#i think that her bandages/replacing them would probably be a bitter reminder of everything she's lost

[astragatwo]

Hi there, for the Project Moon request, could I have Dongbaek changing her bandages? (From a fellow Dongbaek brain-rotter!)

How do you think she feels about this

[incorrectbandofbrothersquotes]

Dear Heart - Chapter 8

Dick Winters x Melanie Davis

Summary: Melanie Davis is a nurse from North Carolina who has lived a sheltered life since her father died. Her father’s best friend, Colonel Sink, invites her to experience more as a regimental nurse for the 506th PIR of the 101st Airborne. She embarks on the adventure of a lifetime.

Tag list: @thoughpoppiesblow​​ If you’d like to be added, let me know!

Word Count: 4.5k

A/N: I hope y’all enjoy this update! Sorry I left on the cliffhanger for so long!

Warning(s): stuff that resembles domestic violence at the end

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7

Chapter 8 here we go!!!

Mentally, Dick was kicking himself. He closed his eyes and tried to forget, but the image of Melanie being pulled from beneath the rubble was all he could see. Her watery eyes as she blinked them open, the soft way she said his name, and how he became absolutely helpless. Somehow, both relief and worry swirled around inside him. He was grateful she was alive but the blood oozing from her hairline couldn’t be good. He was filled with remorse as he recalled how it was Dr. Clarke - he’d learned the man’s name later - who leapt into action and began looking over Melanie. And Dick watched, frozen with the shock of it all. 

He opened his eyes again. The sight of the Bois Jacques replaced his shameful memory. Melanie was safe now, which was what he tried to remind himself. They had gotten her to battalion HQ, where Colonel Sink had given up his own billet so Melanie could have a bed. Another man who could do more for her than Dick could. 

Dr. Clarke determined that Melanie had gotten miraculously lucky. While the blow to her head looked bad considering how much she bled, she only had a concussion. And it was fairly mild. The rest of her body had come through with only scrapes and bruises. Dick was thankful, but still felt an inadequacy about the whole thing. With nothing to do for her, he returned to the line. It had been two days since he’d left her there. Two days of feeling like he failed her somehow. 

“Dick.”

Dick turned his head at the sound of his name. He knew already that it was Lewis’s voice, so he did his best to appear somewhat content. Difficult in this kind of cold, but Lewis was unlikely to pry regardless. 

“Hey, Lew,” he said. 

“You alright?” Lewis asked. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Dick returned. “How’s everything back at battalion?”

Lewis almost smirked. Dick didn’t want to seem like he was asking about Melanie, but Lewis knew he was asking about Melanie. 

“About the same, as far as the war’s going,” Lewis told him. “At some point, we gotta take Foy, but who knows when we’ll get it together?” When Dick only nodded, Lew continued. “Melanie’s awake now. Properly awake. She was sitting up and eating when I left there.”

That piqued Dick’s interest. He faced his friend and tried not to sound too eager. “She was?”

Lew nodded. “She asked about you.”

Dick might have laughed if he weren’t feeling so torn. Of course Melanie didn’t care a thing for herself. But he hardly felt he deserved her concern.

“Did she?” he asked. 

Lew nodded again. “I think you should go see her.”

Dick wanted to see her. Desperately. He just couldn’t bear the thought of facing her when he felt like such a let-down. Then again, she had forgiven him for worse. 

“I probably shouldn’t leave the men,” Dick said, and it was partly true. He also harbored guilt for abandoning them for the sake of Melanie, something he recalled swearing back in Toccoa would never happen. But Melanie meant more to him now than she did back then. 

He realized just how much she meant when a future he had barely hoped to dream of seemed lost. When he thought she was dead, all those visions he had of a pretty white house with his beautiful wife and their children had been obliterated. He knew he loved Melanie back in Paris. Now he realized just how deep that love went. And all his inaction once again haunted him. 

“Go see her, Dick,” Lewis said. “The men will survive without you for a couple hours. Even if they are relying on Dike.”

Dick grimaced at that. He agreed with the sentiment, but he didn’t like to think about Easy in the hands of yet another incompetent CO. While Dike was a step up from Sobel, the improvement was meager.

“There’s a jeep back in the woods,” Lewis said. “It’s waiting for you.”

“Thanks, Nix,” Dick replied, clapping his friend on the shoulder. 

With that, Dick climbed out of his foxhole and made his way to the jeep. It was manned by Sink’s personal driver, which told Dick that Lewis was not the only one eager for Melanie to see the man she asked for. With a sigh, Dick took the passenger’s seat and prepared himself. 

When they arrived at HQ, Dick took a deep breath. The last time he’d been this nervous was when he asked Melanie to walk with him after what took place in Eindhoven. He wondered if she was upset with him. How much had Dr. Clarke told her about what happened, if anything? Her father’s pocket watch suddenly felt like it was lead in his breast pocket. 

HQ was relatively quiet. Dick nodded to the officers he recognized, but didn’t stop to say hello. Now that he was here, he only had Melanie on his mind. He needed to see her. His feet felt heavy as he climbed the stairs to her room. As he approached her door, through the wood, he heard her voice. It was sweeter than any music he’d ever heard in his life. It meant she was really there, alive and well, and his hopes for the future were not dashed. He knocked. 

“Come in!” she called. 

He opened the door to reveal her sitting up in bed, a tray of food on her lap, and - to Dick’s disgust - Dr. Clarke sitting beside her on the bed. Thankfully, her smile was enough to melt any bitterness. And she beamed at him. 

“Dick, hello!” she said. “I’m so glad to see you! Have you met Terry?”

She nodded at the doctor. Dick smiled at her. 

“Yeah, we’ve met,” he said. “How are you, Mel?”

He registered now the bandage on her head, and the other, smaller ones on her arms. She reached out a hand toward him, and his heart ached at the scabs he saw forming on her knuckles. He took her hand and let her pull him closer so that he stood beside the bed. 

“I’m alright,” she said. “You really are a darling to come and see me.”

It warmed him to hear her say it. She was happy to see him. Not disappointed at all. Hopefully, her forgiveness would help him forgive himself. 

“Melanie,” Terry interjected. “The check up.”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” she returned. “Is it alright if Dick stays?”

“Sure,” Terry allowed, looking at Dick. “Have a seat.”

There was a chair behind him, and Dick took it without releasing Melanie’s hand. Terry scooted closer to her, cradled her face in his hands, and looked her in the eyes. 

“Eyes are still lovely,” he said, and before she could offer any sort of rebuff, he continued. “And seem fairly focused. No glassiness, pupils are the same size, all good signs.”

He started to move his hand away, and Dick watched uncomfortably as the doctor slid his hand down her neck, briefly stroking her skin with his thumb before letting go. He glanced over at Dick for a fleeting second, meeting his eye. Dick swallowed every possessive impulse that was churning inside him. 

“Really, I’ve just got a terrible headache,” she said. 

“That’s to be expected,” he said. “Do you remember the accident or the events before?”

“Not really,” she said. “The last thing I remember clearly is…” She trailed off. This was her first significant stint of time awake since the collapse of the hospital. The last thing she could recall was her rejection of Terry on the steps. “Well, when you and I spotted the planes coming. Everything after is a blur.”

“Alright, so there is some amnesia, but it seems like it’s pretty minor,” he told her. “You really are lucky. Best to stay off your feet, relax, and come back to work in a couple weeks.”

“Weeks?!” she protested, and Dick gave her hand a supportive squeeze, which she returned. 

“That’s being generous,” Terry said firmly. “I’d like to have you resting for a month just to be safe, but I know how much you’re needed.”

He placed a hand on her leg, just above her knee, casting another superior look at Dick. To Dick’s immense pleasure she drew her knees in toward her chest, forcing Terry’s hand off. Terry frowned and cleared his throat. 

“Sure you can’t eat anymore, Melanie?” he asked. 

She shook her head. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“Here, I’ll take the tray for you,” he offered. 

Dick watched her hand over the tray, the food on it barely touched. He looked over Melanie again, and once more something new struck him. She was thinner than he remembered. Her cheekbones were more prominent in her usually round face. Her collar bones stuck out too from beneath the neckline of her shirt. 

Terry excused himself and left. Melanie turned her full attention on Dick, meeting his eyes. It felt like coming home. It had been far too long since they had seen each other and they were both eager to catch up. 

 “How are you, Dick?” she asked kindly. “And the boys?”

“We’re hanging in there,” he said. “The line is still spread too thin and we don’t have enough…” he trailed off. “Never mind. I don’t wanna burden you with all this right now.”

He wanted to apologize as well, but he knew she’d never understand what for. Nor would she blame him if he tried to explain himself. He held her hand a little tighter. Her brow furrowed with concern. 

“Are you alright?” she wondered. 

For some reason he was disappointed to not hear an endearment at the end of that question. He liked “darling” from the way she said it a moment ago. And now that she was in front of him, talking and holding his hand, those pictures of a post-war life returned to him. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just glad you’re safe.”

“Me too,” she half-joked. “When those bombs started coming down I was so afraid I might not -”

Her pale cheeks flushed and she looked away. He swore to himself he’d never take that sight for granted again. 

“You might not what?” he pressed gently. 

“I might not ever see you again,” she blurted out. 

For a fleeting moment, he considered telling her everything - that he loved her, that he saw a life with her, and that he wanted to protect her until the last breath left his body. But he didn’t. He couldn’t overwhelm her just now, and besides, the war was not over. The argument he always had came up again - he could get killed, and where would that leave Melanie?

“I was afraid of the same thing,” he admitted. That much, he would allow himself to say. And the way she smiled at him told him she got his message. Loud and clear. 

“You’ve got no business worrying about me,” she said. “You’re running a battalion.”

None of them are what you are to me. More words he couldn’t speak. 

“Well, they mostly look after themselves,” he replied, forcing his tone to be light. “Y’know, with NCOs like ours.”

She smiled. “Very true.”

A beat passed and he decided to ask one more question on his mind. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“Well, I’m afraid this bump on my head is making me pretty nauseated,” she said. 

“This kind of change didn’t happen in a few days, Mel,” he insisted. 

“Is it bad?” she asked. “I haven’t properly looked at myself in a while.”

“You’re just awfully thin, that’s all,” he said. “Didn’t they feed you at the hospital?”

“Oh, that,” she said dismissively. “Well, I gave away a lot of my meals. I didn’t need it as bad as the wounded did. And we were so limited.” 

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Mel, you gotta eat.”

“I will when I’m feeling better, I promise,” she assured him. “But please don’t fuss over me. I’ll be just fine.”

“Alright, I won’t fuss,” he returned. “Just look after yourself. For me, if not for you.”

“How the tables have turned,” she remarked with a smile. “It wasn’t too long ago I was telling you the same thing.”

He smiled back at her, remembering fondly how she tended to him. How could it be that Carentan felt like it was both years ago and only yesterday? 

“I’m just asking you to return the favor,” he said. 

“I will,” she said. 

He could see that her eyelids were getting heavy, but she fought to keep them open. He wanted her to rest if that was what the doctor ordered.

“Want me to let you sleep?” he asked. 

She met his gaze again. “Are you going to leave if I do?”

He nodded sadly. “I’ve gotta get back to the line.”

Her mouth turned down in almost a pout. She moved her free hand then to cover his, sandwiching it between her palms. 

“Just one more moment, please,” she said, and he was surprised to see tears welling up in her eyes. “Being away from you has been more difficult than I imagined and I can’t bear the thought of it happening again.”

He wondered what was drawing all this brutal honesty from her - the concussion or almost losing her life. Whichever it was, he was moved with sympathy. 

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll stay right here.”

She blinked when she smiled, and a single tear fell down her cheek. She brushed it away as she settled back into her pillows. And Dick remained there with her until she could fight it no longer and she fell asleep. Her eyes closed, her breathing evened out, and she was peaceful. Dick almost wished he could join her. He was exhausted as well. With everything happening on the front and his worry about Melanie, he felt he’d aged about ten years. 

He stood up, slipping his hands carefully from hers, before pulling the blanket over her shoulders. She snuggled down further and let out a deep sigh. He allowed himself to stroke her hair, moving it off her forehead, before leaving. After one last look at her serene face, he closed the door. He was back out in the hall and dreading his next steps. Back outside into the cold, back to the line, back to his worry. 

Before he could make it out, he was stopped. Dr. Clarke stood in the hall, blocking Dick’s path. The doctor looked even less friendly than he did in the room with Melanie, so Dick braced himself for whatever this could mean. Clarke approached.

“Look, I don’t really know you, but I have to say something,” he began. “I think what you’re doing to Melanie is horrible.”

Dick’s brow furrowed. “What am I doing to her?”

“Leading her on,” Clarke explained. “You’ve known her two years now and you haven’t committed to her. Which tells me you’re not interested, but you don’t want her to lose interest.”

Dick was shocked by what he was hearing. It was the first time since knowing Melanie that someone was telling him he didn’t have feelings for her. 

“Doctor, I don’t know what Melanie’s told you, but -”

“It’s not hard to put it together,” Clarke interrupted. “You’ve somehow convinced her you’re worth waiting for. At the expense of people who really care about her. So what is it? Have you...made love to her or something?”

Dick blinked. Several emotions happened to him at once. Further shock at the forwardness of the question. Anger at the suggestion that Dick was that sort of man. And annoyance. He was so tired. Why did he have to deal with this sort of juvenile jealousy when there was a war on? He took a breath to collect himself. Squaring his shoulders, he looked Clarke in the eye, fed up before he even started speaking.

“First of all, anything that’s happened between Melanie and myself is our business,” he began. “Second of all, Melanie doesn’t belong to me. She’s free to pursue any sort of relationship she likes. If she’s chosen not to be with you, that’s not my doing. If I had to guess, it’s because she sees through your bravado. And so do I.”

