-year-old man feeling threatened by a twenty-six-year-old.

Resisting the urge to scoff at his thought, Roy knocked onGeneral Grumman’s office.

Their conversation was brief. Grumman expressed his distasteat Park’s behaviour.

“He’s an oaf,” Grumman announced loudly, uncaring about whowould overhear. Roy’s eyes widened at how blasé he could be, but Roy had alsocome to learn that was just how Grumman operated. “Don’t worry about him, I’llbe having a word with General Park.” He sniffed, his sour expression displayingjust what he thought of the dear General.

“Please, sir, I don’t want to cause any trouble –”

Grumman waved away his worries. “That man doesn’t get toberate one of my subordinates like that. In front of his entire team no less,” he ground out. An oddfeeling stirred in Roy’s chest. Grumman had always been on his side, but it wasstill nice to hear it all the same. “No, I will definitely be having a wordwith General Park.”

Roy was dismissed and he made a beeline straight for the men’sroom. He needed a moment before he faced them all again.

He needn’t have worried because the office was empty when hereturned.

Well, empty, save for Hawkeye who was working diligently ather desk.

“Sir,” she saluted when he walked into the room. He simplynodded and retreated to his desk, not in the mood for pleasantries. “The restare away to lunch, sir. I picked something up for you before returning to theoffice.”

Sure enough, there was a sandwich on his desk, placed neatlynext to a steaming cup of coffee.

He almost lost it then.

“Thank you, Hawkeye,” he replied hoarsely.

“Anytime, sir.”

She really was too good to him. Far better than he deserved.

Trying to concentrate on his work was a fruitless affair.All he heard was that damn General’s words pounding into his skull.

“Sir?” Hawkeye asked, suddenly very close by. He jumped inhis chair. The sudden noise was unexpected. He then realised he’d had his headin his hands as he stared down at the sandwich on his desk, only one bite takenout of it.

He couldn’t eat it because it felt dry and stale in hismouth.

“It was all for show,” Hawkeye stated, as if reading hismind. Roy glanced up at her face. Her expression was neutral. Her bangs fellover her face as she studied the paperwork on his desk, one of her hands movingfrom being clasped behind his back to pull a piece of paper closer so she couldinspect it. “A show of power, nothing more.”

“I still didn’t appreciate being dragged over the coals likethat for something that wasn’t even my fault,” he grumbled.

“I know. Neither would I. The whole time I was thinking hownice a bullet would look between his eyes.” Roy choked on his own saliva. “However,we were stuck, forced to watch his little pantomime. He is threatened by you,that’s all.”

“He’s intent on making my life a living hell. He has been sinceI was promoted to Colonel.”

“Our lives are already a living hell, so he doesn’t win thatpoint,” Riza reminded him, her voice lowering to a murmur.

“True,” Roy agreed, sobering.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much. We all knew this wouldn’tbe plain sailing from the start, yet we allsigned up for this. We all agreed towork with you, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” Roy sighed.

Riza nodded. “So, don’t worry about what the team thinks.You are young and in a high position, that makes you a target. Breda’s words,not mine. We’re all aware this rise to the top won’t be easy, but we’re allhere because we believe in you. One little slip up isn’t going to change that.”

Roy smiled. Genuinely smiled. “Thank you, Hawkeye.”

“Any time, sir. Now eat,” she commanded, a teasing smile onher face. They heard loud voices echoing down the hallway, their peaceinterrupted.

“I thought I was supposed to be the one giving orders aroundhere.”

Hawkeye’s lips quirked up before she returned to her desk, theirconversation now over as the men approached the office. As soon as they saw Roythe door was closed quickly and they all jumped to his defence, each of them –even young Fuery – saying how General Park didn’t know what he was talkingabout, and that he was a great CO.

Roy caught Hawkeye’s eye and she gave him the smallest ofsmiles.

There was nothing to worry about after all.

“Okay,” she announced, trying to calm the rowdy men. “Let’s allget back to work.” They continued to grumble about what had happened that morningbut listened and agreed with Hawkeye.

“Hopefully General Grumman will sort it all out,” Fuerywhispered to Havoc.

“I’m sure he will,” Hawkeye placated them. “After all, GeneralAsshole definitely needs a talking to after that pointless scene he justcaused.”

Roy choked on his sandwich while the men sat in stunnedsilence before erupting into laughter.

[burgundydahlia]

Tangled Chapter 3 - Shame and Fortune

A/N: Surprise! I posted chapter three last night at midnight so now all of you lovely people can read it! I’m sorry it took so long between updates, but real life got kinda nuts and then I was a bit of a perfectionist with this chapter. Anyway, all I’ll say is I do love me a good Romione fight... and I hope you do, too :)

And for those interested in reading (and commenting) on either AO3 or FF.net, here are the links:

Tangled on AO3.org

Tangled on FF.net

Otherwise, here’s chapter 3!

Chapter 3

Shame and Fortune

Ron was frozen. Time had stopped and he suddenly found himself unable to breathe because all the air had been knocked out of him. An odd buzzing sound now filled his ears and everything around him seemingly disappeared except for her, as she stood right in front of him.

Hermione Granger: his former best friend, ex-girlfriend, and possible love of his life.

As she walked into the room, smiling brightly, he stared, stunned, and rendered temporarily mute and dumb by her presence and the distant knowledge that he had desperately missed looking at her. How was it that she could look exactly as he remembered while simultaneously completely different? She seemed older and more mature, yet as she smiled, her face still lit up in the same, girlish way from when they were young. Her bushy hair somehow looked softer to the touch and far better tamed, as well as shorter than what he remembered, though he supposed after three years that shouldn't come as much of a surprise. Cheeks still pink from the wind outside, the color only seemed to make her skin glow, and her lips were painted a soft, rosy shade, while her eyes–

Merlin, those eyes…

Ron had long come to accept the fact that he would most likely never get the chance to look into her dark, brown eyes again. But somehow, against all luck and logic, she was here and she was as real as anything he had ever seen in his life. Wearing a smart, silky white blouse and a dark blue, knee-length skirt, she sidled up to Chris who looped an arm around her back and pulled her close. Standing there, they were a perfectly put together duo with their polite smiles, posh clothing, and surrounded by their giant, magnificent manor. But as Ron watched Hermione stick her hand out towards Tony, a painful knot pulled at the bottom of his stomach and he gritted his teeth.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, still smiling brightly and for one wild moment, Ron genuinely wondered if she hadn't seen him. However, as she shook Tony's hand she glanced in his direction and Ron watched as a shadow drew across her face and a small frown met her brow. But almost as soon as it appeared, it was gone again.

"It's very nice to meet you, Ms. Granger," Tony said politely.

"Oh, please, call me Hermione. Ms. Granger makes me feel like my mum."

Ron continued to stare in disbelief as she laughed airily, but now he could feel something else building inside him – something familiar and oddly comforting, if long dormant. Why was he the only one who could barely seem to contain himself while she was totally unruffled? How could she ignore him so easily and act as though nothing was wrong? And why did she get to be poised and polished and bloody perfect while he looked like a moronic sideshow act?

Suddenly, and irrationally, Ron felt a surge of fury shoot through him.

"Speaking of your mum, how is she? Did you have a successful shopping trip?" Chris asked, showing Hermione into one of the high-backed chairs and signaling something to Benson who hurried noiselessly out of the room.

"She's fine and we had a lovely time. There's still a lot left on my list, but it was nice to be out with her."

"Hermione's parents are Muggles," Chris explained as he sat in the chair next to her, still staring at her. "They spent the morning together, working on finding some new items to replace those that were lost in the fire."

"Which would explain the Muggle clothing," Tony said as he walked over to the sofa and sat down. Ron followed suit, his movements slightly stilted and unnatural, as he sat directly across from Hermione.

Hermione smiled again. "It's not that my parents aren't used to Wizard robes by now, but I have a feeling the rest of London would have found them to be a bit odd." She looked over at Chris. "And how about you? Were you able to explain the change in your situation…?"

Chris sighed. "My day's been as was to be expected, love." Ron's blood boiled at the term of endearment, and he hastily covered a disdainful snort with a cough. "My meeting this morning took longer than planned and then I got a bit carried away showing Anthony and Ronald around the manor. I was actually just about to explain to them the circumstances surrounding your flat." Chris took her hand into his and stroked it with his thumb. Ron gripped the sofa, his knuckles turning opaque.

The doors to the sitting room rattled open from behind them and Benson re-entered carrying a silver tray with a tea set, plates, and a platter full of sandwiches.

"Thank you, Benson," Chris said as the old man bowed deeply and exited the room. "I know you all must be hungry. Please, eat." He gestured to the food in front of them and then grabbed a plate himself. "Tea?" he asked Hermione, who nodded.

Tony reached for a sandwich, but when he offered one to Ron, Ron shook his head no. Although his stomach growled in protest, he felt his hunger ebb away as he watched Chris hand Hermione a teacup, his hand lingering on top of hers slightly longer than seemed necessary.

"So, what happened to your flat?" Tony asked. "Chris mentioned something about a fire."

Hermione nodded, placing her cup down on the coffee table in front of her. "I live in a Muggle owned building in London and about a week ago, a fire burned down most of the unit. It was quite scary – most of the tenants, including myself, were inside our flats when it happened. One minute, I was in my room reading and then the next, I smelled smoke and heard people shouting. It all happened rather quickly – I had just enough time to grab my cat and a few small, personal effects and get out."

