#i put wire around the edges of the collar to get the shape right

[lucygxybaird]

What about Billy doting over an injured reader? Or the other way around?

i'm not sure this is 100% what you asked for but i tried lol

It happens in a moment.

You’re riding home during a storm, the dirt roads churned into a river of mud by the deluge. It’s almost impossible to see, between the driving rain and your hair whipping in your face, strands plastered against your cheeks and your forehead. As lightning cracks the sky like a broken eggshell, you urge your horse faster, hoping to get home before the storm gets even worse. 

Your horse snorts in exertion, and you see her hoof plunge deep into a pocket of muck, her headlong forward rush arrested so suddenly that you both cry out, her whinny of alarm blending with your scream. You pitch forward, flying over your horse’s neck. The last thing you remember is the slate gray sky wheeling above you, spitting needles of rain, and then everything goes black. 

You don’t know how long it’s been when awareness creeps back in, heralded first and foremost by pain.  Aches thread themselves into your bones and your head throbs in time to the beat of your heart, which feels sluggish, as if it’s trapped in honey. Your arm feels strangely heavy, bent at an odd angle, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t find the strength to open your eyes. 

You feel a cool pressure against your forehead, trickling over your temples, and it takes you a moment to understand. There’s someone pressing a wet washcloth to your brow, and as your eyelids flutter, attempting once again to pry themselves apart, you hear a soft, low voice urging you to be still. 

The thing is, you’re fairly certain you would know that voice anywhere, and only its velvet-edged smoke could draw you out of the darkness weighing heavily on your mind. 

“Billy?” you croak, and this time, you finally manage to open your eyes. 

His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, with dark circles sitting underneath them like crows haunting a tree branch. Billy tries to smile, but his eyes are glassy, and he has to swallow hard before he says, “Hey, baby.” 

You swallow, too, wincing as it feels like barbed wire has wound itself around the column of your throat. You want to say that you’re sorry, but you’re so very, very thirsty. Instead, you manage to say: “W-water?”

Immediately, Billy reaches for you, helping you to sit up enough so you can drink from the cup he presses to your lips. There’s a tin pitcher on your bedside table, and the water is blessedly cold. You wonder how often Billy has freshened it, waiting for you to need it. “Here,” he’s saying, his arm around your shoulders. “Is that better?”

You nod, and then you tug on the collar of his shirt with your good hand, wanting him to lay down with you. It’s only then you notice that you only have one good hand. The other, along with your right arm, is wrapped up in bandages, a splint forcing the arm into an L-shape that’s bound to your chest with a sling.  Billy understands what you want before you can ask again, and he carefully shifts his weight onto the mattress beside you, his arm still wrapped around you.

Your body aches anew from the simple movement just required to sit up, and you sag against Billy’s chest, a little whimper catching in your teeth even as you try to prevent its escape by clenching your jaw. Billy’s forehead creases. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

“I’m—” You shake your head. “I’m okay. I’m just…sore.” 

It’s putting it mildly, but you don’t want to stress him out any worse than you clearly already have. He sighs, burying his face against your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The doctor will be back in the morning,” he says. “I’ll ask him if there’s anything stronger for your pain, okay?”

You nod, though now that you’ve settled in his arms, you feel better. Part of it is the warmth of his body, soothing away the ache, but more than that is the comfort of Billy himself: the familiar scent of his skin — the strength of his embrace, even as you can tell he’s holding you gently, carefully — the gentle carding of his fingers through your hair, an instinctive bid to comfort you. 

The two of you lay there in silence for a few moments, and you know (or, at least, you hope) that it’s doing Billy as much good as it is you, to be nestled in bed together after what happened. Which — you frown a little as your memory falters, and you realize you can’t quite recall what actually did happen. 

“Billy?”

You feel him jerk underneath your cheek, and you realize with a start that he’d probably dozed off in the cradle of silence. “What?” he says, and your guilt deepens at how groggy he sounds, and at once, how worried. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” you say, reaching up with your good arm to touch his cheek. “I just…I don’t really remember what happened.”

Billy softens at your touch, closing his eyes for a second. Your heart sinks. 

“Billy, when was the last time you slept?” 

He shakes his head. “I dunno, it doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’ve been takin’ care of you. You broke your arm, y’know, when you…when you fell. That’s what happened, you fell off your horse. I…”

You wait, pressing your lips together. You start rubbing the heel of your hand in soothing circles over his chest, where his heartbeat is pressing a rapid drumbeat against the thin cotton of his shirt. 

“I was wonderin’ where you were, and I was gettin’ worried, especially with the rain bein’ so bad, so I…I went out and tried to follow the path I thought you might have used. I heard your horse first, makin’ the most godawful racket…I followed the noise, and she was panickin’, stuck in the mud, and then I saw…” 

He takes a deep breath. “I saw you, layin’ there, and you looked so…you looked like a broken doll, and you weren’t movin’, and I thought…”

You wait again. 

“Anyway, I—” He clears his throat. “I got you on my horse, and I was able to get your horse out of the muck, and I brought…I brought you home. Your arm is broken, and you’ve got bumps and bruises just about everywhere.”

“Yeah, I know,” you mutter, despite yourself, but you’re rewarded with Billy’s dry little chuckle. 

“They were…they were most worried about your head,” he says. “The doctors say you were lucky the rain softened up the ground so much, but still…”

“How long have I been asleep?”

He pushes a ragged sigh out of the depths of his chest. “A few days.”

You can feel every bit of his worry in the tension radiating through the sinews of his body, and you nestle closer to him, despite the jostle of discomfort. “Well, now you’ll just have to wait on me hand and foot until I’m all better,” you tease. “Pretty soon you’ll get sick of me.”

He chuckles again, and this time it sounds more like him. “I can’t imagine gettin’ sick of takin’ care’a you, honey.”

Not that you really doubted otherwise, but he’s true to his word. 

The doctor has decreed that you need to stay in bed for the next two weeks, and Billy is determined that you won’t set so much as a toe on the floorboards in that time. Every meal is brought to you in bed, he  drags the big metal bathtub into your room, and when you beg him for some sunshine, he carries you out to the porch and sets you in a rocking chair, nestled in blankets. 

“Mmm,” you sigh, your eyes drifting shut as Billy pulls a brush through your hair, using long, languid strokes from your scalp to the ends of your hair. “That feels so good.” 

Billy gives a low, soft laugh. “Yeah?” he says, and you hear a smile in his voice. “I’m glad, baby. You want it done up in a braid?”

You laugh, too. “Billy, you don’t have to…”

“I want to,” he insists. “I know you like to sleep with your hair plaited up. Let me.” 

With your arm still bound up, it’s not like you can really do it yourself, and in any case, you don’t have the heart to refuse Billy — especially not when you turn your head to look at him, and he’s giving you that patented pleading look. “Yes, please,” you relent, and at once his pout melts into another smile.

You close your eyes at the pleasant tugging sensation to your scalp, a soft sigh leaving your lips. “Thank you,” you say, and you can almost sense him shaking his head. 

“You don’t have to thank me, honey,” he says. “I love takin’ care of you. And I’m just…I’m glad you’re okay.” 

He ties off your braid with a length of ribbon, giving the knot a gentle tug to make sure it’s in place. You turn in his arms, the only unwieldy thing now being your broken arm. Thanks to Billy’s dedicated care, your aches and pains have all faded away, including the pain in your head. “I am okay,” you remind him. “You’ve been taking such good care of me, Billy. It means so much to me.”

Billy kisses your forehead. “You mean so much to me,” he says. “You’re my girl. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.” 

You purse your lips thoughtfully, and he raises an eyebrow. “What?” he asks. 

Looking up at him from underneath your eyelashes, you wheedle, “Do you think you could let me make dinner tonight? I wanna take care of you for once.”

You can tell he’s actually thinking about it, wondering if you’ve regained enough of your strength. But it’s equally clear he’s going to relent when his shoulders soften. 

“Alright,” he says finally, and you beam. 

“Thank you.” 

Although you do manage to make dinner for the two of you, Billy insists on setting the table — which actually ends up being a blanket outside, under a phalanx of stars. “So I have a deal for you,” he says, after you’ve eaten. He has your head in his lap, and your good hand is combing gently through his hair. 

“What is it?”

He smiles, looking up at you. “I take care of you,” he says. “And you take care of me. Alright?”

You lean down toward him, giggling when he props himself up on an elbow to meet your lips.

“Alright.” 

[lesbian-space-fish]

Finally finished my dracula barbie! (based on the 2011 japanese production of dracula the musical with Yoka Wao as dracula). I made all her clothes and accessories, styled her hair, and did her makeup 🖤🕯🗡

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Only in a Sitcom

Fandom: WandaVision Pairing: Darcy Lewis/Jimmy Woo Rating: T

Summary: Darcy has no idea what the hell’s going on with this WandaVision thing, but neither does Jimmy. It’s kinda fun to have somebody to binge-watch alternate reality TV with.

read ch. 1 one / 2 two / 3 three / 4 four / 5 five 6 six / 7 seven / 8 eight / 9 nine / 10 ten 11 eleven / 12 twelve / 13 thirteen / 14 fourteen 15 fifteen / 16 sixteen / 17 seventeen / 18 eighteen

this fic is now complete!

Darcy, Jimmy, and Monica have been working their way across Westview in as straight a line as possible, knocking on every door in every cute little cul-de-sac in their path. It was Jimmy who asserted they should never put their backs to a dangerous situation, but Monica who overruled that statement, pointing out that they were more likely to stay focused if they didn’t keep staring at the fight in the sky.

Darcy thinks they were both right. There’s a tingle rippling up and down the back of her neck, like she gets when she’s up in the middle of the night, spooked by shadows her anxious, overtired mind is too eager to turn into monsters, but the heebie-jeebies give her the energy to work quickly. She takes on an entire crescent on her own, readying people for a departure she’s certain they’ve been longing for. As she’s coming out the crescent’s other end, she realizes the Hex is getting brighter; the red storm clouds are being sucked back into themselves to leave a thin daylight.

Standing at the corner, she watches Jimmy and Monica emerge from the street opposite. Darcy jogs over, wincing. Wanda could’ve put orthotics in these Escape Artist boots. They’re blistering her feet.

“This has to be a good sign, right?” she asks, motioning to the calm skies.

“Look,” Monica instructs. She jerks her chin and Darcy and Jimmy follow her line of sight to see Wanda, Vision, and the twins coming up the main road.

Darcy gasps.

Wanda’s gone from bumming-around-the-house sweats to battle-ready chic. With her armour-like bodice, gloves that leave those magic fingers free, and an usually-shaped tiara framing her forehead, she’s both intimidating and otherworldly. But she’s smiling. Darcy would call it a sad smile and it hurts her heart to see it, even though she doesn’t understand.

As Wanda passes them with her hand held fast in Vision’s, she turns her head to nod at Monica. It’s in her eyes too, the same thing that’s in her smile. Something tired but present. Gone are the comedically darting glances of her persona as the bumbling new girl in town and the frazzled energy of a mom trying to corral a couple of superkids. It looks like she’s finally letting go of the illusion/delusion.

“Can we do anything for her?” Jimmy asks as the family continues on down the middle of the street.

“No,” Monica says. “The rest is for Wanda to do on her own.”

“We might as well head back towards the center of town,” Darcy says. “We don’t need to waste time at the edges. They’ll be the first to wake up.”

She points to where the Hex is shimmering on the horizon. The seconds pass and the shimmer looks messier, a weave of overlapping wires fritzing with energy. The edge is coming closer, but unlike when Wanda pushed the boundary farther, closing it around Darcy and her S.W.O.R.D. nemeses, this isn’t menacing. Wanda’s powers are no longer looking to consume more territory, they’re contracting. Faster than the incoming wave of the walls, the Hex goes dark. The red glow is intensely magical in the sudden night.

The three of them fan out, hitting the houses in their new route, and make their way back to the town square. They’ve been telling everyone to remain in their homes until they receive further instructions to evacuate, but Darcy spots a figure on the sidewalk by the department story. It’s Agnes, except… not as they saw her lately. No wild hair or billowing, layered outfit. No levitation. Darcy’s wary in the face of the woman who appears so much like her former self, the one supposedly under Wanda’s control. This Agnes has a damn Peter Pan collar poking out of her sweater! She couldn’t look much less threatening.

“What do you think?” she asks Monica when she joins her.

“I don’t know.” Monica peers across the street at Agnes in the dark and when Agnes notices, she flashes a wide smile.

“Well, maybe we should— Hey, no, wait!”

But the Captain strides across to meet Agnes. Darcy almost follows in her idol’s wake, but she quickly remembers that Monica has powers to protect herself that far exceed the right hook Darcy used to drop Agent Handcuffs. Whatever Agnes’s deal is, Darcy knows she’s an entirely different kind of beast from an asshole S.W.O.R.D. agent.

“What’s going on there?” Jimmy wonders, coming up beside her.

Thanks to the stress of trying to speak to as many citizens as possible in a short amount of time, including looking dozens of people still under mind control in the eye and aching for their lack of agency, the fear of and for Wanda as she witnessed that clash in the sky, and, really, the car crash that’s still pretty recent, Darcy reacts to her boyfriend’s presence by wrapping her arms around him tightly. With his tie pressed to her cheek, she feels him hug her back.

“I don’t know,” she says, carrying on the conversation without pulling away an inch, “but Monica’s finding out.”

“Agnes looks like an average Westviewer again. It’s disconcerting.”

“She must’ve been faking right up until she went head-to-head with Wanda.”

“And now she’s one of them for real.”

“Seems like,” Darcy agrees.

When Monica returns to confirm Agnes’s newly mind-controlled status, Darcy peels herself most of the way away from Jimmy, leaving her arm around his back, beneath his FBI jacket. He rests his arm around her shoulders.

“I don’t know what we do with her,” Monica says, hands on her hips. “We can’t undo what Wanda did, but do we leave Agnes here in Westview, trusting that she isn’t able to hurt anyone? Do we bring her in?”

“If it’s beyond our power to help her, maybe we just leave her here,” Jimmy suggests. “Wanda knows where she is, so we let Agnes stay in a place she can be found when or if Wanda decides to release her.”

“It’s tricky,” Darcy says slowly. “Agnes is capable of doing so much damage, and I’m sure she’s going to get good and angry while Wanda has her trapped inside herself. You and I know how that feels,” she says to Monica. “But that Agnes is secure—as far as we know—inside Sitcom Agnes, like little Agnes nesting dolls. I don’t know if this is the kind of punishment she deserves for pushing Wanda to the brink, but I do know it’s not going to be pretty if that inner Agnes is unleashed with nobody around to mitigate the consequences.”

“Sentient Weapon Observation and Response Division,” Monica says softly.

“Hmm?”

“S.W.O.R.D. That’s what we’re supposed to stand for. I think, without Tyler Hayward around, it’s high time S.W.O.R.D. went back to its roots of trying to understand exceptional people, circumstances, and technology instead of just attacking them.”

“Sounds as though you might have a plan, Captain,” Jimmy says. Darcy glances at his face and catches his small, knowing smile.

Monica beams back.

“The former Director may have kicked me off the base, but I’m still S.W.O.R.D. and I still believe in my mother’s original goals for the organization.”

“Hey, it’s your legacy,” Darcy says. “You have my vote for Director.”

“You want to put Agnes under S.W.O.R.D. observation?” Jimmy asks.

“Not just Agnes. Not if Wanda’s willing to listen.”

With the sky rapidly lightening, Monica roughs out a plan that involves a partnership between S.W.O.R.D. and Wanda Maximoff. A partnership because any other dynamic would surely fail. After what they all witnessed today, it’s obvious that someone as powerful as Wanda can’t be held against her will. In exchange for Wanda making reparations to the people and town of Westview (not the least of which will be repairing all physical damage, which Monica knows Wanda’s capable of, since there’s no longer a Monica-sized hole in her living room wall) and an agreement to be held in the custody of S.W.O.R.D., under the leadership of Director Monica Rambeau, Monica thinks she has plenty to offer Wanda.

“You think she’ll do that deal?” Jimmy asks.

“That’s my question too,” Darcy says. “I mean, without the deal, Wanda can go where she pleases, right?”

“But she’ll be alone,” Monica counters. “We know what her loved ones mean to her. That’s what all this has been about—Wanda doing whatever it takes in order to go through life less alone.”

“What can you give her?”

“Vision,” Jimmy says abruptly. “The other one, the one who left. You think he’ll be back.”

“I think he’ll want answers,” Monica agrees. “Whatever Hayward did to him, he did at S.W.O.R.D. and I’m betting that Wanda will see that’s her best chance to reunite with Vision.”

“Vision will come back,” Darcy says, putting it together, “and Wanda will be there waiting.”

“And in the meantime, we use her expertise as we continue our work in a… more transparent vein. Give her access, keep her busy.”

“Keep her happy,” Jimmy cuts in. Monica nods her acknowledgement.

“Yes. Show her what it’s like to help people again. What better way to remind her there’s more to the world than her artificial paradise than to have her consult on the work we’re doing in space?”

“If you need somebody to sell Wanda on the space angle, I’m your girl,” Darcy volunteers.

“I’ve already had some ideas about that,” Monica promises with a smile.

Her eyes focus beyond Darcy and Jimmy and they turn to see what she’s looking at. Black hood drawn up over her head, Wanda’s walking back into the downtown. Alone. Darcy hopes that the fact that she’s black-hatted doesn’t mean she’s already decided against working to redeem herself to rejoin the good guys.

“You better stay in touch too,” Monica tells Jimmy, shifting as she prepares to intercept Wanda.

“If you reach out to Darcy, I’m sure I won’t be far,” he says. Darcy’s heart performs quick, happy thumps.

With that, Monica walks purposely towards Wanda. Darcy watches her cautious body language and Wanda’s tension in response to being accosted, but there isn’t any visible escalation. When FBI vehicles and the team Darcy assumes belongs to Major Goodner roll up the street, Wanda doesn’t flee. Darcy looks to Jimmy.

“You better go take charge,” she suggests.

He gives her a bashful smile.

“I will in a minute. The evacuation should run like clockwork after all the prep we did. With the Hex removed, everyone’s free.”

“They’re free, I’m free…”

“Are you free Saturday?” The smile’s a little slyer now.

“After all this, I don’t even know what day of the week it is,” Darcy admits, “but yes.”

He laughs.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, twisting to face him as his hand moves from her shoulder to her waist. “Quiet night in watching TV?”

“You know, I think I need a break from TV for a while. How about a movie?”

Darcy grins.

“You buy the tickets, I’ll buy the snacks?”

“Deal,” Jimmy says, and smiles against her mouth when he ducks his head to kiss her.

[mizgnomer]

Excerpts from the SyFy Wire & Film School Rejects interviews with Claire Anderson, the Emmy-nominated costume designer for Good Omens:

[ Film School Rejects - by Ciara Wardlow]  “I worked through it with gut reaction images. So, two guys. Two guys, kind of close, nearly in love, if you like,” she said. “I just went in and we had a really big, very open conversation about how you related to these people in the script and how we would make them real and plausible, but give them a fantasy element. Give them something otherworldly.”

While Anderson says that she ultimately took this approach with more or less all of the characters, mixing period and modern elements to give characters somewhat timeless, yet also somewhat fantastical “out of time” looks, in the early discussion stages it was all about Aziraphale and Crowley. For one thing, Sheen and Tennant were already cast, which was a major help in determining their looks. It took some time to settle on the duo’s main, contemporary looks, but once these were locked in they played a significant role in determining everything else they wore.

[...] Aziraphale maintains a look with significant nods to the late Victorian era. Crowley too, although he manages to put an edgier twist on things than his angelic contemporary. “We re-appropriate bits of period stuff so that it echoes. [Aziraphale and Crowley] echo one another in their visual identity with pieces from their past—where they’ve touched each other in the past perhaps, or bumped into each other.” Regarding how Crowley manages to keep more of a modern, cool vibe, Anderson gives David Tennant’s performance the lion’s share of the credit. “He’s a very nice man, but he’s very sexy. He brought all of that swagger, that rock star, snake-hipped sexiness, and we built on that.”

[ SyFy Wire - by Jennifer Vineyard] GARDEN OF EDEN, 4004 B.C. -  Anderson looked at everything from Pre-Raphaelite paintings to Al Pacino’s hippie clothes in Serpico to determine just the right flow for Aziraphale’s rough-hewn robe, which has gold embroidery on the shoulders and side. Aziraphale is also wearing a golden ring, which later becomes a signet ring stamped with wings in the Victorian era.

NOAH'S ARK, MESOPOTAMIA, 3004 B.C. - “As aged as I am, I wasn’t there,” Anderson says, laughing. “And there wasn’t any painting or documentation from this era. But what we do know is that tunics remained pretty simple, and the earlier shape would have served them well for many years.” Aziraphale’s robe becomes more streamlined, and he wears gold beads at the neck.

THE CRUCIFIXION, GOLGOTHA, 33 - By this time, both Aziraphale and Crawley — now Crowley — are wearing turbans and head wraps, which Anderson attributes to “a bit of vanity.” Plus the wrap helps Crowley conceal his snake-like eyes (it’s too soon for glasses). Aziraphale dons a soft leather coat over his tunic, while Crowley wears female attire of the region — an abaya.

ROME, 41 -  Switching from tunics to togas was difficult, since togas contain 6 to 12 meters of fabric, which is a lot to carry around on camera. Anderson reduced the size by cutting the togas to fit for the character’s movements, and she gave each actor a thematic decorative pin to hold their togas together — Crowley a serpent and staff, Aziraphale a pair of wings (both courtesy of George Easton at Danegeld Historic Jewellery). Although history might argue that it’s too soon for sunglasses, Crowley starts to shield his eyes with a very small, eye-shaped lens. “It’s suggestive, rather than historically accurate,” Anderson says. And as a sign that Crowley is adapting to the humans around him, he also wears a silver laurel wreath.

ARTHURIAN ENGLAND, THE KINGDOM OF WESSEX, 537 - Anderson sent character descriptions and visuals for Aziraphale and Crowley to armor specialist FBFX, which sent a van to London full of pieces that could work for angelic and demonic armor. Instead of focusing on historical accuracy, Anderson looked for shapes and fit that suggested an ethereal — or snakelike — quality, once the pieces had been painted black or silver. For Crowley, she found a helmet that had a smaller face that could suggest a snakehead, and for Aziraphale, shoulder pieces that were slightly wing-like. To add to the wing effect, Anderson added a white fur caplet to Aziraphale’s armor. “It was terribly grand, but not very practical,” she says. “And the poor guys, it was murderously uncomfortable to stand around in that armor.”

GLOBE THEATRE, LONDON, 1601 - Crowley and Aziraphale catch an early version of Hamlet, looking more period-appropriate than ever thanks to the Globe’s vast archive of costumes. Aziraphale’s wardrobe, which includes a neck ruff edged with gold thread, has a metallic look with a hint of iridescent blue, which opens up his color palette. Crowley, meanwhile, wears a cleaner neckline and leather on his doublet, as well as fabrics that provide sheen and luster to suggest his snaky origins.

REVOLUTIONARY FRANCE, PARIS, 1793 - This is not a period to be dressed like an aristocrat, but Aziraphale couldn’t resist a lace collar, gold brocade and fitted jacket — which explains why he’s stuck in a prison cell (at least until Crowley intervenes). Crowley, more mindful of what revolutionaries would wear, dons a dark red jacket that’s almost as dark as his usual black. When Aziraphale miracle-changes his clothes, he wears the red cap of liberty. “It’s a soft beret that falls somewhere between a modern French beret and a pirate headdress,” Anderson notes.

ST. JAMES' PARK, LONDON, 1862 - This is the time period with which Aziraphale gets most comfortable, fashion-wise, and settles into a Victorian look with tartan flair. Anderson also bestowed some heavenly nods to his angelic nature — a feathery velvet top hat, a stopwatch with angel’s wings on the chain, and the signet ring. Crowley, meanwhile, wears a pair of long, elegantly cut trousers that we will see again in the 1960s. “The trousers repeat, which is basically what fashion does anyway,” Anderson says. “And it’s what the story does. There are notes backward and forwards.”

THE BLITZ, LONDON, 1941 - Aziraphale’s tartan necktie becomes a bow tie, and his penchant for wide lapels, a nod to his wings, continues, this time with a spear-point collar. Crowley, who comes to save Aziraphale once again, is dressed more formally, in a full double-breasted wool suit that must have been hard for David Tennant to wear in the South African heat. “The rest of the crew were in flip-flops and T-shirts, and David was in the suit, hat, and those big boots,” Anderson says, recalling the shoot.  “He had to be very physically active in that scene, and yet David didn’t complain about the heat or anything. He’s amazing.”

SOHO, LONDON, 1967 - Crowley, as noted, continues to wear his Victorian trousers, which are right up to date, and which he pairs with a black paisley velvet jacket with contrasting lapels. His sunglasses now have more of a John Lennon vibe. Aziraphale, perhaps inadvertently, is also looking stylish with his Victorian topcoat, spear-point collar, and cravat (modified from his scarf in Victorian England). “You can’t avoid being affected by changing trends,” Anderson says. “However bookish you are, you still notice other people. And you would have had Rolling Stones and Beatles fans wearing that kind of thing. That was our argument for Aziraphale wearing his Victorian topcoat all the way through, and Michael Sheen loved it. He said it inspired him. And the cravat rang in the changes and helped us with the passage of time, rather than always having him wear a bow tie.

[whalesfallmoved]

soft descent

Wedding vows for the dead. Neither of you ever had a chance. 

chargestep. rated m. twisted memories and revenge and nightmares of all kinds and ricardo ortega, starring as sidestep’s poorly repressed self-doubt, in a manner of speaking. 

or, sidestep sees nothing clearly, and her head has never been a pleasant place to be.

warnings: implications of suicide, slight body horror, violence, injury. hurt, without comfort, because of course. 

ao3 link.

——

“Oof, that’s going to leave a mark.”

You’re standing next to the window in the dark the sun blistering overhead and the glass shattered underfoot. He’s looking down. You’re looking at him. It’s always been like that. When you look down you’ll see— no. You’re not going to look down. You’re going to look at him.

“It didn’t feel great.”

He smiles and it’s broken, one hand on the windowsill, one hand on his gut where Catastrofiend’s goodbye kiss drips slowly, wetly, a splash of violence against the cobalt blue skinsuit, Ranger-proud. You want to say you should get that looked at but it wouldn’t do any good, he’s already gotten blood all over the carpet. 

Soft laugh and when he licks his lips you can see a hint of red, waiting to get coughed up, waiting to get expelled, the body killing itself to save itself—you remember the way it stuck between your fingers, the delirium—beg, the monster-thing demanded, and he laughed then too.

You look down at your hands. The way they curl up, clinging to air.

Are you bleeding? You must be. 

“Yeah, I know all about that.” 

“No,” you shake your head and your spine pops, “you don’t.”

“What, are we comparing jumps now?” 

“Are we?” wouldn’t that be something. He never talked about this before, why start now? Trying to get you to forgive him? You won’t.

“It was a longer drop.”

“And there were people there to help you.”

“Depends on your definition of help.” Head jerk to the side, beckoning you to look, look down, look at them, look at you. “Technically, they helped you too.”

Bite down, taste blood and bile. Have you started choking yet down there? You remember the way it sluiced up your throat, the way you could feel the crack and splinter of your ribcage. His brows furrow a little and maybe he feels bad. You hope so. You hope it’s twisting him up inside. 

“Wish they’d helped me to the morgue.”

Exhale, ragged and wet and torn. 

“Yeah, those contracts are a bitch, huh? Nothing like a blood debt.”

“What, you want me to feel bad for you?” You taunt, vision hazy bones aching— pulse in your ribs, they must have picked you up by now, isn’t that nice. He’s still looking down, waiting for something to happen. “Poor Ricardo. The US government branded on his ass till the day he dies. Join the fucking club.”

“Hey—” he hisses, flashing his eyes to you finally, “you could pretend to sympathize.”

“I’m so sorry you have posters and trading cards and get invited to award ceremonies and—”

“Oh, I knew I have trading cards, but how did you know I have trading cards,” a wink, sly, charming and wrong, like a bone splitting the skin. “Collecting them, aren’t you?”