Clarke huffed. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You march up here and accost me about a situation you’re only guessing at, putting on airs about protecting her,” Dick shot back. “When you were the one who put your hands all over her under the pretense of doing your job. This isn’t about Melanie, it’s about you.” 

“I love that girl,” Clarke insisted, and he took a step toward Dick, who did not step away.

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Dick said. “But if that’s how you feel, take it up with her.”

“You really are a coward,” Clarke scoffed. “You won’t even fight for her.”

“Is that what you’re after?” Dick challenged. “Do you honestly think the two of us duking it out is going to make her love you?”

“She needs to know she has options!” Clarke insisted. 

“She knows,” Dick said levelly. “You’re just upset because she’s made a choice you’re unhappy with.” He was getting impatient now. This sort of thing was for little boys on a playground, not two officers in the US Army. Then, he said something that even surprised him. “I’m not going to fight you for something I already have.”

Clarke flared up at that, but he said nothing. Somehow, Dick defending himself made him realize the truth - that he did have Melanie’s affection, and he felt more deserving of it than before. He was annoyed by Clarke not out of jealousy, but because the man saw himself as more of a threat than he really was. And Dick truly, honestly did not have time or energy to entertain something of so little consequence. 

“And by the way, Lieutenant,” Dick said. “I’m a senior officer. The next time you address me, you will say ‘sir.’”

“Well, fuck you,” Clarke seethed. “Sir.”

Dick chuckled, clapped him on the shoulder, and pushed past him without another word. 

***

Melanie healed up nicely in the two weeks she was out of work. She slept and ate as if she were making up for all the sleep and meals she’d missed out on the last month or so. Unfortunately, she didn’t get another visit from Dick. The death toll in the Bois Jacques was rising, and he couldn’t leave the men now. 

On January 9th, Melanie was finally free from her bedrest sentence. She had been issued new uniforms since the belongings she’d had with her at the hospital in Bastogne were lost to the destruction. Luckily, she’d thought to leave her valuables - including the dress from Dick - in Colonel Sink’s care, and they were safely in his billet. The fresh fatigues were surprisingly comforting to her. She preferred the dresses and heels, but they were no good in the cold and snow. She was getting ready to put up her hair when there was a knock on her door. 

“Who is it?” she called. 

“It’s Terry!”

“Come in!”

The door squeaked open and Terry stepped through, closing it behind him. She abandoned her hair and turned on her stool to face him. 

“I’m glad you stopped by,” she said. “I wanted to thank you again for taking such wonderful care of me. With all the wounded, I know it couldn’t have been easy.” 

“Nonsense, I was glad to do it,” he replied. 

He paused a long moment and looked at his feet, which caused him to sway a little, but he didn’t fall. Her brow furrowed as she stood up and went to steady him. 

“Are you alright, Terry?” she asked. 

He looked at her again and she realized right away what the problem was from the smell of bourbon on his breath. 

“I’m fine,” he replied, waving a dismissive hand in her face. “Look, Melanie, before Bastogne got bombed to hell, you and I were talking about something.”

She held back a sigh. She had hoped that he’d gotten the message back then that there was someone she loved. But clearly he wasn’t letting it go. 

“Terry, I’m sorry,” she said. “But there’s no use in discussing that any further.”

“No, listen to me,” he said sternly. “I’m telling you, love is wasted on a man like Dick Winters. Especially your love. You deserve someone who is ready for you - right here and now. Someone who wouldn’t let something like a war stand in the way of loving you.”

She frowned, stung and affronted. “That’s a cruel thing to say. You don’t even know him.”

“I know you,” he returned. “And I know that he’s breaking your heart. That’s enough not to like him.”

“You’re sadly misinformed if you think -”

“I love you!” he cried. “And I could give you the life of your dreams after the war if you’d only give me a chance!”

She blinked. Such a confession should have been flattering, but the feeling she got from him made her hair stand on end. He was not saying it out of genuine feeling, he was saying it to win an argument. And that didn’t feel very much like love. 

“Terry, what you want from me are words I can’t say,” she replied gently. “Would you really have me accept you and live a lie?”

“You’d learn to love me, I know it,” he said. “I just want you for myself.”

There was a dangerous gleam in his eye at those words that made her take a step back from him. He stepped closer. Her stomach turned. 

“I think you should go now,” she said timidly. “You’re upset, you’ve been drinking -”

“Give the diplomacy a rest, Melanie,” he spat. “I’m going to say what I feel and you are going to listen!”

She sighed. “It won’t do any good, Terry. I can’t change how I feel.”

“God-DAMMIT!” he bellowed, shoving the dresser beside him so hard several of the knick knacks toppled off of it. Melanie gasped and jumped back, breathing heavily. “Do you see what you do to me, Melanie?”

“I - I haven’t done -” she stammered, but he cut her off. 

“Just the thought of you with him!” he growled. “With ANY MAN!”

To emphasize that point, he snatched a framed photograph off the same dresser and hurled it across the room, right over her head. The glass shattered against the opposite wall, drowning out Melanie’s yelp of surprise. She covered her face with her hands to protect herself from the shards. Before she could say anything in return, he picked up a small globe and threw that at her as well. She ducked to avoid it, and the base snapped against the wall. The globe rolled under the bed. 

“Terry, stop it!” she cried. 

He moved even closer to her. She tried to recoil, but he snatched her by the wrist and yanked her towards him. With his free hand, he took hold of her face, his fingers digging painfully into her cheeks as he pulled her within inches of him. She could feel his breath on her skin. A whimper escaped her at the pain of his grip, but she couldn’t look away. She was frozen, trembling at the thought of what he might do next. 

“I could crush your skull, you know,” he warned. “Right against that vanity. Would that get Dick Winters out of your mind?”

Her eyes went wide, but because of his hand, she couldn’t answer him. His palm covered her mouth. She couldn’t even call for help. She could only shake her head and plead with her eyes. He moved his hand and she drew breath to scream, but he was too quick. He grabbed her by the throat and slammed her into the wall. She winced and prayed for someone to hear the commotion and put a stop to this. 

For a brief moment, she remembered when Corporal Biding tackled her that night in Toccoa. She recalled how frightened she’d been before she realized he was no real threat, he had just made a drunken mistake. Nothing like now. While Terry had been drinking, he was far from drunk. And she was so much more afraid. This was an intentionally vicious attack. She saw in his eyes something sinister and heartless. And of course now, Dick and Easy Company were not going to come to her rescue. 

Her vision got blurry as he cut off her air. She thought of Dick and how much she’d relied on him after the Corporal Biding incident. She wished he was here to help her again. But he wasn’t. And she was not that scared little girl she was in Toccoa. She had survived D-Day, Market Garden, the bombing of Bastogne, and she’d be damned if she let this pathetic excuse for a man get the best of her. 

With all her might, Melanie shoved her knee between Terry’s legs. He groaned at the impact and released her as he doubled over. She took a moment to gulp in fresh air before she reared back and slapped him hard across the face. The sound cracked like a whip. His head lurched back, throwing him off balance enough to stumble. Melanie, adrenaline coursing through her, wasn’t satisfied, so she shoved him, which made him fall to the floor, landing on his rear with a grunt.

“Don’t you ever put your hands on me again!” she yelled.

While he licked his wounds - and his pride - Melanie gathered the last of her things in silence. Rage compelled her every move as she shoved her belongings into her bag. He was still on the floor when she marched for the door. She opened it to reveal Colonel Sink behind it, fist raised, about to knock. He shot her a confused glance as he took in the scene - Melanie, stormy and furious, and Terry in the fetal position on the floor of her room. He noticed as well, the broken trinkets from the unfortunate family who lived here previously. Sink’s eyes flicked between Melanie and Terry. 

“Everything alright up here?” Sink asked. 

“It’s fine,” Melanie said shortly. “Get me out of here, please.”

“Certainly,” he assured her. 

He put a protective arm around her shoulder and led her away. When they made it down the stairs, she stopped him, turned into his chest, and burst into tears. He held her close, patted her on the head, and let her cry. He didn’t ask her what happened, and she was grateful. She never wanted to relive that scene if she could help it. She looked up at Sink with desperate eyes.

“Please don’t make me go back to the hospital, Colonel,” she pleaded. “I’ll do anything else, but I can’t work with him again.”

“Actually, I was about to offer you a change of scenery,” he said. 

“Like what?” she sniffled.

He sighed and looked away, which told her she wouldn’t like it. “The Bois Jacques.”

[hargrove-mayfields]

Just A Dream Away

Chapter 6/13 read here on ao3!

for @harringrovebigbang

accompanying art piece by @monochromegee! check it out here!

~~~~

The more Steve thinks about someone being stuck on the other side, the more he has his heart set on doing something about it.

He hadn’t been a hero to anybody last time they were dealing with the Upside Down, too caught up in his own troubles to do anything useful, and it had cost him the love of his life. He was going to guarantee that he stepped up this time. With more time to think, he defines a plan, “I think you’re right, I think we should get ahold of El. That way we can at least figure out who to go to next.”

“Okay, well, that sounds great and all that you have a plan, Steve, but you’re not calling anybody with this burnt up phone, and I’m pretty sure this is too time sensitive to write a letter.” Robin motions to the broken phone where it still hung from the base.

Steve thinks for a moment and snaps his fingers, “The neighbor would let us borrow hers.”

That’s how they end up in the elderly neighbor Dorothy's half of the duplex, Robin entertaining her in the living room with any random story she could think of, and Steve in the hallway a little ways down, talking low so the unsuspecting neighbor can’t hear what he is saying. To get in, they’d just told her that Robin's phone had just been cutting out, but Steve needed to call his sick mother until they could replace it.

Of course that isn’t true, he instead dials the number Joyce left for all of them to get in contact with her if need be, “Mrs Byers?”

On the other end, he hears a lot of noise in the background, at first worried about a repeat of last night, until the sounds made themselves clear as not doomsday static, but business. There’s a television turned up loud, noise from the kitchen like someone was cooking, talking carrying from a distant conversation, before Joyce’s gentle voice cuts through it, “Hi, honey. How have you been?”

He skips the formalities, trying to be fast for the sake of whoever is trapped, and to get it out before the neighbor got bored of Robin and started snooping, “I need to ask you something.”

“Of course, Is everything alright, Steve?” There’s a hint of concern in her voice he has to swallow before he decides what his answer will.

He decides just to rip the bandage off in one go, “Can you put El on the phone?”

Instantly her demeanor switches. They both knew Steve had no reason other than an emergency to want to talk to her daughter, because the other kids would have done it themselves, don’t need Steve as their messenger anymore, “What is this about?”

“We think there is someone in the Upside Down.” He hears her cover the receiver, and call to El in the next room, a hint of urgency to her tone. There was the sound of the phone being passed between two people before El's small voice rang out through the receiver.

“Hello?”

He again skips a proper greeting, full of too much nervous energy to worry about being polite, “Is there any chance at all that someone could still be in the Upside Down?”

It takes her a second to respond, but her answer is firm, “The gate is closed.”

“I know, but do you think we could’ve closed it on somebody?”

“Why?” She sounds unsure of whether or not she should trust him, so he explains to her, “The phone rang and Robin said it sounded like a bunch of static, and like someone was talking but she couldn’t hear them. It blew up like it did before when Will called.”

There’s a long pause and whispers in the background, like she’s being coached by Joyce, and her answers comes slowly, “Without powers I can’t help. But I have an idea.”

Another pause and her mother takes the phone back, “We’ll come back to Hawkins and figure it out, Steve. See what you can do until we get there.”

The line goes dead before he can thank her or ask how long he could expect to wait, so he sighs and hangs the phone back up. When he returns to the living room, Robin stands up from the couch and the neighbor asks politely, “How was she?”

He furrows his eyebrows, has too much on his mind and has to remember the cover story they came up with before he can answer, “She’s alright. Thank you, Dorothy.”

They’re halfway to the front door when she stops them, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you two, I have the city’s number if you need it.”

Robin smiles politely, “What for?”

“Well, that streetlight outside. It’s been flickering on and off these past few nights, I thought it would be bothering you two being right outside your window and all. I know it’s been driving me up the wall.” She chuckles, not realizing the significance of what she just said to them.

They exchange a look between themselves, both having gone a little pale.

Robin recovers quicker, so she forces a smile back onto her face, significantly less genuine this time, and steers Steve outside with a guiding hand on his back, assuring the neighbor before shutting the door in her face, “That’s alright, Dorothy. We hadn’t noticed actually.”

~~~~

This end of the neighborhood is so poorly lit, but Billy can’t afford to get cornered like this.

He’d taken off from the area around duplex apartment, leaving behind the big monster and running until he finds more street lights, though in a poor backwoods town like Hawkins, only a select few streets nearby downtown or the rich neighborhoods were taken care of, so it’s not until he’s all the way at the other end of the street, almost by the intersection to the next neighborhood, that he finds another dull and flickering street light.

It’s then, looking up hopefully at the dull, flickering light that he realizes this area is somewhat familiar to him, though it's still much farther out than his usually traveled routes between Cherry Lane and Loch Nora.

When things were normal, Billy was so bitter about leaving his home, so he hadn’t bothered getting familiar with the entire town. If it was out of his way, it wasn’t his problem, Hawkins was only ever supposed to be a temporary home for him anyways.

Even now he still wasn’t acquainted with the area, because over here past the neighborhood where he found Steve and Robin is the dark zone, where the storm clouds are thicker and the fog covers what little light there is in this place, and he normally wouldn’t dare stray over this way.

Right now though, there’s a monster that’s already tasted his blood on his heels, so it doesn’t really matter where he ends up.

He follows a long dirt driveway towards that one streetlight, beacon of hope that it was, when suddenly it hits him. This is the Byers’ house.

If there were literally anywhere else for him to go right now other than that house, he’d go there, guilty memories he’d been mostly forgiven for still sitting heavy in his heart, if not just because now all the people he’d hurt that day were still living without him, making new memories and probably remembering his as that same asshole that barged into the Byers family home that night.

