#i was genuinely surprised to wake up and discover i hadn’t just dreamed the whole thing

[feyburner]

I ??? woke up at 3am with this scene fully written in my mind palace and quickly jotted it down in the Notes app

*

Clark’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s doing it, and feels a twinge of embarrassment at his own bad manners when Bruce stops mid-word to look at him, brows raised.

“No?” he says.

“No,” Clark says, again without thinking, and again with the reflexive urge to apologize. Somewhere his mother is tutting without knowing why. But he doesn’t apologize, because he’s already saying, “No, it can’t—it can’t be that.”

“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you elaborate?”

He is, honestly, having trouble taking his eyes off the screen. The mockup design of his new suit is there, dark and sleek, ridged like tactical gear. The blue is like the last shade of evening before you can’t call it evening anymore, the color of nine PM in Kansas in July, so exact there’s a strong chance Bruce color-picked it from a photo. The yellow accents are the cool fluorescent yellow-green of lightning bugs. The red is dark as arterial blood. Every aspect of the suit has been updated—the colors deeper, the angles sharper, the S extending to the corners of its frame—but Bruce has done it without changing the fundamentals. It’s immediately recognizable as the Superman suit, just… well, a little cooler, maybe. A little more of the times. Even the tailoring is modernized. The neckline. The shape of the boots. Where the belt hits at the waist. Clark can tell just by looking that Bruce has not only spent a lot of time on this in general, he’s spent a lot of time designing it specifically with Clark in mind, Clark’s needs and preferences and the small discomforts of his current suit, things he might have mentioned offhand after a mission but never with the assumption that Bruce was listening or filing it away. No doubt the next slides of this presentation will detail all the hidden features of the new suit, and they’ll all be incredibly thoughtful if not slightly overkill, and Bruce will pretend his sole motive here was practicality and risk reduction and respond to any thanks with a curt nod.

And Clark wants to thank him. He will. It’s just.

“It can’t be… cool,” he says, inane. Bruce is watching him with that steady look that used to feel clinical, piercing, and now mostly reads as attentive. “It can’t be—like yours. Tactical, military-grade.”

“Lightyears beyond, actually.”

“It has to—Ma said once, a kid should be able to draw it with crayons. You know? I can’t look like a weapon. I have to—I want to look like a friend.”

He can feel himself flushing. It’s rare that he speaks like this, and rarer still that he does so while being stared at intently. Bruce may think of himself as the darkness, but his gaze is a spotlight: unwavering and revealing and more a little sweat-inducing, for one reason or another.

“Sometimes, when I show up, people laugh,” Clark says. “If it’s somewhere out of the way, where they haven’t seen me before. I show up and I look like a festival performer. It’ll be the worst day of their lives, and they’ve got no reason to trust my face, but when they see what I’m wearing—it goes from ‘Who are you?’ to ‘Who is this guy?’ And that’s a good thing.”

“Hard to be afraid of a man dressed in primary colors,” Bruce says, almost to himself.

“Exactly.”

“I see. Thank you,” he says, “for explaining.”

Clark tries not to show how surprised he is to hear that. Judging by the crook of Bruce’s mouth, his success is negligible. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t—I mean, thank you, obviously, for going to such trouble. I didn’t mean to come in here and—I really do appreciate it, I can tell you put a lot of work in—”

Bruce’s eyes cut away. “No. No need. I didn’t ask, before I…. It was only a first draft. If you’re amenable, I’ll incorporate your feedback into the second one.”

“Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course, but you really don’t have to—”

“If you have any further notes, I would like to hear them.”

There’s something determined in the lines of his face. Clark has the sense that this moment is important, that it’s a turning point, even if he’s not sure why. It feels like striking out into a sea of ice, a blank white expanse under which something precious and vital is hidden, has been hidden all along, just waiting for him to find it. To want to.

“Sure,” he says. He looks back at the suit and swallows, and knows Bruce will see the flicker of his throat and take some meaning from it, and wishes he knew what the meaning was. Or maybe Bruce won’t notice or read into it at all. Maybe Clark needs to calm down, in fact. “Um. I don’t want to assume, but does it… do things?”

“It does things,” Bruce confirms, after the barest pause. “Let me show you the next slide.”

[wherethingscomebackx]

Top 25 Larry Fics of 2020

h 2020 was HELLISH. So thank you to all the writers, and I mean ALL of them, who kept us occupied as the world continues to burn.

You may be familiar with these lists:

Top 25 Larry fics of 2016

Top 25 Larry fics of 2017

Top 25 Larry fics of 2018

Top 25 Larry fics of 2019

We’re going on our 5th year!!  As always, I read a lot of fic and the majority of it is Larry. I like making lists and I like Larry so I thought I’d do some minimal research of the top 25 larry fics published/completed in 2020 in order of least to most kudos (with links). All of these fics are top notch so you should all check them out!

25.) a trail of honey through it all by @yvesaintlourent (27k)

The boy in front of him, well really, the man in front of him, was like something out of a confusing wet dream. Built, tall, tan and muscular, his skin glistened with sweat after a long day of working outdoors with his hands. He was wearing a cut up old American football shirt, the bottom hem was torn and the sleeves were cut off to the point where the t-shirt was really just a loose tank top. The shorts he had on had clearly been full length jeans at one point, and were now just crudely cut off above the knee. His white socks were pulled up too high on his calves, and the brown work boots he had on were old as fuck, the leather peeling along the edges of the soles. Curly brown hair stuck out from the edges of his backwards snapback, and there was a smudge of grease wiped along his brow bone. The smattering of hair along his jaw proved that he hadn’t shaved in a week or two, the hair growing in thicker across his upper lip and around his chin. His sinfully bowed mouth was pink and plump, and Louis was suddenly hyper-focused on the way that he chewed at the toothpick stuck between his lips. He looked like he needed a shower. Louis wanted to lick him.

Or, the TPH fic we’ve all been waiting for.

24.) even the best laid plans by @falsegoodnight (25k)

“Anyways,” Louis stresses, narrowing his eyes, “just let me say it and then rate how terrible of an idea it is on a scale from one to ten.”

“Alright,” Zayn agrees, sitting up expectantly.

“I want to ask Harry Styles to take my virginity,” Louis blurts, holding his hands out for emphasis.

The way Zayn’s eyes bulge is almost comical. “Negative infinity,” he says, voice choked. “Negative infinity times negative infinity.”

“Technically, a negative times a negative is -”

“Really negative infinity,” Zayn corrects himself, shaking his head wildly. “Louis, what the fuck?”

-

Or, Louis wants to have sex with someone and decides Harry is the perfect alpha for the job.

23.) A Distant Hazy Light by @greenfeelings (76k)

Life’s pretty ordinary for Harry. He lives with his best friend, got into university just like he’s planned, and manages to support himself just fine for an unbonded omega. If he sustains that lifestyle by getting paid to help alphas through their rut every now and then, that’s nothing to be hung up on. Until he’s hired by an alpha that turns everything upside down.

Or, Harry’s working on taking Louis’ walls down, until he builds his own up.

22.) Ghost Note Symphony by whoknows (96k)

Louis is on tour when he first hears about it. It’s all over the news – Harry Styles Attacked By Fan runs in headlines for days. It’s not even just the gossip rags, either. Actual journalists are covering the story. It would have been impossible to avoid hearing about it. Technically, Oli is the one who tells Louis about it, but it’s not exactly being covered up. Harry doesn’t answer Louis’ text asking if he’s alright, but that’s not really surprising. They haven’t spoken for months, and it’s been a lot longer than that since they’ve had a real conversation. The sting of the text going unanswered is still there, less painful than it might have been a few years ago.

It’s not that it’s easy to forget about, exactly. Louis has a whole life outside of One Direction now, though. So Louis goes on with his life, figuring that if Harry was seriously hurt he would have heard about it by now. He might currently be in the same country as Harry, but being on opposite sides of it puts enough distance between them that putting it in the back of his mind is easy. There’s nothing Louis could do, even if he thought Harry might want him to.

That’s why everything that happens next comes as a complete shock to him.

21.) Until by @allwaswell16 (38k)

Rural Eagle County, Colorado wasn’t the type of place to find a famous musician or actor. At least not until songwriter Louis Tomlinson showed up with pop star Niall Horan to visit his uncle’s horse ranch, and they just happened to find themselves next door to a reclusive former movie star.

20.) Strangers in Love by sweetums (42k)

Louis wakes up to find himself in a marriage with the last man he thought he'd ever end up with.

-

Prompt 51: An amnesia fic where louis and harry were enemies to lovers but after an accident, louis only remembers those memories that him and harry hated each other. now harry has to fix it. I think something like this less dark and less angsty compared to other amnesia fics and it could be funny

19.) A Long Way From The Playground by Pink_Sunsets (170k)

One Direction is broken up. They broke up five years ago. That should be the end of the story, right?

Harry is finished with One Direction. He now has a new life, one with two kids and a successful solo career. And he’s happy.

But a call one night from management flips Harry’s whole new life upside down, and he’s forced to face the life he had left behind.

As well as a certain blue eyed man who had left him behind.

18.) my love’s not simple (it’s fragile) by @falsegoodnight (27k)

“Can I take you out tomorrow?” he asks. “My shift ends at 7 but we can go for dinner at 8.”

Louis is silent for a few seconds and then, “Like… on a date?”

Harry swallows thickly. He hasn’t done this in years, hasn’t ever wanted to. “Yeah.”

He’s worried he’s misread things but then Louis raises his head to kiss Harry’s cheek. “Yeah,” he says easily. “Sure.”

Tension leaves his body swiftly. “Are you sure?” asks Harry. “I know we’re both so busy but I can’t not try with you, Lou.”

“Neither can I,” says Louis. “I think we can figure it out. I care about you a lot Harry. We’ve known each other for a week, but I already like you so much.”

-

Or Harry's new job is threatened by his impending rut. Desperate for a solution, he allows Niall to introduce him to Louis, an omega whose heat begins the same day. They click.

17.) Cocaine for Breakfast by @harryeatsburger (309k)

“It’s an easy job.” He continues, as if Louis wants to listen. “Like I said, a few trips. Parties, students, nothing dramatic.”

Louis gazes over to Harry. He’s looking thoughtful now, eyes on the green like he’s talking more to himself than Louis.

“Clubbing, drinks. Whatever, the business is just a side thing.”

That’s not how Louis remembers it to be, “You lying?” He honestly can’t tell.

Harry shakes his head slowly, meeting Louis' eyes.

“No,” He answers almost toneless. Harry clears his throat, “I won’t put you in any dangerous situation.” His voice is sincere, Louis can tell he means it, his jade green eyes glinting with truth.

or, - Louis Tomlinson is a drug addict, sent away from his beloved party-scene to recover. There, he discovers that small towns have just as much access to drugs as London did, plus something even better that he just can't get enough of. That something is a boy with green eyes and bouncy curls named Harry Styles. -

16.) Tastes like Strawberries by @sadaveniren (4k)

I’m stressed. I’m nesting and demand cuddles. Come over

Harry frowned and double checked who the text was from. Yup, it still said Louis - Grad, which meant it was from Louis from his grad school.

aka Louis texts Harry by mistake. It works out

15.) the way the storm blows by @rbbsbb (21k)

Louis doesn’t have a habit of thinking about Harry’s dick.

That would be weird, seeing as they’re best mates, and they share a flat, and they’ve spent holidays at each other’s family homes. Their friendship hasn’t ever risen to a point where Louis should want to see his mate’s dick, and he’s happy to keep it that way.

Except, all that Louis can think about is exactly that. The size of it. The shape. The amount of people it’s been in.

Maybe it’s the tequila talking, or the fact that Louis’ just recently walked in to an eyeful of Harry taking turns on some slags that he’s never seen before, but. Louis’ mind can’t stop obsessing over the idea.

14.) bruise you like a peach by @falsegoodnight (40k)

There’s two reasons Harry despises Econ.

The first is that it’s boring as fuck. The second reason is a bit more personal, a bit more focused in a way. As in it’s focused on one specific thing, or in his case, person.

His name is Louis Tomlinson.

13.) Watching The World Fall by whoknows (11k)

This segment has been going on long enough that Louis knows what’s coming before James starts in on it, trying to sell him on something he knows that Louis wouldn’t normally be buying. But there’s four cameras surrounding him, and an audience watching him expectantly, so if Louis wants to continue convincing people that he’s doing just fine, he’s going to have to go along with it.

“We have a whole host of single men backstage waiting to meet you, Louis,” James tells him. “We want to help you find love tonight, on Late Late Live Tinder. Is this okay? Do you want to play?”

It actually kind of makes sense that his first date after the break-up is going to be just as public as said break-up. Something like coming full circle.

“Alright, James,” Louis agrees, hopping down off his stool.

“Okay, come down to the stage,” James says. Louis can’t even tell whether the excitement in his voice is genuine or not. “Right now, come on down!”

12.) Quiet People Have the Loudest Minds by @2tiedships2 (38k)

Broadway shows were one of the few things that could keep Louis’ attention for a full two hours without needing to move about. But not tonight.

The alpha next to him was both infuriating him and practically turning him on at the same time. He needed to leave. The alpha, that is. Louis was staying.

Or the one where Louis is a nonverbal omega who has accepted the fact that he will never find an alpha that will treat him as an equal. On the other hand, he’s never met anyone like Harry.

11.) The Wrath of the Emerald Eyes by @purpledandeli0n (85k)

His chin is grabbed harshly, facing the two deep green eyes that have been getting on his nerves for the past ten minutes. The smirk on the man's face does not vanish. The grip of his hand on Louis' chin does not soften, his thumb at the side of his lower lip.

His smile widens as he answers Louis' question, ''My name is Styles, but you will call me Captain."

•

Pirate AU

10.) Canyon Moon by @eeveelou (40k)

For as long as Louis has remembered, he has been promised to be mated to Harry, his best friend and the future pack alpha. But Louis’s heart belonged to the forest and to the hunt more than he could ever imagine it belonging to Harry.

Then Harry’s father dies in a violent accident, and Louis’s future alpha disappears on the wind.

An A/B/O Lion King AU

9.) We Both Got Nothing to Hide by lovelarry10 (43k)

“Talk to me, Lou.”

“I can’t,” Louis mumbled, knowing he genuinely couldn’t say it. He couldn’t admit to what he was doing. “Don’t ask me to say it, because I can’t.”

“Then… I’ll try and guess. You’ve… got some stuff of Harry’s. Something of his to make it smell like him?”

Louis just nodded, eyes fixated on the floor. This was humiliating, but he knew Zayn wouldn’t stop until he found out what was going on.

“Okay. Like… a blanket, or a comforter or something?”

“Kind of…”

//

Omega Louis has a secret nest. Alpha Harry keeps losing his clothes.

8.) sleeping on our problems by @falsegoodnight (67k)

I’m in love with you, Louis thinks. He feels empty, weighed down by his sadness and the loss of Harry inside him just moments ago before his knot finally went down.

There’s moments where he’s sure Harry feels the same. Like now, when he’s gazing down at Louis with so much adoration and tenderness. It’s like they’re both on the cusp of something more, but neither of them ever say a word.

His confession is on the tip of his tongue ready to slide out like honey, and yet he remains silent. They both do, looking at each other and recognizing the reluctance mirrored in each other’s eyes. It’s then that Louis realizes they’re both scared.

-

Or Louis sleeps with Harry and they have more than just catching feelings to worry about.

7.) like it’s a game by @soldouthaz (32k)

there is little harry hates more than truth or dare.

and louis.

6.) before we knew by @falsegoodnight (39k)

“C’mon Lou,” says Zayn after a moment, He sounds even more exasperated than before. Louis sort of has a knack for exasperating people, especially people like Zayn who aren’t usually bothered by his brattiness. “Can’t you give this guy a chance? Harry Styles? Aren’t you curious about him at all?”

Despite his best efforts, Louis still flinches at the name. He really shouldn’t be so affected after all these years. He’s seen the name printed down the curve of his waist in obnoxiously and uncommonly large loopy letters every single day since his sixteenth birthday eight years ago. He’s very familiar with the name Harry Styles.

It sounds pretentious and Louis hates it.

He hates everything about his supposed soulmate.

He hates his large handwriting that stands out like a claim on his skin whenever he’s walking around shirtless. He hates his pretentious name. And now he hates his supposed curls and green eyes and dimples.

-

Or Louis has been skeptical of soulmates for years so it seems like fate when he finally bumps into the owner of the obnoxiously large signature printed into his skin since age sixteen: Harry Styles, a human rights attorney who is firmly against soulmates.

5.) Mine Would Be You by @crinkle-eyed-boo (114k)

Louis blinks his eyes open, his eyelids fluttering as the room swims around him. He takes several gulps of beer once he confirms that he’s definitely not hallucinating, that the very first portrait Harry Styles ever painted of him is hanging on that wall.

Louis stares at the wall, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest as he realizes that there’s not just one painting of him, there’s five, the portraits lined up like they’re some sort of storyboard depicting the rise and fall of his deepest love. His greatest heartache. A pain that cut him so deep that he left the fucking country, severing all ties with his life in New York, now suddenly surrounding him as if he’d never left.

Fucking shit motherfucker fuck.

Louis returns to New York City five years after he left it – and the love of his life – behind. He didn't intend to see Harry again, but fate has a funny way of pulling them together, whether they like it or not. After making a begrudging truce, they both start to wonder: Would it be so bad if history repeated itself?

4.) You’ve Got My Devotion (Hate You Sometimes) by @harryrainbows (95k)

Harry was in the biggest boy band in the world. He was also one half of the best (or worst, depends on who you ask) kept secret relationship in the music industry.

Now, almost five years on, after One Direction has broken up, and Harry and Louis' relationship has as well, a video threatens to put everything at risk.

One determined Irishman, a massive publicity stunt and two begrudging exes are all it takes to bring One Direction back to life and maybe, just maybe, Harry and Louis' mangled love life too.

Or: Harry and Louis are forced to fake-date after an old video from when they were dating emerges.

3.) The Space Between by @lads-laddylads (39k)

Harry Styles is the alpha rockstar who can’t sleep and doesn’t know why.

Louis Tomlinson is the omega PhD student who helps him figure it out.

2.) Nothing But You On My Mind by @absoloutenonsense (83k)

Louis Tomlinson is a PR manager hired to improve the image of royal bad-boy Prince Harry Styles. Unfortunately for him, that means being faced with the Prince's constant innuendos, incessant dirty jokes, and relentless flirting. Louis just wants to make it to Princess Gemma's coronation; once she's crowned Queen, his contract is up and he never has to see the Prince again.

1.) Collision by @tequiladimples (224k)

Mythology/Fairytale!AU in which Louis is a dainty fairy with a temper who wants to be intimidating and Harry hurts people. Naturally, they hate each other.

(Featuring Liam, the big and not-so-bad wolf who’s got a thing for humans, Zayn, a human with supernaturally good looks, and Niall, the cupid who just wants his job to be easier.)

[geekywritings]

Rise of a Queen - Nikolai Lantsov x OC PART 8

When Taya opened her eyes the next morning, she wasn't sure if she was actually awake or had just started another dream. There were flowers right in front of her and as she turned, there were even more roses. Slowly she sat up, looking around in both shock and awe. The entire room was covered in flowers. Roses in all colors, lilies, sunflowers, and even her favorites, orchids. Nikolai, and she had no doubt it was his doing, had apparently raided the royal gardens or all florists of Os Alta for this. But there was no sign of him in the room. Instead, Taya spotted a letter in the bouquet closest to her, unfolding it eagerly.

"My beloved Taya,

I did not forget about the flowers.

When you wake up, I will most likely be on my way again. I want to check on our parents and try to persuade some of the Grisha to come back. We could use some good Materialki specialists here and I hope to bring back a Healer to look at your wounds.

Somewhere underneath those flowers, I also bought a few books for you to read while you wait. Please take your medicine and rest. And do think of me.

Your Nikolai."

Your Nikolai. It sounded too good to be true, but it was true after last night. They hadn't said a word about love, but the kiss had spoken more than 1000 words. She could still feel her body shiver pleasantly at the mere memory of it.

Suddenly the door opened, revealing one of the maids, who had been bringing her food during the last few days. She was having trouble navigating through all the flowers with her tray of food and medicine, grumbling about having told His Highness not to spread them on the ground.

"Good morning, My Lady. How are you feeling today?" It was the same greeting every day, which Taya returned with a smile.

"Much better Mrs. Podlak, thank you.", she said, allowing the elder woman to set the tray down before her on the bed. There was tea, the dreaded medicine, and her beloved Syrinki.

"Let me open the window for you. The smell of these flowers is overpowering.", she continued, now fighting her way to the tall window. "I told him a bouquet or two would be enough...", she muttered to herself and Taya had to stifle a chuckle. It was so like Nikolai to exaggerate. But she also had to admit that she was quite surprised. The sleeping potion she still took in the evenings really knocked her out for she had neither noticed Nikolai getting up nor the big surprise being set up all around her.

"I do actually love the scent.", she called to Mrs. Podlak, but the maid had already decided that fresh air was in order. And it did indeed feel good, as a warm breeze came through the open window. "Has Nikolai been gone for long?"

"His Highness set out just before sunrise with the two Squallers. He did not say where he went and when he would be back."

Taya nodded to the answer and began her breakfast. She knew where he was and if things went smoothly, he could be back within a day. Until then, she would actually try to follow his request and rest up. At least she had some reading material now.

_____________

In the end, Nikolai returned the following day, his first destination being his chamber, where Taya was still confined to his bed. But he did not arrive alone, being followed the young man in the damaged red kefta, whom Taya recognized from the Little Palace. He had been the only Healer among the group they had found and he was probably among very few Corporalki still present. Most others had either deserted or followed the Darkling.

The prince walked up to his beloved, placing a soft kiss on the top of her head. "I see you enjoyed my surprise.", he began with a grin, before nodding to his companion, who obviously looked rather taken aback by the sea of flowers in the room. "Taya, this is Andrej Borisov. I'm going to leave you in his capable hands, while I quickly speak with the generals."

It was just a quick greeting, but Taya didn't mind. She knew Nikolai to be more than busy right now, being the one in command in his parents' absence. And there was plenty to do with city fortifications, repairs and the search for Alina. Taya was just sad that she couldn't be of more use. Though perhaps with Andrej's skills, she could be up and about much faster.

________

"Why did you stay behind?", she asked, after Andrej had started his work on her shoulder. She wasn't sure how he did it, but he placed his hands over her wound and she could feel her body pull and burn slightly, but not enough to cause extreme pain.

"Sonya, Gregori and Alexander are my friends. I could never leave them behind.", was all Andrej said. Taya didn't know who these people were exactly, though she vaguely remembered an Inferni in the group being called Sonya, but she did admire him for his loyalty.

"I hope the three of them are alright."

Andrej nodded. "They are. Sonya stayed behind at the Spinning Wheel. She found a way to be useful there with her skills. And the Twins are constantly flying back and forth or accompanying His Highness." Ah, so those were the names of the Twins, Taya thought to herself.

"And what do you want to do?", she asked Andrej, who stopped his work for a moment to check on the progress. A moment later his hand was back above her shoulder and she could feel the strange sensation in her flesh again.

"I want to help.", Andrej said simply. "I did what I could at the Spinning Wheel, but when his Highness told me I was needed here, I agreed to come. Besides, I wanted to see what it would feel like."

"And how does it feel?", Taya was genuinely curious.

"Strange... I grew up in the Little Palace. I thought it was the safest place for people like me. Turns out, it wasn't... But it is still my home and I think that I would like to return there."

Taya reached out, placing a hand on Andrej's arm. "We will make it a home again. For all Grisha. And while I can't promise that it will be the safest place in Ravka, we will take precautions this time."

For the first time since he came in, the ghost of a smile passed over Andrej's face. "We will see."

He went back to his work and a good half an hour later, he stood up again, allowing Taya to dress. "Your wounds are healing well. I could not mend them completely in one go, but give it another day and you will be able to walk around normally again."

She was immensely grateful for his help and even more grateful for the knowledge that she would only be confined to the bed for a short while longer.

______

A week later, Taya was already running around normally. She had put all her dedication into rebuilding and fortifying the Little Palace, even going as far as using all funds she had at her disposal. Compared to the fortune her family possessed as a whole, it wasn't much, but it was still more than enough to procure materials and pay people to help. A few of the Materialki returned from the Spinning Wheel to aid in the rebuilding of their former home, but they still relied on outside workers for some construction work.

During that time, Taya became closer to Andrej, Sonya, and especially the twins. While the Healer and his Inferni friend were constantly traveling back and forth between the Spinning Wheel and the capital, Alexander and Gregori spent more and more time in the Little Palace, only ever leaving to accompany Nikolai on some trip or another. At one point Taya revealed her own abilities to the twins and the two, after their initial surprise, agreed to train her.

Quickly, a routine had formed. Nikolai and Taya would wake up early together and share a quick breakfast, before going separate ways. She would work at the Little Palace and he would try to run the kingdom. In the afternoon the two would gather in the war room, where Nikolai devised strategies with his generals to prepare for another attack by the Darkling, while at the same time evaluating the messages he received from the search parties he had sent out in the quest for Alina and the others. Afterward, they would eat together again and then fall into bed, utterly exhausted just to wake up at sunrise again to begin the routine anew.

It meant that they didn't have much of a honeymoon phase, where they could explore and enjoy their newly discovered feelings for each other, but the brief moments they had were enough for now. They knew when other matters took priority and Nikolai was immensely grateful for Taya's understanding. Many women would feel abandoned or not graced with enough attention, but his love found ways to occupy herself and do her fair share of work. And it didn't go unnoticed either. The rumors about her being his mistress soon made way for gossip regarding the possibility of Taya becoming his wife and future Queen. Although he tried to pay the whispers no heed, it did make him proud to hear servants and nobles alike acknowledging her skills and potential.

What bothered Nikolai however was the lack of progress they were making. While the damages in Os Alta were quickly being taken care of, the building of more aircrafts and the search for Alina were at a standstill. They lacked materials to continue production and the sun summoner and her following were still swallowed up by the earth itself. It was frustrating, to say the least.

__________

One afternoon, Nikolai was leaning over a collection of sketches he had made for some new aircrafts, all light and fortified with the newest guns, trying to find ways to reduce their production cost, while also still sulking about the rather ineffective meeting with his generals just an hour ago. Taya had not been present, because she had been busy at the Little Palace. More Grisha had returned and she was making sure they were all settled in. It was a relief to hear that life was returning to normal at least a little bit and Nikolai knew that they needed the Grisha to keep the capital safe. They were mostly left with Etheralki and Materialki at this point, but a handful of healers had also rejoined their former little family along with two Heartrenders.

Suddenly the door of the library opened and his eyes went wide, as he saw Taya walk in, wearing a royal blue kefta, embroidered in the telling silver of the Squallers. She was smiling brightly, even doing a small twirl before him to show off her newest garment. "I got it as a gift today.", she announced. "The twins said I earned it." So it was official now. No hiding her true powers anymore.

Nikolai had tried to imagine what she would look like in the kefta once, but the reality was so much better. She looked regal in it, powerful and confident and absolutely perfect. He got up to examine her in detail, appreciating her from all angles, his mood instantly lifting. "You look beautiful.", he assured her.

He received a kiss as a thank you, before she joined him at the table to get a quick summary of what she had missed during the meeting. It really wasn't much.

"We need more funds.", she summarized all their growing problems into one simple sentence. They had to expand their search, buy more materials and strengthen their borders and production sites. Taya had used up almost all of her private fortune, and Nikolai was weary about taking too much from the treasury without his father's approval. He had his own fortune as well, but that was currently being invested into a secret project to assure a strong Ravka in the future. For a second both stared at the table, before speaking at the same time.

"I could do some business as Sturmhond."

"We need to hold a ball."

Silence again, as both blinked, before a chuckle escaped them. "I assume yours will take less time, but what do you plan to accomplish with a ball?", he asked curiously.

"The financial support of the noble families of Ravka. Gather them here, show them that the capital is safe again and that they can only keep their lifestyles if we manage to defeat the Darkling, find Alina and show military strength at the border."

"It was only a few weeks ago when you told me that I don't need the support of the nobles just yet.... How quickly times change.", he mused. "I will have to convince my parents to return as well."

"No, don't.", Taya said firmly, taking him by surprise. "The nobles need to follow and respect you. Their money will flow into your projects and you are the new hope for Ravka."

Nikolai felt a weight settle on his shoulders, that he had not known before. The weight of a crown he wasn't even wearing yet. His wish to save the country, however, was stronger than any fear of responsibility.

"What would I do without you?", he asked, reaching across the table to take her hand into his.

"Spent a few months at sea most likely, robbing Kerch traders in the name of the crown.", she replied with a smile. Nikolai felt his own lips draw into a smile at that.

"Probably.", he admitted. "It did work great before to amass a fortune." Turning more serious again he asked: "Do you think the nobles will return to the ballroom after what had happened there?"