“You wish.”

You want to throw up. His neck is bruised. 

He sighs, knocks his fist against the window. You both flinch. “They’re gonna keep you going till you’ve got nothing left to give, you know.”

And this time it’s your turn to laugh, bitter and cruel and serrated. You want to twist the knife in his gut you want to rake your nails down his skin, it’s the least- it’s the least you can do, god you are so angry you shake, but you’ve always been good at staying still. Hold your breath, don’t scream, fuck that hurts, and now he’s looking at you full on. “I’m already out. No thanks to you.”

Maybe he sees the way your hands are starting to twitch. The smile softens and you want to kiss-bite-punch it bruise blue to match his stupid fucking suit. 

“Are you?”

Are.

You?

I am.

Am I?

A snake in your throat curling up ready to snap bite. Your lips twist, scene hazy at the edges, and when you get your hands around his neck (oh those are the bruises, they look like your hands) you’ll both be sorry—“fuck off.”

Magic words.

Ortega shrugs, pushes the window open like it doesn’t matter, like it didn’t matter, like he can just do that; he always had to make it about himself, can’t even leave you your death, can’t even leave you your place at the window. 

You want to shove him away from it.

You want to shove him through it. 

“If you insist.”

Close your eyes.

One.

Two.

Three.

—

Dr. Mortum does not smile, not until Angel flashes her a wicked grin and a bag of cash and a promise of more where that came from if— if— if—

She flips through the schematics, eyes brightening—the loose design, the necessities, the ideas—oh, you are going to do such great things together. 

“It can be done, I assure you.”

“Excellent. My employer wants nothing but the best.”

— 

The sound of waves takes the edge off the thump of a corpse hitting the ground, but you aren’t ready for it—you aren’t ready for the scent of rotting meat, rancid and cloying under the Los Diablos sun.

You open your eyes and when you look down, a dead girl is mangled, half gone. You think— she almost looks like your target. 

Huh.

“That’s a bad idea, you know.”

Voice soft prying you know it and you groan, twist, turn, the sand uneven and blood-splattered. 

He’s got that loose hold, hip jutted on a rock arms crossed, too casual for the teething gore surrounding them. Suit torn and eaten at, blood drip-drip-dripping down his arm where the skin is all gone, you keep waiting for them to crawl through the sand and eat you both alive. Maybe you won’t save him this time. 

“Which one?” You ask, and when you look down you’re in the old suit, fitted like an infected wound. You yank at the collar, touch your cheek, your face— you’d covered your face here, hadn’t you? Yes. 

He smiles. Shakes his head. 

He hadn’t let them touch you, even when you collapsed, even when they wanted to help. 

Not that it matters. None of it matters anymore.

“So you do care about my opinion?” 

“No,” you murmur, choking down a gag—dead meat, food for the nanovores, food for the flies, “but that’s never stopped you before.”

“True,” he winks, running through the motions; what you remember, what you want to forget. Oh god you want to forget. You want to peel back this body and dig into the marrow and pull, pull, pull until the memories unravel in streams of violent orange. 

He pushes off the rock, kicks his long legs out and walks too easily for a man that almost got eaten alive five minutes ago. “Walk with me?” He asks the way you don’t ask, you order, and throws his wounded arm over your shoulder, locking you hip to hip, no way out. 

You sink under the weight, slotted to his side like a mismatched puzzle piece. Nothing about you fits, disjointed, dislocated. You’ve been shaped wrong for a long time now. They didn’t put all the parts back right. A doll unstitched and gutted for parts, but they didn’t— did they recycle you? Just medical waste and scars.

“You take me to the nicest places,” you say because it’s the only thing you can say when the sky looks like God wrapped his big meaty fist around it so tightly till it swelled and pinkened. 

Black clouds on the skyline. Here they come. Don’t they know how strong you are now? How many webs you can weave? You crack your knuckles and almost smile.

Then you see: Tía Elena crosses herself in the background. She shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe. Why haven’t they evacuated all the civilians?

“Well, you never let me take you anywhere else,” he huffs, ignoring his mother as they walk on by, and that’s not— that’s not right? 

It— no. You don’t want to be here. You can’t do that to him, not even now. 

— 

Fuck that’s good you’re invincible. The reckoning day is coming and when it does you’ll watch out for this one, you’ll remember her, how it felt to sit in her skin and move under it, but she can’t stop you. None of them can stop you now.

You smile and it’s sharp and cruel and silver. You almost almost almost want him to show up but the victory wouldn’t be quite as sweet, and you don’t really want to take a lightning bolt to the chest. Even if it wouldn’t slow you down, it’d still fucking hurt. 

But it doesn’t matter. When you drive your foot into the golden boy’s chest you can feel his ribs crack a little bit and that’s even better. You’ll be riding the high of that for weeks after this. He’s a kicked puppy and you want— you want to kick him again, but there’s no time for that, no time for anything. 

You wonder if Steel recognizes the grin right before you drop her like a body bag.

—

Gasp—jump spin dodge—near miss, fuck—Ortega laughed at the start but he’s not laughing anymore, smoke on the air, electricity crackling over his skin. 

Fire off at its head one two, one miss, one hit. Head jerks, twists.

The thing-beast groans— don’t look at me i’m not here don’t look— “yOu...” guttural ugly it sees you, it sees you.

Run run run don’t touch me— “Noa!” He shouts and you stop drop and roll just in time for a blade to swing down, headsman’s axe, grazing the suit but not quite touching. Space where your body was empty, and it howls rage-snap.

“Mother— fucker!”

This. This you remember.

You remember the way its mind shucked the skin off your bones, all slick-blood drip drip drip. Gory, wrong, wound over wire, dirty fingernails scraping on the myelin, eating eating down down down— you remember: if you let it in it’ll kill you, cut your throat on its twisty edge thoughts as quick as a knife in hand. 

You remember the images in your head— its plans, its ideas, the ways it was going to ply and split him down the middle like a rotten fruit. You couldn’t look at him for weeks. Almost. He was almost.

Almost.

Blink and the scene changes, and backup’s arrived, and you’re holding onto him, your mind pressed up against ITS just enough to make you both disappear. You threw up again and again afterward, but you still couldn’t forget, oil-slick. 

not here we’re not here don’tlookatus

Then: you covered the wound with your own hands. 

Now: you tilt your head to the side, pet his hair. It still doesn’t hurt as bad as the final impact, hitting the ground, or what came next. Suck it up. 

“I told you,” he slurs, eyes half-mast, must be hazy from the blood loss. The human body can only take so much, even with the cutting edge mods. “I know all about that.”

“You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything at all.”

Hand over wound, you push down and he groans. You might as well save him again. You still haven’t had that showdown, and you’re gunning for a win. A dozen to one then, but you’ve gotten better, faster, smarter, your body catching up with your thoughts, and he doesn’t think at all. Doesn’t even matter if he did, you wouldn’t be able to hear it. 

“C’mon, Noa,” that’s not your name, that’s the name he gave you—your name is a mouthful, he’d grinned and you’d rolled your eyes and flushed, but now it sticks like a stove burn—numbers and names and Noa, Noa, no one else has ever gotten close enough to name you— fuck you. “Throw me a bone here.”

“No.”

“Fine.” he gasps, chokes, but the words still spill loose, “but you can’t hate me for what you didn’t tell me.” He says, sounding so fucking reasonable while he’s bleeding out on your lap, and now you definitely have to save him, now you definitely have to make sure he lives, just so you can level him for that alone. Just wait, a feeling builds up in your chest, his day is coming and it’s coming fast.

“Don’t tell me what I can’t hate you for.” You want to snarl, a fighting dog, a dog fit for the ring, but it comes out weak, threadbare, and you hate the way your hands shake, the way your throat hardens up and each word is estranged from your mouth.

“At least give me a chance to prove you wrong.”

“Why?” Is that your voice? Small and weak, a child learning to make a fist, thumb tucked in. But you were never a child. You were never small.

“You know me,” he punches out a laugh and it breaks like a sob, “I love a challenge.”

“This isn’t a challenge, Ricardo. There’s just nothing left.”

—

He.

“November?”

He is.

“I thought you were dead—”

Older. Different. That feels wrong, wrong. He should be the same he can’t have changed that much. Fuck that moustache is ridiculous. He looks so heavy with grief, or is that just you, reflected back? A labyrinth of static. 

It’s all blurry and too much, not enough, but maybe— for a moment— for a moment everything shatters, fingers under a suture, and maybe— it’s just a flash of his eyes, real and in front of you and not blurred by a late night show or security footage fight you only watched to make sure he still leads with his left sucker punch with his right and maybe— 

“Are you still a telepath?”

You say yes and feel like a fool and you tell him a dash of the truth and you feel like a wound and you can’t hate me for what you didn’t tell me.

Your hands are shaking. You make a fist. 

He wants— he wants something.

A raw crack down your spine and you smile and it feels wrong. Maybe it looks wrong. He won’t stop watching you like you’ll disappear if he blinks more than once, if he looks away, and maybe you will. Maybe you’re just ash and graveyard dirt held together with sutures and wire. 

You want to crawl through the floor to someplace small and dark and cold where no one will ever find you again.

You tell him just enough, just enough to keep on hating him. 

It’ll be easier that way.

—

Rewind.

“That’s a bad idea, you know.” He cackles as you thrust out a punch—miss—and dodge his return, feet sliding on the mat. You can’t believe you let him talk you into this, a friendly spar on Ranger soil.

“Which one?” Thrust dodge lock your ankle around his own, slipping up letting you get close like that, rookie mistake— twist of your hip— throw! and the satisfying slap of skin on the mat, his skin, his body hitting the ground, but he holds hard and pulls you down with him (if you go i go) and you land— oof! breathless and grinning and on top, finally, finally.

Fingers lock and you shift, thighs on either side, pin him down, his emitters humming biting pinching but you got him, and you aren’t letting go. A shiver skip-dances down your spine, static-charged.

“I win,” you growl, a winner’s grin biting into your cheeks, free and loose (where’s your mask?)

He squeezes your hand, sends a low-grade jolt up your palms sharp, just to see what you’ll do, jellyfish stings, and you squeeze back harder, lean down till you can feel his breath hot on your lips. You never got this close before, he’s so solid beneath you.

Ricardo, grinning back, a halo of black curls fanned out, sticking to his brow all slick with sweat, “what is that, a dozen to one?”

“Shut up,” he can’t take this from you, not yet, “don’t be a sore loser.”

“Actually, I’m enjoying myself quite a bit right now. I should let you win more often.”

“Fuck you,” but it tears out a laugh far too sweet for your mouth. You feel segmented and gentle, like a scorpion smashed on a rock left out to rot in the sun. Maybe he’ll take you home, run his fingers through your matted hair and not mind the stingers or the venom. You weren’t made for a laughter light like this, and if there was ever a time you could be it’s long gone now, but you still want him to touch you, a want like a scar healed wrong.

“Buy me dinner first— ah!” You let go just to crack your palm against the top of his head, anything to wipe that smug edge off, and— “okay, fine, I’ll buy dinner,” but this time when your hand comes down he catches it, brings it to his lips, soft on your palm— oh god, oh god it hurts. 

“And then what?” You dare, you gasp, you’ve never been that bold—couldn’t afford boldness, always a coward at heart and that’s how he always won, but for a moment you let your fingers curl along his cheekbone. His eyes slide closed, kissing still—dart of tongue, tracing the line of your palm. How long is my life? How many children will I have? What do the cracks in the skin say? Maybe his mouth can divine something human in the shape of your hand, even if the lines there aren’t really yours, just a thing they gave you to play pretend.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, still not giving you his gaze, a pained crush to his brow, “you did ask me to take you somewhere nice.”

“Did I?”

“Don’t you remember?” 

“Liar. I never asked you to do anything.”

He smiles right on your skin, like a knife sliding under your gut—girl/deer, splayed out on the slaughterhouse floor of his kindness. The world hazes at the edges, curling up set aflame. 

Somewhere nice. Too bad it can’t last. 

Finally. Finally he looks at you. Sees you. How long has it been since someone hasn’t stared through?

“No, you didn’t. I wish you would have.”

—

Choking hard gasp and the phone screams or maybe you do. Your teeth throb.

The room is heavy dark save for the corners of curtained sunlight peeking through, the air scented thickly of cheap candles and candy wrappers. The sheets are sweat-slick and you can smell your own skin, the rawness of sleep on it. Musky. Unsterilized. 

The fabric sticks and itches. Fingers under the hem, you toss the sweater aside, hear it thump damply against a wall.

Breathe. Hand to chest and yes, that’s your heart, rocking in your rib cage, slowing down. You breathe with in—ten—tion. 

One. 

Two. 

Three.

Okay, you’re okay. You can do this. You can still do this.

—

“I don’t want to do this here.”

He holds out a plate of food, tilts his head to the side, the corners of his mouth twitching up. Pushes the plate into your hands, and you take it—just hold out something to someone and nine times out of ten they’ll take it without thinking, asking only after they’ve agreed to carry the burden.  

Silly you, you never had a choice. 

His apartment is soft and safe around the edges, and your heart gets sticky in your chest. You think maybe those are your books on his shelf, the ones you lost after—

“What’s wrong with here?” He shrugs, brushing past toward the table, beckoning you to follow with a grin and a nudge.

“I like it here.” You answer honestly, for once, and he beams, a light bright enough to burn.

“I know.”

“So why are you ruining it?”

“Ruining it?” Hurt. Smile gone.

“Take me somewhere else. Anywhere else.” Somewhere cruel and sharp as a scalpel to the throat. Psychopather or Overlord or the dilapidated construction ruin you jumped out of at the second story and broke your wrist because you made a deal— you agreed to a dare— race you to the bottom down the stairs— if you lose you have to answer my questions— and god, you didn’t want to answer anything, anything at all, and he’d screamed your name, cursed you out, told you don’t be an idiot what if you broke your neck and flinched when you snapped I was just following your lead. 

“I can’t,” he shakes his head and you have to sit down, set the plate on the table before you drop it, wouldn’t want to break the fine china. Did his mother give him this? You think so; he’d taken such care, stacking each plate freshly hand washed before putting them away.

“Liar.”

“Not this time,” a loaded smile, a loaded gun, his fork twirls around on his plate. Shadow of a wrist and a vague gesture to the seams of the scenery. “This is all you. Your shape. What you made. I’m just along for the ride.”

“Then I’m not staying.”

Shrug again. Why won’t he do anything else? A looped tape, a slight glitch. Something’s wrong.

You’re wrong, maybe.

“Not even for dinner?”

You stand up. Pace. There are plans— things to be done— finishing touches— you can’t stay here. You can’t. 

“What do you want, Noa?” He asks, so softly, so gently, it would be kinder if he killed you there, but you know he won’t; it’ll take a lot more than bad table manners to push him to that, but maybe you can do it. Maybe you can get him a little ruthless, even more desperate. You’ve seen it before, in flashes, coiling green under his skin. Won’t it be funny if he breaks before you do? No blood on your hands, not yet. What a record. Fitting, almost. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Are you hungry?”

“Why?”

“Hard to work on an empty stomach,” he shrugs again, fuck, stop doing that. Bare feet silent on the carpet and you find yourself back at the table, back in the chair, sitting across from him and there’s nowhere to go—

Blink.

Sterile antiseptic white walls and doctors— in your apartment— your neighbor? Yes, that’s your neighbor he accused you of staring once, the fuck are you lookin’ at? And you weren’t staring, at least not like that, but it took a soft nudge of don’t look at me for him to go all the same. Strange. You didn’t think a doctor would live here. It’s a bad side of town, but it’s good for sidestepping. 

You think: I am going to wake up now.

Wait. No. You say this out loud. It comes through with the wet ache of drowning. 

No. Wait. Your words roll back down your throat—you didn’t say it. You didn’t say anything at all. You never have. 

All the words roll in but they’re not yours you’re fit to burst. 

It must be nice being able to speak. 

Not here.

Maybe that’s what it is to be human. 

Get real, you think because you stick your fingers in a few skulls and cut your teeth on some gray matter while someone thinks about love you know what being human is? 

I could. I could know.

They gave you a tongue and mouth and lips but you can’t kiss and you can’t make words, you can only patch together the syntax, call it real, call it human—but when you speak it’s always going to be with someone else’s voice, strangled out.

The walls are whiter now and the lights slice your skin like a hot knife through butter. It isn’t a cliff but a door you’ve already walked through and the ocean inside the warehouse inside the apartment is now a table with handcuffs. His table. Her table. You jerk your wrists and the metal clanks hard and fuck no not here not here please take me back i’m sorry i want to go back—

(he’s coming to get you)

(he wouldn’t leave you here)

(no time for the dramatics ricardo just get the door let’s blow this popsicle stand)

She smiles at you from across that metal table (wait) and tells you that you are never going to die (stop) because to die you have to be alive (i am i am i?) and you should know better by now we are going to do such great things together (please)

aren’t we, 

aren’t we, 

aren’t we.

aren’t i?

wake up now- i want to— please. 

—

You’re alone in the dark, the armor fits perfectly, and that’s all that matters.

(when you become a casualty revoked from the grave get ready a revenant coming back to eat them alive oh oh oh just you wait) 

You think you’ll keep the name.

(sidestep and charge reunited again you can see the headlines now and fuck you can’t wait to see the look on his face you were always a pair maybe he’ll stop you wouldn’t that be something)

You don’t sleep.

— 

He doesn’t stop you. 

—

“Noa?”

“Yes?”

“You are... fine, right?”

 “What are you talking about?”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong?”

“Of course I would.”

—

Your dreams are filmy, cracked wombs of (not not not) memories and gummy tissue. Press on it too hard and it moves back just the same but with a muscle deep ache. At least you know it’s a dream this time, and when you go up the stairs and find him there, you don’t hiss or spit or curse. You’ve done enough of that. He’ll carry the scars to prove it.

He’s looking out the window. He’s looking at you.

No, he’s looking at you. You flinch and you don’t know why.

“Really? Even here?”

“What?”

“Take the mask off at least. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen your pretty face.”

You reach up and your fingers find hard armor, not supple skinsuit. When you look back his face is different, older, not the poster-ready Marshal but aged, aching, and you ache with it, bone-deep. 

You’re so tired. You wonder if he is too.

The helmet comes off. Drops with a thump. 

You go to the window. After all, there’s nowhere else left, and he asked so nicely.

“What do we do now?” You ask, so softly. Still can’t look outside. Still don’t want to see what he sees. Better to watch him watch you. Now that you’re on the other side of things, you prefer it when you’re the one doing the bleeding—what a thing.

“I don’t know,” a laugh a sob or something in between, he crosses his arms and turns away, turns toward you. “Did you ever figure out what you want?���

“Yeah.”

You blink and he’s himself again, younger, more angular, a grin fit for the big screen on his handsome, handsome face. It’s easier to talk to him like this, the way you remember, the way it should be. Time didn’t move while you were gone, and you’re the only one still snapped in half.

A pause. Are you smiling now? It must be a sad little thing though, because his eyes soften up and a frown mars his forehead.

“I want to watch you grow old.” 

“What, so you can keep on teasing me? That never stopped you before.”

“Shut up, I’m not done yet.” you whisper, stepping forward, stepping up to the cliff’s edge.

“I want to watch you grow old,” reaching for his hand, and he lets you have them both, cradled so carefully—and your gloves are black and armored and insulated, but not the most protected part of your body. Could he kill you with a surge? Maybe. “And I want to watch you die in a bed. Your bed.”

“A little morbid,” he murmurs but you’ve got to keep going, you’ve got to get it out, because once it’s out you’ll never have to look at it again. “But I guess that tracks.”

Turn over his hands, you thumb at his emitters. Hint of a spark, and you laugh and now it’s sob, now it’s a wound. You won’t look at him. “I want to watch the arthritis take your hands and I want to take you away from this fucking city and we’ll both be so bored out of our minds, we’ll start inventing problems just to fix them.”

“Careful, Noa,” hands turn over, running up your armored wrists, grasping at your forearms. “That almost sounds like a happy ending.”

Wedding vows for the dead. Neither of you ever had a chance. You don’t have one now.

“And we can’t have that.”

You look up. The sun’s on his face now, turning his eyes a shade of deep whiskey, and that’s how you want to remember him; alive under the sun, smile lines just forming, his nose a bit crooked from getting punched one too many times. You’ll be on the ground in a moment.

“No,” he agrees, grasping at your elbows now, pulling you close, and you cling to his in turn. “We can’t.” Flash and grin, and there he is, just like you remember. Challenging, challenger. No chance, and neither of you know when to quit. “Want to up the stakes a bit?” 

“Always.”

You let go first. Of course. You turn to the window. You open it. 

“Whoever falls fastest wins.”

“And what do I get when I win?” When, not if.

“A quick and painless death.”

“Fuck,” you breathe. “That’s a hell of a thing. How do I know you won’t cheat?”

“You don’t,” he winks, steps back, head tilt toward the window. Mirrored. You’ve got one hand on the windowsill and one hand curled around your gut, where he sunk that barb between the plates before you cracked his skull on the ground before all of Los Diablos. “You never do. Isn’t that part of the fun?”

You take your place at the window, you set your shoulders, look down. What’s he been looking at all this time? 

Long way down, and you wait to see her; you, in soft skinsuit, teal and black and bloody and broken, but she isn’t there.

Just an ambulance, an end repeating itself.

“Person who falls the fastest, huh?”

“And hits the ground hardest.”

You climb up, clench your jaw. 

It always ends like this. 

“You’re on.”

[zebrabaker]

Paris Stands Alone; Part 13

Part 12

This chapter’s art is...

As always, HUGE credits to @gajer-1226​ , for her amazing art!

Marinette groaned from her spot on the couch. Mullo had come down from relaxing in the sunroom a while ago, and the trio was sprawled out on the couch, cuddling under a blanket and watching a news report on the current Mayoral elections. Monsieur D’Argencourt was running again, despite having lost so many times in a row. His opponents were a strict woman who had been on the city council for years and was very conservative, and a man who was far more liberal but had little experience. She’d need to keep an eye on things politically, things like this always led to stronger Akumas, be they the politicians themselves or angry citizens.

Right as she had begun to debate with herself whether or not she should go back to bed the whole house shook, and she heard screaming in the streets.

“Son of a bitch…let’s go.” She rolled off the couch with a heavy sigh. “What are we betting on this time?” She asked, stretching and rolling her neck gently.

“Oh! Animal!” Mullo squeaked, perking up. She and the Kwamis had invented a game of betting on what the Amoks would be, winner getting to pick what game they would play on the household game night. If there was a tie, they would do a coin toss.

“I imagine after this morning they’ll go for inanimate.” Tikki yawned. “Ready whenever you are, Marinette!”

“Spots on!” She cried, smirking when she saw a portal appear a few feet away from her, put of sight of the windows. Leaping through, she let loose a battle cry as the world sharply shifted.

X0X0X

The Amok was a rampaging, canine beast, with massive fangs and glowing red eyes, and a hissing, spitting cobra for a tail. It looked like a terrifying mix of a pit-bull and a Doberman pinscher. Nightmare had taken to the rooftops, opening a portal that Ladybug leaped through with a mighty cry. She flung her yoyo at a flagpole and yanked it tight, swinging towards the beast feet-first. She slammed it across the snout, making it whine and stumble. A figure dropped from another portal in the sky, this one swirling blue and white, the figure indistinguishable.

“No way!” Teacup squealed, bouncing in place.

“What is that?” Batman asked, drawing a batarang.

“That is someone we don’t see very often.” Cat Sidhe muttered.

“Who?” Wonder Woman asked, fidgeting with her lasso.

“Bunnyx, the wielder of the Rabbit Miraculous. Her Miracle is called Burrow, it allows her to transverse the timestream with ease. She only visits on important occasions, or if she needs to warn us away from something. She’s the one who sent Jade Turtle out on patrol the night he died saving that girl from the disgraced one. Let’s go say ‘hi’, everyone.” Yellow Jacket was smirking as she took off running for the edge of the building. Right as she reached the edge, she grabbed a dagger from her boot and flung it at the beast at the same time as she flung her trompo at the same flagpole Ladybug had swung from. The dagger nailed the beast (presumably an Amok) in the eye, and it howled in agony and rage. It thrashed and stomped it’s feet, which were the size of minivans. It managed to take the corner off a building, making the civilians evacuating along the sidewalks scream.

Snapping Turtle dove into action, drawing their shield in a fluid motion and shouting something lost beneath the sound of the monster’s howls. A green semi-opaque dome made of hexagons appeared, surrounding a small family and the hero in question from the rubble raining from above. The shield didn’t even flicker or waver, merely protecting the small family as Snapping Turtle scooped one of the three small children up and prepping the family to move.

Vixen, standing on the rooftop, drew her reedpipes from her belt, and slowly began to play a haunting tune. Cat Sidhe, picking up on some hidden signal, made a series of gestures with the hand that bore his ring, before uttering a word that made the Americans shudder. It was dark and dank, this feeling, like the paranoia of being out late at night with shadows looming and every sound inducing panic.

From the ring began to emerge a shadowy figure. It morphed itself slowly into a humanoid figure, dressed in all white, with features that seemed to whisper ‘not right, not human, predator!’ in the ears of all who saw it. It was the unnatural smoothness of it’s skin and features, the inverted colors, with white pupils and black irises, hair that started pure white and faded to dull purple. It seemed to be a doll, unmoving, until Cat Sidhe spoke.

“Distract the Amok for me.” He ordered, and the inhuman thing melted into a pool of shadows, before the puddle seemed to dart away towards the Amok.

“What was that?” Nightwing asked uneasily.

“That was his Grace’s secondary ability, Nyx. It creates an inverted clone of pure destruction energy. You don’t want to be around when it self-destructs, that’s for damn sure.” Roi Singe sighed. “I’ll stay back this time; I don’t want to throw you guys off.”

“Alright. I’m off. Vixen, you good?” The fox, who was still playing her pipes, which were emitting a light orange mist, nodded slowly. The mist was descending to the streets below, and Cat Sidhe went running towards the edge of the building, going into a diver’s position as he plummeted towards the street below. Barely twenty feet above the pavement, the cat hero drew his baton and extended it, slamming the end into the ground so hard that it dented the asphalt as he vaulted towards the Amok, which was now biting and snapping as Ladybug and Yellow Jacket darted around it’s head. There was another heroine, this one in blue and white with roller skates on her feet, moving too fast for anyone to properly see her.

The orange mist, which now filled the entire block, suddenly blew towards the Amok, whirling around it as if being held by a tornado. A glance at Vixen proved that her fingers were dancing over her pipes faster than ever, and Batman felt on edge. He’d never been a fan of magic.

The mist rapidly coalesced into a large, feline shape, similar to the Amok in it’s unnatural size. The feline let out a powerful yowl, and swiped with massive claws at the Amok. The Amok (Who Yellow Jacket insisted on calling ‘Fluffy) growled and pounced at the beast, only to be entangled in the wires of Ladybug and Yellow Jacket’s weapons as the illusion dissolved into mist once more.  As the wires pulled taught around the Amok, Cat Sidhe’s Nyx reappeared before the beast, darting every which way and holding it’s attention. The beast, desperate in it’s rage to attack the tiny unnatural thing in front of it, thrashed and wriggled, trying to get itself lose, and only succeeded in tightening the wires. Slowly, Cat Sidhe snuck up behind the Amok, right hand raised in front of him as if he was trying to smack a fly. Right as the Amok snapped it’s jaws closed around the clone, Cat Sidhe slammed his hand into a thin red collar around Fido’s neck. The dog let out a startled, pained yelp, and was encased in a squirming mass of dark blue bubbles, which hissed and popped as the Amok shrank. Ladybug stood, waiting, and yanked on her yoyo string, which came zipping back into her palm. It wasn’t until the mass was barely any bigger than an American football that a peacock feather appeared that she acted, gently swinging her yoyo to catch it. When she had the feather secured, she flung her yoyo high into the air, crying out a string of words that felt like pure safety.

