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ninbayphua-moyan · 4 years ago

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An Instant’s Beauty: A Moment’s Eternity

I cannot sleep deep in the night; I rise and sit to play my lute. Thin curtains mirror the moon bright; Clear breezes tug my lapels mute. A lonely swan shrieks over the plain; Hovering birds cry in north wood. What do I see pacing in vain? My heart is grieved in solitude. [1]

Warm morning sunlight streamed in through the lightwell, painting the dimly lit room in a dreamy pastel gold, quite like that of a faded photograph. The balmy Penang air was steeped in the fresh, earthy petrichor of a recent shower, blanketed with a sense of Saturday languidness. A gentle breeze, pleasantly cool against my skin fleeted through the wide-open windows, carrying with it the alluringly sweet scent of frangipanis.

I flipped the century-old poetry book, its yellowed leaves a beautiful contrast against the teal-blue covers. White silk cords stitched together the pages in a butterfly binding whilst faded black ink encased in vermillion frames marked each leaf, punctuated only occasionally by an ink wash painting of landscapes or plants and animals. Reflexion. I placed the book back down on the table and picked up the brush. Dipping the tip in freshly grounded black ink, I started copying the text.

I remember a sense of meditative calm seeping into the room against the backdrop of gently rustling palm leaves and running water. The way my hands traced the familiar characters with controlled ease and precision. The movements of the brush long since deeply ingrained into muscle memory from years of practice. Stroke after flowing stroke danced gracefully across the beige xuan paper, each carefully crafted character a painting of woven words. It strikes me now, as I pen my memory onto paper in Bute Park, how similar writing is to calligraphy. Even though it bears a certain form, each writer brings with them their own flair as they string together the words and weave them into a tapestry of thoughts.

A ripple in the tranquil air.

The soft fluttering of paper-thin wings. A shimmer of blue at the corner of my eye.

Propping my brush against the holder, I looked up to see a beautiful blue butterfly flitting in through the window bars. It hovered by the inkstone momentarily before finally coming to a rest on the wooden brush rack next to it, the erratic beating of its wings slowing to a stop. Brilliant hues of cobalt and azure scales glistened as it sat there peacefully basking in the warm tropical sun. Watching the butterfly, I couldn’t help but wonder if the old folklore A-Poh[2] told me was true – that butterflies were the souls of deceased ancestors visiting the living. Wouldn’t that be nice if it was real. Then I’d be able to tell A-Gong[3] all about getting into university; about how part of me was glad that I got accepted but also about how another part of me didn’t want to go since I’d be leaving home for three years straight. What if everything changed whilst I was away? The places I’ve known since childhood…the familiar faces I’ve grown up with…If only the butterfly really was A-Gong. He’d be able to give me some advice.

A tantalising aroma of freshly steamed glutinous rice dumplings wafted through the air, successfully drawing me out of my musings just as the clock struck noon.

“Jia-bui-lo!” [4]

Scurrying feet on creaking floorboards could be heard all over the house as my siblings and parents made a beeline for the dining hall. I looked away from the butterfly and smiled at A-Poh who was standing in the kitchen doorway. She beckoned me over with a toothless grin, her eyes crinkling into two half-moons as she motioned at the large bowl full of steaming glutinous rice dumplings in her hand. Getting up from the Luohan bed[5] where I sat cross-legged, I joined them at the dining table where Di-Di[6] and Mei-Mei[7] were already sat with their chopsticks at the ready, excited grins plastered across their hungry, eager faces.

I take a seat next to A-Poh, and, picking up my chopsticks, took a bite out of the dumpling in my bowl, its familiar flavours instantly crashing over my taste buds like waves washing up against its shores. A groan escaped my lips as I relished each mouth-watering bite. The savoury note of succulent pork belly marinated in soy sauce and five spice; umami-rich dried shitake mushrooms with its juicy and chewy quality; firm-textured salted duck egg yolk that gives the dumpling a briny aroma whilst its bright orange-red hue creates a pleasant splash of colour against its otherwise brown and black counterparts; the refreshing sweetness of the water chestnuts, a crunchy nuttiness amidst the softness; soft, sticky golden brown glutinous rice encompassing it all, delectably infused with the subtle fragrance of its bamboo leaf wrappings and rich flavours of its fillings from the hours of steaming…ah…these tenderly wrapped packages of love though plain in appearance were worth more to me than gold.

I was still half way through my first dumpling when another newly unwrapped one plopped into my bowl. Quickly swallowing my food, I tried protesting only to be shushed with another mouthful of rice being forced into my open mouth and a fond pat on the cheek. I shook my head in resignation whilst my siblings sent me cheeky looks before sneakily scooting closer to our parents. There was no stopping A-Poh now that she was on the rampage and those little troublemakers were smart enough to know to stay out of arms reach of her stuffing chopsticks. The rascals. Di-Di even has the audacity to stick his tongue out at me which was obviously returned with an eye roll.

Little did I know then that these habitual banter, familiar aromas, and accustomed faces would be what I would miss most after leaving. Everything was as it should be; and everyone was where they belonged. In that instance, surrounded by dust particles glimmering in the golden tropical sunlight, it was as if a spell had been cast that would make today go on eternally. For a moment, I let myself believe in the enchantment; that tomorrow will never come and the flight ticket to London was nothing but a forgotten fantasy…

Bzzz.

Bzz. Bzzzzzz.

Bzzz.

I instinctively reach for my phone to turn off the alarm that pierces the heavy veils of sleep. However, when I open my eyes, I’m met with an unfamiliar white ceiling instead of the usual worn wooden beams. For a moment, I lie there, disorientated before realization sinks in. Cardiff. I am in my flat in Cardiff and the weight I felt on my stomach wasn’t Hua-Hua[8] but rather, my laptop which was still perched on its spot from yesterday’s all-nighter. I must’ve dozed off at some point.

Slowly sitting up, I gaze around the silent room. Its bleak white walls; books and worksheets sprawled messily across the covers; steely early morning sunlight filtering through the narrow window into the dingy room; folders organized in a nice pile on the desk...My wandering gaze comes to a grinding stop when it lands on the calendar next to the neat stack of folders.

February 7th.

I sigh. Looks like I’ll be celebrating both my birthday and Chinese New Year alone this year…

The frigid February air is still bitterly cold despite being swaddled from head to toe in layers upon layers of coats and scarves. Miserably, I trudge onwards along the banks of the River Taff. Razor sharp winds slice at my cheeks leaving behind searing scars. As the last remaining trickle of warmth leave my body, my mind shuts down and I plod along the cobblestone streets mechanically, limbs and face numb from the biting cold.

A lukewarm breeze flutters by, stirring my slumbering senses. Bit by bit, warmth seeps back into my frozen limbs and my foggy mind clears as if waking up from a trance. Glancing around, I spot the words Marchnad Caerdydd [9] and realise I’ve arrived at the market. I shake off the remaining frost induced spell and venture into the quiet maze of stalls, trolley in hand.

The smell of freshly baked bread and pastries wafts through the crisp air, tinged with a breath of floral sweetness. A range of raw meat laid out in clear glass cases bathed in neon pink lights line the murky grey brick walls. Whiffs of coffee beans tickle my nose whenever a dull-eyed person shuffles soullessly pass me in the near vacant market. Stall owners sit spiritlessly at their stalls staring lazily into space. It was almost like walking into a ghost town.

A splash of colour.

Turning around, I see a stall filled to the brim with a rainbow array of fruits and vegetables. A refreshing sight in the seemingly deserted marketplace. The sudden craving for something sweet results in me buying a bag of strawberries before wandering on.

As I nibble away happily on the strawberries browsing through the stalls up in the gallery, I was suddenly struck by a sense of déjà vu. Bit by bit, the scene before me starts to change. The glaring daylight fades away into the tranquil darkness of night and the dusty marketplace roof is now a sky full of twinkling stars. A magnificent full moon shines softly against the vast velvety void, casting a gentle glow on everything below. Towering, lush palm trees replace murky grey brick walls and the cobblestone floor is transformed into a well-travelled dirt road. A lively buzz fills the now soothingly warm tropical air as a familiar sight begins to emerge in the distance. For there, at the very end of the road, stood Penang’s bustling night market, glowing and glittering like a chest of magical gems in the blanket of darkness.

Brightly lit stalls sheltered by rainbow umbrellas formed a colourful labyrinth, drawing people young and old towards those warm lights like moths to a flame. The sound of street vendors hollering out their wares permeated the air, mingling with the cheerful haggling. Weaving in and out of the throng, I hurried over to the food stalls section. Bellowing clouds of smoke imbued with the irresistible aroma of Asian street food rose into the night air and my mouth began to salivate.

As memories melt into ink and reconstruct themselves as words on the page, I am suddenly reminded of Lauren Elkin’s essay on being a flaneur.[10] Wandering through the streets of a city, uncovering its secrets and crafting it into a tale for the shelves. Having read Virginia Woolf’s Street Hunting, it’s fascinating to see not only the difference between Penang and London but also her contrasting writing style.[11]

A familiar smell wafted down the street. I snapped out of my trance and made a beeline towards a stall tucked away in the corner. An old couple stood amongst bamboo steamer baskets selling staple dim-sum[12] delicacies. Noticing my arrival, the old woman hurried up to me and enveloped me into a bone-shattering hug.

“Nai-Nai![13] Can’t – breathe –”

She lets go of me with a laugh, grabbed my hand and quickly led me inside. As she busied herself fawning over me, Ye-Ye[14] quietly filled up a bowl and placed it in front of me with a kindly smile. I looked into the bowl to find it full of crystal shrimp dumplings[15], my favourite dim-sum dish.

I picked up a piece of dumpling with my chopsticks and take a tentative bite, my mouth immediately exploding with flavour. The saltiness of grounded shrimp marinated with soy sauce and sesame oil contrasting exquisitely against the unique juicy sweetness of fresh prawn; a thin yet sturdy glass-like wrapper encapsulates it all with delicate pleats, creating a tasteful balance between the plainness of the dough and the richness of its fillings. Ah…heaven in a bite-size bundle.

Ye-Ye and Nai-Nai smiled fondly as they watched me wolf down the shrimp dumplings with the same unrestrained gusto I’ve had for the past nineteen years. We reminisced about the past, laughing at funny memories whilst savouring the simple dim-sum dishes, and I couldn’t help but noticed how time had flown. Just yesterday I was barely tall enough to reach their knees; today, I stood half a head taller.

“How long?”

“Three years.”

Minutes pass, neither of us uttered a word. Then, Ye-Ye gently ruffled my hair, the same way he’s been doing since I was two, only this time, the smile on his face seemed tinged with a hint of melancholy.

“Silly child.”

My nose soured at the affectionate nickname and I quickly tilted my head back to stop tears from falling. The stars seemed strangely lonely that night.

“Still such a cry-baby.”

“Am not!”

Hastily blinking away the tears, I got up and enveloped Nai-Nai in a tight hug.

“Take care.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. After a few pats, we broke apart and I turned to head home.

“We’ll save some shrimp dumplings for when you come home!”

I dared not look back so I raised my hand and waved farewell instead. Until next time.

Strolling down the five-foot way, I paused in front of a pair of ventilated timber doors. Mythical creatures of Chinese folklore embellished each panel. The dragon floating reverently amongst wispy clouds, each delicately carved scale shimmering with contained power. Opposite it, perched nobly on golden branches, was its gentler feathered counterpart – the phoenix, its wings spread wide, ready to take flight. Under the moonshine, it was as if those gilded bodies were suddenly brought to life. Their once dull sheen now aglow in brilliant shades of scarlet, orange and gold, almost as if they would burst into flames at any moment, just like in the myths of old, and be reborn from the ashes.

As I gazed at the exquisite carvings, entranced, an old memory resurfaces. Same door, same carvings, but a very different time. I was a lot shorter for one, and I wasn’t alone. The large calloused hand that held mine was wrinkled and dry like the pages of an old book. Where a finger was supposed to be was stump, the only remains of a work accident in his youth.

I tugged at the hand and A-Gong glanced down, a gentle smile on his weather-beaten face. Seeing the question in my doe-like eyes, he laughed. “These?” he asked as he lifted me up with one arm whilst running his other hand over the carvings which glittered under the setting sun. “These are spirit guardians sent by the Jade Emperor to watch over our household.”

“Howshowld?”

“Family,” he chuckled and tweaked my nose. I giggled, playfully reaching out my stubby fingers to grab his beard. Still laughing, he pushed open the heavy, half-a-century-old doors and we entered the house.

Standing in the living room, the sounds of mirth slowly faded into silence and evening sunlight was replaced with the darkness of night. Without bothering to turn on the light, I walked over to the Luohan-bed and struck a match, lighting the wooden lantern. A pool of golden light was casted around the table where a flight ticket to London sat, my passport placed neatly beside it.

I sighed.

Sinking down into the cushions, I glanced at the clock. Five hours. Then it’s goodbye for a very, very long time. I gazed absentmindedly around the familiar room as my mind takes a trip down memory lane: mornings sprawled across the brightly coloured majolica tile floor trying to trace its intricate patterns; Evenings spent watching A-Poh wielding her embroidery needle with decades of practiced ease; A-Gong playing the erhu[16] on peaceful nights…ah yes, the erhu. Closing my eyes, I could almost hear it. The bamboo bow strung with horsetail hair traversing between two silk strings as A-Gong’s fingers dance deftly along its slender neck producing a vast array of tunes: one moment tender and sombre, the next sonorous and joyful.

“Mmmreeoow?”

I opened my eyes and found myself gazing into the forest-green orbs of a young calico sat patiently on my lap. Snuffing out the lantern, I laid down and wrapped my arms around Hua-Hua as she snuggled against my chest.

An intoxicating sweetness tickled my nose.