"That explains the book..." Ron muttered.

All heads turned in his direction, somewhat taken aback by this sudden comment. Hermione looked confused and for the first time since arriving, addressed him directly. "What do you mean?"

Ron felt his ears burn, and tried to shrug. "I noticed an old copy of Hogwarts, A History on one of the shelves earlier."

"But how could you have possibly known it wasn't Chris' book?" Hermione said innocently, but Ron could practically see her gaze sharpen.

"I—er," he scrambled. "When I opened it, I thought I saw…er, feminine handwriting inside, is all."

"The whole ordeal sounds awful all the same," Tony interjected, turning back to Hermione. "Any word on what may have caused the fire?"

Hermione tore her piercing gaze away from Ron and turned back towards Tony. "The Muggle fire services are still conducting an investigation, but they believe it was due to faulty electrical wiring. The building is old and while the property managers have done a fairly good job at maintaining it, it's highly likely it was caused by something as simple and mundane as that."

"And what about the Ministry? What has their investigation shown so far?" Tony asked as he took a sip of tea.

"Well, nothing yet," Hermione said and Ron watched as she nervously folded her hands in her lap. "As I said, with the building being older and Muggle built and owned, and not to mention the fact that I'm quite certain I'm the only witch or wizard who's living there, the chances of it being magic-related are slim. Also," Hermione's eyes darted surreptitiously towards Chris, "not many people know of my connection to Chris, so it's not something that's triggered any further investigating. Really, there hasn't been a need for the Ministry to get involved."

"Honestly, Hermione, the fact of the matter is the Ministry, and you, have yet to take what happened seriously. You could have been hurt!" Chris shook his head in disgust and although he hated himself for it, Ron found himself secretly agreeing. "I know I won't feel better until I know what caused the fire, and until then, having you close by feels more important than ever." Chris placed a hand atop Hermione's as they sat in her lap, and she gave him a thin smile in return. Ron clenched his jaw as he watched.

Tony nodded. "This is all good information to have, and I appreciate you telling us. Once we're a bit more settled in, I think it would be best if Ron and I sit down with you and go over some of the other particulars of that evening and the days leading up to the fire."

"Is that really necessary?" Hermione asked, her voice slightly higher as her cheeks flushed. "I don't want to be a bother or a distraction to your case, especially since you're both here to offer your support and services to Chris and what's been going on with his business, not to try and determine the cause of a fire at the block of flats I happen to live in–"

"You can't seriously be surprised you've made yourself a target by being close to him, can you?" Ron scoffed, trying to keep his voice steady, as his heart beat erratically in his chest. "He's been getting threatening letters for months, not to mention he's one of the most visible and well-off businessmen in Europe. How could you not see a connection?"

Ron locked eyes with Hermione and watched as she pursed her lips and narrowed her gaze. A small thrill sparked inside him and he stared defiantly back. Chris and Tony, however, seemed completely unaware of the silent standoff occurring and continued on.

"I agree with Ronald," Chris said, giving Hermione's hand a quick squeeze before turning back to Tony. "I've been saying the same thing all week – that the timing is too coincidental and she needs to be smart about this, but she's been quite resistant to the idea. But as I said before, all the more reason for her to be here, especially now that you two will be living at the manor."

Hermione wrenched her eyes away from Ron, her icy gaze now fixed on Chris and she opened her mouth to respond, however, it was Tony who spoke next.

"No detail is too small when it comes to helping with our investigation of the threats being made against you, Mr. Rhiney." He stood up. "However, while it's been very nice meeting you both if you would please excuse me, I need to get in contact with the Ministry right away to let them know of the changes to our plans."

"I'm not causing any problems, am I?" Hermione asked.

Tony shook his head. "Not at all. Just standard protocol."

She smiled wanly. "I'm sure Chris has already let you know how grateful he is to the Ministry for doing this, but please know how thankful I am as well. It means a lot that you're willing to come here and help and I have every reason to believe that you two and the Ministry will catch the men and women who are doing this."

"That's our job, ma'am," Tony bowed his head momentarily, then headed out the doors towards the rest of the house.

From the corner of the room, the grandfather clock chimed loudly, and Chris almost immediately jumped out of his chair. "Ah! It appears as if I've completely lost track of time again. I must steal away for another meeting, although my hope is this one will be much shorter than the one this morning. Ronald, if you or Anthony have any questions about the protections we have set up, Benson will be your best asset. Otherwise, I am happy to speak with you two later this evening."

"You have another meeting? Now?" Hermione's eyes were wide as the pitch of her voice went up another octave. "Are you sure you can't push it?"

Chris patted her hand and shook his head. "You know I can't but, as I said, it shouldn't take too long. Go ahead and finish eating and I'll check in with you later." He leaned down to kiss her forehead, then turned on his heel and swept out of the room, leaving Ron and Hermione alone together.

The ringing silence that followed was deafening. Seconds seemed to expand into infinity and the only sound was that of the quiet, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock. Ron sat glued to the sofa, the palms of his hands sweating and his blood pulsing through his veins. While Hermione seemed content to stare out the window and act as if nothing was wrong, Ron could feel the simmering anger he had been pushing down begin to boil over.

"So..." he finally said after what seemed like an eternity. "So..."

Hermione finally turned and gave him a distasteful look. "So what?"

"Oh, come off it," Ron spat as he rolled his eyes.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest as she began jiggling her foot. "I don't believe I know what you're referring to."

"For Merlin's sake, Hermione, you know damn well what I'm talking about!" he exploded, as his heart hammered inside his chest.

Hermione's eyes flashed dangerously. "What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you I'm thrilled to see you? Or lie and say this isn't literally my worst nightmare come true?"

Ron cringed but continued on angrily. "Really, Hermione? That's what I am for you? Your worst nightmare?"

"Oh, does that hurt your feelings? Here, allow me to start over." Hermione put on a fake cheery tone, her foot still jiggling relentlessly. "Hello, Ron! It's so nice to see you! Goodness, it's been ages!" She tapped a finger to her chin. "I believe the last time we saw each other, we got into a massive row and you left me utterly gutted in your parents' backyard, but let's not think about that and we'll just act as though we're best friends again!" She rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, there's a brilliant idea."

Ron's pulse thundered in his ears. "So your plan is to what? Ignore me? Pretend you have no bloody clue who I am? How long do you think you can keep that up for?"

"And what, pray tell, would you suggest?" she snapped.

"You could at least acknowledge my presence! It's not like I planned for this to happen!" Ron watched Hermione's eyes grow wide with indignation.

"And what about me?" she said as she pointed a finger at her chest. "Do you think I imagined for even one second you would be here?"

"Well, join the club, because I damn well had no idea you'd be here either! Or did you not see the stupid look on my face when you walked in?"

"I suppose I couldn't see a difference between how you looked when I walked in and how you always look," she said coldly.

Ron swallowed painfully and gave a derisive snort. "Nice, Hermione. Real nice. Tell me, does it ever get lonely up there on your pedestal, looking down on all the rest of us? Or have you just gotten used to it? I'd imagine it's easier now, especially since you've started spending all your free time cozying up to the likes of Christopher bloody Rhiney!"

Hermione growled. "You are such a– a–"

"A what?"

"A child!"

"Yeah? Well, I'd rather be a child than a snob!"

"My God, you are absolutely unbearable!" she cried.

"And you think you're a bloody picnic right now?" he snapped.

"FINE!" she shouted as she threw her hands up in the air, her foot still jiggling mercilessly. "You win, Ron! I'm insufferable and a snob and this whole situation is clearly worse for you than it is for me! Is that what you want? Are you happy now?"

Ron gripped the edge of the sofa painfully and his face flushed with anger. He grunted and turned to look out one of the giant windows, his brain unable to muster up a response. Hermione shook her head as she scowled at him.

"At least tell me this, since you seem to care so much: how would you have me explain this lovely little situation to Chris?" Ron's stomach lurched at the sound of the businessman's name coming from her mouth and he whipped his head back towards her. "Well? I mean you must have some idea since you seem to have such strong feelings on the matter! Should I wait until we're all at dinner tonight and bring it up to him then?"

For a fleeting moment, Ron thought of trying to stop her – to apologize and attempt to reach some sort of ceasefire, even if it was temporary. But as words continued to tumble from her perfectly painted mouth, Ron felt his anger grow from a white-hot ember to a dark, menacing blaze.

"Or, better yet, maybe I'll wait until Chris and I are in bed, and I can whisper in his ear, 'You know that young, ginger-haired Auror staying down the hall from us? Well, he's actually the Ronald Weasley who helped Harry and me defeat Voldemort. Oh, and by the way, we used to date, so I hope that doesn't bother you!'"

Every word she spoke rained down on him like a punch and Ron shook with barely suppressed rage as he clenched his fists tightly.

"You don't need to be so bloody sarcastic!"

"Oh, I'm sarcastic?" she screeched. "When every single word out of your mouth is dripping in contempt? Honestly, you have some nerve coming here and blowing up at me!" She gripped the arms of her chair, her face red with fury. Closing her eyes briefly, she took a long, steadying breath. "Obviously this is an awful situation, but there isn't a lot we can do to change it unless you quit or I move out. And since neither of those are practical or realistic options, and you can't seem to come up with any better ideas as to how we should handle this, I'm going to continue on with my current course of action and yes, act like I don't know you!"

