#i tried so many things and colors to try to properly convey this

[hellcifrogs]

War... Nine tails attack... Uchiha massacre... Kenshi.

[gender-buddies]

Phase Three Artist Commentary

Yep, here we go again! Phase Three is finished and now I want to talk about the inspirations and thoughts on all the Buddies released for this phase. Check it out under the cut!

Girl and Boy: Yes, I am going to put these two together because they work as a pair and are inspired by the same things. I avoided designing these for the longest time because I needed something that would be unique, make sense color-wise, and NOT just be a pink girl critter and a blue boy critter. I wanted no assumptions, nobody who would take a look and say "Yep, that's a girl alright." So I started looking at animals that have the ability to change sex, because that is a common narrative for boys and girls - a lot of them are assigned those genders at birth but then discover they were something else. The entire Gastropod class is composed of snails, slugs, nudibranchs, and others that can change sex. I decided I liked the idea of having a sea hare or sea bunny as the basis, with some nudibranch-like details. Sort of a mix of animals. While they are related to snails, and Nonbinary was a snail, I made them anything but Water types because they needed to be different. I didn't incorporate anything that could be conveyed as "masculine" or "feminine" and I specifically avoided using too much blue and pink. I think a small cool-colored Buddy and a larger warm-colored Buddy was a good way to balance the two. I'm proud of these ones!

Fluidflux: I try not to make too many fluid identities into Water types or any kind of aquatic animal, but I really liked the idea of an eel that was both flowy and spiky. The face is probably my favorite part. The pattern flows and fluctuates between spots and stripes much like gender can flow and fluctuate. This design uses inspiration from dragons, ribbon eels, dragon eels, and fire eels - and it's the only common Buddy so far to have two elements!

Trigender: Since Pokemon decided to release a mutli-headed hot pepper plant design, I couldn't convince myself that my three-headed hot pepper Buddy would be a good idea. I wanted to design something that came in three parts, and I liked the idea of three inseparable animals. Capybaras are known for hanging out with other animals and I thought birds would be cute - both water birds, a kingfisher and a duck. Trigender is not the capybara nor either of the birds, but is the entire group together. Normally I would avoid going masc or fem for multigender identities but for this one, I like the feminine look of the capybara.

Autigender: A mud puppy, pretty much! I wanted an animal that felt like it properly represents the autistic experience, and I think a dog fits really well. Having it covered in mud from running around and playing also seems to fit because it shows excitability and hyperactivity, maybe even an unawareness or lack of care about getting dirty. I had a lot of fun showing movement by giving it a dynamic pose and having the mud flying off of it. Also there's totally an error with the highlighting, on the front paw in the foreground.

Genderpunk: I think it's pretty punk for a fox to act like a wolf. I sketched this as a wolf originally and then tried to change it to an animal that normally comes from a hot climate, but is an Ice element. I stuck with the wolf idea until it was time to do the line art, and I made the last-minute decision to make it a fox that happened to act and look like a wolf. Skulls are pretty punk, so I gave it a wolf skull to wear.

Genderflor: The entire group of these genders - Genderfae, Genderfaun, and Genderflor have turned out great so far and this one is no exception. The original idea was some kind of little pixie-like creature based on a bumble bee, but I wanted it to be surprising just like the others. I thought of animals representing nature, like the World Turtle with trees on its back, and I thought a big dinosaur covered in foliage would be cool. A gentle giant is perfect to represent nature.

Nanogender: A Buddy based on an isopod of course. So far, this one was the second-easiest to draw (Agender was the first) and I like how it turned out because of its simplicity. I wanted something small because of the "nano" part of the label, but I also made it an electronic critter based on the same word. It was originally just a sleek little robot with glowing spots and I added the wheels and wind-up key last minute. I wish I'd done more for highlighting though.

Xenine: Originally this would have been a phoenix with star-shaped patterns on it, but I'm going to use the fiery flying animal idea for other Buddies. This one was changed to be based on the Cetus constellation, which looks like a sea monster. I wasn't sure what to do with the fin down its back until I was ready to add color, and thought a starry galaxy would look cool. I kept the Stellar element even though this one would work well as a Cosmic type too, mostly because it's based on a constellation.

Cenrell and Faesari: I'm putting these two together because they go together. I knew right away that one would be Shadow and one would be Light, and then started thinking of how that could be portrayed. Something hiding in the shadows, something protecting the other. The original plan was a clam and a pearl, and then I wanted the pearl to be a frilly little fish to give it a more feminine look. Then I realized that pea crabs are what you would find living in a clamshell, so I decided Faesari would be a pea crab. As for Cenrell, the clam design just didn't look good when I sketched it out. Instead, I went with a pelican, where the mouth was sort of a clamshell in shape. I thought it was really neat to put Faesari in the artwork for Cenrell as a little easter egg. Pea crabs have markings that could look a little bit like a heart if you look at it the right way, so I put a heart on it and made it very cutesy. Both of these Buddies were a good way for me to introduce simple designs at higher levels, instead of making every level 4 Buddy so complex.

Gender Disobedient: This one breaks convention in a number of ways to highlight the disobedient nature of the identity. It's a snake that can fly and it's made up of different animal parts to make it more like a chimera. It also doesn't match the colors of the flag it's based on and instead, I came up with my own colors. It originally was just a big draconic snake with claws and feathered wings, but I had a lot of trouble making the hands look good. I tried paws instead and it came out a lot better! The flames on the head and tail were added just as I was ready to save the final image because it looked more interesting, but the first version would have had a crest of feathers on the head and feathers on the tail tip.

All in all, phase three took a lot of work, but I think it was worth it. The Buddy designs are gradually becoming more details and high-concept, incorporating a lot of themes that better fit the identities now than they did in Phase One. I'm looking forward to posting more of my design ideas in the near future! Phase Four will introduce a new element never seen before.

- 💜

[aemond-one-eyed]

When Aemond first saw Rhaena in her mourning attire all he could think about was how stunning she looked. Gods, he knew how much she loved pink, but black may truly be her color. He found himself hard as a rock through most of the funeral and every time he had nearly willed it away she would glance over at him and his problem would return to square one. Was it socially acceptable to be this hard at a funeral...at his own father's funeral? Probably not, so he crossed his hands in front of his body to try and mask the bulge in his trousers. He couldn't help but smile when she admitted he enjoyed him coming to her aid, though.

"I will gladly come to your side any time, that is what Princes do for their Princesses, right?" Aemond told her, letting his voice dip lower as he gave her hip a gentle squeeze. He tried not to agree to enthusiastically when she asked him to walk back to the castle with her, but knows he must've failed quite miserably. He kept his arm around her the entire time, loving the way she fit so perfectly under his arm; as if she had been made to stand underneath it's safety. He chuckled a bit at her words about their clothes as well, "Indeed, it is a silver lining. I think you should wear black more often, because I certainly won't start wearing pink...but I do quite enjoy matching with you."

Her excitement at the flower shop nearly made his brain stop working, quickly realizing just how much he loved seeing that kind of joy light up her face. He could sense her sudden anxiety though and grabbed both of her hands in his, "No, we won't wait until I have errands. I'll take you there first thing tomorrow if that's what you would like. I want you to know that if you ever want my company it is yours, no conditions attached." He told her, hoping he was able to properly convey just how much he intended to follow through on his assertion. "I love plants by the way, you seemed worried that maybe I didn't, but I do. It probably won't surprise you my favorites are of the carnivorous variety, but I would love to know what you like to keep so I can add them to my rooms," He added, quickly relieved by how she eased into conversation with him.

It took him a few minutes to match Rhaena's enthusiasm, as he honestly wasn't used to someone speaking to him for so long. Talking with her was fast becoming his favorite activity; he loves hearing about her relationship with Silverwing, it made his worries of speaking on his own bond with Vhagar melt away. He knew they would need to have that conversation at some point though, to lay any remaining hurt from his selfish, childhood actions of one night behind them. She laughed when he told her the story of his theft of Blackfyre, and for a moment he considered proposing to her right then and there, because what other woman would find such a story of theft and brotherly brawling funny?

"Gods you keep beating me to everything, I was going to ask you the same. I would gladly sit by you," He replied to her request to spend dinner together as well. The feast was a surprisingly pleasant affair, at least it was for Aemond with Rhaena by his side. They made fun of many of the visiting lords and ladies, their simpering and ass kissing, and at one point he made her laugh so hard she was forced to hide a bit of wine coming out of her nose. This made Daemon shoot the younger Prince one of his death glares, but that only added to their laughter. His good mood soured, however, when the piper boy asked Rhaena to dance. He knew she had to say yes for politeness sake, but it doesn't stop anger from beginning to simmer inside him once more; Aemond was a dragon and dragons did not share.

He sat and seethed as a revolving door of eligible lords spun his lady around the dance floor. Although, she wasn't really his, was she? He would have to do something, and quickly it seemed, if he wished to court her (which he did). The peck on the cheek is what did him in, though, for that boy certainly didn't deserve to feel her lips on his skin. He decided against violence, just barely, choosing to distract himself with a game of dice instead. When the Meadows boy finally left her side he hastily approached Rhaena. "I've been very well behaved waiting for the hoard to leave you alone, I was hoping I could reward myself with a dance; with you, of course," He said with the most charming smile he could manage. However, before he could take her hands in his, his eldest sister stood to speak. Not a moment later she collapsed to the floor, her wine goblet clattering to the ground as well. Poison. It had to be.

The chaos was immediate, Rhaena got shoved up against him by the panicked crowd, and he took the opportunity to lift her up over his shoulder with one arm, his other hand steadfastly latched onto Blackfyre against his hip. He carried her all the way to his rooms, locking the door behind them, before pushing a chair under the knob for the added security. He set her down on his bed, then took her face in both his hands, "Are you all right? You didn't have any of that particular wine right?! I know you're not a fan of reds, but you also follow every rule of society there seems to be," He sputtered out, worry evident in every word he breathed. It finally occurred to him he had brought her to his rooms instead of hers, and not only that but he had set her right onto his own bed, then blushed slightly at the implications. "You're more important than I am, whoever did this could still be in the Keep, they may come after you, you're safer here in my rooms, where they won't expect you to be."

She seemed to agree with his logic, asking if he had anything she could change into other than her elaborate gown. He grabbed her a loose shirt he often lounged in and a pair of comfortable trousers from his dresser and then waited as she went into another room to change. Aemond rid himself of his own formalwear, and when she opened the door again he's shirtless, but he's unsure she processed that with the tears swimming in her eyes. He rushed over to her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug, and murmured, "It'll be okay, Rhaenyra is the strongest person in the whole Kingdom, she's going to survive this," He comforted in an attempt to reassure himself almost as much as her. He then shifted the pillows on his bed so they could prop the two of them up and let her rest against him as he ran a gentle hand along her arm, "Get some rest, I promise I'll stay awake even after you fall asleep, I'll protect you, I promise you're safe with me." And he couldn't resist pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead as he made his promise.

The Taste of Your Lips is My Idea of Luxury

(Closed starter for @aemond-one-eyed)

His voice echoed in her mind for five days straight.

"No thanks needed Princess, I am glad I could be of help to you." "Because you were busy putting others first, as you always do." “My father is dead…and I fucked up.” "And you're twice as pretty as most people claim." "Thank you, your Highness."

It began the night of the ball to welcome Lady Jeyne's host. Rhaena must've stood dumbfounded in her doorway for a solid thirty seconds, stunned by Aemond's presence, by the gown in his hands, by the fact he had mended it, and even more so that it looked perfect. "I don't know how to begin to thank you," She finally managed to stutter out, taking the black lace and pink pearl gown out of his hands, staring at the garment as if he'd presented her with the same made of solid gold. He had simply smiled, "Promise to wear it...and promise you'll dance with me at least once tonight." "You have my word," she responded breathlessly. Then he left and she slid down the back of the door with the gown still in her hands.

Rhaena lied to her twin and her Muna about how the dress got fixed, telling both her lady-in-waiting and closest friend since the age of six, Lacey Vance, had fixed it that morning. Hours passed the way any typical day would when a ball was to be held that evening, she helped all her siblings get ready, did Baela's cosmetics, and her own hair while her sister repaid the favor, before spending a long while entertaining young heirs, knights, and lordlings all seeking to win her favor, but not searching to know her.

“I was right to want to see you in that dress.” Aemond spoke in barely more than a whisper when he took her next dance with little more than a look towards the heir to House Webber. "You look lovely," She told him, and she meant it, he'd changed into similarly all-black but significantly more formal clothes. After thinking about it for a moment, Rhaena realized this was perhaps the first time she'd ever seen the Prince dressed for an occasion, and it briefly made her breath catch in her throat, just briefly. He stayed with her for two dances, anything else would seem improper, they gossiped lightly about the guests, but mostly passed the time celebrating how perfectly their plans had come to fruition. "I shall see you soon." The tone of his voice made the response to Rhaena pointing out they had reached the end of the time they could properly spend together that night sound like a promise. "I would like that very much, my Prince." Her heart quickened as she used the title, she had said the phrase more times than she could count, but it meant something it never had before; something that no longer meant my liege, but veered closer to my love. Then she walked off to go find Joffrey before Aemond could see her blush.

His voice echoed in her mind for five days straight.

"I'm quite interested in seeing you in it." "If it upsets you, then it does matter." "I think I would trip over your sister again trying to get to our room." "And I'd still rather look a fool than a would-be traitor!" "Then it'll be a pleasure to see you again when you are."

Rhaena did not see Aemond the following day, nor had she expected to, and the following was the same, despite a small, quiet part of her secretly hoping that against both odds and logic, she might. That night, however, when her world was fracturing, reforming, and shifting into something entirely new, faster than she could ever even hope to keep up, was the last moment she was anticipating his presence. Yet, in the hours between dusk and daylight, something solidified between the two of them, something she could hold onto as the ground was shifting under her feet faster than quick sand, something that scared her more than she had ever felt before. How terrifying, Rhaena mused in the silence of her room as she dressed to attend The Queen for the first time, To have something that is not mine...and yet...I am desperate to keep.

She found herself willing him to speak to her, longing for it, though she would not admit such a thing even to herself, as she stood beside her father, siblings, and their new Queen in the long hours of Lords renewing their oaths. Rhaena almost called for Aemond as the Throne Room began to clear of it's final occupants to swear their loyalty, but she could not form the words, she could not risk making herself so known in a hall still filled with over a hundred people. Two more days passed and she did not see him, she'd dared to hope they would run into each other when she went to the Dragon Pit to ride with Silverwing, only to silently curse herself that it was a foolish wish to begin with, because Vhagar had been too large to nest in the pit even before her mother had ridden the Queen of Dragons. That was another thing Rhaena could not express, or admit, even to herself; the thought of Vhagar, her mother's dragon, his dragon...he spoke of her the same, begrudgingly fawned over the beast in the way her Lady-Mother had in her youth...Gods his clothes even smelled the same. It was infuriating, intoxicating, and unreasonably, horribly inticing.

Speaking to Rhaenyra about Aemond the night before the funeral was a relief that nearly brought her to tears, and once her Muna offered the advice she believed her mother would've given in the situation, she did cry from the weight of it all. The following day was the funeral, the first public appearance of the new Queen, the beginning of the end of the long, winding road of mourning for the old King...the first time she and Aemond would be in the same place at the same time since the first morning with Viserys gone from the world, and all the implications that came with that. Her mind was made up before she'd even gotten out of bed the following morning, she was going to find Aemond, to speak with him, to come to some sort of understanding, to simply even begin the process of where they were to go from here when his voice has been occupying every corner of her mind for the past five days.

After the procession, the procedure, and propriety of the funeral ceremony, the proceedings had not even officially come to a close, much less had Rhaena gotten the chance to seek out Aemond, when suddenly she heard the sneering voices of several Lords not much older than herself. They were gossiping, and it was with a skip of her heart, that quickly caused a pit to form in her stomach, with which she realized the Lordlings' snide voices were speaking about her. "Have you seen the girl since this last time the King took ill? With Princess Helaena running her own court now and the new Queen too occupied doing two jobs both meant for a man it's no wonder she believes she's holding this place together, I think she actually may be doing so more than anybody'd like to admit. I mean, her Ladyship is clearly used to doing her stepmother's duty, more of a mother to those children her highness seems so determined to continue popping out while dressing like a whore and acting like a man; at least Rhaena seems to have developed the makings of a proper Princess, if only she'd stop to listen to all those people trying to teach her to keep her mouth shut."

His voice had been echoing in her mind for five days straight, so when she turned to confront the Lord who had the audacity to snicker gossip in her earshot, only to hear the Prince's voice, piping up to defend her, her heart nearly stopped. Suddenly his arm was around her waist as the Prince said words she could barely understand, and for the first time in five days, Rhaena was glad to hear Aemond's voice.

[beskarhearts]

Hey! Maybe a request where the reader is jealous? Because Din is getting very close with another person? I’ll leave the rest to you :)

You’re literally the best writer out there, have a lovly day<3

Jealousy (Din Djarin x reader)

Pairing: Din Djarin x gn!reader

Word Count: 1828

Warnings: cursing, I think that is it

Notes: Ahh, thank you!! That is so kind of you and I hope you have a wonderful day! This is set during Chapter Four, when Din is on Sorgon. I hope you like this! I had a fun time writing this out and being able to have some fun with it. 

If you want to sent in a request, go ahead and do so right here!

______________________

You liked Omera.

It seemed impossible to not like her.  She was kind and extraordinarily patient, not only with the children and the people in the village but with you, Din, and the child as well. She also seemed to be a natural leader among the farm in Sorgan. And she was surprisingly handy with a blaster, which you and Din were very appreciative of considering the rest of the of the people in the village were less qualified for the tasks to come. Not to mention that on top of all of that, she was beautiful with pretty hair and nice eyes. The kind you imagine would be easy for a man to fall for.

Even a man like Din Djarin. 

And there was where your only problem with Omera lied. It was petty and ridiculous and childish, but you couldn’t help but want to scowl whenever you saw the two of them together. You couldn’t even see Din’s face but you could sense the heart eyes he gave her whenever they were with each other. And was it really necessary he stand that close to her when he was working with her on firing a blaster? Not to mention the way they both seemed to just naturally gravitate towards each other, even though they had only met just a mere handful of days ago. It took you what felt like ages to get through Din’s stoic exterior but Omera seemed to be doing that job with ease.

It was silly. You knew that. You had known Din for long enough to consider him your friend, a thought which Din reciprocated. You had somehow been dragged along with him once he rescued the Child, traveling through the galaxy with the two. You guess at this point you were also work partners of sorts. You both took care of the kid and protected him, you knew your way around the ship, and he tried his best to provide safety for the two of you. You both had a rhythm and it worked incredibly well. It was the kind of dynamic you didn’t want to mess up, especially with stupid things like ‘oh, hey Din. Did I mention I am practically head over heels for you?’

So, instead of confessing any deep harbored secrets that you buried within yourself, you just bit your tongue and narrowed your eyes as you continued to watch Din and Omera. Right now, you instead tried to not watch Din and Omera show everybody how to use a blaster, working together like some power couple. Instead you sat with Cara and took a break, both of you sipping away at spotchkas as you avoided the sight of the two training people. And you were content with doing that. You liked Cara and had gotten pretty close with her having spent lots of time with her recently (mostly to avoid Din at all costs but also because she seemed to be a well-adjusted, strong individual.)

“You know, jealously isn’t a good color on you.” Cara teased, breaking you from your train of thought.

You hadn’t even realized you had been staring until she had broken the silence and you whipped your head away from the pair, giving Dune a big scowl which only caused her to chuckle. “I am not jealous.”

“Oh, so you are just giving that nice, lil’ widow that look for fun?” Cara retorted, raising an eyebrow at you knowingly. You had only known this woman for a few days, but she was good at reading people. Too good.

“I like Omera.” you retorted, hoping your voice didn’t sound as strained and foreign to her eyes as they did to yours.

“I believe that. But I don’t think you like that that Mandalorian over there also seems fond of the single hot mom of the farm.” 

“Gee, sounds like you are interested.” You were hoping the joke would turn the conversation to her but she just shrugged. 

“Not my type.” She paused and gave you a small grin before continuing, “What’s your type?”

“Stop.” You warned, giving her what you hoped to be an intimidating look but you knew she saw your flushed cheeks by the way her grin continued to grow.

“Let me guess. Lot’s of metal, no sense of humor, flair for dramatics, handy with a blaster-”

“Alright, alright. Shut up!” You interrupted and she just let out a bout of laughter. You took a big gulp of spotchka, wanting to bury yourself in a whole. You were so consumed by embarrassment that you hadn’t even noticed Din walking up to you. You didn’t look up until his large frame stood in front of the chair you were sat in.

“What is going on over here?” Din asked, a hint of curiosity in his tone.

“Oh, just boy talk.” Cara gave you a teasing look as her eyes landed on yours. You squinted at her, hoping you were able to properly convey how frustrated you were with her in the moment.

“Boy talk?” Din asked incredulously. He knew you well enough to know you didn’t want to spend your time on conversations like ‘boy talk’.

“Well, I’m not quite so fond of boys. But your girl here is.” Cara gave a quirked smile as she rose from her seat. “Speaking of, I’m going to go say hello to this nice lady over here.” She gestured her head to a woman who was kneeled in the middle of the crop and had continually been giving Cara small smiles throughout the day.  The woman walked away, but not before giving you one last smile and a nod of the head.

Din took her spot on the seat, sitting down and looking over at you. You desperately tried to avoid his gaze, looking out into the farm only for your line of sight to land on Omera. Maker, you are pathetic. 

“You are avoiding me.”

You couldn’t help the way you froze a little, your hand that held the bottle clutching onto it tighter. You had been avoiding him. But you couldn’t admit that because then he would want to know why and you were pretty sure you had endured enough humiliation from Cara alone. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Din let out a sigh. He wasn’t dumb. He could tell how you were purposely not looking in his direction. How every time he tried to make his way to talk to you, you would suddenly disappear or be very preoccupied. How whenever he made his way into the hut you both shared, you would somehow always be asleep when he was present. “So you just haven’t been speaking to me because you don’t want to?”

You felt your heart drop at the tone of Din’s voice. He was a strong, tough man who didn’t often show his emotions. But you could sense a bit of hurt in his voice and felt awful. He was one of your only friends and you might of been his oldest friend, and you had been ignoring him because of your stubbornness and selfishness. But even upon this realization, you still had the pit in your stomach that had been persistent for days now and you couldn’t help the next thing that came out of your mouth. “Maybe you’ve just been too busy with Omera.”

You clamped your eyes shut once you realized you had said what you were thinking out loud. You almost hid your face in your hands but you fought back the urge and instead looked at him squarely, trying to show that you weren’t bothered. Din looked back, his visor peering at you with such intense focus that it made you uneasy. “Omera?” 

You let out a small grunt. “Yes, Omera. The woman who has practically been stuck on your hip.”

Din’s helmet just tilted slighted. “She has been helpful.”

“Helpful is what we’re calling this?” Din didn’t responded, only tilting his helmet even more to express his confusion. You let out a sigh and rolled your eyes. “C’mon, Mando. She is a pretty, single woman who is strong and competent and keeps giving your damn googly eyes.”

“What are you talking about?” Din asked.

You couldn’t tell if he was acting stupid or if he was just trying to drive you nuts, but he seemed to be doing both with success. “You like her! She likes you. It is so obvious.” 

Din started to shake his head and you felt yourself taken aback when a chuckle began to pass his lips. He calmly leaned back into his chair, his relaxed form contrasting greatly with your pinched up body. “Omera is a nice woman. A friend.”

“A friend?” You lamely asked, looking at him with a skeptical expression.

Din looked back at you and leaned forward. “I don’t like Omera.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.” You muttered.

“Why are you bothered by it?” Din asked and you leaned back, narrowing your eyes.

“Bothered by what?”

“By the thought that I could be attracted to Omera.” Din calmly said.

Oh yes, you definitely wanted to disappear now. You fumbled with your words, feeling your face warm up. “I-I don’t care.”

“Really?”

“Really. Omera seems great.” You didn’t even sound convincing to yourself and Din knew you well enough to know when you were lying. 

“Cyar’ika.” Din called your nickname like he had so many times before. It was Mando’a but he never told you what it meant, which drove you crazy when he first started. But now he used it often enough that you liked it, made your heart warm up in your chest. You didn’t respond but he rose from his seat, looking down at you. “I don’t like Omera.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay. Not that I would care if you did or anything...”

“You wouldn’t?”

He knew you were lying and now he was teasing you. You were sure of it. You just glared at him and rolled your eyes once again. “Shut up, you stupid tin can.”

Din let out another chuckle. “I like seeing you jealous.”

You didn’t have the chance to say anything before he gave you a small nod and walked off, towards the hut you two shared. You sat frozen in your spot and your brain felt like it had turned off. It took you a moment to readjust before you rose from your seat, walking after him. “I���m not jealous!” you called out.

Din froze where he stood and turned to look at you. You finally stopped in front of him, arms crossed in front of your chest and looking up at him defiantly. “I was hoping you were.”

You stood there stunned, looking up at him dumbly. “What does that mean?”

“You know what that means.” Din said before walking away once again.

Instead of rolling your eyes, you couldn’t help the smile that broke out on your face. 

[delimeful]

the end of being alone (2)

donation drive commission for @bumblebeekitten for the next chapter of TEOBA, with the prompt: patton & virgil fluff! hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!

chapter 1

warnings: miscommunication, false impression of a very bad situation for like .5 seconds, recklessness, sometimes you just gotta have a good cry

-

The next sunrise, they set out again, this time with considerably less weaponry and considerably more snacks. Roman held point again, since he was the one with the most practical experience in tracking. 

There had been a somewhat tedious argument on whether or not Patton should come, one that Roman had thoroughly lost, since it was Patton’s quick thinking and emotional attunement that kept the previous cycle’s encounter from descending into disaster. 

He had acquiesced in the end under the combined force of Logan’s reasoning and Patton’s disappointed look, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. After catching barely a wink of sleep between restless nightmares, he was feeling more grumpy than generous. 

Still, his own irritation faded as they grew closer to the rocky cliffs where he suspected the Human was, shifting into an intense concentration on the task ahead. It was a miracle that their initial encounter hadn’t gone sour, a miracle that this Human seemed young enough to be somewhat nonaggressive, and while he hoped that whatever they had said to scare the young kit off hadn’t irreparably damaged their budding acquaintanceship, he wasn’t counting on it.

He had his underarmor on for a reason.

The other two didn’t quite share his concerns. Logan’s arms had been in an excited, information-gathering flurry practically non-stop since they set out, and he and Patton had been discussing the plants and insects in the nearby forest that were relatively non toxic to them (and so would probably be no issue for a Human), and how many nutrients they would provide. None of them knew how much or what a Human needed to eat, but Patton seemed firmly of the opinion that whatever the kid was eating, it wasn’t enough. 

“Fledgelings need plenty of food and the proper nutrients to grow up healthy! A lone child in the middle of one forest can’t possibly have all the variety they need in their diet,” the Ampen insisted, feathers fluffing up at the mere idea of a kid going hungry. 

“Another important factor to note is the planet itself is not the child’s home, and so may not have the necessary nutrients available at all, let alone in one localized area,” Logan added. 

“You two have enough variety in those packs to weigh down a mountain,” Roman interjected, “so how about we focus on not scaring the kid off before we even reach them. Human senses are ludicrously strong, enough so that they’ll hear you two yakking a parsec away.” 

They agreed to be stealthier, and just in time, because Roman was pretty sure he’d found a more solid trail than the ghost-like faded prints that seemed all to trek over the place. He gestured in Crav’n sign for the two of them to stay put and stay quiet, and then followed the fresh tracks until they came to the mouth of a small cave amongst the crevices and steep drops of the pale cliffs.

He slowly stalked into the cave, keeping his movements light and quiet even as the light grew dimmer and his vision more restricted. Before it could grow too dim, however, his gaze caught on round, un-rock-like silhouettes. 

It took a moment to identify the shapes as small, limp Humlilts, all piled up around the larger Human. He nearly physically recoiled at the sight. So, this was why the small creatures had gone missing: slaughtered en masse at the hand of a Deathworlder. Not for food nor shelter, not in defense of itself or others, just for the sake of the callous cruelty and disregard for life that Humans were apparently born with. 

Humlilts were small, but Patton was scarcely bigger. Once the Human got tired of playing at mimicry, would it try to add the Ampen to the hoard of bodies?

He wasn’t going to lose another family.

Almost against his will, a low, near-subsonic growl rumbled out of his throat. He took one advancing step forward, and then… 

And then, a tiny head poked up from the pile, small dark eyes staring at him over a long snout. 

Roman nearly tripped over his own feet, astonished. There was still a living Humlilt in there? 

Before he could even finish his thought, another head appeared, and then another, until there was a sea of fluffy faces and huge ears all pointed in his direction. The undersized ungulates were fine, each and every one of them. They had simply been sleeping, all cozied up with one of the most dangerous species in the universe. 

Roman felt a strange and overwhelming mixture of relief and shame, his scales flattening down guiltily. It was too late, though, the movement had already rippled through the group until it reached the Human. Their creepy mask was absent in rest, and they pawed at their eyes sleepily as they sat up to see what all the commotion was about. There was a red mark on one of their cheeks from where it had pressed against the cave floor.

The moment they saw who stood at the entrance of their little nook, all the color drained from their face. The Humlilts shifted uneasily, and Roman found himself bracing to have thirty miniscule sets of horns charging at him. They couldn’t really hurt him, but they were persistent little things, and Patton and Logan would not be happy if a bunch of Humlillts tried to drive them away from the Human before they’d even properly spoken.

Instead of siccing the plethora of tiny mammals on him, though, the kid whistled a few notes in a perfect echo of the Humlilts all-clear call, settling them down. They carefully detangled themself from the pile, trailing a few stray twigs and leaves behind them in the process. Roman wondered absently how long they’d been building the collection of plant matter that covered them. 

A few parting trills later, the kid was in front of him, holding their bony shoulders firm but unable to conceal the tremor in their legs. They raised their chin up in what looked like a friendly Crav’n greeting, but attitude-wise seemed more along the lines of a challenging stance. 

“No hurt,” they said firmly before Roman could say a word. “No hurt small--,” a few words in their own language here, “--small good. No hurt. No hurt. Yes?” 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Roman tried to reassure them, “I swore, remember?” 

The kid stomped their foot once in… some kind of emphasis. “No hurt,” they started again with deliberate slowness, and then ended with the Humlilt whistle-greeting. Many of the Humlilts whistled back from where they were still observing the two of them. The small cavern echoed with the sound eerily. 

“You don’t want me to hurt the Humlilts? The small creatures?” Roman asked, gesturing to the pile of fluff and hooves, and was rewarded with the kid seeming satisfied. 

“Yes. Small good. Good good small. No hurt.” 

Roman extended his hand palm up for another oath. “I vow not to harm your small good friends,” he intoned solemnly. The kid patted his hand twice, bobbing their own head in a curious motion. Roman could only imagine the sort of notes Logan would be taking. 

Oh, right. He’d left the others in the bushes. 

“I brought my friends, too,” he informed the kid, who blinked up at him. “Logan and Patton, remember them? Little critter?” 

He said the last words in the chirps of the Ampen language, only a little strained by his accent, and the kid visibly brightened. “Little critter!” 

“Wait right here, and I’ll get them,” Roman instructed, lowering a flat hand to convey wait. The kid probably didn’t really grasp it, but seemed content enough to stay put, shifting from one foot to the other. 

It took no time at all to find Patton and Logan, who had progressively edged closer to the cliff face as he’d taken his sweet time in there. 

“Okay, so,” he started, “I know where all the missing Humlilts went.” 

---

Virgil shuffled his feet slightly, feeling the cool stone under his toes. 

He should probably leave now, because even if the fluffy chirp alien really was there, they knew or at least suspected he was a human, and aliens hated humans. All of them, even the ones that looked soft like birds or cool like dinosaurs. 

A soft, velvety nose poked up against his hand, and he squatted to gently pat the strange little singing puppy-antelope that had parted from the group to check on him. He couldn’t help but smile a little bit as it bumped its snout against his knee, sounding like a windchime. 

Okay. Maybe not all aliens. 

He looked up at the clitter-clatter of talons on rock, and then the fluffy chirping alien really did careen into view, feathers all puffed up like that very angry owl that had roosted outside his window for three whole hours one time. The other two bigger aliens came in only moments later.

Virgil couldn’t help but shrink back slightly from where he was still crouched, because aliens were weird and sometimes they did weird things that he didn’t really… get. Typically, this would be right before they started getting really mad or shaky, and screaming at him. 

Before Fluff-Chirp could get any closer, though, the puppy-antelope had charged between them, planting its little legs and lowering its head so that the little horns were pointed out in warning. Virgil went still, eyes darting between Fluff-Chirp and the little creature, who he was pretty sure was the one with the white spot on its forehead, the one he’d named Susan after his nice neighbor. 

The cool dinosaur alien had promised not to hurt them (he was pretty sure), but would it count if the puppy-antelopes attacked them first? 

Fluff-Chirp stepped forward a little bit, and Susan let out a shrill cry like someone blowing really hard on a flute. Virgil clapped his hands over his ears as he attempted to whistle the calm-down sound, but Susan would not be budged, even as the other two aliens got all tense and twitchy.

In front of it, Fluff-Chirp stopped advancing, and instead plopped down on the ground with a soft thump. They ruffled in their bag, and Virgil was struck with the fear that they would pull out a space blaster gun to shoot Susan for trying to protect him. Hurriedly, he crawled forwards and threw his arms around the puppy-antelope (puppylope?) and hugged it close to shield it from any laser gun beams, his eyes squeezing shut.

There was a grunt-grumble from the cool dinosaur, and the click-click-click of the bunches of arms of the blue one moving around, but all he heard from Fluff-Chirp was shuffling, and then—

“Hello good morning,” the fluffy alien said. Or at least, that was what Virgil thought the birdsong-like words meant. 