I glanced over at the potted plants to find the tan-huas[17] blossoming. Head propped against the pillow; I watched as the tightly rolled petals bloom in slow motion. Its fiery red tendrils unfurling elegantly to reveal a profusion of feathery white petals, much like a swan ruffling its wings, about to take flight. In the darkness of night, its snowy petals seemed to glow from within, as if made of moonbeams. With moonlight streaming in from the lightwell above, even the floating dust particles were transformed into shimmering stardust dancing in the quiet night air.

Yet, as enchanting as it was, I couldn’t help but remember that it would all come to an end very soon. By dawn, before the sun’s first kiss, its lustrous petals would be shrivelled up and a withered carmine carcass would be all that remains of its snowy beauty from the night before; its lingering exotic fragrance a ghost of its twilight arrival. There’s an old saying A-Gong used to describe the tan-huas blooming: an instant of beauty but a moment of eternity. Even though beautiful things don’t last forever, they live on eternally, etched into our deepest memories. Just like the tan-huas, my time left on this quaint little island was coming to an end. By dawn tomorrow, I too would be gone; and though I’d be leaving this cozy old house I called home, I’d take with me its memories, just as the scent and beauty of the tan-hua lingers on forever in the memory of all who witnessed it.

Listening to the rustling palm leaves and soothing gurgle of running water, tension oozed out of my body as my muscles relaxed. The tranquillity of night imbued with the intoxicating sweetness of tan-huas calmed my racing thoughts and my eyelids started to droop. Just before being lulled to sleep by Hua-Hua’s soft purring, I caught sight of a glimmer of azure amongst the radiant white blooms. The fluttering of delicate wings; quiet footsteps; something warm being tucked around me; and the familiar scent of incense from eleven years ago accompanied me as I drifted off to sleep.

NOTES:

[1] Ji Ruan, ‘Reflexions’ in 300 Gems of Classical Chinese Poetry, trans. by Yuanchong Xu (China: Peking University Press) pp. 88-89

[2] ‘A-Poh’ means ‘grandmother’ in Hainanese

[3] ‘A-Gong’ means ‘grandfather’ in Hainanese

[4] ‘Jia bui lo!’ means ‘time to eat’ in Hainanese (one of the Chinese dialects).

[5] ‘Luohan bed’ is a traditional Chinese furniture equivalent to the modern sofa-bed. It is made of wood, often containing a low wooden tea table set in the center.

[6] ‘Di-Di’ means ‘younger brother’ in Chinese

[7] ‘Mei-Mei’ means ‘younger sister’ in Chinese

[8] ‘Hua-Hua’ means ‘flower’ or ‘patterned’ in Mandarin which is a reference to the calico cat’s tri-coloured coat as well as the fact that calicos are called ‘Yin-Hua-Bu-Mao’. The naming is also a pun and an allusion the association it has with the memories her grandfather and his favourite flowers – the tan-huas.

[9] ‘Marchnad Caerdydd’ means ‘Cardiff Market’ in Welsh.

[10] Lauren Elkin, ‘A tribute to female flaneurs: the women who reclaimed our city streets’, in Flaneuse: Woman Walk the City, (London: Chatto & Windus, 2016)

[11] Virginia Woolf, 'Street Haunting', in Selected Essays (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), pp. 177 - 187

[12] ‘Dim-sum’ is a style of Chinese cuisine that’s prepared in small bite-sized portions served in small steamer baskets or on a small plate. It is also a metaphor in this story for a Chinese saying: 麻雀虽小，五脏俱全 meaning ‘small as it is, the sparrow has all the vital organs’. Just like dim-sum, the narrator’s happiness comes from a seemingly insignificant object such as a bowl of shrimp dumplings.

[13] ‘Nai-Nai’ means ‘paternal grandmother’ but can also be used as a general reference to or a friendlier and more affectionate way of addressing an old woman which is often used to show the closeness of the relationship.

[14] ‘Ye-Ye’ means ‘paternal grandfather but can also be used as a general reference to or a friendlier and more affectionate way of addressing an old man which is often used to show the closeness of the relationship.

[15] ‘Crystal shrimp dumplings’ also known as ‘Har-gao’ are a staple dim-sum dish made of prawn semi-translucent wraps kneaded from flour. In Chinese culture, dumplings are normally associated with togetherness and reunions since the wrapping of dumplings is a group activity that is usually done with family which helps emphasizes on the sense of belonging within the narrative.

[16] ‘Erhu’ is a traditional Chinese two-stringed fiddle.

[17] ‘Tan-hua’ also known as Epiphyllum Oxypetalum is a species of cactus found in South America and Southeast Asia that blooms rarely and only at night. In the Chinese culture’s language of flowers, the tan-hua means ‘an instant of beauty, a moment of eternity’, meaning beautiful things don’t last forever but they last forever in our memories.

Author's Notes:

Back with Part 3 of the short story slash prose pieces from uni series (this part was also written in second year lol) The story is back to the present, picking up a year after that rocky start in Part 1 and A-Yun is now in her second year of uni reminiscing about the time leading up to her departure for the UK. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading Part 3~

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

Since exams are over and graded and I've officially graduated, I can finally post my work online without having to worry about Turnitin picking it up as plagiarism because apparently you aren't allowed to plagiarise yourself according to university which is absolutely ridiculous but I'm not the one making the rules here so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, please don't reupload my works without permission.

#ninbayphua 墨彦 #prose #short story #constructive critisms are always welcomed #please don't repost without permission

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deanofwhumpuniversity · 5 years ago

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Aurora Australis: Part 1

The beginning of Argos’ captivity

Content Warning: Mental/emotional whump, body horror/dismantling of a robot, mental confusion, diss@sociation, dehumanizing language (toward a non-human person, but still. Slightly creepy/intimate whumper, non-consensual touch, careless whumper, android whumpee. Tell me if I missed anything that I should warn for.

@whumpthisway and @redstainedsocks had a prompt that sorta falls into this, not exactly, maybe it’ll be up your alley anyway?

...

Rustle. Shuffle. Click-scrape. Peel-pop. Rustlerustlerustle

Awareness began to filter back in through the dark, sluggish in a way that was new and worrying. Argos knew he knew the sounds around him, but his mind refused to form them into a useful narrative, instead following each audible oddity like a cat after a laser. So he tried to focus on something other than sound, and realized he was being jostled; almost passively, as if the pressure on his arm was incidental and the goal had naught to do with him at all.

How had he gotten here? Where was here anyway? Why had he been powered down in the first place? He tried to access his info banks from just before the shutdown, but the most immediate data seemed corrupted. Argos began to rewind his sense memory; jolts of static pushed back against his consciousness, forcing him out of the playback again and again. Every burst of fuzziness muddied his thoughts and threatened to make him forget what he was attempting. He rerouted his processes, drawing his senses away from the manhandling of his frame and the white noise surrounding him, to focus on pushing through his damaged memory. Static with no ears to grate on or eyes to confuse, static that still rubbed his senses raw like nails on the chalkboard of his mind, and finally, finally, heavily distorted sensory input began to play back. He tried to place what he was seeing. Did he recall...trees? Was that a person?

“There we are!”

A peeling-tearing noise and an exclamation shook Argos from his search, expanding his senses back into his body, and the first thing he fully processed was that he did not know that voice. He began to boot up his eyes, wondering how addled his brain must be that he hadn’t thought to do so before. But in the same moment he knew that once he did, this unknown human would be able to tell he was awake. My visual display wasn’t designed for stealth. What a strange thought to have...

But as his faceplate lit up with scrolling green glyphs, the woman who came into focus wasn’t paying any attention to his expression, instead peering intently through a mounted magnifying glass, tinkering around in a bit of armor he recognized had once been plating his lower arm. It was familiar to him, a piece of him but no longer part of him. He searched his sensory map and found his arm. It was still his, still there. Seemed...in working order, but he didn’t try to move it. Not yet. The plate the human handled reverently was discolored on the outside, warped even. He was sure he knew what burn damage looked like, though he’d never seen it on himself before. This human must be here to fix him.

“Lim, come look at this!”

Someone approached from Argos’ other side. Left, his mind unhelpfully supplied. North? Upon realizing that he wasn’t sure, he began to cast about in his software again. Compass, magnetic direction, this should be ingrained, shouldn’t it? He’d always known where he was. Hadn’t he? He was even more concerned to realize that he simply didn’t remember whether or not he’d ever felt this lost before. He hoped not. He didn’t like it.

That train of thought came to a halt as the new figure came into focus. That one, he knew that one. How did he know that one? His visual field widened ever so slightly, and he saw he was in an open tent, flaps pinned back and sunlight streaming in. There were more tents, distant figures, and trees beyond. He felt an odd sense of familiarity, a technological deja-vu that meant somewhere in his visual databanks lay an image that would match up with this clearing. All he had to do was go through every moment, frame by frame, until he found it, and he would know where he was and hopefully, how he had gotten here.

But the new figure, the Lim human he presumed, was speaking, and for some reason Argos was so distracted with watching his movements that he barely caught the exchange. “-- be awake like this?” He was standing over Argos now, looking directly at his face, blue-grey eyes flicking back and forth slightly like he was trying to read the streams of vertical light that played across it. Argos found that thought strangely...endearing? That was new. He willed himself to display a disarming smile in the flickering lights for a moment, but the man simply furrowed his brow further.

The other human, the mechanic, started at this question and pushed the magnifying glass aside. She blinked up at Argos’ display as her eyes refocused, as though she was just now remembering the bit of armor she’d been examining had come from a whole body. Her momentary confusion was instantly replaced with a beaming smile, and instead of answering, she leaned in close to Argos’ faceplate. “Well look at you, all shiny and green! How long have you been up and running?” She was so close her eyes nearly crossed to watch the symbols of his display, and he had to consciously keep the data stream from speeding up along with his racing thoughts.

Personal space. Humans expect a meter of personal space from unknown persons, +.1 meter for every centimeter in height you have over them. Argos heard this admonishment in a lightly accented voice that he knew intrinsically, knew better than his own titanium bones, emanating from nowhere but simply existing in his mind, deeper than his hazy recent memory, too deep to be lost from data corruption or structural damage or whatever had happened to bring him to this circumstance.

He tried to shift back against the table, but he was already as flat as was possible, in a slumped and inhuman posture, apparently having been dead weight when he’d been laid down. He cringed internally, and realized he’d allowed the feeling to play across his face for just a moment before he schooled himself. The mechanic either didn’t notice the change, or didn’t understand it, and continued eyeing him with somewhat manic glee. He hoped if he answered her question perhaps she would move back to her stool.

“I…” He began to speak and both humans leaned back. The woman’s face was even more excited than before, somehow. But the man’s expression was one of...distaste? This worried Argos, though he wasn’t sure entirely why. He started again, “I don’t know. I don’t know what time it is...what day it is. My internal clock seems to have desynced.”

He was becoming more lucid by the moment, he knew that he was deeply damaged, both in hardware and in soft, but he had all the means at his disposal to get his bearings and make repairs. He cast about for a wireless signal, something he could use to sync with, to triangulate the time and place, and found a likely beacon on the periphery of his senses. He sent a signal to it, attempting to pair, but a sharp white jolt poured back into him. Not information, not data, but the absolute absence of it, a molten wipe that erased his request and cauterized his ability to send again. The readout on his faceplate devolved into static as his thoughts were overloaded and wiped clear of anything but pain, and his body arched in fits off the table as nonsense commands were sent to his synthetic muscles. He couldn’t remember words, or language, and he didn’t mean to try to speak, but a series of distressed metallic trills came from the speakers at the base of his throat.

It may have been a moment, or an hour, and he felt feverish as coolant rushed to prevent his processors from overheating. Even if he’d been able to trust his own internal clock, he couldn’t focus on anything but a litany of stop stop make it stop. He’d disconnected from the wireless beacon almost immediately but the feedback ran its course through his frame, down his arms and legs then doubling back to smolder in his core. Finally, gradually Argos felt his thoughts falling back into order, almost like waking from a reboot but not quite so drowsy, and not nearly so refreshing. Aftershocks of blank, dataless pain danced about his systems, and he felt his fingers twitching without his control. When he was able to focus his optics again, he saw the mechanic’s smile had become less childlike, more wolfish.

“That’ll be the wireless jammer, sorry I didn’t warn you, but we haven’t exactly had a chance to speak, have we?” She reached up, resting her hand just above the reflective plate that served Argos as a face, as though cupping his cheek from an inch away. He imagined he could still feel her touch, fingerprints on the glass, sinking through to tangle in the circuits underneath. He couldn’t help the jerking shudder at the thought, but felt some morbid relief that she would see it as another spasm of lingering pain. “I have it under control, thanks.” Her eyes didn’t move, though it was clear she wasn’t speaking to him.

“We should still restrain it. Physically.” Lim was still there, husky voice so neutral as to sound almost bored. This troubled Argos before he even had time to process the human’s words. “At least until you have it disassembled.”

#android whump #robot whump #mental whump #emotional whump #whump #missives from the dean #immortal whumpee #aurora australis #Reynan Lim #Zinnia Brown #argos

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lifeinahole27 · 5 years ago

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CS ff: “Walking the Tightrope” (Chapter 2/10) (au)

Summary: Killian’s daily routines are a matter of habit. When he wakes up late one morning, his routines all change for the better. Emma doesn’t care about routines, but she does care about Killian, no matter how reluctant she is to admit it to herself.

Rating: E (much later in the story)

Content Warnings: Maybe some language in this chapter but nothing more.

A Special Thank You: My continued gratitude to my lovely friends, @captainstudmuffin and @phiralovesloki. And a heap of love to @captainswanbigbang for putting this together and helping me accomplish this.

A/N: I have crawled out of my deathbed long enough to post this. Thank you to everyone who has read so far, and I hope your enjoyment continues with this next installment! xo

Chapter 1 |

Find it on Ao3 & FFN!

-x-

Chapter 2: Meet Me in the Morning

October 5: Saturday

Emma Swan doesn’t care about routines. She does most things at the same time each day, but that’s only because she wakes up, takes a shower, gets ready, and goes to work at the same time. Every day.