But, he’s not out of the woods just yet to be picky, because there’s a trail of blood from his injured arm leading the monster to this exact spot, and that is a monster that already had the taste of his flesh. He’d have to take whatever he could get.

The second he opens the door, under the twisting vines and ash and mold covering almost everything in the house, it’s obvious that this isn’t the same house he’d burst into two years ago, none of the floral couches and knitted Afghans and Merry Mushroom canisters that made for that warm, homey feel of the place that had made Billy feel queasy when juxtaposed with what he’d thought was happening in that house before Steve apologized for lying, and he for kicking Steve’s ass, and gave him a new explanation that was, as he now knew, still a coverup, but didn’t seem so predatory.

Now there were all leather arm chairs, dirty work boots by the door, and empty beer bottles on the kitchen counters. He could tell from the way this house is decorated alone, at least if he imagined it without all the rot and death, that this house had been bought up by some unhappy old man, and he almost wants to be bitter, that he’s going to die in a place that looks like the embodiment of the unhappy future he was damned to even if he made it out of this hell, until something catches his eye.

On display hooks, positioned perfectly atop the mantelpiece, there is a proudly displayed shotgun.

Billy almost trips over the clutter-covered coffee table running to go get it, a feeling like hope in his chest, but when he pulls it down, his heart sinks a little. He can tell from the weight that it isn’t loaded, it’s just some old bastards trophy.

He worries for a second that it isn’t even a real gun at all, but a snarl from the other side of the door reminds him it doesn’t matter if it shoots, it’ll still bludgeon. A weapon is a weapon.

Still, he quickly turns the place over, clearing off that coffee table, feeling along the underside of the mantel for a hidden box, and digging through the side table drawers, in there finding old pills and candy wrappers, spare change and, in the very last place he looks, a box of shotgun shells.

He grabs it, but he doesn’t have time to be relieved, because on the other side of the door, there’s a snarl accompanied by a scratching sound, and he knows that that thing outside is taunting him. Trapping him in so it could toy with him before finally killing him. But he’s not going to let that happen, not now.

He couldn’t say how much time had passed down here, but he had been hurt and starved and damn near froze to death, and he had still survived. All this time it had been for himself, to prove he could do it and maybe, just maybe someday reach the other side, but now he had a purpose. Now he knew his Steve was right there, just out of his reach. He can’t give up now. He won’t.

He takes the gun into the kitchen, where he’ll have a minute if the monster does lose its temper and break in early, sliding to the floor with it so he’s level with where the monsters face would be once it turned the corner, gritting his teeth and lowering the barrel of the gun, his good hand shaking badly as he tries against his nerves and the bite making him weaker to load the shells in both barrels.

At the same time, just as he expected, the monster decides it’s done playing with its food, hitting into the door until the hinges crack and it swings open at an off angle. Billy curses under his breath and tries to load faster, in his panic accidentally catching sight of the bite wound on his arm, and it’s bad. As in, he can’t believe he’s still conscious right now bad. But he tries not to think about it and just locks the gun back in, cocks it, and aims it straight in front of him.

His hands are shaking so badly he’s not sure he could actually fire the gun or hit the monster even if he did, but surprisingly, he doesn’t have to put that theory to the test, because the monster never comes around the wall. Claws scratch into the damp carpeted floor in the room parallel to the one he’s in and eerie chitters and growls fill the disturbingly quiet air. Billy always wondered if that sound was them communicating, or if they were mocking him. Making his skin crawl so he’d let his guard down, be afraid as they tore him to shreds.

But then it just stops again. The house totally silent except for the monster's horribly ragged breathing, and then it leaves. Retreats right out of the front door, and from the rustling sound that carries from outside, back into the woods.

Billy breathes out a heavy sigh of relief, tilting his head back against the wall, exhausted. Above his head he notices a cross, just a little golden thing dangling right above his head, and he laughs bitterly. Some blessing this is.

Because, while he didn’t get viciously eaten alive, for which he supposes he could be grateful in some ways, here he still was, after so many days he couldn’t count them anymore, he was still trapped and alone with monsters hunting him. Now suddenly throwing Steve and his friend into the mix, and he’s got himself the perfect mix of hopelessness and heartbreak and dread making this all the harder.

With effort, he stands again, this time not making the mistake of leaving his weapon behind.

The adrenaline is slowly wearing off, and his arm really starts to demand his attention. It stings like nothing he’s ever felt before, a horrible sensation that makes his whole arm feel painfully numb. He just hopes the medicine in this house hadn’t succumbed to the elements like most things he scavenged for tend to anymore.

By some miracle, the old man who bought the place up still hadn’t finished unpacking, and right at the bottom of a cardboard box full of old towels is an almost completely preserved first aid kid, fully intact other than a couple of rotten bandages, but those wouldn’t be of much use to him right now anyways.

He tries to remember the rules his dad had taught him the first time he cut too deep, rules which he’d later passed down to Max when she was being nosy after witnessing a fight, following him around while he was trying to get his face to stop bleeding.

Clean it, medicate it, bandage it.

Normally when he was telling it to Max, he’d tack on to the end to go get help if she was bleeding more than a bandaids worth, but that’s not really of much use to him, so he pushes his sleeve up, grateful it had already been rolled up some and hadn’t been torn, and assesses the damage.

He can’t see any bone, which is good enough news, but he can’t see much of anything else from how badly he’s bleeding, which is not so good. He can’t even get a fair judgement of how bad it is with all the gore covering the actual wound, so he walks to the sink to wipe some of the blood away.

The water quality down here varies from day to day, not that he’d ever drink the stuff, he’d a thousand times over raid a monsters den for a single water bottle than put that stuff in his body, but sometimes he’d test it just to check if it was clean enough for him to try and wash away any of the dirt and blood on him.

Sometimes nothing would come from the faucet but disgusting black sludge. Today he was lucky, the water, if you could even call it that, cloudy and speckled, but not unusable. Besides, he would rather get some weird alien infection in his arm than bleed out anyways.

Max’s watch is caked in gore so he quickly runs it under the water too. It’s probably going to fry the stupid thing, and the thought of its familiar ticking being gone does admittedly make Billy a little uneasy, but he’d rather return the watch broken than stained with his blood.

Because that’s really his biggest goal. To keep surviving and make it out of wherever the hell he is so he could give Max back her watch and Steve back that stupid bandana he probably didn’t even notice was missing, and his dad back his jacket. Shove it in the asshole's face and tell him, ‘Here’s your jacket back you old bastard. Mind the blood stain on the collar and the tear in the shoulder. I fucking missed you, dad.’

He's able to get the bleeding to stop with rags, and once the wound is clean, he slathers the bite in as much polysporin as he can find, mostly to mask the heavy smell of blood lingering on his skin that would act like a beacon for the monsters miles away until this hole in his arm heals. He finds clean enough bandages and wraps it until he can barely move his wrist, tugging his sleeve back down over them. He decides not to clean up all the blood, so there was something to distract them from finding him once he leaves.

Healing is supposed to be the hardest part, and Billy had always thought that was bullshit- the hardest part was the betrayal when his dear old dad cracked his bones and left bruises on his skin when there are real monsters out there in the world that don’t give you a hug and an apology when it’s over- but now he knows for sure that isn’t true.

The most important thing is finding Steve again, and figuring out why he couldn’t see or touch him, and could only just barely hear him, but could feel his presence, almost tangibly.

Billy steals another two boxes of bullets, keeping the gun close at his side, and he sets back off for that duplex.

[silentmajesticfox]

Falling In Love With Chrollo Lucilfer

(Rose is someone from Chrollo's past, specifically Meteor City. In this story, Rose and Chrollo, along with the troupe, rekindle their relationship. Well, try to. Rose is in an arranged marriage to protect and support her little sister. This story is set a little bit before the York New Ark, and during the beginning of it. and will go throughout the ark as well.

the picture on here I found is from PINTEREST AND IS NOT MINE. whoever drew it is spectacular and amazing. I'm obsessed..

**TW !**(Trigger Warning!) please do not read if you do not agree or are triggered by - domestic abuse (this will be from the arranged marriage) - depression/suicidal thoughts -substance abuse. Now I will not go into full detail especially for the domestic abuse, it's just to go into the story for beginning chapters. possibly flashbacks . So please, again, don't read if this will trigger you. Also, this will probably be pretty violent through some chapters. thank you for reading and your time.)

Moral Of The Story

Rose never thought she'd be in this situation, unhappy and rather disappointed with her life decisions. She was sure at first, that she had calculated this and this plan was fool proof, however, she was very wrong. She might have been in love, or what she thought was love - however it had escalated to a burning hatred and a bitter after taste. A blind love turned cold due to her own inability to see this would be the result.

Sitting there applying too much make-up to cover up her black eye and a few other bruises, she would not let her get that down. She had to stay strong for her sister, Daisy. Daisy is the reason Rose is still thriving and okay through all of this. Everything she does is for her little sister. She would die for her. Literally and emotionally/mentally. She finished applying the foundation, to move on and do her eyeshadow, eyeliner, and a very thick coat of mascara, her eyes shining a ice blue.  She was wearing a simple, tight fit dress, in the color of burgundy. Her long, curly, dark burgundy hair matched the attire. With black heels. Looking at all of the jewelry her 'husband' had gotten her, maybe to buy her love back or his way of saying "sorry, not sorry." Rose huffed staring at them, not wanting this anymore, on the verge of a mental breakdown, memories for each gift being a constant reminder of why it was gifted.

Daisy soon walked in, her blonde hair and matching blue eyes light up, running to Rose, hugging her tightly from behind. Rose being able to handle pain well, just smiled and whipped her head around.

"You look beautiful Daisy." She stated, lookking at her little sisters beautiful pink ball gown dress. Only at the age of 13, it is an intense nostalgic reminder for Rose to see how big her baby sister was getting, saying she was the one whole raised her.

"Thank you!! You look beautiful too, sissy!" Daisy said, she was always so happy, and maybe some of that happiness is what Rose needed in the moment. "Are you ready to go to the ball, tomorrow's your birthday you know!"

"Yes, and let's head down there now. Only you and me will celebrate." Rose said, getting up from her vanity. "I will meet you downstairs, okay?"

"Okay, you better not take forever or I'll be mad at you." Her sister said, glaring at her sister, a laugh fallowing after before running out like a full speed train. Rose wished she could be young, hoping her sister would forget her birthday, yet she felt her mood lighten up knowing someone remembered.

Rose opened her drawer, opening a certain empty face powder jar. Grabbing The hidden key, she opened her one drawer with her bourbon. She had a bad habit formed, to think- or to forget all the bad things. She pulled out the bottle, opening it, and drinking it as if it were water. After a few more chugs, she put away and always made sure to lock it and hide her key. Walking out of the room, and closing the door. She then went downstairs into the lobby, then outside to a cold York New night.

Walking up to the limousine- she opened the door to sit by her sister, her husband sitting across from them.

"Why aren't you dressed up more? And no Jewelry?" Fred asked. (Guessing a name) Rose looked up at him, trying to think of a nice way to keep conversation. It was always those type of questions or degrading comments, not a compliment or 'how was your day?'.

"Mm... Not really feeling like wearing jewelry.. and as a matter of fact I can wear what I want." She stated back seriously. If there was a way to press his buttons, this was one of them. However, as she stared coldly back at his glare, she wasn't scared. She already knew whatever she said would bite her back in the ass.

It was late last night, Daisy had went to sleep and Rose was putting on her blue night gown. Fred walked in, boozed up and he had a violent glint in his eyes. One that unsettles her the second he walked in the room. "Rose, why wouldn't you spend any time with me and my friends tonight?.." he asked. She might have been a little drunk herself, but she knew she would have to stand her ground. Rose snorted almost, shaking her head before replying. "Because I have no need to hang out with people like you, I already told you I was done with everything that has to do with you, when your friends try so hard to be my friends.. I know they are fraud of their true intentions.." she started, so calmly that it got under Fred's skin. He walked up to her, grabbing her wrist and trying to pull her closer to him.  "No that's not it, Tell me the truth." Fred said raising his voice. She could smell the alcohol coming from his break. She wouldn't flinch, but retaliate by attempting to shove him. "This.. This right here is why! Fred! I told you I was done, give me back my Nen! I don't love you anymore, why don't you ask yourself and the other girls you were hooking up with nights before! That's why I hat-" and before she could exclaim her feelings, she got struck in the face. An echo through the halls, and it to be honest it had gone from slaps to a full fisted punch. "Maybe it's because you're terrible, you only want me for my money, and those women are more than you'll ever be, Rose! Beautiful, unlike you." He screamed, at this point she was trying to hit him back as he was man handling her. This continued for about 30 minutes, and in the end, he had won. She was exhausted and bruised, he soon left the room, to do whatever. Rose knew he had other women, but being told by someone who once loved her and she loved a great deal, she started to fall down the wall, sobbing and releasing all of the pent up pain and feelings from the past months. Hoping one day, she would retrieve her Nen from him.. in the morning he had came to apologise and give her a diamond necklace.

Rose was spacing off, thinking of what had occurred. He can't say she didn't try, and her feelings and anger was running wild. If she had her Nen, this would be a different story. However, when they got married, she let him take her crystal ball. In which all her Nen was in. It was placed in a vault in his penthouse suite. She had tried many times to retrieve it, but only would get knocked out and brought to her room. One of the reasons she sleeps in her sisters room now. Daisy tugged on Roses dress, to bring her out of her thought. She looked over at her sister, a fake smile creeping on her lips and she hugged her. Fred had also been in thought, but let the conversation drop. He had plans for her later, however.