Fluff-Chirp always said it when waking up in their little camp, and Virgil had said it back, because that was just basic manners, especially when someone gives you stuff. Fluff-Chirp had given him a bunch of sweet sliced up fruit, kind of with the feeling of mangoes and the taste of strawberries. It had reminded him of home. 

It… kind of smelled like Fluff-Chirp’s fruit now, actually. 

—

Patton watched hopefully as the kid slowly opened one eye to peek over at them. 

He hadn’t meant to scare the poor little guy by rushing in, he’d just been absolutely delighted to hear that not only would he get to see some Humlilts after all, but also that the kid seemed to have some company after all.

Some very loyal company, if the one threat-displaying at him was any indication. Patton was careful not to engage, particularly since further back in the cave, he could see a whole assembly of tiny, reflective eyes. Roman would probably just hold him up in the air if there was any real danger, but it was the principle of the matter. He didn’t want to upset the little guys! 

Or the kid, who had finally spotted the dishes of fruit Patton had set out. 

“You wanna come eat with me, little critter?” Patton offered, patting the ground near him. 

“Little critter…,” the Human murmured. Their face was much more expressive now that it wasn’t mostly concealed by wood, and the kid looked painfully young. Probably no more than seven or eight sun cycles. Patton’s hearts twanged in sympathy.  

Slowly, like they were waiting for the rug to be yanked out from under their feet, the kid scooted forward enough that they could grab a few pieces of the dana fruit, setting one down in front of the Humlilt to distract it. Patton eye-crinkled encouragingly, and took a piece of his own to nibble on. 

“Do you remember me? I’m Patton. Patton,” he emphasized, ‘pat’-ing his own chest in example. 

The kid paused mid-bite, and then swiped their wrist over their mouth before mumbling, “Patton,” back. Patton glowed with happiness. 

“And that’s Logan,” he said, bolstered by one apparent success. Logan obligingly stepped forwards and gestured to himself. 

“I am Logan,” he enunciated clearly. 

The kid, who had stopped eating to focus wholeheartedly on this new task, scrunched his brow up. “I am Logan?” 

“No, not quite,” Logan corrected gently. “Logan. I am Logan.” He cast a meaningful look to Patton. 

“And I am Patton!” he added cheerfully, gesturing between the two of them. “Logan! Patton!”

“Logan,” the kid mimicked, looking at the Ulgorii and then the Ampen, “Patton.” 

“You got it! Good job!” Patton noticed that the kid was very careful to keep their hands in their lap, and wondered if Humans were normally this withdrawn, or if exposure to other aliens had caused this reticence. 

“Good job?” the kid echoed, wide eyed. They looked to Roman curiously, though only for a moment before dropping their gaze. 

“I am Roman,” Roman surprised them both by beating them to the introductory punch. 

“... Roman?” the kid offered, and got a chorus of nonsense praise for their effort. They bared their little teeth and clapped their hands together, and it took the three of them an alarmed pause and exchange of glances to realize that they weren’t, in fact, being threatened by a youngling. 

“Joy? Or perhaps, contentment?” Logan was mumbling to himself. “The skin around the child’s eyes folds much like an Ampen expression of happiness, so…” 

“It would make more sense to be happy after receiving praise, right?” replied Roman, who had gotten a bit bristly from nerves for a moment. Patton resisted the urge to elbow the both of them into not saying long, confusing sentences. Luckily, the kid seemed too occupied with their own thoughts to notice. 

“Patton, Logan, Roman,” they recited, looking at each of them in turn. Then, very carefully, they reached up and patted their own chest. “Virgil. I am Virgil?” 

There was a brief moment of stunned silence, and then Patton trilled in delight, clapping his hands in an echo of the Human’s gesture, in hopes that it would convey his own happiness and pride in the kid’s quick learning. The kid jumped, but then did that teeth-bearing smile again.

“Virgil!” he tested out, not quite getting the Human tones right, but that was okay because he could practice! “Virgil Virgil Virgil! Yes! That’s you!” 

“I am Virgil!” the Human was practically bouncing in place as they matched Patton’s energy, and Patton couldn’t help but dart forward and try to bump his head to the Human’s affectionately. 

Roman hissed something exceedingly panicked, but Patton was already using one of the Human’s bent legs to reach, and then he was brushing his antenna to the kid-- to Virgil’s forehead, and then the Human was lifting their arms slowly and curling them around him, and okay now Patton was a little bit concerned, but. 

But, all Virgil did was lean into him slightly, arms bracing but not suffocating, and sniffle once, like they were holding back tears. Any resolve Patton had to not give his teammates stress ulcers faded away like dust in the wind, and he leaned in carefully and wrapped his arms around as much as he could reach of the kid’s shoulders and neck, which Roman would tell him was stupid dangerous because necks were weak points on Humans and they would absolutely react defensively-- 

Virgil promptly burst into tears, their chin coming to hook over Patton’s shoulder as a stuttering little wail worked its way out of their system. Patton made soothing nonsense croons and sung Ampen lullabies as the kid shuddered their way through a good cry, and tried not to feel too alarmed that unlike Ampens, Humans apparently leaked emotions while they cried.

Once Virgil had more or less settled down, they seemed completely wiped from the outpour of emotion, eyes drooping, body tilting to one side. For the first time since they’d arrived, the kid looked too wiped out to be nervous. Sure enough, only a few moments later, they shifted to curl up on their side, falling asleep on the cold stone easily.

Patton looked up at his teammates from where he was sitting in the center of the curled c-shape of the kid’s body, and offered them a sheepish shrug. “Well. Now we know that Humans can experience touch hunger?”

[my-writings-and-musings]

Same anon thank you for answering my question! I was wondering if you could do headcanons for MTMTE Rung, Megatron, Rodimus, Minimus, and Swerve with an Artisic human reader that just sees the good and creative artist side of everything? From books to pictures to even their own bot? Like they can just look at their bot and go out on a whole rant on how beautiful their optics are from the color to their expression. if that’s too many characters you can take any one, I don’t mind! Thank you and have a good day ❤️

You're welcome! I'm always open for clarification, so feel free to ask questions about whatever you'd like if you're unsure on anything. I took a little liberty with this one, but I've got all the requested bots because darn it all these beautiful mechs deserve recognition!

Rung

·He discovers your artistic inclination thanks to years of experience reading personalities and emotions at a glance, but he wasn't prepared for the depth of your conviction in seeing the world through a creative lens, which he learned upon speaking to you about your process as an artist. This surprise grows as he sees you sketching around the ship, your exuberance for the inherent beauty in everything coming through in every conversation you share.

·When he praises some of your sketches on a quiet day in his office and is compelled to ask how you developed your style, he's fascinated by your explanation, and his spark is warmed by how beautifully you describe the world around you and credit it for inspiring you. He's visibly shocked when your list of current subjects and muses includes him specifically, and you can't help but chuckle at the usually calm bot looking so absolutely flustered. There's no way for him to hide any of that feeling when he requests a bit of clarification; there's hundreds of bots on board, what about him could possibly stand out?

·You're happy to elaborate on your process to a bot who so regularly underestimates his worth and lay out why he in particular piques your interest. The warmth and goodness of his being is such a rare and beautiful thing, you explain, but also so rarely appreciated that it drives you to try and capture that essence in a manner one can see. How could you not? Such compassion and empathy and forgiveness should be remembered! You've also seen that he's capable of accepting any genuine apology, and to have that level of mercy after so much war is beautiful, enough that you have to try and show it.

·To say he's touched is an understatement of unfathomable proportions. Removing his lenses to clear optics blurred with tears, he doesn't even know how to begin processing your praise of his character when you add that his physical self hardly fails to encourage you either. His glasses nearly slip from his hands when he hears you say that. You continue quite easily; the kindness in his optics and the sweetness of his smile, combined with his genuinely handsome profile, simply inspire you to start sketching.

·He's touched, but you have to understand, he is NOT accustomed to this level of praise. Between the near tears and the blushing he has to politely excuse himself to recover from this absolute tsunami of emotions, but being flustered and melted at once is enough to have him smiling through a little blush all day long. While he tries to take a little bit of your mindset into his everyday life going forward, he gets a bit dazed every time he sees a sketch of yours that includes his face, as that level of artistic devotion being dedicated to him is more than he'll ever be able to process. Not that he minds...

Megatron

·Being more familiar with the written word, he enjoys the arts but has little experience with those who create them, and time has not been on his side in regards to learning more. Thus, you're one of the first artistically inclined individuals he's been able to discuss the topic with, which he was motivated to do after catching a glimpse of your work. He could swear some of your sketches bear a resemblance to him, but he says nothing on the matter and is certain his optics are tricking him.

·Your talk of technique quickly surprises him by shifting to inspiration, which to you is the primary driving force of your work, as it influences how you go about conveying the subject matter. Eager to share what you mean, you explain that anything can have beauty worthy of capturing if you just take the time to look at it right. Even the most mundane or seemingly unappealing things can be remarkable if you know their story, and you want to convey that energy as wordlessly as possible.

·A little overwhelmed but quite impressed by your manner of reasoning, he rather jokingly asks if even beings like himself could ever inspire you, or perhaps another artist with your mindset. He's caught off gaurd like never before when you, quite enthusiastically, reply that he most certainly can and does! To keep his composure he recalls portraits of his likeness being commissioned to inspire his soldiers, but never believing these fell under the category of art so much as they did propaganda. They often depicted him quite... violently as well.

·Having never seen these pieces, you reply that your own experience is tied more to how you see him now, and you flip through your sketchbook to demonstrate. As close to your level as can be, he's speechless while you explain what you wanted to capture about him in each sketch, whether it's a quick study or a detailed project; and that's how safe he makes you feel. Hearing himself referred to as a protector cuts straight through his powerful armor.

·You depict him looking almost... gentle? Hearing you describe the his immense size as a source of comfort and his strength as a tool of keeping peace processes about as clearly to him as a foreign language, but he nods along and keeps the conversation going until his duties call him away. Though he says nothing of it, he volunteers himself for more of the physically demanding work around the ship. His body's purpose had always been decided for him, but you've reminded him he has the only true say in its use, and that everything really is a matter of perspective. Perhaps he'll take up sketching once this is all over.

Rodimus

·He's certainly always had an appreciation for visual appeal, even if his idea of beauty doesn't often overlap with what most would consider artistically valuable. This and his natural alertness makes him quick to notice you often sketch about the ship, frequently when he's present, but at first he leaves you alone to work in peace. Having a hobby on this crew is beyond valuable, and he doesn't want to distract you from a passion... That is, until he decides on one especially slow day to just ask you what you like to doodle about.

·You can tell he wants to be a little nosy, if only because he's naturally a curious bot about these things, but you're more than happy to share regardless. There's a lot due to the ample downtime on the quest, and he has to squint so he can properly scan the many sketches on the human sized paper. He happily recognizes friends, locales about the ship, even earth things he knows about... but he's not ready when he finds a picture of himself.

·While he remains outwardly playful, teasing you with how he'd pose if you only asked, he's internally flattered that you took the time to draw him. More specifically, he's touched by the way you drew him. The sketches and portraits portray him as a calm but amicable leader, standing tall and serving as a guide to those around him, a true "father to his men" kind of bot... it's everything he wants to be, but is quite certain he's not. He's barely able to keep up his smooth persona when he asks about your process.

·You explain that you find inspiration in everything, but he's been your chosen subject lately for a lot of reasons. It's no secret he's handsome, but you see something more when you look at him, and you did everything you could to show it here; there's a real leader in him. Maybe some bots don't see it under all the bluster and sarcasm, but you see how much he cares for every bot on his crew. He wants to be the best for all of them, and even if he struggles at times, that effort is beautiful to you.

·It takes everything in him to bite back some very embarrassing tears, and the crack in his voice doesn't help him hide the emotion, though he covers that up with unconvincing coughs and claims something got in his optic. From then on he seems to stand a little taller and find his assigned duties a little easier to bear, but you absolutely notice how he poses in what he believes to be heroic fashion whenever your sketchbook comes out. Inspired by his enthusiasm, you invite him to model more officially, and the crew is just happy to see him so enthusiastic.

Minimus

·Being as observant as he is, your consistent appraisal of your surroundings is not something he'd ever miss, but your frequent sketching in the most random places does leave him absolutely mystified. Every time he sees you there's artistic supplies on your person, but he can't find anything that appears to be worthy of putting to paper, so what could you be drawing? He respects your privacy too much, and feels too silly about his curiosity, to interpret and ask you for an explanation.

·Thus it's with some small eagerness that he finds one of your sketchbooks after it's been misplaced, and he sees the perfect opportunity to slip in a question. For the sake of handling something so tiny, he approaches without his armor, offering the lost item back with barely concealed pride at your delight to have it returned. In the moment of truth he nearly falters, but does indeed manage to ask what you draw around the ship. He leaves out the fact that he's observed you whenever you draw in his presence.

·The question has an answer only he seems to think isn't obvious; him! You spend time together frequently, and while everything is fair game for sketching, he's a very regular subject for you. Whether he's wearing the Magnus armor or not, you explain that the commanding aura he radiates is something you can't help but find beautiful. That word choice baffles him enough that he has to interrupt; beautiful? Commanding? Even without his armor?? You're delighted to assure him that you absolutely mean that.

·Hearing you describe the details of your reasoning, like the quiet dignity of his stance or the calm intelligence of his red optics, touches his spark in ways he wasn't expecting. He's calm and speaks softly as he keeps the conversation going, asking questions about your various works and listening attentively when you answer, processing your view of the universe as being packed with beauty in all the places people don't think to look.

·Any bot that sees him during the remainder of the day absolutely notices the change to his entire demeanor; namely that he's smiling a soft and barely perceptible smile. It's not long after he requests a few sketches from you to keep in his office, whether they're of him or not, and he has them framed in places of honor. He doesn't tell you, but you figure it out, that one particular drawing of him you gift for his sake is kept securely stored in a compartment by his spark.

Swerve

·Many bots may see him being a tad bit on the shallow side when it comes to the arts, but our beloved barkeep has his own unique appreciation for creativity and all the ways it can be visually expressed, and you recognize it not long after meeting him. As his bar is a frequent hangout for everyone, you find it to be a fantastic place to sit and sketch, as the variety of bots makes it quite easy to have your choice of subjects even if you have to sit on a table. Obviously Swerve notices and asks you what you're drawing when traffic slows one evening.

·You're happy to show him your work and he's always eager to hear what everyone is up to, so he starts asking questions about your art in general. How long have you been an artist? What's it like suddenly having a whole ship of aliens to sketch? Why draw here all the time? At that query you light up brilliantly, and he's delighted by your enthusiasm as you describe all the incredible sights the bar has to offer.

·You list some of your favorite things to draw, like the many friend groups on the ship that gather here, the brilliant colors of the glowing vats of enjex, and him smiling and rushing with orders through it all. That last one gets a flash of surprise from behind his visor, which is quickly overtaken by exuberant delight; you've been drawing him?! He babbles out a surge of confusing statements that you're eventually able to interpret as a request to see, just one he's too bashful to say directly.

·Happily obliging, you're touched by how he smiles at every little sketch, and feel compelled to explain that he's a big part of why you love drawing here. You try to see beauty in everything, even what often gets overlooked, and there's so very much of that here. The bar is one of those places that everyone knows is special, but you know he's the reason they love it like they do, and that his enthusiasm and hard work hold it all together. You find that inspiring, and actually quite beautiful. It doesn't hurt that his brilliant smile is always a treat to sketch.

·Trying to play it cool and totally failing, he doesn't quite hide that he's near to tears when he asks if you'd like to hang some of your work up in the bar, or maybe have a little corner for yourself to draw from. He just doesn't want you getting squished while you sketch, is all! And having a better vantage point is ideal for someone so small! When you accept, he gives you your own human sized accommodations not too far from the heart of the bar, and every so often when you sketch he'll glance up at you absolutely beaming.

[green-socks]

Happy New Year! Thank you for the immense joy your writing brought me this year! 💜

To honor the tradition of looking back on the year, here are some 2021 Writing Reflections I'd love for you to answer! 

1) What is the one thing you're most proud of with your writing this year?

2) What is your favorite line you've written this year?

3) How has your writing improved this year?

4) How do you hope to improve your writing next year?

5) Do you have any specific writing goals for '22?

Sunny!😍 Happy new year to you too❤️ I honestly can't imagine my daily fandom/internet life without you anymore!

Thank you for sending these!! I will try to reflect to the best of my ability!

1) Honestly, the thing I'm most proud of is simply just starting to write in the first place. Something I had never really tried properly, and I certainly didn't believe I could. But perhaps an even bigger thing to me is the fact that I can stand to reread the fics I have written/posted – I actually enjoy them!! I've always hated everything I create, basically, so it's been a nice surprise to find that this isn't the case with my fics. I'm proud of myself for that.

2) So this is a though one, because I generally don't think of myself as being that focused on the words itself? Like I know writers who spend a long time crafting each and every sentence so that they not only convey the right message, but are innovative, interesting, and delightful in their word choices and structures, not to mention that it all flows together beautifully. Me? I maybe check a thesaurus to add some ~color~ at times, and try to make sure that what I write is actually English and not words I made up😂 What I mean to say is that I don't think any one line of my writing stands out in particular🤔 (Plus I don't really have the energy to go through my fics looking for one, sorry🙈). I'm sure there are some I'm much prouder of than others, but yeah.

3) Seeing as how I started writing in March with no experience at all, I think (/hope) I've gotten better with a lot of things😂🙈 What comes to mind first is that my ability to find multiple ways of expressing something has improved. Like I don't get so hung up on wanting to say something a certain way, but am able to find other (even better) solutions, if that makes sense. And I think that applies on both the language level and the storytelling level of things.

4) Oh so many ways. I hope to get better at writing dialogue! Just overall, in every aspect of it😂

5) I gotta finish the two series I have going on now, at least! Better get cracking..

But Sunny, did you answer these questions? Can I turn the tables on you and ask you these? Is that allowed?

[nyxdelanuit]

Joy is Yellow (Kaminari x Reader)

Hey guys! This is for the BNHarem collab. The theme this time was Flowers c:

Here’s the link to the rest of the collab! Please look here to find more of your favorite BNHA characters written by some awesome writers!

It wasn’t often that Kaminari was disappointed with becoming a hero, but watching you wander around the farmer’s market in the mid-morning sun, he regretted not being able to do this everyday. You walked arm-in-arm with his friends, unaware of his pining. He wanted to tell you, so badly he wanted to tell you… but if there was one thing Kaminari had learned about himself since graduating UA, it was that as soon as he caught feelings, the words stopped coming out of his mouth right. He couldn’t risk messing everything up. Not with you.

 Sero hung off of one arm, Mina on the other. Your bag hung precariously off of your shoulder, threatening to tear Mina’s arm from you as it fell. Yet you didn’t mind, you simply forged forward, smile wide on your face. Kaminari let you pull his friends forward, hanging back to hear your laugh filter through the crowds. His eyes watched your back as you ran around, looking through local honeys, fresh vegetables, and the occasional booth of art and hair pins. The crowd grew larger as the morning went on, obscuring you from his vision when you ducked into tents and booths, but he still took in the crisp air with joy in his heart. Kaminari thought he might finally understand what people meant when they mentioned ‘simple pleasures.’

He had to resist the urge to sprint to your side as your squeal pierced the calm air. The sight of you, unharmed, calmed him somewhat but didn’t ease his pounding heart. Face flushed, eyes wide in joy, and utterly angelic as you took in the wide selection of flowers in front of you.

 “Mina, look!” You held a slip of paper out to her, hands trembling in excitement. “I never knew flowers had meanings. Look, this one has almost a whole page!” You were threatening to turn Kaminari’s insides to mush, watching you flitter from flower to flower like a hummingbird, barely stopping to skim over the slip of paper in front of each flower. Kaminari may not be able to get the right words out of his mouth, but maybe….

 Daffodils: Inspiration. You inspire me to push myself every day. I want to be someone worthy of your beauty- inside and out.

 The note sat nestled inside a modest bouquet of buttery yellow daffodils, still dewy from the chill morning. Your fingers ran over the note, trying to recall the handwriting. It was at least someone who knew where you lived- in a gated apartment for recently graduated students of UA- and someone who knew of your new obsession with the language of flowers. With gentle hands, you scooped up the flowers from your stoop, placing them in a vase you had purchased at the market the day before. It was true what they said, flowers really brightened up a room. Or maybe that was the feeling that sat airily in your chest.

 You usually ran into one or two former classmates while wandering around your apartment complex, but Kaminari was becoming a more regular face. It wasn’t unwelcome, you enjoyed every moment spent with the ditsy blonde. You did wonder if he played up his dumb blonde shtick for laughs, but he was always genuine with you. As you wandered through the gates after your shift, it was no surprise that he was the first person you saw.

 “Hey! Have you eaten yet?” He called out, a grin plastered on his face. You couldn’t help but think he’d been waiting for you, as self-absorbed as that made you feel. He was still staring at you, the grin faltering before you realized you hadn’t answered.

 “Oh, not yet. I was hoping to get out of these gross clothes first.” He nodded sagely before breaking out in another grin.

 “Let me pick up some food for us while you change then. And no saying no! I want to have a picnic, and no one else will have one with me!” Kaminari tried his best to give you the most pathetic puppy eyes that he could muster, a smile breaking through as you giggled at his antics.

 “Fine, ‘Minari. I’ll meet you out here in twenty?” You were surprised he hadn’t concussed himself with how hard he nodded before sprinting off with a wave. Surely he must have whiplash at least?

 If it wasn’t Kaminari Denki, the class flirt, you would almost think the picnic laid out before you was… romantic. He had surely put a lot of energy into it, making sure that the blanket had shade, but wasn’t hidden under the tree, a wonderful view of the late afternoon sky, and most of all, quiet. Not many people ventured to this part of the complex, preferring to stick to the well-worn paths and their own spaces. Your favorite guilty-pleasure dinner was laid out like it was homemade, a bottle of sparkling juice on ice nearby. Kaminari must have been serious about wanting a picnic.

 The picnic flew by in a flurry of laughs, leaving you both red-faced and out of breath. He had tried, really, to keep himself serious. There were many questions about how your life was like now that you were outside of school, if you liked your job, and any problems you had been facing. He tried so hard. And then he misjudged the toss of a snack, hitting himself in the eye instead of dropping it into his mouth like he intended. You appreciated his efforts, but you appreciated the unadulterated Kaminari more.

 You weren’t sure how it devolved into a pseudo food fight, the two of you desperately trying to win points by throwing food into each other’s mouths. It was funny, and, sweet, and utterly juvenile. After spending so much time trying to grow up quickly to match the world you were thrust into, it was such a welcome reprieve.

 He insisted on walking you to your door that night.

 “No self-respecting hero would let someone walk home alone. Especially if home is only a few doors down from mine.” The grin on his face as he left you at your door felt a little more genuine that night.

  Marigolds: Affection, making a connection. To let you know you’re on my mind. Seriously, you’re on my mind, always.

 The marigolds on your doorstep weren’t quite as fresh as the daffodils you had received a few days before, but they still held their pungent smell. You were never a big fan of the smell, but you couldn’t help smiling as you remembered the meme fights Sero and Kaminari used to get into in high school.

 “They’re marigolds!” Sero shouted at the top of his lungs.

“My god, I think she’s right, they are marigolds!” Kaminari yelled, overly scandalized.

“I may not know my flowers, but I know a b-” They started together, stopping only when an irate Aizawa turned the corner. 

 The memory alone would have been enough for you to place them among your daffodils, still standing strong with the flower food you had found squirreled away in your cupboards. The sentiment scrawled on the note only made you want to keep them more. Hopefully the daffodils would cut the scent somewhat.

 You hadn’t seen Kaminari since the picnic, besides glimpses here and there as one of you left for work. He had looked so tired lately. You knew that he had Sero, Kirishima, and Bakugou looking out for him, but even then, they were busy too. You were less so, by choice. It was too much to jump into right away, and you were always one to adjust to the waters before you dove. It was time to repay him for the picnic.

 The knock at the door surprised Kaminari, he was already setting his alarm to run down to the flower shop before you woke up. Then he could get another bunch of flowers, leave them on your doorstep before you left for work, and get a nap in before his shift. He had tried to ignore the dark circles spreading underneath his eyes and the yawns that plagued him. You were worth a little inconvenience.

 So when he saw you on the other side of the door, he thought his heart might stop. There you stood in all your glory, looking like you were plucked straight from some painting he ignored during his middle school museum field trips. He knew better now, if he could find your beauty in the paintings, he would stare for hours.

 You cleared your throat, pulling him from his drowsy daydreaming. “Can I come in ‘Minari? You’ve been looking a little beat up lately, so I made you some dinner.” He felt awful as he watched you shuffle the carefully stacked containers of food in your arms. Quickly, he went to grab some of them from you, easing your load and motioning you into his house.

 How could you do that? Just a few minutes and a simple dinner, something even he could have made, and he suddenly felt like he could run a few laps. No more yawns, they had been long replaced by full body laughs as he watched you utterly fail at the most recent fighting game he had bought. He couldn’t be bothered to play with you, the food in front of him was too tempting. Kaminari couldn’t remember the last time he had made himself food. You must have been an angel sent just for him.

 Sunflowers: Joy, optimism, positive energy. Tell me your secrets, please. How do you light up every room you enter? You chase away all the tiredness in my body. It’s like you’re an energy drink for my soul.

 You wondered how you were going to fit such large stems into your vase. It seems like your mysterious suitor had thought of that too, buying only a few smaller flowers. It was starting to look like a proper arrangement, although you wondered why it was all yellow. Surely there were flowers in other colors to convey what he wanted? No matter, the sunflowers in front of you definitely cut through the empty space, filling up your room with enough color to rival the sun.

 There was a big assignment that a few of the people in your apartment had been appointed to. Kaminari was included, and you barely caught sight of him anymore. Sero had also been called, but you saw him sneaking into Mina’s apartment with the morning’s light. At least you were assured that one of your friends were being properly cared for.

 You couldn’t help yourself, you started leaving containers of food at his door, little notes, and a few healthy drinks to combat the sugary energy drinks he preferred. Your dishes were always returned clean by the next day, and it made you feel like you were doing something more than sitting on your ass working part-time while he was out there giving his all. The night that signaled the end of the assignment, you found your dishes outside per usual, with a note.

 Thanks Sunshine.

-Denki

 The beating of your heart could be heard in your ears. You were so flustered you didn’t notice how the note matched the others you left on the counter.

  Pansy: Loving.

 This note confused you. Just a single word as explanation and a bundle of gentle yellow pansies with bleeding black centers. Still, you placed the gentle stems in the vase. You were sure to place them where they wouldn’t be crushed by the more boisterous flowers. The petals were so delicate beneath your fingers, you were afraid they’d wilt at the slightest touch.

 You’d be sad after these flowers wilted. It was such a fun experience to open your door every morning and search for flowers on your stoop. Even if they weren’t there every day, it only made the days you found them more exciting. You hadn’t really stopped to consider who had been leaving such sweet presents, but you knew who you hoped it was. Maybe you were just reading too much into it, with all the yellows consuming your thoughts.

 You knew that Kaminari had the day off, time to recover from the grueling days of work behind him. Even so, you couldn’t resist making more food than you needed. You missed him, even though it had only been a handful of days. With swift steps and an even swifter knock, you were finally in front of him.

 He looked awful, there was no nice way of putting it. His hair was unruly in an unintentional way, dark circles and even darker bruises littering his body. But he seemed to light up at your presence. It was a sight to see as the fatigue lifted from his face, his body less weighed down by his slouching shoulders.

 Kaminari ate beside you on the couch, a scene that was becoming familiar to you. It was comfortable here, just the endless chatter of the television to end the silence of the growing night. You stayed long after food was finished and the dishes were washed- Kaminari insisted it was the least he could do. Even longer after, when Kaminari’s head fell heavily to your shoulder. Whatever energy you gave him must have reached his limit. It took some time to maneuver him to his bed, all dead weight, but you slid him under his sheets eventually. With a brush to his hair- simply to get it out of his eyes, you tried to convince yourself- you left as quiet as you came.

 There was no flower when you opened your door that morning. It was a little disappointing, they seemed to have come after particularly nice nights with Kaminari before. You let yourself get caught up in your head with every thing you had done since the last bouquet, chewing on your lip as scenarios ran through your thoughts.

 A knock came at the door before you were able to chew your lip raw. A quick glance to a mirror and a quick straightening of your clothes made you presentable. You weren’t sure why you were so nervous to answer the door. It was just a neighbor, probably one that has seen you in states much worse than when you first woke up…

 It was a pleasant surprise to see Kaminari standing before you. He fussed with something in his grasp before he realized you opened the door. He thrust his fist toward you, a single daisy in his clutch. The poor stem had almost been worried through, leaning at an awkward angle. You accepted it with cautious hands, supporting the tired flower.

 “So, Denki, what does this one mean?” You smiled at him coyly, enjoying the way he could barely meet your eyes.

 “T-true…” His voice was barely a squeak escaping his throat. You took mercy on him, grasping his hand with your free one. Kaminari’s eyes finally flew to yours, questioning.

 “Breathe, ‘Minari.” You smiled, coaching him through a breath, and then two. His eyes were clearer when they met yours again. He let a grin sneak onto his face, bringing him a bit more confidence.

 “Daisies mean t-true love… and soulmates.”

 After many shared smiles and messy kisses, you led him into your apartment, his hand still clutched in yours.

 And many years after, you would still get compliments on your bright yellow daisy pendant, encased in resin and lasting as long as his love for you.

[scarletaire]

flowerfall

A/N: Not my usual Jurdan fare, I know, but after reading A Sky Beyond the Storm, this fic poured out of me and I was helpless to stop it. Canon-divergent for Chapter LX, but mostly follows canon for everything after.

WARNING: Spoilers for A Sky Beyond The Storm!

Fandom: An Ember in the Ashes by Sabaa Tahir

Ship: Helene Aquilla x Avitas Harper

Genre/s: Fluff

Rating: T

Links: Masterlist | Read on AO3 

[Summary and tags under the cut because spoilers!] 

Description: 

When Avitas Harper falls, the Blood Shrike makes a deal with Death.  Snapshots of their life together after the war.

Tags: Harper Lives, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Helvitas Living Their Best Lives, We Stan One (1) Power Couple

_______

When Avitas Harper falls, the Blood Shrike makes a deal with Death.

It happens as Mirra of Serra takes her knife to Keris Veturia’s neck. The blood and the life leave her body, but the Shrike cannot revel in it, for her love is dead and cold in her arms.

How is it possible that she still had anything left to lose?

But of course, to love someone is both to gain and to lose a thousand pieces of the world all at once.

She roars in the face of it.

In the face of Death.

And this time, with the bridge between worlds on the brink of evisceration, Death answers.

I need power, says Mauth to anyone who will listen, weakened, and scrambling for any strength to beat back the storm. Power to fight.

The Blood Shrike has never heard the voice of Mauth before, but what he asks for is familiar. She knows all too well the pursuit of power, the search for anything to keep fighting. It is what she searches desperately for now.

Give him back, she orders Death with the voice of a girl who has still too much to lose, give him back, and I will give you the strength you need.

The power of the Star. The power of song and healing. The power of Rehmat, reborn again through the centuries and a thousand times in her blood.

Whatever it is, it will be enough.

It has to be.

The maw opens its jaws. The Nightbringer succumbs to the maelstrom. The Sea of Suffering overtakes the sky.

And Helene Aquilla sings her last song.

____

For a moment, there is only the storm. It surges through the escarpment, it rages across the cliffs, it consumes everything in its path.

For a moment, all is lost.

For a moment, she thinks that at least she didn’t have to wait long before following him.

And then, between one breath and the next, the maelstrom disappears.

Beneath her hand, Avitas Harper stirs.

____

In the end, her deal hadn’t mattered. It wasn’t Mauth that saved them all. It was Laia of Serra, because of course, of course, who else could have done it but her. Helene is full of a strange mix of pride and awe when she pulls Laia into a hug. The girl she once tried to kill, the girl who pieced together the broken world.

The once Beloved, the once Forsaken now rests in chains of mercy, and so the world continues on.

Mauth never speaks to her again.

Maybe because there is nothing she could possibly offer anymore. Maybe because the next time Mauth speaks to her, it will be at the end, when his words will be the last thing she will ever hear.

Briefly, she wonders what Death will do with the power she gave him. Then she thinks that it doesn’t really matter much to her, anymore.

____

She stands with Elias as they take in the bodies of their dead. They are spread out in lines across the forest floor. There are too many of them, Martial, Scholar, Tribal – it isn’t important anymore. They were divided in life. Today, they are united in the loss of it.

Above her, around her, the forest blooms alive, like a panacea for the death and destruction spilt upon the soil, blossoms of apricot and cherry and Tala filling the air with their sweetness, falling to the ground like colored snow.

It is a good thing, then, that Harper is alive. If she had lost him, truly lost him, then she would not have been able to bear the sight of flowers ever again.

____

It turns out dying and being brought back to life takes a toll on a human body.

“When will he wake?” she whispers into the quiet of the healer’s tent. “It’s been days.”

She knows the body lying still before her is merely asleep, but she remembers the way he had looked with all the life drained out of him, and it is a sight she will never forget.

“Give him some time,” Elias says. “Being resurrected by Death itself is no easy thing.”

She raises her eyebrow at him askance.

“I know a thing or two about being resurrected by Mauth.” He shrugs, and the movement is so familiar, so genuinely Elias that she feels the corner of her lips tilt. “Guess it runs in the family now.”

Avitas Harper wakes two days after.

She doesn’t give him a chance to get his bearings. The words are out of her lips before he can even try to sit up, like a song she can’t keep silent any longer. “I love you.”