They sat there for a few minutes, silently seething and breathing heavily. Ron was so angry, he felt light-headed. He knew that even if he wanted to, there was no way he could go back to the Ministry and tell Kingsley he couldn't be on the case just because of the history between Hermione and himself. And regardless of the fact that it made his blood boil and his stomach churn painfully to think about, he knew there was no chance Hermione was going to leave either.

None of this, of course, made him feel any better. In fact, it made him feel worse.

Hermione was still jiggling her foot rapidly, an old nervous habit of hers he recognized from when they were in school. But now, as she sat across from him, her hair crackling with electricity and her eyes filled with loathing, Ron realized that this was not the same Hermione he had known from his youth. This Hermione was different; she was angry, yes, and certainly angrier than he had seen her in a long time. But more than that, she was unkind and defensive and clearly unafraid to let him know just what she thought of him. The fiery resentment residing inside Ron's chest hissed and popped as he glared back at her.

"You know what, Hermione? You're right."

She stared at him distrustfully. "What?"

He leaned back into the sofa and rested his arms across the top of it. "I said you're right. Why should we act like we know one another when it's obvious we don't?" Hermione's expression faltered, and he pressed on. "You see, the Ron Weasley you knew from Hogwarts isn't the same Ron Weasley sitting in front of you today. And you? Well, the Hermione Granger I knew would never have thought of shacking up with a man just because he's well off. But clearly, that doesn't bother you one bit."

Ron watched as her jaw dropped. "You–you–" she spluttered.

"Don't act so offended, love," he said mockingly. "You know damn well how this looks."

Hermione swallowed hard as the color drained from her face and sat quietly for a moment. However, when she spoke again, her voice was trembling with rage and emotion.

"How dare you! I have every right to be angry. But you?" She shook her head indignantly. "You're just a bitter, jealous, lonely little man who's clearly unhappy and unfulfilled with your own life. And now that you're being forced to watch as I move on with someone else – someone better than you – you can't handle it because it makes you feel so pathetic and inferior, your head spins! But you know what, Ron? Just because you're miserable doesn't mean I have to be as well. You may be sad and nasty and lonely but guess what? I don't care!"

Hermione stood up from her chair and towered over Ron, whose mouth now hung slightly open as his arms slipped off the top of the sofa. She pointed a shaking finger at his chest.

"You did this, Ronald Weasley! You put all of this into motion three years ago and I'll be damned if I let you lash out at me or somehow blame me for your own shortcomings or the position we find ourselves in now. So, kindly? SOD OFF!"

She stared at him a moment, her eyes glossy but with a hint of triumph behind them. Then, with her head held high, she whipped around and marched out of the room, slamming the doors behind her and leaving Ron thunderstruck. * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * 

Ron stomped upstairs to his room, trying not to slam the door behind him before throwing himself onto the bed. He began punching the oversized pillows over and over again until they started to release tiny clouds of soft, white feathers and when he was finally exhausted, he watched as they floated lazily around him and landed noiselessly on the bed. With a groan, he rubbed his face roughly as he tried to scrub her words from his brain. Was Hermione right about him? His chest ached as if in response and he felt himself sag with regret, his insides burning with guilt and his head throbbing miserably.

His stomach growled painfully and with another groan, Ron dragged himself up off the bed and over to his rucksack, fishing through it in search of something to eat. Pulling out an assortment of jeans and shirts, a particularly worn pair of balled up socks, and a set of dark blue dress robes, his hand found the corner of a box that distinctly felt like it belonged to a chocolate frog. As he grasped it, his fingers brushed against a small, metal tube the size of a cigarette lighter and suddenly, all thoughts of chocolate frogs and hunger pangs left his brain.

Sitting back on the floor and drawing his knees up to his chest, he slowly pulled the Deluminator out from the bottom of his bag. Rolling it between his fingers, he clicked it open and watched as light from around the room whooshed through the air and collected inside it, creating a flame-like point. Ron closed his eyes, letting the darkness envelop him and in an instant, he was transported back to early Christmas morning at Shell Cottage years before. He could feel the tiny ball of blue light enter his chest, warm and soft, and it filled him with a sense of purpose. He was going to find them. He was going to find her.

To this day, Ron still wasn't completely sure of how it worked, or why. But the fact that it had been her voice he'd heard that morning – that she was the reason he could get back to them – had never been a surprise. She'd always had that power over him, whether she realized it or not. And he knew that no matter how much time passed, and no matter what happened between them, he would still do anything for her.

Ron clicked the Deluminator again and released the light back into the room. Standing gingerly, he noticed a small pouch of silvery powder sitting on a bookshelf nearby and felt like a light went off over his head. Grabbing a pinch from the bag, he flung it into the fireplace and watched as bright, green flames erupted instantaneously. Kneeling back down again, he took a deep breath, stuck his head inside, and said in a clear, firm voice, "Number twelve, Grimmauld Place!"

His body was still firmly planted on the floor in Rhiney Manor, but when Ron opened his eyes, he could see the fire swirling around his face and almost as quickly as it had started, it stopped again showing the kitchen to Harry's home.

"Harry! Harry, are you there?" Ron called out, but the room was silent. He turned his face to the side, attempting to crane his neck as he tried to look around. "OI! HARRY POTTER! GET YOUR ARSE OVER HERE!"

There was the sound of rapid footsteps and Ron watched as Harry came skidding into the kitchen, a piece of parchment crumpled in his hand, and a bewildered look on his face as he scanned the room.

"Ron…?"

"Down here, you git!" Ron laughed. Harry glanced down at the fireplace and smiled warmly as he saw his best friend's head floating in the grate.

"Is everything okay? You were shouting like a madman," Harry said as he pulled a chair over and sat down. "How was it meeting the famous Christopher Rhiney? Is he everything you dreamed he'd be?"

A flicker of anger rose up in his chest again, and Ron scowled. "He's like if Lockhart and Slughorn had a baby, and then that baby grew up to be a giant wanker," Ron said darkly and Harry sniggered. "He's obnoxiously well off and knows it, he loves to brag about himself and all the famous people he's friends with, and he's disturbingly overly-cheerful. Seriously – he didn't stop smiling or shut up about himself for almost two hours. Until…"

"Until what?" Harry frowned.

"Until…" Ron sighed. "Until Hermione showed up."

Harry stared at Ron, dumbstruck. "Wait. What?"

"Hermione. She's here."

"Hang on – what the hell is Hermione doing at Christopher Rhiney's place?"

"She lives here with him," Ron said slowly, his heart rate ticking upwards.

Harry gaped and placed the parchment he was holding down on the table. "Wow. I…wow."

Ron was quiet a moment. "You really didn't know?"

"Know what?"

"About Rhiney and–"

"Of course not," Harry cut him off definitively. "Do you really think I'd have let you walk out of the Ministry without so much as a warning? Or that I wouldn't have immediately sent Hermione an owl, giving her a head's up? I didn't even know she was dating someone, let alone that she'd moved in with him."

"Well, apparently the living together part is new. There was a fire in her building in London last week so she's moved in with him until the unit's repaired."

"A fire? You're joking!" Harry's eyes were wide. "Is she all right?"

"She's fine. If anything, she seemed to want to avoid talking about it altogether," Ron replied. "It was weird, how nonchalant she was about it. But the Muggles aren't sure what caused it and the Ministry hasn't gotten involved yet, so Tony went to let Gemma and Kingsley know right after we heard."

Harry let out a low breath. "So, have you talked to her yet?"

"Not exactly…" Ron looked away as he trailed off, his mind flooding with images of the scene from earlier, and a fresh wave of guilt washed over him.

Harry looked at Ron warily. "Please tell me you didn't have a row with her in front of everyone."

"Not in front of everyone," Ron muttered as his ears burned. "Tony left to send word to Kingsley, and then Rhiney had to step into some meeting or whatever, so it was just Hermione and me. And I —well, I got angry." Harry stared at him skeptically and Ron looked down sheepishly. "Look, I flew off the handle and took it out on her. I know it was stupid, but it happened."

Harry frowned. "What did you say?"

"Er –" he started uncomfortably, "In short order, I called her a snob, told her she'd changed for the worse, and then accused her of dating Rhiney for his money."

Harry stared with his mouth wide open. "I can't believe you're still alive, let alone Flooing me right now. I'm guessing she didn't take that well?"

"She told me off so soundly, you'd think she'd practiced it. Actually," Ron added, "now that I think about it, she probably did. Anyway, she told me I was bitter and unhappy with my own life and that seeing her with Rhiney just reminded me of how pathetic I am. Then she told me this was all my fault. Oh, and then she told me to sod off."

Harry's eyes looked as though they might pop out of his head. "Merlin, she must have been apoplectic."

"Yeah, well, like I said, it…got out of hand," Ron finished lamely. "That was the end of it, though. She stormed out and I haven't seen her since."

They sat quietly for a moment, and Harry hesitated before asking, "So, what are you going to do? Do you think Tony or Rhiney have any idea about the two of you?"