It was after the loveliness had faded that the final bubbles faded away, revealing a small, emaciated puppy, who’s bones showed through it’s skin, and it seemed to shiver as it looked up at all the heroes surrounding it. It snarled and snapped, cowering from the heroes around it.

“Wait, that was the eight-story tall monster that just did at least half a million in property damage?” Nightwing asked, walking up behind the Court members.

“This is why Hawkmoth and Mayura are so dangerous, they turn even the most innocuous, innocent little thing into something that can kill hundreds.” Vixen explained, landing behind them lightly, as if she hadn’t just jumped ten stories.

“What will happen to the poor thing?” Wonder Woman asked, watching as the puppy shied away from Ladybug’s hand as if expecting to be hit.

“Well, Fidel already has several dogs. They naturally love her, and Yellow Jacket has been talking about setting up a sanctuary for stray dogs. This one, however, seems to have developed a liking towards her Ladyship.” Roi Singe chuckled, watching as the small dog pressed it’s head into Ladybug’s palm.

“And lord only knows that my Melody could never turn away an animal in need.” Cat Sidhe said, approaching them casually. “Thanks for staying out of the way back there, it could have been bad if someone got hurt.”

“You’re in charge here.” Batman said gruffly.

“Still, we might have an issue. I have some stuff that needs me back home, so I was thinking one of my brothers could come over and help you guys out.”

“We’ll talk about it more tomorrow, for now we all need to split before the press starts getting pushy and Vixen, Bunnyx, and I transform back.” Ladybug said, holding the small dog in her arms. The canine was cuddled up close to her, soaking in her body heat. “Ready, love?” She asked Cat Sidhe, who nodded and sent a glare at a woman with pinkish hair who was coming their way, a camera crew behind her. “Bug out!” Ladybug said, winking to the cameras and flinging her yoyo (which should not be able to go that far) at a flagpole on a nearby building. Cat Sidhe began to extend his baton, before letting it fall, vaulting off down the street.

X0X0X

Nadya watched as Ladybug and Cat Sidhe left the scene, and the various Court members disappeared to the rooftops. This was perfect! And yet, right as she approached, Batman drew a grappling hook from his belt, fired at a gargoyle on a nearby building, and went flying off, and Wonder Woman barely waved to the camera before flying away. At least the remaining hero, a young man dressed in black and blue, took a moment to smile and give a dramatic bow before somehow climbing a brick wall. These heroes were ruining her poor ratings! Well, she still had that Ladyblogger girl’s number…

@krispydefendorpolice​ @ficsforthestars​ @multifandomscribette​ @legendaryneckjudgestudent​ @ash-amg-blog @bee-wrecker​ @dawnwave16​ @the-supreme-ace-queen @politelyvicious​ @stonestridernerd​ @justmdj​ @stingrowl​ @damianette-is-life​ @miraculous786​ @mjisntme​ @hauntedfreakdeputyhero​ @miraculousdisapointment @lesscooltodoroki @bb-basbusa​ @isabellemasen​ @sassydepression​ @imspectralboiii​ @spicybelladonna​ @moonystars14​ @frostymoon11 @worlds-tiniest-spookiest-pastry @spartanxhunterx​ @fandoms-run-my-life​ @chocolateherringtacofan​ @imburningneon @fandomsaremylifeline​ @risingmoonyue​ @zotinha456​

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Get Up: Antoni

CW: Using clove cigarettes to burn skin, burns, burning as torture, conditioned responses and behavior, feverish whumpee, creepy whumper, fucky guilt/self-loathing/self-injury thoughts (of the “I deserve to be hurt” variety, no self-injury occurs). Xenophobic language/xenophobia

Tagging @astrobly, @finder-of-rings, @burtlederp and also  @oofowouchies and @orphceus for Antoni-specific

“Get up, love.” The voice is low, a rumble from all around him rather than any one direction. He can feel the vibration of it in the hollows of his bones, the aches that throb along his thighs and arms. Breathing seems like pushing up against a weight laid over his chest, stones laid inside his lungs.

There’s a rough hand against his face, a palm pressed to his forehead. “You’re hot.” He whines, only to hear Mr. Davies’ mocking laughter in return. “Fucking dog now, are you? Might as well be, I suppose. I’d treat a dog better than you, if I had one, though. Feed it more, anyway. Get up.”

He tries.

Nothing happens.

He tries again, but all he can manage is limbs that flop, a head that shifts minutely, bones that scream protest at him and demand he be still.

“C… can’t.” His own voice is a breath, a whisper. He is motionless, in the bed, blankets kicked down around his feet. The ceiling fan ticks as it spins lazily overhead, he stares at it through cracked eyelids.

A shadow passes, and he can’t flinch away.

There’s a slap, the smack of skin on skin, and Antoni has no energy to fight it. He only lets his head fly to the side, the sting in his face joining a deeper, weightier throb inside his head.

He moans, maybe.

He’s not sure if the sound comes from his lungs or is only in his head.

 “You don’t have access to ��can’t’ any longer, darling.” The hand is gentle again, rubbing a thumb over the reddened skin on the side of his face. “Pull your shirt up, pretty little ashtray. Let’s see.”

“M-Mr. Davies-”

“Now.”

Antoni’s head tips back, lolls really, showing his neck like an animal baring itself to a predator, hoping for mercy. His hands fumble for the hem of his shirt, soaked with sweat and slightly stuck to him, pale heathered gray soaked dark. He grips onto the soft fabric and pulls it up, shuddering at the sudden brush of cool air over scarred skin. It hurts, to be so exposed. Everything feels like a raw wound. Like a sparking wire. 

His ribcage, stomach, and the top edge of his hips are a shifting nearly-flat plane of skin over muscle, with littl softness. Tiny circles with no particular pattern litter his skin, some newer, some older. 

So many.

He has deserved them so many times.

“Good boy.” The flick of the lighter, and he feels his body tense all at once, every muscle taut where they wrap around his aching bones. The unmistakable sound of cigarette put to lips, the first inhale and exhale, the enveloping smell of cloves that settles around him, drifts over him. He can feel smoke kiss his face and has a strange, wild sense of fingertips there, just barely brushing his lips.

Not possible. Mr. Davies doesn’t touch that way. 

There’s a hand that lays across his throat, over his thick leather collar, to keep him still. His eyes are still slits, cracked barely open, but he can see the soft flare of embers, knows the face behind the flame better than he knows his own, now. 

“You refused an order, love. You earned this. You’ve earned every single one.”

“Nyet.” His voice is weak - it’s not a refusal, it’s a whimper. “Nyet, gospodin, ya ne khotel-”

“Not your ratspeak again. I thought we’d broken you of that filthy gibberish. Quiet, or you’ll earn more.”

Antoni’s eyes drift shut. “I-I am sorry-”

“Don’t be sorry, Ashtray. Be better.” The first flicker of pain comes directly on top of a scar he’d already laid before. It’s a kindness, a mercy, that he isn’t taking what clean skin is left and marking it new. Antoni’s breath hitches in at the flush of agonizing sharp pain as the cigarette grinds in with inexorable slowness. A pause. “Lovely,” Mr. Davies murmurs. “One step closer, don’t you think?” The hand that curves around his throat tightens, just a little.

Antoni breathes shallowly, trying not to move. He is perfectly still, and nearly silent but for the tiniest whimpers he cannot hold back. Mr. Davies presses a second burn, a third, a fourth. Each of them carefully laid over existing scars, and he is so merciful to punish Antoni in ways that won’t add to what he has already made his own.

“Beautiful.” Mr. Davies chuckles, drawing a fingertip along the line of the new burns to listen to Antoni’s choked-off high-pitched whines. He can feel the eyes that watch his unwilling little twitches, hands moving with the deep urge to push Mr. Davies away only to be stopped by his own mind, his own fear.

Antoni knows what they will look like now, like jewelry with a slight curve to dip below his navel, bright red, prone to infection if he isn’t given permission to clean them. 

Still, he cannot move.

“I think that will earn you a reprieve from worse, for now, love,” Mr. Davies says with pure tenderness, pulling back and away. The scent is still in the air, making Antoni sick, swirling around him. He hears a low murmur and wonders if she’s awake, the girl on the other side of the wall. If she can hear his sounds, the way he listens every night to hers.

“Th-... thank you, Mr. Davies.” He whispers, his throat feels like it’s burning, too, the smoke settling deeper and deeper. Each swallow feels like there’s shattered glass shredding everything from his tonsils to his lungs. He jerks in harsh breaths only with effort. “Thank you for… mercy.”

“You’re welcome. Now. I’ll give you a second chance. Stand up.”

Antoni forces his legs to answer his commands this time, lets out a low groan of pain as he tries to push up onto one elbow and then rolls himself right off the bed only to hit the ground with a thunk. His arms and legs feel like a doll with stitches come loose and he sobs, curled on his side.

His shirt is still pushed up, his back is facing Mr. Davies and it takes only a moment to feel the next burn pressed directly over his spine.

He cries out helplessly.  “Pozhaluysta! Pozhaluysta, ne nado…”

“Ratspeak again. You just won’t stop, will you?”

“P-pozhaluysta…” He can’t breathe. Can’t… can’t take in enough air curled up like this but he can’t move. There’s another burn, over his left kidney, then one on his right. “Ne delay mne bol'no!”

“Not until you never speak another fucking word, Russki. Come on, love. Beg.”

“Please, pl-please, please do not h-hurt, pl-please-”

Mr. Davies never makes a new burn, only recreates old ones, and still, Antoni can’t help the garbled, choking sounds he makes from the depth of the pain. 

When a hand touches his shoulder he flinches, violently, from the touch, shaking his head as best he can even as the world dizzy-spins around him, freezing cold air burning his skin over the new redness, new agonies over old. 

“N-No-... please, no more-”

He can’t get enough air to beg right, he can’t. He feels like he’s wheezing, hands clenched into fists, his forehead pressed against the old hardwood floor.

“Antoni?” 

His breath catches again. Eyes crack, rolling slowly upwards, to see the fuzzy spin of the ceiling fan. There wasn’t a fan in his room with Mr. Davies. There wasn’t…

A pale face swims into view, gradually rearranges all its errant shapes and colors into ones he knows. A mouth, a nose, light, nearly-invisible eyebrows furrowed with worry. A flush of blue hair hanging down like a fine, shimmering curtain. 

Green eyes.

“Chrisha? I… I was asleep?”

Was he? It hadn’t felt like sleep-

The panic hits him all at once. Can’t let him see. His hands move awkwardly, bumping back into his stomach, and he shudders out a breath with a full-body shake as he realizes his shirt is pulled down, not up, covering the marks that still burn as though they’re new across his body. 

Relief like cool water washes down his spine. No one saw how many there are. No one can see how many times he has earned them.

“Are you… are, are you, um-... are you sick?” Chris reaches out to touch him, to help him stand, but Antoni pulls away, managing to get a hand on the side of his bed to steady himself as he pushes up to his feet. He sways - the world goes briefly dark and then back to light again - but he stands. 

“M-Maybe. I, I feel… can I-... Chrisha, I need to shower. Can you… help me?”

“H-help you? In, the, the… the-the… in the… to, to, to-to-to… to take-” Chris’s face flares bright red and his eyes drop, all at once, and Antoni shudders with sudden nausea and disgust.

Years later, and still that’s all the words could possibly mean in Chris’s mind.

“Not like that, Chrisha. P-promise. But I cannot… walk well. Now. Will you help?”

His stomach is crawling itching dying skin, his back is flaring hot, he needs… he needs to bath in ice. Run cold water until nothing is left of him, until he is a frozen lake scratched until you can’t possibly see what’s under the surface.

“Sure, Ant, I’ve, I’ve got you.” 

Chris isn’t supposed to be here today, but Antoni can’t really think well enough to ask why he’s here now, only be so grateful for his help. He lets the shorter, stronger, younger man slip his arm around his waist and holds back the groan as he unknowingly presses against the new burns that aren’t real, but that Antoni can feel perfectly anyway.

The scent is cloves is still faint around him.

He can still feel breath on the back of his neck.

“Please,” He whispers. 

In the moment, he can’t remember any other word.

He burns.

Veins and bones and skin and scars and brain, all of it - all of it burns.

[babylon-cal]

Wildflower {c.h}

Pairing : Calum x Gender Neutral Reader

Requested : by @wildflower-tae : hiiii!! first of all i love your blog,i've followed you for a long time and i love your content. can i request like a scenario/imagine/one shot idk what's the difference haha,with calum based on their song 'wildflower' ? you can do whenever you want with it. hope u have a good day/night. love u,stay safe ♡

Warnings : Mentions of Non-Descriptive Sex

 Word Count : 1.7k

Wildflower (noun) a flower of an uncultivated variety or a flower growing freely without human intervention.

Nothing about how you two met was cliche. It wasn’t like those moments in cheesy HBO rom-coms where the two love interests would lock eyes with each other from across the room in a party, immediately knowing what to say and falling in love soon after. It wasn’t bumping into each other on the street, causing a clumsy exchange followed by soft glances and one of them asking for the other’s number. You and Calum had met naturally, on a random Saturday night. It wasn’t fate. It just happened. Maybe it was a coincidence.

You had snuck out your bedroom window, your feet landing on the grass below. Dressed in your large coat that was wrapped around your old t-shirt and fell to the mid-thigh of your jeans, you jogged across the lawn and out onto the street. The wind blew against your face and hair as you did so. You didn’t have a plan on where to go but you just let your legs carry you to wherever it wanted to, turning left into another street and past the corner shop that you always bought your ice cream from. You were walking now, your hands in the pocket of your coat, one of them fiddling with your pack of cigarettes, the cardboard slightly torn on the edges.

You approached the neighbourhood football field, the only source of light being a streetlight that stood a few metres away. The empty mass of green in the darkness was such a contrast to the usual bright and cheerful atmosphere of children running around after a football for hours, their giggles and yells floating into the air. The two goals that were on either end of the field had rusted posts, the white paint chipped in some places, exposing the reddish brown metal underneath. On the adjacent sides of the fields, were some empty wooden bleachers that looked unfamiliar since they were usually occupied by parents during the friendly football matches that the neighbourhood committee organised every month.

As you approached one of them, you noticed someone sitting on the top of the bleacher seats. He was wearing a dark coloured hoodie and sweatpants, with a beanie nestled neatly on his head. He had a cigarette between his fingers and he didn’t notice you to the left of him, swinging over the railing to land about 3 feet away from where he was.

“Got room for one more?,” His head turned to notice you, hands in your coat pocket, a small smile on your face. He blinked for a few seconds before speaking up.

“Sure, why not?” He took another hit of his cigarette as you sat next to him, a few inches of space between both your legs. You took out your pack and pulled out a tab. “Here, let me,” Calum said, offering to light it for you with his lighter. He was definitely more friendly that you would have thought him out to be, judging from how he looked at first glance. His thick eyebrows accompanied with the moderate amount of facial hair above his lip and across his jaw and chin made him come across as slightly intimidating, his voice being a contributing factor to that as well. You placed the cigarette between your lips as he lighted it for you, his eyes meeting yours momentarily. You used this to give him a cheeky, flirtatious look causing him to awkwardly look down at the flame, only to find a particular interest in the shape of your lips as an orange hue from the fire casted itself on them.

“I’m Calum, by the way,” his voice was deep but also soft at the same time, like the feeling you get across your arms when a warm blanket wraps around them when it’s raining outside. Tingles that lasted for a few seconds.

I hear you calling out my name, I love the sound

“Calum?” you repeated and took a puff. You hated how terrible it tasted - like a bunch of household chemicals, which was easy to say it might as well be, to be fair. The first time you smoked, you remembered it being so dry and it burned your throat but it calmed you down. Since then, it always felt like your lungs were wrapped in a warm blanket - like Calum’s voice did to you just a few seconds ago.

I love the taste

Only yourself and Calum knew how you ended up connected at the lips, the cigarettes dropped from your hands and falling through the crack between the rows and onto the grass below, burning themselves out. Your hands were wrapped around his neck, while he had one hand on your thigh as his other pressed against your back. You could taste the herbs and chemicals on his lips and was certain he could taste them on yours as well. However, you were too busy focusing on how it felt - surprisingly soft, not at all chapped, and the tiny hairs around them poked at your face. It tickled a little bit. His hand on your thigh radiated a heat that you had never found anywhere else.

And I can see it in your face, you’ve got a side you can’t explain

Kissing Calum felt like an escapade from the daily hustle of everyday life, being a victim of capitalism and forced social conformity. Conventions trying to label everybody and categorise them into boxes. Kissing Calum felt like a “fuck that” to all those things. It felt like eating chocolate cake at 3a.m. because no one can tell you not to or taking long drives across the empty streets at 7a.m. to watch the sunrise in a lookout because no one really takes the time to appreciate something like that anymore. Not like you would ever let this man you just met know this, regardless of whether he had his tongue in your mouth or not.

You always thought your mind to be like the universe - ever-expanding with all its multiple complex structures and forms, where no one really understands what they’re ALL for or how they got to be but it takes a long time for an outside body to discover and understand its functions, compositions and complexities. That was just how your brain was wired, you let it do its own thing - there was no need for intervention. 

Unlike you, kissing a random stranger they had just met was out of Calum’s nature. At least, since he turned 20. However, there was something about your energy and presence that made him feel impulsive, dare he say maybe even careless. All of his personal convictions and promises he made to himself seemed to shrink and hide themselves in the back of his mind when he let go of his inhibitions to impulsively press his lips to yours.

You’re telling me you wanna come over, you wanna be closer

You pulled apart from the passionate exchange, your lips distanced by only a few inches. The heavy breathing led to the smell of tobacco and tar overwhelmingly stimulating your senses causing slight discomfort to settle at the back of your throat. Calum’s hand had moved further up your thigh, his large hand now resting on the side of your ass and the warmth radiated through the material of your jeans.

“Let’s go back to your place,” you suggested and he fully agreed. Going back with a man you just met? Sounds like a wish for the most awful things you could think of but you took the risk anyway, especially when he gave your ass a gentle squeeze and kissed you again for a few seconds. He let out a low hum as he did so, the small transfer of vibrations from his throat drove you absolutely mad.

Cuz I know where tonight is going

The walk back to Calum’s house was spent with paced footsteps and your hand gently held in his. The air was colder now, and you felt it breeze through your hair. During this time Calum had learnt a few things about you, realising that you were quite the opposite to him. As the headlights of the black Subaru shone as it drove in the opposite direction of your walk, the conversation between the two of you had led Calum to ask you what your plan for the future was.

“I don’t know,” was all you replied, a small smile tugged at your lips. His face was drawn to confusion soon enough, his eyebrows furrowing as he glanced at you.

“You don’t know? How do you not know?” By this point you were at his front door. He searched for his keys and unlocked the door.

“Less talking,” you replied, closing the door behind you as you entered and pulling him in by the collar to connect your lips hastily. Soon enough, a trail of clothes were left leading up to his room with the night ending in heavy breaths and the creaking of the beds shrouded in secrecy within the four walls.

You’re the only one that makes me…, everytime we…,

Calum had found your carefree, liberated nature absolutely fascinating and the sex felt like something out of a dream. Intense, passionate and almost like a haze when it ended but it was the best each of you could have asked for. It happened again, and Calum knew that if he gave in, you would be up all night tangled with each other.

I’ll tell you what I like

He had asked you for your number as you put your clothes on at the foot of the bed. If it wasn’t for the bedside lamp that he had turned on, the room would be in pitch darkness. As you tied your shoelaces, you looked up to him when he asked the question, the covers now covering the lower half of his body. You blinked over the tattoos that were intricately spread out across his torso, noticing a MMXII under his right collarbone.

My wildflower

“Well, I usually don’t give my number out,” you said walking towards him. “because i just like meeting people or bumping into them,” you paused “but..” you leaned in closer to his face “maybe I’ll see you around the football field again,” you pressed a kiss to his cheek and proceeded to leave his house, leaving him wondering and desperate to see you again and as much as he wanted to be able to see you what he wanted, he figured by now that you’re a wildflower, growing freely without human intervention.

[sylvie-writes]

Getting Ready

I’m sorry for my train of Sarah posts. 

Summary: Tony invites (y/n), Steve, and Sarah to the party that takes place during Age of Ultron. 

Warnings: none. author’s misconception of a shirt. grammar mistakes.

Um so I’m gonna make this two parts because I can’t finish the whole story today but i’d still like to get it out today. *whew*

Part Two: Are You Worthy? 

A/n: the real question... is it a button up or button down...

Steve leaned against the bedroom door frame, caching the sweet moment unfolding in front of him. His two favorite girls in the world were involved in the most adorable conversation he had ever seen.  

“I’ll be right back, pumpkin!” Sarah was sitting on your side of the bed, as you bopped her nose before venturing off to the walk in closet. All the clothes were orderly and tidy on both sides. Your work uniforms and resplendent dresses were neatly hanged on black velvet hangers while your casual clothes were adroitly folded and stored on the small, overhead wire shelf. Steve’s side of the closet was organized just as well. The suit was folded in a garment bag, resting on his shelf while rows of button ups and slacks also hung on black velvet hangers, a gift courtesy of Pepper when you both got married years ago. 

There was no need to rummage through your closet, for your options were all pleasantly presented before you. Tonight, Tony was hosting an extravagant party, inviting hundreds of people to the compound, shield agents mostly. Normally, you and Steve wouldn’t take Sarah to the parties, but Tony insisted that this one time she should come, claiming that he ordered chocolate covered strawberries just for her. Your daughter absolutely loved strawberries, ever since she was a baby, they were her go-to snack. Now, throw in chocolate into the mix, she was gonna be ecstatic.  

This morning, Nat had texted you a picture of her outfit. She was gonna wear a simple, yet elegant black dress that really complimented her striking red hair. That woman could pull off anything, she could make a potato sack look good. Not wanting to duplicate the look, you opted for two other dresses. 

The first dress you had in hand was a white lace sheath dress you had worn to a lavish dinner date with Steve last year. Your other choice was a blush midi dress with a v-back foldover collar, one you wore a few years back at a friend’s baby shower. The two options had yet to be seen by any of the other team members, saving you money and time. After all, they both were practically new, no wear and tear or worn out seams.

You walked out of the closet after a good ten minutes of handpicking different choices till settling on the dresses in hand. Sarah was now cuddling with the knot blanket, leaning up against the headboard playing a game on Steve’s phone. The said man was sitting beside Sarah apparently coaching her through the game

“Hi babes, I need both of your opinions.” 

Sarah shot a bright grin at you, enthusiastically gesticulating her willingness to help. Steve winked at you with his enchanting blue eyes. Ever the gentleman, he got up from the bed, walking towards you to hold the dresses. 

“What are you wearing, honey?” Steve pointed to the dresser, a dark prussian blue button down and black slacks, tidily folded and resting on the wood top. Your pupils virtually grew into dilated hearts, picturing Steve in the lovely attire. The visionary must’ve been obvious as the man you were dreaming about, casually smirked at you, the heat instantly flooding your face. You swallowed harshly, trying to get your scattered brain back in order. How he still managed to get that effect from you was beyond your understanding. While Sarah looked out the window, bored, you cut your eyes at Steve, standing beside you with your dresses laying over his arm. 

“Anyway, Sarah what do you think I should wear?” Her head whipped from the window, her disinterest now replaced with attentiveness. Steve held up the dress, allowing Sarah to see them fully. She scooted to the edge of the bed, laying on her stomach and holding her delightful little face with her hands. 

“You always look pretty, Mommy! But I really like the pink one!”  With her left hand, she excitedly shot out her finger in the direction of the dress. You took the dress from Steve and walked towards the closet that had a floor length mirror hanging on the wall between yours and Steve’s sides. The dress that Sarah had picked was actually the one you secretly hoped she would choose. Great sense of style, just like her mother.

Once in the closet, you slipped off your loungewear and into the dress, unable to reach the zipper when Steve walked in. Your husband was always there when you needed him, literally. He’d show up coincidentally at the times you need his assistance, now being one of those times. 

“Need some help?” Looking in the mirror, your eyes met with Steve’s playful ones and you smiled at his offer of help. He most definitely must've seen you struggling seconds ago. One of Steve’s large hands held at your waist where the zipper started, and the other hand on the actual zipper, slowly sliding it up your back. You looked in the mirror to see Steve smiling at you adoringly. He wrapped his arms around your waist, kissing your cheek. 

“You look beautiful as always, doll.” As Steve’s arms were still around your waist, so you brought your hands to rest them on his forearms, leaning back in his embrace. 

A minute passed and suddenly you felt something tap your leg. You and Steve both opened your eyes and looked down to see Sarah, sweetly and patiently waiting for her parents.

“Mommy! You look so butifil! Getting down on your knees, you picked up Sarah, then turning to face Steve.

“Don’t you think little Miss Sarah should pick out my shoes too?”

Sarah’s face visibly lit up and she clapped her hands happily. 

“I think so, mama!” The little girl let out a squeal and you let Sarah down from your hold, turning her to your shoe rack. Heels, flats, sneakers, boots, and summer shoes all separated in uniform order. 

Sarah scanned over the many overwhelming options until she reached for a pair of grey, strappy, closed-toe stilettos. 

“These look amazing, baby! Thanks!” You took the heels from Sarah’s hands and quickly brought them to the drop zone by the door, and changed back while Steve got Sarah’s outfit picked out. By time you came to her room, Sarah apparently already had a dress in mind. Steve held up a ginger dress, frilled at the neck and sleeves. A small bow accenting the waist with three wooden buttons above. You came to take the dress from him with Sarah popping her head out from the bin of shoes, mini rose gold flats in her hand. 

“Mommy, Daddy, does this look pretty?” You truthfully answered her question, a proud smile growing on her face at her parent’s approval. Steve left to get showered first while you bathed Sarah. The Rogers household always had a routine for events like these. Steve would shower first while you bathed Sarah. Once he was finished getting ready, which was normally pretty quick, you’d trade places. Steve would dry Sarah’s hair while you showered and did your own hair and makeup, not really going all out and extreme for the makeup look. 

Steve and Sarah came into the bedroom to check on you. When they walked in, you were already dressed and ready to go, just like them. Standing in front of the dresser, you put on your wedding ring and some earrings. 

“Mommy?” You looked to your right to find Sarah now at your side. 

“Yes, babe?”

“Can I wear a necklace?” Sarah didn’t have her ears pierced, that was something you and Steve decided she could choose when she gets older. You smiled at your daughters eagerness to dress like her mother. It was adorable. 

Opening up the small wooden jewelry box, you sifted through it and to the bottom, finding a small velvet box. You took the box, unlatching the lid, a mini pear shaped opal kindly twinkled at you. Steve had come up behind your back, hands on your waist once again, as he looked over your shoulder at the box he knew very well. 

“Sarah, Daddy gave me this necklace ten years ago, please be careful with it, honey.” You slipped the necklace on her, securing the clasp tightly and turning her back to face you and Steve. Her face was showered in a serious look. Using her big girl voice, she made a promise to you and Steve, gazing into your eyes.

“I promise, I will take care of this.” It was hard to not giggle at her seriousness, a cute sight to say the least.

Her usual smile returned and all goofiness with it. You had left them, for they headed to the front door while you went to grab your phone from the bathroom, returning just in time for the cuteness that would ensue. Sarah quizzically stared at Steve, who was a little confused but then reassured when the girl started smiling again.

“Daddy looks like Prince Charming!” Her statement, adorable, but very true. 

Steve squatted down to Sarah’s level, looking up at you.

“And Mommy’s as pretty as Cinderella then?”

The girl swiftly bobbed her head, blonde hair flying around, and then watching as her father got up to get the heels from your hands. A way he’d show his precious and darling wife his affection, using your daughter’s sweet notion as his excuse. 

“May I?” Your husband’s hand rested on the heels, asking for permission to which you sheepishly smiled. Smoothing out your dress, you sat on the mudroom bench, Steve taking your left leg in hand. Sarah stood behind him, a large cheesy grin on her face, as she daydreamed of the princess’s glass slipper. Too caught up in her own world, Steve gently picked up your foot, pressing a kiss to the top before slipping it in the shoe. A small giggle left your mouth from the kiss you had just received. Your right foot also obtaining the same luxury as the left. When your heels were slipped on, Steve helped you up from the bench, knocking Sarah from her day dream. She looked down to see your shoes on and gleefully announced her observance. 