"Eventually. But now might be a bit early. So we will hold the ball outside between the Grand and the Little Palace. Invite Grisha, spread some of your ships out. It will provide a sense of safety and a quick possible escape. At the same time, they can see where their money will go."

He was positively surprised by her wit and planning. Suddenly the thought of her as his Queen hit him. He had heard the possibility being thrown around for a while now, but hearing her plan to assure the future of Rvaka made it feel right. She was perfect for the role, no doubt. Her family name and fortune made her an adequate match and her intelligence and compassion would serve her well on the throne. The fact that he also loved her was just the icing on the cake.

But he would not offer now. Not until he was certain that there still was a country to rule side by side. And for that, he would have to face another dreaded ball.

__________________

The event took place a week later and had been a nightmare to organize. Sending letters to all the right families, getting varieties of his inventions onto the grounds, making sure there was enough food and drink and entertainment offered, as well as having the Palaces look even more splendid than usual was not what he had wanted to do in times like these. It even felt wrong to hold a spectacle like this while his friends were still missing and the Darkling still out there.

"If you pull a face like this all evening, nobody will offer you anything.", Taya said, drawing him out of his thoughts. She had come in without him noticing and got to work buttoning up his uniform. He would have to be the Prince again today. The charmer and the businessman, so he needed to look the part. So he was dressed in the royal red and gold his family loved so much and felt strangely silly in it.

Taya, on the other hand, was a sight to behold. She had opted for blue again, her favorite color, and the dress flowed on her like water, the silver embellishments adding to the magical effect. She had curled her hair again, putting it up in an elegant style and adding a silver tiara and jewels for good measure. They needed to look richer than they really were tonight.

"You look absolutely stunning.", he told her.

"And you look absolutely uncomfortable.", she just replied. "Smile and relax."

"I can do one of the two."

"Then smile." It was easier said than done. "Maybe the news I have will help. Everyone agreed to come tonight. Even Count Fedjor and his family. And I send word to my parents and they send out some invitations as well to their business partners."

Those were good news indeed and they reminded him once again how grateful he was to have her. "Well, then let's go and get our hands on their fortunes, shall we?"

__________

The ball was a great success. The nobility relished in the chance of holding a grand social event again and were easily susceptible to Nikolai's charm. Getting showered with attention and compliments from their future Tsar loosened their pockets and the presence of soldiers and Grisha alike gave them a sense of security. The aircrafts received ample amounts of admiration as well and especially the men were eager to invest in such technological advancements.

While the guests enjoyed themselves, Taya and Nikolai were hard at work. Always going from one person to the next, engaging in just the right small talk, and indiscreetly asking for financial support. He took care of the traditional families, while Taya used her charms on her father's long-standing business partners.

It was the early morning hours when the last guests began to leave, some of them even taking up the offer of being flown home on one of Nikolai's aircrafts. They didn't have enough Squallers to offer everyone the chance, but only a few were curious enough to try in the first place.

"I think that went rather well.", Taya said, sounding rather pleased. They were standing in the middle of prettily lit chaos, but they had accomplished what they had set out to do. "And I think this was the first ball that I didn't have a single dance."

"I distinctively remember you hating dance lessons."

"True, the lessons were a pain, but actual dancing is one of the few joys at every event."

They had shared dances since his return, but none as an actual couple. The idea came suddenly and he acted upon it right away. "Then would you offer me this dance, my lady?"

Taya laughed. "The musicians have already left."

"Show some creativity, my dear.", he bowed down like a true gentleman and offered her his hand. Still amused, she took it and allowed him to draw her into the first steps. To fill the silence, Nikolai hummed a random song they had heard that night and Taya eventually joined. Together they waltzed over the grass, elated by their success that night, getting completely lost in it. They didn't even notice as servants arrived to begin cleaning up, all looking perplexed or smiling at the sight of His Highness with his chosen lady.

Suddenly the first drops started falling from the sky, quickly followed by more. Within seconds, it was a proper rain shower and while the servants rushed for cover, Nikolai and Taya continued their dance. Their humming turned into laughter, as he spun her around before drawing her back close to him. They were absolutely drenched, but Taya had never enjoyed a ball more.

"I love you."

His words were almost drowned by the rain, but she heard them nevertheless. She wasn't sure where it had suddenly come from and it was unlike any declaration of love she had ever read about in books, but it was perfect. Because those words were coming from him.

"I love you too, Nikolai."

He pulled her towards him, his kiss almost desperate. They were pressed against each other, the rain still soaking their hair and skin, but neither cared. Taya's arms were around him, holding onto his jacket at his back. Their kiss got more frantic and they only broke apart when there was no air left in their lungs. Blue eyes stared into hazel and suddenly he pulled her along.

The way back to his room took longer than expected. Every few steps they were locked in a kiss again, with him pressing her against the closest wall or door. At one point they knocked over a vase with flowers but didn't even fully notice.

Taya didn't understand the fire that was suddenly burning within her, but she wasn't about to question or let it go. She wanted Nikolai close, wanted to feel all of him to show him how much she really meant those words she had said. And he seemed to feel exactly the same.

Once in his room, they began to tear at each others' clothes, trying to get them off their wet bodies. He was shirtless and working on her corset when he stopped for a moment as if his thoughts cleared for a second.

"Are you sure?", he asked. Taya's heart swelled with love at his concern for her, but she nodded. "Stop asking questions and kiss me."

He did, hungrily and passionately, his hands finally removing the corset. He slowed down only when she was fully nude before him, taking his time to take her in fully with his eyes. She was slender, but with just the right womanly curves, which he explored with his hands. He wanted to memorize every detail of her and get to know her body's secrets.

Soon they were on the bed and she was shivering against him, as he slowly learned just what she liked. There was a moment when he was about to ask her again if this was what she truly wanted, but before a word could escape him, Taya drew him into a kiss.

"No nonsense.", she said. "Make love to me, Nikolai."

The words alone were ecstasy for him and he wasted no time to fulfill her wish. They made love several times that night. Wild, slow, passionate, and intimate. And by the time the sun rose, both were exhausted. Stil entangled, they closed their eyes and sank into a much-deserved sleep.

_____

@imma-too-many-fandoms​

[flowerfan2]

We’re getting close to the end, folks!  Chapter 17 of 20 is up.  This one features some cuddles/comfort, a trip to NYC, a sparkling holiday party, and a romantic dance.  Enjoy!

David x Patrick, A03, 5k this chapter.

Chapter 17

David is sitting outside on the lanai, drinking his coffee and ignoring Alexis’ texts.  He doesn’t know how to answer her question.  He’s not sure why she thinks that texting him about the same thing over and over will make any difference, when he clearly told her, three days ago, to stop bothering him about it.

The problem is that he’s running out of time to make a decision, although in a way that’s a decision in itself.  He knows that the adult thing to do is to talk to Patrick about it, but if a little more time goes by, he won’t have to.

It’s only a few days away from one of his family’s most honored traditions, their annual holiday party, which has now become the Rose Motel Group holiday party.  This year, it’s at a trendy club in New York City, and it promises to be even more spectacular than ever.  David is expected to attend, whether he’s working remotely in Florida or not.

Of course, his parents would understand if he didn’t come… but he’ll pay the price, he knows it.  His father will have that sad look of disappointment, and his mother will be hurt, but hide it under fancy words and an extra ridiculous outfit.  And he really can’t stand the thought of upsetting Alexis.

It’s not only guilt, either.  David misses his family.  For better or worse, they have continued to be close since their days in Schitt’s Creek, and it’s not all due to concern about David’s mental health.  David genuinely enjoys their company, most of the time, and he’s come to rely on them.  Especially Alexis.

David had managed to put the holiday party completely out of his mind until Alexis started texting him about it.  Apparently his father finally caught on to the fact that he hadn’t committed, and put her on the case.  It’s been easy not to think about it, or anything to do with his old, sad, non-Patrick life, here in sunny Florida where the Christmas decorations look wildly out of place on the palm trees.  Even Patrick’s thoughtful gift of a menorah hadn’t overcome David’s willful not-thinking-about the holidays, annual festivities included.

He’s so happy here, with Patrick and no one else, in their bubble of suburban domesticity.  They pretty much do whatever they want, no one stopping in to put demands on them, no one asking questions.  Sure, they spend some time working during the day, but they’re never more than a few feet apart, unless one of them leaves the house to run a quick errand.  It’s not very realistic, and it might well have backfired, but so far it hasn’t.

Frankly David finds it comforting that Patrick is here, safe from all the demons that have been troubling him.  Although now he has to rewrite that story a bit, seeing as Marcy’s heath scare happened here in Florida.  But at least Patrick is far away from the site of his employment melt-down and his ill-fated night on the town with his cousin, cocooned in this little bubble where David can keep a close eye on him.

He worries about Patrick.  Over the past few weeks the Patrick he used to know is making his appearance more and more, but he’s still not the same.  Almost worse than the quiet sadness he sees in his eyes when he thinks David isn’t looking is the tentative surprise he shows when something goes right.  

It’s ironic, David thinks, that now, more than three years after their break-up, Patrick is the more damaged one.  It’s not what he ever imagined, when he thought about their future.  In the hazy mist of his imagination, Patrick was always and forever steady, guiding David through the stormy waters of his turbulent life.  (David acknowledges that his imagination is prone to purple prose.)  But life didn’t turn out that way, and he can only thank the universe that fate and shitty weather in Milwaukee brought them together again.  

David finishes his coffee and goes into the house, toeing off his shoes just inside the door.  He makes a cup of deliciously scented jasmine tea for Patrick, and heads back into the bedroom.

Patrick is still in bed, curled up in a ball with the duvet almost covering his face.  He hadn’t wanted to get up when the alarm went off, muttering to David that he didn’t have to do any work until the afternoon, and burrowing back down into the blankets.

David puts the tea down on the nightstand and slides under the covers, spooning up against Patrick’s back.  He moves slowly, trying to gauge whether his presence is welcome or not.  He knows Patrick isn’t actually asleep – his eyes flickered open when David entered the room.  The fact that he’s still in bed despite this isn’t a tremendously good sign, but David knows all too well how sometimes just getting out of bed can seem overwhelming.

To an outsider, he thinks that Patrick probably seems fine.  He is taking care of himself, doing what needs to be done in the house, and even starting a new job.  He gives the impression to others that he is completely in control, friendly and capable – and David thinks that more and more, it’s not a façade.  But David sees these moments, too, when it’s all just too much.

He curls his hand around Patrick’s arm, gently.  “Hey,” he whispers.  “I brought you some tea, if you want it.”

No reaction.

“Or you can just nap for a while.”

Patrick stirs, inching back towards David.  

“Okay if I nap too?”  David asks.

Patrick takes David’s hand and pulls it to his own chest, tucking his arm around David’s.  David can feel Patrick’s heartbeat against his palm.  

“Mmm.”  David presses a kiss to the back of Patrick’s neck.  “Sweet dreams, baby.”  David closes his eyes and breathes in the familiar smell of Patrick’s skin.  There are a lot worse things to do than cuddle his boyfriend through a difficult morning.  David can handle this.  He’s starting to think there’s quite a lot he can handle, when it comes to Patrick.

He knows Patrick was up late last night, going down rabbit holes on the web.  At some point David had woken up and peered at the screen of Patrick’s laptop, so he knows he was reading about depression.  He hopes it helped.  The internet can be a scary place; he’d probably be better off talking to someone.  David would talk to him about it, if he let him, but ever since their first few conversations Patrick hasn’t wanted to discuss it.  

David has almost fallen asleep when Patrick turns over and squints his eyes open.  

“You don’t have to stay here with me,” he says, blinking at David.

The sentence seems to carry more weight than he intended, and David shakes his head and puts his arm around Patrick, pulling him close.  “I’m not going anywhere.”  David shifts on to his back, and Patrick tucks himself against David’s chest.

“You have work.”  It’s a half-hearted protest at best, mumbled against David’s sweater.

“I already told Rory to move my meetings to the afternoon.  I’m fine.”  David presses a kiss to Patrick’s head. “I’m exactly where I want to be.  It’s a perfect day for sleeping in.”

Patrick is quiet, while David rubs his back and shuffles closer until they are entwined just right, legs and knees and arms all pressed together.  

After a few minutes David feels Patrick’s breath slow, and his hold on David relaxes.  He’s about to drift off himself, when Patrick jerks himself awake again.

“You okay, honey?”

Patrick nods, his chin digging into David.  “Yeah.  Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.  It’s all right.”  David strokes Patrick’s shoulder and back, making lazy circles, hoping it will help.  

“Thank you,” Patrick whispers, his hand flat against David’s stomach.  It’s the last thing David hears before he falls asleep.

When David wakes up, Patrick is gone, but the shower is running so there’s not much of a question as to where he went.  David drags himself upright and checks his phone.  Rory has indeed moved his meetings, one to this afternoon, one to tomorrow, and one he had taken care of all by himself.  Maybe there won’t be coal in his Christmas stocking after all.

David is in the kitchen sniffing various take-out containers to figure out if he can stand eating any of them for lunch, when Patrick shows up.  He’s wide awake and smells delightfully like David’s favorite body wash, so naturally David has to kiss him before anything else.  When they separate, Patrick is smiling sweetly at him, and David feels his whole body light up.  If there’s something better than Patrick’s fond attention, he has yet to discover it.

Patrick insists on making lunch, and they pull together a salad with some bagged lettuce, leftover grilled chicken and an overlooked cucumber.

“We have got to get something better for dinner,” David says, as they lean against the kitchen island and eat their food.  

“There’s an Italian place in a new shopping center that I haven’t tried yet, but it looks good.”  Patrick sends David the link to the restaurant’s menu, and David is checking out their desserts (they have cannoli, which is a definite mark in their favor), when Patrick’s phone chirps several times in a row.

“David?”

“Hm?”

“Why does Alexis want my measurements?”

David freezes, his good mood draining out of him.  “What?”

“Alexis wants to know my-”

David yanks the phone out of his hand.  “Let me see.”  He scans the messages.  The party isn’t directly mentioned, but there’s no getting out of it now.  He’s going to kill Alexis for pulling this shit and going around him.  “I can explain.”

“Okay, go ahead.”  Patrick takes a bite of his salad, then looks up at David.  “What’s going on?”

Time to bite the bullet.  “This Saturday night is the RMG holiday party.”

“Okay…”

“And my parents want me to come.”

Patrick looks… disappointed.  “Oh.”

David realizes his mistake instantly.  “Us – they want <i>us</i> to come.  But – you don’t have to.  I didn’t think you’d want to.”

“Do you want me to?”

David stands up from his chair and paces, to the patio and back, wishing it wasn’t raining so he could go outside and pace there too.  

“David?  Is that a hard question?”  Patrick is standing now, too, and there’s a tinge of anger in his tone.

“I don’t want you to feel like you <i>have</i> to come,” David says, coming towards him and gripping his arms. “I don’t want to rock the boat.  We’re good here.  There’s no reason to risk it.”

“To risk what?”  Now Patrick just sounds confused.

“Anything.”  David tilts his head back.  “I know I sound crazy, that’s why I didn’t bring this up.”

Patrick pulls them towards the couch, and they sit down.  David leans his head in his hands.

“David. Tell me what’s really going on.”

He sighs.  “What if you don’t like it?”

“The party?”

David looks up and rolls his eyes at him.  “No, not the party.  What if you’re mad, about why I didn’t say anything?”

“I don’t mean to dismiss your concerns, David, but you might be overthinking things.  Why don’t you just spit it out?”

“Fine.”  David straightens his shoulders and looks at Patrick.  “I like being here with you. I like the <i>us</i> we have.  I don’t want anything to mess that up.”

“Agreed, one hundred percent,” Patrick says, winding his fingers through David’s.  “Go on.”

“I don’t want to go to New York without you, and have people… talk at me about it.  Put thoughts in my head, about how it might not work.  And I don’t want you to come and have the same thing happen.”

“So, you’re afraid that if we leave here, and see anyone else, they’ll be able to convince us that what we have isn’t going to last?”

“All right, all right, I know that’s silly.”  David squeezes his eyes shut.  “Also I don’t want you to get upset.”

There’s a pause, and when Patrick speaks, his voice is quiet, his slightly teasing tone gone.  “Upset about what?”

David shrugs, his eyes still closed. “Things that might… upset you.  Strangers.  The city.  A crowded club.”  He can feel Patrick go still next to him.  “I don’t know if that’s why we keep to ourselves down here.  But if that was any part of it, if this is your safe space, I don’t want you to feel you have to leave.  Not for something as dumb as a holiday party.”

Patrick breathes in and out, audibly, and David opens his eyes.  Patrick’s looking down at where their hands are entwined, studying them, his lips pressed tightly together.  David reaches over and cups Patrick’s head with his hand, bringing them closer.  “I hope that was okay to say,” David says softly.

Patrick nods.  “Yeah,” he says, “yeah.  That was okay to say.”  He looks at David, and his eyes are wet.  “You’re right.  This is my safe space, here, with you.”

David feels his chest clench, and he nods back.  “I’m glad.”

Patrick inhales deeply, and blinks away a tear.  “But I don’t think your family’s holiday party is necessarily a dumb reason to leave.”

“No?”

“No.  I think it might be good for us.  Especially since Alexis is apparently finding me a really nice suit.”

*****

It sounds easy – Patrick says sure, they should go to the party.  But there are a dozen decisions to make after that, and by the next night, David is really wishing he had found a way to just say no.

When to leave is easy enough – there’s no way he wants Patrick to have to take Friday off, not with a brand-new job, so they’ll fly into LaGuardia on Saturday morning.  But will they come back on Sunday – Christmas Eve?  Or spend that night with his family and come back on Christmas itself?  Spend yet another night to avoid traveling on Christmas?  And how is it fair to Patrick’s parents, to make this special trip to be with David’s family, and not see them?

Add to that figuring out where they’ll stay (one night on Alexis’ pull-out couch is barely tolerable, but more than that, forget it), what social events David will agree to while there, and who is going to pay for the whole charade, and it’s a giant mess.

“Ok, I’ve had enough,” David says, when their dinner of take-out sushi has been completely dominated by debating the pros and cons of the various options, each of them trying to anticipate what the other wants and as far as David can tell, defeating the point of the entire conversation.  “Let’s play rock, paper, scissors.”

“What?”

“I can’t stand it anymore.  Whoever wins, chooses.”

“That won’t solve it.”  

Patrick’s right, it still doesn’t mean whoever wins will actually pick something reasonable, and not just what they think the other person wants.

“But you might be on to something,” Patrick continues, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Please, tell me, and put an end to this so we can get on with our lives.”  And pack, David thinks.

“On the count of three, put out a finger for how many nights you want to stay in New York.  No more debate, no more thinking about it.”

“Each of us puts out a finger for how long <i>who</i> wants to stay?”

Patrick glares at him.  “Don’t make this harder than it is.  The conversation is over.  Ready?”

David nods.  Whatever happens, at least then they can move on.

“One, two-”

“Wait, do we put out a finger on three, or are you going to say one, two, three, go?”

Patrick smacks David on the arm.

“Ow!”

“I’m going to say one, two, three, go.” There’s a twinkle in Patrick’s eyes when they meet David’s.  “Ready?  One, two, three, go!”

Both of them put out one finger.

“Oh, thank god,” David says, sagging forward, his forehead against Patrick’s.

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Can we please not talk about this anymore?”  David didn’t want to stay in New York any longer than necessary; he didn’t want to have any other days to worry about what his parents might want him to do versus what Patrick might want to do, he didn’t want to have to manage any of it any longer than he had to.  But he also didn’t want Patrick to feel like he was cutting David’s time with his family short, or that David was giving something up for him.  Because right now, all David really wants is whatever is best for Patrick, and what’s best for him and Patrick together.  And his gut is telling him that getting back to Florida on Sunday, and then spending Monday (even though it’s Christmas?  Because it’s Christmas?) together, alone, with no work and no family for a whole day, is what’s best for them both.

Patrick laughs.  “Sure.  And you know what’s great about our decision?”

“That it’s done?”

“Yes, and now we can just stay at Alexis’ place, since it will only be one night.”

“Thank god for small mercies.”

*****

They wake up at a painfully early hour Saturday morning and drag themselves to the airport, which is packed with Christmas travelers.  But everything goes smoothly, and by noon they’re in an Uber on their way to Alexis’ place.  When she opens the door she ignores David completely and envelops Patrick in a hug that goes on for so long, Patrick signals to David for help.  It’s unbearably sweet, and David is suddenly, overwhelmingly happy that they decided to come to New York.

Alexis gives Patrick a tour of her tiny apartment, and Patrick appropriately oohs and ahs over everything.  Alexis is especially proud of the little corner of her room that serves as an office, with its mood boards and tastefully decorated shelves.

“So this is where the magic happens,” Patrick says, and Alexis beams.

“Yes, Patrick!”  She sits down at her computer and pulls up a file to show him her latest spreadsheet achievement, when David sees a glossy looking envelope on her counter with Patrick’s name on it.

“What’s this?”  He picks it up, admiring the heavy paper, when he recognizes the ice blue logo.  “Alexis, why do you have-”

She plucks it out of his hand and does a little shimmy.  “It’s not for you, David.”  With a flourish, she hands it to Patrick.

Patrick exchanges a “what can you do” glance with David, and opens the envelope.  David crowds close, too excited to wait.

“It’s from your mom,” Patrick says.  

“It’s a lil’ couples massage,” Alexis says, practically bouncing on her toes.  “She specifically said to tell you that <i>there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself</i>.”  Alexis points with an impeccably polished nail to where it says that on the card, and David rolls his eyes, remembering the day Patrick reassured his mother that she wasn’t responsible for the dead guy in Room 4.  He <i>knew</i> she was being purposefully obtuse about the scone.

“Do we even have time for this massage thing?” Patrick asks.  “It’s for today.”

“Um, yes, we have time.  We absolutely have time.  This is one of the most exclusive spas in the city.”  David grabs Patrick’s coat off the couch; his own leather jacket is barely warm enough for New York in December, but at least it’s appropriate, unlike Patrick’s down monstrosity.  “Come on, let’s go.”

“I’m coming with you,” Alexis says, linking her arm through Patrick’s.  “Maybe we can make it a trio.”

“Not unless you are ready to walk out this door in thirty seconds.”

“Ugh, David.”  

Luckily Alexis takes only fifteen minutes to get ready to go, and they’re on their way.  Despite the fact that David has never heard of a trio massage (and he shudders to think of how expensive that might be), he doesn’t dissuade her from coming along.  He’s got barely twenty-four hours to hang out with her, and he’s going to soak up every one of them.

In the end Alexis drops them at the spa to do some shopping of her own, while David and Patrick are pampered to within an inch of their lives.  During the initial consultation with the massage therapists, they are fed chocolate covered strawberries and cucumber water.  They agree on the massage oils, and the music, and then are led to a dim room which smells delightfully like eucalyptus and jasmine.  David tries to keep his eyes open so he can watch Patrick melting into jelly on the table next to him.  It’s without a doubt the best massage David has ever experienced.  He can practically feel the oxytocin swirling in the air between them.

Afterwards they are helped into fluffy white robes, and then collapse together onto a wide, padded lounger.  “That was really nice,” Patrick says.

“Nice?”  David asks.  “Just nice?”

Patrick snuggles into David’s shoulder.  “Mmm.  I can’t think of words right now.  Full review later.”

David noses at Patrick’s hair.  “Okay.”

“Love you,” Patrick says muzzily.

“Love you too.”

They dose together, boneless and content, until a soft chime wakes them.  Reluctantly they find their way to the changing rooms, and then out into reality.

Alexis is buzzing with excitement and wants to immediately go back to her place to get dressed, but David insists that they find something to eat first.  It’s still hours away from when dinner will be served tonight, and as lovely as the chocolate covered strawberries were, he needs some real food or things will get ugly.

Luckily, they spot one of his favorite places to get a quick snack (it’s a chain with pretentious communal tables, but David has spent many hours here and he loves it anyway), so they load up on quiche and avocado tartine and mochas before returning to Alexis’ apartment.

When they arrive it’s fashion show time.  Because Alexis loves dressing up, she had agreed ages ago to let David keep some clothes in her closet – just a few choice outfits for when they were in New York together and felt like going out.  But David can feel Patrick hovering next to him, all the afternoon’s relaxing threatening to disappear, so he suggests they look at his options first.

Alexis beams and starts chattering about what she got for Patrick, and David leans in close, a hand on the small of his back.  “You don’t have to wear any of that if you don’t want to,” he whispers, as Alexis pulls out a silver shirt with a shiny gleam.  “You can wear what you brought.  Or what you’ve got on right now.”  David gives Patrick’s jeans-clad ass a little slap, and Patrick snorts out a laugh.

“What?  You don’t like this one?”  Alexis asks.  “You’re right, it’s too flashy.  How about this?”  She reaches airily into the closet, and David can tell by the way she’s standing, like she’s posing for a photo, that she’s presenting her top choice.  It’s a dark navy blue suit (Tom Ford? How did she get a Tom Ford suit for Patrick?) with a deep, rich purple shirt.  She holds it up to Patrick, and he nods carefully, then looks over to David for approval.

David pets it, and looks inside for a label.  The suit isn’t a Tom Ford, although it looks damn good.  And now that he examines the jacket more closely, he can see it has its own distinctive style.  “Where did you get this, Alexis?  And who made it?”

Alexis preens.  “One of my friends has a connection with an up and coming designer,” she says.  “She’ll be at the party tonight.  I’ll introduce you.”

“And we don’t have to pay for this, right?”  David asks.  The cut is classically elegant, and he thinks it’s going to fit Patrick like a glove.

“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p’.  “She’s just happy to have someone wearing her clothes.”

“I’ll try it on,” Patrick says, and Alexis shows him to the bathroom.  When he comes back out, David can’t help but go to him, running his hands up and down his shoulders and arms.

“You like it?”  Patrick asks.  

“I like <i>you,</i>” David says, and presses a quick kiss to Patrick’s lips.  “And you look amazing in this suit.”  He unbuttons another button of the shirt, liking the way the open neck shows just a little bit of Patrick’s skin.

“It doesn’t need a tie?” Patrick asks.

“No, you’re perfect just like this.”

“Yay!”  Alexis cheers, coming over and booping Patrick on the nose.  “I knew this was going to work!”

David decides on his black and white Armani short jacket, with a sharp collared white shirt underneath and slim black ankle-length trousers.  He likes the contrast with Patrick’s rich colored but still traditionally styled suit.  Alexis twirls for them in her dress, a silky blush colored gown that makes her look like a 50’s movie star. They’re finally ready, and they pile into a waiting Uber and head uptown.

The back room of the club is already crowded, and David can’t help but feel a little swell of pride at how RMG has grown.  Stevie waves to them from where she’s standing across the room with Ruth, but David doesn’t have a chance to get over to her before his parents descend.  There are hugs all around, and when the wave of familial affection finally recedes, David can’t help but notice that Patrick looks a little overwhelmed.

He weaves his arm through Patrick’s and leads them away, finding an alcove where they can catch their breath.

“You okay?” he asks, a palm to Patrick’s chest.  He can feel his heart beating a mile a minute.  This is exactly what he was worried about, this is too much for Patrick, too many people.  “We can leave anytime, we made our appearance, I’ll call a car-”

“No, David, I’m fine,” Patrick says, taking David’s hand.  “Really.”

David searches his face.  “Are you sure?  Because you seem a little…”

“David,” Patrick says firmly.  “I’m fine.”  He slides his hands around David’s waist, under his jacket, and David can feel the warmth of his fingers pressing against him through the thin fabric of his shirt.  David slings his arms around Patrick and leans his head against his shoulders.  “Your parents are very enthusiastic, but it’s great to see them,” Patrick says.  “Everything’s okay.”

“You’re fine,” David repeats, willing himself to believe it.  Patrick really is.  Nothing’s wrong.  

“Could it be, maybe, you’re a little nervous too?”  Patrick says, his voice gentle.

David wants to deny it, but realizes instantly that Patrick is right.  He feels a little fizzy, a little unsteady.  “Maybe.”  Patrick isn’t the only one who has been enjoying their little Florida bubble.  

Patrick hugs him closer, and then steps back, inclining his head out towards the party.  “Come on.  Alexis said there’d be crab puffs.”

“Crab cakes,” David corrects.  

“Crab cakes, then.  And baked brie.”

“I still don’t see any coherency in the hors d’oeuvre selection,” David gripes, back on solid ground.

“But you’re going to eat all of them anyway.”

“I am definitely going to eat all of them anyway.”

They’re grazing by the cheese platters when David sees a few familiar faces coming towards him.  This is going to be fun, he thinks, a smile tugging at his cheek.

“David, hi!”  

“Vanessa, you look radiant.”  She does, her dark skin set off by a metallic pantsuit and glimmers of gold around her eyes.  

“Most beautiful woman in the room,” rumbles her companion, a huge man with a barrel chest who towers over both David and Patrick.

“Patrick, meet Vanessa, my favorite gallery employee from back in the day, and her husband Rory, my current favorite employee.”