He raises his fingers to her face, tracing the scars there like a benediction. “I got my wish.”

Emifal Firdaant.

She presses her palm against his hand, trapping it against her cheek. “With all due respect, Captain Harper, it was a bleeding stupid wish. So I did you the courtesy of vetoing it.”

When she kisses him, she feels like she can breathe again after a millennium of holding her breath.

____

When Mirra of Serra takes up the mantle of Soul Catcher, Helene watches the life return to Elias’s eyes, and the hope return to Laia’s.

The Bani al-Mauth turns to Harper. “I suppose I should thank you. For offering me shelter and safety in the bowels of Antium.”

“It was an honor, Lioness. You repaid me in kind when you helped the Blood Shrike through the tunnels.”

“And when you aided in the battle with Keris,” Helene adds.

Mirra scoffs, white hair dancing in the wind. “I worried that the Shrike wouldn’t be able to keep the secret to herself. Not like you. A mind like a steel trap, you have.” She slaps Harper once across the chest. He does a fine job of hiding his grimace as she knocks his healing wounds. “Think you’ll be a fine brother-in-law for my daughter.”

Elias splutters, Laia flushes, and Helene feels a laugh bubbling up in her chest for the first time in ages.

____

As their troops begin to file out of the Forest of Dusk, she sees the figures of two men talking under the shade of a tree. Elias is taller, but Avitas is older. And so it is he who holds out his hand for his brother to shake.

And it is Elias who takes it, but uses it to pull him into a hug instead. She sees Avitas’s back stiffen in surprise, but he doesn’t push him away.

“It shouldn’t have taken so long for this to happen,” Elias says. “I’m glad you’re alive, brother. I’m glad I wasn’t the one to have to pass you on.”

____

When Quin Veturius proclaims her Empress in front of the conclave of their people, her eyes immediately seek Harper.

Help me, she tries to convey. Knock the old man out before he actually convinces them.

“Stand strong,” he says aloud, instead, love and pride sparkling in his green eyes, “Empress.”

____

Later that night, when she sings Zacharias to sleep with a soft lullaby, her blood doesn’t sing with her. It’s silent, dormant. The air is empty with the ghost of her magic.

Leaning against the door a few feet away, Avitas has closed his eyes to listen, his lips curled up at the edges.

And it should feel like something has been stolen from her, but really, it feels more like a blessing than anything else.

____

She dances with Avitas at the Moon Festival in Nur, and the night is warm and they’re both still in armor, and neither of them really know how to dance properly anyway, but it is enough.

It is more than enough.

Skies, it’s more than she could have ever asked for.

He lifts his arm and she twirls under it, catching the twinkle in his eye, and suddenly, she wishes they weren’t in such a crowded place full of other people. Suddenly, she wishes they were alone, in a room, flushed and pressed up against each other just like this. Dancing a dance they both know the steps of far too well.

On her next twirl, she catches Musa’s eye, where he leans against a table, flirting with a pretty Scholar girl. He winks at her, as if he knows exactly where her thoughts have strayed.

She’s far too happy to be annoyed in any way, and so she almost sends him a wink of her own before Harper pulls her close against him again and the thought is forgotten.

____

It occurs to her later in the night, as the festivities draw to a close and she glimpses Musa walking back to his tent alone, that she had come far, far too close to understanding his loneliness in a way she hates to imagine.

____

At night, the Empress walks her city.

Avitas Harper walks with her.

The blue irises native to Antium are in full bloom, littering the ground.

One year, she thinks, as she cups her hand around a petal that floats down to her through the air. It’s been one year since the last flowerfall.

The one in which the world was broken. The one in which the world was remade.

____

Sometimes, she wakes thinking of her family. Of Livia, bleeding out in front of her son. Of her mother, father, Hannah. All of them, their throats cut, their lives lost, gone.

Sometimes, she wonders if they will hate her for bringing back her lover instead of one of them, any of them.

Sometimes, she wonders if she will ever forgive herself for any of it.

____

Avitas Harper, as it turns out, is a shockingly good babysitter.

The first time he gets Zacharias to sleep in under ten minutes, she chalks it up to dumb luck and good timing.

The second time it happens she almost kisses him despite the baby in his arms, too grateful for the peace and quiet after a long hour of listening to her nephew scream.

The third time it happens, she stares at him in disbelief.

“Did you bring back anything from the afterlife, maybe? Does Mauth have supernatural baby-charming magic that we don’t know about?”

He flashes her that half-smile that she feels underneath her skin.

Her next decree, she decides, will be outlawing all attractive men in armor from holding adorable, sleeping babies. It should be absolutely illegal by now, the sheer power of the sight before her.

____

She may be the Empress, but she is a soldier first and foremost.

When the Karkauans hold hostage the Martial ambassador she had sent over to confer the peace treaty, she is first in line for the mission to take him back.

“It’s not over yet,” she tells her men, when all efforts at neutral negotiation fall through. “I’m most dangerous when I’m cornered.”

Harper stands strong at her side. Her Blood Shrike, always watching. “That makes two of us.”

They march together into the fray.

____

The next Moon Festival, Mamie Rila finally succeeds in shoving her into a dress.

She puts up a good fight, doesn’t go down easy. In the end, it takes the combined forces of Laia, Afya, and an exasperated Mamie Rila to wrangle the Empress into the thin, strappy excuse for a gown.

“What is this supposed to be, a slip? Where’s the rest of it?”

Laia furrows her brows. “What are you talking about? That is the rest of it.”

Helene gapes. “I can’t wear this. I’m the Empress. I can’t walk around looking like I’m one stiff breeze away from a public scandal!”

“If you ask me,” says Afya, “a public scandal might do you some good. Just the thing you need to convince some of those troublesome, barbaric Karkauans to ally with you like you’ve been planning.”

“Burning, bleeding hells.” Elias’s eyes go wide when he walks in. “Who are you and what have you done with the real –”

He chokes off as Laia elbows him in the gut. “Don’t listen to him. Or Afya. You look great. Harper will love it. Shall we get on with your hair?”

Helene rears back, because her hair is the last bastion of normalcy she has.

Harper looks like he's been stabbed in the heart a second time when he catches sight of her, and Helene vows to never wear a dress again.

But when his fingers find the hem of her skirt under the table, tugging first, testing the stretch of the fabric against the skin of her thigh, and then slowly inching under, and then up and up and up — well. Maybe dresses aren’t so bad after all.

____

Sometimes, when she walks, Laia is there beside her. There are some nights when the ghosts of the past seem to walk with them, too. This night, in Serra, is one of those nights. Spring has come, and the flowers here are different, cushioning the road on which they walk with bright yellow petals.

“I can’t forget their faces.”

Laia has never been a killer. But she has dealt her fair share of death during their war, and that leaves a mark on the soul that can never be burned away. The difference now lies in how one goes about dealing with those marks. No, Laia has never been a killer, even when she had to be.

Helene, on the other hand, has spent too much of her life wearing the skin of one, and so she speaks as much to herself as she does to her friend when she replies.

“And you won’t. Just don’t forget the ones you saved.”

____

The first time Zacharias speaks a full word, it’s in the middle of supply negotiations with Tribe Nasur. She has just been reunited with her nephew after months in the capital and so is making up for it by carrying and snuggling him everywhere she goes, even if it is to a highly political trade meeting.

Fortunately, Tribe Saif is in close relations with Tribe Nasur, and so no one throws dirty looks when the baby babbles nonsense right when someone tries to speak. The Fakira even smiles encouragingly when Helene begins to bounce him on her knee.

That’s when Harper enters behind her with a missive from Blackcliff.

“Empress.” His voice is warm, and she realizes that it’s because Zacharias has noticed him, and is dimpling up at him with his head tilted back in that way that only babies can do. “We have positive turnout for the new recruits at –”

“Hapa!”

The whole room stills, as if everyone understands the gravity of this moment. Helene feels a grin break across her face, and she realizes that this is a first for her, too. Her first real grin in so, so long, after so much pain. Harper’s large, brown hand comes over her shoulder to pat Zacharias’s downy head in gentle praise, and she forces herself to get it together in front of all these important Tribespeople.

The meeting goes on. But then, one little detail niggles at her, like a tiny pebble in her boot.

Later, when she’s pushing him against the side of an empty caravan, her lips maybe a little too punishing against the skin behind his ear, he has the gall to chuckle at her.

“Are you jealous? Because his first word was my name and not yours?”

And so Helene sinks to her knees and shuts him up the best way she knows how.

____

Once, and only once, Mirra of Serra, Bani al-Mauth, visits her on a balmy night. The snow is almost over, and the Empress stands at her balcony overlooking the grounds, singing a lullaby to a sleeping Zacharias. He is getting too big now, and so she relishes any moment with him while she can still carry him in her arms.

It is on a dying winter wind that the Soul Catcher comes to her, the white locks of her hair stark against the night. “So it was you. I should have known.”

Helene glances at her out of the corner of her eye. “Known what?”

Mirra casts her gaze out into the city, and beyond, seeing something that only the Chosen of Death can see.

“There is a song across the river,” she says. “In the Waiting Place. All the ghosts ready to pass on hear it. It gives them peace.”

Ah, Helene thinks to Mauth, even though she knows he isn’t listening, so you used my voice after all.

____

When flowerfall comes again, and she has lost count at this point, how many it’s been, Helene Aquilla does not need to walk outside to know.

The blue petals of her beloved city, so familiar now, drift across her window like rain. The air is sweet with the smell of it, and with all that the two of them had done during the night, tangled together in the sheets of her bed.

She lifts a hand to trace the outlines of the silver Mask on his face. He pulls himself out of his doze just enough to smile at her.

“I know I said I would never marry and have children and all,” she begins, and the words are slow like honey in her mouth, “and I stand by my vow as Empress. But the adjoining room to my chambers is empty and I was wondering if –”

“Yes.”

She blinks at the swiftness of his answer. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. How else will I keep you out of trouble, my love?”

And so their lives go on.

_____

End Notes: 

Thank you for reading!

I did not foresee ever writing for this fandom, but after that ending, writing this was the catharsis I needed. Now back to regularly scheduled programming! 😂

* Didn’t tag anyone for fear of spoilers, and also because I wasn’t sure if they’d be interested in non-Jurdan fic 🙈But if you’d like to be tagged in any future stuff, I’d be honored to do so! ❤️

[willcwthewisp]

all the leaves are brown | solo ?

willow paints a new picture.

     Willow set her paintbrush down for a quick moment as she eyed her latest work, not entirely surprised by the ferocity of it, but trying to focus as much as she could on the whispers of a voice she’d been hearing throughout the week. It was generally only the stronger ghosts that could get through to her, as well as those that were particularly stubborn. Not many spirits wanted to follow around a faulty medium for most of their day, and would quickly move on in hopes of finding someone else to assist in their unfinished business. But this one was persistent, like a dog with a bone between its teeth as it continued to hound Willow and her day to day activities. So there was really only one answer of what to do next. Paint a picture.

     She’d been itching to get back to her canvases and art in the recent days, rather discouraged that work had been taking up more time than she’d anticipated, and she hadn’t been able to get around to doing the one thing she enjoyed most in the world. This painting would serve two purposes. One: to scratch that itch, and Two: to hopefully please this new ghost into giving her a moment of respite when it came to seeing his face amongst the rainwater gathered in puddles on the street, the tinted windows of cars, and the fleeting corners of her eyes. All day her thoughts had been filled with visions of the creature the ghost wanted her to paint, its teeth bared in a warning and a promise of the violence that was to come. Had this been how the ghost had met his end? At the wrong end of a fearsome creature such as this? No— she didn’t think that was quite right. Not with the way he waxed poetic about how important it was to get exactly the right shade of brown on its ears. “Like the color of the fuckin’ prettiest leaves you’ve ever seen in your entire life.” Oh well. It wasn’t her job to interpret the stories she painted, just to convey them. Maybe this ghost would finally realize that particular fact after she finished this project, and move on to a medium that was better suited to helping with whatever it was that kept him tied to the living plane of existence. 

     For some reason, painting had always helped with keeping her grounded when it came to hearing the voices of those that were intent on following her around. Maybe it was due to the fact that she was so thoroughly consumed by her work and the ghost’s story- or perhaps the brushstrokes and paints were a way of focusing herself, and shutting out the other sounds and pictures of the world that tried to pull her away from a spirit’s dilemma. Picking up her brush from its resting place, she leaned forward to add a few tick marks of fur, bringing the fuzzy nature of the animal into more clarity as the ghost commended her in the background. “That’s it sweetheart- now we’re talkin’!” 

     She lost herself over the next few hours in her piece, and finally it was finished to completion. But something still wasn’t quite right. Biting her lip in frustration, her brow furrowed together as she looked onto the piece of art she’d created, unable to pinpoint exactly what was amiss. “The nose!” The spirit spoke again, but this time his efforts were fruitless. Willow had moved on from her intense concentration, and the ghost’s voice fell on now deaf ears. “You didn’t get the nose right! Ahhh- useless broad.” He made a sound of disgust as he moved closer to the canvas in question, otherwise pleased with the work this little medium had created, taking in the handsome image of a grizzly bear snarling back at him.

     “It’s close enough, for now. But if I were alive you’d already be regrettin’ this!” he finished with a bright chuckle and wide smile, pointing playfully in the direction of Willow. “I mean you look like you’d make a real nice contribution to my blood jacuzzi. Maybe I’d even let ya sit in it first!” God, how he missed the feeling of a good soak in the tub, surrounded by a few decapitated heads and the hot chicks they’d been attached to. “Anyway- you make sure you charge the right amount for this piece!” he called out as Willow began to leave the painting to finish its drying, still blissfully unaware of the man’s continued speech. “Anything that’s got Tommy Wright’s handsome mug on it is priceless!” He’d just have to find someone else to listen to his needs. Preferably someone who knew how to properly paint a bear’s nose.

[dustofbrokenheart]

The Lost Boys: Día de los Muertos

GIF not mine! 

Dwayne x Reader 

Word Count: 2,810

Summary: Now that Halloween is over, it’s time for Day of the Dead. Dwayne celebrates with the reader and their family. In honor of the brown, mostly likely Latinx, people of Santa Carla as shown in the opening title sequence. 

It was a cool California night, the air carrying just a hint of ocean salt.

You had split from the other boys earlier to enjoy some time alone together, something that could be hard to come by given how close the four of them were. Once the two of you had slipped away, Dwayne brought you to a section of the beach that had trees, an area where soil converted to, and mixed with, sand.

Gracefully scaling the tree, Dwayne bent down, extending his hands so you he could pull you up. He settled back against the tree trunk and seated you in his lap, facing him with his hands resting on your bottom.

At this point in the fall there weren’t many beach goers who came out after dark. The temperatures were too cold for the locals and the tourist season was winding down.

Dwayne and you were the type to not mind sitting together in comfortable silence. You were a little drowsy this late into the night so you snuggled into his chest and rested your eyes for a bit. You could feel Dwayne stroking your hair which turned your muscles to liquid. The moment was so peaceful, it was hard to tell whether twenty minutes or twenty hours had passed.

“Love you,” he murmured quietly.

Those three words had you suddenly wide awake and you pressed a soft kiss to his jaw.

“I love you, too.”

You couldn’t stop the big smile from lighting up your face. It’s not that you didn’t know that he loved you; after all, you two had been a long-term item. He showed it every day through his gentle touches and supportive actions. It’s just that he didn’t often convey it with words. When he did it made you extra giddy.

And on that particular night, it gave you the courage to bring up something you had been meaning to ask him. “Hey Dwayne?”

“Yeah?”

You scooted backwards so you could talk to him properly. “Do you want to do Día de los Muertos with me this year? I mean, don’t feel obligated. The whole family will be there, and it’s right after Halloween but—”

He silenced your rambling with a kiss. “Of course. Besides, I love your parent. Your brother on the other hand…”

You wrapped him in your arms and squeezed tight.

“Don’t worry,” you grinned. “I’ll protect you.”

Dwayne snorted. As an immortal creature of the night, he could handle himself just fine. In fact, you were the one the needed protecting more often than not seeing as how you were the fleshy, fragile human.

So he was more than capable of physically handling your brother. It’s just that your brother was really hard on anyone who dated any of his younger siblings and he had had his fair share of arguments with your boyfriend. In his eyes no one was good enough for any of you. But you doubted that he’d be stupid enough to start something during a holiday celebration lest he risk facing your mom’s wrath.

Dwayne planned to meet you and the family at the graveyard off of 2nd Street first to help with the duties there before continuing the festivities at the house.

Speaking of home, you must have fell asleep because the next thing you knew, Dwayne was silently creeping up the stairs to take you to your bedroom. He tucked you in and the last thing you remembered in your mostly unconscious state was him kissing you goodnight. Then he disappeared and you drifted off to sleep

 _______________

Dwayne rolled into the cemetery a little before nine o’clock, like you guys had agreed, looking a little more modest for the occasion. Well, modest for him. His dark hair was still loose and wild, his ivory earring present. Black Chuck Taylors covered his feet and his jeans were ripped at the knees. But he was wearing a clean white shirt and he had switched his normal jaguar jacket for a solid leather one.

“Mijo!” your mom cried when she saw him. She enveloped him in a tight hug and the size difference between the two of them was as comical as it always was. Parting with a couple hard pats against his back, she yelled at everyone to come say hello to your boyfriend.

Dwayne knew your dad and siblings and was introduced to the extended family as they lined up to greet him. Your mom acted as the middle person.

“This is my mother… these are my sisters and their families… my brother, his wife, and their kids… my uncle and his daughter, my cousin and his wife…”

Dwayne shook all of the hands and accepted their hugs like a champ. At this point in the relationship he was no longer awkward with all the hugging, but he was good at remembering names which had always impressed your family given how many of you there were.

Finally, you interjected on his behalf so you could have time with him. You shooed them way and they went back to their assigned jobs.

“Y/N,” your mom directed. “Show Dwayne what to do.”

“Guess that means you’re stuck with me,” you joked.

“Perfect,” he said draping his arm around your shoulders.

You took him to the two graves that you were in charge of. All the graves that belonged to your family were split up and assigned to the living members. Your mom’s side had been in Santa Carla for four generations, meaning there were plenty of graves to clean up.

Your dad was the first in his family to live in Satna Carla so there wasn’t any work to do for that side.

You had been given your great-grandparents on that Día de los Muertos, so that’s where you and Dwayne headed. Luckily, those graves were a little further apart from the others which gave you more privacy with him.

You explained to him every year your family descended upon the graveyard to pay respect and spruce up the family graves.

“Not that the groundskeepers don’t do a good job, but it’s tradition that we clean up their graves on Day of the Dead to show that we still care for them.

Dwayne took the rake to remove some of the dead foliage and you wiped down the headstones with a rag and bucket. The water turned a murky brown color when you rung the rag out, which wasn’t pleasant, but you were satisfied that the grime was coming out.

You finished by placing a bouquet in front of both graves, barely-there-wisps of smoke from small candles curling upwards into the night air.

“How come we’re not doing the alters here at the cemetery?” Dwayne asked.

You looked at him, surprised that he caught that.

“I’ve seen it done before, you know. Just never done it myself is all,” he said defensively.

“Careful. Your inner old man is peaking out,” you teased.

He suddenly tackled you to the ground, extremely careful not to injure you or disturb anything in the vicinity. You were very aware of the way his toned body pressed into yours. He raised one of his eyebrows. Definitely not an old man, you gulped.

“Um, the alter thing. We call them ofrendas. We stopped doing it out here a while back because people complained.”

He looked at you, asking you without words to elaborate.

“The fact that a bunch of Latinos were hanging out in a cemetery, after dark, to essentially throw a party rubbed other people in town the wrong way.”

You rolled your head to the side to glance at the other tombstones from your position under Dwayne. “Now we just come here to clean up.  The fun stuff still happens though, we just do it at the house instead.”

“Bigots,” he grumbled. “I can take care of anyone who complains, you know? It’ll be a win-win for you and for me.”

He sat up and pulled you with so that you were upright too. You laughed at his proposal knowing that his proposal was entirely serious. Dwayne was such a protective boy.

“Thanks, amor, but that would require killing more people than you think. I promise we’re doing just fine this way.”

He huffed but let it go. You both looked at the graves you had finished with, satisfied that you had done a good job. The ancestors should be pleased.

“Come on,” you prompted, “Let’s go see if anyone else needs help.”

The efforts of the gathered small army, aka the family, meant that the work was finished quickly and it was soon time to take the party elsewhere. You told your parents that you were riding with Dwayne, which your brother overheard and didn’t like.

Dwayne gave him his most intimidating stare and you prepared to go on the defensive, but he didn’t get in one whole sentence before your mom there, slapping the back of his head. “Ay mijo,” she chastised.

She gave you a quick blessing and sent you on your way. You stuck your tongue out at your brother for good measure then climbed onto Dwayne’s bike. He patted your thigh twice in quick succession before squealing off a little louder than normal and you knew exactly who that was for.

Dwayne was an excellent driver and you were perfectly safe with him, however, that didn’t mean he drove slowly. He easily beat back everyone else in your family. You decided to start getting thing ready, knowing that you would be judged for sitting around when there was stuff to be do.

The pan was already done, having been baked earlier that day so you only had to arrange them on a platter. Dwayne helped fill coolers with ice and then added beer and pop. That’s all that there was time to do before the others started trickling in, which you took as your cue to hand the reigns over to the more qualified adults.

Excited to show Dwayne the ofrenda set-up in the living room, you noticed that he wasn’t in the kitchen where you left him. After a short search, you found him in the backyard sipping beer with your dad and some of the tíos.

You tried your best to sneak up on him, tickling him on his sides. You pouted when he wasn’t even phased and merely placed his hands on top of yours. His vampire scenes tended to see your surprises coming from a mile away, but still you never gave up trying.

“Come on, let’s go look at the ofrenda.”

Slipping back inside the house, one of your tías immediately pushed food into Dwayne’s hands as he passed by. He accepted it with the same politeness that had won your parents over when you first started dating. He took a small bite while you led him to the living room and hummed in delight.

“This is good.”

The ofrenda was impossible to miss once you entered the room. A large table covered in a yellow table cloth was set up against a wall, a large assortment of marigold blooms, candles, food, and other decorations spread out all around. In the middle, wooden racks where stacked up on one another and contained framed photographs of deceased family members.

Directly behind the table hung colorful paper cutouts, or papel picados, on cords which were tapped on the wall. Near by wall shelves were also filled with candles and some painted skulls.

“I see beer,” Dwayne said, pointing to the unopened glass bottles that were present in the display.

“You would point out that part.”

Bringing him closer to the ofrenda, you explained what was what. “The beer and the food are for the dead to enjoy since their spirits are here with us tonight.”

Dwayne nodded, intrigued. “This kind of marigold is called cempasúchil. It’s a traditional flower we use for Día de Muertos because it’s bright and will attract spirits. The candles and skulls are also common.”

One of the skulls in particular caught his attention and he carefully picked it up and turned it over in his hand. He smiled. “You painted this one.”

Your face felt like it was burning. That was your skull.

“I can tell,” he continued. “The yellow polka dots and purple flowers gave you away.”

Those were indeed your go-to designs and colors when drawing. And even though his keen observation skills shouldn’t surprise you anymore, you were still amazed at how he picked yours out without hesitation.

Clearing your throat to get yourself back on track, you point to a grainy black and white photo. “These are my maternal great-grandparents sitting with some of their kids. They’re the ones whose grave we did.”

“Actually, I think I knew them.”

Your mouth dropped. It was only after a minute that his lip started to twitch and you figured out he was playing with you. His ability to hold a straight face was maddening at times.

“Just because I’m old, doesn’t mean I know everyone from here,” he reminded you.

“Point taken. But you really did meet my grandpa back in the day.”

When Dwayne had first been invited to family dinner back when you had first started dating, it was hard for him not to look at all of the family pictures hanging on the walls. Later on, when you were outside hugging him good-bye he dropped that bomb on you.

He had noticed a picture of your grandpa and recognized him because he had worked on Dwayne’s motorcycle twice during the 1920s. You were incredulous. Your grandpa had recently died so it was surreal to hear that your boyfriend had not only met him, but met him before you were born.

Dwayne doubted your grandpa would have identified him had he still been alive since their interaction had been so brief.

Dwayne only remembered him because he was one of the few mechanics that took appointments after dark and he was pretty accepting, something that hadn’t always been true for the tan vampire at all points in the past.

Certain periods were worse than others, so when he did open up and speak about his memories you tried to be empathetic.

“I’m glad he was good to you,” you said in the present. You squeezed his hand and he squeezed back.

You went through the other relatives, introducing them to Dwayne photo by photo, sharing stories about them that had been shared with your over the years. He held you in his arms, content to listen to everything you were telling him.

Eventually you wandered to the couch to sit down. Everything was so lively and joyful.

Other conversations carried on around you as your family laughed and reminisced. An aging radio that sat in the kitchen played tunes in Spanish, unseen but heard. The younger kids would periodically run by, shouting and chasing each other.

Time passed quickly as it tended to do during parties and soon enough Dwayne was trying to leave as the festivities wound down. Trying being the operative word. He had been held up at the front door for nearly fifteen minutes while still there everyone said their good-byes.

“Here you go, Dwayne.” Your mom shoved a bag into his arms that was filled with several containers of tamales, rice, and sweets. “Give some to your friends, too. Boys need a lot of food and you all looked skinny when I saw them last time.”

He face betrayed nothing but there was a shine in his eyes that let you know he found the familiar ‘food’ spiel entertaining.

“Alright, I’m walking him to his bike,” you said with finality. You slammed the door shut, cutting off the voices behind you. “Sorry about them.”

“I’ve told you many times that I like them. Don’t be embarrassed. They remind me of… my family.”

He didn’t have to specify which family he meant. You could tell that he was referring to his human one. As rare as talking about past memories was, talking about memories of his family was even more rare.

“So, don’t apologize for them. Please.”

He opened his arms and you walked into them. He placed his hand on the back of your head and, trying to be sneaky about it, you put your hand into one his jacket pockets. You weren’t sure if he honestly didn’t feel it, or if he was letting you have your moment, but he didn’t stop you.

When he arrived back at the cave after leaving you with sweet parting kisses, he remained seated on his bike and pulled out your gift. A small black skull and some marigold blooms. He unfolded the note and read it to himself.

For the ones you’ve lost.

He turned the skull painted with red and yellow designs over in his hands and smiled.

_______________

Thanks for checking this out. I hope it was a good read! I also realized I may have outed myself by calling it pop instead of soda, but oh well.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

I adore your Merlin work!! Can I submit a prompt? Merlin finds a way to ensure the safety of Camelot without Arthur’s death, and all it requires is the sacrifice of his magic and his immortality. Cue Merlin willing to become a regular human so Arthur can live.

thanks for the prompt, anon! I hope it’s what you wanted, I had fun with it. Read on Ao3

Let Go

Pairings: Merthur

Warnings: none, this is pretty fluffy

Word Count: 3019

Merlin is magic.

Merlin was born with gold running through his veins, the energy of the earth thrumming through his fingers, sparks lingering just beneath his eyes. His mother used to shake her head when little Merlin ran down the paths, flicking up paths of leaves that would follow him gaily until they fluttered back down to the ground. That boy, she would think, destiny has big plans for that boy.

Destiny did.

Merlin teems with magic. It’s everywhere for him. It’s in the way the wind flicks at his hair as he walks outside, ruffling the strands and sending tingles down his spine. It’s in the way the ground thrums with energy as he sets foot in the forest, the earth rushing to and from the life flourishing around him. It’s in the waters of the lake, ebbing and flowing as it gently laps against the shore.

 It’s no surprise, then, that when a shudder runs through the earth, reeking of dark forces, Merlin drops the tray he’s holding to clutch at his chest.

 “Merlin?”

Arthur looks up at him from behind his desk, frowning at Merlin, hunched over the nearest table.

 “What’s up with you?”

 “Nothing,” Merlin grits out, “it’s fine.”

 Arthur raises his eyebrows, looking at the contents of the tray now scattered all over the floor. “Right, that’s why you’re dropping things everywhere.”

“‘M just clumsy.”

 “I know that, Merlin.” Arthur stands. “Which is why I also know this isn’t just you being clumsy.”

 “You don’t know how clumsy I am.” Merlin isn’t even paying attention. He’s rubbing firm circles into his chest, trying to figure out what just happened.

 So much so, in fact, that Arthur has to call his name three times before he realizes he’s standing right next to him.

 “What?”

 Arthur raises his hands. “No need to yell, Merlin, I’m just asking if you want to go see Gaius.”

 Merlin opens his mouth to retort when Arthur’s words sink in properly and yeah, actually, Gaius sounds good. Gaius will know what’s going on.

 “Uh, yeah,” Merlin mumbles, feet already carrying him toward the door, “I, uh, I’m gonna do that.”

 Arthur just watches him go, a bemused smile on his face. Merlin, he decides, is strange, yes, but that doesn’t make this less odd. He glances around, at the food scattered across the floor, and at his desk. Surely this can wait for a moment. There’s something wrong with Merlin.

 He follows Merlin down the stairs, keeping a reasonable distance, not that Merlin’s paying much attention. Honestly, it was a wonder they didn’t get ambushed by bandits more, considering how bad Merlin was at figuring out he was being followed.

 Merlin’s too busy trying to stay upright to realize he’s being followed, thank you very much. He keeps one hand pressed to his chest, trying to dull the phantom ache, as he dodges and swerves around other servants, mumbling apologies when he isn’t fast enough. At last, Gaius’s chambers come into view and he could sob with relief, pushing the door open and all but collapsing into a chair.

 Gaius raises an eyebrow. “Merlin?”

 “Something’s wrong,” Merlin manages through gritted teeth, “something’s wrong, I can feel it, it hurts.”

 Gaius lays a hand on his forehead. “No fever…when was the last time you ate something?”

 “Like…an hour ago, I’m fine,” Merlin protests, swatting Gaius’s hand away, “it’s not me, it’s something else.”

 Gaius raises an eyebrow. “You complained of feeling pangs in your stomach and convinced yourself it was a curse when you hadn’t eaten in a day.”

 Merlin hunches his shoulders sheepishly. “That time I also hadn’t slept so my decision-making skills were not at their best.”

 “Mm. And how did you sleep last night?”

 “Gaius.”

 Something in Merlin’s tone must convey how serious this is for him because Gaius sobers, straightening and waiting for Merlin to swallow the lump in his throat.

 “It hurts,” he says quietly, still rubbing his chest, “it…it feels like someone opened a crack in my chest and they’re…draining me.”

 “Draining you how?”

 “M-my...me, Gaius.” Merlin huddles closer around himself, still pressing his hand to his chest.

 “Take your tunic off.”

 “What?”

 Gaius motions to his chest. “Let me see.”

 Merlin winces but does as he’s told, the cool air raising goosebumps on his pale skin, the ache worsening when he has to move his hand. Gaius leans forward, prodding at his chest with a finger.

 “Well?”

 Looking around, Gaius finds a mirror and holds it up. “Look, Merlin.”

 Merlin looks. His mouth drops open.

 There’s a dark splotch right in the center of his chest, so dark it almost looks wet. Merlin hesitantly touches it, watching his finger in the mirror hover over the spot. He presses. Hard. It sends a jolt of pain through him but it looks like his finger is just…hovering in shadow. It isn’t just dark, it’s without color.

 “…Gaius,” Merlin whispers, “what’s happening to me?”

 “I don’t know Merlin,” comes the equally hoarse whisper, “I don’t know.”

 Well, one thing’s for sure: Gaius isn’t letting Merlin go back to work. Merlin protests, because Arthur needs him, he left things scattered all over the floor, but no, Gaius is insistent, sending him up the stairs to bed without another thought. Merlin obeys, if even so the pain in his chest doesn’t steal his breath on the way back upstairs. Gaius waits until the door to Merlin’s room shuts and the bot slides to walk to the door and open it, revealing a very distressed Arthur.

 “Typically, sire,” Gaius says in a low voice, “I do not allow eavesdroppers when I examine a patient.”

 “What’s wrong with him,” Arthur mumbles, far too worried to be ashamed, “what’s wrong with Merlin?”

 “As I presume you heard, sire, I don’t know.”

 “But what—how—what do we do?”

 Gaius sighs, ushering Arthur inside with the caveat that he keep his voice down. Arthur sits, worrying his hands until Gaius places a book down on the table and starts flipping through it.

 “What’s that?”

 “A book, sire.”

 “But it’s…it’s…” Arthur frowns, tilting his head. It’s the alleged magic book that someone tried to arrest Merlin with. “Is that…”

 Gaius just looks up at him. “Sire, I truly do not mean to insult your intelligence.”

 And just like that, Arthur knows.

 Arthur knows there’s a reason bandits keep conveniently falling unconscious. Arthur knows there’s a reason Merlin always manages to bollox up some big thing, and yet by the time they show up everything’s taken care of. Arthur knows there’s a reason that whenever there’s a whisper of magic in Camelot, Merlin’s not far behind.

 Arthur swallows. “…can you heal him?”

 Gaius rolls his eyes. “How many times do I have to say it, I—“

 “Don’t know what’s wrong with him, I know,” Arthur interrupts, “but let me help.”

 They scour the books. It’s no use. They can’t find any mention of being drained of magic, nor of mysterious colorless blobs that look like living shadows.

 Merlin finds the answer in what might just be the worst way possible.

 “Merlin.”

 “No,” Merlin whines, rolling over and covering his ears with the pillow, “go away.”

 “Merlin.”

 “Shut up.”

 “Merlin.”

 “Fine,” Merlin mumbles, getting out of bed and pulling on his boots, “fine.”

 It doesn’t take long to get to their field. After so many years, Merlin could walk this path in his sleep. And sure enough, as soon as he breaks through the trees into the clearing, there he is.

 “Young warlock,” Kilgharrah rumbles, raising his head, “you are in pain.”