"I don't think so, though Tony might suspect something's up if he's talked to Kingsley. But there are enough Weasley's in the world that it's possible Rhiney doesn't realize yet that I'm the one who's friends with you. But honestly, mate, I have no idea what's going to happen now. Kingsley might decide I can't work on this case because of my history with Hermione, and even if he gives me a chance…" he trailed off miserably.

"Do you even want to?" Harry asked. "Work on the case, that is?"

Ron sighed. "I mean, it's not ideal, having to basically work as security for some rich pillock, but this is a huge case. But, now that I know Hermione's involved and possibly in danger because of some arsehole she's seeing, I just…" Ron shook his head. "I can't leave. Not now. It's… she's…"

"She's Hermione," Harry said quietly and Ron nodded slowly as he swallowed past the small lump in his throat. "Then I think you tell Kingsley that. Maybe not the bit about you and Hermione, but the part about how the case is too important to walk away from. He knows what you're capable of and if you say you can do this, then you can. Just, you know, maybe try and avoid having a go at Hermione again." Harry's voice hardened slightly as he continued. "She has a point, you know. It is sort of your fault you're in this situation, and you can't get mad at her for moving on."

Ron insides burned with shame. "I know, I know. I just…" he tried to continue, but words escaped him. "I know I'm the one who ended it with her, but I can't pretend I'm fine with sitting back and watching her with this wanker. It was bloody awful today, and that was for less than an hour."

"Yeah, you were always rubbish at keeping your anger in check when it came to Hermione and other blokes. But you have a job to do and that's what you should focus on. Concentrate on working with Tony to figure out who's making these threats towards Rhiney. Maybe we'll get this thing solved quickly and then you can move on, too."

"Right..." Ron said miserably.

Harry considered Ron carefully for a moment. "Ron, I know we've haven't talked much about what happened between you and Hermione. But I also know you and… well, I know you regret ending things with her. And yes," he continued as Ron looked up at him, wide-eyed, "I know that even though you've never admitted it. But the thing is, Hermione's the closest thing I have to a sister and even though you two had a falling out, she and I are still close and she and Ginny are close, too, and –" Harry struggled for a moment, then pressed on. "Look, all I'm saying is if you think you still have feelings for her, then maybe you should consider telling her. If not for her sake, then for your own."

Ron snorted. "Harry, mate, you didn't see her today. The way she looked at me and the things she said… she hates me. I mean, actually, deeply hates me. She said my being here was her worst nightmare."

Harry smirked. "Ron, if there's one thing I know about women—"

"Oh, really, Mr. Most Eligible Bachelor runner-up?"

"Do you want my help or not?" Ron stifled a laugh and nodded. "Clearly, this isn't my field of expertise, but I know Hermione and I know you and all I'm saying is maybe she got as angry as she did with you because there's something else there. And yeah, Christopher Rhiney's rich and charming or whatever, but that doesn't mean that he's 'the one.' I mean, she loved you once, didn't she?"

"Yeah," Ron said sadly. "Yeah, she did."

"Then maybe there's a chance she never stopped."

Ron glanced up at Harry and saw a small smirk on his face. "So, you're telling me you actually believe there's a chance she still cares about me and that she doesn't want to pour undiluted Bubotuber pus down my pants?"

"Did she say that to you?" Harry asked, horrified.

"No, I just feel like she might not be against it."

"Well, strangely enough, I think her blowing up at you kind of proves that she still feels something. Otherwise, she wouldn't have really reacted at all. But after what you said to her today, and considering your history together, I reckon you're going to have a hell of a time getting her to admit it." Harry sighed and shook his head. "Ron, just be nice to her. It's going to be awkward, especially after what happened this morning, but if you apologize and mean it, then you'll at least have gained some ground with her and right now, that might be the most you can hope for."

Ron gave a half smile. "I'm a fucking mess."

"Careful – that's my best friend you're talking about."

"Ah, don't go all soft on me now, Potter!"

As they laughed, there was a knock at Harry's front door. "Damn. That's probably Sean. I'd better go."

"Thanks for listening to me whinge."

"It's the least I can do," Harry said with a grin. "Ron, seriously mate, just keep your cool and at least think about apologizing. Then go from there."

"All right, all right! Tell Sean I say hi." And with a small pop! Ron pulled his head out of the fireplace.

Sitting on the floor again, Ron stared ahead at the empty grate as Harry's advice rolled around his brain. There was no easy or quick way to fix things between him and Hermione – that he knew for sure. And while Harry seemed confident that Hermione still cared for him, Ron couldn't quite forget the venom with which she had flung her insults at him earlier. Still, apologizing, or at least trying to, definitely couldn't make things any worse than they already were. And just as he always had, Ron knew that when it came to Hermione, he would do whatever he needed to in order to keep her safe.

Ron glanced down at the Deluminator in his hand and with a small grimace, he pocketed it. Then, standing up, he gathered all his courage and walked out the door.

[ao3-writer]

...Until He Wasn’t...

[Continuation of “He Was Okay...”] 

The door swung open easily when Mark unlocked it. No furniture had looked broken except for the lights hanging in the kitchen. Mark and Amy carefully checked upstairs to see minor objects hanging on the walls and such had been knocked off. Tyler checked out the pool to see plenty of lawn chairs, tree leaves and even some tiles from the roof had landed in the water.

 They all met back inside to sit on the sofa, Mark elevated his cast onto the coffee table and Kathryn parked Ethan and his wheelchair right next to the seat Tyler pulled out for himself.

 "So... can you tell us what happened?" Mark asked, looking at Amy, Kathryn and Ethan.

 "Well... I got knocked out so I can't really--" Kathryn had begun to say before Mark nodded his head.

Kathryn quietly shifted on the couch to look at Amy who stared at Ethan with a sympathetic face.

 "It started as a normal day. We were just working, right? Until it wasn't..." Amy explained.

 "Until nothing was okay..." Ethan added.

Amy had been discussing with Mark about fan mail and such while Kathryn and Ethan edited videos. Chica was sleeping on the ground beside Ethan when they felt the first shock. The rumble. The way they shook with the room.

The two editors shrugged off their headphones and looked up at the ceiling curiously as Amy and Mark looked around the room. Chica began to bark wildly and whimpered and whined as he pawed at her own nose. Chica had been acting strangely for the past few days for no apparent reason at all.

 "What in the hell-" Mark began to say when the next shock woke them up. The computers clattered on the desk, the books on their bookshelf began to clatter wildly. Everyone in the room looked at one another thinking the exact same thing.

Earthquake.

"Let's get outside. Hurry." Mark beckoned as he began to search frantically for things he figured he could carry. Chica had already bolted downstairs and Kathryn chased after the dog. Ethan stood up and began to panic. He always feared earthquakes. There weren't any in Maine, that's why he was always hesitant coming to L.A. in the first place.

 "Mark! We have to get outside!" Amy exclaimed as she tried pulling him.

 "Hold on! Hold on! I just need to get a few things!" Mark shouted as he searched frantically under the desks and around the room. Ethan was making his way downstairs when he felt an even bigger quake shake his entire body. He lost his balance, tumbling down the stairs. That's when he panicked. His breathing grew faster. He looked out the door to see Kathryn lying in the street, seemingly not moving. Chica was gone.

Mark's apparent shouting led Ethan to idiotically clamber back up the stairs to see Mark and Amy holding the bookshelf as it began to toppled over. A few books had fallen but the rest remained on the actual shelves. The shaking began to subside and his heart was still beating like a wild animal's.

 "Ethan you need to get outsi-" Amy began to say before another tremble harder than the last one cut off her words. Ethan, on the edge of stairs, fell backwards, rolling back down with more force.

He couldn't hear anything but the rumbling of the world around them and the ringing that pierced through like a knife. His eyes focused on the rest of the room. The lights were flickering until they began to dull. Dirt fell from the ceiling like an ancient tomb. Ethan was slowly making his way back the stairs to see Mark had been taken down by the bookshelf. His upper body was covered in books. His head and arms seemed to be the only thing peeking out. Amy was shouting and sobbing as she pushed past Ethan, accidentally slamming him into the wall as she sprinted down the stairs.

Ethan was frozen until he wasn't. With the more trembles that ran through the room, Ethan made his way over to Mark to try and take off as many books as possible.

 "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, Mark. Please wake up. Oh God oh God please don't be dead." Ethan stuttered incoherently before he heard something in the back of his mind.

What if sitting here kills me? What then? Am I ready to die?

The thought shook Ethan to his core and he tensed up. His body paralyzed in fear at the idea and he heard Mark groan underneath. For some unknown reason, it startled Ethan and he dropped the large book he had in his hands back on Mark's head. He panicked even further.

 "Oh shit. oh shit I killed him. I killed Markiplier. Oh, my god. Oh my god  ohmygodohmygodohmyGOD." Ethan exclaimed as he stood up and backed away from mark like he was vermin. His heart was beating faster than ever. He couldn't feel himself breathe. His neck hurt. His knees. He fell to the ground.

Go outside or stay in the center of the room. Duck underneath any sturdy furniture.

That was his plan. He crawled his way down the stairs and noticed that the door seemed to be blocked on the outside. He crawled into the small space in the middle of the room and he held himself in a little ball.

Tyler. He had to call Tyler.

It seemed like he did it without thinking and the next second he heard his voice.