Rory laughs, his deep voice probably setting off small earthquakes somewhere.  “I’m not your employee, Rose.”  He holds out his hand to Patrick.  “Nice to meet you.”

Patrick turns to David, and the reveal was definitely worth it.  “This is your assistant Rory?  The one you bother all day long about your schedule?  The one you sent to pick out your clothes?”

“Mmm-hmm.”  David <i>knows</i> Patrick thought “Rory” was some college kid, he just knows it.  Instead he’s a thirty-five year old sculptor who wanted a day job for a steady paycheck.

“What, you don’t think I can be trusted with David’s clothes?”  Rory asks.  “I admit, I was surprised, too.  But I guess he had a good reason to ask me to go through all of his drawers.”

“Drawers?  My knits aren’t in drawers, where did you-” David sees the look on Vanessa’s face, and abruptly changes course.  “You made Vanessa do it, didn’t you.”

Vanessa laughs, and tucks her arm through her husband’s.  “I’m sorry, David, but come on – you send Rory an emergency text telling him to Fed Ex you extremely specific selections from your warm weather clothing, and you think I’m not going to get involved?  I’ve known you for years and you never let me into your closet before. It was an experience I was not going to pass up.”

Patrick is giggling into his glass of seltzer, and David has had quite enough of this.  “Fine.  Tease me if you want.  But I think we can all agree it was a successful mission.”  He hooks his chin over Patrick’s shoulder, his arm snug around him.

“From the way you two look together, I’d say so,” Vanessa says.

“Here here.” Rory raises his glass, and they all follow suit.  “To David and Patrick.”

“Oh my god, enough with that,” David says, and buries his burning face in Patrick’s neck.

Rory and Vanessa excuse themselves, but David has hardly had a chance to visit the buffet again when Patrick tugs at his arm.

“What?” he says, looking up from a particularly delicious egg roll.

“Come dance with me,” Patrick says, his eyes wide and warm, and David drops his plate on a table and follows him.  

“What brought this on?” David asks, as he loops his arms over Patrick’s shoulders and starts to move in time to the music.

Patrick shrugs a little and pulls David closer.  “My parents always dance to this song,” he says into David’s ear.

David feels his chest expand, and he presses a kiss to Patrick’s cheek.  “It’s a nice song.”  

<i>Moon river, wider than a mile</i> <i>I'm crossing you in style some day</i>

<i>Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker</i> <i>Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way</i>

David listens for a moment to the bittersweet melody.  “Is it a love song?” he finally asks.  It’s not as if he’s ever given <i>Moon River</i> much thought before.  

Patrick slides his fingers up the back of David’s neck, into his hair.  “I think it’s love for the journey, rather than a destination.”

<i>Two drifters, off to see the world</i>

<i>There’s such a lot of world to see</i>

David glances around, and now his parents are dancing too, along with a handful of other couples.  He nuzzles against Patrick.  “Not to quote my sister or anything, but… I like this journey for us.”

Patrick turns his head and finds David’s lips, kissing him sweetly.  “Me too, David.  Me too.”

[kingreywrites]

What obstacles fate may bring

Fandom: Tangled

Words count: 3326

New Dream Appreciation Week Day Five: Proposal

Summary: "I can't believe it," Rapunzel groaned, taking his hand to press it against her face, probably to feel the coolness of his ring against her skin. "I can't believe- this must be a curse. We're cursed, Eugene, cursed to never have a normal engagement."

"We're not cursed," he chuckled, ignoring her glare. "The doctor said it might not be permanent."

Read on ao3

@our-newdream

Eugene knocked softly on the door of Rapunzel's bedroom, more to warn her that he was coming than anything else. Actually, it was their bedroom now, he remembered with a goofy smiled, that immediately abated at the sight he was met with. The bedroom was completely dark which, these last days, wasn't unusual - with her headaches, Rapunzel was uncomfortable if it was too brightly lit. Considering her previous relationship with the sun, it was quite ironic, but she was too miserable and she missed seeing the sky too much for Eugene to even joke about it. No, what was unusual today was the fact that Rapunzel was not only laying on her bed, but was actively trying to choke herself with a pillow while Pascal squeaked comfortingly next to her ear.

"You okay Sunshine?" Eugene asked softly, knowing that loud sounds could also hurt her.

She moaned something unintelligible under her pillow and he frowned, unsure if she was sad or actually hurting. He went to sit next to her quickly, his hand going to her shoulder.

"Does your head hurt?" He might have sounded a tiny bit more panicked than he originally wanted, but who could blame him? Some days ago, his fiancee had hurt her head so bad that she hadn't woken up for twenty-four horrible hours. Rapunzel must have heard the genuine worry in his voice because she moved the pillow down, just enough for her forlorn eyes to appear.

"It's not that," she finally mumbled, "my head doesn't hurt that much anymore."

Eugene smiled but kept in a corner of his head the fact that it still hurt, even if it was a little bit. He wasn't taking any risks with that - he'd have to ask the physician about it. Said physician might end up asking for a restraining order in return, since Eugene might have harassed him a little the last four days but, joke's on him, Eugene was also the guy that managed restraining orders - plus, it was about the Princess' health, so he was right to go overboard.

Rapunzel stayed silent but, even in the darkness, Eugene could still feel the sadness she exuded. He glanced at Pascal but the frog was apparently as lost as he was, so he'd have to wait for Rapunzel to actually say it.

Or he could ask. He wasn't a patient man when it came to the health of the love of his life.

"Rapunzel, what's wrong?"

She sighed, pressing harder against the pillow as she lowered her eyes. "I'm cursed."

"Cursed? Sunshine, we talked-"

"No, I know, it's not a real curse, it's just… It feels like a curse," she bit out. Blindly, her hand seeked his and he was happy to help her find it, until she yanked it in front of her face without a warning. His yelp didn't faze her at all; she was too busy staring at his engagement ring.

Ah. Eugene understood, suddenly, what was the problem.

To be precise, it all started two weeks ago, on Rapunzel's birthday. It had been one of the best day of Eugene's life because he had proposed to the love of his life, and she had said yes, and honestly his heart still hadn't recovered from the sheer emotion he had felt that day. They had spent… an interesting night, to say the least, and Eugene discovered next morning that waking up in the same bed as Rapunzel was one of the greatest gift in life.

So, all in all, it sounded perfect. And it was perfect, really - they went to announce it to her parents, who were ecstatic and, together, they agreed to wait a little before telling the whole kingdom about it. At first, it had been Rapunzel who asked, because she wanted Cassandra to hear it from her first, and, for them to be sure that it was the case, they had to wait until they received the dragon lady's answer. Eugene hadn't minded at all, really, he was even quite glad for the relative privacy - and he took the opportunity to write to his father, so he'd be the first to tell him too.

So, how did it all go wrong? Well, considering that the Coronans didn't know about the engagement, they had started getting down the decorations they had put up for Rapunzel's birthday. Feeling a little bad that it would be tidied up only for them to send everyone into a frenzy again with their engagement, Eugene and Rapunzel decided to help clean up the decorations. Between chatting with citizens and going where they were needed, they had gotten a little separated during the day, which wasn't that unusual.

What had been unusual were the screams.

Immediately alert, Eugene had run toward the noise, not letting himself panic even when cries about the Princess had reached his ears. He hadn't asked to be let through but had been anyway, and then, the only thing he had managed to see was Rapunzel's prone form, and the blood coming from her head. The rest was a blur, honestly - he remembered going to her, remembered whistling for Max, remembered giving orders to panicked citizens with a calm his heart certainly didn't feel, and remembered rushing toward the castle… But it was all disjointed and out of focus, his memories tainted by his terror. He remembered the next twenty-four hours, remembered how scared he had been, how tightly he had held her hand, how long he had trembled with nervousness and exhaustion.

Honestly, he didn't care about much else than her well-being after that. He knew that she didn't share his opinion on the matter, but he wouldn't budge on it - she was alright, and the rest could be fixed easily enough.

"I can't believe it," Rapunzel groaned, taking his hand to press it against her face, probably to feel the coolness of his ring against her skin. "I can't believe- this must be a curse. We're cursed, Eugene, cursed to never have a normal engagement."

"We're not cursed," he chuckled, ignoring her glare. "The doctor said it might not be permanent."

"Might," she grumbled, "I still can't believe it. I can't believe I forgot our engagement."

"You had a serious head injury that resulted in a case of retrograde amnesia that made you forget the last three weeks," Eugene recited dutifully, in the exact same tone as Rapunzel's physician. "It's not your fault," he added, "and I'm very happy that it was the worse thing that came out of this. You scared me, you know."

Maybe his voice was hoarser than he had intended - maybe he was more vulnerable than he wished to be, but it was true. He had been scared, terrified that this was the end of their journey together and for what? A little fall? Rapunzel couldn't have survived their crazy adventures for her to… to… die like this. He remembered how happy he had been when she finally woke up, confused and bleary-eyes but thankfully okay - and, at this moment, every carefully constructed rants about climbing building without protection dissolved on his tongue, not important anymore. Nothing was more important than her, and if the engagement had been one of the greatest day of his life, Rapunzel was his life, easy as that.

"It seemed so beautiful," Rapunzel whispered wistfully, still holding his hand absentely while his other one was busy making circles on her shoulder. "I've seen it drawn in my journal-"

"How did you-"

"-that my mom brought to me because I'm under strict orders to not get out of bed," she answered without missing a beat. "Past me wrote detailed annotations, and drew it from multiple angles, and I- I just-"

"Hey," Eugene whispered, stroking her face as he snuggled next to her. "If you want, we can take our rings off and redo the whole proposal all over again once you're on your feet. Sure, it won't be your birthday, but you know Coronans - they'll be happy to have a second lantern ceremony! The cupcake won't be a surprise anymore, but-"

"That's not the same though," Rapunzel mumbled, closing her eyes. She looked exhausted, and probably was since she was still recovering from her concussion. "If I could just remember it, then…"

"Rapunzel," he said tenderly, kissing her cheek quickly in the hope to cheer her up. "if you want, I can propose to you a million times in a million of different ways. What's the most important to me is that you're fine because that's the only thing needed for us to make new memories. I want to make new memories with you all my life," he insisted, pushing a strand of her hair from her face, meeting her shining eyes.

She exhaled shakily, both emotional and in pain. "You're right, I'm sorry..."

"I- no, Sunshine, you have every right to be upset," Eugene rectified softly, seeing that she was getting too tired for the conversation - but it was important she understood. "You lost an important memory, anyone would feel bad about it. I would whine myself into oblivion in your situation," he smiled, drawing a laugh from her, "and you'd be the one to tell me that my health was the most important thing."

Rapunzel hummed, closing her eyes again, for longer this time. She would probably fall back asleep soon - and, as much as she missed going outside, rest was an important part of her recovery.

"As long as we're both okay, we can fix this," was the last thing she mumbled, before she fell asleep. She barely felt Eugene kiss her forehead as he fixed her blanket, leaving her with Pascal as her devoted guard, while he went to harass the physician some more.

-----

"Rapunzel?" Eugene called, pushing open the door of their bedroom, who was back to being sunny and brightly lit - once the sun stopped giving her headaches, it seemed that Rapunzel decided the window needed to be wide open all the time. However, right now, it was closed, and Rapunzel wasn't here.

Sighing, he went to sit on the windowsill, knowing that she would come at some point - until he saw a little note taped to the pane. It was undoubtedly Rapunzel's writing, punctuated with little hearts and a doodle of them kissing. (Eugene never managed to get rid of the notes. He loved them too much, and he had boxes full of them because Rapunzel wrote hundred of them that she always always personalised. Yes, he also re-read the notes quite often, because he was a sap and he loved her.) He took the note down carefully and started to read it, a little worried about her whereabouts.

Eugene,

I have a surprise for you! Go see Max and he'll know where to take you!

Love,

Rapunzel.

Eugene frowned, immediately worried, because it might be sweet but Rapunzel was barely out of bedrest, a week and a half after her accident. If she was all alone, who knew what- oh, there was writing on the other side too.

PS,

I know you're probably worrying about me already, but I asked the physician and my parents about it and they said yes! I have Pascal and Fidella with me, plus you and Maximus coming, plus a lot of people knowing where to come find me if we're not back in two hours. Now go see Max! I love you!

Well, what could he answer to that? He shook his head, smiling, and put the note on his nightstand, before going to see Max immediately. He wanted to leave her alone as little as was possible, uncomfortably aware of what happened the last time he did, and, seeing that Max was ready and eager to leave, it was apparently a shared sentiment. Eugene tried hard not to stifle her too much, because he knew that wasn't what she needed, but sometimes he wanted to bundle her up in blankets to be sure that she would always be safe. He didn't know what he would do if she wasn't.

Max led him through the forest surrounding Corona, looking proud and sure of himself when Eugene wondered where exactly Rapunzel intended to meet him. Why would it need to be so far away from home? Though, now that he was paying attention, it felt like he recognized some of the landmarks - it has been a long time since he really strolled through the forest but that tree looked sort of familiar, didn't it?

Maximus neighed, startling Eugene as his friend took a sharp corner and suddenly, there Rapunzel was, sitting on a fallen over tree in front of a campfire. Eugene dismounted Max absentely, his breath caught in his throat as the flames illuminated Rapunzel's face wonderfully - it wasn't even that dark outside but she was still glowing, her brown hair taking a fiery orange aspect which made her green eyes pop even more than usual.

"I remember this place," he said, chest warm as she nodded a little too excitedly - he could see that she was trying hard to stay seated, despite the nervous energy coursing through her.

Of course he remembered. For anyone else, this place was nothing more than another uninteresting spot of the forest, but for them both, this was where they made a campfire the day they met. It was where Rapunzel trusted him with her biggest secret, and healed his hand; it was where he trusted her with his biggest secret, and told the story of Eugene Fitzherbert the orphan.

It was where they both discovered and accepted each other for who they were, no pretense needed. He could never forget it.

Eugene went to sit beside Rapunzel, like they did that first day. Maximus made himself scarce, probably meeting with Pascal and Fidella somewhere, but Eugene paid him no mind. He only had eyes for Rapunzel - for the obvious joy in her own, the blush on her cheeks, her wonderful smile, and everything that made her the love of his life.

"Hi," he breathed.

"Hi," she laughed, eyes shining. "Do you like it?"

Eugene had been too taken with her to notice the other decorations she had set up around the campfire. There were flowers all around them, and a basket full of what seemed to be delicious sweets.

"I love it," he answered, his eyes not leaving hers as he took her hands in his. "But, though I'm not complaining, I'm wondering why you decided to come here today."

"Remember the letters Cass sent?" Rapunzel asked, apparently out of the blue.

Eugene frowned, puzzled, but nodded because, seriously, how could he forget? They had to send Cassandra another letter informing her of what happened to Rapunzel - and that their engagement was put on the backburner until she was recovered enough and, hopefully, got her memories back. Rapunzel hadn't recovered her memories as of now. However, they had received a response from Cassandra some days later. Yes, they had received something because, for the first time since she left, Cassandra addressed a letter to Eugene specifically, instead of making snide remarks in the ones she regularly wrote to Rapunzel.

Of course, when Eugene opened it, it was to discover that there wasn't a message, really - she had only wrote "ahahaha" on the whole page, mocking him from across the country for yet another obstacle coming in between him and Rapunzel being engaged. Oh, Rapunzel's letter had been "very sweet" and "full of empathy", his fiancee's words not his, but Eugene didn't believe Cassandra was capable of those things. (He still kept the letter. Bitterly, but he kept it.)

"Well," Rapunzel said when he nodded, "I asked her for advice on something-"

"And she told you to break up with me."

"No! I mean, yes," Rapunzel laughed as Eugene gave her an 'I told you so' look, "she did say that but she also added good advice. She told me that I needed to be blunt, and fix what I wanted to fix instead of dwelling forever on it."

"Fix?" Eugene echoed, suddenly worried - what would Rapunzel need to fix between them? He didn't think he had done something particularly wrong lately, except maybe be a little of a mother-hen because of her injury, but he couldn't help it! He tried hard to let her breathe but he was scared and-

Before he could continue his train of thought, Rapunzel got up, making him follow her movement gently. He opened his mouth, ready to ask her for clarifications, but she didn't leave him the chance.

Rapunzel went down on one knee and all the air left Eugene's lungs, his heart beating louder in his chest.

"This is me, fixing what is bothering me," Rapunzel beamed, her eyes shining. "You were right, Eugene - what matters most to me is that we're able to make new memories together, for all our lives. But we lived through so many moments together, and I treasure every one of them, because I treasure my time with you more than anything else in the world."

"Sunshine," Eugene breathed, unable to voice exactly just how much he loved her. He didn't think words were enough to describe the warmth in his chest overwhelming his senses, making his eyes water from sheer emotion as Rapunzel kept talking.

"This place… This campfire, that was the first time you let me in. This was the moment I really met you, Eugene Fitzherbert, my new dream even if I didn't know it quite yet. You make my life better, and brighter, and I feel so lucky to have you at my side no matter what."

"I'm lucky too," he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion, "the luckiest man on Earth."

Rapunzel grinned and, carefully, she took his ring off his finger. "I know you've already done this… and that taking the ring from you may seem counterintuitive, but-" She took a deep breath, still on her knee, now holding his ring between her fingers, her own ring shining thanks to the fire's glow. "- Eugene Fitzherbert, will you marry me?"

"Yes," he answered, too quickly perhaps as he lowered himself and put his arms under hers, lifting her up in a hug. "Of course it's yes," he laughed, and she laughed too - he could feel her smiling against his neck and he never wanted to let her go. "It's always yes."

She moved her head back a little, to be able to look into his eyes. They were both breathless and grinning, cheeks hurting and an never-ending fondness that they didn't bother containing. Their lips met, almost against their will, love pulling them together like gravity.

They breathed, and Rapunzel took the opportunity to slid Eugene's ring back on his finger - which meant he had to kiss her again, because she was his everything and she wanted him to be hers, for their whole lives.

"Let's hope," she murmured after some time, "that our curse is over."

"Not a curse."

"Uh-uh. But let's hope, anyway."

"No more moonstone related incidents," Eugene suggested.

"No more retrograde amnesia," Rapunzel added.

"Sounds good to me," Eugene grinned, before kissing her again - he was certainly lucky. Who had the chance to be engaged twice to the most perfect woman in the universe?

Only him.

(They went back home to announce the engagement a second time to Rapunzel's parents, who were, incredibly enough, as excited as the first time. Rapunzel had to send another letter to Cassandra, to Eugene's despair - she would never let him live it down.

Some days later, Rapunzel pounced on him, startling him awake at an unlawful hour. He didn't complain, though; not when he saw the absolute delight on her face as she announced excitedly that she finally remembered their first engagement. One more than necessary, sure, but when had they ever done something the usual way?

Plus, twice the engagement meant twice the celebration, and Eugene was happy to provide.)

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG169 (nice)~

- So, no cookie for guessing Desolation with this one, but big kudos to those who guessed that the episode would be reminiscent of the Grenfell Tower fire. Oh boy, what a domain it was ;; Desolation episodes have always felt extremely cruel and this one went veeerrry harsh on the torture and despair, even before the physical pain of it (as Jon said, “Some fears don’t need to be intensified; only manifested”). I really felt the nightmare-logic in this one, the feeling of being trapped and discovering/realising the rules and parameters as they became relevant; a little scenario that felt repeated, again and again, beginning badly (home as a prison, a toxic place that one cannot help but love because it’s familiar and theirs) and only getting worse, with Sabina losing everything (parents, possessions, physical safety), while at the same time… everything was rooted in something very concrete, very logical, very relatable, laced with poverty and the loss of agency.

- The edge in Jon’s voice for this one was terrifying (and so was the soundscaping, expressing what was being said), and it seemed… on point for The Desolation. Jude directly called him out about the fact that he himself was enjoying the fear but, even before that, the way Jon narrated Sabina’s nightmare really hammered in the cruelty and sadistic glee of the domain feeding on her ;; The mentions of the “landlord” were especially chilling, given a rhythmic, almost casually fatalistic c’est-la-vie tone to the whole ordeal (… while no, clearly, it wasn’t, and even if the fire had been accidental, there should have been ways and options to make it out… but no, due to an accumulation of negligence/neglect turning into something criminal):

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: “But the door latch never really aligned properly, you see; the landlord always said he was going to get it fixed and… it refuses to open. […] The window frame never really opened properly, you see; the landlord always said he was going to get it fixed. […] But the fire escape was always really rusty, you see; the landlord always said he was going to replace it. […] Falling back into the inferno that is now her home, Sabina dashes over to the laughably small fire extinguisher the landlord begrudgingly provided; it is sputtering, and empty.”

(… Jon impersonating the parents’ screams sadly took me out of it on first listen, because the “We’re BURNING” immediately made me think of Jonny-playing-Galahad in HNOC’s “Hellfire” and the “We’re FALLING into the flames”, which was a bit of a mood-whiplash x”) It worked better on second listen, and again, WHAT is Jon currently feeding to the tape recorders…)

- Same as in other domains, memories were clearly rewritten or only made accessible to serve the dominant Fear at stake:

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: “Next to him, Charlie saw Ryan, who he’d known since childhood – though the other details were hazy. Ryan gave him a thumbs-up and an encouraging smile – before his face exploded inwards to a sniper’s bullet, peppering the boat with shards of bone and gore.”

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “There was never a time before the disease, no matter what the old bastards tell you. It has always been in the village, always festered in the dark corners where nobody could stomach to check, where good neighbours wouldn’t dream to speculate.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “Its pace remaining as it ever was, it does not care for coming pains as you are torn. Doesn’t it know who you are? No…  And soon… neither will you. […] You will be someone again, someday. […] “I’m still Hannah!” you try to scream, but are you? No. Perhaps there’s some Veronica as fragments there, or Julian, or Anya, but… no. You feel the last of names and “who” you might have been be torn away and borne towards new bodies. New pages, blank; determined to be people.”

(MAG166) ARCHIVIST: “When had the crushing pressure in his chest become literal? When had the empty promise of the horizon finally vanished completely, replaced by the pitch darkness of this “forever wall of earth”? Sam did not know. Time had no meaning here. […] His existence was static, and eternal. Immutable. “Sleep” was only a memory, because even the prospect of unconsciousness might have made his present state slightly more bearable. Food as well, he knew, must be a thing, for he could feel the hunger, but his imagination failed to picture it. The only smell he knew was the damp, and the dirt.”

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: “How long as she lived here? How long have these cramped, dingy rooms in the back of this sprawling rundown tenement been the place her heart calls home? She cannot recall, but long enough for her to grow into love for it, to cherish every rusted appliance, every crumbling piece of plasterboard, every – flickering – lightbulb. […] Sabina cannot… picture their faces, but knows that should they wake to see the state of the place… their anger would be blistering. […] What floor was her flat on again? Surely, it can’t be this high. […] Limping and desperate, she turns to see her furniture in flames, the bookshelves full of memories, that she can’t quite place [STATIC RISES] but knows are precious to her, curl and float away as ash. The photos on the wall of her family whose faces seem indistinct but she knows that she loves, begin to blacken, as the glass pops out of the frame.”

For Sabina, memories were only useful to represent what she would lose. (;; It’s one of the things that still makes me the most uneasy with this season: the fact that regular people are deprived of who they used to be, the memories of who they were… while Jon&Martin are beaming with their Uniqueness. People are trapped in these nightmares but, by comparison, it feels a bit like they’re already “dead” and interchangeable, only allowed to remember things and be reshaped to better fear and feed the Powers…)

- I was wondering what would be the point of avatars in this new world (if they would still feed their patrons, or be absolutely superfluous, etc.). The fact that Jude’s death apparently didn’t perturb the Desolation domain very much tends to prove that they aren’t necessary, so it really seems like the keyword was what Oliver said last episode:

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “Sometimes, for some small variety, I will allow Danika to brush against another root: the final fate of someone she loves. […] And with each one, she knows her steps forward bring closer not only her own end, but all of theirs. Time walks forward with her, but she has not the strength to stop it. Her fate draws ever-nearer, filling me with the joy of watchful fear, but also my own concerns.”

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: It’s a maze in there, deliberately so. People running, desperately struggling for fire escapes only to find them blocked. … We won’t get lost, though. I know the route. […] “Do you smell smoke? Do you smell… the creeping ruin of a life, a stalking creature of unmaintained electricals, of cheap insulation, of cut-corners and missing fire alarms and unenforced safety regulations? Do you see it creeping under the door to your bedroom as you sleep, the burning coals of its eyes, regarding you in the supposed safety on your home; not indifferent, but hungry, eager to take everything from you, to burn down your life in any sense it can reach? Can you hear the crackling promise of kindled despair, that it whispers into your uneasy, dreaming ear?”

“Variety”? Creativity? Diversifying people’s suffering for the Powers’ enjoyment, and above all The Eye’s? I… wonder what that would mean regarding Jon, as The Eye’s favourite, right now… ;;

- I got genuinely surprised that Jon mentioned Arthur Nolan as still alive, because I thought he had been done for since March 2014 and the events recalled by Jordan Kennedy:

(MAG145) GERTRUDE: So. Now, Diego has taken over… Where does that leave you? ARTHUR: [SNORT] Slumlording over a nest. GERTRUDE: Oh. A nest of… what? ARTHUR: Found a mass of the Crawling Rot growing, a while back. Managed to get a hold of the property before it became too big. Gotta wait ‘til it blossoms before we can properly burn it. So until then… just playing landlord.

(MAG055) JORDAN: Time seemed to move slowly as he reached for the ashtray on the arm of the chair and picked up a pack of matches. He struck one and without even looking at me, he gently pressed the small flame to the centre of the scar. His flesh caught fire, immediately, the flames spreading across his body like rippling water. The armchair caught, then the floor, and then I was running out of the building before the rolling inferno could come at me as well.

(MAG169) MARTIN: Right… I just assumed this would be… Who was that landlord guy? ARCHIVIST: Arthur Nolan. He’s here, he has a… part of it, but it’s… huge. Bigger than you could believe. There’s so much fear in there…

It had felt odd to die from self-immolation, for a Desolation avatar, but we hadn’t seen him since then, and he had lived his time – given how Eugene Vanderstock was aware that he wouldn’t last forever (MAG139: “So, me? I was born in ‘36 – I know, I don’t look seventy. But burning the candle at all ends does have a few advantages. Until you burn out entirely, at least. It’s hard to say how much I’ve got left in me; how much longer my sacrifices can buy me. But when I go… you better believe I’m going big – and it is going to hurt.”), I had assumed that Arthur setting himself on fire was because his time has reached its limit and/or that his life had been tied to The Hive’s nest somehow by Gertrude, and that Jane becoming The Hive meant his final demise or something? But apparently, no, he was still around. I wonder what he was doing during the following four years? (If it was a matter of Desolation avatars respawning in the domain, I’d have expected for Agnes to be mentioned, but she wasn’t, so…)

- Speaking of Arthur, it’s hilarious how much this statement hammered in the confluence of Corruption/Desolation when it comes to one’s life crumbling, getting devastated:

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: “Maybe the dirt and grime builds up to such a degree that the stench begins to infect your soul, or an infestation of moths or ants or bed bugs stretches itself throughout the very structure of your home, until it feels like your skin is squirming with them. […] How long as she lived here? How long have these cramped, dingy rooms in the back of this sprawling rundown tenement been the place her heart calls home? She cannot recall, but long enough for her to grow into love for it, to cherish every rusted appliance, every crumbling piece of plasterboard, every – flickering – lightbulb. Even as the widening cracks and spreading mould fill her heart with dread, they gently, slowly, inch by inch, approach the mildewed room where her parents lie sleeping.”

… Given Arthur’s utter disdain for the idea that The Lightless Flame could be assimilated to anything Corruption-adjacent:

(MAG145) ARTHUR: Not like I can vent to the others about what a prat Diego is! Got a lot of funny ideas. Still calls The Lightless Flame “Asag”, like he was when he was first researching it. I just want to tell him to get over it – I mean, [FASTER AND FASTER] Asag was traditionally a force of destruction, sure, but as a church, we very much settled on burning in terms of the… face we worship, and some… fish-boiling Sumerian demon doesn’t really match up, does it?! Plus, there’s a lot of disease imagery with Asag that I’ll reckon is… way too close to Filth for my taste, but, but no, he read it in some ~ancient tome~, so that’s that– GERTRUDE: Well, I can’t say I– ARTHUR: –reckons he always knows best, ‘cause he’s read a few books, well. Big. Deal! Way I see it, if a writer can’t even save themselves, they probably don’t have a lot worth knowing! Find me one so-called “expert” on all of this who didn’t end up regretting all of it!

I hope your ego and convictions are shattering and that this is your personal hell, Arthur. Diego was RIGHT.