On the weekends, she’s a mess. She’s not entirely ashamed to admit there are some weekends she doesn’t even bother showering. She’s a single woman living alone so she’s the only one who has to deal with it.

It was by chance that, a little more than a month ago, she decided to walk to work early and saw Killian Jones for the first time. She’s been walking the same route for so long but she had never seen him before, more than likely because he seems to like to get to work early and she prefers to run in at the last second before she’d be considered late.

That first time was a fluke – she told David she would come in a little early to help haul records out of storage and there was this newcomer standing at the corner she crosses in order to get to Main Street. Storybrooke doesn’t get a lot of tourists, and of course she’d heard rumors that there was someone new, but to see him in person was a jolt of excitement.

He was reading something on his phone and looked like he was going to walk straight into the street. She had hustled to get to the corner sooner to stop him in case a car was coming (unlikely with how early it was and in this town) but he stopped, as if his shoes had suddenly stuck him to the spot. Without looking, he pushed the button for the crosswalk and kept on reading. Emma realized that this was something he had ingrained into him so deeply that he even knew where to stop because of muscle memory. Pretty impressive for a guy who’d only lived here a handful of weeks.

Despite being unconsciously aware of his surroundings, he didn’t seem to even notice her following him at a distance, so she lurked in her own way until she got to Granny’s, watching with interest as he took the left at the post office and went on his way.

Curious to see if he would repeat this chain of events, Emma showed up early again the next day just in time to see him walking up, but it was all wrong. He wasn’t reading, so he wasn’t lost in whatever was on his phone, and instead of just blindly stopping and pushing the button, his eyes met hers and he stumbled just the tiniest bit during the approach.

Suddenly, Emma kind of liked the idea of showing up every day around the same time to see if any of the above happened again – would be he lost in technology or would his steps falter again?

And both events did happen, but every time he’d get close to the corner, he’d look up and around, oftentimes catching the moment she was just approaching the crosswalk. Six weeks straight, every Monday through Friday, they walk together.

But last Monday he didn’t show up. She waited a couple minutes, but he still didn’t show. So she did what any sane person would do and went about her business. On a whim, she got two coffees at Granny’s and proceeded to stand outside for an extra ten minutes, not even sure he would pass by. Maybe he didn’t have to go to work. Maybe while she was getting the coffee, he went speeding past. Maybe he was dead in a ditch somewhere. She didn’t even know him but she was tempted to set out a search party for the man who always walks to work looking like a GQ model.

With that in mind, she’d started texting David asking how out of line it would be to create a missing persons report for someone who was, by her calculations, twenty minutes late.

“Who do you think is missing?” he’d texted back, clearly humoring her.

But that brought up a whole new set of problems because sure, she knew his name. How could she explain to David that she wanted to check up on someone she’d never even had a conversation with? And how could she do it without making David incredibly suspicious of Killian Jones?

When she looked up, Killian was there, looking just as shocked to see her as she was to see him. She had a moment of mild panic, locking and shoving her phone in her pocket without responding to her brother. She grabbed the coffees and started to just leave, but she noticed he didn’t have his to-go mug in hand and remembered why she ordered two on impulse.

So she officially met Killian that day, embarrassingly asking for his name even though she already knew it, and their daily interactions subtly changed again. She ponders this over a late breakfast the day after their bar run-in, marveling at the fact that she didn’t drink that much, that she’s not nursing a hangover with greasy food and a whole pot of coffee. Instead, she settles on the couch with a bowl of Fruity Pebbles and stares at the TV screen as she tries to decide which Netflix show to go for first.

Halfway through the first show, though, her thoughts keep drifting to the way Killian’s lips felt on the back of her hand. It’s occurred to her that she’s in trouble because he’s already gotten closer than she’s let most men in the last few years. She all but swore off relationships after the last one, but there’s something magnetic about Killian that keeps drawing her back. There’s a kinship, maybe. She sees it in his eyes some mornings - just a flash of something she can’t quite name but that lives inside her as well.

Knowing this is where dangerous thoughts lead, she finishes her cereal and eyes the visible messes in her apartment. Maybe some cleaning will help wipe the thoughts of getting those lips on hers from her brain. She starts with the overflowing sink.

By the end of the weekend, her apartment is spotless but her mind is more restless than it’s been in ages.

It doesn’t help that David calls her Sunday evening, making sure to emphasize that Killian seems like a nice guy. She’s just gathering the last of her laundry to tackle while dinner is still in the oven, so she hauls the hamper down to the basement of her building while David pries into her personal life.

“Yeah, he does,” Emma replies nonchalantly. “Do you want me to bring breakfast to the station tomorrow?” If she tries to change the subject, no one can really blame her for it.

“No need. It’s muffin Monday. But back to the guy that suddenly showed up after you were just texting me about putting out a missing person report on someone?”

“Geez, David. Way to be subtle,” she huffs as she finishes stuffing the clothes in the washer, starting the cycle before walking back to her apartment and pacing a circuit as the conversation continues. “So, was it Killian? How long have you been seeing him?”

“I’m not seeing him,” she defends, even though David’s tone is less stern and more overly-cautious-about-who-dates-his-sister. “We just sort of walk together for a bit in the mornings. I got worried when he showed up late one day. The guy is like an advertisement for punctuality.”

David hums a response, not sounding convinced. “And spending time alone with him last night? How does that figure into all this?”

With an exasperated sigh, Emma stops walking around her living room and drops onto the edge of the couch. “It just means that I have a new friend or something. That’s all. Nothing more than that.”

“Uh huh. So make sure the Save-the-Dates have ‘David was right’ written somewhere on them, okay?”

“Oh, would you look at the time? Dinner’s burning. Gotta go!”

This is one of those moments she sincerely misses phones with cords because it’s not nearly as satisfying to click the lock button to end the call and toss her phone on the coffee table as it would’ve been to slam down the receiver. She leaves it there for the rest of the night until it’s time to plug it in before bed, letting it represent all the truths she isn’t ready to face yet.

Killian is just on his way to becoming one of her friends. There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing more than that, either.

-x- October 7: Monday

On Monday, Emma follows her own version of her morning routine and gets to the corner just as Killian is pushing the button for the crosswalk. She’s exhausted from a night of intermittent sleep, but can’t resist returning the gesture when Killian smiles and waves when he sees her.

“Good morning, Swan,” he greets, his cheery demeanor trying its best to rub off on her but failing miserably.

“It’s certainly morning,” Emma grumbles, wanting to reach out and grab the stainless steel mug from his hand and chug until she can function again.

“Well, that’s certainly a Monday mood if I’ve ever heard one. Not enough sleep last night?”

She shakes her head instead of responding, not really sure how to explain that he’s the reason without it sounding like either flattery or an insult. Truly, it was her own internal fuck-ups that kept her awake, and the fear that Killian Jones might be someone she wants to think about more often. This all floats through her brain on a lazy river of thought, and meanwhile, the light changes and Killian ushers her across the street and maneuvers her up the path to Granny’s before she can even register that she’s moved at all.

But instead of that being the end of their daily interactions, Killian is still walking beside her, opening the door for her when they walk up the few steps to the entrance, and somehow herding her without touching her all the way to the proprietress.

“Granny, I do believe our good deputy here is suffering from severe sleep deprivation. Might you have something strong enough to knock out her Monday?”

“You’re consorting with this one, now?” Granny asks her, confusion popping up one gray eyebrow above her spectacles.

“I wouldn’t say consorting, as such, but we’ve become acquainted,” Killian says when she still can’t seem to find her words.

“Americano,” Emma finally spits out. “Make that a double.” Her brain is trying so hard to catch up to everything but somehow hearing Killian describe them as not-quite-consorting is the comforting wake-up she needed.

“There she is!” Killian’s exuberant tone jolts her a little bit, but she snorts a little and shakes her head.

“I’m good now, Jones. Thanks.”

“No worries, love. Happy to help.”

She remembers hearing the endearment the first time, that split-second instinct she had to correct him and tell him she was nothing to him at all, before she realized she’s been called the same by Robin and Will on more occasions than she can count.

Killian waits with her until the coffee is in her hands and walks the short length down to where they have to split in opposite directions to go to their places of employment. Emma tries not to linger once they get to that point, not wanting to hold him up from getting to work on time.

“Until tomorrow, then?” he asks, a gentle hint to the words. There’s something in his expression that speaks volumes more than his voice does, though.

“Until tomorrow, Jones.” She gives him a sly smile when she does it, lifting her coffee in thanks like he did the morning they officially met.

At lunch time, she’s feeling a little more like herself thanks to the coffee, but her energy is flagging and she realizes she never even ate breakfast, either. Just a granola bar she had in her desk from who knows when.

“I’m gonna walk down to Granny’s and get some lunch. What do you want?”

“Usual burger and fries?” David sounds as drained as she feels thanks to the stacks of files he’s been working on all morning, so she makes up her own mind to bring back more coffee to save them both from the ancient pot they still keep in the corner for some reason.

There’s something a lot more enticing than caffeine waiting in the diner, however, since she spots Killian in one of the booths almost as soon as she enters. He’s elbow deep in a stack of pages, oblivious to the world around him as it all bustles along. Instead, she has a suspicion that whatever he’s reading is where he lives now.

She wars with herself over whether or not to disturb him when he looks so engrossed, but it also looks like he hasn’t stopped in a while if his half-eaten lunch is anything to go by. With a quick stop by the counter, Emma places her to-go order and asks for a refill on Killian’s drink.

There’s a knowing arch to Granny’s eyebrow as she hands over the coffee and Emma pretends not to notice it, instead telling the older woman to let her know when her order is all ready.

“Careful, Jones. You look like you’re about to blow a fuse,” Emma says as she reaches the table, leaning casually against the other side of the booth after setting his drink in the last clean space. Even with the blatant approach, Emma can still tell she’s surprised him by the way he jumps a little in his seat. It takes a moment for him to speak, his eyes never leaving the page.

“I have to concentrate a little harder when there are beautiful women standing beside my temporary work space,” comes his response as he marks his spot on the page he’s working through. It’s then that he looks up at her, his eyes shining with humor but also the truth of his words. She knows it; she has a thing about people and lies. So of course she blushes, averting her eyes to scan around his mess of a table.

“I figured you were more of a neat, orderly pile kind of person,” she says with a gesture to the table. “I mean, you just seem the type.”

If he notices her weird tone of embarrassment, he ignores it. “You’re not wrong. I’ve just been so lost in the stories here that I’ve let the chaos take over a little bit. Thankfully, everything is numbered, or else I’d be in trouble.” “Why read here? Don’t you have an office with that fancy publishing company?”

“I do. It’s a very small, very modest office that I probably sit in more often than my home. But it also has other people who don’t like to respect my closed door in the afternoons. Namely, of course, Will Scarlet.”

She chuckles at that, not entirely surprised that he would choose to escape instead of trying to deal with Will. “Of course he wouldn’t.”

“And you? What brings you in? You look far more alert than you did this morning, by the way.”

“Thanks, I think? I’m here for lunch and coffee. We’re just getting started trying to get the old reports all transfered to our digital format. I love him, but David primarily uses the single fingers typing method that’s popular with dads and I couldn’t stand the sound of it anymore.”

“Emma!” They both jolt at the calling of her name, looking over to see Granny holding the bag with her order inside.

“Speaking of which, sounds like I’m up. I guess I should leave you to it, then. Wouldn’t want to add to your distractions list.”

“For the record, Swan, you’re always welcome to interrupt my work without ending up on my naughty list.” There’s just something about the way he says the line that Emma thinks is 99.9% totally innocent, but the very use of the word “naughty” has her 100% sure he could take it in a very dirty direction if given the chance. The most shocking part is that she kinda wants to walk right into it. “And thanks for the refresher on the coffee.”

“Don’t fry your brain,” she comments before pushing away from the booth and collecting her lunch. With reluctance, she walks out the door instead of going back to the damn booth and taking up more of his time.

-x- October 11: Friday & October 18: Friday

The rest of the work week passes quickly, with greetings to Killian in the mornings, steady work in the afternoons, and dinner spent alone in the evenings. With each new day, her conversations with Killian got a little longer, more drawn-out, and she was finding out so much more about him.

By that Friday, they’ve talked about work, and bickered about the best toppings to go on waffles, what their sweet tooth go-to is. And then, again, their habits change a little bit more.

“Are you going out tonight?” she asks, not even sure what prompted her to say anything. She wasn’t initially planning on heading to the bar after her shift, but their morning topic of pet ownership is apparently enough that it makes her want to talk to him more.

“Maybe,” he tells her. He means “yes” if his expression is anything to go on.

“Maybe isn’t yes, Jones.”

“It’s not a no, either,” he tells her, reaching up to push her hair off her shoulder with his hook. With that same smug expression on his face, he waves goodbye and leaves her outside Granny’s to get her coffee. One of these days she’s just going to steal his as retribution for saying that Pop-Tarts are not a suitable breakfast.

He does make an appearance that night, sitting between herself and Snow after he wanders in with Will. She can already tell that he’s worming his way into Snow’s heart, and while that will ultimately make her life more complicated when the other woman starts pressuring her to date him, at least she’ll have her sister’s approval.

He doesn’t stay long, claiming at one point that he could very well fall asleep on his walk back home. Emma is this tempted to ask if he wants her to walk with him, but he bumps her shoulder companionably and says he’ll see her on Monday before he rises from the table and walks to the bar to pay his tab.

She keeps her eyes peeled on her own walk home to make sure he isn’t asleep somewhere along the route, just to be safe, and that’s damning enough on its own to indicate how she feels about him.

The next Friday, she’s lost in thought picking up dinner from Granny’s when the voice of Will Scarlet intrudes her personal space.

“Get your boyfriend to go out with us tonight. He’s refusing to leave his office,” he says bluntly, sliding up next to Emma at the counter. She’s thrown for a second by the word ‘boyfriend’ and stares at him for a moment before she realizes Will’s talking about Killian.