“Just like Cinderella and the Prince, Mommy!”

Sarah was absolutely beside herself, clearly pleased that her parents just reenacted a scene from her favorite movie.

“Just like Cinderella and the Prince.” Steve picked up Sarah, holding her in one arm and reaching for your hand with his other one, leading you all out of the apartment and to the car. 

 To be continued… 

Till then, if you love seeing Sarah, check out Days of the Week, Mon Cheri, and Gone. All of which are on my masterlist! 

[thelordofdarkreunion]

Magnificent Scoundrels- Grand Tour

I decided to write about Thomas Drake and his crew for this one.  As usual, I do not own any other characters except Drake and his crew.  Enjoy the story.  

“I am not a good person, but I am an honest one.”

-Thomas Drake

“You said you wanted to take a tour of my ship, so, here we are.”  Drake gave an elaborate, formal bow.  “Welcome aboard the Apocalypse.  You all have your engineers with you?”  He looked around the group of, who did, indeed have all their engineers with them.  “Good.  Everyone is invited, and if you are able to replicate anything you see here from memory, then I think it’s yours, fairly won.”  Which cut right into the heart of why everyone had their engineers here.  

Drake turned into the hangar bay, beginning the tour.  “The Apocalypse is an Apricus Industries 745-class light cruiser, heavily modified by us, of course.  Originally named the Summer’s Light, it was renamed something more appropriate for a warship after me and my merry band of maniacs stole it during the Jerrick War.  It was, uh, well, upgraded, as I said before, and now includes reinforced shielding on the hull, better engines, best in class, as a matter of fact, heavy railgun batteries, more point defense batteries, and nuclear launch tubes, of which I am particularly proud of.  Unique amongst most capital sized ships from my home galaxy, it can enter atmosphere, a fact that I have come to appreciate in my line of work.  Now, this,” he waved vaguely at their surroundings, “is the hangar bay.  We only need a couple of shuttles, so for the most part, it’s open and used by the armsmen for training.  Speaking of which,” he nodded in the direction of a group wearing a collection of military-looking uniforms watching two of their number spar, “those are the armsmen.”  Drake gave a sharp whistle, and the armsmen stopped what they were doing.  Three of their number walked over to the Scoundrels, while the rest milled around, apparently taking a break from what they were doing.  

Drake gave the classic back-and-forth gesture that has accompanied introductions since the dawn of time as he called out the three individuals.  “Derrick Saul, commander of 1st Squad.”  The armsman furthest to the left, a deeply sunburn man with hair cut so short he may as well have been bald, gave them a polite nod.  “Jean Garang, commander of 2nd Squad.”  The armsman in the middle, a tall woman with exceptionally dark-hued skin and short cut black hair also gave a nodd.  “And Rilgaldis, commander of 3rd Squad.”  A massive reptilian alien, well over seven feet tall, gave them a salute.  “Scoundrels, Saul, Garang, and Rilgaldis.  Rilgaldis, Garang, and Saul, the Scoundrels.”  Drake gave a moment’s pause.  “Well then, now introductions have been made.  Why don’t you three tell my glorious compatriots exactly where you come from and why you’re galavanting across the galaxy with an unstable mercenary?”  Drake’s joking manner broke the formal and somewhat strained atmosphere.  The Scoundrels relaxed, and Saul grinned.  

“Fine.  I’ll go first.  Born on Europa, joined the 317th Federal Expeditionary Division.  I’m here because, well, you pay more than the Federal Army, Captain.”

“Same thing with me.  Born in Sudan, joined the Army, got put in the 5th Guards.  Drake pays more than the Federation,” said Garang.  

“And you, Rilgaldis?”

“Born into the Dracus Army, left, joined the Imperial Foreign Legion, left, joined you because you pay better,” said Rilgaldis.  

“Yes.  The three leaders of my armsmen.  Matter of fact, it’s a wonder you two,” he indicated Saul and Garang, “get along as well as you do.”  

“Wait, what do you mean by that?” asked Kirk.  Saul and Garang grinned at each other.  

“You see, we are on opposite sides of one of humanity's oldest questions.  Matter of fact, Garang, let’s settle this once and for all.  You all seem like you know what you’re talking about.”  The Scoundrels looked at each other, hesitant about what the question would bring.  “So, here we go, and I know that you’ll all agree with me: 9 milimetre Parabellum or .45 ACP?”  

“What?” replied Vir.  The other Scoundrels seemed to be equally bemused by the question.  

“Are you not a soldier or a weapons enthusiast?  Don’t pick up guns like the rest of us?”

“I was a pilot, now an Admiral.”

“Oh dear me, the flyboys have their heads so high in the clouds they don’t know the answer to life’s greatest mystery.  Any of the rest of you?  No?  Bullets don’t exist where you come from or something?”  Kirk, Shepard, and Cain shook their heads to the negative.

“.50 cal.”  Master Chief added his input.  Saul whistled.  

“Jesus Christ.  Although,” Saul walked up and compared his height to the Chief’s, “if anyone can handle a .50 calibre handgun on the regular, it would be the two meter guy made entirely of muscle.”  

“Wonderful.  Now that we have that out of the way, onwards!” exclaimed Drake.  The rest of the Scoundrels followed, threading their way out of the hangar and through the winding grey passages of the starship.  Most were neat, clean, and paneled with easily cleanable grey metal, although one particular passageway they crossed was under repair, the panelling ripped away to expose a myriad of interconnecting pipes and wires.  A mixed group of aliens and humans, all wearing grey jumpsuits, were hard at work, fiddling with various tangles of sparking wires.  A short woman jumped from atop a ladder where she had been perched, examining the ceiling, and offered Drake a vague salute.  

“We’re almost done, Captain.  Wiring in this sector should be back up in no time.”  She seemed to notice the group following him for the first time, and gave them a cheery wave.  “Tor Herald.  In charge of...well...nothing in particular.  We,” this was accompanied by a wave encompassing the various workers, “are unofficially known throughout the ship as the ne’re-doers.  Unspecialized specialists, jacks of all trades, masters of none, we’re the crew that keeps the Apocalypse running.  This ain’t a military vessel, so we’re just on as regular crew members.  Nothing to do with most of the money and explosions that seem to follow the Captain around.”  One of the wires in the background started to spark alarmingly.  “Ah, shit.  Love to talk, got to fix this.”  She ran to the problem, an odd-shaped tool in hand.  

“Best keep going, then,” said Drake.  He gave the group a ‘follow me’ motion, and led them deeper through the halls.  “I get crew members from all over the place.  Most of the armsmen and specialists are ex-military, but the crew...I have from all over the place.  Which I said before.  Don’t really know how else to put it.  Got crew members from Earth, Vorketh, Aequalitas, Narcan, Delstrovic, and everywhere in between.  Now,” he turned and gestured to a section of more pleasant looking and open hallways, “as your esteemed colleague Jack Cooper can attest, these are the crew quarters.  They are located throughout the ship, so vital personnel can sleep next to their stations, but the bulk of them are in this area.”  He led them past the crew quarters to a pair of large sliding glass doors.  “And this is what we call the weapons room.  All our personal weapons are created, reparied, and tested here.”  It was a brightly lit room covered in stark white plastic, but what drew everyone’s attention were it’s two occupants, who, although fiddling with various bits and pieces, seemed to be in the middle of a fierce argument.  

“You see, the problem with your theory is, at the very heart of the matter, you’ve got it wrong.  The purpose of a government is to help its people by any means it finds necessary,” said a short, lean, black-haired man in the midst of inserting a new power core into a plasma gun.  

“No, the purpose of a government is to protect its people’s rights and protect them from foriegn invasion.  Otherwise, it should leave them alone,” replied a muscular, brown-haired man of medium height as he tightened the bolts on a massive machine gun.  

“Ah, but the thing is, the government can help people.  And at the basic level, why would you not help people?  You’re a Christian, and it is at the core of your philosophy to help others,” countered the black-haired man.    

“Individually.  It is our duty to individually help other people.  You’re a student of history, and you know what happens.  If the government helps people in the way you’re suggesting, then it gains control over them, and thus should it turn bad, the common people are helpless.”  The Scoundrels filed into the room behind Drake as the two argued, apparently oblivious to their presence.  

“The core problem with you is that you’re just an ignorant, uneducated farm boy who’s clinging to a dying philosophy,” sneered the black-haired man.  

“And you are a stuck up city student who has absolutely no idea how the real world works,” shot back the brown-haired man with a vengeance.  

“You’re a stupid moron who follows people who will plunge the world into despotism.”  At this, the brown-haired man threw down his wrench and cracked his knuckles.  

“I’d be very, very, careful if I were you,” he warned.  The tension in the air was almost like a physical being.  Several of the Scoundrels standing behind Drake tugged on their collars as if to escape from an oppressive heat.  Kirk stepped forward as if to mediate, but Drake held out a hand to forestall him.  

“Or what?  What are you going to do?” replied the black haired man snidely.

“This.”  And before anyone could react, the brown haired man stepped forward, wrapped his arms around the shorter man, and pulled him close into a passionate kiss.  They broke apart, and upon seeing the shocked faces of their various watchers, both started howling with laughter.  

“Oh, you should have seen your faces,” said the taller of the pair in between wheezes.  The other man was clutching his midsection and had tears streaming down his face.  He made some sort of strangled gasping noise and grabbed the edge of a counter for support.  

“We got ‘em!”  He broke down into hysterics again.  “We got you!”  Drake merely rolled his eyes.  

“Everyone, meet Mark,” he nodded towards the brown haired man, “and Oliver,” this was accompanied by a wave to the black haired man, “Danis-Holden, two of my three weapons specialists.”  The two, still trying not to laugh, stood up straighter and nodded as they were introduced.  Noting the still bemused faces of the Scoundrels, Drake sighed.  “So, you guys want to tell them who you are, where you’re from, why you’re with me and what was going on here?”  

“Sure!” replied Mark cheerfully.  “So, I was born on Enlalda, a colony world on the edge of Federal Space.  It’s an agrarian planet, and most people there moved from the center of Federal space because of religious persecution.  Like ninety-ish percent of the population are old school Evangelical Christian conservatives.  I was born and raised on a farm; grew up as a...well, old school Evangelical Christian conservative.  Always liked to tinker with things, got really good at repairing vehicles and the various guns you’ll find all farmers have on colony worlds.  But, I always thought there was more to life than just farming.  I wanted adventure.  I wanted to do something with my life.  So, one day a mercenary starship shows up,” he paused his narrative for a moment and looked queringly at Drake, “wasn’t that the Helidon job?”  Drake rubbed his forehead.

“Oh.  Yeah, it was.  Now that was a weird operation.  But I digress.  Please continue.”

“Yep.  So, as I was saying, the Captain here showed up near where I was.  I heard he was looking for a weapons specialist, and I had some experience in that area, so I decided to offer my services, and you accepted, and I joined the crew.  And that’s where I met this idiot.”  He gestured at Oliver.

“Damn straight.  But before we get into that, I have to tell you my story,” replied Oliver.  “I was born on Tyvander.  Metropolitan planet near the center of Federal space.  I grew up in a middle class family near one of the bigger cities, Menvander.  Like a lot of people, I went to college there: majored in political science, minored in specialized engineering.  Unlike some planets, Tyvander isn't super rich or famous, and there is no specialized educational infrastructure there, so if you want to go to college, you pay for it.  As it turns out, being a political science major does not pay the bills, so when the Apocalypse showed up looking for a weapon’s specialist, which I was qualified for because of my technical skills and engineering expertise.  So I joined up, and my debts and old, boring life didn’t follow.  The University of Menvander is not going to hunt you down if you declare bankruptcy and go galavanting across the galaxy with a group of mercenaries,” he finished.

“I’ll pick it up from here,” said Mark.  “How shall I put this…” he stopped to consider for a moment.  “Oliver was already aboard as a weapons specialist when I got here.  We worked together, got to know each other, and, as it turns out, the phrase ‘opposites attract’ is a very true one.  I always had the feeling that I was, well...gay, but, considering where I grew up, I never told anyone.  Didn’t really bother me.  I was perfectly fine doing what I was doing, and never saw anyone who peaked my interest.  ‘Till I met him, of course.”

“I’ve always been a hardcore liberal, been gay, and known I was gay.  Got here, met him, got married,” said Oliver.

“Wait, how did that work?” interrupted Shepard.  “You guys are all mercenaries who don’t really have legal residence anywhere, so…”

“Ah, yes.  We had a ceremony on the ship.  Was one hell of a party, actually,” replied Drake.  “Legally though…” he pursed his lips in thought.  “We’re all registered as Guild citizens for legal and infiltration purposes, so that might count...but for the most part, no legal or religious ceremony.  Doesn’t really matter though, all things considered,” he said with a shrug.

“Yep.  So now we spend all day repairing and creating weapons while bickering about politics,” interjected Oliver.  “It’s fun, actually.  Still don’t know why you support that outdated philosophy and religion when it doesn’t allow for homosexuality.  Which, you are.”

“Just because one part of a philosophy is wrong, doesn’t mean all parts of it are wrong.  Plus, you’re a hardcore liberal who supports the right to bear arms.  Like, all forms of weapons,” replied Mark.

“Eh, good point.  Goes with the job, I guess.”  They grinned at each other.

“Deviant freaks?

“Deviant freaks!”

“Goddamn right?”

“Goddamn right!”  They gave each other high fives then went back to their work.  Drake sighed.  

“Okay.  Let’s continue.”  They passed through the weapons room and into more of the winding grey hallways.  Drake spoke up as he walked.  “I should have probably told you, but everyone on this ship, myself included, is kind of nuts.  You see, being a mercenary means you kill people for money.  It does not attract the most...uh...stable of individuals.  Stable people stay near where they were born and go to college, or to some other form of school, or join the military.  Stable people do not go running around the galaxy and get into all sorts of weird things with me.”  He turned back to the Scoundrels and suddenly grinned.  “And by that logic, none of you are stable!  Welcome to the club!”  He turned another corner and walked into an enclosed room covered with constricting panels of all sorts of strange dials, knobs, and buttons.  The area was lit by yellow bulbs enclosed in metal cages, and the floor itself was made of metal grating, allowing one to see a series of tunnels underneath it.  The entire room was pervaded by a low, incessant humming noise.  “Now, this is the engine room.  It’s a lot bigger than it looks, but we need all the panels to keep the reactor functional, so it seems rather enclosed.  The engineers should be somewhere around here.”  He sighed again and gave a whistle.  “Oi!  Where are all of you guys?”  Without warning, a grey-jumpsuited woman slid from a small rectangular access hatch beneath one of the larger panels.  

“Right here, sir!  Fixing the 5130’s.”  She had a round, cheerful face framed with wispy brown hair.  She grinned up at the Scoundrels.  “Well, well, well.  Looks like we have visitors, everyone!”

“Pleasure to meet you,” said a muffled, echoey voice that seemed to emanate from the ceiling.  “I would come down to introduce myself, but I’m a little busy at the moment.”

“Visiters?”  A blond haired man poked his head from behind another panel.  “Pleasure to meet you.  Engineer First Class Boweman, at your service.”

“Engineer Baily,” said the woman, who had at this point gone back into the hatch.

“Engineer Khatri,” came the muffled voice.  

“K’rik Vhle’krik,” said someone else.  A large, brown insectoid alien turned the corner.  It looked like a cross between a centipede and a lobster, and stood on six hind legs, with eight more waving in the air in front of it.  Its back was protected by a large brown exoskeleton, and its eyes were mounted on two stalks on its head.  Cain tensed, his hand going to his sword.  Drake noticed the movement, but said nothing of it and instead made introductions.  

“Scoundrels, my engineering crew.  Engineering crew, the Scoundrels.”  He turned and addressed the ceiling.  “Are you busy at the moment?”

“A bit,” the alien replied in an odd, unnaturally exaggerated American accent.  “We’re trying to reroute the cooling systems of the 5130’s.”  

“Well then, I shall leave you to it,” said Drake in response.  “Moving on.”  The group walked through the engine room and through another hallway beyond.  “I would introduce everyone, but the cooling systems are very important in making sure everything goes un-exploded.”  

They passed into a large room covered with science equipment and what looked like the shell of a large bomb sitting in the middle of the room.  A woman with frazzled brown hair, wearing a welder’s face mask and a leather apron and gloves was standing over a strange device, pouring a red liquid into a stainless steel beaker.  She finished what she was doing, flipped up the mask and smiled at the newcomers.  

“Jennifer Muelka.  Ordnance and explosives expert.”  

“The remaining third of my weapons specialists,” interjected Drake.  “Brilliant at all forms of making things go boom.  A little too brilliant sometimes.”  She smiled sheepishly.  

“I do try my best to be careful.”

“So, I’m interested.  Why are you here?” asked Shepard.

“Oh that’s easy,” she replied with a laugh.  “No one else will let me do what I do here.  I create all sorts of nasty things.  Plasma, napalm...nukes, on occasion.”

“You...you, a mercenary, have nukes on this ship?” asked Vir.

“Yes.  No one’s complained, because if I do use them, I use them correctly.  I am very proud to say that the number of innocent civilians we have killed with nuclear weapons remains zero.”  

“That’s...kinda reassuring?” 

“Hey, if you’re hiring me, you get the best of the best,” said Drake.  Leaving Muelka to her work, they moved on.  THey walked through one long, spacious, and brightly-lit hallway before they reached a gleaming set of double doors.  “Now this is the bridge.  It’s located at the center of the ship to prevent anyone from targeting and destroying it.”  The doors slid open, revealing a large, spacious room lined with all sorts of computers.  The area seemed to be further divided into subsections, each with a semi-circular area accompanied with a chair.  Large windows adorned the entire length of the bridge, and upon noticing this, Kirk frowned.  

“You said we were at the center of the ship.  So what are those ‘windows’?”

“Computer screens, showing the space surrounding the ship.  Wouldn’t be a proper bridge if you couldn’t see outside, would it?”

“Fair enough, I guess.”

“Now then.”  Drake rubbed his hands together.  “I would like to introduce you to the two most important people on the ship.  Sarah Ordelphine and Eric Richter.”  He gestured to a lithe woman of medium height with short cut black hair and a man wearing a grey jumpsuit.  He too was of medium height, and his hair was brown, straight and cut short to the scalp.  A large scar ran across his forehead, the relic of some forgotten fight.  They both nodded curtly at the Scoundrels.  “Ordelphine is my chief navigator and pilots the ship, and Richter is my second in command.  So, why did you guys join with me?”

“I was and am the best capital ship pilot in the galaxy.  The Federal Navy and all of the corporations I was with before didn’t recognize that.  You did and still do, Captain,” replied Ordelphine.

“Damn right.  You’d think we were in a fighter, with some of the maneuvers you can do.  And you, Richter?”

“I didn’t have anything to do at the time.  Joined you.  Never had a reason to look back.”

“Fair enough.”  Drake spun around the room with a theatrical gesture.  “And so, the grand tour of the Apocalypse.  Met some new and interesting people.  I hope you enjoyed it.”

Hope you liked it.  The scene with Mark and Oliver might have been a little awkward or weird, but I am firmly of the opinion that most people are trying their best, and you can still like, love, or get along with them if you disagree politically.  If you have any comments, criticisms, questions, or requests, feel free to contact me.  And remember to sit back and enjoy your day!

[surlybobbies]

The Noises of Routine (deancas 3.7k)

Excerpt: 

Cas’s apartment has always been quiet, but now he’s even more thankful for it because he can hear Dean everywhere: the creak of his footsteps on the floorboards, the running water of the shower, the music that sometimes drifts from behind his closed door into the living room.

Cas wants the sounds even closer. He wants Dean’s footsteps in his bedroom, Dean’s murmur from the pillow next to his, Dean’s music from the nightstand while he gets ready for bed. He wants the noises of a lifetime of routine, the noise of a life with Dean in it.

(quarantine fic. Dean and Cas stay in Cas's apartment.)

Rating: T Tags: Quarantine fic, friends to lovers, emotional hurt/comfort, happy ending, roommates

Notes: A fic written for the “Quarantine and Chill” round of gift exchange on the Profound Bond discord. My giftee is @zigostia!  I’m glad they enjoyed it, and I’m glad to be able to share it with you all too!

You can read it on ao3 here or

When the news breaks, Dean and Cas’s eyes connect over Cas’s tiny kitchen island. Dean is standing over a pot of chili. There’s an empty bowl in his hand. Cas is perched on his secondhand stool with a chili stain on his collar.

They stare at each other while the broadcast continues from the TV behind Cas. He can see the light shifting on Dean’s throat when he swallows.

“With the confirmation of the first case of covid-19, the governor has issued a statewide stay-at-home order effective midnight Monday. We can expect to hear about how long this order may last during her press conference in a few minutes.”

Dean puts the bowl down. He doesn’t break eye contact with Cas, though it’s obvious his mind is miles away. “That’s… not good.”

Cas opens his mouth but he can’t find anything to say. He had known this moment would come eventually, his eyes having been glued to the TV now for weeks, but here in the moment he can’t quite comprehend it.

Dean’s hand skates over his eyes. “Fuck.”

“We’ll be fine,” Cas says, startled out of his shock by Dean’s distress. “Let’s make a trip tomorrow to Costco - “

But Dean is shaking his head.

Then Cas remembers. “Your lease is up next month.”

“In three weeks.” Dean gestures toward the TV. “This isn’t going to be over in three weeks.” He walks to the couch in front of the TV and sinks down into it. “How the hell am I going to find a new place in quarantine?”

“Surely your landlord won’t kick you out - “ Cas shuts his trap when Dean sends him a look because they both know his landlord’s reputation. At a loss, Cas wanders over and stands behind the couch. For a while they watch the news. The governor is late to his press conference and the anchor is repeating the talking points of the breaking news. Cas’s eyes slide to Dean, sitting on the right side of the couch. Cas knows there’s a permanent divot in the cushion from all the time he’s spent there. Struck by a sudden idea, Cas says, “If you don’t find a place, you can take my couch for as long as you need.”

Dean’s head sinks slowly into his hands. “Thanks,” he mumbles to his lap.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Cas stares at the back of Dean’s head, trying to figure out the reason behind his behavior. Then it hits him. “But before that you have three weeks stuck in your apartment.”

“With my neighbors stuck in their apartment.”

“Their dog,” Cas remembers.

“Their dog,” Dean groans.

A silence falls between them, though meanwhile the governor has finally made his way onto the TV screen. “Looking at the data, if we all do our part by staying home or otherwise practicing social distancing, we can expect to emerge from this situation in about four weeks.”

Dean, his head still in his hands, says some very choice words about his opinion.

“Stay with me, then,” Cas says.

Four beats. Quiet. Then, “Say again?”

“I’ve got a spare bedroom. You’ve got clothes here already. Pack your things and stay with me for four weeks.”

Dean lifts his hand and twists around to stare incredulously at Cas. “Pack my things? Cas, that’s a whole fucking apartment’s worth of shit - you want me to get it here in three days?”

“So you’re thinking about it.”

“I’m not thinking about it.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “The dog.”

Dean’s face falls suddenly. “The dog,” he sighs in defeat. “Fuck.”

So he moves in. Cas’s apartment is suddenly full of beat-up boxes, most shoved under tables and stashed in corners, ready to be moved again for when Dean finds a place of his own. Dean takes a few of the boxes into Cas’s spare bedroom.

Within a few days there’s evidence of Dean’s presence all over the apartment: his jacket in a pile with Cas’s near the door, his toothbrush in a separate cup near Cas’s, his shoes by his bedroom door, a spare sock in the dryer. It makes Cas feel warm in a way he doesn’t dwell on, even when he notices the way Dean smiles at him without fail every morning when he finally emerges from his blanket cocoon in the spare bedroom.

It’s hurtfully easy to live with Dean, but every time Cas wakes up looking forward to spending his day within Dean’s orbit, he walks into the living room and catches sight of the boxes under the coffee table and remembers why Dean’s there, why Cas is there, and why the streets outside are empty. Their days are simple and easy, yes, but there’s always an undercurrent of anxiety that Cas can’t seem to shake.

The first time they go grocery-shopping during the stay-at-home order, they go together, and only because neither wanted the other one to go, but neither could no one go, and so their stubbornness resulted in this:

Dean, driving. Cas handing him a disposable face mask before they get out of the car. Worried frowns hidden behind cotton and elastic. Without speaking, they quickly understand their roles: Dean handles the cart and Cas handles the groceries. They watch each other - what they touch and what they don’t. Cas watches as Dean weaves through the shoppers, his mouth a thin line every time someone gets too close to him.

He doesn’t say anything, but once they get into the car and wipe down their hands with antibacterial wipes, Cas heaves a huge sigh. Dean looks at him, and his eyes are gentle. They don’t speak on the ride home and eventually Cas’s heart begins to calm.

In the apartment, they take 45 minutes to wipe down their groceries. “Is this how it’s going to be from now on?” Dean sighs, after stashing the milk in the fridge.

Cas has spent the last 45 minutes watching Dean’s hands under the guise of health and hygiene. “I’m getting used to it,” he says.

Their routine takes shape over time and ends up looking a little like this:

Cas wakes up first. He makes the coffee. Then he skims through the news on his phone while he waits for Dean to wake up and start breakfast. They didn’t plan the arrangement: it came about only because Cas never ate breakfast and Dean figured out very quickly that if he wanted food in the morning he’d have to make it himself.

Eventually Cas starts joining him for breakfast, but Dean is still without fail the one standing at the stove every morning with a spatula in his hand.

They sit near the window to eat for the most part. They chat about the pains of working from home, all while watching the eerily empty streets outside and carefully avoiding the topic that dominates the news.

They go through bacon at an alarming rate, and one day when they run out Dean sulks the whole day.

“Threw me off,” he complains at the end of the day, sprawled across the couch with an arm over his eyes. “Accidentally left my meeting when I wanted to mute myself.”

Cas cooks dinner to give Dean a break. Cas is not a great cook but Dean always clears his plate with relish and claps a hand on Cas’s shoulder before clearing up and starting on the dishes. Cas lets him handle the dishes to avoid the judgmental look Dean had cast on him the first time he saw Cas washing up. “You’re using too much water,” he’d said, wincing.

Cas had blinked at him. “You’re welcome to do them yourself.”

“Honestly, I’d prefer that.”

So Dean handles the dishes and Cas wipes up the table and waits for Dean on the couch where they channel surf for a few hours.

When Dean starts to nod off, Cas will shut off the TV and nudge Dean until he trudges toward the bathroom to brush his teeth.

At the end of each night they end up behind different doors.

The stay-at-home order continues. The four weeks that the governor’s data had projected at the beginning passes as cases have not shown a decline. Quarantine edges into months. Cas’s hair gets long and Dean laughs every time he catches sight of him. Then one day he runs his hands through it in passing, and neither of them laugh. Dean just quirks a smile and takes his coffee and goes into his room to start work, and Cas collapses into an armchair because he’s in love with his best friend and can’t stand it.

The next day Cas lets Dean take clippers to his hair. It’s gotten out of hand, he says, but mostly he wants to feel Dean’s hands again. Dean turns on the clippers and Cas watches him in the mirror.

“You don’t need to look so worried,” Dean says, grinning.

“I’m not” is all Cas says.

Their eyes connect in the mirror. Dean’s grin falls a little, replaced by something soft and surprised and thoughtful. He’s silent through the rest of the haircut, and Cas lets his eyelids fall shut with every pass of Dean’s hand through his hair.

When they’re done Cas nods his approval at his reflection, turning his head left and right. “Who needs a barber when you have Dean Winchester?”

He catches Dean’s eye. Dean has been staring.

“Dean?”

Dean grins suddenly and begins packing up the clippers, winding the wire around his fingers. He won’t look at Cas. “Not bad, eh?”

The TV says the state will reopen in phases beginning in a week. The chyron across the screen confirms what Cas thinks he’s hearing, but it’s difficult to believe after so long in one place. Cas tries to catch Dean’s eye, but is unsurprised not to succeed. In recent days Dean is either staring into Cas’s soul or looking away completely and it’s more often the latter than the former.