- Regarding Jon and Martin’s own domains, Jon raised the possibility that they were metaphorically trapped in their own quest, and it follows the comments about how they were outside of the box:

(MAG164) MARTIN: Are we safe, traveling like this? ARCHIVIST: Yes… Yes, sort of, we’re… I don’t know how to phrase it, we’re… something between a pilgrim and a moth. We can walk through these little worlds of terror, watching them; separate, and untouched. MARTIN: [NERVOUS CHUCKLING] That’s not as comforting as you might think. ARCHIVIST: I like it better than the alternative…!

(MAG165) MARTIN: But. You said we needed to go through these places. … Is that even going to work here? ARCHIVIST: Uh… [EXHALE] We need to go through them… metaphorically. MARTIN: Mm… ! ARCHIVIST: Psychologically, we need to… “experience” them. […] MARTIN: Jon, what are you talking about? NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: She can’t touch us. We’re so far beyond her now. NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: She’s just like everything else here, rules by The Eye.

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: Like I said, I can’t see the future. It wouldn’t free them, if that’s what you’re asking. “Free” doesn’t really exist in this place. MARTIN: Apart from us. ARCHIVIST: I suppose. I–in a sense, though… [CHUCKLING] how much of that is because we are trapped in our own quest to– MARTIN: Okay, let’s, let’s not dive into another… ontological debate right now, not here.

… and 1°) they’re still technically under The Eye – the whole world is its domain right now; 2°) Obligatory “WHAT IS MARTIN’S DOMAIN” (a fixed place? Web, Lonely? The Institute-Panopticon too? Jon as “the Archive”, having ~trapped~ Martin?), 3°) … big Oouft because if they were to consider their quest as the “domain” trapping them… a quest is made around a goal. Jon presented it as a “doomed quest” which was already worrisome, Oliver highlighted that the current system would ultimately collapse on its own, The Buried’s domain taunted its victims with constant hope, so… if the goal kept being unreachable, but still “almost” out of reach, Jon and Martin could be trapped a bit more literally than just on an ontological plane.

- ;w; Martin is afraid of fire…

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: … You said you were onboard. MARTIN: I was! I am; I just… thought… ARCHIVIST: It wouldn’t hurt? MARTIN: … That we’d be safe. ARCHIVIST: I never said– MARTIN: I know! I know, okay, I just… [SOMETHING SHATTERS] Look, I j–, I just don’t want to get burned, alright? It’s, it’s like my least favourite pain ever. ARCHIVIST: Is that… a joke? MARTIN: No, no! Okay? I… I legitimately hate burns, alright, they’re–they’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just, it– It–it just makes me sick, I–I hate it. Hate it!

* Is it related to the fact that he had to care for his mom from a very young age, and that accidents happened…? That makes his decision to burn statements in MAG117-MAG118 even braver – fire that he could control on his terms, but still, in close proximity to him.

* … Actually, Elias implanting in his mind the truth of how his mother saw him, while Martin had just burned a few statements and was threatening to keep doing it, and when the smell of the fire might have still be floating around at that moment miiiight have added fuel (ha) to Martin’s own fear. Associating bad things and pain to fire.

* Wooft that he hates burns and what they leave, when he’s probably been walking kilometres holding Jon’s all-burned-to-fuck hand.

* YEAH ALSO, that line about how pain can leave a scar even if there is no physical mark to show for it? Is valid on its own but, given Martin’s past, resonates even more when keeping in mind his relationship with his mother and the way Elias inflicted his powers on him and Melanie (MAG118: “Do you want to know what she sees when she looks at you?”). It’s really not empty words, he knows from experience.

* … Same thing as the contrast between MAG117 (“This way I finally get to do something. It’s gonna hurt, but… I’m ready. And I want to. Also, I get to burn some stuff, so that cool!”) and MAG118 (“Don’t. burn. any more. statements.”) around fire: reality not as great as when plans were made, when it comes to the “smiting”, uh.

* … Obligatory “This Is How Web!Martin Can Still Win” since The Desolation and The Web were extremely at odds, and Martin… really was uncomfortable and panicking in this zone, when he had been keeping it together in previous ones (he got very afraid in the Slaughter’s, but it was the first and Martin was discovering the rules):

(MAG139, Eugene Vanderstock) “The compromise we came to… was Hill Top Road. We knew it was a stronghold of The Web, full of other children Agnes’s age. We would supervise from a distance, but were confident she would be in no danger. The Mother of Puppets has always suffered at our hand – all the manipulation and subtle venom in the world means nothing against a pure and unrestrained force of destruction and ruin.”

(Though to be fair: Martin presented himself as a “luxury smörgåsbord” for Fears in MAG117 since he was “just afraid all the time”, was always the Assistant Of Many Fears throughout the series, so it doesn’t have to be significatively a Web indicator – it’s mostly that, well, alright, so Martin can still feel specific, personal fears.)

- … And meanwhile: we went from Jon really casually forgetting that he was using his powers and knew more than he mundanely should have (the beginning of MAG167) to taking a moment to remember that Martin is not omniscient nor a mind-reader, not processing that pain (even temporary and without long-lasting damage) is a genuine factor, and admitting blankly that he’s feeding from this world, which, oops:

(MAG167) [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: Help us with what? MARTIN: ‘xcuse me? ARCHIVIST: Annabelle, help us with “what”? Our–our, our journey, killing Elias, vanishing the Entities – what? [FOOTSTEPS STOP] MARTIN: Please don’t do that. ARCHIVIST: Do what…? Oh! Oh. Right, I, I see, yes. [STATIC FADES] Well, I– … [FOOTSTEPS RESUME] Sorry. MARTIN: It doesn’t… feel great, having someone looking inside your head…! […] I mean, I don’t want to keep secrets from you, but– ARCHIVIST: You should at least… be able to. MARTIN: Basically, yeah…! ARCHIVIST: I–I suppose that’s fair. MARTIN: It’s just… It’s weird, knowing that you can… know literally everything I think and feel– ARCHIVIST: Right… MARTIN: –especially since you’re not exactly the most open of people. Emotionally, I mean.

(MAG169) MARTIN: … Seriously? You don’t– … It’s on fire, Jon, it’s– ARCHIVIST: Yeah, uh… MARTIN: It’s a burning building! ARCHIVIST: Yes, it is. MARTIN: That’s on fire! ARCHIVIST: Yes. MARTIN: … Right. You are aware that traditionally, wading into a flaming inferno is actually considered bad for your health? ARCHIVIST: Yes, Martin. It will be fine. MARTIN: Alright. I just wanted to check. So. Okay. We’re planning to go through… all this, so I’m guessing the fire can’t… actually burn us! Right? Jon? ARCHIVIST: Hum… MARTIN: … Jon? ARCHIVIST: Hum… Mm… MARTIN: Jon. ARCHIVIST: I–it’s complicated. MARTIN: Well, if you want me to go in there with you, then I suggest you find a way to make it simple. “Yes” or “no”, can that fire hurt us? ARCHIVIST: Define “hurt”. MARTIN: Will the fire feel hot to me? ARCHIVIST: Yes. MARTIN: Will it cause me lots of pain, if I touch it? ARCHIVIST: Yes, though not as much as– MARTIN: [SHAKILY BUT STRONG] Will it burn me alive, and kill me dead? ARCHIVIST: … No. It can’t do us any permanent harm; once we’re out, we’ll be fine. MARTIN: You are aware that intense pain can do you loads of harm, even if there’s no any physical injury! […] ARCHIVIST: I should have told you before, so… I leave the decision to you. You know my feelings on the matter. MARTIN: I do? ARCHIVIST: I… Oh, right. I–I want revenge on Jude Perry. I want to… “smite” her. Make her feel what… [SIGH] what all her victims have felt. But I’m not willing to force you to suffer for it. […] JUDE: Yeah, but you like seeing their pain, don’t you? Their fear? ARCHIVIST: … Yes.

His relation to pain is understandable as someone who got “used” to the concept of hurting himself by repeatedly getting harmed, getting marked, and accepting more injuries to reach his goals and protect/save people who were close to him (and it’s very ironic that Martin used to be portrayed as the one “always setting himself on fire to keep others warm” while Jon… selectively did and does that too). The fact he’s feeding from this world is not a new thing: Jonah had announced that Jon would be tailored for this world, Jon himself pointed it out in the trailer, Helen toyed with him by being implicit about it – what is new is the… reverence? with which Jon seemed to marvel at the Desolation domain, the glee during the statement, the deadpanness when Jude called him out on it. It felt like at the beginning of the season, Jon was expressing more guilt, more uneasiness when it came to his enjoyment of this world… and in this episode, those were absent. So is it that he’s gradually accepting it? Or that he was trying to make a point to Martin about himself, about the fact that he is also (objectively) a monster and needs Martin to keep him in check if he doesn’t want to turn out like the others? No idea, but I feel like something is happening and building up about it;;

(… Was Jon feeding from Martin, in the Desolation domain? Martin who was miserable and afraid, coughing and in pain?)

- I LOVED the effect of Jon being in his small “bubble” of pouring out the statement, only for Martin to fight his way to get him out of it:

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: “Limping and desperate, she turns to see her furniture in flames, the bookshelves full of memories, that she can’t quite place [STATIC RISES] but knows are precious to her, curl and float away as ash. The photos on the wall of her family–” MARTIN: [MUFFLED, DISTANT] Jon! [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: “–whose faces seem indistinct but she knows–” MARTIN: [MUFFLED, DISTANT] Jon! ARCHIVIST: “–that she loves, begin to blacken, as the glass–” MARTIN: [MUFFLED, DISTANT] Jon! [COUGHS] ARCHIVIST: “–pops out of the frame.” MARTIN: [MUFFLED, DISTANT] Jon, she’s here! ARCHIVIST: “Her home is being eaten alive by–” MARTIN: [CLOSER] Please come back! ARCHIVIST: “–this devouring Desolation–” MARTIN: JON! ARCHIVIST: “–and she–” [RESOUNDING SLAP] [STATIC FADES] MARTIN: She’s here! [COUGHS]

* … So, interestingly, Martin could actually get him out of it this time, while he had mentioned in MAG167 that he couldn’t stop Jon. Was it because the “statement” was different: given by the Desolation domain in this one vs. Jon giving a statement through his “knowing” in MAG167? Is it because Martin was outside of the statement mode, not listening to it (so able to break it, since he wasn’t enthralled by it)? Or is it because Martin has been becoming stronger by getting in contact with the domains? Or because he actually could have stopped Jon in MAG167… but didn’t, because he was curious, too, and preferred to think and say that he was entirely caught in the statement?

(* With MAG160, that’s the SECOND time Martin slapped Jon to “get him back” in some way. Gotta love how Jon shaking him off from The Lonely was by breaking out the violins and making an emotional confession and baring his soul to him vs. Martin, getting Jon back into focus by screaming and slapping him. Different kind of powers when there is an emergency.)

* … I’m very interested in the fact that the tape recorder was with Jon in that tiny statement bubble, while Martin was heard muffled from the outside. It wasn’t only Jon’s POV: it was, above all, the tape recorder’s, hearing the statement more distinctly than Martin. It illustrated the situation very well (Jon being unreachable and following the story, and the outside having trouble interacting with him), but I wonder what caused the bubble to exist in the first place: the Desolation domain contaminating Jon with his story? Beholding, focusing its attention on Jon because he was acting as a vessel while narrating Sabina’s story? Or the tape recorder, since Jon was feeding it?

- It’s noteworthy that so far, avatars have all been able to identify Jon as the one having provoked this apocalypse, and not “just” as an avatar beneficiating from it the most since The Eye is his patron:

(MAG164) HELEN: What would I have to gloat about? Much as I am delighted by this brave new world in which we find ourselves, I can take no credit for it. This was all… you!

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “This report is being sent to: [STATIC FADES] The Great Eye, that watches all who linger in terror, and gorges itself on the sufferings of those under its unrelenting, stuporous gaze! And its Archive, which draws knowledge of this suffering unto itself. […] Perhaps once it might have horrified me, or given me some sense of pursuing the ultimate release of the world that you have damned.”

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: Hello, Jude. JUDE: Fancy seeing you both here. To what, exactly, do I owe the pleasure, the honour, of being graced by the great and powerful Archivist, harbinger of this new world, and his, uh… valet…? […] Sure, I moan about The Eye, who doesn’t? But, we’ve won! Both of us. And… that’s great!

Seems like they got a special knowledge or are able to feel his status in the new world? It’s still cracking me up that nobody ever mentions Jonah and his participation, and that he’s absolutely irrelevant (while he was the one to scheme and pushe and engineer this apocalypse in the first place).

  - Gigantic dread as soon as Jon mentioned Jude, because y i k e s: technically, we heard about avatars who felt extremely ruthless and cruel, such as John Amherst or Arthur Nolan, but those had belonged more to Gertrude’s era. Jude Perry was the one who felt the most gratuitous and deliberate in her cruelty, in Jon’s era? And despite that, was mostly staying in her lane – Jon had to look her up to find her in MAG089, she never went after him? So the idea that he was trying to confront her and bringing Martin with him (… without warning him at first), that he sought her out and was planning to kill her, felt dangerous and worrisome.

  - Gotta love, about the “valet”-thing, how:

(MAG169) JUDE: Fancy seeing you both here. To what, exactly, do I owe the pleasure, the honour, of being graced by the great and powerful Archivist, harbinger of this new world, and his, uh… valet…?

* It’s payback for Jon’s “I just… er, you were a friend of Agnes Montague, correct?” (MAG089). Opposite of mlm/wlw solidarity.

* ONCE AGAIN, after Elias, after Peter, after maybe Helen currently?, it’s an avatar underestimating Martin on sight.

  - It felt to me like Jon was mostly seeking answers or a form of peace of mind than genuinely getting revenge, or helping Jude’s victims? He insisted on his questions all through their confrontation:

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: I have a question for you. I’ve been wondering. MARTIN: [COUGHS] ARCHIVIST: Did you know what you were doing? JUDE: Excuse me? ARCHIVIST: When you burned me. Marked me with… Did you know it would lead to… all of this? [CRUMBLING] JUDE: You came all this way just to ask that? ARCHIVIST: Answer the question. MARTIN: [COUGHS] JUDE: If you want to know so badly, why don’t you just reach into my head and pull it out? ARCHIVIST: Because I want to hear you say it. Willingly. JUDE: What difference does it make if it’s– ARCHIVIST: Just answer the damn question…! JUDE: … No. I had no idea. ARCHIVIST: So why did you do it? JUDE: Why do you think? Because I wanted to hurt you. MARTIN: [COUGHS] JUDE: Because you were annoying, and I didn’t like you! So I hurt you. ARCHIVIST: And if you had? JUDE: But I didn’t. Look. I don’t care, okay? MARTIN: [COUGHS] JUDE: I just… I don’t. Raking over the past like it matters, like it means anything… The past is dead, Archivist; ashes in the wind. We’re – here – now. And that’s it! ARCHIVIST: … I suppose you’re right…!

And this time, it wasn’t a tug-o’-war of question/answer resulting in one’s death (Peter), or an impulsive murder (Not!Sasha). It was planned and controlled, and deliberate. And it didn’t feel good at all: it was really a horrible scene, with Martin coughing and coughing in the background (… and Jon not paying it any attention), the execution dragging out and taking time, because Jon was processing slowly and not… giving the final blow. I really wondered if he was going to just stop, or if it wouldn’t work, or if Martin would ask him to stop – but no, quite the contrary, it’s Martin who yelled for it to be done:

(MAG169) MARTIN: [COUGHS] [STATIC RISING: LOW AND SPIRALLING, PRESSURING] JUDE: Uh! Listen… Listen… [BREATHLESS CHUCKLING] You’re enjoying this, right? ‘Course you are! You want to use those powers of yours to hurt people, you want to murder everybody who can’t fight back at you now? I can help you…! [DIGITAL GLITCHING SOUNDS] MARTIN: Just DIE already!! JUDE: You’re… not… better… than… me! [SCREAMS] [DIGITAL BURSTING, RIPPING SOUNDS] [STATIC DECREASES AND FADES] MARTIN: [COUGH] [PANTING] Is it…? ARCHIVIST: It’s over. … She’s gone.

;; There was something very… child-like, in Martin’s scream? You know, the kind of absolute rejection because he’s hurt and because in his mind there is no other way than for the other person to disappear for him to feel good ever again? I hadn’t paid much attention with Not!Sasha, but technically, the distorted, glitching sounds before and during the ripping of both the Not!Them and Jude sounded very close to Peter’s own static (and Martin’s, when he disappeared in front of Georgie): is it possible that he might have contributed in both cases, or amplified it? Or was it “only” Jon all through it?

- There is something very fitting in the fate of avatars, lately: the Not!Them was forced to “know” the suffering of its victims before getting ripped away from existence; Oliver was not rejecting death and knew it would come from him at some point, and Jon fittingly decided to spare him (although he was aware of the irony); Helen-the-Distortion is an ambivalent case (Jon can threaten her, but they can talk, it’s a bit of an unstable relationship the balance of which could shift at any time); Jude was inflected the suffering of her victims (and desolated herself in a way). It’s kinda fitting, for The Stranger, The End, The Spiral and The Desolation? I wonder how much the Domains are influencing Jon’s behaviour towards their agents, regardless of his personal feelings about them…

- Regarding Jon&Martin, it’s really heartbreaking that they are trying to navigate around and with each other’s feelings, trying to find the “right” decision regarding choices and boundaries… and that it backfired so badly due to the circumstances and the fact that, right now, they can’t really make an ideal, non-harming decision:

(MAG169) MARTIN: Jon, is there another way? ARCHIVIST: I mean… sort of? M–maybe? [SILENCE] MARTIN: That turn…! You, you took a hard turn after the roots back there. I knew that was a thing! Why are we here? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] It’s just… [INHALE] When you said… [SIGH] MARTIN: Jon, why have you taken us here? ARCHIVIST: Jude Perry. … This is where Jude Perry rules. […] You said you were onboard. MARTIN: I was! I am; I just… thought… ARCHIVIST: It wouldn’t hurt? MARTIN: … That we’d be safe. ARCHIVIST: I never said– MARTIN: I know! I know, okay, I just… […] ARCHIVIST: … Alright. If you really don’t want to do this, we, we can go another way. MARTIN: Really…? ARCHIVIST: Really. My revenge… [SIGH] Well, let’s just say you’re more important. […] So are we going in, or not? MARTIN: You’re– … I, you’re asking me? ARCHIVIST: I should have told you before, so… I leave the decision to you. You know my feelings on the matter. MARTIN: I do? ARCHIVIST: I… Oh, right. I–I want revenge on Jude Perry. I want to… “smite” her. Make her feel what… [SIGH] what all her victims have felt. But I’m not willing to force you to suffer for it. MARTIN: Okay, so it’s… I have to choose, do I? ARCHIVIST: Or we could sit here. [SILENCE] [DISTANT SOUND OF SOMETHING COLLAPSING] MARTIN: … No. No, I–I’m not going to choose, I d–I don’t think that’s a fair decision to put on me. It’s your revenge; your choice, not mine. [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: … Fine. We go in. [DISTANT SOUND OF SOMETHING COLLAPSING] MARTIN: [SHAKY INHALE] Al–alright then…! ARCHIVIST: We’ll be fine. MARTIN: J– Lead the way. [BAG JOSTLING]

It was good of Jon to admit that he should ask Martin, and expressed reluctance at the idea of putting him in an uncomfortable position for his own revenge! It was good of Martin, to establish once again that he didn’t want to bear the burden of deciding for both of them (MAG154: “Don’t do this.” “Do what?” “Make it my decision.”), while it was explicitly about what Jon wanted! … But it also feels like Jon would have needed Martin to decide agree to go for him if the goal was for Jon to find some peace of mind with his revenge, and that Martin would have needed Jon to say that no, definitely not, his revenge wasn’t worth endangering and harming Martin.

(Though, I feel like Martin was the most hurt of them both, this time around ;; He sounded absolutely miserable at the end of the episode, and he had been the one to begrudgingly agree to follow Jon after making it clear that he wouldn’t like the experience… I’m really surprised that Jon stuck to the “revenge” concept while he knew what was at stake for Martin. Really hoping that they will talk about it soon ;;)

  - ;; Technically, Jude made a lot of valid points regarding Jon-as-an-avatar:

(MAG169) JUDE: You’re not scared, though, are you, Archivist? ARCHIVIST: … I can feel the pain of every person you have trapped here. My own isn’t all that different. JUDE: Yeah, but you like seeing their pain, don’t you? Their fear? ARCHIVIST: … Yes. JUDE: You and that stupid Eye, god, you make me sick! Lording it over everybody like you own the place? You’re just leeches, voyeurs, parasites on the real monsters. […] Oooh, I see! I get it. You finally get a sniff of power, and the first thing you do is try to settle some old scores. MARTIN: [LOUDER COUGHS] JUDE: Play the big man, get off on good old-fashioned petty revenge~! […] I’m happy in this world. I belong here. And so do you. MARTIN: [COUGHS] [STATIC RISING: LOW AND SPIRALLING, PRESSURING] JUDE: Uh! Listen… Listen… [BREATHLESS CHUCKLING] You’re enjoying this, right? ‘Course you are! You want to use those powers of yours to hurt people, you want to murder everybody who can’t fight back at you now? I can help you…! [DIGITAL GLITCHING SOUNDS] MARTIN: Just DIE already!! JUDE: You’re… not… better… than… me! [SCREAMS]

He presented it to Martin as “revenge”. He went out of his way to find Jude, first hiding it from Martin and then deliberately making the decision of going after her after he learned that Martin would be terrorised by the domain (but ready to follow him if Jon really wanted to go). Jude’s execution also exists in contrast to Oliver, whom Jon had decided to spare because he had “helped” him (… to wake up as an avatar), while knowing full well that Oliver had killed people too (MAG121) and that he was currently torturing victims in his domains (in creative, cruel ways for “VARIETY”…). Jude’s smiting didn’t feel like an application of justice, or as something fair; it just felt like personal retribution, because Jon has the power to do it. There is something reassuring in the fact that the whole scene didn’t bring any catharsis, felt so extremely anti-climatic and miserable (Martin was in pain and on the verge of tears, wanted to leave the place; Jon wasn’t triumphant), because Jon behaved as the plaintiff, the legislature, the judge and the executioner – it is terrifying in itself that he has the power to establish who would have the “right” to die or to keep torturing people following whether or not they’ve served his interests.

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: I just, I don’t think he’s… [SIGH] I don’t know, I don’t think he’s evil. MARTIN: Oh, yeah, sure, he’s probably a really kind, benevolent ruler of a hellish fear prison…! ARCHIVIST: It’s just… He helped me. Wh–when I was… He woke me up. […] But I’m not going to… seek him out. At the very least, he’s earned not having me hunt him down. MARTIN: Fine. I suppose that’s… reasonable. […] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] No. If Oliver will not seek me out, then… I will leave him be. [TINY CHUCKLES] The avatar of Death… shall live. Martin’s going to be thrilled…! [SIGH]

(MAG169) MARTIN: [COUGH] [PANTING] Is it…? ARCHIVIST: It’s over. … She’s gone. MARTIN: [PAINED] The fires are still here. Doesn’t look like much has changed. ARCHIVIST: … No. I suppose not. [CRUMBLING SOUND] MARTIN: [SHAKILY] … Let’s just get out of here.

Jude was indeed that one avatar we wanted to see disappear (since the was gleeful about hurting, that she chose to get involved in the cult and didn’t join it to escape another horrible fate, that she admitted she didn’t regret this world nor the hurt she had to Jon himself); but her accusations had some truth in them precisely because Jon had just decided to spare Oliver given their own relationship – while Oliver, too, had admitted that he was torturing and enjoying people for the fun of it. Jon’s judgement… doesn’t work. And since nothing changed in the domain, it just proved that avatars themselves weren’t the real problem at the root – the Fear-system is still in place, still working, with or without them, still hurting and feeding from people.

(… And it also highlights that, indeed, right now, Jon is “made” for this world, as Jonah had hypothesised in MAG160. He’s been shown grieving the old world, being eaten by guilt, refusing to embrace the fact that the Fears around him feel “right” at the beginning of the season. But he’s currently feeding from this world and still enjoying victims’ pain on some level – what would happen, if Jon&Martin managed to successfully revert the world back in some way? Would Jon still be able to survive?)

- We’ll see if Jon and Martin talk about it soon, but it sure feels like a conversation regarding the “smiting” is needed. Martin seems to have experienced first-hand that it’s nnooooot as good in practice as in theory (he was miserable, in pain, coughing his lungs out, witnessed Jon choose to willingly bring him into a discomforting, potentially triggering place in the name of it), but I’m not sure it will be enough for him to reconsider the idea, or to point out that… he had been wrong about it, and that the logic of killing avatars as an easy, evident, helpful thing… is actually not that simple, since it didn’t change anything. (Probably because they have to aim higher.)

I’m really not sure about their future stances regarding other avatars, because, really, who could feel as “deserving” as Jude? Jon might want his rib back, but he technically gave it to Jared as part of an agreement (and Jared honoured his half of the deal!); Daisy would “at best” represent an attempt at mercy-killing if Jon were to try anything (and it certainly wouldn’t feel good); Julia&Trevor… indeed caused the chaos in MAG158, which also led to Daisy snapping, but would it be enough to want to “smite” them? (Meanwhile, if Jon meets Simon: same as Oliver, given his relationship to his patron, he would probably just embrace his own death.)

Plus, if Jude’s execution felt unsatisfying now, I really doubt that doing anything to Jonah would feel satisfying either? It… wouldn’t solve anything or fix the world back.

- I really wonder what’s happening in Jon’s head right now, if everything was a conscious decision that more or less backfired (ha), or if there are once again influences at stake… Did he really go after Jude because, like Martin suggested, Jon thought it could free or at least relieve the people imprisoned in that domain? Jon can’t see the future, but he could have “known” what had happened to the Not!Them’s carousel to get an indication of what happens in those cases; it… didn’t sound like a genuine reason. Same thing with the concept of revenge: Jon was scared of it just a few episodes ago (MAG166: “Because I’m ashamed, Martin. […] Yes! Ashamed of the fact that I… destroyed the world and have been rewarded for it; the fact that… I can walk safe through all this horror I’ve created like a fucking tourist, destroying whoever I please; the fact that I… enjoyed it, and… the fact that there are… so many others, that I still want to revenge myself on!”), and if it had been only about revenge, he wouldn’t have needed to ask Jude all these questions and to delay the moment when he would actually end her. Was it because he hoped that Jude would regret, would have behaved differently if she had known that it would lead to the apocalypse? Was it because he wanted to check with himself whether “smiting” her deliberately would feel good, fair and right? Was it because he thought that trusting Martin’s judgement and killing avatars would indeed be the best course of action? Was it because he wanted to prove a point to Martin – that he’s a monster too, and/or that killing doesn’t feel as great in practice as on the paper?

… His behaviour in this episode reminded me so much of MAG141, however, and how coldly rational he had sounded about what he was doing to Floyd, as if it was a logical and implacable course of action; so I can’t help but wonder if there is Eye-related influence at play. Pushing him to hurt other avatars for The Eye’s entertainment, to feed from the ones who are usually feared? For “variety”, too?

- … Regarding Jon’s powers, I had briefly wondered whether Jon was still able to compel, given what Oliver had mentioned, but mMMMmmm…

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “Please, Jon, do not interpret this report as a “plea for mercy” or a “call to action”. I would have offered it willingly, of course, but to do so is no longer an option. You cannot ask; you may only take.”

(MAG169) JUDE: You came all this way just to ask that? ARCHIVIST: Answer the question. MARTIN: [COUGHS] JUDE: If you want to know so badly, why don’t you just reach into my head and pull it out? ARCHIVIST: Because I want to hear you say it. Willingly. JUDE: What difference does it make if it’s– ARCHIVIST: Just answer the damn question…! JUDE: … No. I had no idea.

Since compelling Peter to death, Jon has never been shown forcing an answer out of someone again. He has been shown “knowing” things with alarming ability, being almost entirely omniscient at this point (MAG164: “Okay. So… how much can you see? What else do you know?” “Uh… Maybe everything…!”), whether it’s prompted by someone’s questions (as Martin demonstrated) or Jon just knowing things on his own accord. He has demonstrated a new way to deal with “statements”: getting filled with the Fears suffusing his surroundings, and having to “pour out” these statements into the tape recorder (MAG162: “This cabin. It’s not right. And, when I thought that, I–I felt… It, it all poured out of me down… into the tape.”). He has manifested his new Eye-related ability to turn the Feared into the Fearful, eradicating monsters and avatars (MAG166: “But The Eye still rules. All this fear is being performed for its benefit. And so, there are now exactly two roles available in this new world of ours: the watcher, and the watched. Subject, and object. Those who are feared, and those who are afraid. And Jon, well… he is part of The Eye; a very important part. And he’s able to, shall we say… shift its focus. Turn the one into the other.”). But compulsion as the act of asking a question and forcing an answer out of someone? Nothing since the beginning of the season. It might be nothing, but Oliver has always known so much about Jon and his situation, and Jude directly made a reference to that power when Jon didn’t use it, so… it could indeed be a thing.