 "Ethan?"

 "Tyler?!"

 "Hey! What's up, I was just thinking abo--"

 "Tyler! Th-there’s books flying a-and Mark got trapped underneath a-and Kathryn. Oh god. Oh god where’s Kathryn!” Ethan shouted over the phone. He remembered she was outside.

Dead. Just like you'll be.  He thought to himself, panicking even further.

 "Ethan, Ethan. Slow down. What's wrong? What's going on?" Tyler's soothing voice said. Ethan put the phone down and laughed a little. Tyler had no idea and it made Ethan feel insane. Maybe he was. He couldn't tell.

 "Tyler there's an earthquake and e-e-everything's shaking and I c-can't-" Ethan replied, when a sudden thought came to him. "AMY WHERE'S KATHRYN?! WHERE'S MARK?!"

Kathryn's outside. Mark's knocked out, the rational side of Ethan's brain deduced this.

 "Ethan, babe, slow down. There's an earthquake? what?" Tyler asked over the phone.

The rumbling subsides once more before it rose again just as hard. Ethan whimpered and dropped the phone on accident. He was trembling just as hard as the earth below him and he couldn't stopped. In the darkness, the only light source being the bright orange glow that shined from the door, Ethan struggled to find the phone before putting it back up to his ear.

 "T-Tyler... I'm scared. I don’t want to die, Ty. I’m not ready. I’m not ready to die." Ethan whispered, feeling tears begin to fill in his eyes. His hairs rose on his arms and back of his neck. He looked around the small room and felt the walls were closing in. He muted everything else but his breathing. He tried to breathe but he couldn't. Tyler's voice was just a noise in the background. “Do you know how many people die in earthquakes?” Ethan asked, “I don’t know for sure but all I know is that I don’t want to. I don’t want the earth to swallow me up. I don’t want to.”

Ethan's voice whimpered. He hated when he did that. Always whimpering weakly before he'd cry. He didn't want Tyler to think he was scared, but all bets are off at that point.

 "You don't have to tell us if you're uncomfortable," Tyler said immediately, resting a hand on Ethan's damaged knee softly. Ethan looked at Tyler's concerned blue eyes. He hadn't realized he was crying in the middle of his story. He blinked to let the tears fall off his lashes and wiped weakly at them. Mark was paying close attention while Amy hugged herself, staring at the coffee table guiltily.

 "I-i'm fine. I'm fine," Ethan whispered, his voice slightly cracking. Tyler looked over at Amy.

 "H-how about you-" Tyler cleared his throat, "-how about you go Amy? Give Ethan a little... a little break?"

Amy nodded her head slowly and she unwrapped her arms from hugging at her stomach to tightly.

"So just like Ethan said, I had left Mark behind because... because I don't know! I just panicked. And I felt... I felt like at least Mark would be fairly safe under all those books and I figured if I could run-" Mark intertwined their hands together but she untangled them, suddenly tearing up with guilt, "-If I could've run and maybe get some help or something. And I... I never did and- Mark I am so sorry. Please understand--" Amy explained, looking over at Mark on the last bit.

 "Amy, Amy. Shh, it's fine," Mark said as he hugged her temporarily before letting go and wiping her tears, "it's alright."

Amy took a second to recover before she let out a sigh and looked back at the others.

 "So I ran..."

She ran as far as she could. After exiting the office, she took note of Kathryn laying on the ground and blood glistened against her hair. Amy gasped in horror and began to stumble away. She made her way toward the street where she knew it'd be safe. She looked around, feeling useless and frightened out of her mind. Amy heard Chica's familiar bark in the distance. She saw the dog barking like crazy toward a car where two people were currently trapped. Amy made her way, carefully with the ground quaking below her, toward them.

She took note of the sound of a baby crying in the background. Amy made her way closer to the car and noticed it was a couple with a child. They seemed to be shielding the baby underneath them inside. Amy tried opening a door but it wouldn't budge. The man inside shouted that they were stuck. Chica kept barking.

The sun was beginning to set and it felt like her entire world was falling apart. Her head spun and her heart felt heavy. If she couldn't save Mark, she might as well save somebody else. Amy looked around and saw rocks bouncing wildly. Then the earth began to settle slowly. Amy let out a sigh before another aftershock soon hit and she lost her balance, slamming into the car and her head making a loud crack against the window of the back seat. Amy groaned, holding her head as it throbbed with pain.

She looked back at the car and suddenly had an idea. She slowly rose and looked around, grabbing a rock she saw she threw it against the glass until it broke.

 "Hand me the baby!" Amy shouted, looking at the couple's frightened stares, "goddammit hand me the baby and then you two can crawl out!"

The wife complied and handed the baby through the broken window to Amy who cradled it in her arms. The wife then exited through the window, cutting her elbow on some glass. The husband soon followed and they all crouched in the middle of the street. Amy handed the child back to the parents.

 "T-thank you. Thank you so much," the wife said looking at Amy with sympathy. She nodded her head and head Chica next to her until the rumbling stopped. But it hadn't. It seemed to come back in waves and she sat there doing nothing. After a while, they slowed down and the earth finally stood still.She saw dust settling that plowed from where the office was.

She prayed it hadn't collapsed on Mark. She prayed.

 "I have to go," Amy muttered as she ran, Chica following her as she went back in the direction of the office. She turned the corner and her worries were confirmed. The building seemingly collapsed. The top half had crumbled and the door was blocked. Amy saw Kathryn lying on the ground still. Chica barked and headed toward Kathryn, licking at her head. Amy fell to her knees and stared. Stared in horror.

A figure rose from the rubble, and her heart immediately hoped for Mark. It was Ethan.

She watched as he crawled out, limping weakly as he held himself against the wall. They made eye contact. Amy stared at him. Ethan stared at her. He reached out a hand and she stood up. But she didn't grow closer. In fact, she walked away. She called for Chica who made her way towards Ethan before slowly bounding back to Amy.

 "Amy?" Ethan called out, "Amy, please.." she could hear him in the distance, over the sirens, "Amy please!" he begged.

Amy turned around and made her way back down the street. She saw a firetruck further ahead, dealing with the family probably, and she made her way in a walking pace toward the firetruck. She didn't look back. Why couldn't she? Why was she being so cruel. Ethan was her friend.

He let Mark get crushed by the bookcase... her conscious told her. Yeah, that's why. She convinced herself it was this that made her turn back. But deep down she knew. She just knew...

You're selfish.

 "And who was it that you saw appear from the rubble?" Kathryn asked, looking at Amy curiously. Amy had paused there. She blinked and stared back at Kathryn.

 "I-it was nobody. It was just a dust cloud... I was seeing things," Amy replied, glancing at Ethan who stared at her with his nostrils flaring and tears welling up.

 "Ethan... did you see Amy when you crawled out of the rubble?" Tyler asked, brows furrowed, feeling like something wasn't making sense.

Ethan shook his head as he stared at Amy. He turned his attention back to Tyler. Amy looked over at Ethan, praying that she hadn't just screwed herself over by lying.

 "No. I didn't see anybody. I just... made my way blindly down the streets and eventually passed out."

Amy rose her head and stared at Ethan. Her eyes welled up and Ethan stared back at her.

 "Thank... God... that we both ended up safe," Ethan said, voice quivering in anger in the middle of his sentence.

The group sat in silence, taking in what they were just told.

 "Yeah... thank God," Amy whispered, her stomach dropping as she realized the mistake she made.

[hollywoodx4]

Sticking With the Schuylers (26)

Shoutout to you, @edward-kenways .This chapter is brought to you by the vocab word of the day, libido. 

1  2  3  4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11   12   I   13  14   15   16   17   18A  18B   18C  I   19   20   21   22   23   24   25

There’s a chill within the air of the city that hadn’t been there when Eliza had been walking home from work. Crowds of people pass them on either side, wrapped in their own worlds. Life continues around her, but Eliza is not able to comprehend it. Rather, it feels unfair. The air is stale. The city is bleak. She walks at Alexander’s side with her head hung low and the beginnings of conversation fresh on her lips. However, when she parts them there is silence. She cannot express the sudden exhaustion that consumes her.

               Alexander looks between her and the path in front of him, at first with a sure smile etched on his visage. But as Eliza struggles for words, refusing to look at him, his lips fall back into a bleak line. Where he walks with pride and assurance, she seems to drag behind him. For blocks he keeps his eyes on her; shadowed demeanor, muted voice. He knows her head must be swimming-his is, too.

               He realizes then the implications of his actions. Eliza hadn’t said anything to him yet, but in his impulse he had made a rash decision, one that affected them both deeply, her more than himself. Essentially, he supposes, he’s made the decision that they’re moving in together. Temporarily, yes, but without discussion. And in that recognition he can practically feel his mother smacking his arm, scolding him. In this moment, she’d surely be chewing him out. She had never been a fan of his impulsive nature, especially when he’d dug himself into holes with consequences as large as this.

               “Eliza,” He waits until she turns to him, expectant, before continuing. His eyes are wide and searching. “I’m sorry”

               “For what?” She stops in front of her building, turning to face him for the first time. Her eyes are warm, still laced with the remnants of tears from earlier. Eliza holds them in, however, shaking her head. “For letting your friends make their own decision? For standing up for me? You didn’t have to do that”

“I did.”