“Killian’s not my boyfriend,” she says, trying not to sound too bristly.

“Well, not with that bloody attitude he’s not,” Will says, grin still in place.

“Go away.”

“I will as soon as I’ve got food for that prickly bastard I work with.”

“Why’s he prickly?”

“He’s been locked away in that bloody office all week. Never left the room except for toilet breaks today. Propped a chair in front of the door so I couldn’t get in to try to make him break for lunch.”

“Doesn’t his door have a lock?”

“Do you really think a locked door can keep me out?”

It’s none of her business, not really, but she’s still a little concerned about that much work.

“C’mon, Lady Sheriff. I figure if anyone is going to get him to cut back a little bit and take a night to recharge, it’ll be the woman he fancies.”

There are so many things for her to unpack in that sentence.

“I’m the deputy,” she corrects almost absently because the rest of her brain and a thumping portion of her heart are still stuck on the idea that Killian fancies her - the very British way for Will to say that he like likes her. Has he said that out loud to Will? Does he talk about her?

“I don’t have his number or anything. It’s not like I can just text him and tell him what to do.”

“Okay then, you can take him the dinner I was planning on dropping off and use your womanly charms to get him away from that bloody computer screen for a night.”

Emma snorts at the idea of trying to use any kind of womanly charms, since she hasn’t used those since she was helping chase bail skips back in her early twenties. She doesn’t think Will has the same ideas as she does when she hears those words, and thank goodness for that.

In the end, when the food is ready to go, Emma takes the bag from Will. “Fine. But only because he’s probably so sick of your face that he’d just as soon starve than open that door for you again.”

Will is clearly torn between celebrating that his plan has worked and being an ass about her reasoning, but Belle walks in and diverts his attention, so Emma starts edging towards the door with the two bags of food in hand.

“You know where the building is, yeah?”

“I do.”

“Turn to the left past reception and it’s down the second hall to the right.”

It’s almost pointless that Will gave her the directions, since there’s only one office in the whole building that seems to be lit up. The rest of the place is deserted, but his door is propped open and she’s about to knock, but takes a moment instead to appreciate how intense Killian looks while he’s working.

He’s chewing on his lip, eyes scanning his computer screen with fervor. He’s wearing glasses, which she’s never seen before, and even though she’s been standing here for at least thirty seconds, he still hasn’t seemed to notice she’s there with how deep he’s in the story. With a shifting of bags, she lightly knocks on the doorframe to catch his attention.

“If you’ve come to get me out of this office, you’ll have to try harder than by bringing me food.”

“Even if it’s really good food?” Emma asks. “I see you unblocked the door.”

Killian’s head snaps up so fast that she’s sure he’s given himself whiplash.

As such, his voice is breathless when he says her last name, as if she’s a mere mirage standing in his doorway and he is a man dying of thirst. With the expression on his face, she’s pretty sure that’s not far from the truth.

“You’re not Will.”

“And thank god for that,” Emma says, finally entering his office and presenting him with the bag of food marked with his name on it.

“Ah, but he sent you,” Killian retorts as he accepts the bag. He sees the second bag in Emma’s hand. “Do you have time? Would you like to eat, as well?”

She hesitates for a moment, thinking about how all she was going to do was drop off the food and go, maybe remind him to drink water or something, but he looks like he could use the company of someone other than the fictional characters in front of him. “Sure,” she finally says, moving the chair in front of his desk closer so she can place her own food on the surface.

As they each eat their dinners, Killian tells her more about the project he’s been assigned.

“It’s a relatively short book compared to the other projects I’ve worked on, but because of how much is riding on this one thing, I feel like I’m hyper-obsessing over every detail. I read the whole thing that day you saw me at the diner, and I’m still in the first chapter making edits and comments because I keep wondering if it’s the right call or not. I meet the author in a couple weeks and I want to have more than three pages marked up before that day.”

“You need to stop psyching yourself out so much,” Emma concludes as she pops another onion ring in her mouth. “And you definitely need to ease up on the time in the office. How long ago did everyone leave today?”

“Most cut out by three on Fridays.”

“So you’ve just been here for three hours working by yourself in a dark office building? With the front door unlocked?”

“It’s Storybrooke, love. Who’s going to even want to come here?”

“You have a point, I guess.” She wipes her hands with a napkin, shoving her trash back in the bag and crumpling it up. “But still, you should consider going out with everyone tonight. Or at least going home and drinking a lot of water and thinking about self-care.”

“Will you be included in this everyone?” He sounds a little quiet, a little unsure, a little nervous when he asks.

The woman he fancies, marches back through her head and Emma’s heart flutters a little. “Yeah,” she says, with no intentions of teasing him or leading him on. She gives a little shrug, smirking along with it. “Besides, it’s… also my birthday. Just so you know.”

“Today?” His full attention is on her, now, even forgetting about the fry that was halfway to his mouth.

“Tuesday, but since it’s a weekday, we’re celebrating tonight.” The wheels are turning behind those tired eyes and she knows she almost has him. “You can tell me about how you finished this chapter when you get to the bar tonight.”

“Maybe,” he says, but there are cracks in the facade he’s trying to hold onto.

“Maybe isn’t yes, Jones.” Last Friday comes back to mind, and she thinks this may just be the start of a routine or something now if he keeps this up.

“It’s not a no either, Swan,” he says with a smile that she’s beginning to recognize as the same she gets on her face when she thinks about him. She is so screwed.

“Yeah, I know,” she says, standing from her chair and flippantly tossing the trash from her dinner into the wastebasket by his desk. “See you later.” She winks when she says it, and his responding smile gives away that he’ll definitely be there.

-x- October 18: Friday

Fifteen minutes after Emma gets to the bar, she finally orders her drink. She knows Killian will show, but it’s a matter of how much longer. The drink has barely been in front of her for thirty seconds when she hears the door open and close again. She doesn’t even flinch when he appears by her elbow and orders his usual.

With a casual glance, she sees that he’s still in his suit and tie. He looks a little ruffled from the long day, but even at what she’s sure is a rough state, he still looks like she’d like to kiss him. That thought isn’t new, but the intensity of it is.

“What a surprise to see you, Jones.” She takes a sip of her drink before she looks at him again.

He’s shaking his head, looking like he’s trying not to smile but she gets to watch the grin fully bloom as he fails to keep a straight face. He glances around the empty tables where everyone usually congregates. “Where is everyone?”

“Well, I told Will that you wouldn’t go out unless we went to Aesop’s Tables. So I assume that’s where he is. And David and Snow had plans tonight.”

“Trying to get me alone, Swan?”

“I figured you could use a night to decompress without Will challenging you to a chugging contest.”

“You’re a savior, you know that?”

“I’ve been called that once or twice,” she admits, grabbing her drink and standing from the barstool. “Let’s go.”

“Go?”

“Yeah. Decompress. I have darts. You have a long week to put behind you. We both have good, strong drinks. Let’s go.”

He still looks baffled by the whole thing, and Emma’s not really sure why she’s so intent on trying to get him to loosen up, besides the fact that he’s one of the most put-together people she’s ever met and to see him a little disheveled is… kinda nice. She turns him and nudges him towards the other end of the bar where the dartboards are set up.

“Oh!” Killian stops in his tracks in front of her for a second and turns around. “What about your birthday?”

“What about it?”

“You said you were supposed to celebrate tonight.”

Emma fights with the smile forming on her lips. “Yeah, I did.”

“You didn’t have plans,” he says, the words tinted with a bit of confusion, but it’s definitely a statement.

“Nope,” she says, popping the last consonant. “C’mon. Tell me about your book thing.” She gets him moving again with a gentle jab to the middle of his chest.

And he does. As soon as they settle into a rhythm at the boards, Killian goes through the general premise of the twist on fairy tales. His arms are constantly moving as he talks, something that Emma finds fascinating. The impressive part is how he can do that and still throw without really concentrating. Sometimes, however, that doesn’t mean the throw is good.

“I haven’t played in a while,” he confesses after his first dart ends up on the floor and the second ends up embedded in the light cover above the board.

“Mmmhmm. Keep telling yourself that’s the reason,” Emma teases, collecting the darts and hitting three numbers she needs.

The game progresses with ease, however, and they keep up a steady conversation with the music buffering them from the other patrons and conversations. Round 1 ends up going to Emma.

“He still has one detail I wouldn’t have written if it were my book,” he tells her when they’re deep in round two.

“Oh?”

“There’s the ever-present failsafe: True Love’s Kiss.”

“And why wouldn’t you have written that into the stories?”

“Because if these are twisted tales, why should that be the save-all? Case in point, what if it were a curse instead of the fixer?”

“What do you mean?” She takes her throw, but it’s a bad shot. She’s officially more interested in what he’s saying so her game is going to shit.

“Bear with me a moment. In most stories, that kiss is the thing that fixes everything, breaks the curse, completes someone, etc. etc.”

She nods as she takes a sip of her drink which is slowly becoming more water than alcohol from the ice melting. It’s clear he’s on a roll, both in telling the story and with the darts. With the first throw, he hits the triple 20.

“So if I were to meet and kiss my true love, in Henry’s version, I would live happily ever after. But if I were the one twisting the fairy tales, my true love would turn into a hand. The thing that would literally complete me, so to speak.” The second dart hits the outer ring of single 19, leaving him with one more dart and only needing the double bullseye to win the game.

“Then I’d just be this poor, lonely bastard with a reminder of this great love I was owed and instead have a hand to carry around at all times.” The dart goes flying, sinking into the middle of the board with ease. He spins, his look of disbelief fighting with the full-blown smile taking over his face. All Emma can do is laugh.

“One hell of an ending, Jones,” she says, not sure if she’s talking about the game or the curse. “But for the record, I hope you don’t think that a missing limb makes you any less whole.”

He’s at the dartboard collecting the darts when she says it, and he leaves two of them on the board as he comes back to the table they’re set up at. She’s surprised the words even came out of her mouth, unsure of where the need to tell him that came from.

“I did once, after it first happened. I was young and suddenly down one hand, discharged from the Navy because of it, and had no direction.”

“How did you find your way again?”

It’s so close to home. She thinks about being 18 and alone in Tallahassee, trying to find any way she could to make money to get back to David and Storybrooke without breaking down and asking him for money.

“Mostly with the help of my brother, Liam. He kept me moving forward when I wanted to slide down the hill.”

“That’s one of the perks of having a brother,” Emma says, clearing her throat and taking a sip from her drink.

“It certainly is,” he replies. Sensing the shift in tone, Killian offers to refresh their drinks.

“Sure. But light on the vodka in this one.”

While he’s getting the drinks, she shakes off the memories. Maybe she should share with him that they have more in common than a route to work, but she also thinks that can be saved for another time. Because although they still haven’t exchanged numbers or full back-stories, she feels like this is all much bigger than a morning routine, now.

They throw for best out of five. In the end, Killian is the victor of their mini-tournament.

“Re-beginner’s luck,” Killian tells her as they settle their tabs and wish Jefferson a goodnight.

When they step outside, they start a slow, meandering walk back towards their homes. The October wind picks up, whipping her hair around her face and forcing her to zip her jacket up all the way. Without meaning to, Emma ends up huddled against Killian’s side, trying to escape the bitter wind. Somehow in the mix, she also ends up holding onto his arm, enjoying the way the fabric of his suit jacket feels beneath her fingertips. There’s a little smile on his face when she glances up at him, and when his eyes meet hers she can’t help but notice the way a quiet affection shines through.

They don’t talk much, mostly about the nothings that get lost in the mundane details of their day, like how she’ll start driving the Bug again soon when it gets colder. At this, Killian seems to deflate a little, and she realizes that it’ll bring an end to their walks down the street until the weather warms up again.

“But that’s not for another couple weeks,” she says, trying to make up for the fact that yeah, eventually she won’t be up for frigid commutes to the station in the snow. It’s not until she glances around that she realizes they’ve walked all the way back to her apartment complex. “Oh. This is me,” she says, pointing with her free hand up at the modest building. “I didn’t mean to make you walk this far out of your way.”

“I’m always happy to escort Storybrooke’s finest,” he mentions. “And thank you for getting me to relax tonight. I’d probably still be in that bloody office if it weren’t for you.”

“Or be three sheets to the wind thanks to Will.”

“Again, you’ve saved me in multiple ways today, Swan.”

“And yet, this was my birthday celebration and you got me no gift.”

With a glint in his eyes, Killian sways just the tiniest bit closer. “Only one gift I’ve got to offer,” he says, his index finger going from nervously rubbing a spot behind his ear to tapping his lips twice, the smile that overtakes those lips knowing and teasing and everything she’s wanted to kiss since he touched her hand that first time.

“Please,” Emma says, her voice dipping low. “You couldn’t handle it.” Even so, she’s moving closer without really meaning to, magnetically pulled towards his body in ways she can’t even explain.

“Perhaps you’re the one that couldn’t handle it,” he retorts, holding eye contact with her the whole time.

It’s a challenge. And she doesn’t like backing down from a challenge.

Her eyes shift between his for a second more, and then she’s hauling him towards her by the lapels on his suit jacket. Their mouths connect, both anticipating, both going for it like there’s a prize for who wrecks the other more. Back and forth they go with who leads and who takes, coming up for air twice in the process, until they’re both breathing heavily and she has to hold onto him to steady herself for an extra second.

“That was…” he mutters, his voice low.

They sway closer one more time and Emma’s pretty sure he’s going to kiss her again, but suddenly, the flight instinct takes over. She can’t like him. Can’t let him in. With barely a glance up, she decides to ruin the only good thing she’s had going for a while.

“A one time thing. Goodnight, Killian.” She says it with pain in her voice as she gently untangles herself from his embrace. It takes a lot of effort to command her own fingers to let go of his coat lapels and start walking away.