When they arrived, it was a big, fancy building. Alike many others in York New. Daisy was the first to get out, grabbing Roses hand and almost running to the doors, leaving Fred in the dust. "Slow down, Daisy, I can't run ask fast as you." Rose told her sister, however it was a lie. She could run faster. But with her bruises and aching body, Daisy has the advantage. Rose had always hidden these things from her. However, Daisy was smarter than what she led on at times. Almost witty enough to match her big sister sometimes. She already knew what had been happening. She slowed down for a sister, before giving her and her big sisters ticket to the security man at the front door.

"Okay your clear, come in." He stated in monotone before Fred had walked up behind them to do the same. Also being granted entry, all three of them walked in. It was quite a sight, beautiful one would say. Even though her sister was dragging her to the dance floor, Rose again had thought about what Fred said. "Beautiful, unlike you." Rang in her mind. Clouding it. Seems like she did not drink enough. By the time she returned to present time, she started dancing with her sister, in which laughs and giggles were heard from them. Fred walked up to his friends and the girls in which he had replaced Rose for. She looked over a little bit, quickly looking away as he had kissed them.

"Daisy, I'm going to get a drink, would you like to keep dancing, or come with me?" Rose asked. Daisy shook her head no and flowed away twirling. Rose smiled, at how pure and genuine her little sister can be at times, even when things were rough in Meteor City. A thought that hadn't crossed her mind in a long time. Meteor City. She missed it at times, however, there were people she missed more, wondering how they were doing..

Rose walked up to the bar, sat down, and waiting for the bartender to get done talking to a man and giving him a glass of red wine. She looked over, a realization hit when she looked at the man sitting over a few stools from her. He looked all to familiar, his black hair had grown since she last saw him, a nicely fitted tuxedo and a bandage around his forehead. Those green earrings matched his demeanor. He felt someone staring at him, he looked over to stare at her. She was sure, now, with those beautiful grey eyes starting into her soul.

"Chrollo, it's been quite a while, you aged well.." She said, getting up and sitting next to him. Chrollo was observing her for a minute before saying anything, taking in her image, also being able to see through the make up. He took a sip of his wine, and shifted over giving her a smile.

"Ah, Rose. Time has been very kind to you as well." Chrollo said in a low yet polite voice, she felt chills go up and down her spine. The bartender looked at her waiting for her to say what she wanted.

"I'll take a bourbon, please." Rose slightly acknowledged the bartender as he shook his head and went to get her drink.

Chrollo was thinking to himself, how beautiful she already was when he last saw her, but now she was even more, a treasure. "So, you're a bourbon girl now?" He asked, eyeing her, taking another sip. Chrollo had already assumed what she was going through, remembering how she use to cope with things in Meteor City. He glanced at her hand seeing a wedding ring on her ring finger. He glanced back up to her face, those ocean eyes he remembered so well.

"Oh... Uh.. yeah I suppose I am. So how long has it been, a whole eight years? What have you been up to since the last time we spoke." Rose replied, giving him a smile before drinking all of her drink in one go, pushing it at the bartender nodding her head to signal she wanted more. "Sir, could you please give me the bottle, I'll pay in full, you know who's tab to put it on." She told him, as she was a regular here. She glanced over at Fred, her heart shattering a little bit more, as he danced with the one women of his she disliked the most in the most provocative way, as though there was really nothing left to shatter in her heart. Returning her look at Chrollo, his eyes were fixated on Fred now, and she saw the eyes in which she loved, truly turn dark and mischievous. As if Fred could feel the darkness staring at him, his eyes went to Chrollo's, then his wife. A rise of jealousy and anger rose, but he looked away and would address this later on, also since he was entertained very much so with the woman before him.

"So... I'm guessing that's your husband, Rose?" Chrollo asked, looking back at her. "He's a fool." Chrollo stated right after, almost done with his wine and the bartender pouring more. Rose looked at Chrollo, knowing he is one of the smartest people on earth In her eyes, realizing he had everything figured out within a few minutes. She never knew why, but she was always rather emotional when it came to talking about problems with Chrollo. Maybe it was a deep connection, or just the way he made her feel. A tear rolled down as she looked away for a moment, wiping it away. Checking in on her sister when she did so, she was having a blast dancing with a boy her age.

"Yeah, uh... I guess you could say things weren't supposed to end like this... Enough about me. I've missed you, you know I did ask you a question Chrollo." Rose replied, her voice quivering a bit but was worse as she tried to cover it up. But Chrollo was just watching her, he could tell she was quite nervous and broken, drinking her third heavily filled cup. He hadn't seen her quite like this. If Chrollo could feel anything close to caring, it would be for her. And of course his troupe. And to him, it only felt like maybe a year or two since he saw her. So much had happened since then.

"Mm... You are changing the subject. However, I won't mind answering if you tell me the answers to my questions." Chrollo slithering his words, just staring at her. She knew that was his thing. She simply nodded staring back at him, before downing another drink. "Perfect. Well, I've been with you know who, we've been quite busy. And as for the time apart, I never actually realized it had been that long.." he stated truthfully. But soon stated something that would shock her. "I do, however, know your birthday is tomorrow, isn't it? Did you ever get the letters I sent you?" Maybe this is why Chrollo always had a place in her heart. She did receive them all, but was only ever able to send him one for his birthday. Except, she was unable to this year due to her and Fred's issues, she couldn't leave the mansion for a week almost, she was beaten every time, however Fred caught notice of her and Chrollo's letters, becoming more and more furious each year. She cried for quite a while that she could not write her friend a happy birthday letter.

"You are correct, as always. I'm surprised you remember. You always did have a sharp mind." Rose said in a tipsy voice, a smile tugging on her plump lips. "Don't think I've forgotten yours either.. I'm sorry I couldn't write back a couple weeks ago, but.. happy belated birthday Chrollo." She said, opening up the slightest, giving him a hug with one arm and setting down her dead on his shoulder. Chrollo knew he could get information he didn't need, but wanted to know... And as for Rose, tipsy and all, usually she knew Chrollo came with a motive, and If he didn't, he would soon find one. She could tell something peaked his interest. But was unclear on what.

"Well, I'm assuming he wouldn't let you write me back, it's not your fault. I knew you would have, you do every year.. thank you." Chrollo smiled, as she recoiled back to her original position In her seat. "So, Rose, be a dear, and please tell me what's been going on?.."

--

A/N thank you so much for reading. Hopefully it's not to terrible, but I am going to keep writing since Chrollo is daddy and I love him. Lol. Hope you liked it and like I said in the description, please be advised there is substance abuse and domestic abuse. Don't worry, I have something planned and Fred will get was he deserves. Thank you so much for reading! Also I took this from my wattpad, so honestly the typos will be fixed. Eventually!

[hearts-hunger]

together wing to wing || chapter three

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

chapter one || chapter two

Series Summary: He’s offered his protection before, on the Green. In the hospital, Cee wonders if he’ll offer it again, and Ezra wonders if she’ll even want him to.

Chapter Summary: Ezra comes to terms with things.

Pairings: Ezra & Cee (platonic!)

Genre: Fluff, hurt/comfort, angst | Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: hospitals, injury, mentions of canon-typical violence

A/N: I’ve been working on this fic some more and I remembered I hadn’t posted this chapter! I hope you like it! ♡

“Kevva help us, birdie. It’s even more frightful than I thought.”

Cee’s reflection was sympathetic in the refresher mirror, her gaze travelling over the new prosthetic arm that had been strapped on him five ways from Sunday. The straps and bandaging chafed against his chest, but he was assured that would fade with time. It wasn’t much to look at, just a hunk of flesh-colored plastic and a simple hook on the end, and he tried to get himself accustomed to the way it looked hanging from his shoulder.

“It’s not that bad,” she said. “You just... have to get used to it, that’s all.”

He frowned. “If you say so.”

He’d never considered himself a vain man. He was popular enough with the ladies at the various dive bars he frequented whenever he was planetside - for some reason utterly unknown to him, they seemed particularly allured to the streak of blonde in his otherwise dark hair, a prize gained from a spray of fazer solution from a clumsy-handed fellow prospector. But he’d never concerned himself with his looks; underneath a flight suit and a helmet, looks tended not to be of any great importance.

This thing, though... He knew it was foolish to be troubled over how his prosthetic looked - it was far more important that it functioned, that it allowed him some independence and ability now that his arm was gone. He was infinitely more hireable with a working prosthetic than he was without it, and he willed himself to think of that as he looked at himself in the mirror.

He snapped the arm up and locked the elbow joint into place, wincing a little at the unfamiliar movement. His muscles still protested even after all the cycles of physical therapy he’d endured - more from Cee’s bidding than any desire to do it on his own - and the weight of his prosthesis felt awkward, resting at a ninety-degree angle against his ribs. Under the green scrubs he’d been given in replacement for his dirty, tattered clothes - just as Cee had - the straps rubbed against his skin; he fussed with the spot roughly for a few seconds before Cee batted his hand away.

“The doctor told you not to do that,” she reminded him. “You’ll irritate your skin.”

“Not nearly as much as it’s irritating me,” he grumbled. He turned the lights out in the refresher and started to pace around the room, the same room he’d been boxed into for weeks on end; he felt unbalanced with the weight of his prosthesis, an entirely disagreeable sensation. He wondered how he could have gotten accustomed to having one arm so quickly, and why it was so maddening to have that weight back now.

Confounded, pestiferous thing. He’d never felt this sort of vexation at his own body before, and it took hold of him with a sudden ferocity. He was still raw with the grief of it, the fear and despondency of having lost his primary weapon, but never had he been so irate with the loss. He supposed he hadn’t had time for it, until now - he’d been healing, and there hadn’t been much he couldn't do because there wasn’t much he could do. Now, all he could think of were the things he’d need two hands for - not one weak hand and a metal hook.

He ran his hand through his hair. How would he find suitable occupation? How could he deliver on his promise to protect Cee, weak-handed as he was? What if he couldn’t? How were the two of them - such an unlikely, ungainly pair as they were - ever going to make their way in the galaxy once they left this hospital?

“Ezra?”

Her voice pulled him out of his feverish brooding, stilled his irascible pacing. He frowned at her.

“What?”

She didn’t say anything, just watched him, and he felt a flare of aggravation.

“Kevva waits, girl - speak your mind or leave me be.”

She flinched at his words, the same rebuke he’d used to spur her into action after he’d tried to take her pod and gotten shot for his trouble. He instantly felt a wave of guilt and softened towards her.

“Sorry,” she said quietly, before he could apologize first. It sounded as reflexive as it did heartfelt, and he wondered how many times her father’s words had elicited such a reaction.

“No, birdie,” he said, abashed and much gentler. He knew what she looked like when he frightened her, and she was closer to it now than he ever wanted to make her again.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he told her. “My temper got away from me for a moment. Forgive me for speaking to you so harshly. I wholeheartedly apologize.”

She looked surprised. “Thank you,” she said uncertainly, like she’d never been on the receiving end of an apology in her life.

When she didn’t say anything else, he hoped a little prompting wouldn’t offend her.

“What did you want to say?” he asked. “You have my undivided attention, I assure you.”

She shook her head. “I was just going say we could go out to the garden, but it was a stupid idea. I shouldn’t have...”

She trailed off, and he gave a wry, sympathetic smile.

“What, interrupted my conceited rumination?” he supplied. “No, birdie, you should have done that. And I’d be obliged to you for any time you attempt it, should I tend towards such a useless activity in future.”

She looked more relaxed then, and her look mixed exasperation with a fondness he couldn’t help but take pride in.

“You talk way too much.”

He chuckled. “You’re likely right.” He scrubbed his fingers over the strap against his chest only for a moment before her disapproving look stopped him again.

“Let’s go to the garden, then,” he said. “Maybe the sunshine will put things in a better light.”

She smiled. “Let me grab my notebook.”

-

Though she’d brought it with her, presumably in hopes that she would feel inspired to write, Cee left her notebook next to Ezra on the bench where he sat with his face to the sun. He’d missed the feel of light and air on his face; it had been many cycles since he’d last enjoyed it. 

He recalled very clearly the first time he’d been in a flight suit and helmet: his first trip to the Green, when the rush was in full swing. He’d been young, cocky, attempting to grab hold of a life of riches so advertised by every major corporation hungry for some poor bastard to harvest aurelec for them. They fitted him with a too-small flight suit - probably, though he hadn’t known it at the time, from some newly-dead prospector. He would never forget the fear that seized him, being constricted in that thing: he’d pleaded and pleaded to be taken out of it, but they were already on the Green. He had made quite an impression that day, the young, tearful prospector who couldn’t quite catch his breath, whose hands shook so badly he busted every other pull.

It had taken a good, long wrestle with shame and bitterness for Ezra to overcome that bit of his career, that wound to his youthful, fragile sense of his own manhood. He’d long since forgiven himself for it; the Green had taught him that fear was fear, no matter how old or how strong you got. Now he wore a flight suit and helmet that were a little too big and more clumsy than not, and even then, he still tussled with that same fear from time to time. He remembered how badly it had bothered him that Cee kept her helmet on in his tent, how he’d growled at her to take it off before it sent him into a nervous spin. 

Out in the garden, Ezra took a deep, hungry breath of fresh air. City air, but tempered by the flora that took up every available space on the rooftop. Cee was looking over the balcony, a birds-eye view of the city more beguiling than the greenery; the railing was too high for her to topple over, but he still felt a brief streak of anxiety watching her lean over it to look below. Strange, considering all they’d been through together; she would have laughed had she known.

“Come look,” she called. “You can see everything from up here.”

“I have no doubt,” he answered. “But I’ll leave you to it, birdie. I fear it would be too vertiginous an experience for my taste.”

She turned and looked at him, her expression scrunched in confusion. “Vertiginous?”

He chuckled. “It would make me dizzy,” he clarified. “Too high up.”

She rolled her eyes, but her expression was something close to affectionate. He smiled. He was determined to charm her with his loquacious disposition, and he was pleased to have been more frequently rewarded with amusement than annoyance in recent cycles.