 “Yeah, well, someone did just drag me out of bed,” Merlin grumbles, even as his knees threaten to buckle under him. “Do you know what’s going on with me?”

 “I do.”

 “Why is it,” Merlin sighs, “that whenever you have something to tell me, it’s always cryptic and vague?”

 “I haven’t even told you anything yet.”

 “Blanket statement.”

 The dragon chuckles. “You have grown cynical, young warlock.”

 “Years of being persecuted and saving the world will do that to you.”

 “I regret to inform you,” the dragon rumbles, his massive head leaning down, “that those days may soon be behind you.”

 Merlin squints up at him. “What’re you talking about?”

 “Magic,” Kilgharrah says, “is at a turning point. The earth is weary. Too much magic has been poured into living beings and not enough of it has been returned to the earth.”

 Groaning, Merlin closes his eyes. “Please,” he mumbles, “for once, can you just…speak plainly?”

 “Too many sorcerers have been executed and the remaining ones don’t hold enough magic to keep the entire earth from threatening to break apart.”

 Merlin gapes up at the dragon.

 “You did request I speak plainly.”

 “Okay…okay.” Merlin presses his hands against his throbbing temples. “What?”

 “Magic is…an interesting thing,” the dragon decides on finally, “and it must be handled very, very carefully when it is being transferred.”

 “Transferred, you mean…”

 “When a being of magic dies,” Kilgharrah says, “it is not as simple as the magic finding its way back into the earth. That is why there are so many rituals for the death of a magic-user. A true magic-user, those that are born with the gift.”

 “So…”

 The dragon sighs. “There used to be many. Now there are scarcely a few.”

 Merlin sinks to his knees. This shouldn’t be a shock. He knows this. He knows it. And yet…

 “Quite,” the dragon murmurs as Merlin buries his head in his hands.

 “What can be done,” Merlin manages around the lump in his throat, “to stop it?”

 “Stop what?”

 “The earth breaking apart or whatever it is that you said.”

 Kilgharrah sighs. Why is he the one sighing? Merlin’s the one who’s just been told that his people are so few in number now that the very ground he walks upon is under threat.

 “Magic must be returned to the earth,” Kilgharrah says, “in the quantity that it was given and without strings attached.”

 “Okay, so how do we do that?”

 The dragon gives him a strange look. “A large quantity,” he repeats slowly, “must be returned…with no strings attached.”

 “You just said that.”

 “I am wondering whether or not you will realize what I am saying.”

 “I just said for you to speak plainly.”

 “You must give up your magic,” Kilgharrah says softly, “and forfeit everything that has made you the Greatest Warlock to Walk the Earth.”

 Oh.

 Oh.

 Merlin’s mouth runs dry.

 Merlin is magic.

 It is so much a part of him that Merlin doesn’t know where the magic ends and he begins. Merlin doesn’t know what it would be like without the rush through him or the faint tingle that keeps him company while he sleeps. He doesn’t know what it would be like to have it not be there. He’s had his magic stopped before, blocked, but it was still there. He could feel it, locked away in a corner of his body, utterly useless and beyond his reach but still very much there.

 He has no idea what it would feel like to reach for it and stumble into nothing but an empty void.

 And yet…

 “What happens,” Merlin asks lowly, “when the earth breaks apart?”

 “The earth will try to get back what has been stolen from it,” Kilgharrah rumbles, “it will seek out what little bits of magic remain and reabsorb them, create itself anew, right the wrongs that have been done against it.”

 A chill rushes through Merlin that has nothing to do with the ache in his chest.

 “The world will end.”

 “Not the world,” the dragon corrects softly, “but…yes.”

 There’s no telling how many people would die. There’s no telling what damage that would do. There’s no telling whether there would even be a world after this is over.

 “How do I do it,” Merlin mumbles, his eyes falling closed, “how do I return my magic?”

 “There are places where the barrier between the worlds is thinner,” the dragon says, “here…in these places, at special times, the spell can be cast that would return your magic in its entirety, to the earth.”

 Merlin swallows. “Will it kill me?”

 “No. That is part of the deal. You will live, your magic will not.”

 Merlin sets his jaw, the ache in his chest settling. “When is the next time?”

 “…at the next full moon.”

 “Where?”

 “I believe you know where.”

 “…the lake?”

 The dragon nods sagely. Merlin bows his head.

 “Will I get to see Freya?”

 “That, young warlock, I do not know.”

 Despite everything, a smile touches the corners of Merlin’s mouth. “You might want to start looking for something else to call me.”

 A realization crosses his mind.

 “You must be excited,” he says, “after me…no more Dragonlords.”

 “That is true,” Kilgharrah concedes with a nod of his head, “and yet…out of all the Dragonlords, I fear I will miss you the most.”

 “You could still visit.”

 Kilgharrah huffs a laugh. “I could. Though it was not long ago that you and I were not on such good terms.”

 “Not long ago I thought my magic would be mine forever,” Merlin says. “Things change.”

 “Indeed they do.” Kilgharrah stretches his neck out, looking down at Merlin. The dragon lowers himself to his belly. “And you, young warlock, you have changed greatly.”

 “Mm.”

 “You were so small,” the dragon murmurs, “so wide-eyed when you first came to Camelot. Sometimes I wonder what happened to that very young boy.”

 “Yes,” Merlin murmurs, “I wonder what happened to me.”

 Kilgharrah has the decency to bow his head. Then, in a shocking display of tenderness that startles the both of them, he stretches his massive neck out, rumbling quietly. Merlin, still curled up on the ground, reaches out, arms open.

 The dragon buries his head in Merlin’s lap, pushing his snout gently into his belly, closing his eyes as Merlin rests against his broad face.

 I forgive you, they say to each other, I forgive you.

 The next full moon is in a few weeks. In that time, Merlin thinks.

 He has the spell. He’s told Gaius. Gaius isn’t pleased, but…as Merlin reminds them both, it could be worse. Merlin will survive. It will just be…different.

 Merlin uses those weeks to try and figure out who he is without magic.

 He figures out that he should probably learn how to fight without magic.

 The knights are more than happy to help him, even if Lancelot pulls him into a rough hug when Merlin tells him, even if Leon looks at him and bows, even if Gwaine curses lightly.

 He learns. He learns through bumps and bruises but he learns.

 He figures out that he is absolute rubbish as a physician’s assistant.

 Gaius simply shakes his head and tells him it’s a good thing he’s Arthur’s servant, there’s no way he’d make it as Court Physician after he’s gone. The good news, Gaius tells him, is that not having magic shouldn’t impact his knowledge of magic in the slightest.

 He learns. He learns through trial and error and sleepless nights, trying to learn all that he can while he still can.

 He figures out that really, he’s doing this for Arthur.

 Not that it surprises him much, he hadn’t been lying to Kilgharrah. Arthur is the reason, at least the main reason, he’s like this now. Arthur and the hope that Arthur will create the kingdom meant to last, unite the land of Albion. He’s doing it for the way Arthur stands tall, amidst a council that is still more Uther than Arthur, and refuses to compromise. He’s doing it for the way a knight no longer has to be of noble blood, the way Percival and Lancelot and Elyan are more valued than ever because of their abilities, not their names. He’s doing it for the way he sees the people smile when Arthur walks by, no longer fearful of their king but proud.

 He’s doing it for the way Arthur is strangely softer in the mornings, before he puts on the crown, still dozing in the warm sunlight. He’s doing it for the way Arthur still can’t remember where he’s put his quill, even if he was holding it only a few seconds ago. He’s doing it for the way Arthur smiles at him, alone in his chambers, just at Merlin.

 He’s doing it for the way that Arthur hugs him fiercely in the early morning light, strong enough to take Merlin’s breath away, and says softly that Merlin is enough, he doesn’t want a normal servant, he doesn’t want a knight, he doesn’t want a sorcerer, he just wants Merlin. And all Merlin can do it hold him back.

 He’s doing it for Arthur.

 He casts one last spell as he stands there, at the edge of the lake, in the moonlight. He cups his hands and whispers into them.

 A single blue butterfly flutters away, its wings almost glowing in the pale silvery light.

 Merlin is magic.

 He is gold and he is silver and he is strength and he is tenderness. He is the way the earth curves about itself and the way the sky stretches farther than the eye can see.

 And yet, as Merlin smiles, murmuring the last spell he’ll ever cast and feeling the ache in his chest start to lessen, the magic start to pull away from him, he knows he can be more.

 For the others who were born with magic, he can be more.

 For those that have yet to learn what magic truly is, he can be more.

 For Arthur, he can be more.

 Merlin closes his eyes and lets go.

[olderthannetfic]

Escapade Vid - The Sleuth of the Ming Dynasty

Here’s my writeup of my vid, crossposted from DW.

This is one of my two vid premieres for Escapade Con 2021. It spoils all of The Sleuth of The Ming Dynasty, specifically anything involving Wang Zhi. The discussion below is similarly spoilery.

I fell hard for The Sleuth of the Ming Dynasty, harder than for The Untamed or anything else for ages. (Okay, that's a lie, I fell that hard for Kingdom, but I don't ship anything there.) I knew I wanted to vid it for the con because it's so beautiful and because I knew a lot of people wouldn't be familiar with my favorite character via osmosis.

Sleuth is a historical mystery series (no magic/fantasy) based on a danmei novel. It has three leads: the two halves of the book ship and my fave. Facepalm.

I got into the series by knowing it was new-ish, some kind of buddy mystery series, and that fans liked it. That's it. I glanced at a poster, but I hadn't properly osmosed that there were three leads, not just two, so when Wang Zhi showed up, I naturally assumed he'd turn out to be a villain. His introduction is him driving a man to suicide. Practically the first thing we find out about him is that he's a palace eunuch with a high political position whom the politicians fear, look down on, and hate.

Could there be a more stereotypical villain for a historical drama?

So I went through a rapid progression from thinking he'd be the smiling pseudo-ally they have to defeat later to loving him and being like "They'd better not make him a villain!" to realizing I'd completely misosmosed this series.

I had a lot of feelings.

Picking a song / How I got into BTS:

Finding a vidsong for Sleuth was tricky. I had other vid ideas I could have made. I was tempted to make three vids, one for each lead (though not all for Escapade). I was tempted to make an OT3 pimping vid. My problem was that I also have had a lot of feelings about BTS this past year, and I knew I wanted to use them for an Escapade vid, but that presented a problem.

BTS… man… How to explain…

I grew up not really listening to music. My mom was a music teacher and only listened to Classical. When I eventually got into popular music, it was Enya and Alice Cooper. (Yes, syrupy Celtic crooning in various languages + shock rock is a pretty good summary of teenage me, why do you ask?) Also Cat Stevens, who was even more of the wrong generation for anyone else to care. The first time I really gave a shit about music was when I was living in NYC in my 20s absorbing the taste of someone with strong and specific music interests. I would by no means call myself knowledgeable about music.

A year ago, I tried to learn a little about BTS before Escapade so I could pick some shippy vid and stick it in the dance party. I want people to be able to go to the party and feel like they've got their finger on the pulse of fanfic-adjacent fandom even if they aren't into all of those fandoms themselves. I've never been into idol music, and it's not for lack of exposure: many successive waves of jpop and kpop idol-loving friends have tried, and I've been immune. It's the soppy ballads. I cannot. Some of the bouncy stuff is fun, but it wasn't enough.

Unfortunately for me, BTS is fucking confusing, so there was no easy 101. The only way to know anything about the fandom dynamics and which ships are popular was to know a lot. And once I'd bought in that far, I was up for some fic reading because huge RPF fandoms always have tons of AUs that are practically original fic, and hey, that sounded fun… I tried their reality shows a little bit, but my allergy to idol music is second only to my allergy to reality shows. I'm bad at getting things done if I don't sit down and commit properly, so I made myself a spreadsheet of all of their albums, guest appearances, and side projects and sat down to listen to the lot via Youtube…

They blew me away.

I didn't know. No one told me! I would never have predicted what they actually sounded like. It's not that they're good. Lots of idol groups are good. It's that they can rap. Korea has plenty of good rappers, but they're not in idol groups! I cannot properly convey the level of shock I experienced or even how and why BTS are so good. I like hip hop, but I don't know enough to describe anything properly.

When I made it to Hip Hop Lover, it all made sense. Imagine my reaction as a much more confused and incoherent version of this youtube video. Of course RM is into Talib Kweli and everyone else like that. Of course he's into conscious hip hop, a lot of it from NYC. Everything about their dense lyrics and their choice of subject matter made perfect sense after looking at their self-described list of influences. But in a way that Monq can articulate and I cannot.

I love shit that requires buy-in. All nerds do. I swear, hip hop is the nerdiest damn music there is because it's so into referencing its influences and responding very directly to other artists and to current culture, assuming the audience will keep up if it cares to. BTS know far more than I do about hip hop from here, plus they're Korean and like puns in a language I don't speak, so understanding what the actual fuck is going on in some of their songs is an adventure involving multiple youtube explainers. But they also have enough goofy dance music and rap that just sounds awesome to keep me interested even when I don't get it.

Daechwita dropped in May 2020, and holy shit, can we have a fandom just for that video? Historical architecture, hot dudes with swords, be still my beating heart. This is totally why I ended up watching Kingdom. I was dying to start learning some Korean, but then I got distracted by more Chinese media. Damnit. How do I choose?

So Escapade 2021 was rolling around, and I knew I wanted to make my Untamed vidbunny from last March, but I also wanted to vid Sleuth, and I wanted to vid it to BTS. I was now presented with my problem:

BTS is a 7-member group, and most songs prominently highlight 3-5 of them if not all 7. One might be able to do this as aspects of one character's personality, but it's very hard to make it work for a two- or three-person ship. I started looking at the rap line's songs, which have just the three of them, but even then, you're stuck saying that Character A is singer X and so on. How do I divide up the Sleuth leads? Do I make the angry one the angry one and the sunshine one the sunshine one? But the sunshine one is not the bookworm in BTS, unlike in Sleuth, and that just feels wrong!

That was when I decided to do a character vid rather than a ship one, to pick Wang Zhi, and to choose something off of one of the rap line's solo side projects. And what combination could be more obvious than tiny, angry, beautiful Yoongi paired with tiny, angry, beautiful Wang Zhi?

In the end, I did not pick Daechwita because, much as I love it, it has that kind of monotonous, hypnotic flow, and I feared I'd end up making a boring vid. I went back to Agust D's first mixtape, which is much angrier, and picked a song I felt had more obvious internal structure. I picked it mostly based on sound, as I always do. I needed vocals that I felt conveyed Wang Zhi's personality. Once I had a song in mind, I looked up the lyrics… And kept looking.

This would probably have been helped by not making the vid in like 3 days, mostly after the deadline because my other premiere dragged on way longer than I expected. Doh. Someone said that the vids were great this year because everyone had been stuck indoors with nothing else to do. I can assure you that I was my usual disaster self and was still trying to pick songs like a week before the deadline. There's always next year. Sigh.

So while vidding, I had a couple of okay but not great translations of the lyrics and at least one line I straight up did not understand. My process for all vids is to make a spreadsheet and put the lyrics down one side with clip ideas in another column. If the song isn't in English or isn't straightforward, I have other columns on the lyrics: original writing system, transliteration, translation, notes. I often have a column for song structure (verse 1, chorus, verse 2, chorus version A, chorus version B, etc.), or I might do that part by color coding chunks of the lyrics/translation. In this case, I had a lot of different columns of translation bits that moved around, and I also color coded column A based on whether there was a significant English language lyric. Here's a screencap of part of my planning spreadsheet with colors changing to show song section breaks and some clip concepts I was considering written in. (I usually end up abandoning most of my content notes once I get into actually editing a section.)

I finally found a good translation of it the morning after the vidshow. Sheesh. It wouldn't have radically affected how I vidded that part because the lyrics are so fast that you can't hit every little thing with a relevant clip and still have your audience visually parse anything at all. I still wish I'd had a better translation beforehand.

I foolishly thought it wouldn't be a problem vidding something in Korean, but it turns out I have such a hard time understanding Korean phonology that it's very hard for me to tell which bit is which even with a phonetic transcription. On top of that, most of the translations swap clause order for no good reason--"Your mother will be sad when you lose your last asset, health" instead of "When you lose your last asset, health, your mother will be sad"--despite both working perfectly well in English.

For the purposes of making the vid, I only needed to understand well enough to know how I was matching the lyrics or not, but for posting, I had to come up with something a little more polished. In the end, half before vidding and half after (oops), I have gone through with like 4 different translations, google translate, and an online Korean dictionary to cobble together something that I think is a fairly accurate translation, with clauses in the order they fall in the song, and some attempt at idiomaticness and correct tone and level of informality in English.

Lyrics translation:

The best of the translations I found in terms of being annotated and fairly easy to understand in English is this one by Muish.

Here's my version:

They call me new thang The new recruit is here: take my bags Whole world, concert Not bad, Asiana Asia You could be my new thang Different from the guys who neglect their duties Insubordination from a celebrity Damn, only the strong can fuck with me Some say I made it too easy Fuck you, I'm a thorn in the side of those guys So far from success Honestly, "SSaihanuwar" is embarrassing1 Now, we sell half a million copies a year The k-pop category Ain't big enough to hold me, whoo! Right, go ahead Try booking first class My seat is business You're economy, forever behind me kissing my ass Next goal is Billboard Brazil to New York My passport gets no rest A to the G to the U to the STD I'm d boy because I'm from D I'm crazy, a lunatic on a beat My rap will blow your mind with2 My tongue technology A to the G to the U to the STD A to the G to the U to the STD A to the G to the U to the STD I'll blow your mind with My tongue technology I hunt down those who copy the copiers. Get 'em down no matter who the fuck they are. Doesn't matter if I'm a jerk or if I'm wack or fake, I'm the one who carves history across the field. Among boring rappers, I get the lion's share. I'm about to take your bread. Bros' jealousy making all this noise. Hey ho I don't give a fuck Keep shoveling shit I'll bury you alive in the grave You dug yourself Hey ho you can't handle me You wasted rappers should be grateful I'm an idol Cause I'm busy, I'm busy, 24/7, what rest? Latecomers, go play amongst yourselves. Jealous and childish you wail, Yet you don't know shit.3 Paris to New York, damn My non-stop schedule A to the G to the U to the STD I'm d boy because I'm from D I'm crazy, a lunatic on a beat My rap will blow your mind with My tongue technology A to the G to the U to the STD A to the G to the U to the STD A to the G to the U to the STD I'll blow your mind with My tongue technology I’m sorry. Honestly, I am. I'm sorry I took your daily bread, boy. I'm sorry. Don't be mad. When you lose your only asset, health, Your mom's going to be upset. I'm sorry. Change careers. Amazing how you keep digging, So change, boy. I’m sorry. Honestly, I am. That your rapping sucks compared to mine. A to the G to the U to the STD I'm d boy because I'm from D I'm crazy, a lunatic on a beat My rap will blow your mind with My tongue technology A to the G to the U to the STD A to the G to the U to the STD A to the G to the U to the STD I'll blow your mind with My tongue technology A to the G to the U to the STD I'm d boy because I'm from D I'm crazy, a lunatic on a beat My rap will blow your mind with My tongue technology A to the G to the U to the STD A to the G to the U to the STD A to the G to the U to the STD I'll blow your mind with My tongue technology

1. I straight up had no idea what the "SSaihanuwar" line is supposed to mean when I was making this vid. People said it was a pre-debut song, so I assumed he meant his skills had improved. What it actually refers to is that song bragging that they'd sold 30,000 copies, while as of this song, they were selling 500,000, so that childish bragging about a tiny past achievement is embarrassing now. Of course, as I type this, BTS sells like four million albums a year…

2. This is referencing a movie title, The Wailing, and then a famous line from the movie, which is said in dialect. I haven't seen the movie and nothing online explains the context in which "Important? You don't know what's important!" is used. If anybody's seen it, feel free to drop me a comment. Hopefully, it won't be something I'd radically change in the vid.

3. Literally 'take you to Hong Kong', which can be used like "blow your mind" in the regular sense, but is also used to mean "give you an orgasm", hence the italics on 'blow' above. Yes, it's an oral sex joke. Yes, he means it like that.

What the song means and what I did with it:

Okay, so now that we know the main lyric of this song is apparently "STD", what's it actually about?

Overall, this is a diss track. Like most BTS dis songs, the concept is: I may be an idol, but I'm still twice the man and twice the rapper you are.

I'm not the only one who was surprised to hear good rappers show up in an idol group: the underground rap scene that Suga comes out of thinks of idols as both inauthentic sellouts and as embarrassingly girly. They wear makeup and sparkly outfits. Laaaaaame.

This felt like an excellent parallel to the social position of eunuchs in The Sleuth of the Ming Dynasty: Wang Zhi is one of the most competent and ruthless, yet loyal and honorable administrators we see in the entire series. If he were running the government, all of them would be better off. He's like that version of Lex Luthor or Emhyr var Emreis that astolat likes to write.

Throughout the series, politicians and generals see Wang Zhi as less than a man and thus not a worthy enemy or not worthy of his high position, but he's twice as worthy as any of them. He's not only better at being a ruthless badass, but he's better at keeping the body count low. Sure, he's introduced forcing a guy to commit suicide… But Wang Zhi promises him his family will be spared the same fate, where normally a traitor's entire family would be wiped out. The only reason things go poorly later is that the guy's son is too stupid to realize what a favor WZ did them.

Even Tang Fan is a complete asshole to him repeatedly. In this case, he doesn't treat WZ as lesser, but he's so naive and fixated on fluffy feelings that he assumes WZ is cold and cruel when he's pragmatic or that he has no feelings when he's clearly devastated but trying to fix the situation instead of breaking down about it. TF is the worst sort of idiot who values superficial virtue over practical results. It's a good thing he's so endearing!

There's this heartwarming bit at the end of the series about how WZ learned humanity from TF and SZ or something, but it's complete nonsense: him adopting child orphans and pretty much all of the rest of his behavior for the whole series was already merciful within the bounds of their society and the demands of his position.

On to my vidding process: I laid the song out on the timeline and put markers for the sections, color coded by what type of section they were and also made the spreadsheet seen above. That helped me see the structure of the vid. One of the first parts I tackled was the opening, which is long and slow and samples another song. It feels like it should have establishing shots, and it's long enough they could get boring. I realized it was an excellent opportunity to have some text on screen. I love typography, but I normally don't do it because there's no space in the song I've chosen, and I'm making the vid on the day of the deadline and have no time to think about fonts. Poking through all the confusingly-named Chinese fonts I have installed took as long as all the editing in this section.

I then had to figure out what to do with the chorus.

Yoongi's normal rapper name as part of BTS is 'Suga'. He's from Daegu and proud of it. So his solo rapper name is 'Agust D', which is 'DT Suga' backwards. A to the G to the U to the STD is just him repeating his own name. Aside from saying Agust D = Wang Zhi, I didn't have a lot of specific ideas here. Wang Zhi has a really hot mouth, but there isn't that much in canon that's an obvious oral sex joke.

I knew I didn't want to make the vid strictly a linear retelling of canon since the point was more conceptual. I also love the emotional impact of the Yang Fu stuff, both the times it's funny and the times it's upsetting for characters, but it's hard to communicate it in a vid without spending some time, so I decided to use the choruses entirely for Yang Fu. At the very end of the vid I had more story that needed to go somewhere and no more Yang Fu (and I wouldn't have ended on Yang Fu anyway), so I had to vary that pattern.

The final verse is a 2-part one that is slow and even more sneering than the rest of the song, so I picked WZ's most idiotic enemy for that. WZ literally took away his job by killing his father, which caused him to come home from the military and his brother to be fired from his job as an official. His mother is ill because of grief, and everyone keeps telling him to go look after his family instead of chasing WZ around and trying to start shit, so the lyrics are quite apt. This guy is just not up to WZ's weight class, and that's what this verse is about.

The first two verses required more thought. They have a 3-part structure and are fast. I looked for individual Wang Zhi plotlines that matched the specific lyrics of each section thematically. There are shittons of speed effects all over this vid for obvious reasons, but I still needed to pick footage that was naturally more dynamic. The show has a fair amount of talking heads, slow scenes, and cute and fluffy stuff that didn't fit the tone here, not to mention WZ being the least important of the three leads, so selecting the correct bits of WZ plot was essential.

I originally planned to use verse 1 for the horse market case, but there just isn't enough great footage to do the whole thing, so I did the first two thirds. Section 1 has military-sounding lyrics about a new recruit taking over from "hyungs" (older guys) who neglect their duties. This idol (a celebrity) is going to show the underground rappers how it's done. I had wanted to use the 'new thang' lyric with flashbacks to WZ first getting his position at the emperor's side, but that footage makes him look too meek and doesn't connect well to anything. 'You could be my new thang' I wanted for Jia Kui, but again, there isn't good footage that communicates their relationship visually.

The general from this arc has a similar thematic role: He's a ~real man~ who cares only about duty and is rude to the effete, useless official from the capital, while the other local powers fawn on him… Except Wang Zhi responds to this by being amused, showing up the others, and approving of General Chen. (By the end of the arc, Chen is all offended on his behalf that other dudes think he's merely a eunuch instead of a total hottie capable and honorable servant of the empire.) The first section is WZ on 'new thang' and Chen on 'my new thang'. This third ends with 'only the strong can fuck with me' as Chen joins the welcome feast. Out of all of the people in charge of border security, he's the only one who's strong.

The next third of the verse is about people thinking Suga got to his position too easily, which is also something basically every official feels about powerful eunuchs in Sleuth (and also in every single other historical drama with eunuchs because holy shit is this a common trope, and also in actual history, which is why). In this plotline, WZ is there to deal with the incompetent border guards and sort things out in ways they haven't been able to. He is certainly a thorn in their sides. For this part, I showed one of the obsequious officials smiling, WZ toasting them, and Chen being unamused.

This section finishes up with Suga saying his past bragging is embarrassing because he's so much more badass now, and k-pop isn't big enough for him (which I think is less about wanting to break out of kpop and more about definitions having to be readjusted to accommodate his awesomeness). The scenes from Sleuth are WZ suddenly revealing he speaks the local languages flawlessly--something no normal official from the capital does and that he's been hiding up till now as people insult him--and then WZ resolving the case with murder and smart political maneuvering that puts one of the local chieftains in his debt. The category of eunuch is certainly not enough to encompass Wang Zhi's political ambitions or abilities.

The final section of verse 1 is using a plane/flying metaphor to talk about Suga being ahead of everyone. It also has a particularly awesome lyric in English that I wanted to emphasize. This was the last part of the timeline I filled in, and I used a scene that is not one of the major enemies WZ cares about but where he is wonderfully bossy and in charge. The guy tries to pull rank on him, and he throws away his supposed police informant badge, being like I am the police.

The second verse has the really fast part in this song, so I wanted to show a lot of different cool shit WZ does. Section one is about Suga hunting down poseurs, whether they're new or long-established and powerful. Suga says he's going to take the other rappers' "rice bowl" (livelihood).  WZ similarly goes after all kinds of people, including very highly-placed politicians. The serial killer duke was supposedly untouchable, but WZ tells him he's an insect. He'll do the low-level dirty work (running around at night in ninja outfits) and the high level supervision (commanding men at the depot). The line ends by talking about other rappers' jealousy making noise. For this, I used Wang Zhi's trial where all of the politicians team up to wrongly accuse him of a laundry list of crimes.

The next line is about how Suga will bury other rappers alive in the grave they dug themselves, and they should be grateful he's an idol (because if he were a fellow underground rapper, they'd be shown up even worse). There's a suggestion in Suga's lyrics that part of the "wasting time" (digging/shoveling used as a metaphor) these other rappers have done is talking shit about him. They hurt their own reputations by doing it, and he had no desire to take them on until they forced the issue. I used WZ's introduction. That politician doomed himself by talking shit about the emperor's consort. Before he goes to meet with WZ, he talks shit about how eunuchs aren't actually powerful or scary to his drinking buddies. WZ spends the whole scene outlining how his downfall is his own damn fault.

The last section of the verse is about how busy Suga is. Losers should go bother each other, not him, because he has real shit to do. They have no idea what's important, unlike him. I opened with a quick shot of WZ's trial and then the silver case. WZ continually waves off concerns about the trial, even while he's in prison for a few days, because he's concerned about the actual problems occurring at the same time, namely that the entire government is about to go bankrupt and collapse. He's fending off assassins and getting people executed. Wan Tong's embarrassing attempt to mindfuck him in prison is laughable. They're just not on WZ's level.

I capped it off by showing the end of the plot and WZ winning. The three shots of his enemies looking upset are all from times he fucked with them earlier in the series. The final shot of him looking smug is from very early on when he'd just informed his chief rival, Shang Ming, about the suicide he caused in his intro. At the end of the vid, we're back at the beginning of the plot: Wang Zhi was always better. He would have worked with his rivals, but they just had to make it a contest. From the very beginning, they should have known they couldn't win.

The vid I’ve already posted to tumblr, but here’s the AO3 link again:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29573175

[syncogon]

[QZGS meta] what’s in an OP? dawning glory (pt 1)

or, why TKA S2′s OP is actually really good

{The King’s Avatar season 2 premieres in less than 24 hours!}

(part 2) (part 3)

Ever since I got into The King’s Avatar, I’ve always wondered what a “classic-anime-style” TKA opening would look like. OPs are something I pay a lot of attention to, both for the sheer enjoyment and hype as well as the deeper story and symbolism they may allude to. And although I enjoy the S1 and OVA OPs for what they are, I always wanted an OP that really followed the tried-and-true formulas, an OP that gave a proper look at what the series was really about, an OP that had a lot to dig into and analyze. 

S2 brought us this kind of OP, finally, and I’m very excited to see it. Heavily inspired by the “What’s in an OP?” youtube series by Mother’s Basement, I really wanted to try and break down this OP. Because things got very long, this is only part 1; the other 2 parts are linked above and below.

Some of the points I bring up may be reading too deeply, but whether some of these details were intentional or not, their meanings and effects are still worth analyzing. Also as a warning, there will probably be novel spoilers. 

For reference, watch and read the lyric translation here.

With all that said, let’s jump right in.

We open with some very nice shots of the morning light streaming in, shining on the gamers’ tools of the trade. Right away, the new animation studio promises us a visual treat - the lighting and colors are excellent. Although the props are unmoving and there are no living beings in these shots, the changing angle of the light adds motion to the scene, giving the impression of a sped-up sunrise. This accompanies the music well, which starts out muffled and distant, and gradually comes into clarity. From the very beginning, the OP grabs our attention and holds it, building our anticipation for what’s to come.

Now we cut to outside, atop a roof, and we get a proper look at the sunrise - only for a brief moment, though, as Ye Xiu’s hand quickly comes up to block the blinding light. “Anime protagonist staring at sunrise” is a pretty common trope, but I think it’s used to nice effect here - we’re introduced immediately to the “dawn” motif that underlies this entire OP (it’s even in the title). It’s a suitable motif for this arc of the story, because this is where Ye Xiu finally has the concrete goal of building up his own team - this is truly the dawn of Team Happy.

I like how it’s Ye Xiu’s hand that’s the first thing we see of him, or of anyone. As a pro, his hands are the most important part of himself; his hands are also one of the first things that Chen Guo notices about him when she first meets him. 

Furthermore, this view provides a nice natural transition to the next shot, in which we finally get to see him properly.

Look at how pretty the sky looks! Look at how pretty his smile looks! 

After the first few seconds of pure buildup in the music, the beat kicks in at the exact same time as his hair begins to blow in the wind. I think it’s very important for the visuals and the music to sync together in an OP, simply because of the raw impact this has on the viewer - they reinforce each other’s effects. Both components of an OP need to work well together in order to create something greater than the sum of the parts. It’s just very exciting, when you can sit back and think “oh yeah, it’s all coming together.” 

Ye Xiu stares thoughtfully at the sunrise for a few moments, before breaking into a soft, relaxed smile (right on the second four-count after the beat starts). It’s not one of his mocking smiles, or his shamelessly confident smiles - here he’s just genuinely happy and hopeful at what the future has in store. 

We see him lower his arm, and then the camera pans upward to a shot of the new series logo for Season 2. This pan-up to title card is also a fairly standard technique, but hey, it’s effective and efficient at getting us ready. 

Speaking of the new logo: it’s basically the same as the old, but I was shocked to see just how prominent the English title “The King’s Avatar” is now. Honestly, it’s really exciting to see - feels like it adds some legitimacy to our small English fandom, and it’s also so cool, knowing how the title “The King’s Avatar” became the official English name almost by accident - we could have easily ended up with something much less interesting. However I do think they could have positioned the text a little better, because I and others keep reading “The King’s Iavatar” haha

As the dawn shifts more into morning, we refocus on Happy Internet Cafe, the origin of it all. Notice the new green leaves on the tree: our story began on a snowy winter, but we’re now firmly in spring, a time of new beginnings. 

The music excitement level settles down a little as we enter the first verse, and here we get a montage of many of the to-be Team Happy members. Although each shot is fairly short, each manages to tell a story, conveying a good amount of information about the character in question. One of TKA’s strengths is its large cast of well-developed characters, and I’m really glad to see that they’re not completely flattened out in this opening montage.

Here we see Chen Guo, presumably opening up the cafe for the day. However, by the time she comes down here to do this, it seems that Tang Rou has already been awake and training for a while.

Like Ye Xiu, the first thing we see of Tang Rou is her hand, a parallel that perhaps emphasizes how deep Ye Xiu’s influence on her is and how she wishes to learn from and surpass him. The nimbleness of her fingers on the keyboard definitely evokes the image of a pianist - a subtle clue for the future.

Look at her straightened back and serious eyes - her posture and expression say it all. Awake, alert, steady, calm, as she continues to strive for improvement. 

The lyric for this part is roughly, “the bugle call to split open the dawn is sounding right here and now.” As mentioned, it’s here at Happy Internet Cafe that it all begins.