She doesn’t turn back, doesn’t want to see the look on his face that she knows is the same one on hers. Because they only walk together for part of their daily commutes. Nothing more. More is what leaves her in the middle of the night. More is what falls for her and dies in her arms. More is a lying, cheating asshole.

The door to the building closes firmly behind her, cutting off “more” before it even begins.

-x-

Chapter 3

#cs ff #cs ff au #captain swan ff #csrt #sarah writes ff

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chainofbeing · 5 years ago

Link

Adam Escapes the clutches of the Anthronesians and finds himself in the company of something far greater

Rhostiran Guard: Adal Rifai

Craiova Iwa: Bettrys Jones

Anthronesian 1: David M. Sledge

Anthronesian 2: Tomix

Sword of Nemesis: Lucy Campbell

Epicurosa: Laura Rogers

Alexander Ashton: Jonathan Aroloye

Sound design, Writing, and Adam Delta 5: Cai Gwilym Pritchard

An Extra Special thanks to our patrons

Theresa Shiban

Anthony Hyde

email us at [email protected]

follow the podcast on twitter @chainofbeing

Subscribe to the patreon for exclusive content and rewards!

The music used in this episode was:

A fucking tribute to the mysticism of your fuckin sound - alpha hydrae

Poisson Grêlon - Cuicuitte

violin concerto in g minor rv 315 'l'estate' ( summer )

[a light hum and some music playing over a radio in adams cell]

I can’t stop thinking about the solar system, about earth. It was never my home, that honour belonged to Eden (wherever that may be). It’s such a complicated topic, you think human, you think earth, that’s just how it’s ingrained into the collective unconscious. But there is no earth, not anymore, beacons surround the planet broadcasting warnings to all those who approach, it’s a wasteland filled with concrete thorns bursting from the ground, mazes of black concrete monoliths spread across the landscape, no patch of land left untainted by radioactive waste and toxic pollutants, no ocean not made poison by the calloused hand of corporate greed. No amount of terraforming can heal a planet that broken. The death of earth was not one of glorious nuclear fire, but was instead a pathetic and gradual death rattle caused by willful ignorance ignorance and avarice. No one in living memory is from earth, but there’s still this misguided association with it. I’m sure, over time through a multigenerational game of telephone, all the bad about earth can be forgotten and people would begin to idolize something that never was. That's what I think birthed the Anthronesians, a desire to return to an idealized version of the past because you don’t like the state of the present. There’s a guard outside my cell, he doesn't seem like the rest of the Anthronesians to me, he shies away from those more committed when they pass and does not hold himself with the same menacing demeanor. The door is made of an opaque glass that lets me see their side profile, my cell is filled with propaganda books, nothing I want to waste my time reading, and a short metal desk.

I knock on the door, my back against the wall which bows outward slightly, to get the best view of my captor “Hey,” I say, they ignore me “what’s your deal then, you from the solar system like the rest of them?” they continue to ignore me “come on man I just wanna get to know you,” they move ever so slightly “seems like we’re gonna be spending a lot of time together right?”

“Rhostir Arnofi,” he says finally, seemingly reluctant to offer the information

“That's a hydroponics station right? What’s it like?”

“I don’t remember really, I was born there but… when the Council started relocating because of the overpopulation crisis we got taken to a Veatorian farming colony: Stymphalia,”

“That must have been hard,”

“It was!” they say, a little too enthusiastically “ahem, it was. They do things so differently and we didn’t speak the language and-”

“So how’d you end up with them?” I say cutting him off before he goes on a rant. I gesture to the group of far more menacing looking Anthronesians

“Well I was on a corsair vessel, we crashed on this planet and so we took up in a small village. We had loads of weapons and stuff so when the Anthronesians came and offered refuge for any humans, I thought ‘it's gotta be better than this’ and it was. I always hated the council, I mean why do I have to share with Veatorians?”

“What about the rest of your crew?”

“Well, none of them were humans and they fought back so… yeah”

“I’m sorry, you must miss your friends”

“Oh I wasn’t friends with them I just worked in the kitchen,”

“Do you think you could do me a favour?”

“I don’t think-” he says reluctantly “Just hear me out, ok?”

“Alright,” he says cautiously

“Can you bring my bandolier? It’s got some medication that I need to take”

“What kind?”

“It’s, uh- immortal stuff, I need it or my bones melt, now go get my bandolier I- I can feel it coming on, quick!”

The initiate runs off in a panic and I pause for a moment, unsure if I actually managed to get away with that before I get to my preparations, each of the heartbeats will be monitored by the ships ai, so using one of the more lethal artefacts is out of the question, plus, I don’t want anymore blood on my hands. Something comes to mind and I wait, the group of Anthronesians leave and the guard returns with my bandolier. He opens the bowed glass door and hands it to me, I take out a white stone icon of a beetle and hold it up, it begins to rattle and emanate a strange smoke like chalk dust thrown up in a breeze, a look of dismay covers his face “you were tricking me weren't you?”

“Yep,” I say

“You fucking-” I cut him off before he can finish his insult, a line of white stone extends from the icon, strikes the guard and he is instantly calcified, his face frozen in an expression of betrayal and meathead anger. The icon of Saint Tarates is an unpleasant one, under the calcified exterior the guards heart still beats at a regular rate, aside from the lack of movement everything would seem normal to an observing AI. Anyone looking at him would of course see the calcified skin and muscle but hopefully by the time that happens I’ll have done- something, my path is still annoyingly unclear, destroy the dissimulation field, a mantra I’ve been repeating to myself for the past few days in captivity on this vessel, the ASC Barachiel. I don’t know what has happened while I’ve been on this planet, if Dhāra jamīna is still even around, what havoc Ovig Nadal might have caused, It may already be too late, but judging by the fact that concepts aren’t just floating around with no relation to each other, that the laws of cause and effect are still in tact, and that I still recognise the universe around me, that is not the case. I leave the brig and find myself in a corridor. There’s an electronic sign displaying directions to various rooms and systems. The sign cycles through several archaic languages, I see what I’m looking for “armoury”. I head in the direction keeping highly aware of the sounds of approaching footsteps. I don't know what time it is on this cruiser, they certainly won't be using the council regulated settime due to the Anthronesian hatred of everything Nimonean. The reason that I’m so eager to know, as I slink around the long oddly shaped hallways of the super cruiser, is that I don’t want to be caught during a changeover. On a ship this size it makes no sense to have everyone share the same time table, so (depending on its population) a military vessel will have up to 5 different day cycles at once, meaning that all the systems that are physically manned are done so consistently. If I get caught during one of the changeovers, it’s back to square one.

I enter the armoury, one of many I’m sure and find it, surprisingly, empty. It feels almost as if the supercruiser is drastically understaffed, the main runway and essential facilities are well maintained but there are great stretches of empty corridor and seemingly important rooms left unattended, perhaps that explains their keenness to recruit new forces from the surrounding area. I approach the terminal, at least I think it’s a terminal, the screen sits in a thick cylindrical tube with a second metal tube set beneath it acting as a way to navigate the system. In order to work it you must place your hands on the sides and twist, a design so antithetical to how a human expects a computer to work, there are indents for fingers where you would expect but the layout over all is so… strange. I place my hands on the side of the cylinder and navigate through the inventory system. “Sword or gun, sword or gun, sword or gun. Why not both?” I mumble to myself as I select a nice looking sword and a submachine gun from the listing. The printers at the side of the room activate and by the time I go over they’ve printed, I grab the sword, smg and ammunition and go to leave. I exit the room and turn to continue down the hall when I run into two Anthronesians, who have yet to spot me, engrossed in their conversation.

“There’s this new recruit, she seems promising,”

“Which one?”

“Uh, Shiban, Theresa Shiban,”

“Oh yeah she’s great,”

They stop in their tracks as I draw my sword. For a moment we stop and just stare at each other

“If you just turn and walk away-” I begin, but the first Anthronesian draws her sidearm and so I swing at her with my sword. He takes a step back and the second one tries to restrain me, I draw the smg and open fire before he can grab me. The sound reverberates down the hall. My cover now being blown, I turn to the first soldier and swing my sword at the sidearm in her hand, knocking it away. I point my firearm at him and she holds up her hands.

“Aren’t you gonna shoot me?”

“depends,” the soldier glances down at her fallen comrade

“On?”

“How high of a security clearance you have,” Her eyes focus on the gun and I gesture with it, “Well?”

“I was up to become the next dagger of nemesis,”

“What’s your name?”

“Craiova Iwa,”

“Well, Craiova, do you think you’d be able to get me into the chamber at the center of this ship?”

“You mean the Ctenizid?”

“Yeah sure,”

“I’m assuming you’ll shoot me otherwise?

“Yeah,” I say, grateful for the suggestion

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say with more confidence

She turns and we begin to march down the hall, a group of Anthronesians rush down the hall and take stock of the situation. They lower their weapons and let us pass.

“Just shoot him in the back,” I hear one whisper to the other

“I’m immortal dipshit!” I shout behind me, bluffing, if they did fire on me I’d probably collapse from the pain. But they take me at my word and we move out into the large cavernous space. The space is dead silent. Instead everyone in the space stands and watches us pass, the balconies that line the sides of the space holding even more forces pointing rifles at me. Even the scientists hold some kind of weapon. We reach the huge doorway and I nudge Craiova

“Well? Open the door,”

“Oh I can’t open the door, only the sword can do that,”

“So what was your plan?”

“Bring you out here, let you get shot to shit, presumably die in the crossfire,”

“But I won’t die,”

“Yeah but it’ll stop whatever you were going to do and, well, you were gonna shoot me anyway right?” I tighten the grip on my weapon and go to pull the trigger, at least taking a fascist with me before my escape attempt fails, but the door clicks and opens slowly onto an empty lift. I take a step back onto the platform, not looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. I keep my weapon trained on Craiova as the door starts to shut. She turns and meets my eyes. “Good luck,”

The lift starts to rise, moving forward and up, and I ready myself. Sword in one hand, submachine gun in the other. I fear just destroying the dissimulation field will not be enough. So I intend to begin a manifestation and then destroy it, that pillar is what’s creating it. I’m sure.

The lift jolts and the doors open. I tense up and swing my sword down and onto the blade of a halberd wielded by the Sword of Nemesis. She pushes toward me and I step back and fire, her armour absorbs the shock and pauses, I take the moment to bring my sword down at her neck but she recovers in time and jabs her weapon at me. The room is empty as we fight.

[the sounds of grunting, metal hitting metal, scrapes and gunshots]

The lab in the corner of the room is scattered with equipment and a half constructed angel core rifle sat on the altar. The Sword hits my side with the end of her polearm and I hunch down in reaction to the pain. She lifts the strange looking halberd above her head and swings it down. I meet the blade with mine, parry it toward the ground and swing the submachine gun so it points directly at The Sword. Through the mask I meet her gaze and pull the trigger. Blood pours outward from a large bullet hole in her mask. She slumps over. I stand and return my sword to it’s sheath. The console in front of me hums into life after I flick a few switches, remembering what the scientists did to begin the manifestation. I stare down at the golden pillar, an artefact of some unknown origin that generates the dissimulation field. I take a deep breath, open the airlock and, make my way down the metal walkway, the atmosphere around me filled with Noble gasses. I wade through the water. The pillar thrums with a divine energy, I cannot imagine how a bunch of human supremacists that worship earth got a hold of it. I raise my gun and hear a shattering above me. I look up to see the form of the Sword of Nemesis diving toward me. I step away and she lands where I stood. With a ferocity to her actions that I had not seen before, she swings at me, I just barely manage to block and parry. She stops, her breathing laboured “You do not know what you toy with here,” her voice takes on a strange quality “We are blessed, you may slay me here, but I answer to something greater,”

“I’m going to put a stop to this little project of yours, the Anthronesians will die here,”

She begins to laugh

“You think this is it? Our armies are vast, I stand among a faction of untold numbers, we are everywhere. The fact that you think that this small act will impede the inevitable progress of the Anthronesians shows just how unprepared your kind are,”

I pull the trigger and the room fills with a white light.

[a hypnotic tone emanates from the surroundings like an inorganic humming that approaches and retreats just as quickly]

What takes place seems to do so in a vast white space, entirely separate from the world around us. Seemingly in slow motion I watch everything around me disassemble, the walls delaminate, to reveal the rest of the ship in a slow state of disassembly, machines and weapons break apart into their composite parts, wires separate from their casings, railings unweld, the metal frame of the ship shatters. I see people in a similar frozen state unwrap, clothes unstitch and unravel skin separates from flesh, flesh unwinds from bone, bones unjoin and separate. Their internal organs float up into the air like kite strings. In front of me a shape, hazy and unfocused, becomes apparent, it fills me with awe and calms my heart, the complete ruin of everything does not faze me as I stare at this form. The shape solidifies, a tall and slender figure, dressed in grey robes of an unidentifiable material, in each of their eight arms they hold the ornate skull of a different creature, each hollow and wearable as a mask. They place the black skull of a wolf like creature to their face and with their free hand grab the sword of nemesis, who’s flesh has not begun to unwrap, they lift her up and meet her gaze, the ornate bronze mask shatters, the shards slowly floating away, her is face young but rotting, her eyes glow blue, totally and entirely.

“You’ve sworn fealty to something,” the shape says, and I fall to my knees, an inexplicable longing and devotion in my very soul, “To be investigated later,” they say, lifting the Sword of Nemesis, who is pulled through a black hole that forms above her head.