“You could lose Lafayette as a friend”

“I don’t care.”

“Alexander,”

“Eliza,” Her name hangs in the air between them. Alexander’s hands find their way to her shoulders, thumbs tracing soft lines on them. Her eyes meet his with an apprehension, a loss. Their usual vibrancy is hidden behind a veil of guilt. Between her shaking breath, hands fiddling with the straps of one of his bags, he realizes that she thinks she’s done something wrong.

His heart shatters for her. This is not his Eliza; the trepidation, the redundant apologies. But then, there is no line between his Eliza and the person she had been before him. She is a package, an entire human being made up of flaws and faults, and of the horrors of her past. And those things, the dark and horrifying, are not only a part of her but are what make her who she is. Who she will be. Her quirks and her faults are fibers that weave in and out of each other to create her-her kindness, her heart. And in that web, there she is; the humbled and gentle culmination of memories and the present tense that is Elizabeth Schuyler.

And she stands before him, guilt-ridden and apologetic, as a proof to this theory. And to Alexander, she is a proof that there is still good in the world. Even when faced with darkness she had stood in front of Lafayette, who’d denied her help, and accepted his refusal as an honest and rightful truth. There had been no tears, no fighting. Only forgiveness.

She is so good.

“I love you.” The words spill from his lips before he can think about them-a true testament to his own fervent and unfiltered nature. He is even taken back by them, a physical change in his posture as his shoulders raise, just slightly, before his hand finds the back of his neck.

There’s a piece of Alexander, however small, that wants to take the words back. Not for their dishonesty-no, he’s known for a long time just how deeply he feels for her. From the beginning, even-from the moment her hand touched his that first meeting-he had felt an incredible pull toward her. But there is a sudden stiffness within him, a hot rolling of blood within his veins. His hand presses harder on his neck to disguise their shaking. His is a fear of rejection.

You’re not good enough for her-she’s trying to let you down gently. You’re too obsessive, too much for her. You’re,

The weight of her body in his arms interrupts the barrage of thoughts in his mind, replaces each corner of his anxiety and doubt with traces of her. Her hands on his face, her lips on his-it’s eager, and full. She pulls away abruptly, then, his face still cradled in her hands. There’s life-shining eyes and warmth that pools from within her, reaching and enveloping him in its light, lifting him up.

“You’re perfect,” Her lips find his again. “And I love you too.”

A bombardment of emotions flies in the air around them, between them; ardent. Rapid.  They’re hard to identify as individual feelings, to pin them to one of the pair, due to the way they connect so seamlessly into one cohesive being. She can’t get to her apartment key fast enough, pausing from him only to turn the lock and shut the door behind them. Alexander watches as she kicks off her heels, one fluid motion of raised legs and two identical thunks against the wall.

She pulls him to the couch, then, tripping backwards over its leg and letting his weight topple over her. The laughter that emits from her is soft, sweet. It draws his lips to hers and his body closer, hovering over her with a hand on either side of her face. Even through his gentle nature it is not enough for Eliza-her hands find the back of his neck, pulling him closer until she can feel his weight on top of her. Then they reach for his hair-his ponytail. In a single, light-handed movement she’s taken it from his hair, letting the mass of feathered brown locks spill over his shoulders as her hands find their way through it.

A feather-light touch and dainty, fiddling fingers are suddenly all Alexander can feel as Eliza tugs at the hem of his shirt. He freezes, dream-clouded head suddenly clearing as he pulls away from her. His body still hovers over hers but there is a considerable amount of distance now; he’s propped on one elbow, a hand in her hair, caressing the side of her face.

“Are you sure that this is what you want?”

“Yes.” She tugs a bit harder, lifting up the fabric with calculated movements. His arms are still in the way, purposeful, and she has to pause in her task again to look up at him. Alexander sits up then, only to remove the soft cotton from his skin with the skill of one hand, tossing it over his shoulder. When he lowers himself to meet Eliza again her eyes are rapid, scanning his bare features in an attempt to take it all in at one time. Her hands work as a second sense of its own, making an effort to memorize him in this single moment.

It’s still not enough for Alexander-through words mumbled breathily between kisses pressed along her neck and his fingers sliding down to the scalloped edge of indulgent blue fabric he asks her permission for its removal. She immediately complies, helping him slide the dress from the figure he’d been admiring through its mask.

His hands find their way to her bare skin, connecting to its milky smoothness with a hunger to match her eagerness. And for a moment he lingers, letting his hands and his lips roam freely across their surface. And then, there is nothing.

To Eliza, there is nothing but the sensation-a simple pressure just below her breast that sends a blistering heat throughout her entire body, running through her veins and bubbling over bare skin until it’s consumed her. Her body freezes. Her mind stops.

Her eyes have glossed over, clouded and fixated on the intricate patterns of the ceiling. There are so many, always a new one to discover. At first there was only counting-each bump or ridge along its craftsmanship was assigned a number until she could no longer count-until it was over. Then, as she became more skilled at the technique she had begun to draw shapes in its spaces with her mind; brilliant animals, vibrant scenery of people and foreign places she longed to see. In these moments, with James’s hands holding her to his own ownership, she had become particularly good at this emptiness.

Eliza can her only the pulsing of her blood to her brain-everything else has gone silent, cold. But the drop of temperature soon makes sense to her as the weight removes itself from atop her. As Alexander lays beside her, both hands on her cheeks as his wide eyes grow dark and static with panic-realization.

“Eliza, are you-what’s wrong? We don’t have to do that. I never meant,” He’s interrupted by her eyes, clouds parting and coming back into reality. They’re glassy when she looks at him, blinking back tears that won’t stop coming. And once she’s heard her name, once he’s held her head in his hands with the precaution and safekeeping that has branded him in her mind, the tears won’t stop coming. She sits up, hugging her knees to her bare chest and  hiding her face.

He can still see her shaking-the way her sudden alteration of mood had taken its toll on her.

She feels miserable.

His hand finds its way tentatively to her back. It burns-she jumps. He apologizes. Alexander’s words dust the otherwise silent air between them with a delicate, trying tone. It’s a timbre that fills the room with security, warmth. It dances across her skin with meaning and softness that urges her from her hiding. Her dark hair covers her face when she lifts it, plastered to it by the tear tracks along her cheeks. Alexander reaches forward with a tentative hand-Eliza nods and he brushes the mussed strands from her face before cradling it in his hands once more.

“I’m so sorry.”

She laughs then, soft and sarcastic, with a lighthearted roll of the eyes.

“Shouldn’t I be the one apologizing?”

“No.” His gaze hardens and he holds her stare, airy quality within his voice replaced with a baritone warmth; stern, yet tender. “Now it’s my turn to tell you to stop apologizing for yourself.”

She lets herself fall back down onto the bed then, clear exhaustion lining her once eager, blissful frame. He rises from the bed, deliberate and hasty, before he sinks beside her. Soft fabric meets her hand-his shirt. There’s a relief that washes over them, Eliza wrapped in his scent and his arms. It changes the room, the silence; what had once been filled with wonder and anxiety is now creeping its way back to peace. Her eyes are half-closed as her head rests on his chest.

As they lay in the serenity her fingers graze his skin with delicate, dancing movements that dust goosebumps in their path. They stop on his chest, on the space just below his collarbone. There’s delicate writing there, a slanted sort of cursive permanently penned on his skin.

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo.”

“Two,” The delicate and deliberate movement of Eliza’s fingers has made Alexander drowsy, and he answers from within a yawn. “The other one is on my back. This one was my first, the most important.”

“The word?”

“My mother used to call me mijo, I know it’s kind of a typical nickname, not from my name or a word she’d made up, but it always felt like mine. She used to write me letters, just because. She never gave them to me-I never even knew they existed until after she died. It took a long time to get through the letters, pages and pages of my past, of everything she thought about me throughout my entire childhood. I got to see things through her eyes.”

“Is this her handwriting?”

“From her last letter. I wanted it to be something significant. Something real. Having it, it just feels like I have a part of her.”

Eliza traces the letters there with slow, easy movements as she admires the way it looks against his skin. A piece of him, a fixture, its subtle text stands out even more as she listens to the way he tells his story. Her body fits itself closer to his, a tired hand lain across his chest.

“Can you tell me something about her? What was she like?” Alexander’s eyes transfer themselves to another place, another time. As Eliza tips her head to watch him he comes away from that place only to press soft lips on her forehead-her hair. She is consumed with the warmth radiating from the heat of his body-from this new expression she hasn’t seen on him before. She doesn’t take her eyes from him until they’re closed, content, as she drifts to sleep with the echo of his voice in his chest pressed up against her ear.

[abutterflyobsession]

Doctor Who AU: Part 25

prelude/one/two/three/four/five/six/seven/eight/nine/ten/eleven/twelve/thirteen/fourteen/fifteen/sixteen/seventeen/eighteen/nineteen/twenty/twenty-one/twenty-two/twenty-three/24/ao3

“Try this.”

Bog's hands closed around the mug the Doctor had handed him. The sound of the smooth dish in his hands was vaguely unsettling. The dull sound of wood on ceramic. Every movement was unsettling, the scrape of bark on the smooth floor, the faint grinding of the hard edges of his skin where his joints bent.