“Tell me what you see, little bird.” He pressed his fingers over the edge of the prosthesis; though warned it would ache, he found himself disgruntled by the feeling. “Any trouble worth getting into?”

She looked over the railing again. “I dunno. There’s an awful lot of people. I wonder where they’re going.”

“Hm. The industrious, tireless occupations of city folk,” he mused. Nothing he would have enjoyed nor been very good at, if memory served. He’d tried to get out of the prospecting business before, but for better or worse, his skill set was of precious little use to a desk job.

“Maybe some of them are students,” she supplied. He noticed the pitch of hopefulness in her voice, the color of interest.

“Maybe,” he agreed. Likely not with lives as exciting as the students in her novel, but students all the same.

He wanted to ask what she thought of being a student, if the thought had ever crossed her mind. He knew with certainty that it had, as he could hardly imagine her being so consumed with the characters in her book and not picturing herself in the same circumstances. But she had never mentioned it; he thought it may not be a topic of conversation she wanted to broach with him, and he wouldn't begrudge her any privacy.

But, then again, maybe she’d just been waiting for the right moment.

“I wonder what it would be like to be a student,” she said. Her voice was quieter and she still watched the people below; he listened more carefully to be able to catch what she said.

“My mother went to school,” she said. “Not Bowsum Conservatory, just this small university on Kamrea, but she always talked about how much she loved it.”

Ezra didn’t say anything; he knew how valuable this little bit of her history was, and he was more than honored to be invited to treasure it with her. He gave her a gentle, encouraging smile when she turned around to face him, and was pleased when she returned it.

“I want to go to school, someday,” she said. It was more hopeful and confident than any desire she had expressed to him thus far, and he felt an overwhelming urge to make sure it stayed so, unweighted by practicality or circumstance or any worldly obstacle.

“Okay,” he agreed.

She raised a brow. “Just like that?”

His smile was a little heart-heavy. She was no stranger to the things that stood between a Floater and a life doing anything but skimming the boards for low-paying, risky jobs. Likely her father had made it abundantly clear that no life other than the one he led was in the cards for her.

“Just like that,” he assured her. He felt a bit lightheaded and muffled a few coughs in his fist, but ignored them in favor of keeping hold of the possibly tenuous thread of their conversation. He wanted to make the most of this opportunity to convince her that whatever she wanted for her future, he would help her to get.

She frowned. “I dunno. I don’t have any...” She shook her head.  “I probably wouldn’t even get in.”

“Now, none of that,” he chided gently. “You’re whip-smart, birdie, and that’s truly saying something coming from me.”

She laughed, and he was pleased his little joke had worked. He tried to laugh with her but found himself short of breath and settled for a huff.

“When we get out of this... hospital,” he wheezed, “we’ll start thinkin’ on it, alright? Between the two of us... surely we can come up with... a plan to get you into university.”

He hadn’t had that much trouble talking since that wretched ventilator tube from surgery had come out. He tried to suck in a breath and started coughing, badly, each breath rattling in his chest. Cee noticed his floundering and raced over to him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Can you breathe?”

He rubbed his chest and managed a strained, shallow breath through the tightness and pain that settled in with a frightening quickness.

“Chest feels...” He couldn’t quite think of a creative comparison, and left it up to his quiet groan to relay the message.

“We need to get you inside,” she said, her voice panicked. 

“Easy,” he said, taking one of her hands to quit their nervous fluttering around him. She held on tight and studied his face.

“Let me catch my breath,” he managed, though he feared it was only a matter of time before his lungs started to try and come up his throat again. 

“We need a doctor,” she insisted. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

He almost chuckled. He wondered where she’d heard that saying; the only things that mentioned ghosts these days were very old books and deeply spiritual types.

“Fine, but let’s... meet them downstairs, alright?” he said. “No use stirring up the whole hospital.”

Maybe it was the way he’d managed to get through a whole sentence without wheezing, or maybe she was just as keen as he was to pretend there was nothing amiss, but she nodded. He let her help him to stand, and was about to open his mouth to deliver some remark on her tendency towards worrying when he felt a clear, unalterable sense of something deeply wrong.

“Birdie,” he managed.

She looked up at him. “What?”

He felt like his head was full of Green dust, every sense distorted. Everything swung around him in a carousel of colors. He didn’t know if he was upright or not, and couldn’t feel the squeeze of Cee’s hand.

“I believe you were right to bring to attention our need for a doctor.” His voice sounded completely separate from him, unlike him, and it made him frightened.

“Ezra?” His little bird, terrified again on his account. He really had to stop doing that to her. “Ezra!”

His vision went as he careened in some indiscernible direction. He heard Cee’s frightened cry, and hoped he would lose consciousness before his head hit the ground.

Read chapter four!

pedro pascal character taglist: @punkgeekchic, @tv-saved-the-teenage-girl, @stardust-galaxies, @theorganasolo, @qhbr2013 ♡

series taglist: @insomniamamma, @motherofallthesmallthings​ ♡

let me know if you’d like to be added to either taglist! ♡

[kilaem]

1-10 for the pretty but bitter elf 👀

👀 pretty but bitter half elf ahoy

1. If your character wasn’t an adventurer, what livelihood would they lead?

....probably a sadder but less dangerous one than she currently leads. she’d probably still be a world away and hiding from her past, trying to go unnoticed and homeless. maybe she still would’ve ended up in the city anyway, since her best friend is there, but she definitely wouldn’t have come as far as she has in regards to any possible growth shes had

2. Who in the party would your character trust the most with their life?

oh god, probably... probably tom (our barbarian) or nate (our wizard). tom because hes consistently shown he would be willing to die if it meant the others survived, and because they’re definitely the most alike in their regard to how they approach the world?

and if it was nate, it would probably be because he’s got a good head on his shoulders and would rather figure out a solution and want answers instead of immediately jump into an emotional response.

3. What are your character’s core moral beliefs?

if someone tries to kill you, kill them first. stop the suffering of others if you can. be kind to children. good/evil is not inherent. be better than you were.

4. What relationship does your character have with their parents and siblings?

OOF, UH. well, her family are dead. mostly? i think. maybe one of them is alive, but its currently an unknown. recently she did admit she was glad her parents were dead, because then there was no suffering. take that any way you want to ;)

but it’s definitely a complicated relationship she has about it all.

5. Does your character have any biases for or against certain races?

nope, she doesn’t give a shit either way. she grew up in a large family with a lot of different races/species.

6. What is your character’s opinion on nobility? On authority?

...also something she doesn’t give a shit about. she’s not going to go out of her way to piss them off, but she’s also not going to let them act like they’re better than anyone because of their position in society

7. Describe your character’s current appearance: clothes, armor, scars they’ve picked up along the journey, etc.

oooooooooh okay okay okay she recently had a makeover so.. her common clothes are typically high waist black jeans, a black turtle neck, fingerless gloves, red leather jacket (originally had holes, now replaced with a nicer new one her best friend got her when she got new armor :3), and leather boots. her new armor is studded black leather thats been styled to her aesthetic so it covers her neck, and it’s been carefully designed so that it looks like it’s dragon scale almost? and it’s kind of a black/grey alt in the light with the design of it.

as for appearance, olive skin, but like, kind of sickly in the way that she definitely needs to spend more time in the sun. green eyes, perpetual bags under her eyes. her hair was originally a dyed white with the dark regrowth coming in, but now it’s been cleaned up with a trim and been redyed so that it’s an ombre into grey/white so she doesnt have to worry about the regrowth as much.

shes got a lot of scars (backstory, not any from current injuries) under her clothes that she doesn’t show, got pierced ears (left ear has a tear in it and she doesnt really hide it but theres an earring that has a chain hanging over it to hide it a touch), and she has some coverup tattoos over her scars. also she keeps her neck/wrists/ankles bandaged under her clothes because she has bruises that she receives from her god.

8. What location encountered in the campaign has your character felt the most “at home” in, or just generally liked the most?

ooooooh, the place she feels most “at home” in is the dusk (a club that her best friend owns), but somewhere that she’s liked and it made an impact on her was the dandelion field (the field of dreams) outside of the city. she had a dandelion included in the most recent tattoo she got because it meant so much to her.

9. What deity, if any, does your character worship? What’s their opinion on other people’s worship?

i don’t know if i could say it’s worship. as a cleric it’s a very complicated relationship she’s got with her deity, and there’s a lot of push and pull in their treatment of each other because she constantly pushes the boundaries, and baits them into reacting the way she wants them to so that she’s reminded to not trust them? but she’s also exhausted with everything involving it, and she just wants answers.

as for other peoples worship, she doesn’t actually give a fuck as long as they don’t use it to justify their actions or treatment of others. blind/absolute faith and worship is not something she’s comfortable with, and she tries to steer clear of it if at all possible... which makes it hard with the party where one is the son of an angel who doesn’t actually know anything about religion (he thought she hated him but she just refuses to treat him like a child and he didn’t know the difference) and a sorcerer who’s dedicated to the raven queen and has little regard for anything else (in her opinion, and there’s a lot of tension there. she mainly tries to avoid him)

10. If your character had time to pick up any artisan’s tools, game set, instrument, etc., what would it be?

!! i can answer this easily, she recently picked up woodcarvers tools so that when she wanted to carve something she wouldn’t have to use her dagger, but otherwise i’d say she would probably pick up a herbalism kit or poisoners supplies since she keeps a lot of poisonous plants in her apartment for her fey beetle to eat

[just-emotionalistic]

“I didn’t mean the things I said” prompt for your feral pairing? 😅

For miscellaneous angst starters.

!!! Okay! I did it! It took super long but I have done it! It’s also really bad because I’m not the best at writing but here we go!Word count: 1,713