(Or it’s also possible that, after Peter resisted compulsion to the point of dying, Jon fears that ability and what it could do, and purposefully stopped using it?)

MAG170’s title is… MmMMmm. If this an episode regarding a territory, I would say Spiral or Flesh (… and Jared in particular). It could also be about things outside of a domain, like what happened with “Curiosity” – and then, I’d see ways for it to be an outside POV (Jonah? Annabelle?) and/or other characters coming back (Georgie&Melanie? Basira? … stumbling upon/finding Daisy…?). And/or Martin talking about himself – we know so little about his pre-Archives life, I feel ;; (Same for Basira…) There could also be a way to connect with something mentioned about Agnes in MAG067…

(… It’s also making me think of Albrecht’s library / the Black Forest crypt and what Jonah did of the books…)

[chubbyheroesworthyheroes]

Hello, if your prompts are still open - could I request Ike with Cow TF, please? Um, and 'content with WG'.

Traveling to different lands after the wars in Tellius had been a mixed bag. 

On the whole, it was a relief to get away on his own, be the master of his own life for once. He’d discovered so many new places, and met just as many people. Of course, he’d come across the same issues that had been prevalent back in Tellius; discrimination, war, enslavement of others. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away from it all, and while he did what he could as a traveling mercenary to help those that needed it, he didn’t get himself as invested in things as back home.

While traveling on foot through a stretch of land that put him in mind of Crimea -- all rolling, green hills and farmland -- Ike found himself seeking shelter from a sudden storm. Cold rain pelted him from above, soaking him through to the bone as he jogged along muddy roads in search of somewhere to hunker down for the night. He was out deep in the country here, having stopped at the last village days before. Before the storm hit, Ike had walked by some farms, but figured that he’d find something if he kept pressing on instead of going back.

After a soggy scramble up the muddy road and into a lush field, Ike did eventually come across what looked like a farm. There were no candles or a fire going when he looked in one of the windows, and the whole place looked sort of abandoned, so he didn’t bother knocking on the door; simply going inside, finding it unlocked, and calling out once to make sure there really wasn’t anyone else in the old place. The dark house creaked and groaned as he slowly walked through it, trying not to bump into too many things as he tried to find a bedroom in the inky blackness. Eventually, he stumbles across a room with a still decent mattress, and hunkers down there for the night; shedding off his wet clothes and trying to get himself warmed up.

Waking up, it was still drizzling in the morning, but it wasn’t enough to deter Ike from exploring the place he’d taken shelter in. It was a homey little cottage, and though it certainly appeared to be abandoned for quite some time, it was still in pretty decent shape. Dusty and unused, but Ike had certainly made due with far worse. 

Glancing out one of the rain speckled windows, Ike was surprised to see a small herd of cows milling about in the field by the farm. It was hard to tell if they were supposed to be here, or if they’d just wandered in through the busted fence. Figuring it might be wise to wait and see if the weather clears up, Ike decides to check out these cows. If they were living here, and there was no one around to look after them, he could at least take over until he had to get on the road again. After all, there were other little farms around here that he could bring the small group of cattle to once he had to go. 

Jogging through the light mist of rain along the overgrown path to the field, the cows barely even batted an eye at his presence. They meandered about, tails flicking, as they ripped grass up from the ground and chewed lazily. They all looked to be dairy cows, Ike observed, noticing that they all seemed to be in need of a good milking. Clearly, whoever had run this farm previously hadn’t left anyone in charge to look after it when they left. 

Well, he couldn’t just leave them here like this…

Glancing around, and having to walk back to the dreary little barn a ways off to rummage around, Ike managed to find a pail to use. He’d helped to milk cows before, back when he was still too young to join in the company’s mercenary work, but it would take him a bit to get through all of the cows on his own. 

At least the animals were docile, and behaved well for him while he got to work, milking them for the better part of the drizzly day. After finishing with that, and getting the ridiculous amount of milk stored away properly, Ike rooted around for any dry wood he could use for a fire in the hearth, grabbing some fruit from the trees edging the fence as he headed back towards the little cottage.

Drying himself off and warming up in front of the fire, Ike made a meal of the fruit he’d picked, some salted meat he still had in his pack, and washed it all down with the fresh milk from the cows in the field. The fruit was mild, but the milk was surprisingly sweet -- the taste was so good, creamy and full, that Ike easily drank through a gallon of the stuff in just that sitting. It wasn’t the most substantial meal, but the milk helped to make him feel full where he was lacking in actual food. 

In fact, it made him feel so full and content, that Ike found himself dozing in front of the fire, the drizzling rain outside helping to further lull him into sleep.

He didn’t rouse again until the following morning, waking up just a little stiff from the floor, but otherwise feeling quite refreshed. The sun was out already, and he could hear the cows lowing out in their field. Just as he’d done the day before, he went out to take care of them. With the weather now favorable again, he could head out to one of the farm’s he’d passed before this one and see if they could take on the herd of cows. After all, he should be getting on the road again. After making sure that the cows were all good, he heads back down the road he’d traveled up several days past, trekking along until he comes across another little farm. Explaining the situation, the old man that ran the place said that he could take the cows, but that he’d need some time to expand his own fenced in field for them.

Agreeing to take care of the cows until the old man comes for them, Ike tromps back through the mud to what was looking to be where he’d be staying for a week or so.

It wasn’t bad, really. Sure, it was a delay in his travels, but the old man was paying him for the work he was doing, and the quiet, calm company of the animals was something Ike rather enjoyed. Besides, the break from fighting for his pay was also a bit of a relief. It was a pleasant, honest way to live, and it reminded him of how life used to be back home in Crimea.

With the cows producing that sweet, heavy milk of theirs every day -- and the old farmer down the road sending him food and other supplies every other day -- Ike was doing far better meal-wise than his first night on the abandoned farm. In fact, with the only real work he was doing being related to the cows, he spent quite a lot of his time simply out in the fields with them, eating. Hefty slabs of meat, chunks of cheese and bread, the fruits from the trees and even some vegetables -- all of it always washed down with the sweet, cold milk from the cows. They’d mill about the lush field as he ate, chewing grass and cud, softly calling to one another in such a way that Ike found calming and weirdly familiar -- as if he could almost understand what they were communicating to each other. The mercenary would often doze in the shade of a tree after eating and drinking his fill, blue eyes drifting close against the spackle of sunlight trying to break through the leaves.

The days rolled on at a lazy pace, blurring together after a while. 

It never even struck him that something might not be right here.

Ike had genuinely lost track of time at one point, waking up groggily one morning and getting ready to deal with the day, only to realize that his...clothes are fitting rather tightly now. Sure enough, blinking away the sleep in his eyes and inspecting himself, he realizes that he’s...put on a bit of weight. Not a large amount of weight, really; it’s enough to make him look more thickset than just muscular, a generous layer of padding that he’d never allowed to happen before on account of his work and the fact that the Greil Mercenaries had never been in the lap of luxury. Some part of him thought it was a little strange that he’d gained this much noticeable weight in such a short amount of time, but the mellow bellowing of the cows distracted him from that train of thought.

He simply shrugged, forgoing the now restrictive shirt and just pulled on the tight but still workable pants. It was warm enough out to go without the shirt, and it wasn’t like there was anybody but the cows to be bothered about it anyway. 

Ike couldn’t help absentmindedly touching the extra fluff, though. It was so strange to him, as he’d never really been overweight before -- the closest he’d come to having this sort of softness was simply the chubbiness one had as a kid. He’d always been stocky and well built, but his body had never had this give to it. It was hard not to get lost in the unfamiliar sensation of having the pads of his fingers sinking in a little bit until they hit the harder muscle underneath the chub on his abdomen.

He went about his work as usual, though his hands continued their absentminded wandering over his chubby gut as he did so.

Settling down in the shade of his favorite tree, midday meal brought out with him to enjoy in the company of the cows, Ike relaxed. He could get used to living like this, quite honestly. Wolfing down the food he’d brought in record time, he lets the soft sounds of the cows in the field put him to sleep for a nap.

As he sleeps, he has the most bizarre dream. He’s still out in the field with the cows, only...the cows aren’t cows -- well, they are, but they looked human as well. If he didn’t know any better, he would have almost likened them to Laguz. They spoke in drawling voices, lazily chatting to him about how wonderful it was to live like them. Everything they needed was provided for in the field, and they could spend the entire day simply eating, drinking and lazing in the sun. The only thing they’d been missing in their little paradise was a big, strong bull to look after the herd. 

They crowd around him eagerly in the dream, all massive tits and wide hips, both make and female among the group. They want to feed him, have him drink from their swollen breasts -- show him how wonderful life would be if he stayed with them in the field.

Ike woke up with a gasp, startled to see that the cows had come to lay by him as he slept. 

He does his best to step around them and not disturb them, hustling back to the cottage -- completely unaware to the changes that were starting to ramp up within his body.

Ike occupies himself as best he can for the rest of the night, feeling a building headache coming on as he tends to his up-until-now neglected weapons and armor. He didn’t have a use for it right now, but he felt the need to get back into old habits, try to clear his head from all the strangeness that had been happening recently. It was late in the night when he eventually clambered into bed, his pounding head making it a little difficult to get to sleep, but passing out after some tossing and turning. 

The old bed creaks and groans as the night wears on, Ike slumbering on deeply even as his weight steadily climbs. His entire body thickens up, then starts to pudge out; any trace of muscle on his body glossed over with a heaping amount of fat. Arms bulge now with fat rather than the muscles that so many had admired him for, meaty pecs squishing into one another as he rolls onto his side in his sleep. His face rounds out, double chin and chubby cheeks softening his normally stoic face. His toned ass spreads out in back of him, thick and chunky, his thighs following suit -- tearing through the already worn seams of his pants, absolutely wrecking the garment. What had simply looked like a slightly overindulged gut earlier in the day bloated out drastically, belly bulging out doughily and really testing the limits of the bed’s frame. What had once been easily passed off as just a little chubby could now only be described as blatantly fat; heavy rolls and curves of plush belly and love handles taking up as much space as they damn well pleased.

Ike’s bolstering weight wasn’t the only massive change taking place, though. 

Scowling in his sleep, Ike grunts as the pain in his head reaches a peak -- two, sturdy-looking nubs pushing out at his temples. They continue to push out, growing longer and thicker as they curve out slightly. Pristine white horns take form, sharply pointed at their ends and several feet in length. A tail is next to come in, snaking out from his tail bone and flopping lazily on the round cheeks of his ass. The ears are next; his normal, rounded ones elongating until they round out slightly to achieve that bovine shape. Chubby fingers and toes grow stiff, darkening to look almost like hooves. Snorting, his face starts to change as well; broadening out into the wide muzzle of a cow, a golden bull’s nose ring appearing in place as well. A short layer of stiff fur starts to grow in, too, a pale shade of blue with darker splotches and spots the same hue as his hair. 

Ears flicking as sun hits his face, Ike is further stirred by the gentle but insistent tug of the ring planted through his wide nose. He grunts and snorts at the new sensation, rolling about in the straining bed until he manages to get his feet under himself. He huffs and puffs at the amount of energy it took to simply right himself and sit up, thick fingers scratching lazily at his protruding gut. Blue eyes blink dully at the old farmer from down the rode looping a lead through the ring at his nose, smacking him on the flank -- causing the tightly packed blubber of his thigh to wobble from the action -- and tug again to get the nose ring in order to get the huge bull-man to move. 

“C’mon now, boy, can’t leave the cows to themselves for too long,” the farmer chides, leading the still sleep-addled Ike out of the cottage and to the vibrant field. Floorboards creak as Ike staggers through the abode, his incredibly wide frame just knocking into furniture and just managing to squeeze out through the door.

Ike tries to mumble out a question, but his mind felt so slow and hazy, and all that came out of his mouth was a deep, low bellow.

Some part of him feels like he should be alarmed by all of this, but the majority of his fuzzy brain just tells him that this is always how it’s been. He’s always lived here on this farm, protecting the herd and making sure that the cows’ milk never goes to waste. After all, someone has to drink it when there are no calves around, and the herd is so productive that there’s always so much leftover after the farmer sells what he can.

As soon as they were in the field -- which is once again fully fenced in, unlike how it had been just the other day -- Ike was let off the rope lead. The old farmer shoved something sweet and chewy into the bull-hybrid’s mouth, keeping him occupied as the man circled around him, getting a good look at all the changes that had finally kicked in. “Took long enough,” the man muttered to himself, rough hands grabbing at the flabby belly in front of him, giving the sides of it a good squeeze before hefting it up and letting it drop, wobbling thunderously. “Not a bad start, but a happy bull is a fat bull in my book, and you could do with a bit more happy. Nothin’ to worry about, though. You look after the cows, and they’ll take care of their stud -- besides, my wife’s raised enough cattle in her day to know just how to get meat on their bones.”

The man pats Ike’s furry stomach, chuckling at the way the soft flesh indents with the action, before leaving him to his own devices in the field. Ike stands there for a moment, trying to puzzle everything out, tail swishing behind him as his thoughts turn over in his head laboriously. He’s brought out of his slow train of thought by the welcoming moos of the herd, the cows excited to have a bull they could dote on. They compliment his wicked looking horns, and cute ears. Hemming and hawing about how he’s so small, and that they’ll have to get him looking like a real bull right away! They pet his fur, and brush up against him; meaty sides squishing into his own. Lowing and mooing softly among each other, they laugh as they coax the dazed male into laying down in the sun-warmed grass. Stiff fingers run through his hair, while others massage at his broad shoulders or press testingly into the plush rolls of fat on his midsection.

Ike rallies his scattered brain, and tries to ask the bunch of bovine-people what’s going on, but all that comes out is a bewildered moo -- which is rather quickly muffled by the massive swell of boobflesh and thick nipple being shoved into his open muzzle, one of the cows giggling as he struggles for a moment against the abrupt flow of heavy, sweet milk flooding his mouth. Ike snorts loudly, trying not to choke as he swallows down as much of the warm milk as he can, dribbles leaking from the corners of his mouth at the sheer volume. With the pleasant warmth of the sun on him, the idle chatter and touch of the cows around him and the steadily growing weight of his gut from the milk he’s suckling down, Ike easily slips into a lazy daze of repetitive actions. 

Breathe deeply, swallow. Lick and suck until the breast smooshed against his broad muzzle is pulled away and replaced by another overflowing teat. His eyes drift shut not long in to the routine, large ears flicking at the occasional noise that is not from one of his cows. He slowly drinks his way through the herd, earning pleasured sounds from the overburdened dairy cows as their milk is drained, one after another, into Ike’s fat belly. 

His stomach only seems to get fatter as they urge him to keep drinking from them, first bloating up from simply filling up with the warm cream, but then visibly pudging out further as more and more was forced into his overfilled middle. Even reclined, the mass of it started to overtake his lap; short fur thinning out as it bulged further and further out, pink skin becoming visible underneath in small patches like stretchmarks. The cows mooed softly, encouraging, rubbing and squishing at the growing expanse of bull flesh as the day wore on. 

Not quite sleeping but far from aware, Ike even got in on fondling himself as he drank and grew fatter. Fat fingers grabbed at his thick sides, a moaning moo bubbling up around the milky tit he was sucking on as he felt the sheer size and heft of himself. Stubby digits dug in to doughy sides and love handles, still powerful arms giving his entire middle a shake -- hearing the weighty slosh of frothy cream in his stomach as his blubbery gut wobbled and shook. 

It felt so damn good! Ike could recall anything that had ever felt as good as this, even if he couldn’t really think very clearly on anything but the next milk tap to get his muzzle around. He’d stay in the field all day with his dairy cows, if he could, but nighttime meant that the farmer came back to herd them all into the barn for the night. It took quite some time for Ike to stir, and even longer for the old man to get the milk drunk bull up onto his feet and shifting his fat ass into gear. His content lull was almost broken when Ike felt the tug at his nose ring again, but the promise of a warm bed and a filling meal from the farmer’s wife got him lumbering into step with the rest of the fat cows. 

This surely was the sort of life to look forward to.

[witchymarvelspacecase]

Voiceless: Pt. 13

Summary: (Reader Insert) Reader is a mutant/inhuman with a powerful voice (works a little like a banshee/a little like a siren). She’s had it a little tough since discovering her powers. She is found and taken in by Tony Stark and the remaining Avengers after the events of Civil War

Word Count: 1545

Warnings: Cursing, some fluff and general emotions

A/N: I swear, I’m alive, though it may certainly appear as though I have given up. I have decided this is gonna get one more part after this and then it shall be complete. With any luck at all, I will get this done (thanks to enforced stay at home time… thanks weird virus… I think?)

Voiceless Masterlist

Once FRIDAY gave you the room, you had to tell her not to pass on any information about you to the team.

“If they ask, I am in my room, and my heart rate and respirations suggest I am in REM sleep. Got it?” you ground out as you finally manage to maneuver yourself to the foot of your bed. You weren’t sure who had left the pair of crutches leaning against the wall across from you, but you were gonna kiss them for sure.

“I think you’re getting very good at this,” FRIDAY responded. 

“That wasn’t an agreement,” you said, pushing yourself to your feet. “Do you understand the instructions I gave you?”

“Yes.”

“And are you going to do as I asked?”

“I will do my best,” the AI all but sighed.

Knowing that was the best you could hope to receive, you thanked FRIDAY, and slowly crutched your way to the door.

It had been a while since you’d spent any time sneaking around the tower, but you knew where you were going. The real hinderance were the stupid crutches.

Once Tony finished giving you what was bound to be an epic lecture, you needed to nag him to make better crutches. Ones that didn’t make so much noise or bruise your armpits.

You planted yourself on a couch just outside the lounge Bucky and Tony were in. You'd managed to avoid being spotted by anyone, so you settled into the couch, keeping your head just below the back, and waited. The plan wasn't to interrupt the discussion, they were big boys, they could handle talking to each other without a moderator. But you wanted to be there, just in case. While you waited though, you'd rest your eyes, only for a second.

…

FRIDAY waited until a break in the conversation to inform Mr. Stark and Sergeant Barnes that Y/N was asleep, but no longer in her room. Neither man was surprised, but the both hurried to the door regardless. When they both stood outside the door, looking at Y/N curled up on the couch, crutches on the floor in front of her, Tony shook his head.

“I don’t know whether to be insulted or not.”

“What’d’ya mean?”

“She clearly didn’t think we could have a conversation without her.”

“Well, she didn’t come inside,” Bucky said. “She just wanted to be here. I’m more concerned about who gave her the crutches. She shouldn’t be using those yet.”

“Knowing her, Y/N probably had a set stashed in her room for emergencies.” The smile on Tony’s face undercut the rupy tone he tried to maintain.

Bucky chuckled. “Should we move her?” The couch looked plenty comfy, but what if she rolled off?

“Y/N?” Tony called, crouching in front of her. “Wake up, little escape artist.” He ruffled her hair, tugging slightly.

...

You groaned before squinting one eye open. “Is it technically an escape if I didn’t leave the building?”

“Where’d’ya get the crutches, doll?” You shrugged, wincing slightly. 

“They were leaning by the door in my room.” You opened your eyes wider, turning to Tony. “Tony, you need to make better crutches.”

“Oh I do, do I?” Tony looked exasperated, except for the smile growing in his face. 

“Yeah, these ones hurt my arms, and make too much noise.”

“It wouldn’t seem like as much noise if you weren’t trying to be sneaky,” Tony shook his head, bending to pick you up.

“Excuse me, I succeeded at being sneaky,” you corrected.

Bucky picked up the crutches and followed Tony as he took you back to your room while you continued to defend your belief that crutches were too loud.

They both fussed over you when they put you in bed again. You stuck your tongue out at Tony when he snatched the crutches from Bucky.

“Don’t know where these came from, but you’re not getting ‘em back anytime soon.”

“That’s what you think,” you mumbled, causing Bucky to chuckle, and Tony to grumble.

“How likely are you to stay in here, doll?” Bucky asked while tucking you in.

“Is that even a question?” Tony replied. “I give it an hour before she’s out again.”

“How,” you grouched, “ya took my crutches.”

“Like that’s gonna stop you. I expect you have another pair hidden in here, or I’ll see you crawling down the hall if you can’t find any.”

You sniffed, trying to look offended, but honestly, he was right. You ended up pouting; Bucky was cackling.

“Boss, Ms. Potts is looking for you.”

“And don’t get me started with you FRIDAY. You were supposed to tell me if she moved, not after.”

“Ah, yes. How could I have forgotten. It’s not like I have many other things you have also asked me to do.”

“I regret giving you sentience.” Tony pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No, you don’t. I’ve told Ms Potts you are on your way.” The AI responded smoothly.

“No respect. I get no respect,” Tony grumbled. He bent and kissed your forehead. “Don’t subvert FRIDAY again, please.”

“No promises,” you grinned. It would have been much more threatening if you hadn’t then yawned so big your jaw cracked.

“Sleep, kiddo. I’ll see about redesigning your crutches tomorrow.” He ruffled your hair gently before turning to leave.

Bucky smirked at him and mouthed “pushover”, to which Tony wrinkled his nose, but didn’t correct him. He gave Bucky a squeeze on the shoulder as he passed. “You’ve got Baby Monitor duty first, Barnes,” Tony said just before he closed the door.

“Oh no he didn’t,” you said, mouth gaping open. “That’s it. I’m switching his coffee to decaf again.”

Bucky laughed at the blush on your cheeks. “How about if we wait until you can walk before we enact revenge?”

“Fine,” you sighed, relaxing back into your pillows, miffed.

“Aw, you’re cute when you’re mad, princess.”

“Oh, well I’m about to be fucking adorable,” your eyes narowed, your focus on Bucky. How best to fuck with him? You’d have to ask Steve, or maybe Sam; they’d know.

Bucky held his hands up in a placating gesture. “I take it back! I take it back!” he laughed.

You humphed, closing your eyes. “I will consider the terms of your surrender.”

“My surrender? Is that what that was?” Bucky asked, teasing tone still in his voice.

“If you want me to let your ‘cute’ comment go, yes it was.” You cracked an eye open to glare at him.

“Okay, okay. I surrender. What would you have of me?”

Well that question opened a whole new box of possibilities, didn’t it? Not that you could voice most of the ideas that immediately sprang to mind. Not only was your whole body all but screaming at you for your crutch stunt, you did not have the balls to actually say what you were thinking.

Daring a glance at Bucky, you opened both eyes and saw his teasing smile still in place, but beyond that, you thought you saw something else. Genuine affection.

Could you really let this opportunity pass by? Would you have another? Fuck, what if this went completely sideways? What if you were reading everything wrong and Bucky didn’t care for you? You’d lose him.

…

Bucky watched as a deep blush bloomed across your face following his comment with a stupid smile on his face. He liked that he made you blush, liked that he could get that reaction from you. But his smile slipped when your blush disappeared to be replaced by a look of terror.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked. He quickly moved closer, perching on the edge of your bed and leaning over to catch your cheek in his right hand. “Doll, what’s wrong?” he repeated when you looked away.

“Nothing,” you croaked, your throat closing. Clearing your throat, you repeated, “Nothing’s wrong, Bucky.”

“Uh huh, then why do you look like you just saw a ghost?”

“Cause I’m fucking terrified.”

“Of what?”

Shit, you’d said that out loud. Fuck. 

“I- um…” you stammered. No idea what to say now. You couldn't say “Nothing,” again. No way Bucky let it go. But what was your other option? Lie? Make something up? Or- or could you tell him the truth? Did you dare?

“Okay, whatever it is, it’s freaking you out. We don’t hafta talk about it, sugar. But I want- I hope you know you can talk to me, about anything. You know that right?” Bucky’s left hand brushed hair off your forehead as his right continued to cup your cheek.

A deep breath. “I know what I want.”

“Huh?” That hadn't even been in the same universe as any of the responses Bucky expected.

“For your surrender,” you clarified in a small voice. 

“Oh, okay. What is it?” Bucky was seriously confused, but you were talking instead of panicking so that was good right?

He had to ask you to repeat yourself when you told him what you wanted though. He couldn’t be sure he’d heard you correctly. You wouldn’t have said that, would you? It was his mind supplying that answer, surely.

“Wha- what was that, doll?”

“A kiss,” you said again, voice a little stronger, but your eyes still not fully meeting his.

----------------------------------------

Perma Tags (Open): @buckyappreciationsociety-blog , @17marvelousfreak , @melconnor2007 , @writingwithadinosaur , @whenallsaidanddone , @hello-sweetie-get-the-salt , @umwhatandrea , @pineapplebooboo , @thefridgeismybestie , @xlemon-limex , @sammysgirl1997 , @4theluvofall , @geeksareunique  @madcheshire89 , @shakzer00 , @ajimagines , @mummy-woves-you , @isnt-the-blog-youre-looking-for, @strangersstranger , @dreams-of-feysand

Avengers Perma Tags (Open): @ldyhawkeye , @gonnadiereading , @lilmissperfectlyimperfect 

Bucky/Sebastian Tags (Open): @waywardpumpkin, @smileybear17, @not-sebastian-stan , @chubby-dumplin

Voiceless Tags (Open): @lostinspace33, @kaitymccoy123, @owhatshername1, @saysay125, @sammysgirl1997, @bunnymother93, @henrietteoaks, @moistpotatobear, @thatcrazybookwormgeek, @kathieycarrerarosshley , @coconutknees, @badwolf-87, @lexie-mo, @inumorph, @kathieycarrerarosshley, @unknownuserhasjoined , @just-a-littlebit-of-everything  @commissioner23​

[foreverandalwayshttyd]

So I’ve had this idea for awhile now and I’ve finally had time to sit down and write this. This is just like the second Hiccup and Stoick flashback scene when Hiccup finds his father crying downstairs. I️ wanted to write that with Hiccup and Zephyr but of course with a little twist. Enjoy this emotional father/daughter fluff that wrote itself :’)

The Blank Page

Hiccup stared at the crackling fire, his gaze getting lost in the dancing flames. His face was blank, a million thoughts racing through his mind all at once. An exasperated sigh escaped him as he slumped back in his chair and massaged his wrinkling temple. The whole house was quiet, the snapping flames the only thing ringing through the Chief's ears. He stroked his beard in deep thought, his eyes feasting on the strong orange glow.

He cleared his throat to break himself out of his trance and sat up more. He looked up at the stacks of books and papers above the fire place on a shelf, internally groaning at the sight of all the work he still had left to do. He squinted his eyes when he began to study the stack more carefully, a little leather flap sticking out from in between two disheveled books. There was a symbol on it that he couldn't quite make out, but something inside nagged at him. He hoisted himself up out of his chair and reached for the little flap. It was too dusty to make out. He removed the thick book and rolled up map on top of it, and moved them over to the side. He picked up the old little leather book cautiously, a layer of dust resting on top of it. He blew it off carefully, and instantly his eyes went wide. A wave of nostalgia washed over him, as he quickly collapsed in his chair.

The symbol was fading, but it was still there. A red Night Fury symbol. His old sketch book. "Oh my Thor..." Awe rang through his quiet voice, as he ran his hand over the withering sketchbook that he hadn't seen in years. It was so old and fragile, he was scared if he even turned the page it would fall apart. Ever so slightly he opened up the sketchbook and instantly a bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His eyes met old tail fin designs, the charcoal a very light grey now. He continued to turn the pages slowly, drawings and sketches of his former best friend making him smile sadly. Maps of old islands he had discovered in his youth made an appearance as well, them being slightly darker than the tail fin designs. He smiled warmly when a sketch of Astrid popped up when they were still young reckless teenagers, remembering the day she had finally caught him drawing her. He turned the page and instantly he froze, his eyes glued to the sketch. It was Toothless. But it wasn't just any old normal sketch of his scaly freind. No, this one made the corners of his eyes swell up.

The sketch was of Toothless flying on his own for the first time, with a big gummy smile and his tongue lolling out to the side. Hiccup remembered so clearly the day he had drawn that. It was right after Toothless had left to go see the Light Fury on his own with the new tail fin for the first time. The sight of seeing his dragon look so happy in the sky made his whole face light up. It was a moment he never wanted to forget.

Hiccup sniffed, and wiped at his eyes. He let a few tears slide down his cheeks not really caring. He missed his youth. He missed his old life where dragons roamed freely, where he discovered new lands with his friends, where he could feel the cold brisk air that made him feel free. He missed the thrill of discovering new dragons, or making new inventions that his dragon would have to save him from. He missed not having to be tied down, or having many responsibilities. Toothless had made him a stronger person, and gave him something to look forward to each day. He missed his best friend deeply. He missed his old life deeply. If only he could go back-

Creek.

Hiccup quickly whipped his head around towards the staircase where the source of the noise came from. In the shadows he could faintly make out a little figure in the dark that was quickly scuttling back upstairs.

"Zephyr?"

The soft footsteps came to a halt halfway up the stairs. The little girl slowly turned back around and hobbled down the stairs hesitantly, biting her lip nervously. Once she was in range of the glow of the fire, Hiccup could see she looked distressed and her cheeks glistened.