[the sounds of a wet squelch and gravitational forces pulling her through]

The shape removes the wolf skull and replaces it with the skull of a large rodent, they turn to me

[with each new mask the quality of Epicurosas voice changes, each different and strange, while still maintaining the same voice]

“Meet the gaze of your creator Adam,” I lift my head and meet the gaze of Epicurosa in their common form, the only form I had ever known. I feel as if I am staring into a bright light, my eyes sting but I cannot look away. “It’s not often I pry away from my celestial form, you’ve done well here, but your work is not done, as I’m sure you’re aware, it really is a pleasant surprise to find you, it works out quite nicely actually. Come,” Compelled by some internal force I stand and follow Epicurosa

“Might-Upon-Serenity-” I begin

“She is Holden-Hearts problem, she means nothing to me”

As she opens a second, larger black hole for us to step through the white light that fills the world disappears, and the floating components of the ship begin to fall, the unravelled corpses collapse to the ground, alongside weapon parts and scraps of cloth. A strange scene for the scavengers to pick apart.

We are pulled through the black hole and into an office in a whirlwind of corporate toys pens and papers.

[the sound of an office, some banjo music plays in the background, mufflled slightly]

A human receptionist looks up at Epicurosa who swaps their rodent skull mask for a decorated black goat skull, missing a horn. They bend down to the receptionists level. “I believe I made an appointment,” the receptionist nods, The God gestures to the doorway, “may I?”, the receptionist nods again “Thank you,”. We enter the office, the high floor to ceiling window presents a view of Azyl, the artificial stellar system humans call home, the walls of the office are lined with paintings and artefacts, the oldest and most expensive being remnants of earth and the newer pieces being from the various Human colonies. Sat at a desk is the human representative, Alexander Ashton.

“Ah, Epicurosa, how wonderful it is to see you-”

[he switches off the music]

he begins before his eyes dart to me “Adam!? Where the hell have you been? We searched everywhere on Dhāra jamīna and found no trace of you!” I go to speak but Epicurosa holds up her free hand to me and I say nothing. The adoration and enthrallment I felt when looking at them has begun to die down the longer they hold their common form but I still do not dare to interrupt or ignore them. The god says to the senator,

“I have come to relieve you of Adam Delta 5, he has important work to attend to with me”

The senator leans forward,

“His time under the council is not up, he still belongs to us, it was not you who indentured him to us, you have no right to take him”, Ignoring the senators extremely daring move. I look up at Epicurosa who looks down at me through the eye sockets of the goat skull

“What do you need from me that you cannot do on your own?”

Epicurosa looks out the window, seeing more than all mortals have and ever will see, understanding more than all the great scholars and scryers ever have and ever will.

“To me the realms are equal, the physical materials that make you up hold no bearing over the intellectual and moral ones. And so the death of the non-divine such as yourself often holds as much significance to me as forgetting an idea, it is a shame, but another will take its place. But not you, adam delta 5, something has turned its benevolent gaze upon you. Something greater than me, and so I enact it’s will.”

they pause for but a moment, for reasons so beyond my realm of comprehension it wastes time even thinking about thinking about it.

“Our universe exists on a set path, ultimately, one atom bounces off of another at a predictable angle, cause and effect etc. We are all the man locked in the bedroom, we think we want to stay but in the end we have no choice in the matter. One thing causes another with no unpredictable insertions into this sequence. However that is only applicable within the way our universe is constructed. For something that has come from outside of this, the laws are not so binding. By entering our universe, ovig Nadal has provided an unpredictable insertion, he has disrupted the chain of being, the predetermined order of events and entities in the universe. The complex order of orders. For a mortal, chaos is something that can be half imagined and dismissed. But true and utter unpredictability is horrifying to a god. And it would seem you are important to ceasing this edgeless horror.”

“My goddess, I ask that you understand, the council is not in the good graces of the galactic population, our… mishandling of the population crises means we need a win,”

“It’s far more than just that fiasco,” I say, the senator shoots me a look and continues

“To have it be us that solved this universe threatening problem would be… a great triumph to us,”

“No,” The god says tersley and begins to usher me out of the room

The senator, now flustered, bangs his fist on the table

[it slightly rattles the desk]

“Epicurosa, my progenitor, on behalf of the rhetores and the council of nimonea I pray to you and request that adam stays with us!” A dark anger covers their form, they exchange the goat skull for that of a large cat, spins and slams four of their fists, skulls still in hand, onto the white metal desk, denting it in two places.

[the sound of metal creaking and a large crash, shaking the desk massivley]

“You ‘pray to me’? You wish to control me through worship? As you did the forces of nature you worshipped in your early history. You feel that you can sway and change my actions through sheer force of will don't you? I am just as indifferent if not more so than hurricanes and earthquakes and typhoons, for they simply exist, I make the active choice to ignore you,”

“I-”

“If you speak once more, you insolent mortal, I will eviscerate you, you shall be annulled, your destruction shall be so righteous and glorious that evermore the name,” they lean forward, stooping down to read the nameplate on his desk “Alecksander Ashton, will only ever be associated with complete and total annihilation and whatever administrative loopholes you closed and lives you think you have changed by shifting currency to and fro will forever be overshadowed by your wondrous undoing, do you doubt my power to do such a thing?”

The senator shakes his head. Somehow, by some miracle, maintaining his composure. In this moment I feel a newfound respect for Alecksander, even in the face of his very creator he sticks to his principles and tries to serve the council. Epicurosa opens up another portal, before we step through I look up at them “Where are we going?” I ask

“Somewhere I will be able to understand some things about you, a great many forces have coalesced to support you Adam. More than just the Rhetores and their attempted deification. But the true divine, before all that I must see if you are ready,” she opens a portal and steps through, I turn to look at Alexander Ashton one last time, he stands and stares out of his window, watching those he was charged with protecting, they are there in front of him, he is simply unable to perceive it all. In that respect I feel we are alike. I turn back and follow Epicurosa through the portal.

#podcast #podcast transcript #transcript #sci-fi #scifi #audio drama #audiodrama

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tilltheendwilliwrite · 7 years ago

Text

Once a Witch

Chapter Four

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Witch!Reader | Word Count: 1596 Warnings: Mild language

Firelight glistened off smooth skin as the two bodies moved together under the furs beneath the low ceiling beams. Quiet grunts and low moans filled the air. Outside the small cottage, the wind whistled through leafless trees, branches long grown bare with the winter’s wind.

Shaggy blond hair fell over Henry’s forehead, sticking to the sweat on his skin. The deep blue of his eyes were full of love and admiration. His hands wandered the length of your torso, up to bury in your hair. He kissed you, slow and deep.

“Henry,” you sighed, wrapping your arms around his broad back.

He hummed, pleasure in the sound. His lips whispered over your jaw and down your throat. A warm, wet tongue trailed down to lap slowly at your collarbone. Teeth nipped gently. Time passed as he sucked a dark mark into your skin before he rolled you both over.

Sitting up, allowing the furs to fall from your back, you traced your hands over his battle-scarred chest.

“You look beautiful like that,” he murmured. Strong, calloused hands smoothed over your thighs and up to grasp your waist.

“You say that every time.”

“I mean it every time.”

Leaning down, your pendant swung catching the light. “Do you think we will be like this forever?”

His hand lifted, closed around the heavy silver pendant with the tree of life engraved upon it. “Goddess willing…”

***

Inhaling deeply, you came back to the present to find Steve inches from you with his hand closed around your pendant, the other gripped tightly in yours. His eyes were dark, sultry, still laced with memories when they lifted to yours.

“I… I don’t…” He swallowed thickly, gaze dropping to your lips. “I…”

Slowly you lifted your hand toward his cheek, hesitating, waiting for him to reject you. When no protest came, you laid it gently against his face. The hum of magic, his and yours, blended like the strum of a guitar string up your arm. “It’s alright. It’s a lot to take in.”

Confusion mixed with disbelief in his eyes, but a tendril of something akin to hope shimmered there as well.

“I don’t know you…” he said softly, his hand tightening on yours, “but… I… I can’t deny I… feel things with you, a tugging…”

You smiled, a little sad but still hopeful when you stroked his cheek. “It’s okay.”

He was putting pressure on the chain of your pendant, drawing your closer. You weren’t sure he even realized he was doing so. “You’re a witch?”

“So are you.”

His eyes widened. “No… I… I’m telekinetic,” he said, eyes opening further when shock rippled across his features.

“What? Why did that surprise you?” you asked, shifting your hand to the back of his neck.

“I’ve never… told anyone before. I never could. It was like something held me back, warned me against speaking the words, but with you… they just… came out.”

“It’s because you and I are the same. You’re not telekinetic, well, you are, but it isn’t just your mind at work, Steve. It’s magic. You’re a witch. You’ve always been a witch.”

“Not always. Not when I was still little Steve. I didn’t have this,” he shrugged and frowned, “ability until after the procedure.”

“You were sickly as a child?”

“Yeah.” His frown deepened.

Your smile only grew. “I lived in Canada during the war. I missed you back then. I only recently returned to America.”

“Oh.” He nodded, accepting your explanation.

“It doesn’t surprise me, you being you. You were always one to stand up for what was right. You’ve always been a good man.”

His face was very close, emotion humming from him, tension filling the air. “Why could I never tell anyone else? I work with witches, sorcerers, gods, but I can’t… I couldn’t… not even Bucky knows, and he’s my best friend.”

Sighing, you looked away from his piercing eyes for the first time. “You don’t remember what it was like. The fear, the persecution. All the times you and I have run from death because of the hatred of others. It’s ingrained, Steve. You used to have to remind me, drag me back when I wanted to help where my help wasn’t wanted. You can’t tell, (Y/N), not ever! Those were the words you used to speak to me when I would say so-and-so is so nice! Why can’t I tell her? Surely she’ll understand.”

The pendant hit your chest with a soft thump when he released it to grasp your chin and lift your eyes back to his. “And then we ended up in Salem.”

“And then we ended up in Salem,” you whispered, eyes moist with unshed tears. “I was the reason you died. You were always so… so… careful,” your breath hitched.

“Don’t, doll face. Don’t blame yourself. You didn’t shoot me.”

Your heart pounded hard and heavy in your chest with his words. “You… believe me?”

“I…” he hesitated, “I’m conflicted.”

“Oh.” Your hope crashed down.

“But I can’t deny I… feel things for you that I shouldn’t when I’ve only just met you.”

Hope rose as your heart did, right into your throat.

“And whatever it was, this… vision we shared…”

“Memory,” you whispered.

“Memory,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing along your lower lip in gentle passes, “is too close to my dreams to be dismissed.”

“Steve… I’m telling you the truth.”

Ernest, soul-searing blue eyes latched on your lips where his thumb continued to stroke slowly back and forth, making it tingle. “I want to believe you…”

“Then believe me.”

“I…” he drew closer, warm moist breath smelling of peppermint washed across your mouth.

Your eyes dropped to his lips. Pink, plump, and glistening from the pass of his tongue over them. “I’ve been so alone,” you whispered, shortening the distance even more.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” he murmured. His grip on your chin tightened. His head tilted slowly.

You could feel the heat of his mouth, so near, so close. Your magic reached for his, twined and twisted together in tendrils, joy filling you at feeling him so near.

He shivered at the sensation, his breath coming out in a quiet moan.

Licking your lips, you sighed, “Steve…” as your eyes fluttered closed, yearning for the kiss you’d been missing for three hundred years.

The front door banging open had him jerking back, away, and to his feet. His hand reached for a weapon which wasn’t there while the other closed around your arm and dragged you up behind him. “Thought you locked that door?”

“Hey, (Y/N)! What the heck you doing locking the door in the middle of the day?” came the cheerful voice of Janine.

“My employee Janine,” you informed Steve, laying a hand on his low back. The action, one so familiar, yet so foreign after three centuries of loss, had a quiver of emotion shaking your arm.

She skipped through the doorway only to stop dead. “Oh, I see! Pardon me for interrupting,” she snickered, backing up only to stop again. “Wait… holy shit! You’re him! Captain America!”

Tension radiated up Steve’s spine even as he smiled and nodded. Subconsciously, you lightly rubbed his back, soothing away the disquiet he felt at being recognized.

“Ma’am,” Steve said, his muscles relaxing beneath your touch.

“Janine, Steve Rogers. Steve is…” you smiled up at him when you stepped out of his shadow, “an old friend.”

“You know an Avenger, and you’ve never said anything!” Janine hissed.

You only shrugged it off. “We met… a long time ago. Besides, everyone is entitled to their privacy, Janine. Even Avengers.”

A light flush filled her cheeks, but she smiled brightly and backed away. “Nice meeting you, Cap!”

“And you, Janine,” Steve said, but his eyes didn’t sway from yours. “Old friends?” he said quietly, a smile tugging his lips.

Grinning, you gave another shrug. “For me it is true.”

His face lost its amusement, concern returning to darken his features. “Look, doll…”

The spell you two had been wrapped in was clearly broken. Laying your hand on his arm, you shook your head before he could say any more. “It’s a lot to take in. I understand.”

“I don’t know what to think about all this.”

“Then take some time. I’ll be here if you have questions, or you can find me at my house.”

“And where’s that?”

You looked up into eyes of sky blue, so pure, so bright, so… loved, longed for, missed, and shifted your hand to his chest, pressing your palm to his heart. “Follow your heart… if you really want to find me, you will.”

A skeptical brow arched. “Or I could get a friend to check you out.”

Smirking a little you tilted your head, fluttering your lashes a little. “That you could, but I’d count that as cheating.” Patting his most impressive chest, you lowered your voice to a near whisper. “You’re a witch, Steve. If you believe me at all, even if that belief amounts to a drop in a bucket, trust that you can find me all on your own.”

He eyed you again, but this time you were unable to comprehend what was going on behind those beautiful eyes. With a small nod, he stepped back, turned, and walked out of the back room and out of your shop with a jangle of bells.

Collapsing to the sofa, you let your hands shake as your tears well, and hyperventilated a little.

“Henry,” you whispered only to shake your head. “Steve.”

He was back.

Next Chapter

#once a witch #steve rogers #steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x witch!reader #captain america #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #avengers #avengers au #avengers fanfiction

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written-s0ul · 8 years ago

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Misdialed (1/4)

REQUEST. “I really liked that AU you reblogged that was like “you have the wrong number but you sound pretty upset about that person wanna talk it out” if you want could you write a Steve Rogers x Reader fic based off of that please. From anon.