Edit: I should probably note I didn’t put as much effort into this as I could of, I haven’t been feeling particularly inspired with writing lately and I find I tend to rush it and try to put unimportant filler in a lot ;; oh well

~~~~

It started with a few simple words.

They were exhausted, they had been trekking across merciless ground for days, carrying the dead in carts behind them. The injured that could walk hobbled along beside them, painfully slow, those who couldn’t had to be carried on the backs of the uninjured, or sat on top of the piles of their deceased friends in the carts.

It was a gruesome scene. And by the Qun it reeked. The scent of death made a trail behind them as they traveled, and under the ruthless heat of the sun the smell would gather around them and cling to their clothes, mixing with the sweat that coated their skin. Flies swarmed around them constantly, delighting in their pain.

Lokhultaar remembered that if it weren’t for a sudden change in the weather that had rain soaking them through to the bone that was so cold it felt like little stinging needles hitting their skin, they would have continued that way through the night. It was uncomfortable, but a relief from the heat, as they stopped and began to set up the tents. The injured tent went up first, then a tent for the dead, not that they’d mind, but the humans preferred if their late comrades were respected and kept to be returned to the families, for burial.

Not that it made much difference to her. All that mattered at that time was the warmth of the fire Vivienne so kindly made in the centre of the tent she shared with her companions. Their clothes were hung to the back of the tent, small balls of controlled flame drifting around them, bobbing as if to some kind of tune. Sometimes, she forgot how frightening Vivienne’s grasp of control with magic was. Moments like this reminded her.

There was light banter going around the group, subdued smiles, but they didn’t do much to break through the tension in the air. Even Sera’s dirty jokes were a blunt knife against frozen butter.

Sera…

It all happened too quickly, then. There were shouts, a horn blowing, feet scuffling loudly against the rough ground outside the tent. They didn’t have time to pull on their armour, barely enough to receive their weapons as they rushed to confront the commotion.

She remembered there were Red Templars; a group of about 15 maybe? They outnumbered them but- they were tired. It was a calculated strike.

Everything after that was shown in flashes; two of their soldiers falling for every Red Templar felled, burning flames and searing ice, three arrows missing her head by just an inch and embedding themselves in the eyes and mouth of her target.

Turning, seeing Sera, wild, alone and cornered, out of arrows, out of space, out of time-

“SERA!”

And there was red, so much red.

Too much.

The red of the crystals, ugly and jagged, pulsing with screaming anger. The red of blood, blood on their swords, blood on the ground, blood-

Red as the elf dropped her bow, the hand of her preferred arm still clinging to the grip as it collided with the ground.

There wasn’t else she remembered after that, a hysteric scream of pain, followed by a scream of fury. Rage. The bodies of the red templars bloodied, mutilated and mangled, collapsed at her feet. Bloodshot eyes, tears, blood. Desperately trying to piece her arm back together, shaking, lost.

And her words.

She never quite remembered exactly what she said.

~~

She woke in a cold sweat, finding the blankets had been tossed off during the night. Light hadn’t reached the horizon yet. Her body ached under the cold winter air that filtered through her windows, and, like the past few days, she had woken alone, spurred from sleep from the same dream, the same memory, she had been for about a week since they returned. She leaned her chin on her fist and stared blankly at the light streaks that broke the ashy colour of her skin, laughing bitterly at the pain of the stitches on her stomach pulling.

It was almost like this was some stupidly cruel joke.

It was too hard to not take it as one.

The break of dawn set her in motion, standing and making her usual routine, it went by like clockwork. Wash, replace the bandages, dress, make rounds through Skyhold, saying good morning to any who would be awake, and make way to the tavern to talk to-

Sera.

Her feet hooked around each other and forced her to stop at the training ring, she played it off as stopping to make sure the soldiers weren’t slacking off.

Maryden’s lulling melodies filtered through the walls of the tavern, accompanying the clang of steel against steel as they trained, the scent of sweat clung to the air like a bad memory. She offered them a nod of approval, not sure if they even saw it, before turning on her heel and striding into the tavern.

It went quiet as soon as she entered. The tension was incredible. Nervous chatter resumed as she climbed the first set of stairs, another argument was bound to happen, they were as sure as she. Sera was many things, and insanely stubborn was one of them.

She spun on the final step, turning to face Sera’s door. It was closed, big, red letters scrawled over it. She didn’t take the time to read it.

“You are still hurting?”

She leaned on the railing beside where the spirit had appeared, sitting and swinging his legs like a child.

“Thank you so much for telling me that I am Cole, I had no idea.” She offered him a tight smile. “Are you going to diagnose my problems for me again today?”

And there was silence between them.

“She is hurting.” His voice was quiet, distant.

“Yeah, no shit.”

“She replays the words you said over and over in her mind, and she wants them to make her feel more hurt but everything inside her is silent fury at a meaning that she doesn’t know wasn’t meant. You made her feel small, she thinks you once made her feel everything, and now she feels nothing. She is afraid of it. She wants you to apologize-”

“And I want you to get out of her head.” She pushed herself back up off the railing and facing the door, not sure if she was right enough to do what she needed to. “Aren’t there sick and dying people that you can go help?”

The spirit just looked at her with a distant, sad expression. It made her hair stand on end. And then he was gone.

“Right, I can do this…” She took a deep breath, lifting her fist to knock-

“Can’t you read the door? Go away!”

A sigh.

“I’m coming in anyway.” The hinges whined loudly as she pushed the door open, and she stepped in. She wasn’t about to hesitate this time.

“Well you’re a right arse, ain’t'cha? I told you to go away.” The elf sat cross legged on her table, carving out shafts for her arrows. She couldn’t make their eyes meet.

“We have to talk.”

“Right, just like we had ta talk the last 5 times. We didn’t end up doing much talking.”

“Sera, I-”

“Don’t say it.”

It was just like the last time.

“I’m sorry, about what I said.”

The music seemed to fade away as the words left her mouth. A lump formed in her throat. Sera stopped carving, and leaned back, holding herself up with her arms behind her, finally meeting her gaze. Her knife still in her right hand. Lokhultaar didn’t miss how her arm looked a bit wonky, her gaze caught on the line of stitches that went around her elbow. Her stomach dropped.

“Well, then, that just makes everything better, don’t it?”

Her voice was bitter. There was silence. She continued.

“But that’s just it, innit? You types think you can go and make shit wrong and then just up and say "sorry!” and somehow everything will be fixed. Sorry to burst your bubble, but that ain’t how it works, Inky.“

"I didn’t know that-”

“Right, that’s another perfectly fine excuse! "I didn’t know this!” and “I didn’t know that!”, like it makes up for what you said.“

She didn’t know how to respond. Sera’s face was hard, her expression resigned, but there was a slight tremble to her lips as they moved.

"Sera-” the elf went to interrupt, but Lokhultaar spoke quickly, “I can’t explain if you won’t let me speak!”

And for the first time in their encounters, Sera was quiet.

“I am sorry. I know it means less than nothing,” she spoke quickly, something painful cracking through her voice and making it hard to form her words, “but by the Qun, Sera! You could have died! I was worried, I was angry, I got scared, I wasn’t thinking- I know I can make this stupid fucking excuses all day and you probably wouldn’t believe me but you could have fucking died! You are everything to me, and I nearly lost you! I- I don’t know what I’d do if-!”

She stopped. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried.

She couldn’t remember ever seeing Sera cry, either.

Her voice broke.

“I-I’m sorry-”

For once, there were no words said in response, just the sound of music as time started around them again. Just Sera pushing herself off the table and closing the distance between them. Just the feeling of the callouses on her small hand as she rested it in Lokhultaar’s cheek.

And just that scowl breaking into that uneven, impish smile that she loved to see. And as Sera snorted her beautiful, broken laugh, she couldn’t help but chuckle a bit too. She had no idea what they were laughing at.

“B-by Andraste’s holy knickers we’re both frikkin idiots!” Sera howled, furiously trying to scrub the tears of laughter from her eyes. Her laughter was cut short by a cry of suprise as her legs were swooped out from her, and she was pulled up into Lokhultaar’s arms.

“Now, are you going to keep being a hard ass or can we go back to my bed? It’s too early to be awake.”

AND I DON’T FEEL LIKE WRITING ANYMORE SO HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

[violetsmoak]

Appetence [1/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn't expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #cemetery #haunting #relics

Canon-Compliance: Alternate Universe; Jason still died but was not found by Talia when he was resurrected. All other events mostly follow the same chronology as New Earth continuity, with mentions made to events in New 52

Author’s Note(s): My attention span was really terrible today and I couldn't focus on either of my two other fics even though the next chapters of both are completely planned out. So I'm posting the start of the third (and final) story that I'm doing for the JayTimWeek/Month challenge. Also, I'm really excited about this one. I spent more time planning this than either of the other two and I can't wait to hear what you guys think!I've got work stuff to do tomorrow so there may not be anything updated until Friday.

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

________________________________________________________________

The Bat-Signal cuts through the dark and hazy clouds lingering above Gotham City, and for a split-second, Jason Todd has the urge to drop everything and race for the roof of the GCPD Headquarters. It’s hard to ignore the nervous jump of excitement in his stomach, the phantom sensation of a domino mask on his face and the heavy drag of a cape at his shoulders.

Which makes no sense, since it’s been at least five years since I even wore that shit.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, the smoke mixing with the familiar summer smog, Jason turns his back on Gotham’s literal beacon of hope and steels himself against nocturnal threats of his own. The city is for the caped crew—because apparently, the Bat has a posse now, he thinks with only a hint of a bitter sneer—and Jason has been fighting in a different arena for quite some time now.

He takes a final drag of the cigarette, and then grinds it beneath his boots, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. It’s a weathered and worn thing that reminds him of one Willis Todd wore in one of the few memories Jason has of him that doesn’t involve alcohol or fists. He thinks it’s less pretentious looking than a trench coat and probably gives off fewer ‘creepy motherfucker’ vibes like the sartorial choices of certain other people. It’s also less likely to snag on things when he needs to make a quick exit while digging up graves.

Yeah, it’s a thing in his line of work.

Gotham Cemetery is a sprawling necropolis, as dark and forbidding now as it was the night he dug himself out of his own grave. Half a decade of Gotham-style tender, loving negligence has left the somber green hills overgrown and the majority of the old tombstones fallen or rotting.

You’d think in a city with the highest homicide rate in the country, the mayor would spring for better maintenance. Then again, it’s Gotham. The dead don’t pay taxes, so fuck ‘em.

Which…enough said.

Gotham and the world think Jason Todd-Wayne is dead and has been for five years now; in a way, it’s the truth. He’s no longer anything like the boy that was beaten to death by a psychotic clown, no longer the shrimp who fastidiously dyed his hair black and jumped into someone else’s cape and pixie boots just so he didn’t have to be his own screwup self anymore. He outgrew wanting to be Dick a long time ago, outgrew wanting to be Bruce, too, and embraced a whole new other set of skills to put him apart from them.

Most occultists and even homo magi need to put conscious effort and intent into calling up or even seeing a spirit. Ever since Jason died and then mysteriously got better, the dead appear to him as blatantly and a solid as the living.

John told him he was a fool to come back here.

“Someone with your gifts, they’ll drive you bloody mad,” his mentor warned him when he left London. “And I ain’t talking about the dead ones, neither.”

“You’re just saying that because Batman wouldn’t hold your hand that one time,” Jason retorted, shrugging off the concern. He is Gotham born and bred, his blood is in those streets, and he has always wanted to come home, even if it wasn’t necessarily to a stately manor or its inhabitants.

He clenches his fists.

Inhabitants that wasted no time in replacing him after he died. Jason was rotting away in fucking Arkham, and Bruce was shoving another kid into the tights.

If it didn’t involve seeing him, I would hunt him down and break his jaw.

He surveys the graveyard proper. The everyday observer considers cemeteries to be places of peace and eternal rest; quiet, if a little bit spooky. To Jason, they’re as gruesome as any major battlefield.

Spirits pack the way before him; some of them look relatively normal if dated by their clothes; many others are disfigured and bloody from whatever killed them, whether natural or unnatural. They clamor and crowd, eternally shouting to be heard, or screaming as they relive their deaths in their own personal purgatories.

In the beginning, that din almost drove Jason insane. Bruce’s teachings kept him rational as long as it could in the months after he woke up, and then John’s training helped him temper his own awareness further. By now, he can function almost normally, automatically filtering the voices out as he goes about his daily business; it’s only in places like this, where the dead outnumber the living, where it’s harder.

Jason reaches up, adjusting the noise filters in his ears—mechanical devices that need regular winding but are still more reliable than anything running on electricity of batteries. They’re like steampunk hearing aids, only instead of magnifying sound, they drown out the constant moan of the ghosts when he can’t do it himself. Just one of many methods of protection he’s learned over the years. Some are physical, like the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist or the bottle of holy water in his pocket; others—spells and symbols and mantras—are carved all over his body in tattoos and blood writing. Anything to keep the otherworld away.

“Personal space is a key to a medium’s sanity,” John told him once. “That and a good bottle of single malt scotch.”  

Jason ignores the moss-covered path that winds through the larger and more prominent mausoleums. He deliberately doesn’t search out the one in the distance bearing the Wayne crest—

(Still remembers the feel of his fingernails splitting against the wood of the coffin, choking on clumps of soil and insects.)

—and instead seeks a small structure much farther away. It’s in the furthest part of the cemetery, the shabby section almost hidden by overgrown willows. Half of the name above the doorway is obscured by vines, but it’s easy for him to make out the name etched into the stone with bold letters.

HAYWOOD.

According to the public record, Sheila Haywood’s body was returned to Gotham at the same time as Jason Todd’s. Bruce paid for her funeral and internment, which was just as well since she had no other family, and then she was promptly forgotten about.

By everyone except Jason, it seems.

It took some doing and a few weeks tracking down everyone that had worked at the same refugee camp as his mother, but he’d finally managed to collect what possessions she left behind. A colleague of hers had put them aside when there appeared to be nothing of actual monetary value in them.

A gold coin, small bone carvings of stylized animals, dainty trinkets of garnets, amber and lapis lazuli, a compact mirror, some seashells, a decorative fan, quartz paperweight, and a brightly colored feather. There was a picture of Willis in there, too, young and almost Jason’s double. No picture of Jason, though, but he hadn’t expected it.

He kept the picture but left the rest in the small wooden box, which he now removes from his messenger bag and sets down in front of the stone bearing his mother’s name. He follows that with various tools and ingredients. Black candles arranged in a star shape around the box, a chalice, a jar of detritus—teff seeds, driftwood and soil, all from the place where she died—that he sprinkles around in a circle, a handful of smooth obsidian stones to mark a pentagram joining the candles, the dagger John gave him for his last birthday, vials of oil and holy water.

Murmuring a few protection oaths, he shrugs off his jacket, leaving his arms bare, and then digs out a pack of matches to light the candles; flickering shadows dance across the mausoleum walls. He takes up the chalice to combine the water and oil, and then reaches for the dagger.

Hate this part.

Training to ignore pain doesn’t mean it goes away, and he grits his teeth a little as he draws his blade across his forearm, not deep enough to nick anything vital, but enough that the blood runs easily into the chalice. Without bothering to bandage the wound, Jason holds up the chalice in front of him and centers himself.