"What're you doing up kiddo? You should be in bed." He said softly as he quickly shut his sketchbook and wiped at his watery eyes. Zephyr looked at the floor, her big blue eyes glistening as she looked back up at her father.

"I can't sleep." She answered quietly, a slight break in her voice. Her banded pigtails were frizzed some loose pieces sticking to her wet face, and she wore a long white nightgown that fell just below her knees. She held a dragon plush in her arms, cradling it close to her chest. Hiccup realized something was wrong. She never had bad dreams, only Nuffink did. Maybe this was her first bad dream? His thoughts were interrupted by a little sniffle.

"Hey it's okay, come here." He held out his arms to her, and without hesitation she rushed over to him. He picked her up and cradled her in his lap, as she nestled her head under his chin. She hugged her dragon plush tightly making sure to cuddle as close as she possibly could into her father, and stared into the fire. Hiccup stroked her hair gently then looked down at the slightly shaking girl.

"What's wrong little lady?" He asked softly, peering down so he could look into her eyes. She tilted her head up and a couple of tears slid down her burning cheeks. Hiccup's heart clenched at the sight. He caressed her wet cheek with his thumb.

"I-I...I'm scared daddy." Her whimpering voice made Hiccup's heart break. He had never seen his daughter look so traumatized before. I mean sure, she'd get pretty shaken up after falling and scraping her knee once or twice, but this was different. She looked genuinely scared.

"I'm sorry I'm scared....you say I'm supposed to be brave." She wiped at her runny nose, her eyes continuing to swell up. Her voice shook when she talked. Hiccup furrowed his brow in pity, as he tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear.

"Zephyr, it's okay to be scared. Everyone gets scared from time to time. Even me and your mom get scared." He reassured gently, as she widened her eyes in surprise. "You and momma get scared? But mommies and daddies don't get scared." She replied innocently. Hiccup chuckled softly, hugging her tighter.

"Oh believe me, they do. It's nothing to be ashamed of. But what's causing my brave little lady to be scared tonight?" He tilted her chin up so he could look her in the eye. Her lower lip began to tremble, and she buried herself into her father's chest, drenching him in tears.

"I don't wanna be alone daddy! M-momma was...g-gone aa-and...Finn and you...and I was a-alone..." She wailed desperately, recalling the nightmare she had recently abruptly waken up from. Hiccup looked taken aback, trying to soothe and calm her so she wouldn't wake the whole house up.

"Hey...hey shhh shhh it's okay it's okay! Zephyr look at me." He helped sit her up in his lap, and continued to stroke her cheek. She was shaking with little sobs, fear radiating through her clouded eyes.

"It was just a dream, none of it was real. I'm here, see?" He took her limp hand and placed it over his heart. She looked into his eyes, her sniffling dying down. "Momma is here too, and so is Finn. You're not alone, and you'll never be alone. I'm not going anywhere." He wrapped her up in his arms and held her close, as she clung to him as if her life depended on it. He buried his face into her soft hair as she continued to silently cry against him. He rocked her back and forth soothingly, shushing her gently and telling her it was okay. So much sadness swelled through his heart. Zephyr didn't deserve to have a dream like that, she was only six years old. She was such a bright bubbly girl that brought a smile to his face every time she walked into a room. But as he held her close and comforted her, he knew he'd remember this moment forever. She was scared and she came to find him. They stayed like that for awhile. Until an idea popped into Hiccup's mind.

Carefully he reached for his sketchbook tucked beneath his cloak, and pulled it out as Zephyr began to pull away and sit up. She wiped at her eyes and looked down at the little book with wonder. "What's that?" She asked curiously as Hiccup smiled.

"Let me show you." Zephyr shifted around so she was leaning her back against her father, and he held the sketchbook in her lap as he began to show her the sketches from his youth. Zephyr gasped in awe as soon as he opened it up and he smiled warmly. With each page came a story, and each story made Zephyr's fear slowly disappear. She started to smile again as she studied her father's drawings and enjoyed listening to the stories that came along with them.

"Is that momma, daddy?" She asked as she pointed to a sketch of Astrid when she was younger. Hiccup blushed faintly and smiled cheekily. "It is. That's the day when she chased me around the whole village when I said I had to draw her cause she looked cute." He softly chuckled when Zephyr giggled. She ran her finger on the edge of the sketch, looking at in wonder. "Momma's so pretty."

Hiccup smiled and kissed her hair. "She is isn't she? And so are you." She giggled once more, as his breath tickled her face. She urged him to continue to turn the pages, which he gladly did so. He pointed to each one with emphasis, making her laugh when he would make silly faces to make the story come to life. "Is that Toothless!?" She squealed excitedly when a sketch of Toothless caught her eye, finally a visual representation of the dragon her parents talked so much about. Hiccup's face lit up in response to her excitement. He nodded with a smile, and she turned her attention back to the drawing, mouth agape and eyes wide. There was his little girl that he knew.

"Do you think I'll ever get to meet him daddy?" She asked hopefully, and Hiccup smiled. "Maybe one day." She gasped excitedly at his response, and turned her attention back to the sketchbook. She turned the page, and a frown emerged when she noticed it was blank. Hiccup pursed his lips in disappointment when he realized they had gone through everything. His mind clicked and a cute little idea popped into his head. He opened his little satchel on his belt and pulled out a charcoal pencil. Zephyr noticed and her face lit up in excitement. "Can you teach me how to draw, daddy?" She pleaded and Hiccup couldn't resist that face she made.

"Of course. Here..." He handed her the pencil, and took her hand in his and began to lead her hand along the parchment with the charcoal pencil. She watched in awe, a bright smile on her face as she watched her hand being led by her father's. The outline of a little girl began to take shape, and Zephyr couldn't peel her eyes off of it. Hiccup smiled as he worked and held her hand in his.

"That's me!" She gasped excitedly, looking at the rough sketch of her, cuddling her dragon plush. "Yeah and in no time you'll be able to draw all kinds of things." Hiccup encouraged, as he admired the look on his daughter's face.

"Even Toothless?"

Hiccup's heart melted. "Even Toothless."

He shared a warm smile with his little girl. She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around her father's neck, squeezing him tightly. "I love you, daddy." She whispered and Hiccup hugged her back. "I love you too my little lady."

She pulled away with a smile, and then looked back down at the sketch. A slight yawn creeped in, making her eyes droop. Hiccup noticed and shook his head playfully. "Alright miss, time to get some shut eye." He stood up and gathered her up in his arms, making her giggle as he nuzzled her nose. He tucked his sketchbook in his belt and made his way up the stairs with the dazed girl in his arms.

As he walked to her room and tucked her back in, all of his nostalgic feelings had melted away. Sure he missed his old life, and of course he'd continue to miss Toothless everyday. But this was his world now. Being a father to two children that he adored more than anything. He wouldn't trade being a father for the world.

Especially now that he has a new page to sketch on.

[charlieism]

Touch A Star, Touch A God

Bruce is having a bad day, so he goes to find Thor, and discovers that it's surprisingly easy to hug him.

AO3

Bruce has had a very long, very tiring, very upsetting day. The thing is, he hasn’t even done anything wrong, the reason his day is so terrible doesn’t even technically have anything to do with him, he just…

Well. He’s supposed to be a hero, to save the innocent people of the world from danger. And sure, he’s an Avenger, and the Avengers are kind of the big guns. They’re pulled out to fight aliens, robots and wizards--all kinds of freaky, global-catastrophe type dangerous stuff! They’re not there for everyday things, he supposes, not there to break up fights between civilians or stop petty crime. And besides, he’s the Hulk! Hulk is a last-resort kind of thing, he’s destructive and unruly and unsafe; he can beat up big monsters just fine, but he can’t exactly help the little people.

Bruce wishes they could’ve helped the little people today.

Because a lot of civilians died today. It was unexpected and tragic, and though it’s far from the highest death-toll the world has ever seen, it’s still too many. Too many lives taken. And by just some random person, too, not a threat that Bruce could’ve ever prepared for, nothing he could have predicted in time to save all those people. It happened very far away from him as well, there was nothing he could have ever done to help. And that sucks.  He heard about it on the news in the morning, and he’s felt sick to his stomach ever since, the knowledge and thoughts of a single disaster he couldn’t prevent weighing on his mind as if all the souls of the dead were resting on him, pulling him down with them. He feels guilty, and upset, and angry and sad, and there’s nothing he can do about it, nothing he could do, it’s too late now and people are dead and it’s not his fault but he just--

He feels like shit.

Bruce pulls his glasses from his head and digs his knuckles into his eyes, rubbing them as they sting. It’s cold in his lab, and the loneliness of it all just makes him feel worse.

He abruptly realises that he wants somebody to comfort him.

Which is weird, because he’s Bruce Banner, the Hulk, he’s dangerous, and for years he’s never really… had anybody to comfort him? Nobody to talk to about the innumerable issues he has, no close friends or family to provide support or help him through his bouts of anxiety, or self-hatred, or guilt. He could swear he’s almost forgotten what being comforted even feels like. Except some deep part of him, something instinctual and ingrained so deep he’ll never be able to scrape out out, longs for another person to be close to, for someone to be there for him, for somebody too--

To what? Hold him? Hug him? Tell him everything is going to be okay?

Can he even have that? And who would that someone even be? Sure, Bruce can admit that nowadays he has more friends than he has since the gamma radiation incident, but is there anyone he’s particularly close to? Tony, maybe, but as normal and somehow at ease as the eccentric other man can make him feel, they’ve never been close enough to even touch beyond jokingly poking each other or a patting of the shoulder. Steve? Ha. Natasha? No, not anymore, never again, if he’s honest with him. That ship sailed a long time ago. Thor?

Well, actually, now that Bruce thinks about it, he and Thor have gotten pretty close since the whole saving-each-other-from-evil-and-gallivanting-through-space-together thing. After all, Bruce was the only one around who knew everything Thor had been through in a short amount of time, who’d witnessed just how much the god had lost and seen how much his life had changed in such a short amount of time. And Thor was the one that saved him from being stuck as Hulk as a gladiator on an alien planet for the rest of his life, who returned Bruce to Earth. He’s the only one who somehow managed to befriend both Bruce and the Hulk. Before Brunnhilde and Thor, Bruce hadn’t even been sure that Hulk had the capacity to make true friends, and he himself certainly hadn’t trusted anybody so fully for a long time.

He supposes that there’s certain things you go through together that mean you can’t avoid becoming friends, though. Like comforting each other after destroying one’s ancient home planet and evil sister, and guiding one through waking up disoriented and two years out of time on an alien planet designed to stress one out, and being stuck on a spaceship together travelling through the universe for weeks afterwards. So, yeah, Bruce supposes that Thor is his friend. The closest friend he has. Bruce likes Thor a lot, actually, which is kind of surprising because although they’ve always been amicable, a few years ago Banner would have never dreamed of being this close with Thor, blonde prince of Asgard and God of Thunder.

Thor is actually really nice, though. Bruce would almost go so far as to call him the kindest avenger, just from what he’s seen since Sakaar. He’s watched Thor interact with all the remaining Asgardians with the utmost care and respect after Asgard was destroyed, saw how he genuinely listened to their problems and interacted with them devotedly as he figured out how to properly lead them. Many times Bruce and Thor had sat together when everyone else was asleep and stared at the vast expanse of space as Thor hesitantly unloaded his worries about being king, and Bruce heard how important this was to him, how vital it was that Thor made a good king and a good person, who treated everyone right and fairly. It had made him smile even as Thor fretted, because staring at the trillions of glowing stars Bruce had more than once realised how gigantic the universe was, and how great a person Thor managed to be despite having seen corners of the galaxy Bruce could never dream of. And then, after Hela and Thanos, he’d seen Thor cry over losing his family and cry over regaining them, he’d watched as Thor tenderly helped his people rebuild and witnessed Thor’s mind race as he figured out the best solutions to any problem somebody came to him with.

That’s another thing, too: Thor is, like, really smart? He’s headstrong, impulsive and reckless, sure, but he’s intelligent. Bruce knew he was smart beforehand, of course; he’d listened to Thor chip into the discussions and plans of the Avengers back when they were more of a close-knit team, had known that the god had a strategic mind and thousands of years of knowledge, but until recently he hadn’t fully realised what that meant. The realisation that he could have long, in-depth conversations about science, astronomy, astrophysics, history, language and any other number of subjects with Thor, who would not only comprehend what he was saying but be able to reply and enthusiastically carry the discussion in full, was a delightful one. Thor just knew so much, he was able to keep up with Bruce completely and even add to his knowledge, and sometimes Bruce was sharply reminded that Thor was, for all intents and purposes, ancient. He probably knew more things than Bruce could ever hope to remember. Thor was always so amiable about it though, casually talking about complex subjects with full understanding of them and Bruce could barely believe that they’d never discussed things like this before, couldn’t figure out why Thor had never engaged in conversation with them like this a few years ago. Maybe they all had preconceptions about him, because of the stilted way he used to speak or look or whatever. He doesn’t know, but it’s nice now. Thor is kind, and he’s smart, and he’s so powerful, and he’s Bruce’s friend. Bruce knows that logically Thor would never turn him away, that he’s always going to be friendly enough to listen to Bruce’s troubles, or comfort him if that’s what Bruce needs.

Bruce kinda really needs that right now.

He looks around his pristine lab, his cold and calculating and empty, empty lab, and his mind is already made up. Pride, embarrassment or weakness be damned, suddenly all he can think about is going to Thor and just… being around him, sitting with him and calming down in his presence. So he methodically packs up his supplies and takes off his coat, before leaving the lab and walking to where he knows Thor’s room is. He reaches the door quick enough, hands fidgeting with a creeping anxiety that he tries to ignore, and knocks on it before he can second-guess himself too much.

“Come in,” a familiar, muffled voice calls from inside, and something in Bruce’s chest immediately loosens just at hearing it. He opens the door. Thor is inside, sitting on his bed and wearing that soft khaki jacket he’s apparently become attached to since returning to Earth. Thor looks up, and his expression immediately softens when he sees Bruce standing in the doorway, a warm smile pushing at his lips.

“Banner!” Thor calls jovially. “How are you, my friend?” Bruce smiles weakly at him.

“I’m fine,” he says, then winces at the automatic response. Damn it. “Can I come in?”

“Of course!” Bruce steps into the room and closes the door gently behind him, and suddenly realises that he doesn’t have a plan from here. What’s he going to do, suddenly start to rant about all his problems? His main problem doesn’t even have anything to do with him, he’s just upset, so how is he supposed to justify that? Or is he meant to just play it all off and pretend he just wants to, like, hang out with Thor as usual, and hope that acting okay makes everything magically better? He dimly sees Thor’s smile fade and his gaze sharpen, flickering down to where Bruce is anxiously tapping his knuckles together, sleeves tugged further down his hands, and then back up to his stressed, vacant expression. Bruce can feel the ol’ panic bubbling in his chest again, which is stupid because there’s no reason for it to be there, but whatever, his mind is racing so fast he can barely hold onto a thought.

“Bruce?” Thor asks, voice softer now. “Is everything alright?”

Bruce kind of can’t stop staring at Thor’s green jacket. He knows it’s soft, because he’s picked it up before when Thor left it lying around, and it’s unzipped so Bruce can see the white shirt Thor is wearing underneath, and it looks really warm. Thor looks warm. He looks cosy, and comfortable, and safe. Bruce wants to snap himself out of the line of thought, but it’s the truth: he really, really wants to hug Thor right now. Christ, he can’t actually remember the last time he hugged anybody. How sad is that?

“Bruce,” Thor repeats. He sounds worried now, like he’s about to stand up and check if Bruce is injured. Bruce swallows and looks at his face.

“Yeah,” he says, but it’s more like a whisper, his voice strained. He clears his throat, but he can’t stop moving his hands. “Yeah, sorry. Hi.”

“Hi,” Thor says, and smiles cautiously. “Are you feeling okay, Banner? You look… Pale.”

“I, uh... “ Bruce sighs shakily. “No. Not really? Everything just feels bad right now. Sorry if I’m bothering you, but I thought--I thought--ugh, I don’t know what I thought,” he struggles, then sighs in defeat, clenching his fists. Thor watches him carefully, but his expression is open and kind.

“That’s alright, Banner, we all have bad days. Especially with all the things that have happened lately, I think you’ve almost earned a bad day,” he jokes quietly. Bruce releases a puff of air that could almost be interpreted as a laugh.

“Do you have bad days?” he asks, still hovering by the doorway.

“Of course.” Thor’s answer is immediate and honest. He’s still sitting on the bed.

“Oh.” Bruce’s voice feels like it’s redundant and echoing. “How do you deal with them?” He desperately needs to know. But Thor just stares at him, blinking sedately, taking in Bruce’s nervous posture, anxious movement and strained voice, and then slowly raises his arms.

He moves like Bruce is a skittish animal, one who’ll run off at the sign of any sudden movement, but Bruce almost appreciates it because at this point, he feels like he just might. For a minute he’s not sure what Thor is doing, but the blonde man just waits patiently with his arms outstretched until it clicks.

“Oh,” Bruce repeats dumbly. Thor is offering a hug. This is… God, that is exactly what Bruce wants, but he doesn’t know how to accept it. His mind is still going a mile-a-minute, but apparently those deep down instincts take over as soon as the offer for a hug registers because his feet take a lurching step forward before Bruce can stop himself. But Thor smiles at him, small and soft and encouraging, and that tight knot in Bruce’s chest unwinds just the tiniest bit more. Maybe it is okay for him to just walk over there and let himself be comforted. Maybe it really is that easy.

So he does.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t speak. He just shuffles across the room to where Thor sits on the bed, and though he’d like to say he hugs him with some kind of dignity, that’d be a lie. It’s like all the strength just disappears from Bruce’s body and he kinds of falls limply into Thor’s open arms. It’s a little awkward, because he’s not entirely on the bed, but his head rests near Thor’s collarbone, just below his shoulder as if it was made to fit there, and Thor’s arms immediately curl around him and bracket him in. He was right. Thor is so warm. Bruce might let out a pleased noise, he’s not really sure, but the horrible feeling in his chest is immediately starting to ebb, and it feels so good to finally be able to relax slightly. He feels Thor move backwards a little, until his back is resting against the wall and he can hold them both upright, and everything is suddenly far more comfortable. Thor is a lot bigger than Bruce is, so Bruce just kind of curls up again him, arms wrapping around Thor’s waist and slipping under the jacket. From where Bruce’s head lays on Thor’s chest he can faintly hear the strong drum of the god’s heartbeat, and he can feel the unwavering strength in Thor’s stomach and arms, but he holds Bruce with the perfect balance of gentleness and tightness that Bruce just closes his eyes and lets his mind stop whirring.

He was right about the jacket, too: the material is soft where it drapes over his hands and arms, and he was correct about the warmth and cosiness. It’s like being tucked up against a heated blanket. Thor is warm and alive under his palms, radiating heat with every breath Bruce feels him take in. He’s secure in the best of ways, his arms holding Bruce in place and supporting him, his chest soft but firm at the same time, and Bruce can’t remember the last time he felt this safe. Thor smells nice, too. Not really like anything in particular, just whatever washing powder his clothes are cleaned with and a constant hint of ozone that Bruce can detect, and something that’s implicitly Thor, but it’s familiar and relaxing, amplified by their closeness. Gradually the tension flows out of Banner’s body, his muscles relaxing and his fingers curling gently into the material of Thor’s shirt, his breathing slowing along with his thoughts, and the panicked jumble in his chest smoothing out completely. His eyes are shut, now, and his head is practically nestled against Thor’s collarbone, but their breathing is in sync and Thor seems perfectly content to just hold him. Bruce, for once in his life, feels calm. It is so fucking good.

“Thanks, Thor,” he mumbles against the other man’s chest without opening his eyes, and he’s glad that this is so easy. He’s glad that they don’t have to talk, that he doesn’t have to explain how he feels or justify why he needs to have a goddamn cuddle session. He’s glad that Thor is just here, hugging him close, and it’s fine. It’s simple, and it’s easy, and it’s okay. Thor’s arm’s tighten fractionally around him, and Bruce just curls closer in return, pleased at the warmth and the cosiness, at the feeling of being so close to another person.

“Any time, Banner,” Thor assures him, and he can feel the baritone rumble of his voice in his chest. Bruce smiles, and for once, it feels real.

[fordarkisthesuede]

The Tolls of Justice - Chapter 1

Thank you for all your kind words so far!!! （*’∀’人）♥ I'm slowly reading that nice pile of new TT works you all made! ♥♥♥ 

(And I’m sorry for the delay,

Important Spoiler Tags:  more talk of dead bodies, blood mention, mental illness

{Prologue} {Next Chapter}

Read on AO3 or continue below:

[Chapter 1:  A Different Ceiling]

John Doe stared wide-eyed up at the whitewashed ceiling, feeling his breath catch in his chest and release too fast. He could practically hear his heart thudding in his ears like the world’s worst wake-up call.

Where am I? He asked himself.

He turned his head as he tried to breathe slowly. Dull light streamed in through the thin chicken-wire over the window - a standard of mornings in Gotham. There was flat blue paint on the walls, a familiar photograph sitting on a nightstand, a clock (oh, it was 7:20, that was helpful) and a phone there that he wasn’t technically supposed to have.

He snatched the phone off the surface and swiped up, barely paying attention to the illuminated rollercoaster that was his lock-screen. A selfie of himself and Bruce Wayne greeted him, only partially obscured by a couple of icons. He’d taken the picture three days ago, during their last visit; he could see the phone’s little timestamp in the corner, underneath the clock. He took a deep breath and focused on Bruce’s face.

Bruce had worn that really good cologne that day. He could smell it lingering on his own shirt for hours afterward, bringing to mind memories of his short stay at Bruce’s house.

He felt his panic start ebbing away. He wasn’t in Arkham Asylum anymore. He wasn’t in the Old Five Points, either, or the abandoned Funhouse, or Ace Chemicals. He wasn’t dreaming or being delusional or…

John pinched himself and winced slightly at the sharp sting it made in his wrist. Nope, he wasn’t under any kind of drug-based hallucination, either. Just like the day before that, and the week before that, and the fortnight before that.

But his subconscious apparently hadn’t caught up with reality just yet. He kept dreaming of everything else. Everything that could have gone wrong, or everything that did go wrong, but amplified by twenty.

Things should be different now. They were different now. Bruce was fine. John was….well, here.

The halfway house he was in was one of the better ones in the city. It wasn’t the best, of course, considering John’s past...difficulties, but it was better than where he’d ended up last time. There weren’t any bars on his window, his room actually had some color in it that wasn’t just a stain, and the only rat he’d seen so far was outside of the building.

His thumb hovered over the messenger icon on the screen, and he looked at the little digital clock in the corner. Was it too early? Bruce had been on patrol, and he’d already bugged him after one nightmare.

But it was a different one. He’d only dived over the railing towards that bubbling vat of chemical waste before. He’d had that dream before, always feeling like he’d fallen onto his back on the mattress afterward; he was almost used to that one.

This time he’d been covered in blood. He could only see the Funhouse floor, the countless bodies there, forming a grotesque ring around him, staring at him with unblinking dull expressions...

John rubbed his forehead. He really didn’t want to think about it anymore. He wanted a distraction and comfort and Bruce’s soothing voice in his ear.

His phone buzzed in his hand, and the first line from Bruce’s text dropped down from the top of the screen.

John hit it like lightning and let his brain simulate Bruce’s voice.

I’m close by. Can I come see you before work?

Bruce was heaven-sent, surely. A gift from a god of some sort. An absolute treasure John didn’t deserve to even look at.

He hovered over the keyboard. Should he wait a minute? Should he just say yes with all the exclamation points he felt in his heart?

No, no - Bruce might want to see him to get comfort of his own. Which meant he needed to loosen up a little.

Ha ha, I knew you couldn’t resist me ;)

John waited a moment, his brain buzzing that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to joke with a man that might have stayed up all night again… Maybe he should amend it with a ‘j/k’?

What can I say, your raw animal magnetism has a tendency draws in bats.

John laughed to himself.               

Ha ha ha! I bet I can amp up the magnetic power to get you here *faster*!

No need. I’ll be there in 5 mins.

…you’re that close already?

How’d you know I’d say yes?

I had a feeling you would.

Plus this is important.

Important. So, a nine-out-of-ten chance it was about Bruce’s stakeout last night. John pushed aside the budding worry that something had gone horribly wrong - Bruce was talking to him. If he wasn’t fine (or at least Bruce’s definition of it, which was ‘alive and secretly hurting somehow’), he wouldn’t be speaking to him.

Unless someone had found out about his secret identity, knocked him out (or worse), stole his phone, discovered where John was staying, and was coming to kill him and taunting him about it by masquerading as Bruce...

...but that was a preeetty low chance.

Ok. Drive carefully, there’s a bunch of lunatics out there.

And I would know! Ha ha ha!!

I’m always careful.

I’ll see you soon.

Ten minutes, five minutes - hell, John could be ready to see Bruce in one minute. He threw on the closest things from the drawer, smoothed his hair back, and paced over the tiles a little, darting his eyes out the window towards the mediocre parking lot. It was funny how different it looked compared to Arkham. He still sometimes felt like he’d wound up in a different wing of it rather than a whole new place...

He blinked, remembering that St. Dymphna New Life Home had a somewhat different set of rules and that he could leave his room. And unlike Arkham, he didn’t have to ask or do someone a favor or play innocent. (Most of the time, anyway…)

He was already out in the hall, feeling like he should rush even though he knew he didn’t have to, passing other rooms, other snoozing patrons, turning a corner, and smacking right into Mickey.

Mickey Williamson had a serious case of ‘resting bitch face’. Well, that coupled with paranoia and aggressive issues.

“You trying to start somethin’, clown?” Mickey grunted, staring down at John.

From anyone else, it would’ve been a threat, but John had helped Batman take down Bane; this guy was a limp noodle in comparison. Still, picking a fight - even a verbal one - wasn’t a good idea. Neither was shrugging it off. “Only part one of my plan to brighten your day,” he joked. “I know you don’t like loud noises. How else am I going to get your attention?”

Mickey gave a short hmph, clearly satisfied. “...what’s the plan?”

He definitely wouldn’t buy that it was a secret. “A joke! Why are lawyers buried ten feet underground?”

Mickey looked up at the ceiling for a brief moment. It was hard to tell if he was rolling his eyes or thinking about it. “Okay, why?”

“Because deep down, they’re not that bad!”

Mickey gave a short, boisterous laugh that was definitely genuine-sounding, despite the smile slipping off his face shortly after. “Okay, that was much better than the one about the rotisserie chicken you told Chuck yesterday.”

“Yeah, I guess when there’s more than one meat that cooks like that it kinda takes away the punch…”

He crossed his arms. “So what’s part two of ‘plan’ of yours?”

“What, and ruin the mild surprise? Mickey, how long have we known each other?”

“Four weeks.”

“Exactly! And have I ever done you wrong in all that time?”

His jaw shifted slightly. “That green sauce you told me to use the other day made everything too spicy.”

“Okay, honest mistake on my part, I didn’t think you’d use that much… But that aside?”

“...no,” he admitted with a slight shrug.

“Mm-hm! So trust me - it’ll put a smile on your face!” John emphasized with a click of his fingers towards his bulky neighbor and a grin of his own as he slunk away. “Probably,” he muttered to himself, completely unsure of what he would do next. Mickey might not have been as scary as Bane, but John was constantly trying to be on his best behavior, so getting on Mickey’s good side - along with everyone else’s - was for the best.

John glanced briefly the camera in the corner of the open stairwell, seeing it still pointed down the hall. He knew from the angle and shape of the lens that the corner of the stairs was a safe place to talk if Bruce didn’t want his lips recorded.

The thought made him giggle a little to himself. It took two flights of stairs to get down to the welcome area, where’d he’d no doubt have to wait as Bruce signed more pointless pieces of paper and -

And there he was. Bruce Wayne, standing there, signing away another visitor’s form and chatting up the easily-charmed nurse for the sake of his public image.

He was radiant, even under the fluorescent lights. A gorgeous demigod - no, a hero, a warrior of the highest class, out to mingle amongst the common criminals without his armor. John felt like the atmosphere had shifted and grown warm, and there was something about the way Bruce’s flirtatious smile wasn’t reaching his eyes that made John’s stomach feel all light.

The real smiles were all his. His, his, his.

He knew he had to wait until Bruce passed through the little security check, but for what felt like for the hundredth time he just wanted to walk over it and ignore everything that stood in the way of them. His fingers itched to touch Bruce, grab his hand, his wrist, anything, and he couldn’t. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels, waiting, waiting, and smiling wider as Bruce caught his eye.

It didn’t matter how small the little smile back on Bruce’s face was, it was genuine. It made John chuckle:  that silly girl at the front desk thought she had half a chance with Bruce? Ha!

John barely heard the guard talking about how they should go to the visiting room a-s-a-p. He knew the rules - visits were a maximum of sixty minutes, they had to be conducted in the visiting room unless a doctor signed off otherwise, and if a therapy session, work, or a meeting with the social worker was scheduled John would have to go to that no matter what.