“I still don’t think it’s safe,” Cas ventures, a little hesitant because Dean’s staring out the window again at the empty streets.

“It’s not,” Dean says. There’s a trace of anger in his voice, but Cas knows it’s not directed toward him.

“Will you stay a little longer then?”

Dean looks at him finally. He looks sad. “Yeah, probably. Sorry.” He clears Cas’s plate from in front of him and walks it to the sink.

They spend the first few weeks after the reopening of the state in much the same way as they did in quarantine. Cas’s apartment has always been quiet, but now he’s even more thankful for it because he can hear Dean everywhere: the creak of his footsteps on the floorboards, the running water of the shower, the music that sometimes drifts from behind his closed door into the living room.

Cas wants the sounds even closer. He wants Dean’s footsteps in his bedroom, Dean’s murmur from the pillow next to his, Dean’s music from the nightstand while he gets ready for bed. He wants the noises of a lifetime of routine, the noise of a life with Dean in it.

The want is not new. What is new is the sour feeling in his gut knowing that everything he wants is only just out of reach. If he could stretch out his fingers just a little bit more, he’d be able to pull Dean closer and keep him from leaving. Every day the boxes in his living room greet Cas and remind him that despite whatever routine they’ve established, Cas’s apartment is destined to return to its silence.

One day Cas finishes work early and wanders into the living room to see Dean sitting on the couch scrolling through pictures on his phone with a frown.

“Finished up?” Cas prods cautiously as he reaches for a glass in his cupboard.

Dean barely looks up. “Nah,” he said. “Took the day off so I could concentrate on looking for an apartment.”

Cas’s stomach sinks. He thinks of his next words carefully as he turns on the tap and fills his glass. “How’s it going?”

“There’s a few options. I might take a look at one of them later on today.”

Cas doesn’t respond. He’s staring at his glass of water.

“Wanna come with?”

Cas suddenly realizes how much he’s missed sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car. The trips they’ve taken recently have only been fraught with worry and tension, and Cas desperately wants to correct that. “If you’ll have me,” he replies.

Cas can hear the smile in Dean’s answer: “You know I will, Cas.”

The apartment building is nice but painfully far from Cas’s. After almost three months of living with Dean, the concept of having him almost an hour away makes Cas feel sick.

“You okay?” Dean asks, as they make their way to the building door. “You’re squinting again.”

Cas scowls, but Dean can’t see it behind the mask. “I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” Dean says, in the tone he’s reserved for when he doesn’t want to bother with Cas’s attitude. He presses a buzzer. A few seconds later, they’re being ushered up a set of stairs by a sweet old lady with curlers in her hair who coos over them and chatters about the possibility of having another wonderful tenant. She opens up the apartment and lingers at the door while Dean and Cas wander.

“At least it’s furnished,” Cas comments. The furniture is mismatched and a little beaten, but it will do.

Dean just shrugs. He’s been quiet since entering the apartment.

They make their way to the single bedroom. In it is a queen-sized bed and nothing else. They stand at the door and look at it for a long moment. Cas bites his tongue and digs his fingernails into his palm, trying not to think about who Dean might share it with. “It’s a decent size,” he manages to say. It might be the mask covering his mouth, but to his ears his voice sounds distant.

Dean looks at him with raised eyebrows.

“The place, not the bed,” Cas corrects.

It’s difficult to read Dean’s facial expression through the mask when he says, “I wish there were another bedroom for you.”

“That’s very kind,” Cas replies, a little taken aback. “But don’t let me influence your decision. It’s your apartment.”

Dean just shrugs and turns away.

In the end they leave only with words of thanks for the old lady and reassurances that Dean will get back to her.

When they return to Cas’s apartment, Dean throws his keys onto the table near the door and then takes off his shoes. His jacket goes on top of Cas’s on the door hook. He takes off his disposable mask and holds out a hand silently for Cas’s. When he gets it, he throws both into the trash and washes his hands.

He looks like he’s headed toward the fridge when he notices Cas watching him from his spot by the door.

“What?” he asks as he reaches for the fridge handle.

Cas takes a long breath. “Stay here.”

Dean freezes just as he opens the fridge. He blinks at Cas. “What?”

Cas has just watched Dean move through the apartment like it was his own, and it makes Cas desperate to be understood. “You’ve been here for two months already. Your clothes keep getting mixed up with mine, and you’ve taken over the fridge. We haven’t killed each other. You might as well just stay.”

Dean grabs a beer from the fridge. He looks at it, looks into the fridge, then looks at Cas. Cas knows from years of experience that Dean’s going to crack a joke, and he does: “Is that your only requirement for a roommate? ‘Must not murder me’?”

Cas still hasn’t moved from his spot near the apartment door. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” Dean says. He closes the fridge and then pops the top off of his beer to take a long swig. When he’s done, he just looks at Cas and blinks.

“That’s not a yes,” Cas points out after an uncomfortable few seconds of silence.

Dean leans against the counter and stares at his socks. “I gotta think about it.”

Anxiety worms its way under Cas’s skin, but he’s determined to quash it. He moves toward the sink near Dean to start dinner. He had plans to make a pot of chili again, but for the life of him he can’t remember where to start. After washing his hands, he opens the cupboard and grabs a few spices that sound familiar. Dean is still leaning against the counter a few feet away.

Cas puts the spices down and stares at them, hands on hips. He must looked stumped because Dean clears his throat and says, “Onion.”

Cas doesn’t acknowledge it but he turns to get the onion anyhow. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he reaches for the bowl behind Dean. Cas is close enough to smell Dean’s aftershave and almost crazy enough to lean in closer. He doesn’t, though he desperately wants to. Cas can feel a blush blooming on his cheeks but he avoids Dean’s eyes and turns away, onion in hand.

Cas begins to dice the onion. He’s never been great with a knife but this time, with Dean’s eyes on the back of his neck, he’s somehow even worse. It takes forever, and by the time forever has passed, Cas’s eyes are irritated from slicing the onion. Dean snorts at him when Cas turns around, eyes squinted, to wash his hands and rinse out his eyes.

“Every single time,” Dean says. Cas’s eyes are barely open so he can’t see Dean’s expression, but he can hear the traces of affection in his voice. “Go faster next time.”

“You’re hired the next time I need to cut onions,” Cas says as he washes his hands.

Dean’s quiet. Cas hears him take another swig of his beer as he leans down to try to rinse out his eyes. When he straightens, he feels Dean pushing a towel into his hand.

“Thanks,” Cas mumbles as he wipes his face. When he’s finished blinking away the moisture in his eyes, Cas is finally able to focus on Dean, who’s watching him intently.

The apartment is silent save for the whir of the fridge and the swing of the ceiling fan. If Cas listened really closely he might be able to hear the murmur of conversation from his neighbors, but right now he’s focused in on Dean, who’s living and breathing in front of him, a testament to the wonders of the universe.

In this moment it’s almost as if Dean is thinking the same thing about Cas. His eyes dance between Cas’s. His throat bobs. Cas is about to ask what’s wrong, but the words die on his tongue when Dean suddenly puts his bottle down and then lifts a hand to fit around Cas’s jaw. His hand is cold and slightly wet from the condensation. A shaky thumb grazes Cas’s mouth.

“I do want to stay, Cas,” he says quietly. “But you need to know what that means for me.”

Cas’s heart is in his throat. He opens his mouth to speak, and Dean’s thumb follows his bottom lip. He forgets his words.

Dean waits for a response. When he doesn’t get one, he gives Cas a pretend scowl. “You gotta say something.”

“P-please clarify,” Cas stammers. His cheeks are on fire, and his eyes are welling up again.

Dean kisses him. It’s just a touch of his lips against Cas’s, small enough to argue that it was barely anything at all, but Cas knows it for what it is: a question he has to answer.

“Clear enough?” Dean asks softly, staring at his socks again. He’s dropped his hands and linked them together in front of him. He’s still leaning against the counter. Cas would be angry with him for looking so goddamn cool but he’s too busy trying to process the fact that Dean has just kissed him.

Cas swallows. The towel in his hand is crushed by his nervous fist. “My offer still stands,” he says. “My home is always open to you.”

Dean looks up at him through his eyelashes with a slightly exasperated look. “Where I’m gonna live is not really the most important issue at hand right now.” His eyes dip down to Cas’s lips then back up to Cas’s eyes. It’s an invitation if Cas ever saw one.

Cas steps forward and kisses Dean. It’s a proper one this time, one that involves Dean’s hands on Cas’s ribs and Cas’s hands in Dean’s hair. Cas feels like there’s a current of electricity running through him, up to his ears and down to his toes, running through Dean everywhere their skin touches. It’s only when Dean makes an eager noise low in his throat that Cas pulls away (not without an effort), making Dean scowl.

“Dinner,” Cas says, his vocabulary greatly reduced. He wants to wrap himself up in Dean but knows there has to be a long talk beforehand, and they can’t do that when Dean’s hands are trying to inch down Cas’s waistband.

Dean closes his eyes. “Fine,” he mumbles.

Cas steps away and Dean’s hands drop. “But I take it you’re staying.”

Dean’s mouth twitches upward, though his eyes remain closed. “You couldn’t pay me to leave after that, Cas.”

Cas indulges in a pleased smile because he knows Dean can’t see it. He returns to the cupboard. By the time he’s gotten the ingredients gathered, Dean has gotten the bowls and cutlery, the pot and the stirring spoon. He arranges them on the kitchen island, then steps away.

Cas watches as Dean drags a box from underneath the coffee table and opens it. The sound of the cardboard is comforting in the silence.

“Hey,” Dean says, looking toward Cas. “Where should I put my mom’s picture?”

[evergreen-dryad]

bnha todochako snippets

apricity - the warmth of the sun in the winter + cafune - the act of running your fingers through the hair of someone you love

or: It’s 2 am but you’re craving cake and we’re both up anyway so let’s bake in our underwear AU

-- it’s all domestic, established Todochako down here. and a mess you’ve been warned

"What do you want for Christmas?" He'd asked, peering at the calendar above the fridge.

(They weren't quite sure why they'd put it up there. He could only just reach it, while she often had to stretch to her tippy-toes to tear off a page. Sometimes she just relented and floated herself. They agreed to make it a stretchmark of a sort.)

"Hmm," she said, pretending to think long and deep. "As long as it's not the same--"

"As your birthday gift." He recited drolly. She snapped her fingers, delighted.

"You got it!" She looked at him, a smile playing on her lips. "I'm not sure why you still have to ask that," a laugh floated out of her, stirring the quiet air of the kitchen. The sunlight shafted, golden and lazy for a brief moment.

He shrugged. "Just felt like it." The wool of his sweater shifted against his skin, prompting his shoulders to roll, as he sipped his hot cocoa.

It was December 23rd.

. "Silly," she muttered as she came in, prodding him in the side, like an overgrown cat she had just noticed the girth of.

"Why," he deadpanned.

"You can't just snooze the entire Christmas under the kotatsu." Her voice shook with laughter.

"Try me," he droned, and proceeded to sink his entire skeleton within the hood of the kotatsu.

He heard her huff softly, before her foot followed him to prod more insistently at his calf. "Come on, I know we both just got back from our patrols." The muffled sound of her voice filtered through the wood and cloth.

"Yes. Rest." He rumbled, trapping her foot.

"Daylight hours," she reminded, wriggling her toes against his fingers.

"Remember what you said last time about wanting to make the most of our days off?"

He exhaled, stirring some dust left over from the last time they'd cleaned. Right, he'd said that out loud back when it was autumn, and they'd missed going to see the maples and gingkos. He waited for them to settle. "Okay."

He extricated himself, cracking his back on the way.

"Pfft." She bit back a laugh.

He batted lazy eyes at her, readjusting to the light. "Lead the way."

"Mhm." She hummed, hopping into the boots she had just kicked off earlier.

Shouto followed her out the door in his comfortable shoes.

She wrinkled her nose at him. "It's so good that you don't have to bother with too many layers." Her breath fogged as she stepped out into the crisp winter day.

He knew what she was thinking about. "I was just as surprised I'd gone out in sandals."

She sighed out loud then, exaggeratedly. "In a blizzard, really Shouto?" Giggles were foaming in the turn of her smile.

He shrugged, an easy smile following.  "The reporters had a field day out of it."

"Pretty sure you nearly got a few fashion tabloids to make a new trend," she murmured, as she slid her card over the reader. They passed by the gates, following the road to the nearby park. .

Peering up through fingers at the glistening light of winter sky. Shouto stands, outlined, while Ochako looks on, fixated. He is the sun, for all her gravity is drawn to his magnetism, the supernova that is him. She can't look away.

.

(The gravity of a girl you love, who loves you.

There are so many colours within brown. Golds, for instance. The way the sun catches on strands of her hair like it's copper wire aflame.)

.

("And what do you want for your birthday?"

He blinks owlishly. "You are enough."

Ochako had tried for flippant, but clearly it had not prepared her for Shouto's arrow to the heart. "That's not a valid answer," she groaned, twitching with pleasure as he mouthed along the line of her neck, down the wrap of her collar...)

.

"It's fine, it's rather fun. Like a sleepover, y'know?" She'd said back when he'd asked if she'd be fine on the floor. He'd been prepared to look through the mattresses with all the research he'd done too.

.

(In the futon, waking up. Waking up to the one you love. Safe, warm in the cove of arms and blanket, hiding you two completely from the world. Dull light of city washing over the two of you.

it's late. You can't sleep. Shouto is clearly fast asleep. He's never had trouble sleeping, for as long as you've known him. He sleeps deep and still, as undisturbed as a log deep in the forest. You feel rather like an underwater diver happening upon a relic as you watch the strands of his hair shift as he breathes shallowly, blue light washing over him.

You feel quite bad having to wake him up, but needs must. Shouto may be a deep sleeper but he'll know as soon as you begin to extricate yourself from the folds of his arms, as soon as he feels air replace the space that was you.)

.

She breathes over him as she slowly opens her eyes. Adjusts from inner blankness to outer darkness. The lights of the city wash in, trailing in streaks of orange. Lamplight is enough to outline the sleeping shape beside her.

Shouto. As deeply asleep as she’s always known him. He has never had the trouble falling asleep that she does sometimes, the day’s thoughts all a whirligig in her head.

She watches him with half-lidded eyes, tracing the him that is still mostly a silhouette. Legs looped securely with hers under the quilt, one arm holding her close. Sleeping on his cold side, the chill that comforts him more than anyone, ensuring he doesn’t sweat on the sheets instead. His warmth fanning over her instead. She’s grateful. They never have to turn on the thermostat in any season.

It’s winter now. But because he is here beside her, she never needs fret over whether to turn on the heater anymore. She watches his breath lift, coalescing into crystals for a brief moment in time.

Here in the cove of his arms, under the covers. She’s too comfortable to move.

She’s also hungry.

Back before Ochako would have just made herself sleep through it. But she’s no longer teetering on the edge of destitution. She’s no longer living on that scant budget, always worrying whether her parents could make ends meet for the end of the month. When eating another meal would have been unimaginable.

Ah, her smile turns fond as she trails a finger over the sleeping man beside her, I now have someone who’ll notice if I get out of bed. They’re both heroes after all. He’ll feel the space left behind if she somehow finagles out of his embrace.

“Shouto,” she whispers into the shell of his ear. Repeats, until the pattern of his breathing shifts. “Shouto. I’m going to go bake.” A lilting tease enters her tone.

He shifts. “What time is it?” A gruff rumble to his voice.

She looks over his shoulder. “It’s just 2am,” she whispers back.

Shouto finally opens his eyes. “Was dinner not enough?” He sounds mildly reproachful. It was he who cooked last night. And Todoroki Shouto takes pride in showcasing what his mother taught him.

“Mm,” she drags out the sound on her tongue. “I think I’m just excited,” Ochako decides, her finger tapping her chin.

At his questioning gaze, she says, “It’s Christmas Eve.” Settling more into his side, she continues, hand skimming over his chest. Fingertips settle over his collarbones, light as a butterfly. “When I was little I read in storybooks that Western children leave cookies and milk for Santa Claus. I wanted badly to be one of his helpers then, just to have a taste of all these,” she sighs, lips fluttering over his skin.

He hums. “I see.” He cards a hand through her hair, running down to the small of her back. “Shall we go, then?”

She beams into his throat, pressing a kiss over his pulse. “Let’s go~”

They reluctantly part. Ochako takes the blanket, trailing behind Shouto as he trudges to turn on the lights in the kitchen. They both owlishly blink in the yellow glare.

“Now what do we have…” Ochako mutters as she starts opening cabinets.

“Flour — yes. Eggs, hooray! Luckily you didn’t finish them…” Shouto stands, a little lost at the edge of their small kitchen. Fuyumi had only led him through the steps for pancakes once.

“Chocolate!” Ochako pumps the bar in hand. She still has the blanket shawled around her like a cape. “Half-finished packets of nuts and seeds, guess that works too…” She looks to Shouto. “What else do we need?”

He falters. What was in pancakes again? “Butter?”

“Right!” She snatches the lopsidedly wrapped packet out of the fridge. “Milk too, annnnd the sugar, and—” She looks at him expectantly.

He lets out a little sigh. “Let me look it up.” Ochako lets out a little giggle in response, tongue slipping out sheepishly.

Shouto returns to their room for his phone. “Do we have oatmeal?” He asks, while scrolling through options. Ochako reaches for the tub and shakes it.

“Yes.”

“We also need cocoa powder-”

“Nooope we don’t have that.”

“Okay.” He flips to another webpage. “I’m looking at the first of various. Any candy left around will help.” Ochako nods, heading straight to where they store any candy they might receive from friends, co-workers or even just a grateful citizen. Which is usually on the microwave. Neither of them snack that much. Sometimes one of them gets sugar cravings, which is when the stash comes in useful.

“We’ve got some candycanes this time!”

“…we seem to really need cocoa powder.” Shouto wilts. Mint chocolate cookies had sounded perfect. “Peanut butter seems to be a common component of many of these no bake recipes as well.”

Ochako eyes the sole chocolate bar they have doubtfully. “We could mash it up…”

“And vanilla,” he mutters.

“Looks like a trip to the konbini is in order,” Ochako says as she walks over to look over his shoulder.

“This one may just need coconut,” Shouto murmurs as he feels her chin tuck into his space.

“Can we even find coconut in there?” They’re talking about the convenience store right across the street from their apartment building — it’s pretty unlikely they’ll have that kind of baking supply there.

“You never know.” Shouto shrugs, lightly jostling her face against his. She in turn wraps her arms around his waist, nudging her knees against the back of his.

“C’mon, let’s go sit. How many are we making anyway?” Ochako giggles against his ear, watching him scroll through several recipes with a ferocity.

Shouto mumbles indistinctly. It could be ‘don’t know yet’. Ochako’s eyes slit into a fond smile as she pushes his knees towards the couch. He complies halfheartedly. Ah, her dork.

Shouto slumps onto the couch, eyes never leaving the screen. Ochako sits with him for a while, watching him compare tabs before deciding to leave him to it. It seems like it’ll take a while, after all.

She heads into their room to grab a jacket and her wallet instead. Puts back the blanket. Keys, and a bag to put these midnight groceries. Yes, that should be it, she nods to herself, blinking slightly aching eyes from the sudden change in light. And probably the fact that she’s moving rapidly at this hour without a drop of water.

Ochako emerges out of their room, duly reminded to get a drink of water.

Shouto’s head is still bent. “Are you almost done?” She calls over rinsing a mug.

“Nearly. I think these three are good.” Ochako looks around at the ingredients she’d laid out earlier and tries to mentally tally how these might convert to cookies. Right, butter back in the fridge for now. She takes a good long sip.

They probably don’t have enough. They’ll see, she mentally shrugs, before striding back to where Shouto is half-melted into the cushions. He’s practically asleep, poor man. She lets a guilty giggle exhale out.

“Shouto, you want to go back to sleep for a while?” She asks, while taking the phone from his nearly limp hand. He grunts in response, neck going even slacker on the back of the couch. She hums out while she looks at the recipes he’d picked.

This one seemed fairly simple. They had the oil, oreos, chocolate, could make do without chips. Cream cheese was needed: she mentally circles that on the to-do list in her head.

This one used the flour they had, though with the amount of oats used they might as well buy another batch. Along with vanilla and peanut butter. And probably butter. Ochako eyes the fridge, trying to remember exactly how big their remaining slab of butter was. They definitely didn’t have this amount of sugar lying around either.

And if they were going to buy all these, it’s definitely enough for another recipe. Though this one required cocoa powder. Ochako counts them off her fingers. Seven, or eight counting white chocolate.

Could they get all these in their convenience store? She has no idea, but they could probably do without the vanilla.

Probably.

“Alright,” she mutters to herself, gently shaking Shouto awake. He comes to after several lazy blinks. “Are all three okay?” He asks after a while.

“Mhm. Are you good to go out like this?”

Shouto glances over himself. “Yeah.” He slowly stands up, releasing a light yawn.

Close the lights. Shrug on shoes. Open the door, and they’re in the stairwell. Click-clack, go their feet as they opt for the stairs. They smile at each other as they mime going down the steps on tiptoes. A cobweb hangs into Shouto’s face. And then they’re out in wintery air.

Ochako briskly starts moving to keep herself warm, Shouto lopes to follow her pace. They haven’t much to go — the lights of the shop building next to their apartment are just ahead.

The crisp air of the heater envelope them as they push past the glass doors.

*** “So,” Ochako huffs, her left shoulder slumping, finally free of their weight. Shouto, bringing up the rear, unpacks the groceries.

(and this is where I stopped writing. as one sees back in 2019 I spent too much braincells on trying to describe realistic baking at 2am by 2 people who don’t bake. have the rest of the outline tho!)

-apron -start measuring, mixing - ochako takes the blondie, shouto votes for the oreo truffle as he’s the hand crusher. also aids in the classic cookies while his chill in the fridge. -talk about the secret santa their fellow alumni are organising this year - ocha muses over what to get kiri, shou has to their amusement drawn baku who they both know reacts to his overtures of friendship like a sizzling cat

”Something motivational,” she says, lost in thought, not noticing that she’s mixed her mixture perhaps too long. Shouto pulls the bowl from her.

“Something manly,” adds Shouto. “You could get him one of those old-time sumo prints?” At Ochako’s uncomprehending gaze he explains, “Something like ancient style painted waves.”

“Hmm.”

“Or mini-weights, I’m sure he’ll like those.”

“This is Kirishima we’re talking about. By this stage of his life he’s probably gathered all classes of weights already. What else is manly…”

-continue kitchen noises and motion

“Never mind. I’ll sleep on it.” She sighs. “What about you? Have you decided on something for Bakugou?”

He grunts. “Either merch or -” The image of Bakugou blowing up the gift and yelling ‘I already have this’ pops into his head. “Never mind, Bakugou is much more of a collectionist than he lets on to be.”

Ochako stifles her laugh. “You can just call him a nerd, Shouto.”

“That wouldn’t be fair to Midoriya.” They both smile wryly in agreement.

“Hmm. Now this is a dilemma.”

“Righhht?”

-put their heads together some more

“what about handmade stuff?”

“How much more time do we have? We’re meeting up,” glances at the calendar next to the clock, “tomorrow, actually.”

Ochako screams quietly. “Okay, er…”

“There are always the cookies we made,” Shouto points out.

“Uh-huh, back-up gift. Yao-momo’s quirk would come in so handy right now,” she groans. “Fish hat?” she mutters to herself, the thought not quite pinned down. Does Kirishima even like hats? Why is she thinking about hats?

“What does Kirishima like to do? Train. What do both of them like? Also train. And spar. And in Bakugou’s case, win-”

“Videogame?” Shouto suggests out of the blue.

“Ooh.” Ochako slaps her palm. “That has potential.”

The question now is, what videogame? And on that thought Ochako has another: “Book. Motivational book or quotes for Kiri.” She points a finger at Shouto. “Since videogame seems more Bakugou’s thing.”

“Get the Art of War by Sun Tzu for him,” Shouto suggests.

“Good idea!” Ochako bounces, excited. “Hopefully he doesn’t already have it.”

“Back-up.” Shouto points to the cookies.

“Yup. And for Bakugou, eh… videogames aren’t really my thing, but what about something he can really take his anger out on? Like karaoke?”

“You’re saying that as if he needs a stress ball. Which he does. I’ll look something up online.”

***

//notes: all snippets/headcanons written back in 2019 for a secret santa, but I unfortunately never managed to hand it in. Very unlikely to write this wip anymore, so I’ll just dump out this can of brainworms.

bonus/more hcs:

-it starts with them being neighbours - move into the same cheap, jap-style apartments -agencies close-by (ura still in tokyo, but it is closer to the train station so both can travel easier for their respective parents) -likely he wants nothing to do with endeavour's money -he'll live a simple life completely outside of his help -same Japanese tastes (except todo's probably more classic while ocha's more konbini style) (they cross well at homemade - Todo gets fuyumi to teach him more after moving in - satisfaction at blowing ocha's mind with eg. wagyu beef sandwiches) (todo being a proud housewife is just??? Their friends had spluttered at the sight of him putting on a pink frilly apron with no change in expression) -his mum is completely happy and very excited to teach him more recipes (over letter for now, she can't quite go near a stove yet)  -doesn't mind electric cookers

"The pee is motivation to start the day early!" squad - ocha, kiri, smtimes baku not that he ever admits it bcs he's a rough sleeper even more so from being the victim of villain attacks  -> (wow this was in my notes??? wow??)

[idlecreature]

it’s a delicate business, and you know just how to charge me

Jonah doesn’t write. 

Winter lasts an entire year.

Vampire!Mordechai for Jonah Magnus Week! Part 1/Part 2/Part 3

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Mordechai Lukas/Barnabas Bennett, Jonah Magnus/Barnabas Bennett

Content warnings: Dubcon, Unhealthy relationships, manipulation (hence the dubcon warning), The Lonely, death of an OC, choking (both sexy and unsexy) 

—there is still so much to tell you. I tell you first in my mind and then the effort of writing is too much for me—

The thick, wet cough that drove Barnabas out of Moorland house finally lifts in the night, and Barnabas breathes a little easier. He wriggles as he anticipates leaving his sickbed, but does his level best to enjoy a quiet Sunday morning wrapped in a heavy duvet with the Kempthorne’s dog eating bacon rinds out of the palm of his hand. 

Eleanor Kempthorne primly raps on his door. She balances a sleepy Sampson and a tray piled high with papers over her heavily pregnant belly. “Morning,” she says. “I’ve got your news and your letters - tell your friends to go easy or they’ll exhaust all the postmen in London.” 

“Still catching up after my vacation in Kent,” Barnabas says, taking the tray from her with an appreciative murmur. 

“I’m glad you finally took that vacation, Barny.” Eleanor moves over and sets Sampson down on the bed. The child immediately burrows under the covers and latches onto Barnabas’s side. “The countryside in Kent can be beautiful - shame you went in the dead of winter, with that bad snowstorm! Seven feet of snow, I heard!” 

“Y-yes, that was unfortunate,” Barnabas says. He recalls little but pale days, ice crystals suspended in the air, grasses bleached of all colour, winter roses, and after Mordechai returned barely scraps of anything but the furniture of Moorland as Mordechai took him against every chair and every table. 

Eleanor flops on the bed next to him, frowning as she presses the flat of her palm against his flushed cheek. “You seem brighter today, but you still have a fever.” 

“O - oh, I think I should be well enough to leave soon. I hate to be a burden.” 

She shifts on her side to face him. “There’s no rush, Barny. Would you like to read your mail while I read the Bible?” Her smile dimples. “I’ll make it a silent service.” 

“That’d be appreciated,” Barnabas mutters. They fall into an easy silence as Eleanor opens her Bible and follows her Reverend husband’s elegant cursive and Barnabas does his reading and little Sampson drools on his arm and the dog gnaws on a pillow’s tasselled edge. 

There’s no letter from Jonah. Jonah’s always the first to forgive, and quick to forgive; Barnabas is unsure what to make of his silence, but it fills him with unease. 