SUMMARY. Lawyer AU. Steve Rogers x Reader. Your boss gives the case you’ve been working so hard on to someone else. Out of anger, you call a friend to rant – only to realize that you called the wrong number.

WARNINGS. Curse words. A bit of angst, mostly just hurt / comfort. Gender neutral reader.

WORD COUNT. Approximately 1.4k

AUTHOR’S NOTES. I’d like to thanks USA’s Suits for introducing me to the world of law drama, HAHAHHA jk. Sorry this took a while, dear anon! Had to do a bit of research. But I hope it does meet your standards. This fic will have three to four parts (bc it was getting so long lol). Enjoy! As always, I appreciate all feedback. (:

#1: you are here / #2 / #3 / #4 / epilogue

Go to hell, you wished you could say. You wished you could chuck those words at his pretty face, shove them up his Roman god nose or slap them across his high and mighty cheekbones. Just ruin him. But that would mean the end of your job, the end of your life. So as satisfying as it would be to smack the forced, sympathetic smile off his face, you can’t risk it. Can’t risk losing your career because of this. Even if right now, it felt exactly like that.

“–isn’t to say you’re incapable of handling this case, Y/N,” Mr. Barnes said, leaning back in his seat, fingers curled over its handles. “This is just more of Natasha’s area of expertise.”

You spared the redhead beside you a cutting glance. Legs crossed and hands folded in front of her, she was the most professional picture of prim and proper, with her steel eyes focused on Mr. Barnes. You turned back to him. “Sir, this is my client. I’ve won Wakanda Inc., when no other lawyer in the city could. I should be–”

“You’ve taking too long,” he said, lips thinning to a firm line. “And the longer you take, the less likely we’ll win – and we need to win this. You do guarantee that, don’t you?” he asked, gaze shifting to Natasha with arched brows.

Her lips parted, hesitant, and for a moment, hope flickered in your chest, tiny but sharp, like the click of a cigarette lighter. Maybe she’d say no. Maybe she’d give you the case. Maybe –

She nodded, edges of her lips twitching up. “Have I ever disappointed you, sir?”

Now, you wished you could tell her to go to hell. It wasn’t entirely implausible. But you knew better.

It took an immense amount of power to keep yourself from stomping your way out of there, or slamming the glass door of that office behind you. The fact that you haven’t pushed Natasha off a staircase was a goddamn accomplishment. Maybe even a miracle. You made sure not to hold the door open for her, though.

“Follow me,” you said, walking ahead of her towards your office. Had the floor not been carpeted, your heavy but quick footfalls would be bouncing off the glass walls, with the knifelike sound of someone keeping their rage on a leash.

But she caught up with you, effortless with her strong legs and big steps. She glanced at you, wary. “I could come by later–”

You shook your head, making sure to keep your eyes forward and your chin up. “The earlier you start working, the better.” Most of the cubicles you passed by were empty now, most of the employees having gone home for the day. The office felt quieter already.

Passing by a haggard intern, who gave you a warm nod, you gave him a tight smile in return. But once his bright expression wavered at Natasha’s friendlier, more natural smile, you looked away. Your teeth crunched, the muscles in your jaw springing taunt. She’s just so good at playing pretend, wasn’t she? As though she hadn’t just straight-up betrayed you –

Reaching your office, you glanced at your secretary’s desk, now empty. You frowned, stomach sinking. Scott must have gone home already. That’s disappointing. You were hoping to release some of the coiling tension inside you onto him – he’d make you laugh in no time – but you couldn’t blame him. He did say he couldn’t miss family dinner. Not anymore, at least.

Stepping into your office, comfortable despite its modest size, you rounded over to your desk and grabbed a box of files from underneath, setting it just above your scattered paperwork. You fingered through the folders and papers, scanning the labels.

Across you, Natasha fidgeted with a button on the long sleeve of her blouse, her soft sigh audible even to you. “Y/N–”

“Hold on,” you said, brows drawing together. Where were the – oh! Right! You had pulled out a few files earlier, right before you were called to Mr. Barnes’ office. Setting the box aside, you gathered the pieces of paper littering your desk, and flipped through them, the sound of the flicking paper slicing through the air.

“I’m not doing this against you, Y/N,” she said, voice measured but gentle. “The firm is–”

You scoffed. “Don’t even use the state of the firm as an excuse for your ambition, Nat.” Slamming the bottom of the pile down on the desk, Natasha wincing across you, you set it down and plucked a few documents out. “You know how hard I’ve been–” You shook your head, swallowing back the scathing words gathering on your tongue. It wasn’t worth it anymore.

Turning back to your work, you slipped the documents into the box, the small pile hitting the bottom with a satisfying thud. You pushed it towards her. “Sharon has some more files, but she’s probably gone home. I’ll tell her to give them to you tomorrow.”

With a resigned sigh, she stepped forward and caught the box, lifting it in her arms with ease. “I’ll just ask Scott to send me Mr. T’Challa’s number?”

You waved dismissively, before your now empty hands fell on your hips. “I’ll arrange the meeting myself – because I am coming with you. He should hear it from me first,” you said, shooting her a look. She didn’t seem fazed by the sharp rise of your tone. “Tomorrow, lunch time?”

Lips pursed, she nodded, then spun around. Just as she was about to step out, she looked at you over her shoulder, gaze soft. “Get home safe, Y/N.”

That stung more than you thought it would.

After changing into some comfortable clothes, you tossed yourself onto the bed, and stared at the blank ceiling above, jaw clenched. Memories swam in your mind: all the sleepless nights, the missed meals, the passed up holidays and hang-outs, the relentless research and the incessant ass-kissing – just to get where you were now. Still, it wasn’t enough. Even after winning Wakanda Inc., and ultimately saving the firm from collapsing after Mr. Stark left and took more than half of the clients and employees, you’re still a clumsy junior associate in Mr. Barnes’ eyes, and not the junior partner you were now. Goddamn it –

Your fingers curled into the mattress, nails digging into the soft material. The rage was building. Piling in your chest until it was too hard to breathe, until your heart was rebounding against your ribcage and shooting bullets into your veins, the pounding blood igniting the skin above, and –

You can’t keep this inside anymore. Where the hell was Scott when you needed him?

Taking your phone from the nightstand, the scene lit up red, and you could hardly see the phone number you were typing down, with the kind of speed that told how ingrained the number already was in your mind, after nearly a decade of working with him. With every ring, you grew more and more ready to scream at Scott if he didn’t pick the fucking phone up in the next –

“He–”

“Barnes is a dick,” you said, spitting as much spite as you can into his name. “He just gave the Wakanda case to Natasha. Can you believe it? I’ve been working my ass off for this firm, pretty much saving its own ass after Mr. Stark left and took our shit – and still, he doesn’t trust me to take care of my own case–”

He cleared his throat.

“So, instead, he gives it to Natasha. And you know what? Natasha fucking takes it! She knows how important this is to me, has seen how much work I’ve been putting into this, but no, she’s been a senior partner for far too fucking long, and she knows winning this case will put her name on the wall–”

He coughed again. You furrowed your brows, but forged on, uninterrupted.

“She even tried to act like she didn’t just stab me in the fucking back, that sick–” His cough was louder this time, and you frowned, propping yourself up with a hand behind you, annoyed but concerned. “What the hell’s with you, Scott? Are you okay?”

A beat passed. Some nervous shuffling, and another throat-clearing, then an intake of breath –

“I’m not Scott.”

A/N. I’ll be leaving this weekend, so I’ll make sure to have all the parts out before then. I hope you enjoyed! Especially the anon who requested this! (:

Tagging: (Let me know if you want to be tagged to the story or permanently!) @courtneychicken @riddikuluslyemily @zadyalyss

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fic #marvel #avengers #avengers au #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #sharon carter #t'challa #scott lang #avengers fic #steve rogers au #dailyau #my writing #misdialed

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indomitablemegnolia · 7 years ago

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Flashes of fear, oxygen trapped, unable to leave my lungs, leaving me unable to draw any more air in, panic and pains brutal edges of malice cut through my consciousness. Disorganized and frantic, my heart breaks again and again, the cold broken shards dig into my numbed flesh. My brain is fractured, recounting, broken, my thoughts a disaster, a train wreck. The broken mangled memories left to bleed on the tracks like an accident victim. My lithe words have abandoned me, left alone in a mine field. My mind so disassociated, I can’t even work up a panicked sob. A nightmare that’s right, it was a nightmare that woke me, but truly more than a nightmare, less than a dream, a reality revisited. I wake with an iron clad knot deep in my belly, shivering and panicked, frightened to the core. Air and screams trapped, captured; in my throat silence is what greets me on the other side of that wakeful barrier. Petrified I lie still, as flat as I can, willing the tremors and shakes to abate, swiping the cold sweat from my brow, but I can never take it from my soul. The trick of the subconscious, when defenses are down it allows all those fears, losses, grotesque experiences surface, those visitations from the past sneak back up to the top of my brain, I suffer the scourge yet again. Caustic emotions are only thing simmering on the top of my soul, as I surface from a fitful sleep. Sometimes triggered by the date, an action or phrase but always it affects. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed holding my head in my hands, still trying to shake the shivers that rack my body. I push myself up to a standing position and walk as steadily and assured as I can muster out my door down the hall to the bathroom. I don’t even bother to turn on the light I just lean heavily against the sink, run cold, cold water from the tap and splash my face. The dark circles of unshed tears under my eyes encompass my face. I try to wash these memories away, but since they are scars ingrained on the very core of my soul they taunt me as they course away, “I am there, stealthy still waiting for any break in your armour. I am there beneath the water’s surface, tentacles waiting to wrap around your ankles to drag you under the surface again and starve you of your oxygen, your hope.” I close my eyes and let my soul scream, trying to cover the taunting, a long loud piercing scream, the kind that will echo through the universe reverberating off of every harmonic alcove. I open my eyes and there he is, Life himself, as if called by the keening need in my soul to not be alone, not right now, not this moment. I sag against the sink grateful that the universe sent me what I needed. He looks me over; a small ghost of a smile haunted his lips when he took in my oversized Rancid t-shirt and tall striped socks. I practically felt his gaze caress the small bit of bare skin from mid-thigh to knee, the feeling comforting rather than leering. I look at him behind me in the mirror, his face at first smiling, rumpled slightly in confusion as he surveyed my face in the mirror, the dark circles and lipid eyes not escaping his intense scrutiny. His gaze kept traveling until they locked on mine. His piercing gaze delving deep in my soul, my memory, finding without too much bother because it was still skimming across the surface of my mind, what it was that was tormenting me so. He saw what I saw, his face contorted as he knew what I felt, he saw my attack. The head trauma, the multiple violations, the twisted arm, broken fingers, them taking turns, my screams silenced by the seat of my car as they pressed my face harder and harder into the rough fabric. It always amazed me that he could read my memory like cliff notes just staring into my soul, but after all he was Life, himself. I watched his face, shame engulfing me as he saw everything. He watched them rob me, rape me. His face reddened, his eyes sparked with an angry fire. That classically granite jaw hardened into a perfect symmetric block. His nostrils flared as his anger rose. I had never seen him angry. He was always sweet, cocky, taunting, and assured, but this, this was megaton level angry. He was barley containing his anger, it was the kind of anger that could level cities in seconds. He saw them strangle me, my scarf wound tightly around my neck, then leave me for dead. He looked away, literally turning his head away. I watched his every movement in the mirror, his body stiff, arms straight at his sides, his long wide knuckled fingers balled in fists, the fury reverberating from him was palpable. His beautiful face shaking as he slowly let a breath out between his tight lips, he sucked in a deep cleansing breath through his nose. I hung my head, shaking it as I closed my eyes, I must have sniffled. I opened my eyes looking back at him; sure he will never come back again. He gave me a sidelong glance, but what I saw stilled my breath. His anger grew in intensity now instead of fire I saw rock hard, crystallized anger. His eyes, instead of the warm sea glass as usual, were glittering vacant angry sapphires, dark and dangerous. His brows a straight dark line across his forehead with one small crease midway between them. His eyes wide, still searching mine, exactly for what I don’t exactly know, those beautiful crinkles I so adored erased. His lips drawn taught not a hint of a smile near them. His glorious jawline solid, slightly cocked. I wanted to look away drop my eyes to my hands on the edge of the sink, but I refused to flinch. I gathered my courage and looked straight into his eyes, his soul, I stopped breathing. What I saw there wasn’t directed at me, he was righteously indignant for me. I saw an archangel staring back at me, and then he was gone. It was a kind of shameful grief filled me that I hadn’t ever known, I was sure that it was the last time I would see Life, himself. Lord In heaven I would miss him. I crawled back to bed and passed a long dreamless night. The date, the time of year caught up with me, I was never lost on the irony that my favorite season is fall, but the way it shakes out, the years typically go September hunker, October the proverbial manure hits the Evinrude propeller, November there I am stuck with the clean up along with the icy cold and lack of resources, December is a further declination straight onto march… but I love fall. The air, the weather, the smell of fall, the colors, I love this shifting season with no limits. Today was that proverbial day from hell, pain, tests and bad news all lined up after each other. I get out of my car, walk haltingly to my door, I lean heavily against the jamb as I unlock it. I walked in laughing, choking on the tears welling their confusion mingling in my throat. I stopped, swinging the door closed loudly, the instant I thought I was alone I drop to my knees, sobbing. Not sobbing in the way grown-ups do out of anger or just stung pride or self-pity, insipid little tears stinging the eyes. These were true heart-rending guffawing sobs. The kind it seems that only children can master from some pain they cannot communicate. The darkness over taking my soul, I know where from, but I do not know what to call it. The wracked sobs rocking my very bones, the painful rending heaping waves of nausea on top of the soul-deep ache from whence I know now where. The pain engulfing my entire being, eating its way through my heart, every defense broken hanging in tattered shards, my soul, every fiber of my being broken down and dashed to dust. My naked soul bared for the world entire, finding at the moment no mercy, no compassion, I find no reason for being, no logic to my tenuous grip on this existence. I know my face is a mess, gallons of tears streaming down my red ruddy face, my nose keeping pace with the tears. My forehead crumpled in every possible way, my lips a snarl of anguish, cheeks cramped and stained. I look a state, my soul in shambles and my heart withered to the size of a raisin. I am sure that was when you appeared, you did not presume to know what troubled me, you just knew my pain, you heard the keening tone of my broken soul. You just reached out your hand and toyed with my hair, fighting back your own sympathetic tears gaining in your eyes. You did not presume to tell me to stop or mutter some empty accolade that everything is going to be alright. You just sat there with me in quiet comfort, assuring me silently that you would never forsake me. How my dear, how can you be so kind to this oh so strange girl, this misfit, this oddity. You kneel pulling me onto your lap, rocking me slowly cradling me as you hum a quiet haunting tune. I soak your shirt perhaps even your undershirt with my tears, unashamed unabashed I wept, I sobbed and I let every pain and agony out. I shiver and bask in your warmth, your strength. You held me, Life, himself held me with nothing but tenderness and love. My limbs shook from exertion and chill; you pull off your sweater and wrap it around me. You rocked me humming, kissing the hair on my head, holding me tight, for the first time in nearly forever I felt safe, truly safe. Exhaustion soaked into my every muscle, then bone deep. As the tears slowed to a trickle. You used your sleeve to mop my face softly, sweetly. Your caring warmed the icy chill around my heart and I snuggled tighter in your arms and despite the shuddering hiccup breaths that follow, the headache that I had expected showed. A warm drowsy comfort dulled my brain and my senses and as I drifted off to sleep I felt your light kiss to my lips. A healing filled me, along with a delighted glee that you had come back. Hours later I wake in the hallway alone. A chill in the air I pull deeper into the warmth surrounding me, I realize it’s your sweater. Your beautiful scent hung on it like a delicious comforting cloud. I pull it tight around me feeling it like a delicious hug engulfing me. You presence for once reinforced by a reality, could a dream, a ghost, a specter leave behind a beautiful Aran sweater? Life himself, is real, he never was a figment of my truly active imagination. I slowly stand and walk down the hall to my bed and lay down, falling into another delicious dreamless sleep wrapped in your beautiful sweater. It is then I know, I survive, I always survive, my will strong, never letting my heart abate. ~Indomitable? Meg