The unease sank readily underneath the haze of exhaustion when Bog shoved the thoughts down and tuned back in to whatever the Doctor was going on about.

“I got the recipe from Aunt Aura. She yelled at me for ten minutes even thought I told her you were just hungover.”

“I guess you could call it that.”

“As a general rule I don't get yelled at by people's aunts.”

“I'll try to make sure it doesn't happen again.”

The Doctor rolled her head around to fix him with a look of dull disbelief, “Nothing can stop Aunt Aura. I tried and failed. Drink your miracle-gro and cease to make empty promises.”

Bog groaned and pushed the drink back at her, “No, please, things are already growing enough as it is.”

Soft green tendrils had wound around the cables plugged into Bog and crawled their way into the console. The central column was wrapped in tender new vines and a profusion of soft pink blossoms. Primroses dottled the interior of the pseudo-art gallery like pink constellations in a stark white sky.

“Just joking,” the Doctor took a seat on the floor next to Bog again, “It's just something to help the pain. All natural herbal remedy for the Cheem with a headache.”

Bog was glad the Doctor was next to him. He knew she'd probably stand up again if he tried to hug her, so he just took one hand away from the mug and put it over hers. A line of tension ran up her arm, fingers curling in at the touch of his hand on hers. He could feel the effort as she made very deliberately relaxed her hand and let him take it.

“You're looking quite the festive floral pine cone,” She remarked abruptly, her free hand clenching a fistful of her jacket.

“Don't remind me.”

There were flowers growing from the cracks in his bark-like skin. Wide, flat leaves layered his head with tiny pink blossoms peeking around their dark edges. He could feel the budding plants, itchy and disconcerting. Dawn had taken pictures and said it looked like a crown.

“King Broden Broderick,” the Doctor said, rolling his scrambled name off with a mimicked Scottish accent, “Lord of the primroses. Speaking of, you seem to be the sort of plant that likes shade, like primroses. Also, I suspect, nearly impossible to kill.”

“Fantastic,” Bog sipped the drink. It tasted like tea and spinach, “How long is going to take to fix me? When prince blondie stuck me in here he said he aged me, like, ten years? More?”

“That won't shorten your lifespan, before you ask. Extended it, actually.”

“That's good, I guess, but what about--”

Dawn sat down on Bog's other side, kicking her pink shoes into the air as she did, “Why are you two so buddy buddy all of a sudden? Today had been like two months long for me, but you two have been strictly linear. What gives, sister mine?”

The Doctor grimaced, “Don't call me that. I was just checking his pulse. Great news: he still has one.”

She picked up Bog's hand and shoved it away.

“Have you two been bonding over mutual grouchiness? Has my sister made a friend? This is a huge advancement in your socialization!”

The Doctor looked at Dawn with smudged eyes and an expression of deep weariness, “I don't want to be socialized. I want people to stop being idiots.”

“Your standards are a little too exacting. You could count on one hand the number of people in the galaxy who even stand a chance of meeting them.”

“So, what are we going to do about this?” Bog gestured at the cables and his generally leafy visage, hoping to divert the conversation before Dawn figured out that Bog and the Doctor were . . . well, whatever they were.

“What are we going to do about this?” Sunny said, standing over the still unconscious Roland, “Are there, like, space police we can take him to? Is there a reward on his head and can we collect it in US dollars?”

“Sunny!” Dawn laughed.

“What, I have student loans to pay off!”

“I forgot he was still there,” the Doctor stood up, giving Bog's head an absent-minded pat before she walked away, “After the AI got its virtual neck snapped I sort of discarded the idea of him.”

“Wish I could have seen that,” Bog sighed.

“But what are we going to do with him?” Dawn joined her sister in standing over Roland, both of them staring down at him with the air of people trying to decide if something went in the garbage or recycle bin, “I don't know why he decided to go all supervillain, but he is my brother-in-law.”

“Was,” the Doctor said with great emphasis, “The only thing he is to me now is a problem I need to solve. I'll have to think on it.”

“I suppose we can just take him back home and let them deal with him,” Dawn suggested, “Unless you don't want to risk getting charged with flying a TARDIS without a license.”

“Mm,” the Doctor said vaguely.

“More importantly,” Bog cut in, “am I going to be able to get that blasted necklace back to my mom?”

“Um,” Dawn looked into the opened console, “It's sort of . . . a bit fused.”

“With what?”

“Everything, basically,” Dawn waved her screwdriver over the console, “Looks like it's part of the computer. And engines. The whole TARDIS.”

“Great,” Bog took another swallow Aunt Aura's concoction, hoping it would somehow ease the painful thought of talking to his mother, “Not only do I have to tell her I'm temporarily a tree, but also that I got a family heirloom fused to an alien time machine. Oh, Aunt Aura is going to be livid.”

“Good news is,” Dawn said, continuing her examination of the systems, “I think you've got control of this TARDIS now, through the primrose. You're in charge. Just about all the systems have been wiped and control relegated to your pendant, though there are some little pieces of programming . . . something a tiny bit alive. Those are always stubborn. Give me a second--”

“Leave it,” the Doctor walked around the console toward her sister.

“Just a second—got it!”

A final buzz of the screwdriver was followed by Roland materializing next to the console.

Dawn threw her screwdriver at his head.

It went right through.

The Doctor caught it.

“Oh, hologram,” Dawn ran a hand through her fluffy hair and gave a little laugh before taking her screwdriver back.

“Of course you have holograms,” Sunny shook his head, “Because this month—uh, day—hasn't been sci-fi enough. Can I get a hologram? I could use it to make my boss think I'm working when I'm really out back checking my phone.”

“Most mobile holograms would be too see-through for that. Now,” Dawn put on her glasses and looked at the hologram's fixed smile, “what have you got to say for yourself?”

“If this has been activated you probably saved the day,” the hologram drawled, coming to life and standing at ease with its hands on its hips.

“How can one guy get around so much when he's not even awake?” Bog groaned, “turn it off, I am begging you.”

“Trying,” the Doctor was attacking the console with her own sonic screwdriver, giving pieces of machinery several whacks with her fist for good measure.

“Right now you're popping the champagne, throwing confetti, having yourselves a good old party of self-congratulation,” the hologram flicked its fingers in the air, “While I am probably off and away already or I'd be saying this myself. I can only assume I made my exit with my usual flair.”

He twirled a finger through the curl that hung over his forehead and cast a sideways look and a smile. The effect was not what it could have been, seeing as the hologram apparently couldn't tell where people were standing and was facing a wall.

Everyone looked at Roland on the floor and rolled their eyes at the mention of an escape. The Doctor even paused in her work to grumble something under her breath about unnecessary dramatics.

“Now, this is very important, little sister. She hasn't told you yet. My buttercup hasn't told you everything and it's only right that you should know. As your big brother I feel it's my responsibility to make sure you have all the facts at your disposal.

Hologram Roland put a hand to his heart and looked sincerely at the wall.

“Turn off, turn off,” the Doctor muttered, still working, “Bog! Turn it off! You should have control of this thing!”

“Yeah, I just know how to do that, sure. Why do you keep assuming I have any idea what's going on? Can't you just hit mute?”

“Dearest little sister,” the hologram gave a winning smile and Bog was almost positive that Roland's teeth actually sparkled, “has she told you yet? Has she told you of Gallifrey's last days?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” the Doctor kicked the console so hard she sent herself stumbling backward, screwdriver falling out of her hand and disappearing into the growth of plants around the console's base. She dropped to her knees and began scrabbling among the leaves.

“Has she told you how it burned? How the red-gold skies turned dark with smoke, the great silver spirals of the cathedral enclosed in their glass dome lost their light, like a star extinguished by the dark? The war raged throughout time, throughout space, our people fighting, brave until the last. Until the last flicker of the candle was lost and there was only the emptiness of space where a planet had lived, breathed, pulsed like a heart, a glorious centerpiece in the constellation of Kasterborous. Has she told you that it's gone? It's charred husk locked outside of time so there isn't even a grave to visit. Did she tell you?”

“No,” Dawn's eyes were fixed on the hologram but she shook her head, “I would know if it was gone. Gallifrey can't be gone! I would know! My head would echo with the emptiness if everything was gone. Roland knows that! Why would he say something so sick? Why would he say that? Sister! Look at me! I don't even know what name to call you but look at me!”

“Stop, stop, stop,” the Doctor ripped at the plants in a desperate, uncoordinated way, “She doesn't need to hear it from you. Not from you. Shut up, shut up--”

“Has she told you?” Roland's smile was gone and his eyes hard, his jaw set, “Has she told you, little sister, who robed our burning world in darkness and destroyed everything? All of it gone, daleks and Time Lords alike, assigned to oblivion?”

“Shut up!” the Doctor was on her feet and ripping at the console's innards with her bare hands but unable to pry anything loose.

The Doctor's scream made Bog's heart leap up into his throat, the cry was frightening in its desperation and choked by the beginning of tears. Her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated so wide that her golden eyes were almost black, and her face marked with pain.

“Has your sister told you what she's done?”

The Doctor's face was dead white and she flinched at the hologram's words, hands going still. She leaned heavily on the console, breathing hard, eyes fixed on Dawn with the look of someone beneath a cresting ocean wave about to crash down on top of them.