“Barny,” Eleanor says, sifting a hand through Sampson’s hair. “John and I have been thinking about ways we could make you a part of the family - and how do you feel about becoming a godfather to Sampson and the new baby?”  

“Godfather?” Barnabas echoes. “I -” 

Eleanor inhales sharply and before Barnabas can flinch away she grabs his hand and holds it against her belly. 

“Do you feel that?” 

Barnabas’s eyes slip closed, and yes, he feels the rhythmic movement, and deeper, as a body waiting to be born shifts like the turn of the earth. Barnabas can feel the baby’s impatience. 

He removes his hand, trying to twist in the bed between the dog across his legs and the five-year-old pinioning his arm. “I don't - I don’t think you want me as part of your family - as an influence over your children. I’m - I’m an atheist.” 

Eleanor studies him, eyes dark and solemn, but not shocked or frightened. “Ah,” she says. “I did suspect. And you know I love you regardless?” Her roaming hand moves from Sampson’s crown to Barnabas’s neck, her fingertips catching across the newly knotting scar. “What’s this mark, Barnabas? It looks like -” 

He slaps a hand over his neck. “Nothing,” he says. He starts coughing emphatically into his elbow, and the scar is forgotten as Eleanor fusses over him and gets up again to fetch him a fresh pitcher of water, lifting sleeping Sampson up and away, the dog following close on her heels, and abruptly, he is alone. 

*

Little Sampson jerks at Barnabas’s arm like a waterspout as they watch Sampson’s mother being put into the ground. 

Barnabas’s body aches with a disquiet pressure that rings like a struck bell through his ribcage and his teeth and all the small bones of his hands. He feels newly aware of each shift of bone under the crushing weight of his flesh. 

He remains stoic. For the little boy’s sake. 

* 

It’s still the choke of winter, and there are debts to be paid. 

Barnabas decides he doesn’t care where Mordechai gets his money. He just wants it. It’s horribly unsentimental of him, but perhaps Jonah was right, and Barnabas’s morals are just gilt-wrapped-guilt, and his goodwill means nothing. It’s the banal truth that the whole of Barnabas’s life is founded on money. The world turns on it. As long as you have enough, you will always be accepted, and you will never be missed. 

Barnabas is someone who has always enjoyed the pleasure of a transaction. And if the particulars involve him standing in a mirrored hallway with a monster opening a vein in his neck, then, well. 

There are many mouths to feed. 

*

—though it was radiant, crystal-clear, one of those days when the earth just pauses, enchanted by its own beauty, and every new bud whispers: “am I not heavenly fair!” it curls up in your belly, the beauty of life! In spite of everything, one cannot but praise life.—

* 

Whenever Mordechai’s in Edinburgh, they meet in somebody’s garden. Someone’s put a lot of effort into making it a nice garden, into a picture of domesticity, with an apple tree and a lemon tree, marigolds and hydrangeas, and red lilies in terracotta pots. It would be a lovely place to spend an afternoon with a loved one. 

Barnabas considers the springtime flowers. They’re nice. Their perfume disguises the heavy tang of blood that always hangs around Mordechai, and that’s also nice. 

“We should get some flowers for Moorland,” Barnabas says, mostly to keep up their one-sided conversation. “Different ones, I mean. Reds and pinks and oranges to liven up the place a bit. And maybe a fruiting tree.” 

Mordechai forgoes a vocal response as per usual, optioning for a shrug that falls like gravity. 

“It could do with a bit of colour,” Barnabas says, trying to goad him into saying something because he’s spent their precious passing afternoon in utter silence and it’s starting to get on Barnabas’s nerves. Barnabas nudges his knee against Mordechai’s thigh. 

“I’m colourblind,” Mordechai says eventually. He’s still looking away, squaring his jaw. “All the men in my family are.” 

“And you’re... proud... of that pedigree?” 

“No.” 

Barnabas sighs, following Mordechai’s dour gaze to the patch of violets. Barnabas knows the flower meanings - he memorised a book of them as a child - but he refuses to think about them. He makes no insistence on prescribed symbolism, only the shapes and the colours that the eye takes and the heart interprets. 

“What does purple look like, to you?” 

“I can’t tell you,” Mordechai says. And Barnabas understands that. 

“What colours can you see, then?” 

Barnabas places a hand on Mordechai’s back, where a doctor might listen to the auscultations of his heart, and massages the bands of hard muscle over his skin at the place where he is not quite human. 

“Blue,” Mordechai says, leaning into his touch. “There is a shade of blue that I find haunts me lately.” And Mordechai presses his gloved hand to the corner of Barnabas’s eye. 

His skeleton stings, hisses, and pain lances down his bones. Barnabas gasps and Mordechai pulls his hand back as if bitten. He looks at Barnabas in open shock. “Did I hurt you?” 

“You - you gave me a fright,” Barnabas says. His heart beats quickly in his chest, and his bones still fizz and tingle. “That’s all.” 

Mordechai keeps looking at him, and Barnabas worries he’s lapsing back into that dreadful apathetic silence. But Mordechai breathes in, and his gaze collects some focus. He looks at Barnabas properly, then. Deeply. Then he says, “Do you think you could ever love me?” 

“I - “ Barnabas says. He wants to bleed into the flowers, into the afternoon. He feels the silver scars under his cravat, their coldness, their weight, like a collar. “Not in this lifetime, I think,” he says, waiting for a flare of embarrassment that doesn’t come. He doesn’t think he’s capable of hurting Mordechai’s feelings. 

“Then put your hands around my throat.” 

“...” 

“Go on.” 

Barnabas wraps his fingers around the vertebrae, thumbs touching together on the soft, thin skin over Mordechai’s windpipe, where the ugly gash of a surgical scar bites into his adam’s apple. 

“How does that feel?” Mordechai asks. 

Mordechai feels cold and dead under his hand, wax-skinned and corpse-damp. There is no thrum of life, no beating vessels that run like roots under his flesh. Barnabas feels like he’s close to learning something about violence and desire, how close they are, how the wires can get crossed. He squeezes Mordechai’s throat, just enough for the vampire to feel the promise of stolen breath. 

“Let me make you immortal,” Mordechai says. And he swallows; Barnabas feels the rolling constriction of his throat. “Please, Barnabas,” he whispers. 

Barnabas drops his hand to his side. “No.” 

Mordechai looks at him furiously, stonily, unrelentingly, but he makes such a small choked-back noise as he wraps Barnabas up in an embrace that offers him little comfort. Barnabas buries his face in Mordechai’s hair, inhaling the scent of blood and frost. It’s Mordechai’s wordless way of showing Barnabas that he means more to him than life. 

*

Mordechai moves in him so slowly, so deliberately, but he’ll still bruise. They take their pleasure from the ransoming of Mordechai’s self-restraint. When he comes, his teeth graze Barnabas’s pulse like a promise, but his jaw does not close. He waits on Barnabas’s word. 

When he receives silence, he is not disappointed. He pulls the blankets up over Barnabas’s shoulders and ducks his head so they’re sharing breaths and Mordechai closes his eyes and feigns sleep, but when Barnabas wakes up, several hours later, Mordechai has dropped the pretence of humanity and lies there, sharp and cold, with his fingers ghosting over the shape of Barnabas under the duvet, trembling like fish’s gills desperately working out of the water and it’s a race to see what kills it first, the choke of no oxygen or the drown of its own blood. 

*

“You look pale tonight, Mr. Bennett,” Mrs. Blackwood says. Another Christmas with the Blackwood family, the same faded paper decorations and the sewing hanging limply from lines across the low ceiling. There’s a new smell, polish and boot leather, brought home by the eldest child’s apprenticeship to a shoemaker. 

“I’m fine, thank you,” Barnabas says as he sips his sherry. He’s sitting in the best seat in the house, right up against the stove, and it’s stifling him, prickling over his skin and wetting his armpits. He doesn’t dare loosen his cravat, though, the starchy collar scratching uncomfortably at the new necklace of barely-closed wounds.

“We’ll get some colour back in the boy’s cheeks right enough,” Mr. Blackwood says fondly. It’s exactly the kind of thing Barnabas might have wanted his own father to say, once, but now it just sounds gauche. He doesn’t want that anymore, not any part of it. 

Barnabas hands his presents to the children: polished toy horses with delicate pink lips and real, curling eyelashes. He barely remembers buying them. 

“And we have a Christmas present for you, Mr. Bennett,” Mrs. Blackwood says when her children have stopped crowing and hold their toys against the candle-light so tongues of orange flick over polished white bodies. 

“Oh, that won’t be necessary -” 

“I must insist,” Mrs. Blackwood says. “Annie knitted it special for you, and she’d be upset something awful if you don’t want it.” 

The girl in question blushingly presents her creation. It’s bright red and clumsily knitted, the cabling loose and uneven, but the wool is soft and warm, and it’s the thought that counts. The thought of any one of the hardworking Blackwoods spending any time or money on him - 

“Don’t worry about the cost, sweetheart,” Mrs. Blackwood says. “It came out of our James’s Christmas bonus. He’s made a lot of shoes this month, hasn’t he! He’s moving up in the world, and we’re so proud of him, and that’s because of you, Mr. Bennett!” 

As she speaks, Mrs. Blackwood takes the scarf and wraps it around Barnabas’s neck. It’s long enough to go around several times. It makes the heat worse, the sweat slicker, pouring out of the reservoir of his body like a spring.

“Thank you, Mr. Bennett,” the James in question says dutifully. 

“Mr. Bennett?” Isabel says in alarm. 

And, oh, good lord, he’s sobbing. He’s sobbing in front of people he needs to respect him, to see him as a Gentleman, and it’s great, whooping gasps that escape him like a crack in a pressure valve, and it’s all he can do but hastily bid goodbye and push away Isabel’s arm and flee that unbearable heat, the den-like house and the cured-leather and the sweet smell of rum pudding and bodies in close habitation and he stumbles into the winter night and the clarity of the cold, and it’s there, after a few minutes to himself, he realises that he doesn’t want to wear any colours that Mordechai can’t properly see. 

Barnabas speeds down Morningside Road, the buildings all endlessly long and featureless dark grey, avoiding every stranger he passes on the street until he comes across a homeless man half-frozen to the pavement under the awning of a business, a newspaper over his face barely stirring with his breath. Barnabas claws off the choking, luridly red scarf and winds it around the man’s neck, tucks the man’s coat around him a little tighter, and pulls off his own gloves and gives them to the man for good measure. The man doesn’t stir. 

Barnabas breathes again after that. 

*

—you know M. Everything is give and take with him. When he is away I miss his companionship. I miss talking with the man but when he’s in London or at the garden we can only agree when we are silent or out of each others sight!!! I miss him. I miss you. I hope you can forgive me, Jonah, my foibles and my rash words and my shame. I take it all back. I lie down at your feet and anticipate your heavy tread.— 

*

The sixth time Barnabas arrives at the doorstep of Moorland house to repay a debt, Mordechai is waiting for him. It’s enough of a break in their usual routine that Barnabas approaches cautiously, curiously. 

Mordechai offers him a compromise in the form of a small silver ring. It’s a sign of Barnabas’s naivety that he thinks Mordechai is proposing, and he laughs in Mordechai’s face. Mordechai flashes his teeth at him and tells him what it really is: a dressing ring in the fashion of Beau Brummell, a man whom Barnabas has always thought himself as being diametrically opposed to in every regard. 

Later, Barnabas takes great pleasure in feeding the ring to Mordechai, watching the glint of metal as it is swallowed, the shiver of it against his prick as Mordechai tugs it gently with his tongue. Barnabas is not as gentle with Mordechai as Mordechai is with him; he likes it when Mordechai chokes, fisting his hand in Mordechai’s pretty curls so he can’t pull his head away, wetting his cheeks and chin with saliva. Barnabas feels the curved piercing bite into the back of Mordechai’s throat, and the catch and pull of his skin must feel like torture. But when Barnabas has found his completion he barely strokes Mordechai before he spills across Barnabas’s hand. 

*

Jonah is always the first to reach out, to reconcile. It’s coming up to a year since they ended that evening with a fight, and Barnabas is starting to believe that after the flames of anger died away, Jonah found that he simply didn't care for Barnabas’s company any more. Barnabas wouldn’t blame him, but it still hurts to lose him. He still sits at his writing desk a little after Christmas and writes a letter with no expectations of a reply, and that, more than anything, makes the yawning pit inside him stretch a little wider. 

—anticipate your tread. I think sitting in that garden has made me a very lonely man. There’s something to be said about watching life unfold and feeling completely separate from it.  But I must end this letter on a better note: they say in April the snows will have melted and even before it is all quite gone the flowers will begin to rise again... 

Please, Jonah, can we be friends again? 

Your loyal servant, 

Barnabas Bennett. 

* 

The cheque comes in the mail, and it is a staggering sum. Enough for Barnabas to set up a proper office, hire a second staff member, open space for another family.

Barnabas wonders what Mordechai will ask of him in return; a sum such as this is a poorly-concealed threat. He could always rip up the cheque. That’s a choice Barnabas could make. 

But Barnabas is certain that this is more than what Mordechai can decently afford, he just doesn’t know whether Mordechai knows that. Mordechai is not a fastidious accountant like Barnabas; he spends his money like he has it in infinite supply, hasn’t noticed Barnabas draining him at all, and Barnabas would very much like to continue with the arrangement until he has taken everything from Mordechai, keeping nothing for himself, of course; he wants to drive Mordechai Lukas into the quagmire of desperate poverty as much, and perhaps even more than, he wants to pull families like the Blackwoods out of it, and he doesn’t think he has the willpower to stop himself until he has Mordechai, Moorland house, and the entire Lukas estate crushed into the ground like pale, bloodless worms. He thinks he could love Mordechai, then. 

Barnabas’s bones sing softly under his skin as he waits for the cheque to clear. 

[firestark-addict]

Because He Was the Weakest

(A/N) I know that in Chapter Two we're supposed to assume that everyone left straight from the townhouse after they talk with Beverly to go to the clubhouse but -because I wanted to write this fic- in this they sleep in their clothes and leave bright in the morning with Mike. Please don't jump on me for that. Thank you guys so much for reading!

---

Mike had told them to get some sleep about an hour ago.

No one seemed to really unpack or properly prepare for bed at all. Once each room's individual door had been shut, there wasn't much noise left in the townhouse. Richie swore he had heard the bathwater run in Bill's room next door, but it only ran for a few seconds before being quickly shut off. Some shuffling came and then it was silent once again.

Richie had taken off his pants and tossed his over-shirt off to the side with them, deciding he would just slip both of them back on in a few hours when they left for god knows where Mike was taking them in the morning.

He had collapsed into the large bed, sinking into it like a marshmallow. After tossing his glasses on the nightstand and flicking off the lamp, Richie focused on trying to fall asleep. He curled up as tightly as he could, burying his face into the pillow and tuning out the rattling hum of the old townhouse's radiator.

It was dark and quiet.

He hated it.

Richie did everything to blur out the images that kept flashing in front of him. At first, he saw vague things from years ago; terrifying things. Things that hadn't quite taken shape yet in his memory but the emotion was there. The terror. Then he saw the restaurant and Mike beating the table with the chair. Everyone watching and screaming. Absolutely helpless. Finally, he saw Stanley.

Richie let out a harsh breath, squinting his eyes closed as tightly as he could.

Stan.

"Jesus."

His imagination wouldn't stop trying to recreate what they had heard on the phone. He tried to imagine what Stan might've looked like now. He tried to imagine him with his wife and Mike giving him that phone call. He tried to imagine his voice and his trembling hands and finally the despair consuming him whole. He tried to imagine the bathtub. The blood. His last thoughts. His fear.

Except he didn't try to imagine any of it. It was just there, in his head, subconsciously building the emotional torture for him.

Richie wiped his eyes dry, keeping them closed as he did.

Time went on when finally, Richie felt sleep coming for him. The weight in his chest seemed to drift off with him as he fell deeper and deeper into his pillow; welcoming the sweet distraction of sleep. Just as he was standing on the edge of unconsciousness, a voice broke through the stilled air.

"Rich!"

The sharp whisper brought him halfway back. Richie stirred under the comforter, letting out a low grown.

"Rich, you awake?"

"Mmhm…"

"I think there's something in my room."

Richie rubbed his eyes, forcing himself painfully back into reality. He dragged his head out of the pillow and rested himself on his forearms in the mattress. Slipping back on his glasses, Richie blinked in the dark before making out Eddie's familiar shape standing beside the bed.

"You what?" Richie said loudly. A gruff grogginess still gripping at his voice.

"I think there's something in my room." Eddie whispered again.

He rubbed the side of his face. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean I think there's something in my room asshole."

"There's nothing in your room."

"Seriously? You're gonna tell me that after the fucking fortune cookie shit?!"

Richie looked at the genuine panic in Eddie's face. He'd gotten good at being able to tell when Eddie was overreacting or if it was a real concern. Usually, it was the former. But right now, it seemed like he was quite sure of his fear.

He stayed watching Eddie's face in the dark room for a few more seconds before finally tearing his eyes away from him. Richie threw over the comforter, dragging himself out of the warm bed and into the ice cold room. Eddie waited for him to collect himself as he scratched at the collar his shirt nervously. Richie stretched out his arms and back, refusing to bother with his mess of bed hair as he scooped his phone out of the pockets of his discarded pants. He flicked on the flashlight function and looked around the space.

Eddie's eyes followed him across the room. "What're you doing?"

"Looking."

The townhouse had odd antiques all over the place; up against the wall or displayed on tables. Every room seemed to have a weird distinguishable theme. Richie's room just so happened to be the 'Golf Room'. When he finally spotted the bag of old iron golf clubs hung on the wall, Richie grabbed the handle of the largest one and pulled it free.

"What're you gonna do with that?"

"What did you want me to do? Just go in there with my fucking phone?"

"Wait, you’re going in there?"

Richie rolled his eyes, tossing the golf club on his shoulder before swiftly turning back to the door and heading into the hallway.

"Rich! Richie wait!"

The sound of Eddie's quiet tight footsteps quickly appeared behind Richie's loud wide ones. The two of them took the few strides over to the room next door.

"Hold on-" Eddie grabbed his upper arm, stopping Richie from reaching for the doorknob. He moved closer, shifting his voice from a whisper to a low hushed tone. "Shouldn't we wake up the others?"

"I'm sure they'll wake up if you start screaming."

Eddie's eyes went wide. "Wha- why would I be screaming?"

"Anything worth waking them up for that might be in this room would be something you'd scream at; so don't worry about it."

"That's not funny."

"Kinda is." He shrugged.

Eddie shook his head. "You're a dick."

Richie pulled out of his grasp and got a hold of the doorknob. Eddie watched over his shoulder as the door slowly creaked inwards, disappearing in the dark cramped room. The floorboards groaned beneath his bare feet as Richie took a step inside. Using the flash from his phone, he found the light switch against the wall beside him.

Richie flicked it upwards. Nothing.

"Yeah, the lights went out earlier right before I heard the noise."

"How'd you know the lights went out?"

"I had them on."

Richie turned back to Eddie; a sly smirk on his lips. "You were sleeping with the lights on?"

"I'm sorry Richie, we have a fucking killer clown after us and you're gonna call me a little bitch for leaving the lights on? Fuck you."

Just then, there was a loud clatter sound that exploded from the back of the room. Eddie let out a sharp-edged gasp and jumped behind Richie; grabbing his upper arm again. Richie threw the light towards the noise; his heart pounding in his ears as he scanned the floor for something, but there was nothing to be seen.

"I think it's behind the nightstand." Eddie had switched back to whispering.

Richie stayed put for a few seconds. He gripped the golf club's handle tightly in his hand as Eddie's breath quickened behind him. He eyed the nightstand before finally making his way deeper inside.

"Rich!"

"Stay here." He whispered back as he crept further across the wood floor.

"Richie come back!" Eddie had folded his arms over his chest, holding himself tightly as he stood in the doorway. "Let's go get Mike or Bill -Rich!"

The cold air of the room nipped at his skin as Richie went deeper. He held out the light and lifted the neck of the club just slightly off of his shoulder. His eyes frantically searched the space with each step.

SHET SHET SHET

Eddie and Richie jumped when the loud scraping sound cut through the air from the back wall. Eddie was right, it seemed to be coming from behind the nightstand. The chilling noise continued as Richie leaned down. He listened for a moment before looking over the small wooden frame of the stand.

Eddie watched him with horrified eyes, his feet still glued behind the doorframe. "Rich..."

With his phone in his hand, Richie reached behind the stand. He took in a deep breath, collecting himself as he summoned his next bout of courage. Then, in one hard pull, Richie yanked the stand from the wall. Casting the light downwards and throwing the golf club up overhead, Richie was ready to attack whatever lay on the other side when suddenly, he froze.

"Richie?" Eddie leaned forward.

"Oh my god."

"What is it man?"

Richie tossed the golf club onto the bed beside him, keeping his eyes on what Eddie couldn't see. Eddie stared at Richie until he suddenly ducked down, disappearing behind the nightstand.

There was some shuffling. Eddie could see the light from Richie's phone flicker before it suddenly turned off, plunging the room back into darkness.

"Richie! Are you okay?!"

"Holy shit."

That's when he suddenly reappeared from behind the stand. Eddie's eyes followed Richie's tall figure as he made his way back around towards him, something clasped between his hands.

"What is it? What are you doing?!"

He planted his feet in front of Eddie, a look of horror over his face as he stared at his closed hands.

Eddie stayed still. "What the fuck is that man?"

Richie met his gaze before slowly extending his hands out to him.

"Rich…"

"Just look."

"I don't wanna look!"

Arms still shaking, Richie snapped open his hands slightly, a small fuzzy head popped out from his grasp and let out a high pitched squeak.

"FUCK!" Eddie screamed, leaping backwards and covering his face.

"It's a fucking mouse dumbass." Richie said flatly.

"You're Satan." Eddie heaved, crossing his arms and glaring back up at him. "You're fucking Satan."

"I'm Satan?" Richie scoffed. "It's a mouse. You literally woke me up in the middle of the night because you got scared by a baby mouse."

"Can you just get rid of it?"

"There's like a big hole in the wall back behind the stand. I think he chewed through the wires. That's probably why the lights went out." The little creature squirmed and squeaked in Richie's grasp as he looked it over. "I bet there's like a million more of these guys in here. This place isn't exactly up to code."

"Why are you holding it?"

"To show you."

"Yeah, I saw it. Now get rid of it."

"You still scared of a little mouse?"

"Do you know how many fucking diseases those things can carry? And you're just letting one sit in your fucking hand."

"You don't have any diseases do you little guy?" Richie held the mouse up to his face. "Do you? Huh?"

"Richie-"

"How much would you pay me to kiss him?"

"If you put that thing anywhere near your mouth I will throw up."

"Fine." He chuckled. "Let's let him outside."

---

The rest of the townhouse was just as dark and quiet. Richie had let Eddie take his phone from him and light up the stairs as they went downwards. Once they got to the front door, Eddie threw it open and stepped back, keeping himself as far away from mouse as possible.

Richie moved up to the doorway before turning back around. "You don't wanna give your roommate a final farewell?"

“I will chuck it out myself if you try and put that thing near me again."

Richie laughed through his smile as he turned back to the open air. "Goodbye little buddy."

Bending down, Richie opened his hands. The tiny mouse scrambled out of his palms and raced off into the street. The two of them stood in the doorway, watching it disappear into the dark.

The air stilled out between them as they kept their eyes on the night. Time ticking on as they stayed in place.

"I'm sorry man."

Richie shut the door and turned around, surprised at Eddie's sudden change of tone. "For what?"

"I was scared shitless of a mouse." Eddie ran his hands over his face, letting out a long deep breath. "I'm just on edge. Everything's getting to me."

"To be fair, you're always on edge."

"Fuck you."

Richie laughed again. "It's okay. I think we're all in the same boat; which is completely understandable given the Pennywise trip we had at the Chinese place." He patted Eddie on the shoulder, taking his phone back from him before turning to the staircase, ready to head back up to his room.

"I can't stop thinking about Stanley."

Richie stopped in place. He turned back around to see Eddie hadn't moved; his eyes still on the front door. Richie bit the inside of his lip as he stood there, watching him a second to try and let the words come to him. His heart lurched forwards at the thought of Eddie in the same place he was an hour ago; forced imagination racing to create the nightmare of reality.

"Me too." He answered quietly.

Eddie turned back around to see Richie's eyes on his feet, his chin buried against his chest. "It's not fair."

"No." Richie shook his head, taking a broken breath. "No, it's not."

"You alright Rich?"

"I think I'm as alright as the rest of us." He sighed. "Everything's just so fucked." Richie looked back at Eddie's worried eyes. "What about you?"

He simply shook his head. "The longer we stay here the more I remember him and the more…"

Richie nodded. He understood. It was all coming back to him too. The heartbreak deepening the more they remembered what they were missing.

The radiator rattled above them as they stood in the dark lobby, neither wanting to move much.

Finally, Eddie shrugged. "I don't think I can go back in there."

Richie's eyes raised back off the ground to meet his. He adjusted his glasses, thinking a second before clearing his throat. "Well...if you want, you can sleep in my room."

"Haha, very funny."

"I'm being serious."

Eddie eyed him back, a grin breaking over him. "Nice try asshole but I'm not six. Way to fuck with me right now."

"I'm not fucking with you."

"Alright sure." He crossed his arms.

Richie let our a tired sigh, turning back towards the stairs. "Fine then, sleep down here if you want."

Eddie watched him begin to climb the steps before jumping forwards. "Wait! Rich!"

He stopped against the railing. "What?"

"You're not fucking with me?"

"No man, I'm not fucking with you."

Eddie presses his lips together, thinking before finally giving a curt nod. Richie watched as he held his chin high, climbing the stairs up past him. He couldn't help but smile, following after Eddie.

---

"You can sleep on that side." He pointed.

Once Eddie was under the covers was when Richie flicked off the lights. He then maneuvered to the other end, peeling back the comforter and climbing inside. Richie had to pull himself closer to the edge, not particularly familiar with sharing a bed with someone. Once his glasses were tossed back on the nightstand, Richie rolled onto his side, facing away from Eddie.

"Night Rich."

"Night Eds."

The two drifted into silence again. The rattling radiator carrying on.

Richie couldn't fall back into sleep. Something was tugging at him that kept him awake. He had suddenly become very aware of Eddie's presence in the bed with him. No reason why. He didn't make much noise and he wasn't moving around. But Richie couldn't stop focusing on him. The weight in the mattress beside him and the soft breathing distracted Richie like no other. He just laid curled in his pillow, eyes half-open in the dark.

"Richie."

His name was mumbled quietly from the covers beside him. Richie half jumped at the sudden noise, thinking Eddie was asleep.

"What's up buddy?"

"You said he got to Stan first because...because he was the weakest."

"Yeah." Richie sighed, feeling the guilt weigh in his chest. "I shouldn’t have said that."

"It's true though." Eddie paused, taking a breath. "What if I'm next?"

Richie's eyes went wide. "Why are you saying that?"

"Come on Rich. You know in the order it would have to me next. I'm not like Bill or Bev or you. I'm nothing like you guys."

Richie paused for only a second before rolling over. He met Eddie's eyes in the pillow beside him, looking over his face before speaking.

"I don't know if you know this but in the parking lot tonight I was the first one who tried to bail."

"Yeah but you're...Richie come on. You're you. You're scared but you don't give a shit. I'm not like that."

"Sure you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Listen," Richie had noticed Eddie's hand rested in front of his face. Then, without even thinking about it, he had grabbed hold of it. His eyes still on Eddie. "Yeah, you are. And who cares even if you weren't. What happened to Stanley was cause he was alone. Us, all of us aren't alone alright? We're together. So no matter what, we're gonna be fine. Together."

Eddie's gaze stayed fixated on Richie, soaking up his words.

Richie felt his heart skip a beat when Eddie tightened his own grip on his hand. The two holding hands a moment before Richie quickly cleared his throat and pulled away from Eddie, his attention still facing him.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Their eyes stayed on each other as the seconds ticked by. A sudden fear swelled in Richie chest. The same fear that had swelled when he pulled his hand away a moment ago and when Eddie's wedding ring glinted in the dark. It's was a dumb fear he didn't know the source of, but it stung.