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foleypdx · 8 years ago

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Human Shield - A SuperCorp fic

I don’t always have time to make complete comics. I work. A LOT. But this was a really interesting idea I wanted to explore. And @luthoring encouraged me, sooooo... here you go.

Beyond the cut is the result, expanding on this comic. Written entirely from Lena’s perspective.

Fair warning: there is violence, injury, and angst.

The ringing in her ears is nauseating. Painful. Sounds are dampened, quieted, blown out and unintelligible. She tries to move and heat floods her limbs. The pain shifts from her head to her left arm. No. Her entire left side.

What the hell happened?

She remembers her mother. CADMUS. That strange alien tech.

The explosion.

Kara.

Lena’s disorientation evaporates, replaced by intense purpose. Kara - where’s Kara? Her bare feet slip on rubble. Aching hands claw for purchase, finding only broken pebbles of tempered glass and crumbled concrete. She scans the wreckage that used to be her loft, hoping for a glimpse of blue and red, a strong figure backlit by smoldering fire, but her eyes can barely see through thick smoke and dust floating in acrid air. She’s on her knees, fighting to stand.

“Kar-a.” The name barely makes its way out of her throat. She tries again only to shout all together too loud, “KARA!”

Coughing takes over. The outburst is violent and earnest, racking her bruised body, throat burning, head pounding.

And then there is laughter. Dark. Bitter. Familiar.

For the briefest instant, Lena is child and Lillian Luthor is chastising her for some perceived indiscretion, disapproval and cruelty masquerading as maternal care. Fear and shame wash over her. As quickly as the feelings come, they're gone, replaced by seething rage at the sight of her adopted mother.

Lillian smirks drawing her skin taut across sharp bones. The lines around her eyes deepen, shadows growing darker. “You’re on the wrong side of this, Lena. But that shouldn’t be news to you. You’re often wrong. In so many ways.”

That is the motivation needed to find her feet. Lena rises. Her body protests. Throbbing. Shaking. She balls her fists. “What have you done?”

“What you proved you weren't strong enough to do,” Lillian snarls through tightly gritted teeth.

Panic rises, turning her stomach. Sickness swells in her gut, but she hold it back, instead allowing the acid to burn its way back down her raw throat.

Never one to ignore a show of weakness, her mother grins. “Feeling sick, my dear?”

Lena turns, slipping, scrambling, desperately searching. Her things are either on fire or simple obliterated. Fragments of furniture are strewn about the loft. It barely ever felt like a home, and now it looks like a war zone. Through the haze she makes out a swath of crimson in the far corner of the room. A cape covering a limp form, collapsed in rubble.

“No,” the word scratches its way from between her lips. “Kara.”

Lillian begins to laugh again, but the sound is muffled by the blood pounding in Lena’s ears. Her chest tightens. She reaches Kara and stumbles, gracelessly kneeling by her side. Grabs her shoulder, gently rolling her over. Her face is pale, red veins fan out under her skin, emanating from swollen eyes. There are a few places where debris has ripped through her suit, the blue fabric is soaking through with blood.

She’s bleeding.

Supergirl is bleeding.

Lena cups a shaking hand to Kara’s face while her other rests on the Zor-El seal. She can barely feel it, but there is a ragged rise and fall to Kara’s chest. She’s breathing. Lena murmurs softly, “Please. Please be okay…”

There’s a click. A snap. Metal slipping and locking into place. She knows the sound well. When she turns around, her mother is leveling a handgun in her direction. “Move, Lena. Or I swear to God I’ll…”

Anger burns bright. She keeps her body positioned directly in the line of fire, staring down Lillian. Every fiber is ready to act. Ready for what will inevitable come. “Do it, Mother. Shoot. Because there is no way in hell I’m letting you hurt her.”

“Where did I go so wrong with you?” Lillian causally takes a step closer. Her camel colored overcoat sways with the movement. “These creatures aren’t better than us, Lena. They aren’t special. They aren’t gods. And they certainly don’t belong here. That… that thing is an aberration. Lex tried to warn you. I tried to warn you. But you wouldn’t listen. No. You were too caught up in… Whatever this thing you have with her is. It's disgusting. You and your.. proclivities.”

The last word is spat more than said. Lillian’s finger begins to compress around the trigger. “In the end, you picked that filth over your family. Ungrateful little b-”

She knows what’s coming. Lena's spent years at the firing range perfecting her ability to defend herself. The order of events is so deeply ingrained, a muscle memory. Aim, breathe, fire - but it’s very different when you’re not the epicenter of that concussion.

The shockwave hits Lena, hard, followed by pain. But not in the place she expected. No. The shot is off its mark. Her left arm had been aching before, and now it’s screaming. She clutches the wound, but stands firm. Protecting Kara is not optional. It is her purpose in this moment.

Hot blood is soaking through her blouse, filling her palm, running down her wrist. An unnerving stillness blankets the chaos, and somehow a completely unarmed Lena Luthor is the last woman standing.

It takes her a few seconds to recognize that the her mother’s expensive coat is splattered in blood.

Lillian falls to her knees. Her gun clatters to the ground. She coughs. Sputters. Red flecks dappling her pale chin.

The door bursts open and the sounds of heavy boots and jostling military gear fill the air. Black clad soldiers swarm the room. There is shouting. They sweep the wreckage, confirming the kill before paying any mind to Lena and the fallen hero at her feet. When the commandos finally turn their attention to her, she is back on her knees, Kara scooped up in her shaking arms. Tears are streaming hot down her cheeks.

A hand gently grips her shoulder. “Miss Luthor. It’s okay. It’s over.”

She can’t stop crying. Can’t stop holding the limp body of the woman she loves. How did this happen? Lillian was in prison. She saw to that. She called the police. She turned her in. Kara loved her. Trusted her. They were happy. She was happy. How?

“Lena!”

A firm voice reaches her. Alex Danvers has two strong hands clasped around Lena’s bruised shoulders.

“We have to move her. There’s not much time.”

Lena is sitting in the DEO infirmary. Apparently, she broke two ribs, fractured four bones in her left hand, and suffered a series of other bruises and lacerations as a result of the explosion along with being shot in the arm. She is bandaged up. Her arm is in a sling. They dug out the bullet and stitched her up.

She feels stupid and useless.

And on top of it all she's utterly terrified.

They took Kara away from her. They were transported in different vehicles. Once they reached this facility, Supergirl was moved quickly through the halls on a stretcher. Lena had been blocked and eventually forcibly ushered into a sterile room where her wounds were assessed and attended to. No one will tell her if Kara’s okay. If they were able to stabilize her. If the alien device Lillian detonated has done some sort of irreparable damage to National City’s bravest hero. In fact, no one has spoken to her since the doctor finished patching her up an hour ago.

The armed guard outside the infirmary is a clear indicator of a lack of trust.

Lena doesn't dare move.

So she waits.

When patience fails, stubbornness will have to do.

She ran through what she could remember from the evening. Kara arriving at her loft, gently touching down on the balcony and navigating her home like she belonged there. Like she'd always been meant to exist in the same space as Lena. She recalled thinking how the super suit was going to take some getting used to. Maybe it was the cape? Or maybe it was that dating mild mannered reporter Kara Danvers was one thing, but being with Supergirl… Well, it was an entirely different ballgame.

It made her swell with pride.

Pride that someone like Kara could love someone like her. Lena tried to do good. Tried to get out from under the Luthor name, but Kara Danvers - no, Kara Zor-El, was good. She was kindness personified.

She had come out of the kitchen beaming about how lucky she was when Kara stepped in close and wrapped strong arms around Lena’s waist. She had kissed the Kryptonian. Softly at first, and then firmer and more deeply, until every frustration from her day was forgotten and all that was in her head were thoughts of soft lips and strong hands and the pleasant way her evening was shaping up.

Lillian’s unwelcome intrusion spoiled that moment.

Lena shifts on the table. She cringes as the movement strains muscles connected to things that are damaged and/or sutured. Flesh pinches against synthetic thread. She lets out a sharp hiss.

“She's asking for you.”

Lena’s focus snaps to the doorway. Alex is there. Still incredibly intimidating, still very much armed, but markedly less body armor than the last time Lena saw her.

It takes a second for her to register what the agent has said. When she does, Lena's eyes start to well up. “Kara?”

Alex nods stiffly.

She slips off the table, her legs are weak and unsteady. She tries not to let it show, but her fragile voice is the thing that betrays her. “Can I… can I please see her?”

Kara’s sister takes a deep breath. Her gaze is cold, unwavering, and almost painful to Lena. She's used to this kind of scrutiny from her mother… Lillian. Lena pushes the thoughts of her mother aside and stands as straight as she can manage, returning Alex’s stare with one of her own. She has aimed for utter defiance, but isn't sure how close she’s coming considering she has to focus so much energy to just keep from trembling.

Alex closes the gap between them slowly. She looks at Lena like she is trying to find some sort of long buried piece of a puzzle. An answer. Lena attempts to breathe normal, but it comes out uneven, awkward.

Then Alex grabs Lena's shoulder and pulls her close. It is a sudden movement.

Lena freezes. Stiffens. Unable to move or know what to do.

Alex wraps her in a firm hug, chin nestled next to Lena's neck. Her breath is warm and ragged.

She’s crying.

“Thank you,” she sputters. “If you hadn't protected her… She'd have… That blast… She was barely…”

Alex doesn't have to finish. Lena relaxes and returns the hug as best she can with her good arm. “I would never let anyone hurt her. Ever.”

There's a stiff nod followed by sniffling and finally a break in contact. When Alex pulls away, Lena tips forward ever so slightly, her body reacting to the withdrawal of support.

“Come on.” Alex wipes her eyes roughly with the back of her hand. “She's been asking for you since she woke up.”

Lena follows Kara’s sister through identical hallways lined with tinted glass, brushed metal, and polished concrete. After an elevator ride and a few additional security checks, they reach their destination. Past the open door, Lena can hear the gentle beeping of heart rate monitors. Her mouth goes dry. Her throat clenches.

Alex silently nods towards the room and takes a step back.

Kara is laying on a device that looks less like a hospital bed and more like a CT scanner. There are wires and diodes connected to almost every inch of her bare skin. Slender lamps hover above the bed. Even at a distance, Lena can feel their warmth. She notices that Kara’s wounds are bandaged. She looks smaller than usual, but even still, she looks strong. Lena can't help but smile.

“Hey you.” Kara grins. Her eyes are still red, but the spiderwebs of veins have subsided. She holds out her hand.

Lena takes it and instinctively squeezes. It is at that moment the Kryptonian notices Lena's sling and bandages.

“Are you okay?” she asks, worried.

The question is so ridiculous coming from an incapacitated woman in a hospital bed. Lena laughs, wiping tears away from her eyes.

“I'm fine,” she manages softly.

“Alex told me. What happened. What you did.” She squeezes Lena's hand, her speech is almost lazy. “You were so brave.”

“I couldn't lose you,” she states plainly. “Not after I just found you.”

Kara’s eyes close. Her fingers lace between Lena's. She holds her hand tight, almost painfully so.

“Thank you,” she says, turning to face Lena.

“For what?” She wants to brush back the stray locks of blonde hair that have fallen over Kara’s face, but that would mean letting go of her hand, and that just isn't going to happen.

There is no answer. The superhero has fallen asleep. Lena carefully sits on the edge of the bed, all the while never letting go of Kara’s hand.

This is where she belongs.

She'll be right here when Kara wakes up.

Waiting.

A Luthor and her Super.

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