From one internet cafe to another, it’s Wei Chen and his bros! Notice how he’s at the center of their little group, in both position and attention - we immediately get the sense that he’s their leader. Slouched against the couch (which seems to be built more for comfortable lounging than proper gaming), hands behind his head, glancing between his friends, an easy smile, it all gives off a relaxed, casual air of confidence. 

Still, in contrast to the seemingly light-hearted mood of this scene here, the accompanying lyric is somewhat melancholy: “were those daydreams or the past?” 

When Wei Chen’s character design came out, a lot of people were surprised at how young he seemed to look, and he has barely any stubble. But with this close-up of his face (which is specifically timed to “or the past”), the lines under his eyes are clear to see. Combined with the lyric, there’s suddenly something sad beneath his smile here. He’s not young anymore. 

Notice the one screen that’s turned on behind him - clearly an image of Glory. Despite everything, he couldn’t bring himself to leave this world entirely.

Where the hell is Steamed Bun? Why does he have a bat? We just don’t know. We don’t even have any lyrics to give us a hint. He’s a real-life Brawler, totally incomprehensible. Even the camera shakes a bit erratically as it tries to follow his movement. Honestly, isn’t this just the best way to sum up his character?

Our favorite math nerd Luo Ji, in a library of course. The shot begins with everything blocked off by the books, and it’s only when he pulls out one of the books (the black-to-light is timed with the lyric “I open my eyes”) that we’re able to see him. He’s still framed by the books in this shot, because he’s first and foremost still a student. For now and for a long time to come, his studiousness and mathematical ability will be what defines him and his contributions to Team Happy. 

Still, he looks thoughtfully at the book in his left hand. Maybe his contributions can go farther. Pay attention to his character Concealed Light when we see him later.

I can’t say if there’s a significance to the woman passing by, but it serves its purpose as a transition to the next scene.

Qiao Yifan! From the logo in the back, as well as his uniform and color scheme, you can see he’s still at Tiny Herb here. He looks determined and focused on his screen at first. When he blinks, though, his gaze subtly shifts to the side and down. Something is distracting him; he’s not quite as certain as he might appear at a glance. 

The lyric here is “[I can’t tell] what side of the road I’m running on,” an apt reflection of his current, conflicted and somewhat precarious situation. He’s on a championship team right now, a place that so many would envy. But he feels much more at home with the ragtag crew from Happy. But what prospects do they have? But it’s not like he has much of a place in Tiny Herb right now either…

From Qiao Yifan looking to the side, we cut to An Wenyi looking to the side - our eyes are able to very naturally follow the transition. Although blurry at first, we soon see that he’s looking at a figurine of Immovable Rock - the number one Cleric in Glory, An Wenyi’s idol. He looks at it thoughtfully for a moment, brows furrowed, before turning away and closing his eyes. As though in resignation, knowing he’ll never be able to reach that level.

The lyric is, “do I understand” - a very short line, with the note held out.

An Wenyi is the logical one; he’s the one who understands. He understands his current position, he understands that he has no hope as a pro with his current skill, he understands that the chance Happy is offering him is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of opportunity for someone like him. It’s a decision he considers carefully, he’s unafraid to ask bold questions about the practicality of what Chen Guo and Ye Xiu are trying to do, but in the end he knows this isn’t something that he can pass up.

I like An Wenyi’s character arc a lot. There’s a lot of worry and self-doubt in his expression as he looks at that figurine; there’s a lot of sadness as he turns away. Even through Season 10, this aspect of him doesn’t just magically disappear - he has to deal with this reality of being Happy’s weak point. His logical mind is both his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.

From An Wenyi’s closed eyes, we cut to Su Mucheng’s downcast eyes - another natural eye-focused transition. She looks up as the wind picks up around her, blowing her hair and scattering leaves. 

Notice that she’s not wearing her Excellent Era uniform here. Her dress reminds me of her outfit from the prequel movie, actually - color scheme, sleeves, bow, length, cut, etc. 

It’s a style calling back to younger, simpler times. The light pink color adds to that effect as well. 

As the camera pulls out, we’re able to see just how alone she is, isolated from the cars passing beneath her, not a single other person nearby. And at this point in the story, she really is rather alone; she doesn’t really have any allies on the team, and her only escape is to play in the game with the Happy crew. 

The wind is scattering many leaves, and she blurs into the background as the camera focuses on one drifting red maple leaf in particular. 

Blatant symbolism is blatant (it’s not even fall right now, it should be early spring…). Still, it’s a convenient shorthand to reference many things. One Autumn Leaf, Ye Xiu’s account and identity for a decade, now snatched away. The symbol of Excellent Era and those earliest hopes and dreams, now lost to the wind. It could even reference Su Muqiu himself, the boy with “autumn” in his name, now lying in eternal rest. 

The lyric is, “interwoven in the dawn, those memories and rests.” The past is now past, far out of reach; all we can do is look up and reminisce on what once was. 

Over the course of these shots, you can see the passage of the morning. The earlier characters are illuminated by a golden glow, but by the time we reach Su Mucheng, she’s standing in full daylight. Here we end section 1 (verse 1), and move onto the next part of the song.

Thanks for reading so far!

(part 2) (part 3) 

[twinvenus]

Hi! You're art style is absolutely amazing, I love it!! (Also the color palettes you use look great :0)

Do you have any tips on how to draw dynamic poses ? All your drawings look so lively

WAHHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH ;;__;; that’s so kind of you!!!

under the cut i’ve tried to explain some parts of my process!! it’s quite long-winded, and i apologise for that. i’ll bold important parts and separate my paragraphs to make it easier to read! i also included some illustrations!

HMM... i think the best way to learn how to draw dynamic poses, for me, was to first of all understand the character you’re drawing as a series of basic shapes. it can take a while to figure this part out until it’s in exactly a way you understand it, but it’s a fun process!

if you can simplify the character to basic 3d shapes, it can be really easy to manipulate into many angles and poses!

like with brain for example, the basic anatomy i do before sketching him usually looks like this, at its most specific:

i tried to make it clear here how i separate his body into multiple pieces!! i hope i conveyed it well.

with these shapes, in my style specifically (this does NOT apply to all styles), i find it best to never include an entirely straight line. the triangles in the legs have curved sides, for example! this allows for a flow of weight that helps me make the pose look more organic/natural!

(AS AN ASIDE: i do heavily recommend being as loose with the initial sketch as you feel like, particularly for more exaggerated poses. try to put as much feeling into it as you can! afterwards, you can figure out the specifics of correct proportions with a new anatomical sketch! there’s no limit to the amount of times you can revise a pose until it makes you happy, and focussing too hard on anatomical accuracy can seriously detract from the expressiveness of a pose.)

i always start by drawing an action line, or just an impression of the direction i want his pose to go, kinda like his spine. this can be straight or curvy, depending on how SILLY you wanna get with it. it’s really fun to mess around with this first line to push poses!

i start with drawing his head next, as generally speaking it’s the most prominent part of his design. the body comes next, along with the arms and legs. you can see how i simplified them into quite basic shapes, hopefully!!

you know how i said brain’s head is generally the most prominent part? well the way i do more exaggerated poses is to pick different parts of the body to be the most prominent part. for example, you could pick a leg, the rear end, the forehead, the foot, or, in the case of the drawing below, the hand, which is what i decided would be fun rn!

so, here’s a pinky sketch with the primary focus being the hand!

again, i don’t know the Technical jargon -- but for exaggerated poses like this, i always find it best to choose a specific point to start from and draw around three lines shooting out from it to direct the pose. (There are absolutely proper terms for what i’m doing here. I have no idea what they are. <3).

you can see the point i chose is at the tip of his foot, and the three blue lines extending out were my basis for his pose!

the first thing i drew for this pose was the hand! after that, i moved on to the secondary focus. this would be his head and arm, as his arm decides where his hand is, and his head is a key part of his design’s recognisability. then i moved onto more tertiary pieces of the pose, that being this other arm and lower body.

this kind of... Um.. anatomical hierarchy is really good for exaggerated poses -- you can have multiple primary focuses, such as both a hand and foot. your choice of primary focus can inform the rest of your hierarchy. i tend to keep it to primary, secondary, and tertiary, just for the sake of simplicity.

this kind of hierarchy can be used to either bring all the focus to a specific part of the pose, or to balance out the pose, like in this drawing of pinky (based on freakazoid’s iconic pose):

that aside, with the conical shape of my action lines, it allowed me to place and shape the rest of his body parts so they create a flow towards the primary focus -- the hand, almost as if they’re pointing at it and going “Hey Look!”

for parts of the body that are more perpendicular to the focus, such as his left leg sticking out, it helps to focus on curving it around the original point you drew, as if there was a big ripple coming out of it!

one more thing i want to cover, is the idea of character silhouettes. i learned a lot about this particularly from classic WB cartoons and team fortress 2′s character design. animaniacs itself is also GREAT for this!

a good way to tell if a pose is clear and effective is to look at it in its silhouette. if you can still tell what the character is doing and the energy of the pose, then chances are you’re on the right track!

i’ll do that for my pinky here! as you can see it isn’t perfect, but the pose is still quite clear!

i’m far from being a master of this stuff, i don’t know the technical words, so i apologise if this explanation wasn’t clear. i never feel like i can explain these things properly. maybe sometime i will -gulp- Read About It Or Maybe Get A Proper Education Since I’m Almost Entirely Self-Taught. HGFJKGFH

either way i hope what i said here can help you at all!

[aloysiavirgata]

Petrichor

Title: Petrichor

Rating: Explicit

Summary: He could tell her that her prefrontal cortex was the revelation to the thief on the cross.

Spoilers: Early S7

Author’s Notes:This is a casefile inspired by many things. The Season 7 timeline is a mess, I don’t know what else to say about that.

Early November in the temperate mountain valleys of southern Appalachia. The ground is carpet-soft with plush moss, and the hidden pools are still riotous with life. Ree needed only a pullover that morning, her doll Cordelia peering out of an old tote-bag stuffed with scraps of bread and feed corn. Her mother sent a lunch for her too, tucked in with her books and binoculars and a thermos of hot chocolate.

Ree in faded jeans and a lavender sweater picking her way over rocks and pine needles and fallen leaves, watching for the birds she can name and trying to mimic their calls. She points them out to Cordelia, who stares solemnly with blue-glass eyes. There are foxes, but they hide still. Ree dreams of befriending them. She can lure some of the deer within twenty feet now, and wishes she were Fern Arable, from Charlotte’s Web.

She takes a right instead of her customary left, wanting to test her new binoculars from a different vantage point. She skips over tree roots and rocks like a mountain goat, scarcely needing to look at the ground to keep her footing. The path curves sharply for a hundred feet before Ree finds herself at the edge of a wide pond, dense with duckweed. It is bordered with stands of ancient pine, with mossy boulders and half-sunken logs furred with algae. The silence is deep, but not frightening. It feels holy, like church. Godlight filters through the evergreens, the color of new peas. Somewhere, not far, falling water.

“Ohhhh,” Ree whispers to Cordelia. The beauty makes her chest hurt a little. She fumbles in the bag for her binoculars, laying Cordelia on a rock. Bread crusts and pencil ends spill from a loose seam. A rattle of deer corn on the stone.

Binoculars in place, Ree spots a heron across the pond, squirrels peeping from between the gold and red leaves of elm and sugarberry. She recognizes a deer she’s seen many times before, with a wide white blaze down her nose. Sudden movement catches her eye - a slim figure with long hair moving among the trees. Ree adjusts her lenses but cannot focus properly; the figure is blurred, always moving among the evergreen boughs.

The heron again. Squirrels. The deer now much closer. Then a pale ankle, a woman’s laugh.

“Helloooooooo,” Ree calls, braver than she feels. “I’m just lookin’ at birds and stuff! I’ll go if you want.”

Silence. 

She chews her lip, uncertain. The woods don’t belong to anybody on paper, but there are chancy folk out here with their own laws. “Cordelia?” she whispers. “What do we do?”

Cordelia offers no opinion. Ree grabs a handful of corn and climbs onto a flat boulder. Just beside it is a little patch of grass, and she hopes the doe will come into it. 

The laugh again and this time it’s much closer, just to her left. Were those fingers at her neck? Ree turns to look but tunnel vision sets in, the binoculars slapping hard against her chest when she drops them. The strap twists at her throat and she gasps, her hands springing open in surprise. She slips on the fallen corn and goes down hard on her spine against the rock. 

The deer steps into the glade, her unusual face cautious but curious. She knows Ree will not make sudden movements like the others do.

Ree, dazed, watched the deer nibble the corn with her velvet lips. She tries to sit up, but it’s like her brain will not connect to her body. Her feet seem very far away. 

Something pulls her hair and she manages a thin cry of pain. She’s freezing suddenly, the world glassy and distorted. Ree opens her mouth to call for help but she can’t; the greenness of the glade is in her throat now, and behind her eyes and inside her blood. The laugh again, so pretty, and then long arms are wrapped around her and Ree thanks Baby Jesus for saving her but oh!

Such teeth.

***

A quick glance in the rearview confirms once more that his hair’s pretty well grown back from the surprise birthday neurosurgery, and at thirty-eight such victories cannot be taken for granted. He tries to peer around the tight curve along the mountain road, but can make out only shadows. The bag of sunflower seeds ran dry twenty minutes ago, but he’s got a couple more in the trunk.

Beside him comes a rustle of paper. Scully’s printed out directions from MapQuest, checking off turns like a shopping list. “Still another three miles before the access road,” she says, not looking up from her trim navy-blue lap. She takes a sip of coffee.

Mulder coughs, says nothing. Things aren’t strained exactly, it’s not that. It’s more a liminal space. Everything’s fine, he tells himself. Everything’s fine.

He  checks his hair again.

***

The town is shabby but proud; the roads are clean and there are no cars propped up on the trimmed lawns. On this block a hardware store, a stone church, a fire station, and a bakery. Despite the Fannie Flagg charm, Mulder expects the local homeowners are dying for a Wal-Mart and a McDonald’s. There’s a billboard advertising a newly opened Cracker Barrel, which must count as progress to some.

The Ross home is a small, weatherbeaten clapboard in a stretch of small, weatherbeaten clapboards. Many of the houses have elaborate neo-classical porticoes taller than the actual roof. At the Rosses’, the mailbox is shaped like a dog, with a moveable tail instead of a flag. There are purple balloons hanging limply from its neck. Mulder noses the Crown Vic up the cracked asphalt of the driveway, engaging the parking brake before turning the engine off. 

Scully gathers their files, straightens the picture of Rhiannon Ross paperclipped to the manila envelope. Her little face is joyful in the school photograph. She wears a sweater with purple hearts and has sun-bronzed skin. Her big hazel eyes are laughing, framed by golden braids. 

“You ready?” he asks Scully.

She sighs. “Are we ever, with kids?” 

“Nope.” Mulder straightens his tie. So strange to do these little rituals again, to convey authority and professionalism through a strip of ornamental fabric. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Scully asks him again, fussing with a Post-It. “You know I still don’t think you should have been cleared for this, Mulder. You’re scarcely three weeks past severe trauma, and you haven’t even been back to the office.” She looks up, concern furrowing her brow.

He could tell her that when the gyre widened and spun out, it was she who held the center for him. He could tell her that the cool silver stream of her unvoiced voice stemmed the hellish tide of thoughts and premonition that threatened to drown his sentient mind. He could tell her that her prefrontal cortex was the revelation to the thief on the cross. 

Instead he crunches on a peppermint LifeSaver, washing it down with the rest of his cold coffee. “I get in the most trouble when I’m left to my own devices. You should be glad for a federally mandated excuse to keep an eye on me.”

She smiles at that. “Fair enough.”

They leave the stale air of the car for the fresh autumn breezes of northeast Alabama, the air so crisp it tastes like spring water. Mulder, a devout New Englander, is wary of the South, but cannot deny this to be a beautiful patch of it.

He puts his jacket on as Scully clips several paces ahead of him, bandbox fresh as always. He joins her on the little porch, and the front door opens before they have a chance to knock. Before them is a lanky blonde woman in worn jeans and a striped blouse. The shadows around her eyes look like bruises, lips papery and dry. For 26 years, these mothers have always been his mother, their homes his house in Chilmark.

“Y’all the FBI people?” she asks. Despite her stretchy vowels, brittle tension suffuses her voice. 

“Yes ma’am,” Scully says. They display their badges for her perusal.

The woman nods, then ushers them in. She gestures to a floral couch, taking the chintz armchair across from it. Mulder settles at one end of the couch while Scully, less leggy,  perches at the edge of the other. She is a slim smudge in the pastel room.

“I’m Iona Ross,” their host begins, rubbing a chewed thumbnail across raw knuckles. “I’m Ree’s mama.” 

Behind her, on the wall, are family photographs. Ree has three older brothers. The largest photograph shows the four children arranged on a park bench, smiling in white shirts and blue jeans. Ree is missing her two front teeth.

A man enters the room, rawboned, with the same wheat colored hair as his wife. He’s got on a gray sweater beneath Carhartt overalls and carries a coffee tray. He has big hands with ropy tendons standing out, and it's clear he’s not used to playing host. His face is haggard.

“This is my husband Wyatt,” Iona says, as he puts the tray on the small table between her and the couch.

Mulder looks at the pristine coffee cups and saucers. He guesses this is their wedding china, only brought out for “best.” That it will be carefully placed back into a breakfront after hand-washing.

Wyatt sits in a blue La-Z-Boy, relieved to be finished with his task. “They told us y’all were the best ones to find Ree,” he says in a choppy voice. He reaches out to grip his wife’s hand. 

Mulder, as he always does, longs for this to be true. “I can promise you there is no one at the FBI who will work harder for you,” he says.

Scully smiles sadly in his peripheral vision. “We have the police report, Mr. and Mrs. Ross. But it’s always better if you can walk us through the events yourself.”

“Iona and Wyatt, please,” Wyatt says. “Anyhow, it was Sunday morning and Ree had just got new binoculars for her birthday on Saturday. She, uh, she’s nine now. Real smart little thing, likes nature and all, really likes birds.” His voice breaks. He scrubs at his face with his hands.

Iona takes over, voice raw but steady. “Well, she packed up her little bag with some bird food you know, and her binoculars and some nature books and all. Her doll Cordelia of course, and I made a lunch. She’ll go out for hours in the woods. And whatever, uh, happened it was before she ate ‘cause all the food was there.”

Mulder glances at his notes, just to look at something other than Iona’s desperate face. “The police report says her doll and her bag were found by a pond with the lunch still inside, but her binoculars were missing. The items were found Monday morning by a search party. That’s correct?”

“Yes sir,” Iona replies. “And there was algae all over Cordelia and the bag and the food, even though it was still wrapped up. It was even in the hot chocolate in the thermos.” She looks eagerly from Mulder to Scully. “Y’all think that means something, the algae being on closed-up food? I never heard of it. Maybe it’s like a, whaddya call it, an MO.”

“Unusual details are always good details,” Scully says in her gentle way. “Unusual facts can certainly help narrow things down, Mis- Iona.” She leans forward now, palms splayed over her sharp knees. “I know this next question is painful, but I do need to ask. It says that the pond was searched and that neither Ree nor any of her clothing have been found. But, from the photographs, it seems like there’s a bit of debris in the pond. Logs and large rocks, mostly, and lots of algae and duckweed. Is there any chance that Ree would have gone into it on her own?”

Wyatt gets to his feet. “She ain’t stupid,” he snaps, pacing. “She didn’t do nothing wrong, and despite what you may think, we’re not backwoods morons too ignorant to raise children.” His pain seeps a dark aura into the air, ink through clear water. “Our other three are still fine, you notice. Police report say that?”

“We don’t doubt you at all, sir,” Mulder says. “No one is trying to blame Ree or your family for her disappearance. Agent Scully and I just have to review all lines of questioning to make sure the police have done everything they can thus far. We want to make sure we’re starting from a helpful place as we take over the investigation.”

Wyatt leans against the wall, looking hollow. “Jenny Greenteeth,” he mutters.

Iona, with shaking hands, pours four cups of coffee. “Wyatt,” she hisses. “Not now.”

“Jenny Greenteeth?” Scully repeats, writing it down. “Is that som-”

“It’s an old story,” Mulder says, surprised. “A nursery bogey.”

He is met by three blank stares.

“A nursery bogey is a story created by adults with the specific goal of making children avoid certain behaviors, or to encourage generally good behavior,” Mulder says. He is intrigued by Wyatt invoking the name. “The Namahage of Japan, the Scottish bodach, Russia’s Baba Yaga - all of these legends are about mythical beings who will in some way harm misbehaving children. Sometimes they get specific. Jenny Greenteeth, like the kappa and bunyip, is said to snatch children who venture to close to dangerous water.”

Wyatt is staring at him. “How’d you know all that?”

Mulder spreads his hands in a vague gesture. “These kinds of stories have always interested me.” He feels it best not to elaborate.

“He’s an internationally recognized expert,” Scully chimes in, rather generously. “Can you tell us why you mentioned this particular legend?”

“Don’t mind him,” Iona says, passing around the coffee. “We’re just both about to fall to pieces.”

Wyatt scowls. “I’m telling you,” he says stubbornly. “It’s her.”

Mulder adds cream to his coffee and takes a sip. It’s worlds better than the gas station dregs he just finished. “I know the story of Jenny Greenteeth comes from the north of England and from Scotland. This area has a big Scots-Irish influence, doesn’t it?”

“Yessir. There’s a big Scottish festival hereabouts, and both our families are Scottish from way back. Ree’s named after my Granny Rhiannon. You think that means something?” Iona’s voice is strained, hungry for any morsel.

Mulder shakes his head. “No, not necessarily. Probably not, and I apologize for getting off topic. Wyatt, tell me more about this, uh, theory you’ve got.” He finishes the coffee in a long gulp.

Wyatt rubs his face. “Well, listen. I know how it sounds to me, and I reckon it sounds even crazier to y’all. But growing up around here, every kid knows about the little pools in these hollers. Real deep ponds will spring up practically overnight, I guess ‘cause the ground is weak from all the mining. In the spring you get these real fast streams from the snow runoff. So kids run wild through the woods but they know to be careful. All the meemaws tell ‘em if they aren’t careful, Jenny Greenteeth’ll grab ‘em at the water. She’s got, you know, long black hair and real long arms and green teeth.” He shrugs, a bit sheepish.

“And you think this, uh, this creature took Rhiannon?” Scully asks, managing to sound both compassionate and deadpan at the same time.

Iona and Wyatt exchange a glance.

“Well, there’s a bit more than that,” Iona says, turning her mug in her hands. “Over the summer a woman moved in out in the woods. She, uh, took over some old hunter’s shack not real far from where Ree went missing. Her name’s Tallulah Church. She’s real tall and skinny, probably at least six feet, and I’ll be damned but she’s got green teeth.”

“Green teeth,” Mulder repeats, intrigued. He glances at Scully, who’s scribbling.

“Pale green like jade,” Wyatt says, warming up to his subject. “The kids are all scared of her, call her Jenny Greenteeth ‘cause they know the story. They say the dogs won’t go around there even.”

“A few hunting dogs have gone missing up that way,” Iona adds, her reluctance clearly fading. “Tallulah comes into town every month or so in her station wagon, gets some supplies, then rattles back up into the mountains. She seems okay I guess, just never really talks to nobody.”

“She gives every kid around here the evil eye,” Wyatt asserts, returning to his recliner. “She’s bad news. There’s things going on with her.”

Iona shoots him a hard look. “I’m sure the FBI isn’t interested in a bunch of mountain superstition.”

Scully pipes up. “When you say there are things going on with her, is there anything specific you can point to? Anything stand out in your memory?” 

A glance between Wyatt and Iona. “Just gives me a bad feeling,” Wyatt says. “You ever meet people like that?”

Mulder is curious as to what they won’t tell him, but decides not to create conflict just yet. These things always out themselves, but for now it’s clear he’s learned all he can. 

He exchanges a quick nod with Scully, who has already closed her notebook. “Wyatt, Iona, we’re going to do our best to find out what happened to Ree. It sounds like talking to Tallulah Church may be a good start. If she lives nearby she may have seen something or someone involved in the disappearance.” 

Wyatt snorts. “The police already talked to her. Doesn’t know a thing, they say. Search parties are still out though, and we’re heading out again when we’re done here.”

Scully gets to her feet, and Mulder follows. “Thank you for talking to us,” Scully says. “We’ll review all of this information and be in touch as we can. We’ll let you get back to the search.”

The Rosses rise, hands are shaken. Iona runs her fingers through her hair before crossing her arms tightly back across her chest. “Please bring her home,” she says. “Even - even if…” She trails off, weeping.

Wyatt draws her close, and Mulder and Scully slip past them, barely noticed.

***

It’s just past six by the time they get to their motel, but the sky is black. The parking lot gravel smatters against the fenders as Mulder parks in front of the little office. He gets out to contemplate a luggage cart when Scully emerges. She promptly turns her ankle on the uneven ground, but Mulder manages to grab her by the upper arm before she falls.

“You okay?”

She stares up at him, her breath quick. 

Scully glances at his hand and he remembers to let go. She looks away, tests her footing on the gravel. “I’m good,” she says. “I’m fine.”

“Scully fine, or regular fine?”

She smooths her jacket. “How’s your cranium?”

Mulder goes to the office at that, and retrieves their room keys from the drowsy clerk. A part of him hopes the reservation got messed up, that there’s only one room. But both are available, a queen en suite for each. They’re on the first floor around back, next door neighbors, the clerk says. Mulder swipes the bureau plastic and heads back out to Scully, who has found safer footing on the sidewalk.

He passes her the key. “You want to get some dinner? I saw a Cracker Barrel back yonder.” He drawls for her amusement.

“Sure. I want to take a shower first though. Give you a call when I’m done?”

“Okay.” 

“Okay.”

He wants to kiss her but won’t. He wants to suggest a joint shower to conserve water, but won’t. Her eyes do a quick scan of his face, perhaps reading these thoughts. It would only be fair if she could, really.

Scully grabs her bag and heads to her room. He waits until her door clicks shut before heading to his own.

***

Mulder thought of Jenny Greenteeth in the shower, of skeletal arms grasping at him through the drain. It made the tops of his feet tingle, and he hurried out to towel off. 

From what he’s read, Rhiannon Ross seems like a steady, responsible child, unlikely to go haring off through dangerous parts of the woods, or testing the limits of a slippery embankment. And the algae troubles him, the presence of it on her belongings. 

Mulder dresses in jeans and a t-shirt, pulling a parka on for warmth. He forgot his hair gel, and his head looks a bit like a startled sea creature. Scully doubtless has something in her portable salon.

She meets him in front of the car, Scully-casual in grey slacks and a black sweater. Her hiking boots put her shoulders about level with his ribs, and he is reminded that the love of his life is built on a songbird’s frame. Mulder recalls the fine velveteen skin at her inner thigh, like the breast of a chickadee.

“Nice hair,” she says. 

“Thanks, I’m trying to channel Lyle Lovett.” He strums an invisible guitar.

She slouches against the rough brick of the building, backlit by neon. At her feet are bunches of plastic flowers jammed into the white quartz around the ragged boxwood hedge. “So. Cracker Barrel, huh?” 

“Sure, I figured we could sit in the rockers and talk about the old days. Those kids with their jazz and soda pop, am I right? Spit some chaw, vote Republican. Besides, it seems to be either that or a dubious establishment called A-1 Panda Kitchen. The diner closes at 7.”

Scully wrinkles her nose. “Cracker Barrel it is.”

***

There’s a MISSING! flier of Ree on the table, dog-eared and slipped into a plastic page protector. It’s sporting the same school photo from their dossiers. Mulder pushes it gently aside, feeling like he should apologize.

Scully frowns at the menu, taps at it with an immaculate fingernail. “I don’t see how anyone eats here regularly and lives long enough to reminisce about the old days in a rocker. Even the salad has fried chicken in it.”

He remembers when she would cheerfully put away a plate of ribs, but now she cares about fiber and antioxidants along with her tailoring. And her stupid bee pollen crap. “Aw, Scully, you’re citified. Surely you’ve got some kin in these parts. Hardy mountain folk descended from fleeing Irish potato farmers. You can hand le these vittles, little lady. It ain’t possum.” He considers the chicken-fried steak with interest. It comes with gravy.

“Stop talking like you’re on Hee-Haw.” She looks thoughtful. “I suppose there probably are distant cousins out this way, but none that I know of.”

He blows a straw wrapper past her shapely nose, which she ignores with practiced dignity.

“Pork tenderloin, that seems all right.” Scully closes her menu with an air of resignation. She does not like being fussy with her ordering.

The waitress comes by and he commits to the fried steak over Scully’s clear distaste. 

“Re-myelinating,” he assures her, handing over the menu.

“That’s not-”

“Shhh.”

They amuse themselves with several rounds of a little peg game, and Mulder decides to purchase one before they leave. 

“Mom was pretty calm there, don’t you think?” Mulder drums his fingers on the table. He doesn’t really suspect the parents, but the sad fact is that they’re most often the perpetrators. It at least bears discussing.

Scully shrugs. “Police don’t seem too concerned. Growing up in a house with four kids, I remember my mom keeping her cool in completely insane situations. Charlie had a compound fracture once, when my dad was away. His femur was poking out the front of his thigh, he was in shock, and mom just handled it like a skinned knee until the ambulance came.” She shakes her head, remembering.

“Must be a dominant trait.”

She squeezes lemon into her water, then picks out an errant seed. “Hardy mountain folk. So there’s no body in the pond, she probably wouldn’t have wandered off without her food and doll, and there’s no ransom demand or strange footprints at the site. So where the hell did she go, Mulder? Where’s Ree?”

“I think she was in the water at some point.”

Scully narrows her eyes, suspicious. She twirls a peg between her fingers. “At some point? Not terminally?”

“You know I hate to speculate, Scully,” he says, in tones of wounded innocence.

She snorts. “At last we come to Jenny Greenteeth.”

“It was Wyatt’s idea,” he reminds her, chewing his straw. He is excited by a new monster to mash with Scully.

“Sure, blame the other kid,” she says, with a kind of weary amusement.

“I’m withholding judgement until we talk to this Tallulah Church tomorrow. I’m interested in those teeth.” 

“It’s always teeth with you,” she says. She captures two pegs, then looks up at him. She is well pleased with herself, smirky and bright-eyed.

He doesn’t want to say anything. He wants to find Ree, dead or alive, and go home. But he feels pretty sure he can’t do that until unburdened. Holman Hart’s repressed emotions may have controlled the weather, but Mulder knows his own can control the fate of this case. He brushes his fingers against her palm. “Scully.”

Her expression tightens, but she doesn’t respond.

“We have to talk this out.” He is concerned with where it may lead, but this particular truth is in her. He no longer doubts her feelings at this juncture, only her willingness to do anything more with them.

Scully sighs. She toys with a sugar packet. It amuses and aggravates him that she can pore over dead infants and handcuff mutants to her bathtub with little discomfiture, but talk about emotions and she squirms like a kid in church. 

“I don’t think there’s much to talk out, really,” she says, terse.

She wouldn’t, of course she wouldn’t, and there are times he could wring her swan-like throat. 

“Well, humor me then,” he says, with exaggerated patience. “Because you woke up in my bed two weeks ago wearing nothing but smudged makeup, and we’ve been avoiding any real mention of that. And now that I’m properly back to work, I’d kind of like to know what the hell we’re doing.”

She looks around, like anyone’s listening to two weary Feds on a Wednesday night. “I really don’t see any reason to have this conversation right now, Mulder.” 

The waitress delivers their food and, sensing tension, scurries away.

In the past few weeks he’s thought back to that hellish summer when a bee had saved Scully from addressing the fact that she’d clearly been willing to jump his bones before skipping town. Well, anaphylaxis wasn’t going to rescue her this time. “Why are you being like this?” he asks, as though she’s ever different.

She leans forward, piqued. “Like what? Not wanting to talk about my… my… personal life in the middle of an Alabama Cracker Barrel while looking for a missing child?” 

Her personal life, Jesus fucking Christ. “You’ve been avoiding me other than some medical check-ins since you left that morning, so I’m trying to figure out what happens now. Come on, Scully. It’s not like I left those underwear on the desk for you before we headed out here.”

She blushes, bless her, and talks to make him shut up. “I can tell you that I don’t regret what happened.” Scully applies herself to the tenderloin with an intensity usually reserved for the mysteriously deceased. 

Mulder knows it’s the best he’s likely to get from her at the moment, that he’s pushing her to give him something he can’t even define. But he remembers with longing the intricate ocean of her thoughts, the fractal beauty of them as they wove into his own. He was still bathing in the quantum entanglement of her when she’d checked his pupils that evening, when he’d kissed her in the certainty that she’d drop both her little flashlight and her guard.

Scully had kissed him back like a mermaid with a half-drowned sailor.

He looks at her again, knows that he sees only the surface of her now. “Scully, I’m not asking you to go steady.”

She laughs a little at that, looks up at him with wary interest. “So what do you want, then?”

It’s a damned good question. He has general ideas of lying in bed with her while she declaims on the marvels of the quadrupole ion trap. He would like to map her freckles, like a star chart.

“For now I’m just glad to know you don’t regret it,” he hedges.

She searches the ceiling for inspiration before returning her cool gaze to him. “It was absurd of me to act like nothing happened, to treat you like any other patient since you weren’t back at work. It was easy to ignore what we… what happened. I’m sorry, Mulder.” 

She still can’t say it, he notices. But it’s something. “Your other patients are dead, Scully. So I’m a special case no matter how you look at it.”

There is warmth in her eyes. “You really are,” she says.

***

Scully’s got their peg game in a Cracker Barrel bag on her lap. Mulder had wanted to stockpile cheese blocks and sausages against future car trips, but she had put her foot firmly down. “Do you think we’ll find her, Mulder? Her remains, probably, but still. It would be something for the family.”