Blah, blah, blah. There was no rule on how long they could take to walk to the visiting room. And John was willing to bend and break rules into tiny pieces for Bruce any day.

“Hey, John.”

“Hey, Bruce,” he echoed back in the same tone, grinning just a little wider. “You’re earlier than I thought you’d be.”

“I drive fast,” Bruce shrugged with a small smirk. They left the guard to pretend he wasn’t listening or watching them leave in his peripheral vision. “You doing okay?”

“Is our new mayor crooked?”

“...possibly?” Bruce answered tentatively.

“Exactly!” John joked.

Bruce wasn’t keeping his eyes focused on the stairs. Cautious concern worked its way onto his face, which John felt simultaneously annoyed and relieved at it. It was amazing having him for support - every doctor he’d ever had stressed how important a good support system was - but sometimes it made John feel like he was being babied. “I’m not sure how to take that.”

“Take it any way you want! Doesn’t change the fact that I always feel better when you’re here.”

Bruce frowned slightly. “Is something wrong?”

John rolled his eyes. Bruce was toeing the line of babying. Why could he not take a good dark joke? “No, Bruce. I’m not being mistreated, I can take care of myself, and I’ve taken my meddies like a good boy.”

Bruce’s frown deepened, and he got that stern look that made John’s brain give a little burst of adrenaline. His more dominant side always made John want to challenge him...and swoon, usually at the same time. Bruce took hold of his arm, his grip firm but not entirely threatening, and pulled him discreetly underneath the camera so they wouldn’t be seen; both stood side-by-side with their backs against the wall, Bruce’s grip on his arm loosening. “You’ve texted me in the middle of the night several times this week. I know you’re not sleeping well.” His too-blue eyes searched him. “I won’t say anything if you’re not okay, John. I just want to know what’s wrong.”

John thought briefly about retorting with ‘you’, but that was so incredibly untrue that John couldn’t even try to lie with that sorry excuse. He couldn’t say he was ‘fine’, either, despite the habitual urge to. He wasn’t, Bruce knew it, and they did make that promise to be honest with each other...

“It’s just...you know, my brain, being...rude to me.” He knew that wasn’t a good enough explanation, but Bruce was giving his ‘I’m taking you seriously’ face. John always liked that expression. He didn’t see it enough on people. “I just keep having, you know,” John fumbled, rubbing the back of his neck to try and dispel some of the awkwardness, “bad dreams. I mean straight-up barbaric ones, Bruce,” he felt his lip curl in a sneer at himself, “My brain compacts all my garbage memories and twists it into something worse.”

Bruce took hold of John’s hand so smoothly it actually took him by surprise. John stared at him, wondering if he’d said something wrong. He should explain, shouldn’t he?

“I think… I’m still adjusting. Like, I know you’re here, and I’m here, but...it’s like my brain secretly doesn’t like the change and is punishing me for it,” John continued, giving a short, nervous giggle, “Which is ridiculous, because this is more than I could’ve hoped for in a lifetime!”

“Have you mentioned this to Dr. Song?”

“Umm…sort of?” John gestured with his free hand. “Sans graphic details, but, uh, yeah.”

“Is it why you’ve been texting me so late? You wake up from them?”

He didn’t quiiite want to put it like that. He didn’t want to keep thinking of those stupid dreams. “That, and I miss you,” John answered with a sly smile. Their fingers were entwined - he stroked the Bruce’s thumb with his own, feeling the old tiny scar there, slightly smoother than the rest of his warm hand.

The reaction was more of what he wanted to see right then - Bruce had that sweet longing look in his eye.

“I’m literally counting down the days, Bruce,” John purred, feeling much more confident as Bruce’s face flushed a delicate shade of pink. “I’d do anything just to kiss you right now.”

“We shouldn’t,” Bruce replied, looking like he was trying to talk himself out of doing just that.

“That’s not what you said last time,” John teased quietly with a grin, turning to lean his shoulder against the wall. The delicious aromas of expensive cologne and hair conditioner clung to Bruce’s collar, bringing to mind the more sordid details of that last visit. “In fact, I remember you pinning me to the wall and kissing me until you couldn’t breathe.” He’d give anything (any mild luxury, a whole week of visits, all the good night’s sleeps he had left) just have a room alone with him for a while. “I’ve had a hard time thinking about anything else since then.”

He could almost see the struggle between reason and desire in Bruce’s mind. He tried to hide his little shudder as John leaned in a little more; oh yes, John had him right where he wanted him. Bruce might as well have licked his lips.

“Or do you want me to do the pinning this time?” 

John considered just pulling him forward and kissing him anyway, but that would ruin their little game. He liked seeing how far he could push Bruce. He watched Bruce’s baby-blues flicker slightly between John’s eyes.

The admonishment in his voice was gentle, like the squeeze he gave John's hand. “We really shouldn’t.”

“Alll-riiight,” John said with a playful pout, “If you say so, Bruce.” He pulled away and crossed his arms, wanting something else to do with his freshly-warmed hands. “You got spooked when that door opened last time, huh?”

“It’s more like ‘I don’t want people to think you got out because of my influence’,” he retorted quietly with a slight smile.

“Well, they’re not wrong, Bruce. I wouldn’t be in here without you,” John pointed out with a shrug in the general direction of their surroundings. “But I get it. So, if you’re not here for a good ol’ round of canoodling, it must be work-related, huh?”

He looked slightly embarrassed. “I actually just wanted to see you.”

John felt his heart skip that middle beat. “Oh! I mean, when you said ‘important’, I thought… Oh, geez,” he blustered, tapping his thighs with his fingers, “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.” He brought his hands together, looking up at Bruce with his best puppy-eyed expression. “But you’ll tell me how last night went anyway, right?”

Bruce had that cute little smile perking on the corner of his mouth. “Of course.” The smile slipped away just as soon as it appeared. “Not well. The shipment coming in was sabotaged before it came into port; I found all the crew dead.”

“Uugh,” John grunted, putting his hands in his pockets. “Did you at least get B.M.’s guys?”

“No. Their van combusted not long after I boarded the ship. G.C.P.D. found three dead, the last one’s presumed missing. We think it’s a rival gang - C.S.I. was still examining the wreckage when I left.”

“Sounds like a rough night.”

“It was. I barely got a power nap in before-”

“John?”

He glanced down the stairs, towards the voice - Devi, one of the few women staying there. She’d been there for three months already, coming out of her second stay at the county clinic.

“What’re you doin’? We got work in five minutes.”

“...we do?”

“Yeah, it’s Tuesday, man. You comin’ or what?”

He didn’t want to, but he should. “If I don’t make it down there, hijack the bus to wait for me,” he joked.

Her face lit up. “Hey, an upside:  I can finally get one of Peralta’s Boston cremes in you.”

John grinned and gave a dramatic gasp. “Devi, you scoundrel, that’s dirty!”

“You’re the one makin’ it dirty, man!” Devi laughed, “I better see you down here in five, or I’m tellin’ the warden,” she teased as she turned the corner, her ponytail of tiny braids shifting as she walked.

Bruce had that calculating look. “I’m sorry, John, I didn’t know you had work today, either.”

“That’s okay, Bruce, I forgot entirely!”

Bruce looked far away, like he was thinking through something.

“Um, you okay?”

“...she didn’t question us standing here.” Bruce turned his gaze to him again. “Do you think she knows something?”

“Devi? Nahhh, she’s on the level.” Weeell… “Our level, I mean. Even if she ‘knows something’, she’s no rat.” Bruce still looked concerned, the big worry-wart. “Look, it’s fine - I’ll go get on the bus with the other crazies, go sit in a back-room sewing den where no one sees me for half the day, and text you if she tries to blackmail me so your other half can pay her a visit.”

Bruce’s little smile returned, making John want to just reach out and caress him like the treasure he was. “You don’t need an excuse to text me, John. You can do that whenever you want.” The sincerity made John’s stomach twist a little. “Just be careful. And have a good day at work.”

John wondered if everyone else in a relationship felt a little burst of joy at the simple well-wishing phrase. “Right back at ya, Brucie,” he said, nudging Bruce’s shoulder with his fist. He leaned in a little, lowering his voice just so Bruce could hear. “You know what I’ll do if anyone hurts you.”

Just as soon as Bruce got that complex look of desire-in-denial and mild alarm that John had wanted to see, John tossed him a wink and whirled around, leaving him to puzzle it out as he descended the stairs.

He grinned to himself, feeling much more relaxed and in-control than before. “Don’t stay too long, Bruce, or you’ll start thinking you live here!”

*~*~*~*~*

The Eastern harbor was one of the more seedy places in Gotham. Batman often fenced the place as part of his patrol, and John could name every mob that made a hit on the infamous 13th Street.

So naturally, it was one of the few sections of the city that would think of employing former Arkham inmates. It was a twenty-minute bus ride every morning to get to their respective jobs. Most of the residents in St. Dymphna were leased out to the laundromat or the incorrectly-named Lucky Hotel down the street. Occasionally one would go to the weird fish market to work in the back, gutting and descaling whatever was brought in. John was so far the only one to be placed in the Stitched Up Alterations joint next to the laundromat.

The bus was discreet, looking more like a white van with the city logo than a repurposed short school bus. It made John long for the flair of Lil’ Puddin’; it might have just been a stolen car he’d had repainted, but at least you knew who was coming.  

He gave a little wave to Devi as he passed her heading towards the laundromat, leisurely making his way to the back alley around the place. He passed the always-smelly dumpster and the brick wall covered with graffiti - grinning slightly at the ‘fuck the agency’ tag someone had made with a decent imitation of his clown-smiley-face - and entered through the back door.

It was a small space, crowded with giant spools of various fabrics in all kinds of colors and patterns. There was a little group of headless dress forms in a few different sizes that he had recently cleaned the dust off of, one of which had what might be a burnt-orange off-shoulder dress pinned to it, likely for prom. Or was it homecoming? John never really knew which was which, but summer was only a couple of weeks away, which meant it was likely for whatever the last dance of the year was, and it was definitely new.

Though the color really wasn’t in season. It put him in mind of the fall, of the range of makeup he’d been eying in his few hours of freedom in Gotham half a year ago... He touched it, feeling the synthetic satin under his fingertips. It hadn’t been there yesterday, but it was real.

He passed the shelf of jars filled with colorful buttons, and the rolls upon rolls of fabric, taking a moment to run his hand over the beautiful purple broadcloth he’d half-hidden in a stack, and checked his lonely workstation. A pile of pieces to work on, all folded and tagged, sat at the table by the sewing machine.

He flicked through the pile. Boring, mildly interesting tack job, ooh nice pattern, boring, and

S.Townsend. Beautiful calligraphy, almost like it was from someone with years of practicing their signature. (John would know – he had roughly eight years of practice and he knew his wasn’t anywhere near that pretty.)

“Why does that name sound familiar…?”

A quick search turned up a few results, but nothing recent stood out… There were too many famous S.’s with Townend, apparently – a musician, some newscaster miles away, a convicted murderer ten years ago, some yacht owner…

“Ah-haaa.” One of Gotham’s one-percenters. Sonja Townsend, the chairwoman of Wayne Enterprises. “Why would a member of Bruce’s round-table go here?”

The ticket was recent, made yesterday at closing and wanted in half an hour. An easy enough job - just adding a ticket pocket to a very new purchase. The tag for the jacket was still attached to the sleeve - on sale for fifty bucks, marked down from two-hundred.

“A big-wig who doesn’t always buy big, huh?”

That was...definitely strange. Suspicious, even, considering Wayne Enterprise executives made so much it was a surprise they didn’t try to declare themselves kings.

He unbuttoned it and checked the lining - there was a ticket pocket already there.  It was certainly a man’s jacket, just...very small. And they didn’t want it taken in or shrunk?

Hmm.

He took the seam-ripper and tore through the thin stitches holding the pocket closed, wondering if there was something inside.

Nothing.

“You’re being paranoid, John. Dr. Leland warned you about looking too far into things,” he muttered to himself, “Even if it isreally weird… There could be a decent explanation! But… Ugh, what would Bruce do?” his arms and staring at the annoying tag.

Bruce would question it, look at it from every angle… And research it.

John snapped a photo of the tag where The-Mysterious-Person-S had scribbled their signature and sent it to Bruce.

Hey buddy, does this handwriting look familiar?

  I can’t check right now. In a meeting.

Fair enough. Looking at it from other angles it was.

John pat the sleeves, the collar, turned the inner-pocket inside out, thinking about the tiny packets of drugs he’d seen exchange hands at Arkham when he found something in the outside pocket.

An ordinary USA Express. No signature on the back, and the black stripe was very worn, but the card wouldn’t expire until next month; the unlucky name on the front was Michael Hodgson.

Huh. Well…no, it wasn’t finder’s-keepers, and John had already been told off for petty theft during his trial, but…it could be useful. Door locks could be picked with a card. As long as he didn’t buy anything with it, it was fine, right?

Right.

John stuck it in his back pocket.

Just as soon as he did, the door to the front opened, and John sat and moved the shirt like he was doing ordinary work as usual, pulling out the boring fabric that someone wanted to turn into a very boring pillow.

The manager came through, hauling a grocery bag of more fabric.

“Oh, John – can you…take a walk for a bit?” The smaller man asked, his mild Thai accent slightly more prevalent than normal. It only seemed to happen when he was nervous. “I have a special order I need to do back here. It will take up the bench.”

“Uh, sure, if you want. How long will you take?”

“A while. Just make sure you’re back in half an hour; the social worker’s dropping by then,” he said with a wave of his hand, moving in John’s way to force him back up.

Mr. Prinya definitely wasn’t supposed to tell him that. Those were meant to be surprise visits, to see how John was coping. “This isn’t some kind of test, is it?” John asked with a nervous little laugh, “Like you’re seeing if I’ll take the opportunity to skip out and report me?”

“You ask a lot for a man who wants this job.” Mr. Prinya put the bag by the stack of orders. “You leave, be back in thirty, both of us live to work another day.”

Ah. He was moving something. His accent came in a little thicker with the light threat, and his little show of bravado made John think it was probably against his will. Probably. But John knew the score – he had more than his share of experience keeping secrets in Arkham. And time away was beneficial for both of them.

“Hey, no worries,” John answered with his best understanding smile and a raise of his hands, “I get ya. I’ll just leave this one on the outgoing rack, ‘k?” He emphasized, picking up Townsend’s jacket.

Mr. Prinya gave a stiff nod, taking a seat in John’s chair and fiddling with his phone as John put the jacket on the wire hanger and threw it on the ‘outgoing’ rack by the door. He clearly didn’t want John to know what was in the bags. Probably for the best.

John left through the backdoor and stepped back into the alley.

He wasn’t far from the harbor. He could easily go have a look at the crime scene from last night by warehouse twenty-two… It was best not to get too close to it, though, so strolling by the actual docks wasn’t the best choice. He could go the roof of one of the buildings close to it instead. John had managed to get a close-zoom lens for his phone’s camera a little while back; it was a tiny thing attached to the back of his phone’s case, plugged into the audio jack for safe-keeping - all he had to do was clip it in place and he’d be able to have almost-binocular vision.

He took a quick look at the back of the laundromat. There was a camera by the door, but if he went juuust wide enough, he wouldn’t be seen by it’s all-seeing-eye.

The wire fence was a little difficult to climb in his shoes (he missed those ankle boots Bruce had bought him last year, the slight heel dug into crevices nicely) and he was never a fan of the feel of metal digging into his hands, but he managed to climb over the fence with a swing over the top and a hop to the ground without any injury.

John straightened his shirt, feeling a little accomplished, and set off for the sets of buildings closest to the docks, passing by graffiti in the twisting litter-coated alleyway - there was a poor imitation of the bat signal that someone had scribbled over and written ‘fuck batman’ next to, standard gang tags, non-standard gang tags, an anarchy symbol, a giant cartoonish bat chasing people…

Actually, that was one for the album! He had to stop and take a picture; one of the people looked like the Mayor. He didn’t even care it had a few of the tags in it - it was part of the charm, really.

He passed by one of the partially-repainted dumpsters, wrinkling his nose and walking faster when he smelled rotting fish parts, and spotted the ladder for the fire escape next to it dangling down partway into the alley. John was tall enough to tug at the ladder, but it wouldn’t budge.

The windows were mostly blacked out by something or other. If anyone lived there, he doubted they were home. It would be a damn good view, and close enough that the journey back wouldn’t make him late.

“Hm, to use the smelly abyss as leverage, or risk a minor injury?” He muttered aloud.

The dumpster was ancient and rusting. Not worth it.

John bent and jumped up, grabbing hold of the bars on the ladder and swinging his legs out to keep balanced as he climbed the first few bars. He checked the window by the landing and wiped his hands on his pants for good measure. The room there wasn’t as empty as he thought - the window had been darkened by thin film, like the kind they used for quick-fix window tinting, and the inside had some bare battered furniture. He could see a duffel bag half-hidden by a table leg.

Probably another runner. It was no use pondering about what they were running from. In  Gotham, there were far too many choices.

The next two windows had curtains (or in one case, sheets that had been clumsily tacked on the panes that let John see someone watching bad on-demand porn) and the last one showed nothing but an empty room with an open doorway. “Man, how hard is it to get a little bit of human interaction around here?” He grumbled to himself. He’d at least like to see someone else properly for more than a minute. Or get an idea of them at least.

He looked out into the street below - three passers-by in matching grey-and-black hoodies, seeming to laugh it up as they passed. A street gang, maybe... They weren’t very observant, if they were; there was a perfectly good motorcycle just sitting at the end of the alleyway there. It couldn’t be too difficult to hot-wire. At least compared to a car.

There was one more ladder going to the rooftop - and upon poking his head over the top, John was unsure on how to feel.

Tiffany Fox stood near the edge of the roof, doing exactly what he was planning on doing - only she had a pair of real binoculars. And that tablet she used for her drones.

She looked different from the last time he saw her, too; she was dressed fairly professionally, making her look a little more mature despite the dark blue streaks littering the thick curls on the one side of her head.

He wished he had her number so he could just text her he was there. Sneaking up probably wasn’t the best thing to do, despite the little urge to spook her; she was being trained by Batman, after all.

Weird situations like this surely called for some playful banter. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” He asked with his best film-noir-detective voice.

It certainly got her attention. She whirled around looking like a frightened cat, reaching for her hip like there was something useful there. A taser, judging by the shape in the pocket. (John always wondered why women’s slacks had those terrible form-fitting pockets.)

The wary look on her face didn’t quite diminish when she noticed it was just him. Despite the better terms they ended on in the ambulance back in October, he didn’t completely blame her for distrusting him - they had matching scars, after all.

“John,” she said simply, “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Ha, now you’re sounding like Bats, at least!” He chuckled, moving towards her to close some of the gap. He knew better than to get too close, though. He’d be the same way, if things were reversed; you never really knew what someone had hidden on them. “I would’ve thought you’d have developed that sixth-sense of his by now, after all you’re training, Tiff’.” (He made sure to keep of the ‘y’ he wanted to add. He remembered she’d said not to call her that; ‘Tiffy’ was reserved for brain-talk only.)

Tiffany’s expression shifted. She wasn’t just wary anymore, she had that little frown on her face that meant he’d crossed some unseen line. It couldn’t have been her name - was her training not going as well as Bruce had said? Or was it just one of those secretly-sensitive subjects?

“So… What’cha doin’?” He asked casually, stopping at the edge several feet away from her to look down into the street. “People watching, or crime scene watching?”

“Crime scene watching. Aren’t you supposed to be in that halfway house?”

He couldn’t decide whether the tone was accusatory or curious. It kinda sounded like both… Well, best to be nice about it. She had Bruce’s number on speed-dial, after all. “I am; I’m technically on a break from the mandated work. What about you, Tiff’?”

She raised a brow, and her tone was instantly recognizable; the same rebellious sort that came when someone nosy asked Harley what she was doing. “What about me?”

John fiddled with his phone, clipping on the magnifier lens to cover the camera. “Are you skipping work entirely, or just going in late?”

“Late. I would never skip.”

Really? Never-ever? He doubted that. “Eight hours a day, five days a week - and that’s not even counting your night gig. Doesn’t it wear on you?”

Tiffany didn’t quite seem focused on that tablet screen. “Sometimes. But last time I took time off, Bruce scolded me.”

“Do you mean he actually got angry, or he was he just like ‘Don’t be irresponsible, Tiffany. Just because my double-life allows me to up and leave work for as long as I can’t walk doesn’t mean you can take a break,’” John said in his best imitation of Bruce’s smoother-but-stern voice.

Tiffany gave a noise that might have been covering a laugh. He could see the smile on the edge of her mouth. “That does kinda sound like him.” She made a swiping gesture on the screen and looked over at him. “But it was more like he’s worried I’ll get too into the night job and go work on stuff without him.”

That wasn’t quite right. Bruce cared about people - more than likely, he just didn’t want Tiffany to get hurt or be in danger when Bruce couldn’t be around. John had caught sight of Batman staying outside of Arkham some nights when Bruce hadn’t stopped by in a couple of days, as if he was just checking up on things.

That was the type of person Bruce was - clearly it extended further where Tiffany was concerned, and she was clearly tired of hitting that ceiling.

“So, like you’re doing now?” John grinned, focusing the camera on his phone to try and zoom in as far as he could on the remains of the van in the distance. They were just high up enough to see most of the scene.

Tiffany was finally smiling. It was small and smug, but it was a definite change from the last time he saw her. It reached her dark eyes, lighting them up like a little candle in the dark. “Yup.”

John squinted at the image of the wreckage on his screen. “Yeesh, that was some firework they planted. Looks like the whole thing went up in smoke.” He zoomed in as much as he could. “Wow, the back doors are either open or gone on that thing.” The strangeness of it seemed to click the second he said it. “Or the explosion came from the inside.”

“That’s what the C.S.I. think, too,” Tiffany answered. “The glass all shattered outward; I think someone planted it there. That, or the dumbasses left the keys in the van.”

John giggled at that. “Mobsters leaving their keys behind? In Gotham? No way.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the more lunkheaded ones was in charge of driving.”

“No, no, you want the people with quick reflexes to drive, not the muscle. It’s why I was the designated chauffeur for the Pact,” he said somewhat proudly, “That, and Harley liked being driven around. Said it made her feel all fancy.” He scowled to himself as he felt his gut twist at the old memory. “Though Dr. Leland thought that was just another example of her using me for her own gain...”

“You don’t still miss her, do you?” Tiffany asked, the accusatory tone lacing in between caution.

John thought. He kind of did. Not the same way he missed Bruce - not by a longshot - or the same way he missed Dr. Leland.

He shot a look at Tiffany. Were they at the point of bringing up ‘personal’ stuff yet? They’d worked together before, and they were on the same team now… He supposed that there wasn’t a better time to find out than now.

“It’s...more like I miss the fact that I could talk to her. Being in her company was easy, you know? That sort of ‘natural connection’ thing. In hindsight, there were some red flags about our whole relationship...but I can’t just pretend everything that happened between us just never happened.” He breathed out through his nostrils, already angry even though there wasn’t even a Harley there for him to be angry at. “Even if she did try to hurt Bruce.”

“And left you behind several times, tried to kill me alongside Bruce, and took advantage of you at every chance,” Tiffany said pointedly, a sardonic sort of smile perking up. “You shouldn’t just value Bruce’s life that much - you’ve got your own, you know.”

John snorted. She sounded a lot like Leland, in her own way; neither of them really quite got his relationship with Bruce. “Not much of one.” Though… “I guess it is getting a little better.”

She had that sort of pitying expression on her face. He wasn’t really a fan of those. Sympathy was fine, empathy was better - but pity? He didn’t need that. He really, really wanted to just change the subject rather than deal with any conversation pertaining to that.

“Speaking of lives, though - any idea what happened with the ship? I can still kinda see it in the harbor.”

“...how did you know about it?”

“How else? Bruce dropped by this morning.” He saw the mild bewilderment there, and decided he might as well drive the point home and make her jealous at the same time. “He always shares his case details with me. Among other things,” he added slyly. “But I had to go to work, so the conversation got cut before I could hear the juicy details. You were on patrol with him, right?”

“I wasn’t there in person,” Tiffany grumbled, going back to tapping her tablet. (What was she doing on it, anyway?) “I was using my drone from the cave, before some trigger-happy asshole took it out.”

John remembered her father had made those; no wonder she was upset. He should offer comfort. Better comfort that the last time they’d spoken about her father. He’d learned what to say since then. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he echoed with all the sincerity he could.  

She looked more puzzled at that than anything, but she didn’t look more upset, so that was probably a good sign. “Uh, thanks… Anyway, Bruce saw everything - I only got the data feed from his drones.” She tapped something, and seemed to think. “You sure you wanna see this?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”

“They’re pretty bad.”

He didn’t care. It wasn’t the blood or wounds that got to his head the last time he’d seen carnage second-hand; it was the ferocity, the terror on the people’s faces, the familiarity of it all that brought back the memory of the manic episode that had spiralled him to his worst point, and it made him feel very...displaced. But it wasn’t video, and John’s curiosity and his drive to help Bruce overrode everything else.

He wanted to squeeze something. He settled for putting his hands in his pockets and feeling the back of his phone case. “I can handle it.”

Tiffany turned the screen towards him. “There were eight victims. Most of them were stabbed.”

There were two men sunken in plastic chairs in the ships kitchenette, each with one of their eyes gouged out.

It was the kind of thing to put a sharp thrill in his gut and made the neurons in his brain fire away; enough to make him smile. No weapons in the wounds, and from such fun angles! “You know, I’ve always wanted to see a knife-thrower in person. I wanna find out how they do that.”

When he looked back up, Tiffany’s nose was wrinkled in the kind of stern disgust that Bruce displayed at the sight of dead bodies - only she lacked the spark of intrigue he always had. (Guess she wasn’t as far along in the training as he thought…) “Knife-throwing, huh…”

“Yeah, with reeeally long blades - I mean, I think some butter knives are big enough to hit the brain, too, but they’re probably harder to aim just right.”

Her frown deepened. “I don’t want to know how you know that…”

“It’s kind of obvious,” he answered anyway, unsure of how else he would know, “I mean, look-” He spread his thumb and forefinger to measure and held it up against his head, “it’s at least three inches to the temporal lobe; butter knives aren’t that long! Unless it’s for the world’s largest stick of butter.”

He was clearly close… Just a scoach more, and she’d surely crack. Her frown turned upside down for a little bit, there. The wall was dropping, further and further - he had to time these things just right…

Tiffany swiped on the screen, her expression souring at the sight of whatever-it-was, and his tiny hope died like a butterfly caught in a snowstorm. That was too serious a look to run with.

So he dared to scoot a little closer and peer over her shoulder, catching sight of the overhead image of the ship’s storeroom.

Four unfortunate men were laying on their backs, positioned so their arms crossed their chests like they were newly-buried pharaohs. Their heads all touched, three nestled snug together at forty-five-degree angles while the last one touched them all in the middle; a three-to-one ratio.

John itched to just grab it out of her hands to have a better look. He clenched his hands once and released halfway, forcing the impulse to pass. He didn’t want to be rude, even if they weren’t on the best of terms; and she was clearly in a rebellious streak, so acting demanding was right out. “Can I see that?” He asked instead, as politely as possible.

“Please?” He continued, seeing the morbidly-curious look in her weirded out face, “Just to check something?”

She was more guarded than ever, looking straight at the tablet in her hands...

At her right hand, just briefly, thinking back to the knife he’d plunged into it that day months and months ago, debating on whether or not she could trust him with even holding one of her tools when he’d trusted her completely back at the skyrail station -

“Alright,” she said finally, holding it out to him and letting him take it without another word of protest. He could see the faded scar on her palm, not quite identical to his. Like fraternal twins. Just how deep does that parallel go, he thought. “What are you checking?”

“The shape,” he answered, pulling open the editing menu.

He started doodling over it, first in pink - red was too close to home, in this case. A large inverted triangle...

No…a trapezoid on top of a pole, perhaps?

He switched to neon yellow. A miniature upside-down triangle, with a point down. That looked better.

He switched to green, tracing a line over each body. A trident, maybe? Maybe.

It was… Something. He’d seen it before. Somewhere, sometime…

“Have you ever seen this before?” He asked, keeping the tablet flat in between them so they could both look.

“I dunno, gang symbols? There’s a lot of weird ones around,” Tiffany said. “I know someone in the Cauldron uses some weird triangle as their tag…” She looked at him, no more wariness or caution or anything negative in her expression. Just simple curiosity. “Does it look familiar?”

A phrase he’d heard a hundred times before. Always a no. Always followed with ‘are you sure’ and more no’s and follow-ups of ‘well what can you remember?’ in that same insulting tone that tried so hard to appear inquisitive...

John drummed his fingers against the tablet, feeling the material of the reinforced case under his short fingernails. He was talking to Tiffany Fox, on top of a roof, both of them taking time out from work to look into a crime scene.