Bog had know that the sisters' planet was gone, but until he saw the horror in Dawn's eyes he had not fully realized what that meant. What it meant, that the Doctor had ended the war and her entire race. Every member of Dawn's family, every friend, every person she had ever seen on her planet, were gone in the blink of an eye and their blood was on her sister's hands.

Something flipped in Bog's mind. He just wanted the hologram to stop and something responded to that desire. Roland's hologram gave a fizz and disappeared.

But too late to stop the truth from crashing down.

“You did something in my head,” Dawn said slowly, “You took your name right out of my head. And you did something else. Something else isn't sitting right in my head and I want you to tell me that it isn't what I think it is. That this is Roland's sick idea of a joke and his implications are pure invention.”

“What's going on? What happened to your planet?” Sunny touched Dawn's shoulder.

She grabbed his hand and held it tight, “Time Lords know Time Lords. We can hear each other in our heads. I know Gallifrey lives, it’s humming in the back of my mind. Or, at least, I thought it was. Something is there, in my head, but it's not right. It doesn't want me to look at it. Something in my own brain is hiding itself. Somebody did this to me.”

“When she erased the memory of her name?”

“Yes. I thought that was all she did. I hope that was all she did. Tell me I'm wrong. Look at me and tell me!”

The Doctor's head was bowed, her eyes cast down, “I was going to tell you. In time.”

“No,” Dawn's hand tightened on Sunny's.

“But not like this. Never like this.”

“No. No! Tell me the truth! Tell me he was lying!”

“What I did . . . I regret it but it had to be done. I regret that it had to be done and that I had to be the one who did it. I'm sorry, little rising star, I'm so very sorry.”

“No!” Dawn pushed the word out, clenching her fists to keep back her anger, “No. It isn't true. You and I are going to unhook Boggy, make sure everything is right here and then we are going home. We are going home to Gallifrey with Roland and we'll get him help. We'll go to the house in the mountains. Just—just help me get Boggy out of this mess!”

Dawn dropped Sunny's hand and rushed over to the cables trailing from Bog, running her screwdriver up and down them and talking a mile a minute.

“He's fused to the primrose, but we can get him out. You had a plan. Just tell me what we need to do and with both of us working we can get this done in two heartbeats. Well, four heartbeats. And it'll take some time, Bog, to get you back to your usual handsome self, but we've got a time machine and you're welcome to come along. Not that you look so bad right now. You'll be looking sharp once we get these cables off--”

“Dawn,” the Doctor said softly.

“What Roland did we can undo. Just be patient and don't try and blow out any candles since you're exhaling oxygen. You could lose your eyebrows. If you had any.”

“Dawn, please.”

“Just tell me what to do!” Dawn threw down the cable, “I can't see how to fix it! You're the one who suddenly got old and clever, you tell me how to fix it!”

“We can't. He's the new interface. He's completely merged with the primrose pendant and the TARDIS systems. Removing him would destroy everything. Including him.”

“You—you--!” Dawn gasped, “I couldn't see how to get him out but you made me think—I thought you had a plan!”

“Yes. You were supposed to.”

“What do you mean, merged?” Bog pushed himself up to sit straighter, “You're getting me out of this!”

“There is no way out of it,” Dawn said, hands digging into her hair, pacing up and down the room in a swirl of coattails, “Before you merged with the systems. I couldn't see how we could get you free even then, but I thought she had a plan. I trusted her. I trusted her to have a plan!”

“You . . .” Bog struggled to breathe, trying to remember when the Doctor has promised to free him, to unhook him. She never had. After Roland had hook him up to the cables she had never stated Bog could be freed. She had lured him with the slim chance of overriding the interface and surviving to be free again. When that had never even been a possibility.

She had kissed him, or let herself be kissed.

In a day of fantastic, impossible things Bog had actually let him think that he might have a future. Not a future he had ever wanted or expected, but a future worth living. She had let him kiss her. Let him think that the impossible was possible. All while carefully making no actual promises, just the shape of a promise, outlined in the air by words that implied but never stated.

It had all been a trick.

“You played me.”

She raised her eyes to meet his, her face blank but her eyes full of emotions that Bog couldn't read. When she spoke her voice betrayed no quaver of tears, only a terrible tiredness and dull acceptance of inevitable pain:

“I told you I would.”

[news-mashable-yahoopartner-blog]

The breakup phone cleanse: How we move on in a digital world

This post is part of Mashable's Spring Cleaning Week. Just a little something to distract you from the eternal dread of constantly wiping all those fingerprints off your screen. 

In breakups of the pre-iPhone era, scissors were taken to holiday snaps, love letters were torn asunder, clothes were boxed up and returned to their rightful owner, and keepsakes were stowed away on a high shelf to gather dust.

Relationships and breakups have evolved since the mass adoption of smartphones. These days, not only do we have to expunge physical mementos in the aftermath of a breakup, we also have to cleanse our phones of the remnants of the relationship that once was. 

SEE ALSO: Should you always unfollow your ex after a breakup?

You might remember that 1995 episode of Friends—the one where Rachel, Phoebe, and Monica stage a ritual burning of photos and the physical tokens given to them by bad boyfriends? That was the epitome of breakup cleanses of the pre-iPhone epoch. Over two decades later, the post-breakup rituals of the digital age couldn't look more different. So how do people cope nowadays? Mashable spoke to breakup survivors to find out their phone-cleansing protocols for surviving the end of a relationship. 

Emoji wipes and name changes

Erasing any romantic emoji or photos from your contacts list is a popular post-split rite of passage. Robert Wnorowski, a campaign specialist at Mashable, removes the hearts from his ex's names in his phone contact list. He usually sets their "caller ID as an ugly picture of them."

Verity Landrock, an archaeologist, also always changes her ex's name in her phone to "something rude." "Often dickhead or a variety thereof," she clarifies. Savage. 

Social media sweep

Landrock also prefers not to cut all ties, so that her ex gets the odd reminder of how well she's doing. "Snapchat stays so they can see how much fun I'm having through my Story," she says. And she prefers not to delete photos all in one go, instead deleting them "when they pop up" because she doesn't "like scrolling through at the time."

Some people take a very methodical approach to cleansing their phones of former loves. Lindy Lewis, founder of breakup coaching company Bank from Breakup, has a four-step process for uncoupling with a partner. First, she purges her phone of all pictures and archives all conversations. Then, she deletes the ex's number from her phone—a brutal but necessary step, she says, in removing the temptation to call or text. After Lewis' most recent breakup, she bought a new phone. "It allowed me to start fresh. No pictures, no texts, no phone number, no reminders," she says. Finally, she rids her social media channels of any photos of her and her ex together—the digital equivalent of taking the scissors to your snaps. 

Extreme measures

It may sound a little extreme, but sometimes parting with that beloved device is the only way to get over a lost love. When Louise Bartolotta, video producer at Mashable, was 18, she said goodbye to her ex-boyfriend at the time along with her phone. "My first phone was a TracFone and when I broke up with my first boyfriend I literally threw the phone out and got an iPhone," says Bartolotta. "Like, I threw the whole phone out, contacts and everything." Of course, most of us can't really afford to buy a new phone every time we get dumped. 

Virginia Fioribello, a midwife, did something rather unconventional to give herself some space from her phone immediately after she broke up with a guy she met on OKCupid. This particular ex was "very into communication," and had been a big texter during their brief relationship. Worried that she'd be inundated with texts after breaking up with him, Fioribello put her phone in the freezer and walked away for hours. "After that, no matter if my phone was fully charged, whenever it hit freezing temps outside, my phone would instantly die. The memories of the freezer were just too much for it." 

Picking and choosing

While some people are on board with the permanent act of erasing photographic evidence of a past relationship, others don't feel it's necessary. Fiona Crabb, a contract manager, deletes all conversations but keeps all photos. "Why should removing them from your life mean removing happy memories and great experiences?" she says. 

Louise Matsakis, staff writer at Wired, is of a similar mindset. She found a way to hold on to photos without having them as a constant reminder on her phone. "I keep the photos, but take them off my phone," she says, saving them on her computer instead. And Lauren Hudgins, a digital strategist, has a similar rule. She copies and archives everything relationship-related that's on her phone, and stores it in a place she doesn't frequently look. "Delete from all places you usually look," she advises.

The multi-stage process

If the thought of deleting an ex immediately out of your life feels too sudden. You could do it in stages. That's what Ashleigh Roberts, an account director at The Media Foundry, does. 

She and her friends exercise a "one-month rule" when it comes to the deletion of messages. "My gal pals and I have a rule that once you hit the one full month without contact (which doesn’t necessarily mean the first month – it could be month four into the break-up as you may have exchanged the odd message in-between) you delete all conversation threads and their number," she says. She and her friends then have a mini celebration to mark this milestone. "We also usually celebrate the occasion of clearing them out of your phone with wine, ha!" 

Roberts also temporarily deletes her social media accounts, and archives and mutes all conversations with that person. "I don’t want to see what they’re up to via social media, either via their page or mutual friends' pages (even if it was my decision to break-up),"she says.  

Post-breakup cleanses no longer require matches to clear away the embers of our former flames, and that's probably a good thing. But in the smartphone age, we're finding new ways to rid ourselves of the mementos that have gone from heartwarming to heartbreaking, and from meaningful to meaningless.

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