He shrugs. It’s hard to separate hopes from expectations sometimes, especially in their line. “I really don’t know. We need to get a better look at the area she went missing, and I’m pretty curious about this Tallulah woman.”

“Children can have green teeth if their mothers took tetracycline during late pregnancy,” she tells him. “It crosses the placenta and binds to the calcium in the fetus’s developing teeth.”

He grins at her. “Only one alternate explanation? You’re slowing down in your old age, Scully.”

Scully bares her little fangs. “Neonatal hyperbilirubinemia.”

“Attagirl.”

***

He parks around back this time, right in front of their dreary rooms. “I figure we’ll head out around 9 or so tomorrow,” he says. “Let the air warm up a bit before we hit the woods.”

Scully nods, yawning. “Pond first, or Tallulah?”

He considers this. “I think it’s best if we have the lay of the land when we talk to her.”

“Okay.”

Mulder turns the car off, but they stay in their seats with the inertia of food and time difference and mental exhaustion. Even the lost children they manage to bring home are haunted afterwards. It’s hard to imagine a good outcome here. 

Scully unbuckles her seatbelt, turns to him with sleepy eyes. She yawns again, then reaches out to muss his hair. “Come by in the morning,” she says. “I’ll help you out.”

She goes to her room then, the bag dangling from her fingertips. She doesn’t look back at him before she shuts the door.

***

He stretches out on the bedspread, mulling over her words at dinner, and annoyed at himself for the distraction from Ree Ross. What could he have expected from this, though? Scully’s not Diana. Scully wouldn’t flaunt their shared bed to other agents, wouldn’t drape herself over his desk while reading grimoires and classified documents. Christ, he could marry her and she’d probably think a wedding band was unprofessional at work, his uptight darling.

It’s strange for Diana to be dead. He’d stopped trusting her in the final hours of her life, but he didn’t want her dead. She was a rare and capable creature, however dangerous. She was solitary and sleek and fast.

He recalls the choices he’d made what she glided back into his life, her ruthless intellect and legs as long as a midwinter night. He recalls Scully’s face when he swore Diana was playing a long game, all for a nobler cause.

He recalls the dusky labyrinth of her mind and what he saw at the center of it; a beast slouching towards Bethlehem to be born.

***

Diana slips through his dreams again, but not in bridal white, not with the round belly of Taweret. She is dead, but not the dead of his other visions. She is weeks dead, greying and skeletal. He can see patches of bone through her ragged dress but her eyes, her eyes are vivid and whole and the color of cabochon emeralds. They are luminescent in the nightmare forest of his dream, beckoning him. It is a leafless forest, bleak, with bony-armed trees looming over him. 

He finds her in a blackwater creek, standing in the middle of it as the water surges past her calves. She smiles at him with too many teeth. “Hello, Fox,” she says. She bats her lashes. “I apologize for my appearance, but they didn’t embalm.”

“Do you need help?” he asks her, casting about for a long branch.

She shakes her head, hair still lush and glossy. The water rises up her legs.

“Is this real? I mean, are you a ghost or is this all in my head?”

The water whips around her thighs. “What’s real?” she asks. “Perception is reality. If you believe it to be true, it’s true enough for government work.” Diana laughs at her own joke.

A white deer walks up to him, with softly furred antlers like fresh snow. It looks at him with black-irised eyes, wet and bottomless voids. There may be constellations in them. Mulder reaches out to stroke its muzzle as Diana looks on. The deer opens its mouth and dried corn comes pouring out.

The water swallows Diana then, before receding fully. She lies on the bank as he remembers her, whole and striking. Her dead eyes are their usual smoky blue, her dress no longer decomposed. 

He wakes up when the ground swallows her.

***

Morning, bright and chilly in the mountains with light of a purity that never touches DC. He remembers a dream with Diana, with water and deer and a general sense of Jungian dystopia. It’s nice to see his subconscious branching out from its usual reruns of family fare.

Wary of fungal spores embedded in the matted carpet, he steps into his untied dress shoes and clomps to the bathroom wearing nothing else but his boxers. He brushes his teeth in the tiny sink, then wets his unruly hair. 

There’s a knock at the door and he groans. “Just a minute!” he yells around the toothbrush. He hopes it’s someone with the extra towels he asked for.

Mulder clomps back towards the door and, lacking a peephole, he pops it open a fraction to accept his linens. Instead of the housekeeper he’d been expecting, he finds Scully kitted out for a hike, brandishing a canister of mousse.

Cold air sweeps in with her laugh.

“Good morning to you too,” he grouses, ushering her in. He secures the chain when he closes the door.

“Nice outfit,” she says brightly. “What’s with the shoes? Is this a formal hike? I wasn’t sure because you’re not wearing pants, but…”

He scowls, sitting on the bed. “You’re mighty chipper. I’m trying to avoid athlete’s foot, if you must know, and I couldn’t find my socks.”

Scully rummages through his bag for a pair of thick socks, which she tosses to him. She gestures at the bed. “May I?”

“Not if you’re going to be mean.” He kicks the shoes off and tugs the socks on.

Scully sits beside him, shaking the can of mousse. “Thought I could do your hair before we prank call some boys. French braid?”

Mulder stands to pull his jeans up, and the weight shift makes her bounce a little on the mattress. “Let me have that mousse.”

She gestures for his hand, then sprays a lilac-scented pouf into his cupped palm. 

“Thanks,” he says, and scrunches it into his hair. He styles himself before the dresser mirror while she watches, amused.

“You left before my beauty regimen last time,” he remarks.

In the mirror, Scully shakes her head but doesn’t seem bothered. “I made some calls this morning about Tallulah Church. There’s no phone or plumbing up there, but the sheriff’s office said she’s usually right around her home. And the motel clerk drew me a map of how to get to the pond from the access road, then how to get to Tallulah’s.” She waves several crumpled papers.

He pulls a t-shirt over his head, then a fleece. “Aren’t you a busy little bee? Looks like someone’s getting her cartography badge this week.” Mulder returns to the bed to put his boots on.

“I’ve got evidence vials too,” she says, producing them from her pockets. “We’re going to find out what happened to Ree.” Her eyes are big and solemn.

Scully masquerades her tenderheartedness as honor, but Mulder didn’t need a God Module to know why she took that terrible dog in years ago. The depth of cold Dr. Scully’s compassion would shock their colleagues, and he likes this secret knowledge about her. Even Skinner, who reveres her only just below the Constitution, underestimates the fierceness of her empathy. 

“What?” Scully asks.

Mulder cups her splendid jaw, thumb at her sphenoid bone. He kisses the space between her eyebrows, and she makes a small noise.

“We have to go,” she breathes, and is outside before he can stand.

***

Not a word about it in the car, just miles of silence broken only by Scully giving directions. The drive ends in a flat patch of dirt by the forest’s edge, a scrubby path poking out from the ferns and overhang.

“Our little forays into the forest never end well,” she observes. “But at least tick season is winding down. After you, Mulder.”

He pushes into the woods, holding branches back so Scully doesn’t get smacked in the head. “Been a while, though. We’re tougher now. We’re hardened woodspersons.”

“And I have a lighter,” she adds.

He grins. “Show off. Hey, how far is it?”

Scully consults her map. “Well, we’re coming at it from a different angle than Ree would have probably taken, but this is the most direct. Looks like maybe a hundred yards up ahead before it opens into a clearing.”

The path unfolds as she said, and suddenly a storybook pond is before him. Squirrels frisk in the branches and birds call to each other across the glen. The surface of the water is velvety with duckweed, like a perfectly clipped baseball field. Shafts of sunlight illuminate red and white mushrooms at the bases of oaks, the feathers of golden-green ferns. He sniffs the air, lush and tannic.

“Oh, wow,” Scully says, coming up behind him. “Mulder, this is unreal. It’s like a Waterhouse painting.”

They pick their way down to the edge of the pond, startling several fat bullfrogs and a garter snake. “Imagine being a kid here, Scully.”

She shakes her head, admiring. “It’s a Wonderland. I’d be out here all the time too.” Scully crosses her arms, staring upwards with a rapturous expression. “From what her dad said, Ree’s a lot like I was as a kid. I didn’t have my own binoculars though. Had to steal Bill’s.”

“Fuck Bill,” he says cheerfully. “You deserved them.”

They circle the perimeter, looking for...what? He never quite knows. The pond makes gentle rippling sounds as the local fauna heads for deeper water under his scrutiny.

Scully pauses at a section of churned-up dirt. She squats for a better view, pokes delicately at the earth. “They made a mess of this, Jesus. At least they had enough sense to band their shoes.” In the dirt, distinct tracks marked with horizontal rubber band lines around the soles distinguish the CSI team’s prints.

Mulder crouches bedside her, spots something golden half-buried in the soft ground. “Tweezers, Scully?”

She passes them over and from the ground he plucks a kernel of deer corn, half coated in dried algae. “Mulder, look. There are more of them, maybe twenty, all pushed in or smashed on this rock. And most of them have algae on them.” She frowns. “The footprints on the ground over it, they’re not marked and they’re too small for an adult.”

Sure enough, there’s a mess of kid-sized sneaker tracks all over where the greenish corn is, muddy smears on the rocks adjacent. They’re algae-covered as well, and too far from the water for such a coating. He stares, thinking.

Scully, meanwhile, is labeling tiny evidence jars in pencil, filling them with samples of algae and earth and corn. She finds the cap of a glittery marker. “Who processed this crime scene? Ray Charles?” She seals it up, tags it. 

“No kidding. Hey, look. There’s a gap between those two big boulders over there. If you wanted to watch someone and hide, it would be a good spot. You think they searched it?”

She snorts with derision. 

“Me too. I’m gonna go take a look. You stay here. Sit on that rock there, it’ll put you at about Ree’s height.”

Scully passes him a few vials and a pencil, settles on the rock. “I think this is where she left Cordelia, based on the photos, though they were mostly closeup. I don’t remember any good overviews.” Some algae remains on the rock, and Scully looks sad.

Mulder jogs around the pond as best he can, but the bracken is heavy and he has to climb over a few logs. Is it really so crazy to think Ree tripped and fell out here, slipped quietly into the pond and snagged on a submerged rock or branch? Lots of little nibbling things in the water; it happens.

His mind returns to the algae. But if Ree went in, how did it come out? Who stepped all over that deer corn?

He’s between the boulders now, with a clear view of Scully across the way. He walks a little grid by the boulder, looking for bits of trace evidence. Snagged hair, footprints, forgotten belongings, anxiously chewed nails. But there is nothing. Either he misjudged the hiding spot, or the perpetrator has been very mindful of Locard’s Exchange Principle

.

“SCULLY!” he calls, setting off flurries of birds.

“MULDER?” She scans the area where he’s hidden.

“CAN YOU SEE ME?”

“NO!”

He climbs up one of the rocks, waves to her. She waves back from her perch. From atop the boulder, he scans the ground below. There aren’t any footprints but, squinting, he can see trails of dried algae along the edge of the ferns, where the rocky area begins.

He calls Scully over, and she moves through the forest as lightly as the squirrels. He points at his finding when she arrives. “That’s weird, right?”

She scoops some up in a vial, the holds it to the light. “Maybe she was playing at the edge, got her hands dirty, went to wipe them, and slipped.”

Mulder shakes his head. “That doesn’t explain the algae on the unopened food, Scully.”

“It could have been simple contamination. Her parents say she’s out here all the time. If she uses the same thermos and bag, brings the same books and toys, it’s not exactly far fetched to think some of it remained from last time and grew in the sun. Busy mom with four kids, how thoroughly is she going to scrub everything down for a kid who’s always outside? Algae are extremely tenacious, and it was out here in the sun for about 26 hours.”

He gazes at the duckweed, lets his vision swim until everything is a green blur. “Maybe,” he says. “But I want to talk to Tallulah.”

“Greenteeth was my delight,” Scully sings, appallingly off-key. “Greenteeth was my heart of gold.”

“You’re a riot,” he says dryly. Delightedly.

“Exposure to copper or nickel,” Scully says, clambering over a log. “Septic cholestasis.”

He might marry her after all.

***

Tallulah’s little shack looks old as the mountains, with log walls and a shake roof. There’s a tiny porch tacked on the front, and a wall of firewood being gnawed by two spotted goats. They stare at Mulder with their rectangular-pupiled eyes.

He reaches out to pet them and startles when they bleat loudly at his overture. They scamper off behind the house.

Scully pokes the toe of her boot into a plastic bucket, rights it. “Her car seems to be here,” she observes, indicating a battered old Volvo wagon. 

“A European car, no wonder everyone here hates her.”

Scully smirks.

They walk up to the house, Mulder withdrawing his identification. It generally gets a snappier reaction the further West and South it travels, but Mulder is also wary of a demented libertarian streak that runs through the country at odd intervals. Seams of it appear throughout Appalachia, and federal agents of various stripes have been fired on by feistier residents.

Scully, thankfully, is a quick draw and a dead shot.

They don’t get the chance to knock before a woman who must be Tallulah Church stands before them on the other side of the screen door. She’s close to Mulder’s height, thin to the point of emaciation, and pale enough to make Scully look freshly tanned. She has beautiful black hair to her waist, and eyes the color of ferns. They seem too bright in her gaunt, colorless face. She’s dressed in a Huck Finn ensemble of castoff men’s work clothing. On her hands are faded canvas gardening gloves.

Mulder shows her his badge and introduces them. Scully wordlessly displays her own identification.

Tallulah grins widely, her teeth perfect and straight and pearly green. “Well come on in,” she says, turning back into the house. Her feet clomp loudly in their heavy boots.

Mulder glances at Scully, who still seems taken aback by this gawky apparition. He holds the door open and they follow Tallulah into the house. 

The little shack creaks with every step, and smells of woodsmoke and earth and herbs. The interior walls are the same weathered gray as the outside. The whole thing is just one room, with a bed in one corner and a kitchen consisting of a fireplace, a dry sink, and a table with several mismatched chairs. Tallulah is occupying a black metal one, and her impossibly long, thin limbs make Mulder think of Jack Skellington. He can’t tell if she’s twenty or fifty.

“Sit down, please,” she says. “The table’s not much but I reckon it would be weird to offer you the bed.” She smiles again. Her voice is as drawling as everyone else in town, but there’s something different about it, something strangely polished and almost British. 

They take their seats. “Miss Church,” Scully begins.

“Tallulah, please.”

“Tallulah. Agent Mulder and I are investigating the disappearance of Rhiannon Ross. She went missing on Sunday morning. Given that you live not far from the area where her belongings were found, we wanted to ask you some questions.” Scully opens her file folder, pen poised like a hovering dragonfly.

Tallulah levels her remarkable eyes with Scully’s. “No ma’am. I know who Ree is, it’s a small town and she’s out here a lot, but I didn’t see her that day. Real nice little girl though. She feeds the deer sometimes.”

Mulder perks up. “Yeah? We saw some deer corn out where she went missing. Did you see her feeding them that morning?”

Tallulah sighs. “No, I’m sorry. As I’ve told the police, I didn’t see a bit of her on Sunday. Which is sort of odd itself, because she’d always be out on a day like that. Too shy to come up to the house, but she liked to watch the goats. They’re not even mine, but I leave them food and water, so we’re friends now.”

Behind her, on the dry sink, Mulder notices green smears of moss or mildew. Or algae. 

“I know you’ve spoken to Sherriff McLeod already,” Scully continues. “So we appreciate your patience.”

“It’s a terrible thing for a child to go missing,” Tallulah says, shaking her head. “I wish I did have something to tell, but I just don’t. I’ve seen the search parties around - I guess they searched the pond.”

“You say you knew who Ree was because it’s a small town, but I got the sense you didn’t mingle much with the good townsfolk,” Mulder observes.

Tallulah chuckles at this. “No sir, not much, which suits them and me just fine.” She lifts her hands to eye level and wiggles her bony gloved fingers. “They think I’m spooky.”

Mulder smiles in spite of himself. “I know a little bit about that. So tell me, Tallulah, you from around here?”

She shakes her head. “Not from anywhere, really, but I was raised outside Savannah in a rich ladies’ orphanage. That’s why I sound like Dixie Carter.”

“An orphanage?” Scully repeats.

“Yes ma’am. I was left at the Baptist Ladies’ Home when I was a day or so old. Nothing with me but a plastic laundry basket and a gingham tablecloth. They said I was a frightful looking little thing.” She smiles ruefully, showing them her green teeth again.

Scully, true to form, tackles that bull head on. “Tallulah, I’m also a doctor, and I’m compelled to ask about your teeth. Do you know why they’re green?”

An expansive shrug. “Oh, the doctors that saw us there had all kinds of ideas of what was wrong with me, but I never got anything official. Marfan Syndrome, that was one.” She snorts. “‘Course, the other kids heard Martian and with the green teeth they decided I was an alien.”

“There’s a genetic test for it now,” Scully says. “You could find out for sure.”

Tallulah chuckles again. “Thanks, Doc, but it doesn’t matter much. I feel just fine. Always have, and I don’t plan to have any kids. I’m twenty-six and haven’t had anything worse than a cold.”

Mulder watches the Doc jot this down and he returns to the subject at hand. “So you moved here over the summer. Where’d you live before this?”

“Oh, gosh, just lots of tiny towns like this one. I find these empty little cabins, you know, and stay for a while. Then I move on when I get restless.”

“The Rosses said you come into town every so often to get supplies and gas. May I ask where you get the money for that?” Scully looks up to ask this.

Tallulah looks sly. “I don’t know that I want to discuss that with the FBI,” she says.

Mulder exchanges a glance with his fellow narc, who nods imperceptibly to any eye but his own. “We’re just here to find Rhiannon,” he reassures Tallulah. “Not do the DEA’s job for them. Neither Agent Scully nor I wish to fill out extra paperwork.”

Tallulah considers this, glancing between them. “Well,” she says at last. “I reckon you could say I’m real good with plants; I can coax anything to grow. And in boring little towns there’s, uh, a lot of people who like plants.”

Scully looks unimpressed by this attempt at euphemism. “Plants,” she repeats.

Tallulah shrugs. “I’ve said as much as I’m going to on that subject without a lawyer. But anyhow, what’s that got to do with Ree?”

“Just trying to get to know a bit about you,” Mulder says. “Sometimes we find witnesses have seen things they don’t even realize they’ve seen, and talking generally can help.”

“I know everything I’ve seen,” Tallulah asserts. “You live out here like this, you don’t miss much. It’s not like I have a lot to distract me.”

“What were you doing last Sunday morning, then?” Mulder asks.

She shrugs. “Woke up, ate, got dressed. Went over to the pump for some water.” She gestures at some distant point through the back wall. “Then I went looking for some mushrooms and things to eat. Eggs. Lots of greens out there.”

Scully narrows her eyes. “Ree was in the woods that morning too. You’re certain you didn’t see or hear anything?”

Tallulah scoffs. “The woods are pretty big. Might as well say we were both in Alabama.”

“Wyatt and Iona are under the impression that you don’t like children,” Scully says. “Have there been any particular incidents that would make them feel that way? Any encounters with Ree? It must have been irritating to have her running all over the edge of your property.”

“No, she’s all right and besides, it’s hardly my property. Scared of me like the rest of them, but all right. I like the way she is with animals, real gentle and all. Got a kind heart, that girl, and I wish more were like her. But here’s the plain facts. My mama didn’t want me, none of the parents who came to the Home wanted me, the other kids thought I was an alien, and I learned to just keep mostly to myself because I can take a hint. I go walking outside a lot, do some fishing in the little ponds and all, and that’s how I know who Ree is. You know the kids call me Jenny Greenteeth.”

“We’d heard that, yes,” Mulder says, feeling uncomfortably sorry for Tallulah. He knows empathizing with suspects is his weakness, and that it drives Scully up the wall.

“It’s not the first time, won't be the last. But I know Ree’s daddy thinks I hurt Ree. He’s pretty disapproving of my...plant business and I think he half believes that stupid old fairy tale.” She rolls her eyes.

“I saw you had a whole lot of firewood,” Mulder says, shifting gears. “You staying here all winter?” 

“I never know, but I’d like to. Doubt I will though, with this, uh, situation.” She picks at her gloves. “People can start to get unkind.”

Mulder gestures to the dry sink. “Seems kind of damp. Looks like you have some mold or something growing over there.”

The three of them follow his finger with their eyes, where bright green streaks the wall and sink. Mulder sees that there is far more than he originally noticed, spread over much of the wall all the way to the bed.

“Oh, yeah, these places always are,” Tallulah says. “You can always find these old cabins if you look a little, but it’s hard to keep them snug. Part of why I move so much. They just sort of collapse around you.”

Mulder glances at Scully, and they agree in a blink. 

“Well, I wouldn’t move any time soon, Tallulah,” Scully says in her Bad Cop way. “And I’d take a break from business until the situation - as you called it - is sorted out.”

Tallulah looks uncomfortable, but nods. “Yes ma’am.”

“Thanks for your time,” Mulder says. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

They rise from their rickety chairs and head out the front door. On his way past the bed, Mulder opens an evidence vial and scrapes it along the wall to gather a film of algae. If Tallulah notices, she doesn’t remark.

The sun feels over-bright after the dim cabin and, squinting, they pick their way carefully back to where they parked. One of the goats is on the hood of their rental.

Mulder is delighted by this, if only because he can write “GOAT ATTACK” on the return form. He hopes it will find its way across Kersh’s desk and make him chug Mylanta straight from the bottle.

Scully, far more vexed, begins throwing fallen pine cones at it. 

“Nice arm,” Mulder says. “Try bringing your knee up next time.”

She glares at him, exasperated. “Where’s a chupacabra when you need one?”

***

They’re back at the Cracker Barrel, playing Pegs, with Ree’s flier propped up against the napkin dispenser. Scully is picking at an anemic salmon fillet, and eyeing Mulder’s chicken fried steak with disdain.

“You know you want a bite,” he says around a mouthful of mashed potatoes and gravy. 

She looks irked. “I didn’t have time for a run this afternoon because I was on the phone with the eponymous Baptist Ladies.”

“I wasn’t going for leisure,” he says with an air of wounded dignity. “Talked to a lot of people while I was out and about. The crotchety old ladies on their porches love me, I’ll have you know. I’m charming, for a Yankee.”

Scully rolls her eyes. “They just thought you looked good in your running shorts.” She pauses, then looks mortified.

“Oh yeah? How about you; you think I look good in them?” She’s so easy to torment sometimes and besides, he’d kind of like to know.

“Your vanity needs no help from me,” she says primly. “So what did you hear?”

“Nothing official, of course, but there are rumors that the oldest Ross siblings, the twin boys, were getting weed from Tallulah, so Wyatt has it in for her.”

“Plants,” Scully corrects. “Geraniums, probably.”

“Doubtless. Some people think Ree stumbled onto Tallulah’s crop and Tallulah killed her, but given the fact that the geranium sales are an open secret, it’s pretty unlikely.”

“Plus I doubt Ree would know it if she saw it,” Scully adds. 

“She might if her brothers are dope hounds with the reefer madness, Scully. Mary Jane. Grass. Wacky tobaccy. It’s ruining good Christian families.” He shakes his head somberly. “Ganja.”

“Devil’s lettuce,” Scully adds and, for whatever reason, this undoes them both and they dissolve into laughter.

This earns them startled glances from nearby patrons who seem to generally disapprove of their dark clothing and clandestine ways.

It feels incredible to laugh. Less than a month ago his head had been cracked open like an oyster while Scully and Diana played Spy vs. Spy. And here he was now in this awful little town, safely away from all major conspiracies, having had carnal knowledge of the enigmatic Dr. Scully, and he had just won at Pegs.

And Scully thinks he looked sexy in his shorts.

She is glaring at the peg board when he asks about her phone calls. “So what’d you learn, other than a tuna casserole recipe and how to tease your hair?”

“Weird stuff, your favorite.”

“Lay it on me, mama.”

Scully settles back in the booth. Delivering information is her comfort zone. “Well, Tallulah’s basic facts were right enough. She was left on the front steps of the Home in a white laundry basket. By the look of the umbilical stump, she wasn’t a hospital delivery. No one was ever able to identify her parents. But about a week before she appeared, a baby girl went missing from the Home. There were no signs of a break-in, and the baby never turned up. Everyone just assumed her parents had taken her back and the whole thing was swept under the rug.”

Some quick math, and Mulder realizes this wasn’t long before Samantha went missing. He frowns, and Scully’s expression makes it clear that she’s done the same calculation.

“It was April,” she offers gently. “In the South.”

“Go on.” 

“The woman I spoke to said Tallulah did have lots of problems with other kids, but not just for her appearance. She did get teased for the teeth, but apparently she was an aggressive kid. Biting, pulling long hair. They went to the Y once a week for swimming lessons, and Tallulah would drag kids under the water under the guise of playing. She was banned from the pool eventually.”

“Jesus,” Mulder says. “Someone needed more time with Mr. Rogers.”

“Oh, is that how they addressed abandonment issues at Oxford, Dr. Mulder?” Scully asks, archly.

He grins. “Hey, the NHS budget isn’t unlimited. So how’d she end up here?”

“Well, apparently when a kid turns 18 they give them some money and set them up with a job in the community, which isn’t a bad situation. But Tallulah took off at 15, said she was sick of handouts. The Baptist Ladies put the word out, but Tallulah was good at hiding and was 19 before anyone found her. And only then by sheer accident - a former employee bumped into her in Macon, Georgia.”

“Were they able to tell you about her movements at all in the intervening decade? Places she’s lived?”

Scully shakes her head. “No, and there’s no records on her at all. No arrests for anything as minor as vagrancy or trespassing, much less dealing. Her fingerprints aren’t in the system. She’s like a ghost. I was going to call the sheriff’s office to ask about the weed, but I thought better of it. I don’t want to walk into anything unprepared.”

He sighs. “I’d like to look at missing child cases in the past ten years, ones where the kid went missing around freshwater. We’ll narrow it to prepubescent girls.”

She nods. “I’ll see what Danny can scrounge on ViCAP. The Baptist Home is supposed to be faxing Tallulah’s medical records, thin as they are, and I want to see what I can pull out. Oh, and here’s another thing. Marjorie - that’s the woman I spoke with - Marjorie said Tallulah was always going out at night to wander in the woods. Her bed and storage cabinet were always covered with green stains and - get this - what appeared to be gold dust. Her hair was wet and had algae in it, like she’d been swimming in a pond or lake. No matter what they did, she’d manage to get out. Eventually they gave up because she kept returning and it seemed to keep her violence down.” 

Mulder considers this. He’s had an idea since yesterday that he’s been hesitant to voice, but what the hell? “I was thinking about her gloves when we visited this morning.”

Scully raises a non-committal eyebrow.

“Hear me out. All of Ree’s stuff was covered with algae, right? And there was algae where it shouldn’t be at the crime scene and all over Tallulah’s wall. She said she’s good with plants too, right? What if algae grows when she touches things? What if that’s why she was wearing gloves when we came by?”

Scully puts her fork down. “She’s an algae witch?”

He sighs. “I’m saying it’s maybe a...like a manifestation of something else. It’s something she can’t control.”

“Let me guess. You think the missing baby was taken by Tallulah’s unearthly mother and that Tallulah is actually a changeling left in her place. She’s from a race of some kind of evil water fairies, and has stolen Rhiannon Ross as her mother stole the other child twenty-six years ago.”

A slow smile spreads across Mulder’s face. “Scully, are you trying to get me back in bed?”

She reddens, rolls her eyes. “Textbooks could be written about your deviance.”

“Oh, no doubt. But details aside, you have to admit there are some weird details there.”

“All our cases have weird details. But the algae is notable. I’d like to take some samples from Tallulah’s cabin and compare it to the algae on Ree’s belongings. I’ll have to see what equipment the sheriff's office has. We’ll need to send some out for DNA testing to be sure, but I could at least do some microscopic analysis. It could place her at the scene.”

Mulder passes her the little vial he’d collected that morning. It’s fuller than he remembered.

“Sneak,” Scully says, approvingly, sipping at her Diet Coke.

“I know you like bad boys. Apropos of which, why do you think the sheriff has left Tallulah alone about this weed thing? I mean, this doesn’t seem like a hip and swinging town, does it?”

“I was wondering that too. And Wyatt never mentioned it either. I’m also wondering why, if we go with your hypothesis, Tallulah would steal a grade schooler rather than a baby. And Mulder, that cabin was one room. There’s nowhere she could have stashed a child. What’s more, shouldn’t some changeling child should have shown up by now? I mean, by your logic.”

Mulder wipes his plate with a roll. “I admit there are complex facets involved here,” he allows. He has ideas percolating, but they need more time to steep. “But whatever the reasons she may have had, there’s no one else who even seems remotely likely. No dubious strangers in town, no evidence of any kind at the crime scene. No one I talked to today indicated there were any grudges with the Rosses.”

Scully curls back into the corner of their booth, looking modish with her dark clothes and sleek hair. “I hate this,” she says. “Autopsies are so clear. Manner and mechanism. You just read the body and it tells a story. Sometimes it’s a challenge, but it’s always there. Missing persons are nightmarish, especially children.”

Mulder, as he is prone to do, thinks of Addie Sparks. “Missing still has hope, I guess.”

She looks chagrined. “I didn’t think, Mulder. I’m sorry.”

He hates that his missing sister has consumed her life too. Hell, Melissa was murdered and Scully’s moved on in a relatively healthy fashion. “No, don’t be. I just mean that there’s cruelty there, in that hope. Schroedinger’s crime, you know. That last heart of Roche’s is the end of someone’s hope, only they’ll never know.”

She reaches across the table to take his hand in hers. “The sense that an answer exists but isn’t knowable is a miserable feeling,” she says. “Especially if it’s an answer that could redefine one’s status quo if only it were revealed.”

He’s pretty sure she’s not talking about the case now, and traces her fingers with his thumb. “So you wanna kill this thing, then? Perform a post-mortem, write it up, and move on?” He doesn’t want this, but at least he’d know.

Scully draws infinite circles on his wrist with her nail, and gooseflesh rises over his body. “Hope doesn’t have to be painful,” she murmurs to the table. She looks up at him with her summer sky eyes in the fading autumn light.

Mulder’s heart squeezes hard, then expands. “It’s kept me going for a long time, even when it is,” he tells her. 

She nods, lets go of him. “The motto of my first  profession is hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. But I tend to forget the maxim that should drive the second one.”

He has a flashback to scanning the plasma-vivid mind behind that perfect face. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“Dum spiro spero,” she says.

“While I breathe, I hope.” He smiles.

They get the check and go to the car.

***

The drive holds the easy silence of a pizza hangover, the kind when they’re wiped out on Scully’s couch with half-eaten slices and paperwork on the coffee table and floor.

Scully has her feet propped up on the dash and her seat reclined. She has a manila folder on her face, her eyes closed.

He thinks, as he sometimes does of late, about what a shit he was to her after Philadelphia. He’s never asked if she knew then that she was dying, but he’s always suspected she must have. 

All he’d known at the time was that she’d blown him off for a good-looking psychopath, let the man brand her like cattle, then poured her herself into his bed. He’d hated Jerse for the bruises on her face and body and psyche, but the man was under guard and therefore beyond his rage. He siphoned some of it onto Scully instead, for daring to need more than him and for seeking it. He wanted it to be about the desk because he could have given her the fucking desk. He could have easily fixed that without having to fix anything else between them. He could have kept going in a straight line instead of trying to make a map.

He thought of her in Jerse’s arms, in Jerse’s bed. Beaten by Jerse’s fists. He imagined the needle biting into the flawless canvas of her back and leaving that turning serpent there. He noticed that it went in a circle and at the time, he’d let that be about him too.

Later, when he understood that she was even more ephemeral than he feared, fits of self-pity left him wondering why she went for Jerse instead of him. Surely she knew he was available for emotionally destructive sex if that’s what she craved before dying. 

But it turned out that sleeping with her had been like losing his virginity all over again. In twenty years or so, if they were still alive, he might find the balls to tell her that.

***

Scully yawns when he parks the car, batting the folder off her face. “I was awake,” she insists.

“Very convincing,” he assures her. 

She swats his arm, straightens her seat. “I’m wondering if she was dealing elsewhere, maybe giving a kickback to LLE. Someone gets wind, she gets kicked out of town and moves along to another friendly hamlet. You know how these networks run.”

“Local law enforcement,” Mulder sighs. “The eternal bane of my existence. It would certainly explain a few things.”

“And if the Ross twins really are buying, you can see why Wyatt wouldn’t mention it to us. He can throw her under the bus without dragging his kids in too.”

Mulder rubs his eyes. “But how does it all come together? I mean let’s say Tallulah slides into these little towns, she deals to make ends meet. Pays some kickbacks. But why risk it on a serious crime like kidnaping or murder? This is the South, Scully. They do not fuck around, and kidnaping’s federal.”

She shakes her head, still frustrated. “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait for Danny, I guess. I’ll leave him a message when I get back to my room. The internet connection out here is a nightmare, so maybe he can dig it up while I’m at the lab.”

Scully unbuckles her seatbelt, but makes no move to leave the car. She plays with the edge of the folder. “I know you said you weren’t looking to go steady, but now that I’ve put out I was hoping I could get your varsity jacket.” 

He feels some of the tightness leave his neck at her willingness to play. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s a pretty sweet jacket. That’s more than a one-nighter. Maybe if you swing by in a cheerleader outfit I’d think about it.”

She looks up, smiling one of her rare smiles that show her teeth. “I think my mom still has my high school uniform in mothballs somewhere.”

He tosses his phone onto her lap. “Call. Now.”

Scully laughs her throaty, chuckly laugh. “Good night, Mulder,” she says, opening her door. “See you tomorrow.” She passes his phone back and slips into the dark.

He grins all the way to his room.