“Phantasma inrequietum, te voco,” he intones. “Eloguiorum mei audi: Sheila Haywood, te nominas!“ The stagnant air in the mausoleum starts to pick up. “In nominee creatricis, te impero, hic locum decede.” Hand over the top of the chalice, he swirls the liquid within, and then tips it into the open keepsake box. “Per sanguinem hominis et per sanguinem filii tui, non remane et apage! ”He strikes a match and lobs it into the box, not even flinching as the whole thing flares into flame; he intends to watch it until it burns to nothing.

“That’s not going to work, you know.”

“Jesus fuck!” Jason explodes, whirling to the right and glaring at the interrupter. “What did I say about sneaking up on me? Or just—showing up around me in general?”

The apparition in front of him doesn’t look impressed.

Sheila is still beautiful—or, at least, the side of her body that isn’t covered with third-degree burns and sections of pulverized bone—and still sharp. Cold, untouchable and self-interested.

But unlike the way she was before, she’s all-too present in Jason’s life now.

“Goddamn it,” he snarls, and against every lesson John has ever given him, lashes out and knocks the candles and detritus hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. “What the hell. I’ve done everything. You had last rites, your body was cremated, I just torched the things that had any value to you, why the hell won’t you just move on?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” Sheila replies, as always.

Jason scowls. “And of course, you can’t just tell me.”

She gazes at him balefully, and he runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Sheila, we’ve been over this. You can’t stay here. One, you know spirits that stick around past their time go Dark Side, and I really don’t want to have to exorcise your spectral ass. Two, it’s fucking creepy for a twenty-year-old guy to be followed around by his mother wherever he goes. What the hell is keeping you here? What more do you want from me?”

“Your forgiveness,” she tells him patiently.

“I already forgave you. Years ago.”

“You still call me Sheila.”

“That’s your name.”

“I’m your mother.”

“Who sold me out and got me murdered.”

“See? You haven’t forgiven me.”

“I have. I’m just stating a fact, Jesus…”

“Apparently the cosmic balance doesn’t agree enough to let me move on,” the ghost says dryly. “And to think, I used to be an atheist.”

“This is total bullshit,” Jason snaps, grabbing his jacket and stalking out of the mausoleum in frustration.

Three years of this mediumship crap, and neither he nor John have ever been able to figure out why the ghost of Jason’s dead mother won’t stop haunting him. Wards and sutras that keep even the nastiest spirits away from Jason don’t even phase her, and she’s inexplicably coherent.

And persistent.

As Jason stalks back through the cemetery, he can sense her in his periphery, gliding along beside him, unconcerned with his irritation.

“Can you just…stay away from me? Like you did in the beginning?” he grumbles.

“You were just learning how to communicate without going insane. I wasn’t about to disrupt that.”

“How considerate of you.”

“I try.”

“Look, I’ve had enough of the ghost-stalker thing for today. I went out of my way for this, you know. I didn’t even want to come back here. And now I’m back to the fucking drawing board.”

“It may not have been a waste of a trip,” she replies and vanishes.

“Oh, you can fuck off when it’s convenient for you,” he grumbles, though he already senses what she was speaking of.

Several yards away, a small boy, maybe eight, is clinging forlornly to an angel headstone. Translucent tears stream down his cheeks, but every now and again his face shifts, like a television caught between two channels, and his mouth widens into an unnatural smile.

Jason could have gone the rest of his life without seeing that smile again.

Still, he sighs and heads toward the kid.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low and maintaining a safe distance from the boy, whose head whips up to stare at Jason in sudden fear.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice thick with tears.

“I’m Jason. You okay, kid?”

“I can’t find my mom,” the boy murmurs, wiping at his face. “I keep going looking, but I forget the way home. And then…I always end up back here.”

He sounds on the verge of tears again; it’s something Jason can understand.

With the puzzling exception of Sheila, who appears to come and go as she pleases, most ghosts are stuck in certain patterns and paths when they die, frozen in an infinite loop until they break themselves out of it or until some arbitrary higher power decides they’ve suffered enough. And for some reason, Jason can break them out of it.

“You could always try again,” he suggests. “I think you’ll manage it this time.”

The boy shudders. “There’s scary people here.”

No arguing with that.

“I know. I see them, too.” Jason glances at the headstone, scanning the name and dates. “Your name’s Cole?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re missing, there are probably people looking for you. They might have posted something online about it. I’ll check it out, but it could take a bit.” He holds up his phone, glad to see it’s at full charge and bars; that’s hit or miss around so many ghosts. “Can you hang around here until I’m done?”

The boy nods, silent, face flicking back and forth between sadness and the unnatural smile.

Fucking Joker…

Jason does a quick search of the kid’s name, pulling up obituaries in the Gotham Gazette in the past year. It doesn’t take long for an article to pop up concerning the Joker’s latest escape and a list of the dead.

He narrows his eyes, startling the kid.

“It’s fine,” he lies. “The internet is just really slow.”

“Or our phone is really bad,” Cole tells him with the blunt honesty of a kid that grew up constantly surrounded by functional technology.

“Everyone’s a critic…”

Another quick search for the parents, phone lists and social media, and he’s got an address. Crime Alley, of course. He brings it up on his map and enables a view of the street, holding the phone out to the boy. “Is this your house?”

Relief settles and settles over his face. “Yeah.”

“What if I helped you find your way home?”

Cole makes a suspicious face. “I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers.”

“Which is really smart. But you see, I’m not really a stranger.”

“Oh yeah? Why not?”

“Well, I’ll let you in on a secret.” Jason bends down, conspiratorial, and Cole’s eyes gleam the way any kid gets when hearing a secret. “When I was a little older than you…I was Robin.”

The boy gapes. “Like…Batman and Robin?”

“Exactly.”

“No way!”

“Way,” Jason smirks, crossing his arms. “And I’ll tell you all about it on the way to your house. Including the time that I stole the wheels off the Batmobile.”

“No way!”

Despite his scandalized disbelief, the kid is obviously hooked.

Jason’s heart clenches a bit at the open curiosity on Cole’s face, the reality hitting him that this boy will never have a chance to do anything mischievous or fun ever again.

From one dead boy to another, this sucks…

As he leads him out of the cemetery, Jason starts to tell the little ghost about his life. He edits out the less pleasant bits, like dying and returning to life half brain dead with the ability to see and hear ghosts.

He figures a good story is the least he can do for the boy.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

[teavious]

i’m between your past and future right now

Fandom: Naruto

Pairing: Sasuke x Hinata

Summary:  Probably this is why he is thinking of it right now, he supposes, as he stops a bit in his tracks, allowing Naruto to catch up with him, checking out his walk, calculating if they can make it each to their own bed without another break. Sasuke Uchiha, after a two months long mission, is sickly homesick. 2.6k words. AO3.

He has blisters on the heels of his feet, and each step is a painful reminder of the fact that there’ll be blood and flesh to clean up and tend to once he’s home. It makes him push forward with more determination, ignore the discomfort and Naruto’s talking at his side. He has been sporting a migraine for the past couple of days, a mix of sleepless nights, no food and a chatterbox for a partner for this mission, and the soreness has spread all over his body, that he’s not even sure what he’d complain of first, if asked.

But he’s a ninja with a mission, and however much unwanted it might have been, Sasuke Uchiha gets it done, and he does it well, and fast as well. For how much he’s been busy organizing diplomatic meetings, even Naruto is a bit impressed by the efficacy he displayed in this first actual mission; and Sasuke allows this one remark to pass by with just a smile, and a somewhat kind pat to his best friend’s shoulder, who is about to be a groom in less than two weeks.

This is why, Sasuke Uchiha tries to reason, he is ignoring all the nerves in his body screaming at him to stop. This is why he pushes away Naruto’s hand away from his arm, throwing biting remarks over his shoulder to get the blonde pumped up all over again, like this is a game, like they’re twelve again. Things could have been worse, he supposes. The night is clear, a chilly, but not totally unpleasant wind rustling through the trees accompanying their footsteps, and the air has that familiar forest smell that can only mean home.

If one were to ask the last survivor of the Uchiha years ago, back when he was but a child with bitterness as his only guide, when he was blinded by the notion of power, when his dreams were nothing but boastful pride where he would be at his current age, the answer would have been so easy:

Dead.

Well, present situation ignored, Sasuke cannot find many other things to complain about in life. He’d found some kind of peace in what was left behind the war, he found some kind of purpose in rebuilding so much of what was destroyed: people’s hopes, bonds, trust. In the beginning, he has worked on the new hospital wing in Konoha, alongside simple citizens, under blazing sun and chilly rain, screamed at as if he didn’t have a zombie hand now for his war efforts, served the same dull soup every afternoon, men boisterous at his side, the helping girls cautious,but welcoming. That was easy: fitting in, playing pretend at being just one of the others. And it worked, for as long as there was need for him there. Then, the last nail was hammered in, the last door was fixed, and one morning, out of habit than anything else, Sasuke turned the corner and saw children at one of the windows he helped mount, had a nurse wave at him on her way to the store to fulfill one patient’s needy request.

That’s when the politics started tugging at his sleeve, and in-between cleaning out his own district, making space for refugees coming in from worse-off areas, in hope of a better, new future in the village of the two heroes of humanity, Sasuke found himself quite often loudly arguing with a sighing Kakashi, or biting his lips to keep from teaching one young noble at a time what respect looks like.

He wasn’t loved, but he was good. He struck the best deals, he knew when to back down with his head bowed, when the flatter, and when to swear and fight his way into an agreement. It took time, but the eyes watching his back were less incriminating, less attentive, and Sasuke found himself breathing easier, smiling more in Naruto’s way, his grin blinding; allowing Sakura an afternoon here and there, to catch-up over tea; accepting Kakashi’s head ruffling the hair on the top of his head.

He was loved, by those who mattered.

Probably this is why he is thinking of it right now, he supposes, as he stops a bit in his tracks, allowing Naruto to catch up with him, checking out his walk, calculating if they can make it each to their own bed without another break. Sasuke Uchiha, after a two months long mission, is sickly homesick.

From a few meters in front of him, Naruto howls. Above them, one of Sai’s birds is looking back at them, and his best friend is jumping up and down, like his shoulder isn’t bleeding again, and muttering an idiot under his breath, Sasuke plops to the ground, head in his hands, and waits. Naruto is sprawled now on the lush grass, his backpack used as a pillow, and Sasuke wonders how the gifts for Sakura will survive under the blonde’s hard head, though he doesn’t seem to think too much of the consequences of his actions. There’ll be someone to pick them up soon enough, patch them in and get the reports on the last leg of the mission out of them.

“Nothing quite compares with Konoha,” his friend says, and the Uchiha can only nod along, even if it’s barely noticeable. But Naruto has always been good at picking up Sasuke’s feelings without needing explanations, without needing proof, without him even knowing he does it at all. After all, as Sakura likes to make fun of them when she gets drunk, possessively clinging to Naruto’s side and twisting their fingers together, they are the closest thing to soulmates she has ever seen.

Yes, Sasuke thinks, that would be one way to put it, although he suspects that he’s not the first person that comes to Naruto’s mind when he hears the term, just as Naruto isn’t his either. But it’s one easy way indeed to describe the desperate need for the other one to be happy, coupled with all the possible efforts to help them reach exactly what they need.

And it’s comfortable to know that whatever happens, he has Naruto, Konoha’s skyline and the rustle of the leaves during clear nights.

The briefing is short: Konoha missing them just as much as they missed it, and there’s a whole lot of urgency in being shoved in Kakashi’s office, and the warm cups of tea waiting for them on his desk. Neither dare to sit down, their muscles aching even worse after they took the earlier break, and they try to ignore Kakashi’s knowing and understanding smirk, because it feels like they’re 8 again and doing stupid young things.

Kakashi loops one final signature on the papers, making them disappear in a puff of smoke the next instant - and his pen is thrown somewhere on the opposite end of the room, as he takes on a very tired, slouched position. Sasuke is sure that under his mask, he must be smiling still.

“Agh, Naruto, you should have hurried a bit more. Sakura’s been scolding me for not having picked flowers for the wedding already, like it’s my fault that you couldn’t reply to any of her letters.”

At the mention of letters, Sasuke’s heart leaps in his chest. All contact has been forbidden throughout the mission, but knowing that Naruto’s fiancee still tried made him feel in a particular, strange way. Curious, maybe.

Naruto’s smiling too, scratching sheepishly at his neck, in an attempt to cover part of his blushing cheeks. Kakashi is laughing at his actions, pleased to have succeeded in making his loudest student even a bit bashful, though he knows too that it’s all tiredness and neediness.

The door slams to the wall, a teary-eyed and ravished Sakura standing in the doorway. For a few seconds, the two lovers just take each other in: Naruto’s grown beard, Sakura’s too big frog-patterned pajamas. Then, in a flash, Naruto’s voice pierces his ear with a scream, as he scrambles her all in his arms, and Sakura loudly sobs in his shoulder, hiding her face against his neck. After that, Uchiha at least has the decency to look away, towards his old teacher, silently asking for permission to leave. Kakashi weaves a dismissive hand, still enraptured by his other two students as they’re now sharing short kisses with each other, in-between hushed status updates. Sakura’s hand are green already by the time Sasuke makes a run for it.

The Uchiha district is eerily silent, and his own footsteps are thumping loudly in his head. He wonders, a bit, why he didn’t stay on Kakashi’s couch at least for a few hours, make himself a bit more presentable after such a long time, wash off some of the caked dirt on his skin, replace some of his old bandages. Spare his own haven the sight of his tiredness.

All the doubts disappear when he’s finally in front of his home: everything as it should be, everything as he remembers it. It’s the familiarity of it that presses at his throat, making him choke as he dumps his backpack on the floor at the entrance, as he slowly takes off his sandals. He almost stumbles and falls at the first corner, and a laugh bubbles at his lips, because he’s just so damn content to be home . He falls into his usual habits fast, eyes darting to the dresser at the entrance, immediately noticing the pile of letters with his name on it neatly stacked at one end. He grabs them in one of his hands before silently moving forward, making sure his slippers are on.

When he raises his face again, he is welcomed with the sight of her. Her hair is frizzled all around her like a dark halo, and her eyes have to blink several times before they finally focus on him. He’s smirking by the time she is properly realizing that he’s back.

“ Hinata,” he breathes, and she pushes forward with mad determination. He expects a hug, or a scolding for having been gone so long, but she is silent, and her hands are hesitant around him.

“Can I touch you?” she asks, barely audible even in the still silence, and something in him molds around the tone of her voice, follows the rise at the end of the question, and he finds himself blinking rapidly trying not to cry. He nods his head, bangs falling in his face and the first thing Hinata does is to get on her tiptoes and push his hair back behind his ear, meeting her beautiful, beautiful eyes with his.

Her fingers flutter lightly at his temple, immediately easing his painful migraine, and Sasuke almost moans in pleasure when her chakra is fast to fill up his own lacking one. She has one hand pressing at his back, softly pushing him forward, and he complies with her guidances until he’s sat on the bed, a bowl with warm water and three rolls of different types of bandages spread on the bed next to him, the letters still grasped in his hand.

Only the lamp by her side of the bed is on, and as she works silently, from time to time humming along to a song played on the radio in the morning, Sasuke is going through the stack of papers in his hand, discarding aside all that are of no real interest to him. Until something catches his eye: envelopes, at least ten of them, with just his name in the neatest handwriting he’s ever seen.