God, had it stung.

"Get some sleep man. Who knows when Mike wants us up." Richie nodded before rolling onto his back, resting his hands up under his head.

His eyes focused on the ceiling in front of him as Eddie shifted where he was. He didn't roll over though. Eddie stayed put facing Richie.

Eventually, Eddie's soft snores took the air. It was a nice sound, Richie had concluded. Sleep was starting to make its way around his edges as he listened to it.

That's when a small weight appeared on top of his waist. The sudden foreign physical contact shook Richie awake. He noticed the mattress had suddenly dipped down beside him as a heat pressed up against his side. He snapped downwards to see what it was. Richie’s eyes went wide as he stared down at -Eddie.

He was still snoring, completely asleep. Eddie had shifted over and curled up into Richie’s side, his hand lightly resting on top of him.

Richie went completely still, just lying there watching Eddie closely. He didn't have time to reel from his shock though when Eddie suddenly pulled his head up, resting it back down on top of Richie's chest. He felt his heart skip several times as Eddie lazily dragged his hand across his stomach and curled at his waist, pulling himself up close. Richie's face went hot as he stayed unmoving, letting Eddie nuzzle over him.

His chest was light as his focus was pinpointed on Eddie. His breathing, his weight, his warmth. It was a sudden and unexpected comfort.

That's when the memories started to flood back to him. Richie had imagined this before. A long time ago.

He had? Why?

But this wasn't like the fiction he used to fantasize over. This was real.

Richie's heart was thumping so hard he was worried it would wake Eddie up, forcing him to move off of him.

He didn't want that.

Why?

Richie wasn't a big fan of personal attention. He preferred to keep his space from people, something he was sure his therapist had an answer for. If someone had fallen asleep on him like this he would've shoved them off by now.

But this wasn't just someone.

This was Eddie.

It was like a floodgate opened in his head. More of those vague faded memories began to clear once again. But less so moments. No, he didn't remember the moments, just the feeling. This strong feeling. The feeling he had for...him.

Eddie stirred again, pulling himself tighter to Richie's waist.

Richie felt his breath catch in his throat as he waited for Eddie to release. But he didn't. He stayed there. Close and safe.

Hesitantly, Richie pulled one hand out from under his head and turned his eyes back on Eddie. Hovering the arm over Eddie's shoulder for a moment, Richie finally decided to rest it down on top of him.

He closed his eyes, waiting for Eddie to suddenly awaken. But he didn't. He stayed fast asleep.

A broken smile took Richie's mouth and eyes. A desperately happy smile that he couldn't explain. There was a feeling, he felt it back at the restaurant when he saw everyone there and they were happy and good -it felt like coming home. Richie had never felt a feeling quite like it. He hated his real home. It was cold and empty. Even his family's home felt the same. But with everyone sitting around that table he felt like he had just come home. His real home. It was the feeling of right. The feeling of warmth. The feeling of love.

Richie felt that here again, right now, with Eddie curled around him and his own arm protectively wrapped over his shoulder.

It was a piece of him he had forgotten about that fell back into place.

He never wanted to move again.

Then the familiar sinking feeling fell on top of Richie. Realizing he would never have this. Realizing he would never even be able to talk about this. Realizing Eddie was probably thinking of his wife right now. Realizing that for Eddie this didn't mean the same thing as it did to Richie. And now the guilt came in. The disgust and anger he had for himself.

God. Why did he feel this way?

"Richie…"

He looked down at his muffled voice as Eddie had pressed his name against his shirt and into his chest. Eddie's voice was tired, half asleep. Just barely awake to make a comment that for some reason was important enough to blink open his sleep ridden eyes.

"Yeah man?"

"You smell nice."

Richie felt his eyes well up. He let out an empty relieved laugh and rubbed Eddie's shoulder.

"Thanks Eds."

[morphituu]

Milagro

Chapter 9: “Mexico”

Ch: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 

Nick’s grimace was just as skeptical as Daryl’s, the pair staring through the window at the older model SUV Fero had proudly come upon without much explanation.

We needed a car, so I got one, he’d only said, but the officers would’ve bet every penny they had that if they opened the drivers side, they’d find twisted wires hanging from the steering column.

“We’re gonna stick out like a sore thumb in that thing,” Nick stated the obvious, but Ward still scoffed.

“Two elves, an Orc and two humans getting into a car together is cause enough for concern,” Ward shook his head.

“They’re not looking for cars filled with passengers, though. They’re looking for Bright’s who rely on magic to get them where they’re going. We’ll slip right under their radar as long as we travel carefully.” Tikka explained, coming from one of the rooms with new clothes on, ones that better melded into everyday life. Nick did a double take; it was amazing how well brown contacts could mask her true identity. She went from elf to valley girl in a matter of minutes.

“It was supposed to be a routine call, just to check-up on some suspicious activity then leave,” Nick rubbed his forehead, recalling the stormy night.

“That’s when she attacked you guys?” Callie asked, sitting cross-legged before him on the bed.

“No. It was a Shield of Light base that had been attacked, and then we found her with the bodies,”

“What was she doing there?”

“Running from Inferni, her sister,”

Callie’s brow cocked. “Her sister?”

“For you,” she handed Daryl a razor, already a stream of protests coming from him. “And you. I can make those appear long again,” she explained, pointing to his face.

“M...my tusks?” Nick touched his lip cautiously, brows knit together in concern. “You can grow them back?”

“No,” she pulled the wand from her back pocket now, her hand unexpectedly holding under his jaw.

“Woah hey hey hey,” Ward tried to step between them, but she already had it pointed excruciatingly close, and in this proximity, he could see how the light moved down the small cracks and grooves of it’s enchanted wooden design, but the glowing never grew past the small trails of twisting, ethereal light it emitted.

Nick could feel a tugging on his filed teeth, and the feather-light touch of the wands essence grazing against his chin and cheeks, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him to hesitantly touch the two impressive, curved tusks once Tikka had withdrawn her hand.

“Holy fuck,” Daryl mumbled, wide eyed and unable to pull his eyes away. “You look like a damn Orc,”

He could feel them with his tongue, but he needed to see.

Nick pushed past them, leaving Tikka to turn and watch as he moved to the bathroom.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she barked, getting ready so stand.

“Sit down, he had reason-” Nick tried grabbing her arms.

“Fuck reason!”

“Callie! Sit down!” he hissed, but she hesitated before sitting reluctantly, arms crossed and face flattened in anger. “He thought I’d let his shooter go over Clan Law,”

“Why couldn’t he just ask you?”

“He had. I’d lied,” he shrugged. “It wouldn’t have held up in court, so I covered my ass,”

She sighed. “And then your captain tried to frame you,”

He nodded, remorseful at the call of bitter memories. “He covered me, more than I could’ve ever expected,”

Apprehension gripped him before he flipped on the light, staring at what he knew was his reflection, but didn’t recognize. Looking at photos before they’d been filed was one thing, but to see the image of what he once was before his decision exiled him from his own race left him… dejected.

When it came down to it, was it only tusks that set him apart from other Orcs? Despite being full-blooded, absolutely Orkish to the way he walked and the family that surrounded him, why did others only look at this?

It’s because you look human without them.

He bared his teeth, moving his head side to side to detail their appearance, how it felt to have them pressed effortlessly against his top lip when he closed his jaws. He really did look more Orkish.

“They’ll fall off in a few hours,” Tikka stood in the door frame, but he didn’t look at her.

He stared at his own yellow eyes. Why’d you ever do this?

She shifted, fixing her bag at her side. “We should get going,”

Nick nodded, dropping his gaze. There were no words offered as he squeezed past her, heading to the back room where Callie napped as they finished collecting themselves.

He didn’t knock, but he didn’t walk in immediately, either. How would she react?

“I’m awake,” She called softly, curled around her stomach at the edge of the bed.

“We hit a fucking Binding Spell. We could only stay within a certain radius before the wand started acting up, and we couldn’t leave Tikka behind. She was like a child,” he went on.

“You couldn’t have called for other officers? Anyone?”

He shook his head. “Who’s to say they weren’t like Chang and the others? They would’ve killed all three of us to get their hands on the wand,”

“They wouldn’t have been able to hold it though,” Callie tried, but he shook his head.

“There’s ways to get around that,”

She exhaled, still holding his hands. “So you had a Bright, Altimira and LAPD after you,”

“Not just them,” he mumbled, looking at her with tired eyes.

He closed the door behind himself. “You alright?”

She nodded, her face still hidden in the pillow with his uniform shirt draped over her upper half. “He hasn’t let me sleep much,” she explained groggily, her hand resting over his after he’d sat beside her.

Slow swipes over her curvature revealed that Leo really was spinning, pressing here and there. It stirred a soft grin across his tusked lips.

“Woah,”

His eyes flew to hers.

“Your teeth,” she noted, slowly sitting up.

“Part of my disguise,” he quoted, forgetting that he couldn’t run his tongue over a clipped tusk anymore. “Is it that bad?”

“No, not at all. I’ve only seen pictures of you like this,” she studied innocently, running the pad of her thumb up one softly.

“Tikka said they’d fall off in a few hours,”

Callie scooted closer, her feet resting on the ground. “You don’t sound too thrilled about that,”

He shrugged, lowering his gaze. “I didn’t recognize myself when I looked in the mirror. Not just my reflection, but,” he motioned his hands about himself. “My entirety. I was a completely different person. I was still an Orc,”

Callie had to repeat his words to herself, but then she inched closer, leaning in until he looked at her. “Why would you say that?” She asked sadly, her head following his when he shifted, his expression sorrowing. “Mande, mi amore?”

She glanced up at him after tugging down the collar of his shirt, the pads of her fingers moving over the frayed scar. An injury at work is what he’d always told her.

But then there was the time in the hospital he’d come out with some of the truth. Dorghu had shot him, he’d said, but never had he mentioned he’d… died.

“I’m okay,” he assured, rubbing her arms after she’d scooted to sit directly before him, unwilling to let him go.

“You actually died, died?” she choked, looking at him frantically. Nick nodded, grabbing her hand to hold tenderly.

“Tikka brought me back. Ward had said it was less than a minute, but it felt like days I was stuck in that void,” he recalled. The floating emptiness during that time still unsettled him. It was like being absent from your own body, unable to form coherent thoughts as time dragged by. “I came back in better shape than before, actually,”

She was still gawking at him, her color a few shades lighter and jaw dropped, eyes starting to gloss over. “You died,”

“Baby,” he held her face, her grip strong around his wrists. “I lived. I found you,”

She blinked away the tears, pressing her face tight against his collar when he hugged her. To think the man she’d come to love so boundlessly and child she carried could never have existed in her life put things into perspective, to say the least. She clung tighter to him, her fingers curling in his jacket. What would there be without him?

“So then?” she asked, sitting back.

“They… let us go,” he knew that sounded ridiculous, and the look she gave him only solidified that.

“What if I could’ve fought harder to keep them? I was so hellbent on becoming a cop that I let them take this away from me,” he motioned towards his face. Nick already knew how to speak around the tusks; it was like years hadn’t passed and they’d never been filed down in a cold dentists office, his hands gripping the chair until his knuckles rang with pain.

“They shouldn’t have made that a requirement,” she agreed, holding his large hands.

“They don’t make people cover their tattoos or centaurs dock their tales, so why me? Maybe I wouldn’t be so hated by everyone if I’d found some way to keep them. I tried too hard to be normal and I still fucked up,”

Callie barely made out the last part when his voice started to break. “Don’t do that, baby. You did what they said because you had a dream, and you made it come true. They never should have made you or even Sergey clip your tusks, but even if- there was no way you could’ve made everyone happy. You worked so hard, please don’t let this bring you down from the mountain you conquered. You’re still Orc just as much as anyone else, no matter how you look,” she stated firmly, her eyes unwavering as she held his face, wiping a stray tear that slipped out, the inner turmoil swirling in his ambers.

“You’re still Nick. You’re still Orc. No one can ever take that from you,” she said softer, her forehead resting against his when his cheek leaned into her touch. He took in deep breaths as she lead him from the dark cloud he wandered through in his mind, his hands that had been gripping her thighs now moving up to hold the sides of her stomach.

“Can’t imagine the aftercare from a bite like that,” she cracked softly, and was elated to see his grin, and hear a throaty chuckle.

“Don’t know if I’d be able to do much with these,”

Carefully she tilted her head just enough to plant a firm kiss on his lips, stirring a throaty growl. Now he held her face as they exchanged a few more sweet pecks, reluctantly leaning back from her space when she smiled too wide to continue.

“Still do that,” she giggled, but drawled into a long sigh when he pulled her to his chest, holding her tightly.

“What would I do without you?” he said into her hair, his face pinching in embarrassment when his blood started to rush after scenting her.

“He grabbed the wand. He killed Leilah,” he nodded slowly, staring off beside her. “Tikka had slinked off by then, and we didn’t know if she was okay until she popped up during that award ceremony,”

“Did you see her again after that?”

“No, that’s when she disappeared. All those years that passed I started to wonder if it’d all been a hallucination. It all happened so fast and then it ended, like nothing had ever happened. It was trippy,” he said into his palm, an elbow rested on his knee. “Life just went on after that. A little easier, albeit,”

“How’s that?” she asked, leaned against the headboard beside him with pillows supporting her achy back.

“I was blooded after that night,”

“So that did have to do with the wand?”

He nodded. “The building we were in was on fire and by the time I made it out, I realized Ward wasn’t with me so I ran back in to get him,”

Callie grinned. “You saved him?”

Nick nodded, the corner of his mouth pulling in for a crooked half smile. “Officially Fogteeth,”

Her head rested back. “Wow,”

Nick leaned back with her, nodding. He hoped unloading his master secret didn’t inadvertently burden her, but God did it feel good finally getting all that shit off his chest. He looked down to find her hand, lacing their fingers and holding it in his lap. When she didn’t move, he bumped her arm.

“Too much?” he asked.

She shook her head. “That’s why you didn’t like my neighborhood, huh? I literally live two blocks from Abrams Street,”

Nick shrugged.

“You should’ve told me sooner,”

“I couldn’t. MTF has everything tapped,”

Her eyes widened. “Everything?”

“I wouldn’t surprised. Definitely my phone,”

She sat forward, glaring. “I’ve sent nudes!”

“So have I,”

She hit his arm. “Our sex tape!” she hissed, but after a few beats of silence, they both laughed, only able to imagine what kind of stir that caused across the agents face who monitored that. At the thought of Kandomere possibly being the one to unfortunately observe that- someone who absolutely hated Orcs, maybe even more than humans- Nick was breathless, tears starting to pool in his eyes as he hunched over into Callie’s lap, his big body shaking from laughter.

“Hey,” he pulled from her, hands sliding across her sides to hold her stomach. “You buckled and asked, didn’t you?” he eyed her suspiciously, but she blew air between her lips.

“It was Dr. Sangui’s fault, actually. She blurted it out during an ultrasound,” Callie grinned, looking down to watch his hands move over her stomach.

“No shit?” he chuckled, matching her soft smile.

“I was gonna put another sticky note on the door to his room that said his name to see if you’d notice,” she confessed.

“I would’ve noticed right away,” he leaned farther in, kissing her stomach before resting his forehead against it. “I look at it everytime I pass,”

It was quiet then, Callie rubbing his shoulders and Nick simply holding her, letting this gentle moment envelope him.

“My boy,” he uttered softly. “He’s gonna look like you,”

“You think?”

“Boys take after their moms,” he reasoned, sitting up with a final kiss and pass of his palm over her stomach.

“You look exactly like your dad,”

“That’s an Orc thing. You’re human, he’ll look like you,”

“With your color,” she grinned, the pair daydreaming.

A few soft rapts against the door made them both flinch, and Ward stuck his head in, now bare faced. “You two ready to bounce?”

Callie withheld any comment, but her raised brows echoed everything he had mumbled to himself while he shaved off his impressive mustache.

“Not particularly,” Nick grumbled, turning back to Callie.

“Wait-” they heard Tikka call from outside the room, squeezing past Ward to amble up to the pair as she dug in her bag. “You get these,”

Handed to her was a small container with contacts inside still floating in the solution.

“Wear these with your hood up and you’ll look like an Elf,” Tikka explained, and Callie’s head snapped up.

“Isn’t disguising myself as an Elf even more suspicious?” she asked, pulling her hair into a bun and slipping her hood up.

“But you won’t look like you, and that’s what we want,” the Bright said before leaving the room again, meeting Fero who was finishing loading up the SUV.

Nick stood first to help her stand, and followed her to the bathroom to watch her meticulously put the contacts in.

“I’m going to vomit,” she sang, holding her eyelid up. “I’m going to puke,” she forced, straining to keep her eyes open as she popped the contact in. With a groan and shuddering shimmy of her shoulders, she blinked it into position, pausing to look in the mirror.

Another small fit, and the other one was in, leaving herself, and Nick, and Ward- who’d peeked in curiously- staring back at her in the mirror, amazed at the difference.

“I don’t like that,” Nick said with a sour face, but Callie shrugged.

“I think I look kinda cool,” she doted, pulling her hood tighter over her dark hair.

“Yeah but how often do you see pregnant elves?” Ward asked, and the two looked at him. “They use surrogates,”

“Ghetto Elf then,” Callie piped, and Nick nudged her arm. “So? Does it look believable?” she asked, turning before the men who were looking at her just as skeptical as they did the SUV. The longer they all looked at one another, the more their already brittle confidence in this excursion thinning by the second.

“This isn’t gonna work,” Nick mumbled, running a hand down his face.

“It’ll work. They don’t care who crosses in, only who comes out,” Callie reassured, but that made them all pause, and ponder. “How’re we gonna get out?” she mumbled.

The men groaned, turning away.

“Let’s go.” Fero stepped into the room, his bright eyes concealed and platinum curls covered.

They all pooled in the front room, zipping their jackets or adjusting other various items of clothing, glancing nervously out the window.

“You all act like we’re gonna be jumped as soon as we walk out,” Fero teased, and the officers glared at him. “You think they expect you to be in some motel?”

“Fero,” Tikka snapped, glaring heatedly before she moved to the door. Nick and Daryl both flinched when she opened it nonchalantly, but Callie holding her Orc’s hand helped bring his confidence back to a reasonable level as they walked out of the room.

“You two couldn’t look more obvious even if you tried,” Fero said through the corner of his mouth when the men’s head turned and observed on a swivel, even bumping into one another as they made their way to the SUV parked across the lot.

“We’ll be okay,” Nick said lowly to Callie, turning here and there with a hand on her back as she hoisted herself through the middle seats of the SUV.

“You tellin’ me or yourself?” she cracked, trying to lighten his mood, but he only stared at her flatly.

Ward sat in the front beside Fero, smacking the panel beside him. “Let’s bounce.”

Tijuana

“They’re coming out,” Callie declared, groaning when she had to pinch softly across her eyeball to pull the contact out.

“They’re going to recognize you!”

“No they’re not! You said yourself- MTF doesn’t operate in Mexico!” Callie hissed back at Fero, shuddering when the other contact was slipped out.

“That doesn’t mean they’d try to prevent us from getting in!” Fero barked harshly, pulling back on her arm.

Nick broke the contact, growling loudly and chest to chest with the Elf who was baring his teeth also.

“Both of you- enough!” Tikka forced her way between them, a hand on either chest as the men continued to glare hatefully at one another.

“I’m with Cal, she’s our only translator,” Ward stated calmly, stepping to stand beside her while she was letting her hair down around her shoulders.

“These covers might have worked in LA but they’re nothing but suspicious at the border,” Callie explained, pulling on Nick’s arm so he reluctantly stepped beside her. “The less you go in with, the less likely they’ll bother you,”

“That’s a horrible thought process,” Fero rolled his eyes.

“Hey,” Callie hit his chest as she was walking by, and he glowered down at her. “You’re in my territory now, so unless you want border patrol holding you in one of those concentration camps, shut up and listen,”

He watched the pregnant human move by him with determination, rolling his eyes again when Nick smiled smugly as he followed. A few more low profanities passed as he idled behind Tikka, who to Callie’s insistence, had pulled her hood down. Platinum blondes aren’t rare, but as long as she covered her ears, they should be clear to pass.

Nick chuffed when Callie pulled his down also, slipping her hand into his as they approached the long corridor like entryway to the grated, revolving doors.

“There’s no officers around,” Ward said lowly.

“Told you. Easy to get in, tougher to get out. Buenas tardes!” Callie waved cheerily to a personnel just on the other side of the doors they had passed through, but only a curt nod met her wide smile. Ward and Nick nodded, both surprised any of them hadn’t been stopped and questioned. When Fero and Tikka in addition were still following without any trouble, Ward could feel the doubt falling from his shoulders.

“He didn’t even look twice at us,” Nick commented, glancing back.

“I look like a prostitute, that’s why,”

Both men looked at her quizzically.

“It’s legal here. They have red light districts. He looks like a regular customer,” Callie played, elbowing Nick who’s brows flattened in annoyance. He pushed her gently, finding her hand again once she stepped back. “You two okay?” she asked looking back.

“I didn’t anticipate that to go so smoothly,” Tikka admitted, her head still on a swivel.

They gathered back together into a loose group, but for the Elves and Ward, the night life wasn’t something they expected, nor the carefree demeanor of the people still making their way up and down the sidewalks, a few hole-in-the wall bars still booming loudly with music and restless visitors. The traffic was bustling, worse than LA’s boulevards, people honking and navigating the constricted streets.

“It looks like LA,” Ward commented.

“I thought you came here with Sherri?” Nick asked, this being the fifth time he’d accompanied Callie across the border.

“Man that was in my twenties. I know we were in Rosarito but everything else is a blur,” Ward could only faintly recall, but the vivid memory of throwing back far too many shots every hour and gorging on fish tacos every ten steps still made his stomach churn.

A particularly rowdy group passed them, the woman under the arms of borrachos laughing loudly with beaded necklaces and spilling beers in hand. Nick pulled Callie tight to his side, chuffing angrily when they shouted insults at the towering Orc.

“We need a cab,”

“We can’t walk to the house?” Tikka asked, and Callie snorted.

“It’s a 40 minute drive,”

“That wouldn’t be too long walking-” she started, but even Ward glanced at her bleakly alongside Nick, pointing to Callie’s obvious condition. “Nevermind,” she mumbled, looking away.

Callie was left to hail a cab, which turned up results quickly along the busy street, and after a few heated minutes of quick bartering and agreeing to pay the remainder seats so they had no one else to worry about, Callie called them over to pile into the van, thankful to be off the populated streets. They all nodded tersely to the driver who had nothing but smiles to give, speaking to Callie rapidly as she found her seat in the front.

Nick pushed Fero when he sat in the seat behind her, jerking his chin towards Tikka’s direction towards the back, but he didn’t budge until Tikka reached forward and yanked on his jacket, hissing at him lowly in Elvish. At last he crawled to the back seat, huffing as he crossed his arms.

↠

“Pare aqui, por favor.”

Nick jerked awake, scanning their surroundings with hazy vision and momentarily panicking when nothing was recognizable, but Ward’s hand on his shoulder brought him back, as well as glancing behind to find the two Elves leaned against one another, staring lazily out the window.

At some point during that drive that was definitely longer than 40 minutes, he’d dozed off listening to Callie chat indifferently with the driver, recognizing a word here and there and sometimes able to piece sentences together. Nick and Daryl exchanged nods as the van finally came to a halt, stopping along a quiet street filled with dark houses and various other roads leading to other cul de sacs.

“Tip him well,” Callie shot towards Fero before exiting the van, thanking the driver kindly and shaking his hand. Fero slapped a 20 into his hand, ignoring the drivers gracious thanks while following Tikka from the car.

“This isn’t the house,” Nick observed, staring at the two story they’d stopped in front of.

“It’s this way,” she tugged on his hand, the lot following.

“You couldn’t have told him to take us to the house?” Fero asked.

“Route taxis stop on bus stops. They’re cheaper,” Callie yawned, turning the corner to follow the sidewalk.

Tikka glanced over her shoulder nervously, even walking backwards a few steps to take in their full surroundings.

“Thought you said we don’t have to worry about MTF here,” Ward noticed, falling back with her.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she said lowly, satisfied with the quiet street before turning forward. Nick peered at her, skepticism written across his features, but she had no more apologies to offer. They were too far from home to deal with that anymore.

It was only a brief walk before Callie followed a pebbled path up to a white house with curved window and archways, a sturdy iron door first meeting them.

“I can never remember which stone it is,” she grunted, leaning down to flip a few large ones.

Nick assisted, turning stones until at last they found the fake one with the key hidden safely inside. Once unlocked, she stepped aside to allow everyone into the inner yard that an overhang surrounded, as well as other doors leading to various other entrances to the home. They looked into the dark windows lining some of the walls, the soft silhouette of furniture and various home items easing their minds as Callie pulled the heavy door shut, locking it dutifully.

Again she pointed them in the direction of another door that Nick had opened after she handed him the key, and slowly they filed in, their eyes adjusting once she flipped on a few lights to reveal the comforting walls around them. Plush furniture and cozy corners, the curtains drawn to keep curious eyes out, and of course, numerous photos covering the walls.

“I don’t think there’s gonna be much food,” Callie noted, waddling towards a chair. “But there’s running water and rooms with beds to sleep in,” she exhaled, sitting stiffly.

“How long are we planning on staying here?” Ward asked, still stood by the door.

No one had an answer to that, but Callie and Nick exchanged nervous glances. The farther they’d made their way into the hills, the more unanswered questions built.

“I think everyone can do with some rest and deal with that in the morning,” Tikka tried encouragingly, but the nods of approval she thought she’d receive were actually just everyone moving their separate ways. Fero was opening an empty fridge before he moved onto sparse cabinets, finding stale crackers and some canned foods.

Daryl followed Callie and Nick down the hall to where she told him to choose from any of the rooms and show him the bathroom, and he departed without another word, but simply a loose nod before closing the door behind himself.

The pair moved into the room they always stayed in on their visits to the family home; a guest room with a mattress barely big enough to fit Nick and bare walls, but a bed was a bed, and there was a spare bathroom attached to it.

Nick went about kicking off the stiff shoes as Callie moved to the bathroom, flipping on the light that always highlighted her tiredest of features in the narrow mirror. She stared back at herself, detailing her tangled hair and slumped shoulders, the bags under her eyes.

She was too tired to even care at attempting to fix her appearance.

Cold water splashed over her face felt refreshing despite the chill that hung in the house, but looking down at her palms soured her expression. Blood was still stained across her fingers, and scrubbing harshly with a washcloth only did so much to pull it from her pores after a few minutes.

With a shaky breath, she held her face, the vivid images of Pucca in Nick’s arms fluttering before her eyes. Though she allowed a few tears to slip down her cheeks, she stifled more prominent cries, wiping her face with her sleeves and splashing more water on her face before returning to the room to find that Nick wasn’t there anymore.

At last she sat down on the bed, the plush mattress kinder on her back, but Leo stirred vibrantly everytime her stomach growled. She glanced out the window, half expecting to see sirens light up the street at any moment, but after a few seconds of staring, she carefully laid backwards, her body jellying atop the blankets. Being as tired as she was, it was easy to remain uncaring of anything around her as long as she could rest, and found herself quickly slipping into a sleepy limbo.

She cracked an eye when the door opened, finding Nick walking in with a few items in his arm before closing the light out again behind him.

“You need to eat something,” he told her, placing some snacks on the bed. Old crackers, older cookies and a water bottle; a feast in their predicament.

“I’m so tired,” she mumbled, rolling on her side to fiddle with the cookies.

“Please?” he asked, sitting beside her. She nodded and held up a palm after he tore the package open, nibbling on the cookie, still on her side.

When Nick tried to eat a cracker, one of his curved tusks clipped off, falling to the floor noisily between his feet. For a moment there was panic, but then he remembered they’d been gone all along, and easily snapped off the other to leave him with the blunt incisors again. He ran his tongue over the smooth tops, kicking away the fake tips with a low chuff.