***

Diana comes to him again that night. He finds her at the edge of a meadow on a large rock, a vivid rainbow overhead. She wears a floor length evening gown of shimmering gold fabric, and her flesh is whole. She pats the rock, inviting him to sit.

“Hello, Fox.” 

He scowls, sitting. “As a manifestation of my subconscious, you could have the decency not to call me Fox.”

She laughs. “As an alleged manifestation of your subconscious, maybe you just want to be acknowledged as a fox by a desirable woman. How is Agent Scully this evening?”

“Spare me. Nice dress, Diana.”

She stands up and twirls. The gown flares out from her graceful waist into a narrow bell. Her feet are bare. “It is, isn’t it? It’s cloth of gold. Very Eleanor of Aquitaine, I think.”

“Is it heavy?”

Diana sits back down. “Oh, yes. Terribly heavy. And costly.”

He rubs it between his fingers. The fabric is stiff and itchy, like tweed. “Well, nothing’s too expensive when you’re dead, I guess.”

“Not expensive. Costly,” she corrects.

He furrows his brow. “Okay. What’s the difference?”

She shrugs. “It’s just that the cheapest way to pay is usually money. Some things cost much more than money. Surely you know that by now. But there’s no need to be dour, Fox. It’s beautiful out, and look at the rainbow.” 

He does. “Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and me,” he sings softly. Even in his dreams his voice is terrible.

Diana gets to her feet again, spinning in the grass. She starts to twirl faster, her hair whipping out around her. Her skin greys again, her face turning cadaverous, and little crawling things flying from her into the grass.

Mulder scuttles back from her on the rock, repulsed but captivated as she becomes a formless blur. 

Then she stops, stares at him from her cavernous eye sockets. Her bony chest is panting.

“Diana?” he breathes. 

She steps towards him and flickers back to her earlier smooth-skinned appearance.

Step.

Flicker.

Step.

Flicker.

He is transfixed.

“Is it real, or is it Memorex?” she muses.

Step.

Flicker.

He wakes up gasping before she can touch him.

***

He’d hoped this kind of shit would end with his neurosurgery, but apparently his subconscious is tenacious. Unless it’s not his subconscious, in which case he needs to get some tips from Scully, who sees an awful lot of ghosts for someone who doesn’t believe in them.

Yawning, he gets the in-room pot gurgling and clunking with whatever factory sweepings pass for coffee in the sticks. The room fills with an aroma reminiscent of burning tires.

A knock at the door distracts him and he opens it to find Scully holding two styrofoam cups steaming from their plastic lids. “Went for a quick run,” she says, stepping under his arm into the room.

He shuts the door.

“Mulder, prop that door open. It smells like wet asphalt in here.” She sets the cups down and turns the coffee pot off with a look of contempt.

“Ah, Scully,” he says, sipping from the cup marked M.

“You can take the car today,” she says. “Someone from the sheriff’s office is giving me a lift to the lab in Huntsville. It’s about an hour each way, so I doubt I’ll be back before dark. What are your plans?”

“I want to talk to Tallulah again,” he says. 

“Watch out for those goats,” she warns darkly. “I think the little one cost us the deposit.”

“I’ll bring pine cones.”

Scully frowns, steps closer to him. “Mulder, you don’t look so good. Are you feeling alright? Maybe you should have them bring her into the station for questioning instead.”

He waves her off. “Bed’s not great,” he says. “I’m just tossing and turning some, but the coffee should perk me up.” He takes a large gulp. “Mmmm, perky.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re a liar, but if I try to actually examine you you’re just going to be cranky or perverted. At least make sure your phone’s charged so you can call me if you keel over or something.”

He pouts, preemptively deprived of the opportunity for a predictable playing doctor joke. Damn her. “You suck the fun out of everything,” he informs her, sitting on the bed.

She walks over to him, standing between his knees. She puts her empty coffee cup on the night stand, then grips his t-shirt with both hands.

He swallows.

“As your physician, I ask that you try not to die in a stupid and avoidable fashion,” Scully says. Her mouth is inches away. She shakes his shirt for good measure before leaving.

He goes to the shower and stays there for some time.

***

Mulder stops off at the farm store where Scully obtained the coffee. He selects a raspberry danish, then adds a loaf of fresh bread and some local milk in a quaint glass bottle. 

“Five dollar deposit on the bottle,” the clerk informs him. Fahv dahlah dipawsit.

“What’s it made of, crystal?” he grouses, swiping his card.

“You that FBI guy?” the clerk asks suspiciously. “It’s pasteurized, it’s perfectly legal milk.You can test it.” 

“It seems fine,” Mulder assures her. He’d had no idea that there was a black market in milk. He takes his bag and makes for the door.

“It’s not homogenized though,” she calls after him. 

Mulder takes his unhomogenized, perfectly legal milk up into the mountains.

***

Tallulah’s chopping wood when he pulls up. She has on the same Carhartt overalls Wyatt did, and thick leather gloves this time. There are splinters and sawdust in her long braid. She’s not a bit beautiful, but has an appealing serenity.

“Hey,” Mulder says to the goats, who have come to sniff him. He scratches the big one behind the ears. The little one makes for the car.

Tallulah straightens up, wipes her wrist across her brow. “Mornin’, Agent Mulder. Where’s your partner?”

“She’s the science half of this outfit,” Mulder says. “She’s peering at things through microscopes and running them through unpronounceable equipment.”

“Like that algae you scraped off my wall?” Tallulah sounds amused.

“That would be one of the things, yes.”

She frowns thoughtfully. “You sure that doesn’t violate the Fourth Amendment?”

“California v. Greenwood says I can search your trash,” Mulder informs her. “Besides, you invited us in.”

“Like vampires,” Tallulah observes, and adds the split wood to her growing pile.

Mulder holds out the bag containing the bread and milk. He ate the danish on the way up. “Here,” he says.

She takes his offering and peers in. “What’s this?”

“Call it a belated housewarming gift,” he says. 

Tallulah looks at him for a long moment. “You know, some of the old mountain women believe it’s wise to leave a little offering of such homey treats to the Good Folk. Oh, they go to church of a Sunday and preach the gospel just fine, but come Saturday night, there’s little biscuits and butter at the forest’s edge, wrapped all in leaves.”

“I heard something about that,” Mulder says. “I guess it’s like wearing suspenders and a belt.”

She wipes down her hatchet with a faded bandanna, then puts it in a little storage bin next to the house. “Funny what people believe, isn’t it?”

“Funny.” He doesn’t take his eyes off her, even when the little goat jumps on the hood of his car.

Tallulah opens the milk and takes a deep gulp of it from the bottle. “That’s very good,” she says. “Now your partner would roll her lovely eyes at such a thing as you’ve brought, but she’ll kneel for wafers and wine.”

Mulder doesn’t ask how Tallulah knows this. “There’s a five dollar deposit on the bottle,” he says. “All yours, since you’re out of business at the moment.”

She smiles greenly at him. “Come in, Agent Mulder.”

He follows her up the steps and into the cabin, looking at her round-bellied stove, the faded patchwork quilt on the narrow brass bed. Mulder sees the appeal of this simplicity, a pared down life to strip away all foolish distraction. He recognizes his own romanticization of it, a rich boy with summer homes and an Oxford education wanting to play at Saint Jerome. He also considers that the Unabomber went to Harvard and lived this way too. Minimalism may not be inherently enlightening. 

Tallulah is sprawled in a chair, her steel-toed boots kicked off. Mulder sits at the table across from her, bread and milk between them. A ham and a cleaver are out as well.

“You hungry?” Tallulah asks. “That ham is from Sam Oakley out by the grain elevator. Just delicious.”

Mulder shakes his head. “Can she come back?” he asks, without preamble.

“Agent Scully? Any time she likes, though I’d ask for more of that milk if she does. I’ll pay you the deposit.”

Mulder senses a shift in her demeanor. She’s not the friendly, country orphan any longer. There’s mischief rising in her, something tart and maybe wicked. Her posture is languid rather than awkward now.

“You know what I mean, Tallulah.”

She works on loosening her braid. It’s hard in the thick gloves. “You mean Ree. You still think I know something about that.”

Mulder realizes that she is enjoying herself, remembers that the fay are supposed to love riddles and wordplay. “Well, we can talk about something else. I heard the Ross twins are customers of yours.”

She laughs. “The thing I absolutely love best about people is that they make rules to stop themselves doing everything they long for, then do it anyway while pointing their lying fingers at the next fellow for the same. I don’t really need the money, but I do think it’s funny to watch these fine upstanding people condemn me with one hand and pay me with the other. It’s pleasurable money to spend, and it passes the time.”

Mulder’s anarchic soul cannot deny the schadenfreude. “I notice you used third person instead of first.”

“I don’t make those kinds of rules. I just sell the devil’s lettuce to all comers without judgement. I do like to watch them chase themselves in circles, but I’m not a hypocrite.”

Devil’s lettuce. His neck prickles. “No? What are you then?”

She smiles, and her mouth has too many teeth in it. They seem very thin now. “I’m the apple in the Garden,” she says. “This realm has made nothing but trouble for my folk, and I like to pay back mischief as I can.” 

Tallulah slowly takes her gloves off and balls her hands into fists. She opens them and pieces of gold ore are in them. Closes her fists, opens her fists. She pours the gold onto the table and the pieces are streaked with algae.

He stares, awed. Shaken.

Tallulah holds his gaze. “Do you want some of it, Agent Mulder? Everyone else does, and it only costs a little. Can you offer me a most beloved child? The ring finger of each hand? All the memories of your sister?”

“Where’s Ree?” he chokes out.

Tallulah continues as if he hasn’t spoken. “Maybe there’s something else you want? A love spell?” She winks a green eye. “But you don’t really need it. She wants this as much as you, Mulder. When you kissed her she felt only relief and lust in equal measure. My god, she rode you like it was the Kentucky Derby, skirt around her waist and her breasts tight to your chest.”

Tallulah reaches up to stroke his cheek and he jerks his head away, appalled.

“How do you know all of these things?” His voice is scarcely a whisper and his stomach is lurching.

“A little ghostie tells me,” she says, and mimes an hourglass woman in the air. “Don’t think she realizes she does it though.”

Fingers trembling, Mulder retrieves three iron nails from his pocket. He’d pried them out of the floor at the motel, and now he brandishes them, hoping. Dum spiro spero.

Tallulah looks at them and hisses. “Cold iron!” she shrieks. “It binds my magic!” 

Then she snatches them from his hand and eats them, laughing.

He is too shocked to be frightened.

“Don’t feel bad,” Tallulah says, consolingly. “You’re not the first. Listen, you’ve looked through lots of one-way mirrors, right? Interrogating?”

He nods, not yet trusting himself to speak.

“Okay, well, imagine stacks of it. If you were standing on a tower of it, shiny side down, you could see to the bottom.”

Nods again.

“Attaboy. Now, if you were under that tower, looking up, you couldn’t see through up to the top. Hell, you wouldn’t even know there was a tower. One layer or a hundred would look the same. All you’d see was your own reality reflected back.”

Something is starting to coalesce in his brain. “You… your people are looking, uh, through to us, but we can’t perceive you.”

“Oh, looking down is much more accurate,” Tallulah assures him. “Like how you know ants exist and find them interesting, but they have no understanding that you exist because they’re tiny and stupid.” She looks smug and takes another drink of milk.

“Why are you telling me this?” He hates her, but he still wants her to talk.

She reaches across the table, caresses his hands with gentle fingers before he pulls them back. “Because no one will ever believe you and so it amuses me for you to know,” she says sweetly. “You can see up through the worlds  piecemeal, I think. Bits of the whole, like the Louvre through a keyhole. Your partner will say this was a hallucination brought on by recent brain trauma. Your superiors will laugh at you - at least aliens are masculine and slightly scientifically respectable. But fairies? Oh, dear.”

For a fraction of a fraction of a second, she wears Diana’s skeletal face.

Mulder feels hot bile rise in his throat, but forces it down. “Where’s Ree?” 

“The sheriffs in these silly towns never even remember our bargains, of course. They harass for my little game with the ganja, but then no one can recall why I’ve been picked up, and they apologize and I go. Some like babies, to start fresh, but not me. I like to know what I’m getting. I only take one a year, and they’re good ones. Sweet girls who love the woods and water. I was nineteen before I could make the gold come, so that’s only seven. You’ve seen worse then seven. Remember Roche, Mulder?” She changes her face to remind him.

The bile does come then, and he vomits on her floor.

“Rude,” she says mildly, and water pours from her fingers to wash it away and out the front door.

He fights nausea and dizziness. “Give them back. Give me Ree, Tallulah. Just let me take Ree home.” His hair is soaked with sweat and he’s terrified it will be Goldstein all over again. He pulls his gun anyway. Can she turn it on him like Pusher? Scully will be very angry with him if so.

Tallulah is unconcerned. “I don’t hurt them, you goose. I take them up through the looking-glass, so to speak. It’s beautiful there. It’s safe for them. They deserve better than to live with the people who look the other way for thirty pieces of gold. A bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy, really. Or is it a Catch-22? I’m not much of a reader.”

“Ree,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. He puts his finger on the trigger.

Tallulah grabs the cleaver and chops her hand off. There’s no blood. “Shoot me,” she giggles, and he passes out.

***

It’s still light out when he awakens in his car, just past two-thirty by the dashboard clock. There’s a glass of sweet tea and a slab of pound cake on the console. Feel better, reads a note in a fine copperplate. Sorry for the shock. Had to run an errand, but you should eat and drink before you drive or you might crash. Don’t worry - there’s nothing wrong with it. But no need to die in a stupid and avoidable fashion. Thanks again for the gift. I might return the favor.

Mulder eats and drinks. He figures if her food is poisoned or enchanted, he’ll be spared explaining to the Rosses that their daughter was kidnapped through an interdimensional portal as a sacrifice to the greed of public officials and the amusement of a wicked fairy.

The cheapest way to pay is money.

The snack is revitalizing and he sits until he feels his blood sugar level out. He wonders if Tallulah would have killed him if he’d met her empty-handed. He wonders if Ree is really alive somewhere, or if it’s just a game.

A headache has begun pulsing deep in his temple, like the throbbing brain of IT on Camazotz. Mulder fumbles his sunglasses out of the glove box.

He puts them on, filtering out the worst of the light. He breathes through his nose, massages his temples like Scully used to do when her tumor became rowdy. He begins to relax, the nausea and pain subsiding. His eyes slide closed as he digests the morning’s events.

“I’m sorry,” Diana says, her hand on his thigh.

He sits bolt upright and she’s next to him, her long legs cramped in the Scully-configured seat. 

“I’m not asleep,” he insists to both of them, looking wildly around. Tallulah’s house, the mountain, the forest - none of it has the surreality of a dream.

Diana strokes his cheek gently with her cool grey fingers. “I’m going now,” she says. “I thought I was helping, making it up to you after a last betrayal. But it turns out…” she shakes her head.

“Diana, wait. Are we here or am I sleeping? Do you know where Ree is?” He hears his own panic and fights it. “Diana, just help me find her. Don’t leave yet.”

She presses her lips to his temple, murmuring. 

“Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow —

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;”

Agent Diana Fowley fades away then, into the quiet peace of nothingness.

Mulder never feels himself waken, never feels a shift in consciousness. She’s simply vanished and he’s alone to finish the rhyme.

“Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?”

***

His drive back has a frenzied, febrile quality with saturated colors and echoing sounds. He is sweat-soaked and shivering when he gets back to the motel.

Mulder kicks his boots off and crawls into the bed. He draws the covers up under under his chin and falls away into the dark.

***

He wakes to her light fingers smoothing hair from his forehead. The sky outside is dark and starry, but it’s not even seven.

Mulder blinks, confused. “Scully?”

She’s sitting at the edge of the bed, in her dark trousers and a grey top. Her face is serious. “Mulder, I’ve been trying to wake you for an hour. You were burning up, but the fever seems to have broken. Did something happen?”

Everything. “No. I think you were right. I just came back to work too soon.” He gives her what he hopes is an appealing look.

Scully smells a rat but doesn’t push. She presses her fingers to his wrist. “I want you on antibiotics. I’ll call the pharmacy in the morning. They closed at five.”

He nods. “What did you find on the algae?”

She strokes his hair again and he feels like purring. “Nothing much. There were a few different strains at the pond but only one in her house. And a common one at that. It’s no good for linkage, I’m afraid, though I had them run a couple other tests. Nothing in the medical records they sent either - she’s as healthy as she says.”

“Well, did you get anything from Danny on disappearances?” 

She stops petting him to get up and retrieve a piece of folded paper from her jacket pocket. “I found a dozen that look possible, and six that match the details of this case pretty closely.”

He pats the blanket. “Come back and show me some more of that famous bedside manner.”

She snorts, but returns to her perch. “Here, look. I highlighted the six that look best. Called them too, and gave Tallulah’s name and description to LLE. None of them recognized the name or description.”

Of course, Mulder thinks. Of fucking course. “Betcha we’d get a different answer if we asked people who live there.”

Scully frowns. “What does that mean? You really think police departments from 6 towns are all embroiled in an elaborate web to protect a very low level weed dealer? Mulder, come on. I know you love a nice sexy conspiracy, but I think the best answer is that there’s some kind of drifter active in the area. I say we turn the whole thing over to NCMEC and go home. You look awful and there’s nothing else we can do here.”

He presses his hands to his face. Fuck, fuck. He looks back at Scully.  “I mean this lovingly, but please do not say anything condescending until I finish my undoubtedly insane rambling, okay?”

She narrows her eyes. “I should have let you sleep.”

Mulder props himself up against the pillows. He’s still chilly. “Okay, so there’s this concept of something called the Teind. It’s um…shit.” He stares at the bathroom door for a moment.

“Mulder, when you’re hesitant to share a theory, it gives me grave concern.” She scoots higher on the bed, crosses her legs. “But go on. The Teind.”

“So the idea is that there are other worlds - other simultaneous realms - that are layered over this one. Like a multiverse, okay? Like Schrödinger. You love Schrödinger, right? And Brian Greene?”

She purses her lips.

Mulder barrels ahead. “Okay, so. So one of these realms is what is sometimes called Faerie, or Elfhame. And our world, the so-called Christian realm, is constantly encroaching on theirs. Every seven years the Lords of Elfhame must pay a tribute to the Lords of Hell. This tribute ensures that the Christian realm with not destroy Elfhame and that the Lords of Hell will keep the Christian realm in check. I think that’s what these seven girls are - I think they’re tributes, or possible tributes. Maybe there’s a big pool created, I don’t know.”

Scully says nothing and it makes him nervous.

“Scully?”

She flops back beside him on the bed, gazing at the ceiling. “It’s a prettier story than drowning or murder or sex trafficking,” she says. “I mean sure, it’s essentially a complex pagan mafia real estate kidnaping scam, but it’s still better.”

He pulls the blankets up to his chin.

Scully turns, props herself up on her side to look at him. “What in the hell did Tallulah say to you, Mulder? Because I have to say, this is pretty far down the garden path even for you.”

He wonders if it’s even worth it. “She was able to conjure objects, Scully. Gold in her bare hands.” He has enough sense not to mention the cleaver.

Scully scoffs. “My dad could pull a quarter out of my ear.”

“She said that LLE knew she was taking these girls and she gave them gold for looking away. That the weed thing was just for her amusement, stirring the pot. So to speak.” He grins at his own unintentional joke. 

Scully scoots closer. “Mulder, what am I going to do with you? Don’t you think it’s much more likely that this woman is part of a larger drug and prostitution ring, tasked with procuring children for those up the chain? I believe there could be payoffs - small town cops are overworked and underpaid. But payments to the Lords of Hell? Realms? If she did show you gold, she was probably trying buy your silence as well but didn’t realize you’re too incorruptible to even notice, you stupid noble idiot.”

He feels oddly pleased by this assessment. “Well, can we at least agree that she probably is involved?”

Scully runs her finger down the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”

“And that whatever the source of funds, there are payoffs happening?”

She traces his eyes, his brows, his lashes. “Yes.”

“And that 1977’s Elvis in Concert is grievously underrated in terms of both quality and significance?”

She strokes the corner of his mouth. “Absolutely.”

If he does have a brain infection, he couldn’t care less if it means dying in bed like this. “Get under the covers,” he demands. 

She sits up. “I’m afraid not.”

“No, Scully, we were doing great while you kept saying yes to everything I said. Let’s try again and get back in the groove - can we agree that Kate Capshaw in Temple of Doom was a tremendous step down from Karen Allen in Raiders?”

She smiles. “Not even negotiable. But really, I’ve got a fax coming in up at the office and you need to rest. If we get stuck here because you end up with some exotic encephalitis, so help me god.”

He takes her hand as she gets up. “So you’re really ready to hand this off?”

Scully sighs, squeezing his fingers. “Look, the fax I’m waiting on is from Danny. I asked for a ViCAP cross reference on any unsolved sexual assaults or attempted abductions that dovetail with those missing girls. If nothing else, I think there’s a real case there that needs to be put together. It was a good call, Mulder.”

“If I go to sleep like a good boy, will you let me have one more chance with Tallulah?” He bats his lashes at her.

“One More Chance With Tallulah sounds like a Barry Manilow song. I’ll tell you what - I’ll check on you later and if you still haven’t got a fever I’ll allow it.”

He crosses his heart and lets her go.

***

He dreams a memory. 

Two weeks past, and he’s sprawled on his couch while Scully afflicts him with acts of medical science. She’s administering neurological tests, bruising him halfway to gangrene with a pressure cuff, and siphoning off enough blood to keep her bucktoothed sheriff happy.

“Scully,” he laments. “Your healing will be the death of me.” 

“Don’t be such a baby,” she says, with her usual bedside warmth. “You’re a week past a very serious brain trauma, and you refused to stay in the hospital because you’re an idiot. So you’ll put up with me and you’ll like it.”

He does like it. Looping into her mind with that fungus had been nothing like this. Her heart is an open wound that she constantly stitches back together to make it through another day. The amount of fight in her is enormous, and she channels into a broken and thankless world. 

She loves him, and what surprises him is that it isn’t the inevitable pair-bonding of proximity and isolation. Scully thinks about that sticky June day in the hallway too. Finishes the thought, sometimes, pinned to the wall like a butterfly with his fingers in her hair.

Pretty hot, Scully.

She’s bent over him with her tiny flashlight to check his pupils and his tracking, a corner of her lower lip tucked behind her front teeth. She leans forward, her brow furrowed at some minute anomaly. He stares at the arabesque of her collarbones, the two lines that circle her white throat. 

“Mulder, keep your eyes up,” she says in doctorly annoyance.

He does, and he doubts it takes psychic ability to read what’s onhis face

She runs her tongue over her top lip, and it’s like a circuit closes.

His hands are at the back of her neck, her waist, pulling her towards him as he sits up. He kisses her like should have ages ago, reckless and open-mouthed and decisive.

Scully drops the flashlight and kneels next to him on the sofa. She sips at his mouth with her cool little tongue, slides her fingers through his hair. She stops short  at the bandage and pulls away. “Mulder,” she says, ashamed, and moves to get up.

He grabs her upper arm, far harder than he means to. She gasps, and not at all unhappily. He had not seen this in her directly, but he had suspected.

“Let me go,” she whispers. “I don’t know what I was thinking. You’re not well.”

She’s close enough for him to see her hard nipples through the silk, her dilated pupils. He keeps his eyes on hers while uncurling his fingers from her bicep. 

She swallows.

He reaches out to undo the minuscule pearl buttons on her blouse. He’s always loved the high drama of women’s clothing, like a puzzle box.

Scully says his name again.

“Go,” he tells her, as her shirt falls open. He slips his hands under the fabric to plane her back and waist. He’d touched her here in Antarctica, but not like this. He tongues the tight stretch of her navel, breathes in the hot scent of the skin beneath her bra. It’s astringent with her tea-tree soap, sharp with her sweat.

She’s on her knees still, her fingers back at his stubbled jaw, his earlobes. She’s dipping her head to kiss his hair while she makes little animal noises.

“Go,” he repeats, and she doesn’t.

He unhooks her bra, a simple white satin affair, and she lets go of him long enough to pull it off with her shirt. 

It is with difficulty that Mulder sits back to look at her. Her belly is flat and taut, her breasts full above them. They are lightly veined with the blue of her eyes, her nipples the color of late raspberries. Around them is the fine, crepey skin of her areolae, puckered tight. Her head is tipped forward, glorious flame of hair falling around her fine Roman face, full lips parted.

He’s hard to the point of pain.

Scully watches him watch her, reaches behind her back to unfasten her skirt. She laughs.

“What?” 

“It’s stuck, Mulder. The zipper’s stuck.” She tugs more forcefully, her breasts shifting as she moves.

He half assumes this is the ghost of Ahab at work, denying the FBI the last vestige of his daughter. Mulder pulls at the zipper too, but it doesn’t budge.

Scully reaches under the hem of her skirt and works her stockings and underwear down. She tosses them away like snakeskin. 

His cocks twitches in his jeans with seven years of potential energy. No pretending he hasn’t wanted her since she stripped down to her good-girl cotton panties in a panic, but it’s so much more now.

Pulls his shirt off, then tugs her onto his lap. She’s infertile and knows his medical records better than he does, but he asks anyway. “Condom?”

She shakes her head, runs her light hands over his chest. He could come from this alone, the weight of her bare ass on his lap and the sensory overload of breasts and hands and scent.

He groans when she sucks at the tender skin below his ear. “Scully, I’m pushing forty and I think it’s only fair to warn you that-“

She’s opened the fly of his jeans. Mulder raises his hips, Scully still on his lap, to work them down with his boxers. The cool air on his cock is torment.

Time slows, drips like honey, then stalls entirely. Scully’s eyes are wide, focused, as she moves herself over and around him. Her head rolls to the side, then forward. She sighs something blasphemous from flushed lips.

Mulder bites his tongue until it bleeds to ensure he’ll last longer than the average teenager. Perhaps her next thesis can be on the frictionless surface of her own body, the impossibly slick heat of it. He wants to taste her too, but that would require not being inside her and god help him, he hasn’t got the willpower for that right now.

Scully’s head is against his neck, panting humid nonsense into his ear while her breasts are flattened to his chest. He holds her at the hips, letting the sinuous flexion of her spine have its way with them both.

He’s embarrassingly close to ending this, and clenches his nails into his palm. Scully bites at his neck, his earlobe, and there’s no resolve left. He groans something mindless as he clutches her body, shudders and twitches as she squirms around him. Mulder holds her tight to his hips, grinding up into her with the kind of surging napalm pleasure he’d forgotten was possible. Her little bare feet squeeze his thighs, and the universe condenses to her hundred and ten pounds of exquisite physiology. His head falls to her chest and he slips out of her with a groan.

He could sleep for days, but instead reaches between them under her skirt to find her clitoris. She so wet his finger slips at first. Scully squeaks, a little chirp, and finds a rhythm with him that pleases her. 

She arches her back away from him, her hips forward, and he is awed anew. Her hair tumbles between her shoulder blades, her breasts bouncing softly as he strokes her. 

He says her name, sotto voce, and slips two fingers inside her. He shifts his thumb to her clitoris, presses his fingers to the ridged tissue of her g-spot. He writes his name there a dozen times.

She whimpers, and he leans forward to draw the hot little bud of her nipple into his mouth. He sucks at it, grazes it with his teeth. Scully comes with a gasp and falls against him, shuddering. She licks his neck, mouth on his ear and his lips. 

He envelops her with his arms and draws the Navajo blanket around her narrow shoulders. He holds her, listening to her heart and lungs as they slow to normal. He smooths her tumbled hair.

She runs her fingers along his bandage again. “Are you okay?” 

He has literally never felt better in his life. He feels like a lord of creation, like Adam striding through the Garden of Eden to survey his dominion. “I’m fine,” he says, in her snippy voice.

She laughs, burrowing closer. “You have a bed, don’t you?”

Mulder slips an arm under her legs and another behind her neck. He lifts her as he gets to his feet, carrying her like a bride. She’s such a central force in his life, the mass around which he orbits, that it is odd for her to be so light. 

He kicks his bedroom door open and lays her out face-down on the comforter. “Let’s work on that skirt,” he says.

Somehow he’d forgotten about the tattoo. The burning red mouth that marked the beginning of their darkest times together, that portal to her lonely trip north. He pushes aside the memory of what he’d said, the photographic evidence that came home with her. There be dragons, the old maps say.

He kisses it and she flinches. He prays it isn’t shame. Or fear.

With careful maneuvering, he breaches the zipper and tugs the skirt away. She rolls to her back again, her body spilled across his dark blankets like a shaft of  errant starlight. He is pleased to note she has eschewed the recent fashion for shaving oneself utterly bare. 

He gets to his knees, pulls her to the edge of the mattress by her hard little ankles. She starts to speak, but he cannot hear once her thighs are tight against his ears. 

In the morning, she will disappear with the dew.

***

Her cool palm on his cheek wakes him and it takes an unhappy second for the dream to snap away. He’s uncomfortably hard and rolls onto his side for some relief. It’s eight by the bedside clock.

“Hey,” she says, sitting down. “You okay?” 

He clenches his left thigh until there’s pain, and it helps. She looks tired, he notices. Drawn and weary from too much bad coffee and too little proper sleep and feeding. He ought to make her take a vacation where she gets wrapped in seaweed and fed organic mangoes by beautiful castrati.  

But for now, they’ll have to manage on motel moisturizer and takeout. “Do I smell pizza?” 

“Indeed. Just wanted to see if the fever was gone first.” She squints at him. “You look a hell of a lot better. Did you take something? I might be able to hold off on the antibiotics; I know what they do to your stomach.”

He stretches. “Well, just in case, thanks for checking my forehead instead of going rectal,” he says. “Sometimes you have a slight sadistic side.”

“When was your last prostate exam?” she asks sweetly.

Mulder sits up. “I didn’t know that was your scene, but I’m open-minded. Let’s go.” He peels the covers back, feeling like he needs a long run to revive himself from the day. He hates being idle for so long, and his clothes feel stale.

Scully realizes she’s overplayed her hand and wrinkles her nose. “Let’s preserve the magic on that for now. You okay to get up, or should I bring the pizza here?”  

He’s not freezing anymore, and his head isn’t throbbing. “I’ll get up,” he says. “I’m starting to 

feel like one of those consumptive Victorian heroines.”

“Mmmm,” she says. “Maybe I should leech you and give you some cocaine for that.” Scully goes to the little table where the pizza box is sitting. She opens the lid, and hot greasy air wafts out.

Mulder gets up and walks over, scuffing his socks along the drab oatmeal carpet. He zaps her with his finger and she scowls.

“Ugh, go back to bed.”

He can’t help himself when she’s his favorite toy and part of his brain will always be an arrested 12 year old idiot. He flips the chair around to straddle it, resting his elbows across the back. “What’s that, mushroom and pepper?”

“And pepperoni on half for you.” Scully disdains the greasier meats herself, but will treat him on occasion.

Mulder realizes he’s starving and rolls a piece up like a burrito, demolishing it in four bites before Scully’s done blotting the grease off of her own.

“I’m not performing the Heimlich maneuver if you choke on that,” she says, delicately peeling off two slices of pepperoni that have contaminated her mushrooms. She holds them out to him.

Mulder snaps them out of her fingers like a trained seal. He rolls another slice up, gesturing with it. “So I’m cleared to go nose about more tomorrow, right?”

She tweaks his nose with her oily fingertips. “You’re certainly equipped for it.”

“Right for the gut. We can’t all look like we were carved from marble, I’m afraid. You’ll have to deal with my hideous deformity as nature presents it, Roxanne.” He eats half his pizza, then wipes his face.

Scully finishes her slice. “Did she really show you gold this morning, Mulder?”

He nods, swallows. “Yep. And you said that woman you talked to told she’d show up after nights out streaked with algae and gold dust. Maybe she was, I don’t know, developing her powers. You said she was missing for a few years.” 

She considers this. “I think indicates that she herself was being abused or exploited in some way from a young age, Mulder. I mean, if you can access it, unmarked gold is a nearly untraceable currency and good in any market. They start giving her little cuts, get her dealing in her teens to build trust and rapport with kids. It’s a trafficker’s dream.”  

He hates that she’s not wrong, and it’s got nothing to with defending his theory. He’s got a reputation as a bleeding heart in many corners, but would happily support supplying child predators as involuntary organ donors. Punching Roche had been a career highlight. 

“You have to concede that the linkage between fairies and gold goes way back.” Diana’s rainbow suddenly makes sense to him, and he feels stupid. “I mean, leprechauns, of course. And Rumplestiltskin - who wanted a baby in exchange for gold, I might point out. The original story of Cinderella features bewitched golden shoes instead of glass. Jack climbs the beanstalk for a golden harp and a golden harp and golden coins; there are dozens.”

She rolls her eyes. “Mulder, for heaven’s sake. These stories are all about wish fulfillment. And gold was the ultimate wish, it’s a universal currency. Of course if people are going to create stories about strange, powerful beings with the ability to fulfil desires, those desires will be about financial freedom. I’d say those tales represent far more about human longing than fairy powers.”

“I saw her do it,” he says, but doesn’t press the issue. “You hear from Danny?”

“Yeah, nothing. It’s like whomever took the girls vanished along with them. No reported drifters, no unfamiliar cars, no uptick in petty thefts or break-ins.”

Mulder jabs at the table with a finger. “It’s not a drifter, Scully. We agreed on that.”

“Right, but if it’s Tallulah, then these girls have to go somewhere. She has to be meeting someone, she can’t just - I don’t know - keep them in her little cabins like a stray dog indefinitely, then drive out of town in her Volvo.”

“Well, on that point I cannot argue. I’m going to talk to her tomorrow, see if there’s anything else she wants to unburden. We need to touch base with the Rosses too, I guess.” He eats her discarded crust.

“I can stop by while you’re charming precious metals out of Elfhame.” She’s looking up at him through her sooty end-of-day lashes, the tip of a pizza slice between her teeth.