“Hinata,” he tries again, but she is not looking up from under her bangs, and he takes it as the slight embarassment that it is, and allowance to go on. He opens one, at random, and the same familiar handwriting, Hinata’s, welcomes him, filling up pages. She tells him of her days, of the weather, of the people living in the district, of those who asked her of him. She tells him of the food she’s eaten, friends she’s visited, cats she pet. She never says something directly about her, and it’s this underlying absence in all of her texts; of an actual presence to grasp, that makes him realize that his absence has been as frustrating for her as for him.

Hinata bends closer, wet cloth at the cut near his brow, carefully cleaning up his face, disinfecting the wounds she finds in the way, healing those that she knows she can.

She ignores Sasuke’s hisses, she ignores his attempts to push her back, to try and clean and patch himself up on his own, suddenly shy in front of her. They have staring contests over the smallest things, his fingers wrapped around her wrist to stop her each time she makes a go for his shirt, for the wet cloth, for the ointment she herself made. Everytime he does so, her frown deepens, her lips form a pout.

When she reaches for his pants, she is blushing; and only then does Sasuke notice that she’s wearing one of his sweaters, sleeves rolled up out of the way, whole body swallowed underneath the material. She ignores his hand shaking up around her waist, under the material of her top, the fingers almost ticklish on her skin.

“Hey,” he tries again, though it sounds rather like he’s purring out the word. She stammers, trying to say it back in return, and he laughs, pleased.

“I missed you so much,” he goes on, tugging at her body, getting her closer to him so that he can hug her her, resting his head over her tummy, as she’s still standing. Her hands automatically go to his hair, so much longer now, playing with the ends, humming once again. Her lips brush against the top of his head, and he automatically buries his head in the material of that damn sweater that smells entirely like the love of his life. Like his soulmate.

“Welcome back, Sasuke,” she soothes, dropping to her knees so she can once again look directly at him. Much like a cat, he pushes forward, his forehead against hers, relishing in her presence.

“I’d really like to kiss you,” he breathes, hand now cupping her cheek. She surges forward, like under a spell, lips stumbling just a bit awkwardly against his, but he pushes forward, more force, more need and they find their rhythm, arms lounging to get closer and closer. Only after they part can Sasuke breathe, can convince his brain that yes, he’s home and everything is fine. Hinata takes his hand in hers, fingers tangling together, and when their eyes meet again, she smiles so prettily that Sasuke wants to kiss her all over again.

“I missed you,” she says, and it’s the first selfish gesture he’s seen from her since he entered the room, and he positively gleams at her admission. She can pick up his joy flickering in his own eyes, and just as she’s about to retreat into herself, embarassed, Sasuke drags her after him, tumbling in the bed: bowl splattered on the floor, paper wrinkling at their feet, bandage rolls painfully digging in their sides.

“Sasuke,” she tries to admonish, but her voice ends with a smile he can hear in her voice, so he knows she’s not actually mad. He tugs her closer, almost suffocatingly so, but she is not complaining. Instead, her hand darts for his hair, playing through it once again, and Sasuke closes his eyes against her touch, pleased. His own thumb is drawing circles at her hip, and Hinata shifts just the littlest, so that their legs tangle together.

“Tell me, again,” he asks, almost dozing off to sleep already.

“I missed you.”

“More.”

“I’m happy you’re back.”

“More,” he presses, his hand squeezing her thigh.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Don’t go again,” she whispers, and they are so close that he can almost know the words by her breathing pattern.

“Ok.”

Thank you for reading! If you enjoy what I'm doing, consider donating to my ko-fi page! If you enjoy how I'm doing it, leave a request with your donation, and I will write it for you! 

[lnicol1990]

Defining Moments - Chapter 10

Can’t say I’ve really got anything to mention before this chapter. So, enjoy.

Novtumber, Year 168, Fifth Age

Aleks – aged 26

Aleks was really starting to resent the Rising Sun Inn’s namesake. The morning sun was streaming through the east-facing windows, shining brightly on his table and reflecting off his tankard and into his eyes. The sunlight burned through him and just added to the cacophony of pain in his head, along with the miners that had somehow used fairy shrinking magic to fit inside his brain and beat it to death with tiny, little hammers.

More stout would probably appease them.

If he was being honest with himself, it wasn’t really morning anymore, far closer to being noon, but he didn’t care. He could also move tables, but he couldn’t be bothered. And finally, he could sober up and leave the inn, but he didn’t want to.

He deserved this, deserved this pain, at least, that’s what he told himself.

He hadn’t truly understood what Ayla had meant two years ago, about how the horrors of a mission gone wrong were all she saw with closed eyes, how the failings haunted her nightmares and how she couldn’t recognise the face staring back at her in the mirror. He could understand it now, and by the Gods, he wished he didn’t.

Duradel. Turael. Hazelmere. Sloane. Cyrisus. Ghommal.

Their names and faces danced in his head. Their deaths played over and over again in his mind’s eye, and when he dreamt, they looked at him and asked why they died. Lucien’s laughter echoed in his ears, twisting to come out of the mouths of merrymakers who inhabited the tavern. And all the while, his guilt rested heavily on his shoulders like a worn cloak, his thoughts turning spitefully inwards.

The sound of a deliberate tapping pricked at his ears, sending pain through his head with unrivalled precision. He hunched in on himself and turned his head slowly to glower at the new source of discomfort. Recognising the figure striding forwards, seemingly oblivious to his suffering, he felt what was left of his pride shrivel up in horror, as if thinking of the ranger had summoned her.

However, Ayla did not pause as she walked past his table, and Aleks couldn’t help but feel indignant. She must have seen him, she must have. And yet, she hadn’t even had the courtesy to look at him in his misery, not even a passing glance, hadn’t even said hello. He wasn’t that overcome by drink that he was unrecognisable, so she must have seen that he was there.

He watched her walk up to the bar and ask the bartender for a drink. There was a shake of the head from the barman, but the woman persisted. She pointed at something behind the man, on one of the shelves, and pulled out a heavy coin purse. After a moment’s consideration, the man gave her a tiny glass and a little bottle. She paid three times as much as Aleks had for his stout, picked up her purchase and walked straight to the mage’s table, sitting down directly in front of him.

She was in her bleached dragonhide armour, which reflected the sunlight painfully in his direction and made her appear to glow like some ethereal creature. Her hair was loose and almost reaching her shoulders, a far cry from the look she’d had when they’d met, and was supporting a white archer’s hat, complete with feather.

If he had been sober, he might have called her beautiful, holding herself with confidence and grace. In his hungover-trying-to-still-be-drunk state, however, she was an eyesore, watching him fall apart with pretentious judgement and feigned sympathy.

“You look terrible,” she stated as she uncorked her little bottle and poured the clear liquid into her tiny glass. After corking the bottle, she held the glass with both hands and sipped it delicately. After draining half the glass, she set it back on the table and leaned back in her seat, watching him. “So, I guess this is the part where I ask if you want to talk about what’s wrong. But as I already know the answer to that, why don’t we skip that part?”

“Oh go away, Ayla,” Aleks grumbled, looking dourly into his tankard. He would have been ruder to her, like he had been with Tiffy, but he knew better than to be overly antagonistic; even drunk, he knew better. He lifted his glass and took a long drink, almost draining it, before glancing up at her. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Clearly.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“So I’d gathered.”

“And sitting there isn’t going to make me change my mind!”

“Of course not.”

Aleks glowered at her for a moment, hating that she was being the very epitome of calm collectedness. Her face was impassive, showing nothing to indicate the events even bothered her.  Instead, she just continued to look at him, watching, waiting for him to crack and talk to her.

He downed the last of his stout and waved to the bartender. It took a minute before his empty glass was replaced with a full one, and his coin purse a little lighter. He took his first mouthful of the swill, the bitter aftertaste burning the back of his throat.

She was still watching him. He tried to ignore her, but found it increasingly hard to do so. Her very presence was drawing out the desire to talk, in a way that only his brother could rival.

Might as well get it over with.

“It’s all my fault,” he announced quietly into his mug, though he knew she’d heard him. He didn’t see any movement, nor did he hear a request for him to speak up or repeat himself, nothing. He carried on talking to his ale. “If I hadn’t been at the Chaos Temple, no one would have had to come and save me. They wouldn’t have died. I was the one who defeated the creature guarding the Fist of Guthix! I might as well have given it to Lucien! And now he’s even more powerful, he might even have the power to become a god. And it’s all thanks to me!”

He’d said it. He’d finally said it. It almost felt good just to get it off his chest, to admit how badly he’d screwed up. And yet, at the same time, it felt like he’d just sealed his fate, damnation for all eternity and everything that came to failures like him. But, as he already knew: he deserved this pain.

“Wow, how terrible for you,” Ayla commented dryly. She reached for her glass and sipped from it, completely unaware of the indignant fire she’d lit in his stomach, of the rage he felt at his pain being acknowledged so derisively. She returned her glass to the table and played absentmindedly with the rim. “Although, I do think you’re giving yourself too much credit.”

“Credit?” Aleks spat, choking on air. He stared at her, mouth open in shock and disbelief.

How dare she mock him. How dare she make light of the fact that six people were dead, and their enemy was now even stronger!

“Yes, ‘credit’,” she answered. She leaned forward and brought her hands up to rest beneath her chin. She returned his outraged look with a gaze that had suddenly turned steely and unimpressed. “Do you really think the mission would have gone any better if you’d done something different, or if you hadn’t been there at all?”

“Yes!” Aleks argued, his anger at her finally boiling over. “I recruited everyone. I went to the Chaos Temple and dealt with Movario at the Cavern of Guthix. I solved that puzzle and took on the Balance Elemental that was guarding the Fist! Everything that went wrong was my fault!”

“I recruited half of them, so don’t even try and sell me that one!” Ayla sniped back at him, her sharp tone instantly silencing any objection he might have had. “And no one had to join up, they all volunteered for this mission. And they all chose to go and save you when Lucien attacked, they all knew the risks!”

He didn’t answer her; he didn’t know how. A small voice inside of him was agreeing with her, telling him that she was right. But he was somewhere between hungover and returning-to-drunkenness, and it had inflated his pride such that every other part of him was either ignoring that voice or trying to shut it up, unwilling to admit defeat.

“And as for what happened beneath Lumbridge swamp,” she continued. He realised a second too late that his silence had given her the opportunity to speak. She had realised that he couldn’t counter-argue her, and so was moving to the next point. “It wouldn’t have mattered who went down there, whether it was you or me. We both would have handle the obstacles and we both would have left the Stone unprotected.”

“The Fist of Guthix,” he objected moodily.

“It’s the Stone of Jas, and you know that’s what the infernal thing is called!” She snapped, glaring at him for interrupting her over something she clearly thought was trivial. She huffed and seemed to deflate a little, like a bird smoothing down its feathers after being ruffled. “My point is, either of us would have defeated the Stone’s protector and left it wide open for Lucien to steal. It was only you going down there because you thought you might learn more about the God you’ve decided to worship… and because I needed to help Idria sort out the group from the Guardians who were going to teleport in if you needed help.”

“They didn’t help much, did they?” he pointed out, half muttering into the tankard as he took another mouthful. “He still got away with the Fist.”

“Yes, well, we were trying not to get ourselves killed by those twisted demons he’d summoned, in case you’d forgotten,” she answered him snidely. “And we weren’t all powered up from touching the Stone, now, were we?”

He felt his stomach drop as he remembered that she had been in the temple as well, fighting beside Idria to take out one the tormented demons. A quick glance to her right forearm reminded him of the moment she had taken a swipe from the demon’s claws in her friend’s defence, the wound now tightly bandaged.

“Right,” he mumbled ashamedly.

“Either way, Lucien would have gotten the Stone, end of story,” she said, her tone finishing the debate. She took her tiny glass and sipped the last of her drink. She stared at the glass for a moment before sighing and putting it down, looking back at him expectantly. “So, now that we both know that the mission would have been a catastrophe, with or without your help, what’s the real issue here?”

He sighed as he realised that she didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. He had gotten people killed, again. He had screwed up a mission, again. He wasn’t fast enough. He wasn’t powerful enough.

It was dealing with the daganoths all over again.

“Do you want to know why you’re sitting here, drowning your sorrows?” she finally asked him after a few minutes of silence, tilting her head slightly to catch his attention. She had no idea how much his heart clenched at her question, but seemed to take him looking at her as permission to continue. “Because everything you’ve said today has been about you. ‘I did this’ and ‘I did that’ and ‘this is my fault’. It’s as if you think you’re the most important man in Gielinor.”

He opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it again. He was about to tell her about everything that had happened in Rellekka, before realising that that was what she was hoping for. She wanted him to tell her more things that had happened to him, that had gone wrong because of him. If he did, then he was proving her right.

She was goading him. No, she’d been doing it all morning, he was only now realising it.

“Do you really think that everything you’ve been through is so terrible?” she questioned, her face suddenly full of sincerity. She wasn’t asking just to throw him off balance, she actually wanted to know. “Do you really think it’s any worse than what I’ve been through, or what Thom’s going through in Morytania? Do you really think that?”

“What do you want from me, Ayla?” he asked sullenly.

He pushed his mug away and gave her his full attention for the first time since she’d sat down. He knew he was giving her too much power over the next few minutes, but he found himself uncaring. He wanted an answer. He saw her expression flicker slightly as she noticed the change in him, saw the defiance and hidden desperation in his question.

“I want to know what you want, Aleks,” she answered after a minute of silence between them. Her sincere expression hadn’t changed and he knew she was being honest. “I want you to make a choice about what you want to do with your life. Because right now you’re standing between the life of an adventurer and the boring, unexciting life of a museum scholar, and trying to live both is only going to hurt you. You try to own everything you do, everything that happens to you, like a scholar must for recognition, but that attitude makes you take the blame for things that, as an adventurer, you have no control over.”

Her words struck a chord within him. She was right. He was dipping his hands in both pots, and he’d finally gotten a finger bitten, so to speak. So, if he couldn’t live two lives, and he had to commit to one…

Which one did he want?

If he was being honest, he wanted to pretend none of this had happened, go back to Varrock and spend his days dating pottery from the Second Age in the museum. But, he also wanted to make a difference in the world, and dating pottery wouldn’t do that. Also, if he gave up now and became a scholar, the others would have died for nothing, for a coward who ran away at the first sign of trouble. Lucien would still be out there and would still be a threat. If he gave up, there’d be one less adventurer out there to stand up to that maniac.

“I want that bastard’s head on a pike,” he said finally. He grabbed his tankard and drained it before squaring his shoulders and giving Ayla a levelled look. “I want Lucien dead, and the world safe from him. After that… after that, then I can figure out what I want to do with my life.”

“Well, it’s a plan. I guess I can get behind that,” she nodded solemnly to him. She pulled his tankard towards her and uncorked her little bottle. She poured a tiny amount in his glass before adding the same amount to her own. She corked the bottle and raised her glass towards him in a toast. “Justice for our friends?”

“To the death of Lucien.”

They clinked their glasses.