Callie looked up at him, and could clearly see the disappointment written across his face. He’d already grown used to them, and with that, had come to miss ever having them.

Her hand slid across his thigh, giving a few comforting squeezes.

When he looked down at her, he chuckled; her cheek was stuffed with cookies and her eyes comically sleepy.

No words were passed between them, only a silent comfort in each others presence as they finished their small meal before she crawled farther up the bed to slip under the covers, groaning as the bed cradled her perfectly.

“Where’re you going?” she asked as he moved from the bed.

“I’m gonna go talk to them,”

“Should I be worried?”

He winked at her, flashing a toothy grin before closing the door behind himself softly.

From down the hall he could see Tikka and Fero at the table beside the kitchen, quietly chatting side by side and sharing a water and some of the old crackers, then turning to face Nick when he approached them.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked outright, and the Elves exchanged looks.

“If I can convince Ward to help, then we can stop Makhel,” she elaborated simply, shrinking under Nick’s critical glare.

“That’s it? That’s all you have?” Nick pushed.

“If he won’t agree to learning-”

“You mean if you can’t force him to learn?”

“Shut up,” Fero butted in.

“No. All this running and twisting our arms to get us here and that’s all you have?” Nick barked.

“If he can learn a few spells, he can help me disarm Makhel. He doesn’t have to be the one to deal the final blow but I need him to at least help me so yes, that’s all I have right now. These kinds of duels are unpredictable so planning too far in advance is useless,” she explained, but Nick still wasn’t satisfied as he leaned against the entry to the hallway, pulling his hand down his face.

“How are we even going to get to him if we’re in Mexico now?”

Tikka swallowed. “He’ll find us,”

Nick’s ambers met her lightning blues. “How?”

“He’s tracking us. Eventually he’ll come here but we have to be ready when he does,” she answered.

The Orc stared critically a moment, unmoving. “Have you known that the entire time?”

She nodded weakly.

“Then why couldn’t we have just lead him to MTF?” he said through his clenched jaw, fighting not to swing at either of them.

“They would’ve taken us too,” Fero interjected, but Nick scoffed.

“You really think I give a shit at this point?” Nick asked, pushing off the entryway. “You’re both fucking stupid.”

That was his last remark before turning to walk hotly to his room, only half restrained in his efforts to not slam his door.

Fero looked back to a deflated Tikka, moving to hold her hand, but she withdrew it to hang her head in her palms. The house was quiet again, not even the low chatter of others talking in their rooms or the normal hum of life outside.

“You should’ve told them,”

Tikka shook her head. “We wouldn’t have gotten here if I had,”

He shifted, toying with the water bottle. “They have a right to know,”

“We have some time,”

“How long before you send another signal?” he asked, but she shrugged.

“Maybe tomorrow night? Maybe by then he’ll know a few spells,”

“And if he doesn’t?” Fero pushed, leaning down to catch her gaze. “What if we lead him here and we only have you to fight with?”

“That’s why I said maybe-”

“We can’t go off of ‘maybe’s’, Tikka!” he hissed, glancing down the hall. “If you’re leaving a trail for him to follow than we have to be ready! You can’t be so careless,”

“Like you were when I told you not to take him on alone?” she snapped back, gaze steady as his as they glared at one another. A few stiff seconds of silence passed before he stood to walk outside, leaving her alone at the table to ponder over the gravity of the situation, and the innocent lives she’d involved.

↠

The wound was open again.

Blood trickled down his arm where it dripped off his fingertips, but he seemed completely unfazed by the multiple bites littering his arm and shoulder.

Without a word, she swung the backpack to her front and dug through it for gauze, then carefully lifted his arm to roll the sleeve up. He at last looked to the peppered gashes across his arm as she dabbed the swelling flesh gently, wincing.

“This needs more than superglue,” she commented.

Makhel shrugged. “Stupid dog surprised me,”

“What were you even doing in that house?” she asked, pulling out some coflex tape to hold the layers of gauze in place.

“Tikka had been there. I thought she was hiding with someone. It was only a mixed couples home,” he spat in disgust, halting her hands. Surely he knew the impact his words would have on his halfling lover, but no apologies came forth after he pulled his arm away to roll the sleeve down.

She stood beside him tensely as he continued to look down at the lively border from the side of the highway, calculating how they could slip through without their startling appearance alarming anyone. While she could’ve passed with reasonable ease despite being colored in soft hues of Orkish greens, Makhel was battered and bloody, and hadn’t bothered changing from his torn clothing in a couple days. If anyone created any type of interference, he’d likely whip out the wand, uncaring of any innocent lives around them.

She sighed silently, shifting on her sore feet. They’d been walking for miles at the same rapid pace, but standing still now only made her thighs itch mercilessly.

“Can we take a break?” she asked; she could lay down in the brush and sleep she was so exhausted.

“No. We have to get in now while we can still see the signals,” he snapped, stepping onto the breakaway of the highway.

“What if it’s a trap? Why would she leave a trail like that?” she asked after him, struggling to follow over the terrain. “We should be careful-”

“She poses no threat to us anymore than she did in Brazil. Don’t be so foolish, halfbreun,”

She grabbed his arm so he’d spin, meeting her eyes wide with disbelief. “What did you call me?”

His hairless brows tightened, his mouth doing the same. “Half-breed,”

She let him go, taking a step back. “I have a name,”

“Think with the Orc half of your brain then and I’ll call you by your name,” he said calmly, turning away again to lurk down the highway that was lit sparsely with headlights of passing cars.

Rania watched him, and the urge to run in the opposite direction had never been so strong.

“I’ve had nothing but bad thrown at me for it,” she said shyly, moving her hair behind her narrow, pointed ears.

“Foolish. They are foolish. They don’t see the beauty standing before them,” Makhel devoted softly, continuing to smile when she looked away with flushed cheeks, leaning into his chest. A soft kiss on her head turned her face up so she could catch the next one, his wide, gentle palm cupping her cheek.

“You don’t care that I’m a halfling?” she asked against his lips, her eyes heavy.

“You could be 1% Orc and I would still follow you to the ends of the Earth, Rania. My heart is yours.” He said truthfully, firmly, again kissing her when she clung to his shirt desperately.

Tears stung her eyes, but she still followed from a distance, clinging to the warm memories atop the rooftop of the Shield of Light base where she’d first laid eyes on the meek Orc who won her over so quickly, before hate shaped his fragile heart.

Eventually he turned to look at her, halting until she was by his side before continuing on, but he no longer reached for her hand or offered comforting grins now and again. Only the wand occupied his touch now.

————————————————————————————————

Ward stared critically at the cup held in Fero’s raised hand while he turned the silent want in his own, no longer stinging his grasp or ringing obnoxiously.

“Again,” Tikka said from behind him.

The wand raised. “Tula,” Ward recited, but the expel from the end was meager compared to the powerful boom that she’d summoned in her demonstration. The cup simply fell from his grasp, bouncing across the floor.

Daryl was exasperated when he turned away, the heels of his palms pressed against his forehead.

“That was better,” Nick tried, sitting beside Callie under the window that looked out into the inner yard of the home.

“Oh yeah, we gon’ stop that fucker by gently slapping the wand from his hand,” Ward snapped, and Nick rolled his eyes, almost through with anymore words of encouragement.

“You need to feel it, it comes from down here,” Tikka instructed, squaring her shoulders as she inhaled and patted her chest. “Put your mind and heart into it,”

“Excuse me if my mind is in different places right now,” he mumbled.

“Good, use that,” she told him, stepping aside.

“Use my hatred of this entire shitty situation?” he asked snootily, but she nodded. “Seriously?”

“Emotions play a big part in spell casting. Send those feelings outwards,” Fero commented, picking the cup up. Again, his arm outstretched, his grip meager around the cup.

Nick and Callie both looked back to Daryl as he situated his feet deeper into the grass, staring at the cup. He conjured every negative thought that had crept into his mind since he was forced from his home, every winding stream of insults he’d wanted to fire off since they’d first crossed into Mexico. He let that resentment collect in his chest after a restless night of pushing it down, and for the uncounted time, he raised the wand that small splinters of light was shining through between the wooden grooves.

“Tula!” he shouted.

Fero hissed sharply when a ringing pain shot down his arm, the cup flinging towards Daryl only to fall about halfway to him and bounce a few times.

“That was an angry cast,” Tikka cringed, checking the skin of Fero’s reddened, irritated hand he was shaking frantically.

“You said to use those emotions,” Ward shrugged, silently elated that he, after hours and far too little breaks in between, had finally made progress.

“Maybe you’d have better success thinking of something that made you happy,” she suggested, this time moving to hold the cup herself.

“Not even a pat on the back after all that hard work?” Callie snipped lowly, sending a brazen front to Tikka who’d barely caught her remark, but shrugged it off.

The cup was raised. “Think of something happy,”

Ward’s head lolled as he stared at the yellow cup, his posture relaxing as he dug deep into his thoughts.

They all watched as the seconds dragged on and Daryl remained motionless, seemingly calm.

“Tula,” he called much calmer now, and just as a wide spreading blast of moving energy shoved Tikka back into Fero’s arms, the cup came flying into Daryl’s chest where he fumbled to catch it.

They all exchanged hung jaws and wide eyed faces, matching Daryl’s equally shocked expression as he held up the cup in disbelief.

“That was better,”

They all looked to Tikka as she fixed her clothing, now a sore chest plate riddling her.

“Would it kill you to show some praise?” Callie asked bitterly.

“He has a lot of work to do still,” Tikka defended, and barely caught the cup when it was chucked harshly at her.

“If you’re gon’ be like that, then we can continue this shit after I eat,” Ward decided, also flicking the wand to Fero. He looked down when the wand quieted, swiftly handing it over to Tikka.

Nick watched Ward stomp inside before he stood, offering his hands to help Callie up and leaving Tikka and Fero alienated.

“She’s becoming worse than him,” Callie commented as she closed the door harshly behind herself.

The pair didn’t join them, but instead sat down on the lone bench across the yard, deflated, and exhausted. Like Ward, neither had gotten much sleep despite it being the safest and most peaceful location they’d inhabited for months. They sat shoulder to shoulder, staring off into nothing with blurry eyes and empty stomachs. Both had made the agreement long ago to not even mention how one another must have smelled.

“That only took 7 hours,” Fero grumbled with only a soft ‘hm’ in return. “We should eat too,”

“I’d rather sleep,”

“Thought you already tried that,”

“Maybe if someone hadn’t been huffing and puffing all night I could’ve gotten some,” she battled, her eyes sliding shut.

“You act like you don’t talk in your sleep,” Fero smirked at her, catching her slight smile. “Always asking for me to spoon you,”

“Oh yeah, my big bad Bright chasing away the nightmares,” she teased, earning a gentle elbow in the arm.

“At least I’m useful for something,”

“Among other things.” She cracked. Her head fell to his shoulder, adjusting until she was comfortable and humming gently when he kissed her head, their hands joining between them. Fero grabbed at the opportunity to shut his eyes as she did, and the harmonic tune of birds singing and the normal bustle of the world around them rocking him tenderly with the aid of a soft breeze until they were both asleep.

↠

Nick flipped on the inner yards light, drawing open a curtain enough to check on Fero and Tikka who had somehow managed to stay upright while they slept the last few hours.

“Still out?” Ward asked, the taco held carefully in his hand.

“Mhm,” Nick mumbled, closing the curtain. “I don’t know if I should bother waking them up,”

“Let them sleep. They’d be passing out over their food,” Callie called, and he followed her voice to the kitchen where she’d finished cooking the last of the fajita de carne and had it set in a bowl as she flipped the last tortilla in the skillet, expertly flipping it into the warmer.

Nick helped her carry the bowls and toppings to the table where Ward was already digging into his third taco, his eyes rolling back into his skull for every bite.

“Save some for them,” she mentioned, but Nick scoffed. “They’re our only protection right now,”

“Who says they would if it came down to it?” Daryl asked around a cheekful, already building another taco.

“She kept MTF from getting to us,”

“No, she took us away from MTF. Before she had you, we were on the phone with Kandomere trying to get him to us. He wanted to help,” Nick explained, piling on the extra onions and bell peppers.

“Oh,” she intoned, staring down at her food. “I didn’t know that,”

The men both shrugged, chewing. “This is damn good,” Ward nodded, reaching for the salsa.

“Cheap dinner. You two didn’t run into any trouble at the market?” she asked, finally sinking her teeth into her food, smothered in extra peppers and lime.

“Only until we tried buying the stuff. It’s all in pesos, I didn’t know if we had enough,”

“Told you I should’ve gone,” she sassed.

“It’s a thirty minute walk, you would’ve popped Leo out after all that,” Nick ribbed, and she pushed his shoulder.

“Leo? Y’all havin’ a boy?” Daryl piped, and the couple nodded. “My man!” he exclaimed, pushing harshly against Nick before patting him square on the back. “When did you find out?”

Callie scoffed. “Yesterday,” she said close to her food, glancing at Nick. Her Orc sighed, rubbing her forearm.

Silence settled around them, all staring despondently down at their food that wasn’t as flavorful compared to just moments before.

“Congratulations.” Daryl still offered, glad to see a small smile from them before the meal carried on in more silence.

↠

Callie turned just as she’d pulled the new shirt down her stomach to face Nick as he walked in, closing the door quietly behind himself.

“They’re eating,” he told her, groaning when he sat at the edge of the bed to kick off his shoes.

He hadn’t the night before, and maybe it was the quiet day and trip to the market without conflict that helped calm him, but that evening he pulled his shirt off. Until the night prior, he hadn’t realized how uncomfortable it was sleeping with clothes on whereas him and Callie were usually naked or nearly, but this small absence of a shirt gave him goosebumps after he spun to lay down, curling his arms around her protectively.

“Not too tight,” she grunted, wincing. Nick sat up on an elbow.

“What hurts?” he asked skeptically, but she shook her head. “Calista,”

She exhaled. “It’s just the Braxton Hicks-”

“Are they stronger?”

When she remained silent, his brows lifted. “Are they regular?!”

“NO,” now she was sitting up. “No, I promise, no. But… yeah, they’re stronger and your son loves doing jumping jacks when I lay down,”

“You swear?” he pushed, and she nodded, squeezing his hand that had moved to her stomach.

“I’m fine,” she said closely to his lips, kissing him sweetly. Nick moaned, following her mouth for another. So rapidly, just as his blood had kicked into higher drive, he was drowning in her loving smooches and leaning into her touch when a lithe hand caressed his cheek. If he were home, pushing her back to crawl between her legs would be a normal night, but here? He had to force himself away from her lips, his head hung as he steadied his breathing.

“Still in heat?” she asked, and he nodded. Temptation burned strong enough to caress her mouth a little more, even daring to taste her tongue.

“You gotta stop cuz I’m not going to,” he breathed, chuffing when she kissed down his jaw.

“Even under these circumstances?” she purred, leaning away from his searching lips.

“It’s lethal at this point,” he mumbled, stirring a soft chuckle from her. A painful cramp stifled her smile, and she moved into a more comfortable position, daring to look at Nick’s concerned eyes.

“You should be back in LA,”

“We should be back in LA,” she corrected.

Nick’s eyes bounced around a moment before he shifted to sit stiffly beside her. “Let me call Matuk to come get you,”

“Excuse me?”

“You can stay with him, Fogteeth will keep you safe,”

“No,”

“Callie-”

“No. Don’t you dare,” she ground out, hitting his chest. “I’m safest with you. I couldn’t see anyone or go to any appointments anyways if I was home so what’s the point?”

“You wouldn’t be around all this though. What if all this added stress sends you into early labor?” he pleaded, but she was shaking her head.

“I will do whatever you say and hide wherever you want, but I am not leaving your side,”

Devastation was written across his features, and even when she held his cheeks, his eyes welled. “I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you or Leo,” His voice cracked, making her heart.

“Nothing will,” she rested her forehead against his. “It’s their battle, not ours. Neither of us will let anything happen to Leo,”

“I won’t let anything happen to either of you, I swear my own life on it.” He devoted, wrapping her in a tight embrace when her arms wound around him. He wanted to be her shield from any danger or fear being so far away from home, but as he clung to her, she was doing just that for him. Fear quaked in his heart, plagued his dreaming when he found moments of rest, and she was the only one who vanquished it in precious times like this.

He stared out the window behind her, the curtains drawn enough that the smallest bit of night was leaking in, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that at any moment, their assailant would be peering in, exposing their hide-out.

Nick’s arms tightened around her, waiting, but no golden eyes appeared that night.

————————————————————————————————

the calm before the storm... 🥀

[writingamongtheroses-archive]

Showtime, Chapter 8

Lights Out

"Aaaand done!"

Liza stepped back from the speakers, grinning proudly. She and Bun watched as she flicked the switch. Treasure Cove erupted in sound. "Yar har har! Welcome crew, to Captain Bun's Treasure Cove! Load your token in and let the adventure begin!" She chuckled at the recorded voice lines, watching Bun grin.

It was the second night of Liza's new project. After she finished cleaning up the office with Bun's help, she had set to work. "Okay, stripped wires are fixed..." Liza said, checking that off her list as she turned it off. She grunted when her scarf fell in her face- she hated this scarf, it always came undone too easily. "I'll have to stop by the hardware store to see if I can find some better rope." She finished redoing her scarf to make a grabby motion. "Hand me that broom, will ya?"

Bun handed over the broom. "What are ye gonna do, lass?"

"Sweep! It's really dusty in here." True to her word, Liza started sweeping. "I mean, does the cleaning crew even clean? This whole place looks..." She looked around, trying to find a word that wasn't insulting to the animatronics.

"Nothing like how it used to?" She nodded. The depressed tone was back in Bun. "Aye, I know what you mean lass." The rabbit sat on a nearby box. "I remember how it used to be. Children would come, laughing and playing. They would win tokens while enjoying their food and listening to the Captain and Kitpup. It was bright and it was beautiful."

Liza had stopped sweeping. "I wish I could remember it."

"Ye don't?"

She shook her head. "The first thing I remember...is waking up in the hospital. The doctors told me I have retrograde amnesia." She didn't notice Doll wince.

"Wha?"

"Memory loss caused by an injury. They told me I was in a really bad accident- they had to sew parts of my brain back into my head and replace part of my skull with this fake skull stuff. There was also a bit of a brain bleed..." Liza made a face at the dust pile she had made. "Seriously, have they never cleaned here-?"

The lights went out.

"The ovens!" Kitty yelled from the kitchen.

"NOT US! I don't think..." Liza grumbled, trying to stumble out of Treasure Trove. She heard Bun move before a fake fur-covered hand wrapped around her wrist. If she focused, she could feel the metal under it. She made a conscious effort to not focus on that. Bun led her down the hallway, opening a door.

Her eyes had adjusted enough to see Kitty pulling what looked like a pizza out of an oven that was still glowing. Liza looked around, wondering if she would hear the lullaby...she shook her head. No. Because of Puppet, Ted couldn't hunt her down.

"-the generators."

She blinked at Kitty's voice. "What? Sorry, just trying to get my bearings." Liza attempted a sheepish grin before something plastic was stuffed in her hand. She turned on the flashlight, making sure to shine it on the floor.

"I need you to turn the generators back on," Kitty repeated slowly as if talking to a small child. She gestured to the pizzas. "Bun will help me with this." The rabbit nodded.

The generators, right. "Those would be..." Liza asked with a tiny wince. "Where exactly?" Something niggled at her brain, saying You know this.

"Oh, sorry! They're on the south side of the building. You can get to them by leaving the back way I think? We're not allowed outside, and I really don't want to upset Ted more than he already is." Kitty winced, matching her own.

Was this a trap?

It felt like a trap.

"...so I can leave? It's okay?"

"Yep!" Kitty chirped, turning to her ovens as Liza headed out of the kitchen. "As long as you come back." Liza paled at the tone, speeding up. "Be careful!" she heard before the kitchen doors shut. She sounded friendly, so she decided to leave that alone.

Liza opened and closed the door behind her, humming the lullaby absentmindedly. The flashlight bobbed in front of her as she walked. She turned the corner, training the light on the wall. She could see that the light outside was still on, so there must've been another circuit box for outside lighting. But why just the front?

Something clicked.

She froze, feeling Doll's fingers clench on her shoulders.

There was nothing but silence as she stood there. The crescent moon shone down on her while crickets chirped. She could see fireflies dancing around. While the flashlight was helpful, it just cast shadows and shapes of the thin forest sitting on the edge of the back parking lot. Nothing but underbrush and trees.

There was another noise and Liza ran.

By the time she stumbled across the fenced area, her feet hurt and any other noise was drowned out by the blood rush in her ears. The door was open. Annoyance washed out the fear when Liza realized why she lost power so fast.

There was a gauge.

"You aren't supposed to be here," Liza said to it as she started poking. Sure, it could save a few pennies, but it also seriously messed with the restaurant's electricity. She could remember Rafael raging whenever he found something like this on his latest repair project. She ended up wedging the flashlight in her shoulder to stick her arm half under the generator, but she flipped a switch. She was awarded a crunch of machinery as it rumbled to life. She unlatched the timer, examining it in curiosity. She ended up sticking it in her pocket- it looked homemade. She was honestly curious about why it was made and how it worked.

She headed up to the side door, intent on saving time. She regretted it when she heard another noise. It sounded closer this time. She paused in the doorway, taking a breath and turning to the night's darkness. "Hello?" She called out, wincing at her volume as Doll gripped her shoulders tight. "Is...there someone there?"

"Who are you talking to?"

Liza let out a shriek, swinging out. Rex dodged easily, grabbing her collar and hauling her into the safety of the restaurant in one smooth motion. His brow raised as she peered outside. After a minute of silence, she straightened. "Did you hear something outside?" she asked.

"Other than you sulking around? Not a thing."

"I wasn't sulking around, I was turning the power on." she snapped. "You're welcome."

"I didn't ask you to turn on the power, Elizabeth," Rex said. She glared at him, but the motion was half-hearted. "You seem jumpy."

There was a testy "I'm fine." Liza stuck her hands in her pockets for something to do with her hands. She probably needed to take another pill soon- her thoughts veered off when her hand brushed against something. "Actually, one more question." She pulled out the gauge, showing it to the dog. "This look familiar?"

"Uh...no. What is it?" Rex was telling the truth- he sounded confused.

"It's a gauge," Liza said, sticking it back in her pocket. "It cuts off the power to whatever it's hooked onto. It was set up to run from midnight to 6." She started walking to the kitchen, intent on telling Kitty she could use the oven again.

The dog followed, staring at her with narrowed eyes. "That's why this place runs out of power at night? Ted said it was because the pizzeria needed to save money."

Liza shook her head. "What it does is seriously mess with the restaurant's electricity and make us miserable."

"It wastes money," Doll said with a nod. "I remember...someone telling the construction company to not do something like that."

"Yeah, exactly!"

Rex let out some type of hiss. "Kitty's gonna have a fit. She hates not being able to bake. You should tell Ted."

She screeched to a stop. "W-What?"

"He's the boss. He should know somebody's been rigging stuff around here." She felt sweat roll down as she tried to give some excuse so she didn't have to talk to the animatronic who would take any excuse he had to stuff her... "Are you scared?"

Liza felt her hackles rise. "No! Look, I'll tell him tomorrow. I wanna take a look at this, see what I can find out!" She said when a frown appeared on Rex's face. "It looks homemade, so someone went to the trouble of making this!"

"Oh, you're scared."

"I am not! Look, I'm not trying to keep stuff from him-"

"What makes you think I won't tell him? In fact, I'll bet he'll be even more annoyed when I had to tell him."

Liza opened her mouth. She stopped when she recognized the tone. She sighed, staring at the ceiling and mentally wondering why me? "What do you want?" There was a chuckle and Rex nodded in a gesture that said: "Follow me."

She followed him, stiffening when they entered the dining hall. There was no sign of Ted, which made her relax. The dog made a beeline for Kitty's guitar, sitting on-stage and waiting for its owner. "You sound pretty competent with electronic stuff, right? At least, you didn't screw up with the generator. I guess you can't be too useless."

"Geez, thanks," Liza said with a roll of her eyes. She stopped when she took in the clearly broken lavender guitar. "What did Kitty do?"

"It wasn't her, it was some clueless cleaner." Rex held it out. "Tech doesn't work on us, so she can't get it fixed. You fix it and I won't tattle to Ted." Liza took it, considering the damage. Both age and the incident had caused clear damage.

"Deal."

"Good girl."

Liza rolled her eyes. She ignored the sarcasm to instead focus on the bigger issue. "Seriously, they don't work on you at all?" Rex winced, giving her his answer.

She only had the tools she could scrounge up. Rex was was surprisingly helpful, running to get the tools she needed. His clear desire to help his twin was a little refreshing. Liza couldn't help but wonder why the twins didn't act like this. The guitar was oversized for Kitty, meaning she didn't need any fine tools. Doll draped herself over Rex as they watched her in the working groove.

Half the issue was some pressure points where the guitar had been smashed. She would need to find a new casing. But, she told Rex, if Kitty was careful and didn't put too much pressure on certain areas, it would hold up. He nodded eagerly and she couldn't resist a smile at the cuteness.

"Kitty really needs to clean this more," she said when she took a rag to the inside. Much like when she swept Treasure Trove, she made a face at the dust she pulled out.

"She does!"

"The inside."

His ears flattened against his head. "Oh."

"But if nobody's working on you, I guess you guys won't know how to take care of your instruments." Tio Rafael was going to throw a fit six ways from Sunday when she told him. "I'll leave Kitty with some cleaning stuff. Tell her that if she keeps the dust out of here, it'll last longer!"

"Okay!"

Finally, she sighed. "Done!" Rex took it, batting Doll out of his lap, and played a few notes. Liza let out a weary smile at the noise, stretching in her spot. She froze when she heard music coming from down the hall.

"What are you still doing here?"

Liza scrambled to her feet when she saw Ted glaring at her. "I don't, it's only-" Exhaustion made her trip over her tongue. She glanced at the clock and paled, suddenly much more awake. "It's seven?!"

"Go on and get!"

"I'm going, I'm-" She fell with a grunt. Sitting up, Liza glanced behind her.

"Well?" The bear demanded.

"I'm stuck," she said, a little too calmly for the present situation. Ted took a look. The edge of her scarf had started to get loose and had gotten stuck under a floorboard that had been sticking up for ages. Liza stood and grabbed her scarf to try and yank it free.

"Just take off the scarf!"

"No!"

"Maybe you should just-" Rex said, moving to help her.

A tad bit of hysteria struck her. "I said NO!" she screamed, giving one hard yank.

Several things followed.

There was a very loud RIP! She staggered back at the sudden freedom, her foot catching on the end of the stage. There were several cries of "LIZA!" when she fell. She groaned when her shock cleared, looking up.

Ted stared back. Then his eyes moved up and she realized that her head was bared. Liza scrambled out of the bridal carry, falling on her butt with a grunt. She snatched her scarf off the stage where it must've fallen and wrapped it, a little too tight, around her scars. All the animatronics were staring at her. "I'm going," she said finally, pushing past Ted to disappear into the office. She came out a minute later with her stuff and disappeared into the early morning.

"She's not too bad nowadays," Rex said, handing Kitty her guitar. She squealed quietly. "I mean, she really was influenced by-"

"Not a word," he said. Rex shrugged as Ted stalked out of the room. He ignored the little girl that replaced his reflection.

"Blaming yourself for what happened to Elijah will not make the past heal." Of course, he would wander by here. The Puppet was still working at the crossword, considering the boxes. Instead of the calavera paint their creator had carefully done, it had a face full of tears and a red chin. "We need to get to work. Your twin has already warmed up to her."

"Would've preferred someone else, anybody else. Instead, you chose another night guard." Ted looked around the office. The kids' pictures were dulled with age. He chose to stare at one in particular. "You chose her."

"Time is running out."

"Hasn't she suffered enough?"

"We needed someone."

Ted nodded at the awful truth, turning to take his place on-stage. The Puppet huffed, disappearing into the box.

On the wall, a picture of a girl in yellow, standing next to her bear, stood staring.