His stomach flips. Leave it to Scully to arouse him at the weirdest possible times. “Scully, why’d you leave?” he asks, because he wants to know and because she let him put a chip in her neck, and because she smells like tea tree oil and jasmine, and because he made her drink sardine juice to save her life, and because she shot him once, and because she saved him after having his skull drilled into twice, and because she tastes like saltwater taffy and the sea.

She frowns. “Well, you had a fever, and I wanted to-”

“That morning,” he clarifies. “Why’d you go?”

She sighs. “I suppose I knew this was coming,” she says. “Of course you couldn’t possibly be a gentleman and mind your business about it.”

He’s stung until he sees the smile in her eyes. “I’m only a gentleman in the parlor,” he says. “This is most definitely a bedroom.”

Scully leans back in her chair, crossing her legs. “It’s what I did after Dallas, don’t you remember? It’s what I did to Jack Willis, it’s what I tried to do in Philadelphia that time. My journal to you, when I had cancer, it was just a long Dear John letter, Mulder. When I was in med school, there was this man…” she trails off, staring at the cheap tile ceiling.

Mulder tries to process this. “I think you’re being a little hard on yourself, Scully. You weren’t running after Dallas - they transferred you.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “That’s not what you said at the time. You said I was quitting. You said you would too, if I left.”

He winces inwardly at the memory of what he’d said. “Well yeah, but I was trying to guilt you into staying, so you have to cut me some slack.” 

She laughs, throws a wadded-up napkin at him. “Is that all you were trying to do, Mulder? I remember something else, in the moment.”

He doesn’t tell her that he knows exactly how well she remembers. “You’re incredibly good looking,” he says, with an air of confession. “Sue me.”

She smiles, looking down at her hands. “Mulder, I left the way I did the other morning because I didn’t know how else to leave. I didn’t know what it meant, and I still don’t. Was I… were we supposed to eat breakfast in bed and clean our guns together?”

There’s something bitter in her voice that he sets aside for later. He reaches across the table to take her hands. “Scully, why does it have to be anything? We could have had some coffee, tracked down your underwear together. They’re still in my sock drawer, incidentally.”

She blushes and punches his arm for that.

He laughs. “But seriously. What good does it do to worry in advance about how things will go wrong? I mean, look at me. I’m a total fucking disaster by many metrics, but I get by. I wing it most of the time, sure, but I manage.”

Scully laughs, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Truly a ringing endorsement. But I don’t know what you expect me to say, Mulder. I was a physicist before I was a doctor, you know. So I guess I just leave before entropy can fully take over.”

“I know,” he says. “But you can’t fail at this. There’s no checklist. There’s no test to pass or form to fill out.”

She makes a noise of frustration. “Mulder, do you not understand that that’s exactly the part that’s impossible for me to handle? That I can’t ever know, empirically, if I’m doing all the things that...that...I’m supposed to?”

He stares at her in confusion. “That you’re supposed to? I don’t even know what that means. There’s no supposed to. You just do.” He says this with the confidence of a man whose six-month marriage hadn’t fallen apart, of a man who hadn’t had a one-night stand with a blood fetishist, or an extended disaster with a British sociopath. 

Scully shakes her head. “I make lists and five year plans.”

He refrains from asking her how well that’s panned  out. “Take your shirt off,” he says.

She freezes, startled. “Mulder, we’re on a case, I don’t-”

“Trust me,” he says, knowing she considers it the most dangerous phrase in his lexicon. “You’re stressed. You’re exhausted. I was going to rub your back.”

She smirks. “I think my mom fell for that and got pregnant with Charlie.”

“Indian Guide’s honor,” he says. “I’ll get the lotion from the bathroom.”

Scully eyes him suspiciously, but goes to the bed and smooths the blankets out.

He retrieves the little bottle of lotion and reads it. Scully will have to settle for “Alabaster Gardenia,” this evening. It occurs to him that Padgett would have referred to her as an alabaster gardenia and he rolls his eyes. 

When he emerges, Scully is facedown on the bed, head on the pillow. Her smooth back is bare to the waist of her trousers, where the serpent lives, and her sock feet small and dark. Her shirt and bra are folded neatly on the night table, as though he is an actual masseuse.

Mulder straddles her hips, kneeling, and pours the lotion into his hands to warm it. Close up, he sees red marks from her bra straps on her shoulders and decides to start there.

“Wouldn’t this have been a nice morning?” he asks, working the lotion into her skin. “I could have done this for you. And with better lotion - you know I’m knowledgeable on the subject.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles into the pillow. 

He feels deep, hard knots in her back and attacks them with his thumbs, following the muscles down the sides of her spine. He’s not sure it’s effective, but then Scully groans happily into the bedding.

He’s pleased, working back up to the delicate muscles of her neck and base of her ears. “Is this good?”

“Don’t stop.”

He refrains from innuendo, wanting to prove to her that this is about so much more than sex. He kneads the folded wings of her shoulder blades, her handspan waist. There is lotion on her trousers and in her hair, but he doesn’t think she’ll mind.

She’s dozy and pliant now, breathing slowly. He’ll pet her to sleep like this every night if it suits her, like a little feral cat.

“Mulder?”

“Hmmm?” He traces the tattoo again, trying to bond with it and love it because it’s part of her. The work is admittedly beautiful.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you when I left. I don’t know how to be easy with things like you are.” She turns on her side, an arm draped across her breasts.

“Well, one of us has to have a plan,” he says airily. “Poor Walter’s always been afraid of me corrupting you. I never felt like he was angry, you know? Just disappointed. My god, this would kill him.” He thinks Poor Walter might be more than a touch in love with her too, but keeps this to himself.

She turns fully onto her back now and, to his dismay, works herself under the sheets. “Well, Kersh just thinks you’re mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”

“Put it on my tombstone.”

“Of course you’d take that as a compliment. Lord Byron was really awful, but at least we got Ada Lovelace out of him. Mulder, why are you pulling clothes out?”

He hunts for his favorite t-shirt amid the wreckage of his suitcase. “I’m going for a run. I’ll be up all night otherwise.”

Scully frowns disapprovingly. “You really shouldn’t after today, Mulder. Can you make it a casual jog, at least?”

“Brisk trot. Leisurely gallop.”

“It’s AMA,” she warns him, but doesn’t argue further.

Mulder changes quickly while she drowses, limbering himself against the night table where her clothing sits. He opens the door, and the night air is invigorating.

“Hey Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t promise you anything, but I want to try to...you know. This.”

“Okay,” he says, and hopes she’s too sleepy to hear the thickness in his voice.

***

She’s out cold when he gets back, occasional little Scully-snores in the silence. He rinses in the shower, making excessive noise to alert her to his presence.

Mulder dries off and wraps himself in the undersized motel towel, putting his shoes back on against the dubious carpet. He walks over to Scully and strokes her hair.

“Mmmfff,” she says, bleary-eyed. “Am I still here?”

He holds out her shirt. “You’ll want this before you head next door,” he says.

She blinks. “Okay.” Then she promptly falls back asleep.

Mulder is not one to beg. He pulls his boxers on, toes the shoes off, and climbs in next to her. He is delighted to find that she has kicked her socks and trousers off, now clad only in her little grey bikinis.

He strokes the violin curves of her, from her shoulder down the sweep of her waist to her thighs. She sighs in her sleep.

He knows Scully would explain that he’s evolutionarily primed to be attracted to her full breasts and rounded hips. She’d tell him about how pelvic girdle width is an advantageous adaptation for such a melon-headed species.

He’d counter with the Golden Ratio. Sometimes beauty is its own justification.

Mulder snuggles in next to her. If he dreams that night he doesn’t remember. And if she wakes, she doesn’t leave.

***

His alarm goes off at six. Scully is an immovable lump next to him under the bedding, her exposed hair the only sign that she isn’t a heap of pillows or an extra blanket. He strokes the fine vellum of her belly until she stirs. “Time to get up,” he murmurs.

She pokes her head above the comforter and looks at him, confused. “What time is it? Did I spend the night?”

He smoothes her hair back from her brow. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Scully sits up, holding the sheet to her chest with one hand. “Where are my clothes?” She feels around under the blankets with evident agitation. 

Mulder points at the night table. “I put your shirt and bra there, but I don’t know about the pants and socks. You lost those while I was running, but I can give you a hand.”

She puts a hand to her forehead and looks tense. “This is what I was afraid of, Mulder. This… this chaos.”

He rubs her thigh and doesn’t laugh at her idea of chaos. Scully may sometimes think of him as a giant untrained Weimaraner who is either destroying her life or nosing her crotch, but he’s also got a DPhil from Oxford and occasionally he picks up on social cues. He moves the blankets around, keeping her covered, and eventually finds her belongings wadded up between the pillows.

“Here,” he says gently, and hands them to her. 

She nods, biting her lip. “I need to go.”

“Okay,” he says, and doesn’t touch her. “I’m going to get in the shower. Come back over when you’re ready?”

Here smile is lukewarm, but present. “I’ll bring some coffee.”

Mulder tosses her the keys. “Get me one of those raspberry danishes too, if you don’t mind.”

He turns his back to give her privacy, then heads into the bathroom. He must have missed it yesterday, but sees that Scully’s left her little can of mousse on the sink for him. When they get home, he’s going to buy some of those velvet hangers she likes, to keep in his closet. He thinks of Ree, holding out dried corn for her deer. 

They’ve spent so long in the dark together it’s daunting to walk into the light.

***

Mulder takes a scalding shower, burning sweat and dead skin directly from the pores. He scours himself like a penitent until the heat becomes nauseating. When he steps out onto the little rug, the air feels nearly Arctic, and it perks him up. He feels purified of something nameless.

Scully’s lilac mousse in his hair, and he’s back in a suit for seeing Tallulah today. He thinks it’s best to remind her that he has a badge and a gun. He tries not to think about her hand, for once hoping he had experienced a hallucination.

He sits on the bed to tie his shoes when Scully comes back in, carrying a paper bag. She’s got on last night’s clothes still, her hair tucked behind her ears.

“They were out of raspberry, but I got you blueberry. Me too, actually. They looked good.” She holds out the bag, fragrant with coffee.

“Keep the change,” he says, taking the bag from her with happy anticipation.

“You should be doing stand-up, really.” She joins him on the bed.

Mulder passes her food to her, wishing he could make a breakfast-in-bed quip without sounding desperate. “So what’s your game plan today, then?” he asks around a mouthful of pastry.

She licks blueberry filling off her thumb. “Back to the lab, then I’ll see after that. We grew some of the algae samples at different temperatures to see if that could explain it being in Ree’s thermos in particular.” She blinks. “Oh! That reminds me! The lady at the store said to tell you not to forget about your bottle deposit.” 

“Thanks,” he says, hoping it doesn’t incite further questioning.

But no such luck with his inquisitive inamorata. “What bottle deposit?” she asks, puzzled.

He shifts, rolls his steaming cup between his palms. “Brought some groceries up with me to Tallulah’s yesterday. I figured it might grease the wheels a little.”

“Hmmm,” Scully says, and sips her coffee. “Well, it does sound like she had a lot to tell you. Anyway, I’ll be in Huntsville for the morning at least if you need me. Then I figured I’d - we’d, depending on your schedule - touch base with the Rosses, see if the search teams have found anything that hasn’t made its way to us.”

“Sounds good.” He brushes crumbs off his lap onto the floor, and supposes the mice will find them sumptuous.

Scully finishes her danish, clearly pondering something.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he offers.

Scully scoffs. “I’ll add it to my tip. I was just thinking; I did a little research while you were asleep yesterday. Apparently the term name Jenny Greenteeth applies not only to the creature in the legend, but has been generalized in some areas as a name for duckweed. In can make a pond surface look like inviting moss to walk on, like we saw down at the pond where Ree disappeared. Why not just...I don’t know. Why not just warn your kids about drowning instead of making up a - what did you call them?”

“Nursery bogey,” he replies. “The prevalent theory is that most kids will overestimate their abilities against natural dangers. They believe they can swim across a pond, or navigate through a forest, or climb a very tall tree. But if the supernatural is introduced, children are less likely to believe they can overcome the danger. So the deterrent is more effective.”

She shudders. “What a grim way to parent. Though I suppose it’s all just a variant on ‘don’t do that or you’ll die.’ And not so different from the Tooth Fairy or Santa, I guess.” Scully drinks her coffee, musing.

He considers this. He always found Santa creepy in a Panopticon way. “But Santa doesn’t provide a specific deterrent from naughtiness, only a reward for good.”

She sets her cup on the night table, presses her hands between her knees. “Well, there’s Krampus.”

Mulder loves the deranged chaotic energy of Krampus. “Krampus is good.”

“When I was taking German we were, you know, learning all the cultural bits of Germany. And Krampus is a companion of Saint Nicholas, which I thought was just terrible. Saint Nick gets all the credit for presents and just has Krampus do his dirty work.” She shakes her head at the treachery of Bavarian Santa.

He grins. “Santa’s that shitty friend who makes him carry out all the bullying so he can keep his hands clean and be teacher’s pet.”

“Ugh, I always hated that kid,” Scully says. She drinks her coffee, looking dark.

Mulder is joyful. Talking with her like this is the brightest spot in any day and he doesn’t want it to end. But there’s still a lost girl to find. “Well,” he says, slapping his thighs, “we’d best be off.”

She nods, serious again. “Depending on how the lab results look, we might be able to bring Tallulah in for questioning.”

He doubts it will do a particle of good, but they all need something to cling to. “Keep me posted.”

Scully reaches over to pat his hair. Heat radiates from her, and the warm cotton smell of her skin. Her coffee-and-danish breath is sweet in his mouth. “You can keep that mousse,” she says.

Mulder clears his throat. “I’m going to,” he assures her. “So much hold, but not sticky or stiff.”

She kisses him, close-mouthed, and flicks his ear before leaving.

***

The car shimmies up the unpaved road, rattling spent sunflower seeds in the empty Quik Mart cup. He grips the wheel against the uneven drive, against his anxiety over facing Tallulah again. Scully had come undone with Pfaster, her hard varnish becoming brittle and crumbling in the cold. Mulder fears Tallulah may leave him similarly disarmed.

He pulls up the last stretch of road to the meadow below the cabin, and stares in confusion. Instead of the weathered shack is a tangle of kudzu, ivy, strangler fig, and splintered planks. Mulder parks and slowly gets out of the car. He pushes his sunglasses up onto his forehead, picking his way up the path in gripless leather-bottomed dress shoes.

He crouches in the waist high grass, looking for...he’s not sure what. The floor of the cabin is utterly destroyed, existing only as a series of foot-long splinters. Large sections of the walls are collapsed inwards, algae-covered and snarled in woody vines. Tallulah’s few possessions, including her bed and kitchen furniture are gone. The big goat wanders over to chew on a section of the door. 

Mulder stands again, circles the wreckage with his hands on his hips. “Son of a bitch,” he says, kicking at it. He puts his sunglasses back on and stares into the woods.

Typical, absolutely fucking typical. He wants somewhere to put his anger, somewhere righteous and useful, but there is nothing. He longs for the congested grittiness if DC, where he can yell at corrupt officials or aggressive drivers or at least a noisome pigeon. But here there is nothing except unspoiled beauty as far as the eye can see. 

Looking back at the wreckage, he sees something glinting in the bright morning sun. He tugs at a swath of thorny vines hanging over the remains of the porch, and the milk bottle rolls out from beneath the greenery.

Mulder picks it up and sees a slip of paper inside. It slides out when he inverts the bottle. I guess we’re even, it reads, in a familiar hand.

He looks at the paper for a long time then, carefully, sets the bottle back on the ground. He begins running towards the tree line.

“Ree!” he calls. “RHIANNON!”

 Birdsong and silence.

He shouts her name again and again, receiving no reply. Mulder stops to take in his surroundings, never once doubting his interpretation of the note. “REE!”  he yells once more, and has only his echo for a reply.

He paces at the edge of the wood, looking, but there is nothing. Then, a hundred yards or so off, he sees a rock, like the one beneath Diana’s rainbow. He races towards it, loosening his tie. 

She’s still when he gets to her, a small bundle wrapped in a quilt that Mulder recognizes instantly from Tallulah’s bed. He crouches beside the girl. Twigs and leaves are snarled in her cornsilk hair, and her face is hollow and dirty.

Mulder reaches out to touch her cheek. “Hey,” he whispers. “Rhiannon?”

She stirs slightly, then opens her eyes. They’re far greener than they looked in her school picture. He tells himself it’s the light

“Mama,” Rhiannon says. She reaches out a thin, filthy hand.

Mulder gathers her up in his arms, head tucked against his neck. She weighs next to nothing, and he wants to run but is afraid of internal injuries or losing his footing. He moves as quickly as he dares back to the car.

Ree whimpers softly the whole time, her dry little fingers clutching at his collar. She calls for her mother and father.

He comes to the ruined shack and wants to show it to the child, to ask her a hundred questions, but he passes it in silence and arrives at the car. Still holding Ree’s little body close, he opens the back door. She begins to cry and clutch at him when he tries to lay her down.

“Please,” she begs, he can feel his heart break anew  when he pries her away, sobbing, onto the seat. Ree curls into the fetal position under the tattered quilt, mumbling to herself. 

He’d have laid rubber if there were any road to lay it on when he peels off towards town. Steering with his knee, he fumbles for his phone to call Scully, but there’s no service. He swears, flooring the gas.

A thin, awful, wail from Ree and he thinks of Emily dying by inches, dragging Scully down with her to the grave again. Emily’s burning body in his arms, staring mutely at him with her mother’s eyes.

He squeals onto the main road, eliciting a chorus of angry horns, when he realizes he has no idea where a hospital is. Scully’s off in Huntsville and he isn’t qualified for anything beyond CPR.

Mulder remembers the fire station from when they first arrived, and runs several red lights to get to it. Someone throws a rock at the car, but it bounces away.

Ree wails again, sitting up to scrabble at the window. Mulder glances at her in the rear view as he swerves onto MacNeill Street. She is thinner than he realized, and very pale. He didn’t think to check her gums and wonders if she’s in shock.

He calls back a flurry of reassuring nonsense to her, but she seems not to hear him. “I’m with the FBI,” he repeats. “You’re safe, Ree.”

She claws at the glass, whimpering.

Mulder finally sees the fire station up ahead on the left. He swerves across oncoming traffic and pulls halfway into the engine bay, narrowly missing four guys cooking hotdogs on a flimsy portable grill. They rise, yelling and waving their arms.

He’s waving his badge when he gets out, shouting Ree’s name over their indignant bellowing. 

“What the fuck do y-“

He opens the back door, catches Ree before she hits the ground. That’s all the conversation they need. The EMTs are yelling to one another, getting Ree in the ambulance, telling Mulder he’s a goddamn hero but he’d better get his fucking car out of the fucking way.

He backs out along the curb as the sirens scream. The ambulance howls past him, lights flashing, and disappears from view.

Mulder sits in his car for a moment, feeling strangely deflated. Then he gets his phone to call the sheriff with the good news.

***

Scully calls him from the hospital. She met the ambulance and the family there, figuring it was the easiest way to get the details for their report. Mulder is sprawled across the sagging expanse of his motel bed, propped up on one elbow. He is playing solitaire on his laptop as Scully fills him in.

“So anyway, she’d dehydrated and malnourished and had some bad bruises and scrapes, but nothing serious, which is impressive. They’re keeping her overnight at least for observation, but she seems fine, Mulder.”

He drags a queen of hearts across the screen. “Mmm. So is she talking yet?”

“Not much,” Scully says. “She’s still pretty freaked out. From the few things she has said, it sounds like she followed a deer into the woods and got lost. That’s why she didn’t have any of her things.” 

In the background are the beeps and echoes of hospital noises. Mulder finds them strangely soothing. “Okay, so where’d her clothes go? Where’d she get that quilt?”

A frustrated noise from Scully. “Mulder, they’re doing their best to get her story, but she’s very traumatized right now; you should know that. Maybe she found the cabin all collapsed and dragged the blanket out. Maybe it’s a different blanket entirely - this one was pretty beaten up. There’s no sign of sexual or other physical trauma, that’s the main thing.”

He knows it’s the main thing, but still. Still. “Scully, you listed a bunch of conditions that would make your teeth green. Anything that does it to the eyes?”

“Mulder,” she says warningly. “Why?”

 He rolls onto his back, abandoning the  game. “When I found her, I noticed that -”

“No,” Scully says. “Absolutely not.” Her voice is hard.

Mulder closes his eyes. “Is it real, or is it Memorex?” he asks.

“Don’t you dare,” Scully says, her voice a hiss. “Mulder, go for a run or take a shower or make use of the lotion or whatever it is you need to get this out of your system, but I know what you’re thinking and I absolutely forbid you to say a solitary word on the subject.”

He can envision her pacing furiously, black and white and red against the soft hospital neutrals. He imagines holy rage on her Botticelli face. “I won’t say anything,” he promises her.

“Good,” she replies, mollified. “The family wants to thank you in person, if you’re game to head over. I’m hanging out for about another half hour to look at some test results.”

He really, really isn’t game to head over, because he’s afraid he will fail to keep his mouth shut. “Tell them I was recently diagnosed with cranial rectal inversion, and I’m afraid of exposing them to a flare-up,” he says.

“Hilarious. I’ll tell them you turned your ankle during your daring rescue and you’ve got it up on ice.”

Mulder knows the fib is for the family’s sake rather than his, but he’s still grateful. “How many Hail Marys is that lie gonna cost, Dana Katherine?”

“I got a special dispensation from the Holy See for matters involving you,” she says. “It’s like EZ Pass. I go into the confessional, show my badge, and the priest just tells me not to worry about it.”

He’s grinning. “Yeah? You think the Pope’ll write a note to Kersh for me?”

“Even the Holy Father has no oversight over Alvin Kersh. Mulder, I’ve got to run, but I’ll be back at the motel within two hours. Call around for a flight, would you? I really don’t want to spend another night at the motel. Everything feels sticky.”

He turns to his side and pulls his laptop over. “I’m on it,” he tells her. 

She hangs up

“True enough for government work,” he says to no one.

***

Mulder goes for the run she suggested. His feet pound mindlessly against the pavement, past tidy lawns and mom-and-pop stores. He remembers the Samantha clones, the hive of identical girls who were in the world but not of it, and how he wanted to save just one of them. Scully would tell him that good works alone are not enough for salvation, that grace is required first. She might make a Catholic of him after all - he could use a little grace.

He glances through the window of the farm store and resists the urge to stop in. Past the church (CHRISTMAS BAZAAR BOOTHS STILL OPEN!) and two giggly teen girls. He’s coming up on the fire station when a hand claps him on the shoulder. He whirls around, reaches for the gun he didn’t bring.

“Whoa, hey, sorry,” says the guy who told him to move his fucking car earlier that day. “Just wanted to say thanks again.” The man’s about his age, more heavily muscled, and sporting a scruffy beard. His shirt reads VOLUNTEER FIREFIGHTER across the front.

Mulder holds his hands up in apology. “All good. I’m glad she’s home.”

“Owen Cylburn,” the man says, holding out a hand. 

Mulder shakes it. “Mulder,” he says. “Agent Scully’s still at the hospital.”

Owen hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. “Yeah, I heard she was a doctor. Real nice of her to look in on our girl.”

“You family?”

“Naw, but I live a few houses down and she plays with my son Simon sometimes. It’s a small town, you know? Anyway, I heard she’s doing fine.” Owen looks like there’s more he wants to say.

“Anything else on your mind, Mr. Cylburn?” Mulder asks.

He looks sheepish. “Oh, uh. Well, I guess I heard some talk, you know, about whatsername up in that old shack? You don’t really think she was involved, do you? I mean, I checked in on her a couple times and all, made sure the stove was safe. She seems nice. Just sort of strange.”

Mulder considers this for a moment. “Even if she were, clearing her house of fire hazards doesn’t mean you were aiding and abetting, you know. You do anything else while you were up there?”

Owen’s face darkens. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but I’m a happily marr-”

“Not what I meant. Sorry.”

“Oh,” Owen says, looking confused. “No, just the stove.”

Mulder tries again. “What I’m asking is, well, I heard some rumors too. That Tallulah was selling a little weed to supplement her income. Now listen, I’m not looking to hassle anybody. I’m a legalize it man myself, just trying to see if people were heading up there with any frequency to, uh, go shopping. And if they might have seen anything while they were there.”

“Ohhhh,” is the reply. “No, not my thing but I think I’m in the minority. I reckon she could blackmail half the upstanding members of the town if she wanted to, one way or another. Them or their spouses or their kids.” He shrugs. “It’s a dry town, so…”

Mulder nods. “I get it. Like I said, just trying to see if anyone might have been around, might have seen anything. But not trying to make a federal case of it.”

“Mighty decent of you. But anyhow, all’s well that ends well, I guess. My sister’s a nurse up at the hospital, she says Ree looks pretty good, all things considered.”

“Yeah, that’s what my partner said too. She’s a real pretty little girl, isn’t she? Golden hair, and those big green eyes.”

Owen frowns. “All the Rosses have that hair, but I don’t think she has green eyes.”

“My mistake,” Mulder says. “Anyhow, you have a good one.” 

He jogs off, thinking.

***

Scully’s getting out of a patrol car when he returns. There’s a German Shepherd in the back seat, muzzle against the grating.

“This is K9 Officer Jangles,” Scully says, introducing Mulder to the dog. “She’s new.”

Officer Jangles sticks her head out of the open rear window. Her tail is wagging and her ridiculous ears are tilted against one another.

“Brought Jangles up to see Ree,” says the cop. “She’s my niece. Ree, I mean. My brother’s girl.” He has the blonde hair of his clan.

“How is she?”

“Pretty good,” Officer Ross says. “Starting to talk a little more.”

Mulder is genuinely glad to hear this and says so. “It’ll be nice to have your green-eyed lassie home, I’m sure.”

Scully kicks him hard in the shin with her deadly shoes. “Officer Ross, thanks for the lift. Agent Mulder and I have a lot of paperwork to take care of, so I hope you’ll excuse us.”

The officer nods. “I can’t thank you enough, none of us ever could. Can we call your boss for like, uh, a commendation or something?”

Scully smiles. “That’s very kind, sir, but we’re really just doing our job.”

“Alvin Kersh,” Mulder calls, as Scully hauls him into her room. “Extension 44-”

The door slams shut.

***

She punches him in the arm. “What is wrong with you?” she demands. 

Mulder sits on her bed, which is identical to his. Her room smells nicer though, distinctly Scully-ish. “I’m sorry,” he says. He genuinely wishes he were different.

Scully sighs, rubbing her temples. She sits next to him. “I am covered in dog hair, I have listened to hours of conservative talk radio, and now you are in direct violation of the one thing I asked you not to do.” She leans over to sniff him. “And you smell like a stable.”

“I’m trying to keep my ass shapely,” he says. “I want to look sexy in my running shorts for you.”

She punches him again. “Go...go take a shower. I’ll call around for flights. Maybe we can get out of here tonight.”

“Done,” he says. “There aren’t any until tomorrow evening.”

Scully groans. “Please don’t tell me that. I need to get out of here. The water smells like pencil shavings, did you notice? Go shower though.”

Mulder turns and takes her hands. “I know that I am sweaty and disgusting but I think you’re going to want to hear me out before I go shower.”

“It better be good, Mulder, because you’re competing with Jangles right now.”

“So there’s a hotel near the airport with a day spa. It’s not exactly the Four Seasons, but the website looked pretty good. I thought we’d let Alvin spring for another night here, and we’ll luxuriate in Dead Sea mud.”

She laughs, crossing her arms. “Mulder, you can’t be serious.”

“I'm extremely serious. My treat. You know my policy on my father’s money.”

Scully rolls her eyes, mimes a little hand puppet with a talking mouth. “My paychecks are for living expenses, my inheritance is for my side projects.” She does a credible impression of his monotone.

“I’m glad at least some of what I say stuck with you. Seriously though, Scully. Let me do something nice for you.”

She considers this. “Mulder, your ‘side projects’ generally refer to subverting the government in some way or another. Are you trying to get me in bed again just to lob a stone in the eye of the government?” 

“Yes,” he says. “You are my ultimate middle finger to The Man. That is literally my only motivation here. Come on, Scully. You once told Congress to go fuck itself - surely you’ve got room in your arsenal for a moisturizing salt scrub and Swedish massage.”

“We’re like Bonnie and Clyde,” she says, and bumps her shoulder against his. She’s right about the dog fur, he notes.

“Whaddya say?” he asks. It feels silly to have his heart in his throat over this, to worry that she’ll turn him down like a long-shot prom date. “Two empty hotel rooms in Hooterville on the federal dime while we sneak off to live it up on room service. You know you want to, Bonnie.”

Scully drops her chin for a second, then looks up at him, resigned. “What the hell, Clyde.”

He kisses her hair. “Attagirl. I’ll have you fully corrupted in no time. Soon you’ll be stealing office supplies and blowing off mandatory training seminars of your own volition”

She shakes her head, grinning. “Is this where you remind me that a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step?”

He shakes his head. “No, this is where I point out that a journey of a thousand miles is pretty intimidating, so maybe starting with smaller day spa trips is more manageable. Hell, Scully. Even The Pretenders broke it into two five-hundred-mile walks.”

“Go take a shower,” she says.

***

When he comes out of the bathroom she’s sitting in his room with her luggage, looking like a waif at a train station.

“Jesus,” he says, flustered. “Glad I still had a few clean towels.” He rifles through his bag, looking for underwear. He wasn’t expecting an audience.

Scully looks politely away as he tugs them on. “I changed out of that be-dogged suit and figured I’d just pack up and we’d head out when you were ready. I already turned in my key.”

He notices now that she’s in a pair of leggings and a black sweater. Somehow she still looks chic. “You’re in quite a hurry to leave this charming hamlet,” he observes. “Or is it just the lure of the forbidden?”

“Mmmm, maybe both. Mostly it’s the lure of the sauna.”

“Fair.” He sniffs his jeans and, dismayed, pulls them on anyway. Fuck it, he’s a rich man. He’ll take them both shopping. Scully is an indulgence he’ll happily spend his father’s ill-gotten gains on. He’s long suspected some distant connection between his parents’ money and her chip; it would be poetic justice to spoil her.

She curls onto her side in the middle of the bed, watching him dress. “Mulder.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.”

When she’s ready, he knows. When she’s ready. Mulder ties his shoes, then retrieves her mousse from the bathroom. He styles his hair in the mirror above the dresser, waiting.

“Mulder.”

“Hmm?”

“When I was a kid, my Aunt Olive would tell us stories about this farm she grew up on outside Killarney. She lived with her grandparents, pretty staunch Catholics you know, but they believed in a lot of the old stories too.”

He’s listening attentively now, but she has a tendency to be skittish when discussing the intangible. He pulls a pair of tweezers out and plucks at imaginary stray hairs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. After milking, Aunt Olive knew to leave a bowl of milk out for the Tuatha de Dannan. And a slice of bread from the new loaves.” She pauses, thinking. “I mean, I don’t know that they actually believed it, but you know how these things are.”

“Belt and suspenders,” he says.

She chuckles. “Something like that, yeah. Anyway, Mulder, I was thinking about that milk bottle. And then I started thinking about my Aunt Olive’s stories. And I wondered if maybe you bought Tallulah some new milk and fresh bread.”

Mulder puts the tweezers down. He joins her on the bed, sitting in the curve made by her body. He pets her side, her shiny hair, and savors the sheer pleasure of touching her. “It wasn’t super new,” he says. “It was pasteurized.”

“Oh, Mulder,” Scully says. She rubs his thigh.

He stretches out onto the bed, facing her. She has aged with obscene grace. Distilled more than aged, really, he thinks. Refined to a more essential Scully-ness. “Sometimes all that people need is to be seen,” he says. “I figured even if she’s just some weird transient hillbilly who sells weed and tells horrifying lies, she might appreciate a snack.” 

Scully smiles and scoots closer to him. She strokes the bridge of his nose. “Fox Mulder, you big softie.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Should I take that as a personal indictment?”

“You’re a riot.”

He strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I don’t know, when I was a kid I read To Kill A Mockingbird for school, and the part where Atticus said you had to walk around in someone’s skin to know them really resonated with me. I guess I wish I had been extended that courtesy.” 

Scully smiles. “Mmm, I used to think about how I would have made Boo Radley come out.”

Mulder laughs, imagining a tiny, serious Scully laying artful traps. “Like Bugs Bunny?”

She laughs too. “Something like that, yeah. I guess I just connected with the idea of the unknown being concretely knowable if only the right methodology were applied.”

“Nerd,” he says.

“Always. You would have snuck into the house and said, ‘Hello, Mr. Radley. I’m Fox Mulder.’ No tricks for you.” 

He probably would have, at that. “Yeah, but then comes my usual trouble. No evidence, no witnesses.”

She kisses him softly, bumping his nose with hers. “Maybe I need to walk around in your skin more. You say you got to walk around in my head.”

“I didn’t peek anywhere untoward,” he says, and wraps his arms around her.

She regards him seriously. “I trust you. But I do wonder what you saw. I’m not an angel, Mulder.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be.” He runs his thumb over her lips, and she nips at it. “You’re incandescent, Scully. Like a lighthouse at the edge of a vast, nighttime sea.”

She looks pleased and shy. “Well,” is all she says. “Well.” She tucks her head beneath his chin.

He holds her there, in this bland little room in the heart of nowhere. Her body is warm and compact and trusting, her fingers soft on his neck. She doesn’t always believe in his ideas, he knows, but she believes in him, and it’s more than enough.

Eventually he rouses her, the promise of more luxurious accommodations his only motivator for breaking this gentle peace. They gather their belongings and head to the car. The sky is purple and orange around them and ahead, an infinite sea of stars. He drives west, towards the setting sun. Scully takes his hand and smiles; a flame in the dark.