He laughed at the ludicrousness of it - she could push him off the roof or tase him or escape with a grappling hook, and she was just here talking to him, like things were actually changing.

(They were, though. He could smell the smog and the harbor. It was real.)

John let the short laugh die out with a little cough as he saw the look at Tiffany’s face.  

“Sorry,” he said, being used to apologizing for causing any level of ‘disturbed concern’, “But, no, it’s, uh, more like a nagging feeling.” She didn’t seem to understand that; her brow was raised, almost skeptical instead of curious, and still unsure of him as a whole. “Déjà vu with no direction.”

Tiffany actually looked like she was thinking about it, pulling apart the words in her head… “That’s...a different way of putting it. So, you might have seen it, but you don’t know where or when?”

He rolled his eyes slightly at her. He wasn’t going to dignify that was a proper response.

“I guess I’ll look into gang symbols,” Tiffany said, carefully taking the tablet back. “I’ll go back a few years, see if someone revived an old gang or something…”

“Or they could’ve just stolen the logo,” John pointed out.

“True.” She stared down at the tablet, concentration furrowing her brow. “You know, you might be right… It is kind of that nagging feeling.”

“Speaking of nagging, you haven’t found out anything new about those Black Mask guys, have you?”

“Only that one is still missing. There weren’t any tire tracks or bullets casings left behind, so whoever killed them made a clean getaway…” She cast a look over at the crime scene in the distance. “At least until I get the footage back from the broken drone. It might have picked up something.”

John hummed. A rival gang on the hunt - they would likely send whatever pieces were left to Black Mask. “Were they found the same way?”

“No. The members we found were all shot.”

Interesting! “Head or torso?”

“Does that really matter?”

“Depends on how sloppy our killer was!”

“...I don’t know how you’re so enthusiastic about this,” Tiffany grumbled, eyeing him scrupulously.

“Oh, come on, Tiff’, crime’s my specialty! We’re investigating a potential gang war, here - if it’s mostly headshots, it’s professional executions, which means a rival mafia sending a message; if it’s torsos it’s more likely to be newbies.” he thought for a moment. “Unless it’s the Corazón troupe, of course. But I’m pretty sure they’re all dead. Or really old.”

It was clear to see she hadn’t thought of that. “I’d say it looked like upper-body shots from the pictures I saw last night. I don’t have those handy, though. I’ll bring it up with Bruce.”

Hm. Hm, hm, hm. The van exploding, the crew ending up dead with only one missing as a hostage or informant - it sounded too much like a professional job. Someone planned it carefully. So why did one group get stabbed, and another shot? And why were the knife marks so precise when the shots were… Well, they could be precise. He’d have to see the pictures. Or at least hear of it.

“Speaking of him, I gotta go. I don’t want to be too late,” Tiffany said, tucking her tablet away.

“Ooh, before you do-” John quickly opened a new contact page and pushed the phone at her - “here, I don’t want to have to surprise you every time I see you.” There was the small chance she’d take it and throw it over the building, or slap it out of his hand, or just give him that weirded-out look she got sometimes or -

Tiffany defied the anxious conspiracies his brain was spinning; she took the phone and dutifully punched the number in, handing it back without any kind of strange look. “I better not find myself added to any weird listings,” she said jokingly, offering a small smile. A peace offering.

“Not even cute cat videos?” He teased, adding the fox and computer emoticons to the end of her name.

“I’ve already got a playlist on UBox for that,” Tiffany shrugged, heading back towards the fire escape. “’Bye, John.”

“’Bye, Tiff’,” he echoed, thinking for a second, “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

She blinked, turning for a moment, her hands already on the ladder railing. “You think you can find something from the inside of the halfway house?”

She was underestimating him. It was an advantage sometimes, but mostly it just annoyed him. He wasn’t anywhere close to Bruce – a man of the world in every sense – but he did have some physical power and brains and could put things together when they interested him enough. “You think that could stop me?” He answered, thinking back to every little secret he ever learned within the padded walls of his former home. “I’ve got my ways, Tiff’ – I have access to stuff you and Bruce could only dream about.”

He saw the wariness return on her face. She was unsure of what he knew and how he knew it, and just what he did to get people to talk, or what he did to take.

But like hell he’d tell her. She wouldn’t get it. Not now, at least. Maybe someday. “Be careful out there,” he added, letting the seriousness sink in before turning back into something more optimistic for both their sakes, “and have a good day at work!”

Tiffany left his view, and John cast one more look out at the crime scene in the distance.

At least he had some new things to think about at all hours of the day. Two groups of filthy criminals pitted against each other over their petty toys, unaware that Batman would be hell-bent on stopping it, using his loyal assistants who were waiting and watching from the shadows for help…

But the questions were what their precious toys were, and when and how Black Mask would get revenge – and figuring all that out would be easy once John could pinpoint who the rival group was.

How fun!

Notes:  Yes, Bruce might be the main character, but relationships work both ways - John is his own person regardless of what their relationship is like, so we get to see his life, too! (Yes, that means even if he’s a villain - though he’d probably start at a hideout rather than the halfway house, considering TT wouldn’t be likely to let him have any kind of redemption arc. But we have nothing to hold us back anymore! No bars, no chains, no gods, no masters!!! So villain!John can have a redemption arc too if you want, probably starting back in season 3 and continuing on here, because he’s an ill man who needs a support system and you can make it however you want!! Fight me, TT!!!! Oh wait, you can’t! Ahahahahahahaha!!!!!!)

(You’ll still be missed by us all. Thanks for the fun and new beginnings, TellTale… I hope you know my teasing comes from [mostly] love.)

Anyway, I thought it would be fun to have some new mechanics, so “drawing” and “photography” are now things “the player” can do practically free-style! And of course a big new addition is also “character perspective swap”, to focus on John for some of the time so “the player” can experience different sides of this story. And of course John’s choices affect the story, too! And depending on what you do with him…wait, that’s spoiler territory…I can’t tell you yet... You’ll have to wait along with me. But I pinky-swear it’ll be worth it. (｡•̀ᴗ-)b✧

I try to provide updates on tumblr/my Ao3 profile but nothing is guaranteed, so subscribing/bookmarking would be ideal for you to keep current! I hope to see you April 17 for our next look into this case!  (･ω´-ゞ)^☆

[i-am-a-closet-fanfic-fiend]

Sexiled (Part 7/23) ~ Steve Rogers x Reader College!AU

A/N: Hi lovelies!  More Sexiled! :) Hope everyone has a great week. 

Summary: Getting to know the important people in Steve’s life. Aka parent’s weekend with your not boyfriend 

Rating: T

Warnings: Nothing really, probably language 

Word count: 1798 

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“Looks like traffic from Brooklyn to Boston on a Friday afternoon was worse than they thought. They’re still in Connecticut,” Bucky reported at 5:30. “Becca says it’ll probably be two more hours.”

Steve frowned but nodded.

“I’ll call and see if we can move our reservation.”

“Good plan, but I’m starving. I’m going to go to the dining hall. You two coming?”

“I ate after lab. Sweetness?”

“Not that hungry,” you yawned.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I ate a ton after the exam.”

“Alright. Well I’m going to head down there then.”

Steve was already dialing the restaurants number so Bucky waved and left. You hopped down from the bed and he looked at you questioningly. You mouthed “bathroom” at him and slipped out of the room as the host answered the phone.

When you returned Steve was sprawled out on the bean bag chair flipping through his phone.

“Did they move the reservation?” you asked as you kicked your boots off and shrugged out of your sweater.

“Yup. We will now be seated at 8:30.”

“Perfect.”

You settled yourself between his legs, leaning back on his right thigh so you could look at him. He smiled softly as he scrubbed a hand over his face.  

“You look tired, love.”

“I am. The labs were killer today.”

“Yeah, this week was bad,” you agreed.

“Do you want to watch some more supernatural?”

You weighed the options, grimacing slightly.

“I’m taking that as a no,” he chuckled as he rubbed circles into your lower back.

“I’m just not really awake for it. Something less mentally taxing?”

“Scooby Doo?”

“Perfect.”

“Witch’s Ghost?”

You nodded excitedly and shifted on the bean bag so you were leaning fully against him. He reached for the remote and turned on the movie before settling his arms around your waist.

Neither of you had realized how much the three almost all-nighters had gotten to you, and soon you were fast asleep.

You woke to a bright flash.

“Becca,” someone hissed as you rubbed your eyes trying to get your bearings.

“The flash wasn’t supposed to be on,” someone whispered back.

As you blinked away the blurriness your eyes widened and your stomach dropped. You scrambled to your feet waking Steve in the process. Bucky seemed to be unsure whether he was amused or apologetic. You fiddled with your dress and tried to discreetly smooth your hair down.

“Oh hey everybody.” He grinned, unfazed as he hopped to his feet and hugged his mom. “I’m so glad you could come, ma.”

“Me too, sweetheart.”

When he let go of her, he reached out and slipped his hand in yours tugging you closer.

“Everyone, this is y/n. She’s my best girl.” You hadn’t been sure how he was going to introduce you, but the term had a warm feeling settle in your stomach. “Y/n, this is my mom.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Rogers.”

“Sarah,” she corrected. “Please. And I’m so glad I finally get to meet you. You’re even prettier than your picture.”

You bit your lip as you glanced up at Steve. His cheeks were pink and he nudged you towards Mr. Barnes.

“And this is Bucky’s dad.”

“George,” the older gentleman supplied with a kind smile. You could see where Bucky got his looks from.

“You can call me, Winnie, dear,” Bucky’s mother offered as she took your hand and squeezed it in both of hers.

“And I’m Becca. We’ve heard so much about you,” Bucky’s little sister gushed surging forward to hug you, making you drop Steve’s hand to embrace her.  

“Bex, chill,” Bucky laughed.

She pulled back, cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

“Sorry.”

“Oh be quiet, Bucky. I’m really excited to meet you too,” you told her with a genuine smile.

 Your nerves settled fairly quickly once you got to dinner. Sarah and Bucky’s family were so kind – hardly a surprise knowing their sons, but it still put you at ease.

“So you’re studying biology as well?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And are you premed too?” George asked.

“No, I ruled that path out a while ago. I do want to be in the medical field just on the other side of it.”

“Injuring people?” Bucky teased and you rolled your eyes, but smiled good-naturedly.

“Research,” you explained. “Regenerative medicine, to be exact. But even that is still broad so I’m still trying to figure out my future.”

“That’s very impressive, Y/n. Now what exactly is regenerative medicine?”

“The area I’m interested in basically strips something like a skin cell back to its most basic state where it can become any cell type. It hasn’t made what are called cell fate decisions.”

“And how does that help?”

“Well, by itself it doesn’t really. But the goal is to discover what specific factors cause these cell fate decisions and induce them in the pluripotent cells to create whatever type we want. The end goal being to recreate tissue and even organs that won’t be rejected by patients because it’s their own DNA. But that’s a long way down the road.”

They asked a fair amount of questions and you ended up spending the next twenty minutes explaining the research you someday dreamed of doing. You were so engrossed in what you were talking about that you didn’t notice the slightly awed look Steve was giving you. Bucky didn’t take much notice, that was how Steve always looked at you when you weren’t paying attention, but the rest of the family certainly did.

“How do you choose something like this? I’ve never even heard of it,” Sarah wondered.

“I sort of fell into it. I was reading for bio class junior year about cell fate decisions, and I had this thought – what if we could decide which cell type something would become? We could do so much. I thought I was so original, and then I found out there was a whole field dedicated to doing just that.”

“That’s amazing.”

“It was a welcome discovery if I’m honest. I thought I would end up in medicine, but the prospect of working directly with patients was a bit daunting. This way I’ll get to stay in the field and focus on the science. Assuming everything goes to plan."

“So you want to save the world?” Winnie deduced.

“As much of it as I can,” you announced proudly.

“You two really are well matched,” George chuckled as he looked between you and Steve.

“There’s a reason she’s my best girl.”

 “Thanks again for letting me stay with you tonight, y/n.”

“Of course. I’m glad we get to hang out for a bit.”

“Sorry if I was kind of overzealous earlier. It’s just the way Bucky and Steve talk about you, I knew you’d be really cool,” she mumbled as she played with the end of her braid.

“You weren’t at all. I promise. It was actually a relief. I was super nervous about meeting you guys.”

She cocked her head in confusion. “Why were you nervous?”

“I wanted to make a good impression. Though I probably didn’t do a great job of that.”

“Because you two were asleep when we came in?”

You bit your lip and nodded.

“It was honestly really cute. And from what we could tell, totally innocent.”

“Of course,” you rushed to confirm.

“You have nothing to worry about. You completely live up to the hype.”

“So do you.”

“So, since I’m not sure we’ll get any other time alone together, is there anything you want to know about the guys?” Becca offered with a mischievous grin.

“Is there anything juicy I should know?”

“Well…”

The two of you spent a couple of hours gossiping and getting to know each other. Becca was so endearing, you two were fast friends.

 That was how the whole weekend felt. You managed one on one time with all of them, and you grew very close to Sarah. She shared your love of music and the ballet and you fell into easy conversation. On Sunday, after brunch, the seven of you were walking through the park when you noticed one of the public pianos was open.

“Would you like to play a little?” Sarah asked when she noticed your preoccupation.

“I wish I knew how. I can pluck out Mary Had a Little Lamb and that’s about it. Do you play?”

“I used to. I can show you a little if you like?”

“Please.”

The two of you sat on the cold wooden bench and she ran her fingers up and down the scale.

“Surprisingly well tuned for an outdoor piano. So place your hands like this,” she demonstrated and then fixed your hands as you attempted to mimic her. “Good.

You fiddled around playing a few little snatches of things.

“Maybe I’ll stick to singing.”

“That is always an option,” she laughed as she absent-mindedly played a soothing tune. “Y/n, darling. I am so glad that Steve has found you.”

Her words twisted in your gut and you felt like you had been deceiving her.

“Sarah, I have to be completely honest with you.”

“About what?”

“Steve and I aren’t dating.”

The crinkle of worry that had creased her forehead disappeared as she laughed.

“I know that, sweetheart.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Then why…”

She continued playing but looked over at you.

“Steve has had Bucky his entire life. Even when he had no one else. When he finally got healthy and grew into his handsome self,” you glanced over at Steve, smiling at how he held himself as he spoke to George and Winnie. “People finally noticed him, but they didn’t care about him. It’s obvious that you do.”

“I really do.”

“Do you feel better now?” She asked, blue eyes twinkling just like Steve’s.

“Much.” You finally recognized the song she was playing and began to hum the opening chords. “I love this song.”

“It was always one of Steve’s favorites when he was little. His father and I would put the record on and dance to it, and he always loved it.”

Your eyes drifted shut, imagining dancing with Steve as you began to sing along.

Stars shining bright above you

Night breezes seem to whisper I love you

Birds singing in the sycamore trees

Dream a little dream of me

You sang quietly, not wanting to draw to much attention to yourself. But it felt good to stretch your vocal chords.  

“Wow.”

Your eyes snapped open at Steve’s hushed exclamation, and you twisted around to look at him.

“I could listen to you sing forever.”

You felt like a deer in headlights, caught by his intense gaze.

“Well, that’s very hard on the vocal chords, so you’ll have to settle for special occasions,” Sarah teased, breaking the moment, allowing you to breathe.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! I’m sorry the A/n are like barely there on this one. I’m half asleep. 

Sexiled Tag List @yourspecialcrush @part-time-patronus @impala-with-wings @shitty-imagines-95 @zlixlle @peter-parker-steve-bucky @encounterthepast @holygaygal @hista-girl @steves-on-a-plane @juliagolia87

Steve/Chris Tag List @isaxhorror @peachykeen3502 @patzammit @wordlesscaptain @coffeebooksandfandom @hereisanapplepie

Marvel Tag List @hdthdthdt   @sophiatomlinson23 @misty-panther @supermusicallee @scarlettsoldier @acupofhotlatte @slender--spirit

Permanent Tag List @iamwarrenspeace @jayzayy @bexboo616 @neoqueen306 @santheweird @rowenaravencalw @buckitybarnes @prxttybirdz @sergeantjbuckybarnes @sebsunshinestan @broitsmydick @ailynalonso15 @nyxveracity @queenoftrash97 @walkingtravesty97 @lamia-maizat @memyselfandmaddox @lowkeybuckyb @whiskey2011 @averyrogers83 @lovingpeterparker @buckybarneshairpullingkink @beansparker @unicornblood4ever @xxashy999xx' @thisismysecrethappyplace @ravennightingaleandavatempus @paintballkid711

[vex-bittys]

Only Blue: A LamiaSwap Story

This is the third place fic raffle prize for jezziconvair, who asked for a yandere lamia but left most of the details up to me. I hope the finished product makes up for the long wait!

Contains: murder, yandere behavior, hypnosis,drugging, captivity, mentions of abuse

(There is no sexual content in this story. It is under the cut for length only)

Since you were a child, since the first time you heard about the breaking of the Barrier, since you first watched monsters emerge from the Underground to stand in the sunlight once more on your television screen, you dreamed of having a monster friend, and Blueberry, or Blue as you frequently called him, was a dream come true.

You met the rare skeleton lamia at a community center which held events to promote human-monster relations. Blue possessed an irresistible personality, coupled with blue, star-shaped eyelights and an ever-present grin. He fascinated you from the moment you laid eyes on him, and from his exuberant greeting- a tight hug that lifted you right off of your feet- you guessed that he felt the exact same way about you.

Blue referred to you affectionately as Human, and after your first meeting, you got together time and again to go out for food or coffee, partake in hikes and other outdoor adventures, and stay in to binge watch shows and movies. Blue answered all of your questions about monsters in general and skeleton lamias in particular, and you did your best to explain life as a human living on the Surface to him.

You trusted Blue completely, so when your significant other turned violent, you placed a tear-filled call to him in the middle of the night and ended up as platonic roommates. You were too shaken by the attack to talk to the police, but Blue assured you that he handled the situation, and your ex never called or bothered you again. The whole ordeal strengthened your friendship with Blue even further.

Blue, ever the vigilant protector, visited you every day at your job, dropping you off and picking you up and even stopping by for spontaneous check-ins just to set your mind at ease. When you and Blue went out, he often playfully put his arm around you to prevent potential suitors from approaching. If they didn’t get the hint and flirted with you anyway, a warning hiss usually scared them away.

You were grateful to Blue for his big brother tendencies. After your last dating experience, you weren’t ready to put yourself back out on the singles’ market quite yet. Nothing would change your mind until a stranger gave you a shy smile one day. You recognized the person; you’d seen them around town at many of the same restaurants and events that you and Blue frequented.

You struck up a conversation with them, and the connection between the two of you sparked to life in that moment. They seemed to like you, and you couldn’t deny the attraction you felt for them. You gave them your number, and they promised to call you that very night.

Their calls became a nightly ritual, and you spent hours talking to them every week. You couldn’t help gushing to Blue about how happy it made you every time you saw a text from them or fell asleep to the sound of their voice. You asked Blue if he minded if they joined you for a movie over the weekend, and he gave you a curt head shake. You thought nothing of it until the day of your date-and-a-half arrived.

Blue’s behavior could only be classified as odd. He acted like they weren’t even there, answering any question directed at him with icy silence. The movie ended with the three of you standing awkwardly in the lobby. Blue glared at your crush, and your crush rubbed the back of their head awkwardly under his scrutiny.  You wondered what the lamia’s problem was, and you confronted him about it when you got home.

“Why were you being so rude?” you demanded. Blue never treated anyone that poorly. Did he know something about them that you didn’t?

“I don’t trust them,” replied Blue smoothly. “They creeped me out. I just want what’s best for you. I just want you to be safe.” Blue’s eyelights radiated sincerity, and the longed you locked eyelights with him the more his words made sense to you. Maybe you weren’t thinking clearly after your last relationship? Blue just wanted you to be safe. You trusted Blue. When they called you that night, you didn’t answer the phone.

Your mistrust faded away overnight, however. Your crush called later, apologizing for imagined scenarios, and you relented, accepting their offer of dinner and dessert for tonight, just you and them. They promised to pick you up at seven, and you found yourself actually looking forward to the date. You shared your excitement with Blue,and he smiled, a sweet and genuine smile.

“I’m so happy that you found someone,” he congratulated you, setting your mind at ease.

You were ready for your date by six, picking out a flattering casual outfit for what you hoped would be the first date of many. Seven o’clock came and went. Eight o’clock passed by as well. Around nine, Blue slithered through the door, brows raised in surprise at seeing you still waiting in the kitchen where you’d been when he left earlier.

“No date?” he asked innocently.

“No,” you told him, barely holding back tears. “They didn’t call, and they won’t answer my messages. We made our plans today, why would they cancel?”

Blue wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against his ribcage and coiling his long, ecto-flesh around you, surrounding you in his comforting presence.

“Shh,” he soothed, “It’s alright. There’s nothing to worry about. I suspected they might do something like this. You’re better off without them.” You felt so tired. Blue was right. Blue wouldn’t lie to you.

“I’m better off without them,” you repeated softly as the tension left your body. Blue lifted you gently into his arms and carried you into your room.

“I’m here for you. I always will be. It’ll be just you and me,” he murmured as you kicked off your shoes and pulled the blankets over your still-clothed body.

“Just you and me,” you repeated his words again. It sounded so safe and comfortable. Just you and your very good friend Blue, who would never let anything happen to you. Your head nestled into your soft, downy pillow and you drifted off into a dreamless sleep immediately.

You awoke well-rested, but the sadness from being stood up the night before lingered. You checked your texts and voicemails, but your crush hadn’t contacted you at all. You left a vague voicemail for them, asking them if they were ok and telling them that there were no hard feelings over the missed date. When you finally left your room, dressed for work and starving for breakfast, you discovered that Blue wasn’t even home to give you one of his famous hugs. It was going to be a long day.

Fortunately, you shared your shift with your favorite co-worker and high school partner in crime. As soon as you came through the door, she embraced you. With a happy sign, you leaned into the gesture. How had she known you needed this? It took you a moment to realize that she was crying. You pushed her away, holding her at arm’s length while you absorbed her puffy eyes and the streaks of eyeliner and mascara running down her face.

“What happened?” you asked, your own problems forgotten in the wake of your friend’s misery.

“You didn’t know?” she asked in shock. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” You must have looked as utterly bewildered as you felt because she led you into the break room, waving at the TV where news anchors covered a breaking story that held the other workers captivated.

You stared at the TV with an open mouth. Photo after photo flashed across the screen. Over a dozen faces of apparently unrelated men and women slowly filled the screen. You recognized two of the images- your abusive ex and your recent crush. Your eyes darted to the news ticker, attempting to catch up with the words marching across the bottom of the screen.

Anxiety thrummed through your entire body as you picked out words and phrases, putting the story together as different images appeared on the TV. Bodies found. Mass grave. Secluded area. No suspects. No leads. Just victim after victim being exhumed.

How could this be happening? You’d seen your crush yesterday! You collapsed onto the sofa in the break room, processing the information sluggishly. They were dead. They were gone. They were murdered. Numbness swept through your body, chasing away the energy of a restful night’s sleep. You friend shook your shoulder, repeating your name until you regained enough mental fortitude for an eloquent “Huh?”

“Are you ok? Do you want to go home? I can drive you.” You considered it, then nodded. Blue must surely be home by now. He would know what to do. He would take care of you, he had to because you couldn’t function right now. Not after this.

Your friend dropped you off at Blue’s house, waiting outside and watching you through the windshield to make sure you got into the house alright. You fumbled with your key before simply turning the knob in frustration and finding it unlocked. You’d locked the door behind you when you left for work that morning, and that meant Blue must be back from his early morning errand.

As soon as you stumbled across the threshold, you heard the sound of the shower running. You didn’t think you could drag yourself through the house to the bathroom in your shaken state, so you called for him, just him name, but it was enough. The shower noises ceased, and Blue hurried to your side, toweling himself off as he went.

Distress must have been written all over your face because he let the towel fall onto a pile of dirty clothes on the floor- an unusual sight in the tidy lamia’s house, but not noteworthy enough to distract you from the horrible newscast you’d witnessed. Blue held you close to him, stroking your back in soothing circles. He didn’t even ask what was wrong; you’d tell him when you felt ready.

Breaking away from the hug, you sat on the couch and wordlessly patted the seat next to you. Picking up the remote, you flipped through channels until you found the same news story as before, although they were all reporting live coverage of the same event. More pictures had been added to the list of victims, and your stomach twisted as you remembered meeting some of the other victims before as well.

The man in the top left square made beautiful silver filigree jewelry. Blue had purchased a necklace from him for you at a local art fair. After Blue fastened the necklace, with its butterfly shaped pendant, around your neck, the man had kissed your hand and called you exquisite. Blue’s hand laid on top of yours on the couch cushion, and as if he could read your thoughts, he brushed his thumb along the back of your hand where the man had placed his kiss.

A young woman two pictures down on the same side had laughed at a joke you told when Blue took you out for ice cream. She’d even given you an extra scoop for “making her day a little brighter.” Fresh tears welled up in your eyes to join those that had already trailed down your cheeks over the untimely and unexpected death of your crush earlier. In the lower right corner you recognized the face of another person who had held a door open for you and waved you into a restaurant like royalty. How was it possible to be familiar with so many seemingly random strangers? More importantly, who had done such a horrible thing? Someone committed these crimes, and they needed to be found and held accountable!

The newscast cut to a press conference with the chief of police. The shuffling of papers sounded deafening in the pregnant silence as the press waited for an update on the victims or information about a potential suspect. The police chief inhaled deeply, preparing to drop a devastating statement to those gathered around, hoping for swift justice for all of the lives lost.

“We have no suspects at this time.”

The conference room erupted into startled gasps and worried hushed discussions. It took a moment for the reporters to compose themselves and start launching questions. The police chief wore a harried expression as he sifted through the cacophony to answer specific individuals.

“Is there a connection between the victims?”

“At this time, the murders appear to be random and unrelated, spanning over the course of at least several months. Currently, we are only able to theorize on how the perpetrator has been selecting their victims.”

“Does this mean that anyone could be targeted if the killer strikes again?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

You didn’t even notice when your body started shaking, but the warm security of Blue’s muscular tail encircling you with gentle protectiveness made you realize how badly the story was affecting you. Your crush had been murdered while you waited for them to pick you up for a date. You stood in the kitchen, calling and texting them, and at that very moment, they might have been fighting for their life. What if you were next? The killer could be anyone, and their target could be anyone as well.

Everything suddenly felt so unstable and unsafe. You slumped against Blue as alternating waves of anxiety and numbness washed over you. Your eyes fell on Blue’s discarded clothing, and you stared at it, unseeing. It only caught your focus because it was out of place. Blue never left a mess. He even picked up after you sometimes.

“It could’ve been me,” you whispered. Blue chuckled, the sound jarringly out of place considering the circumstances.

“You’re safe. The killer won’t hurt you.” Blue’s words instantly calmed you, the way they always did.

“Safe,” you murmured. That’s right. You were safe. Nothing to worry about. Except you still felt unsettled. You couldn’t put your finger on it right away, but something was definitely out of place. You concentrated, continuing to stare at the clothes strewn across the floor. It dawned on you slowly. The shirt and scarf and the floor around them were smeared with bright red mud, the same color mud you’d seen when the news cameras panned over the mass grave.

“Blue, how did you get that mud on you?” you jerked away from him before he had a chance to answer you, but his coils tightened around you, preventing you from escaping. You struggled, but he overpowered you easily. “Blue, what’s going on? Did you murder them? Did you kill those people?” Hysteria crept into your voice.

Blue’s tail tipped your chin upwards until you were forced to look him directly in the eyelights. The fathomless depths of blue threatened to swallow you whole, but you couldn’t summon the willpower to blink or avert your gaze.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he intoned. “Everything is fine.” Your body sagged; you suddenly felt like you weighed a thousand pounds, as if gravity had somehow increased on you specifically. Blue kept on talking to you, purring reassurances that vibrated through you, right down into your bones until your panic finally subsided. Fatigue tugged at you, and your eyelids, previously reluctant to so much as blink, could barely stay open.

“Nothing… to worry… about,” you managed to murmur, words slurred by exhaustion. Blue’s assurances made sense; they always made so much sense, especially when he stared right into your SOUL with those dazzling eyelights. You didn’t remember going to bed, but you woke up late into the afternoon the next day wearing your favorite pair of pajamas.

You checked your nightstand, your floor, under your bed, and even in your laundry basket for your phone, but you just couldn’t find it. You gave up and stumbled into the kitchen for breakfast, which Blue had thoughtfully prepared for you. You shoveled down forkful after forkful of Blue’s delicious cooking, wondering why you were so hungry. Did you miss dinner last night? Your memories of yesterday were foggy and distant. You lifted a hand to your forehead to see if you were coming down with a fever.

You couldn’t get your hand to obey you though. It hung limply by your side despite your best efforts to move. You tried to explain your plight to Blue, but you couldn’t get your mouth to form coherent speech; all that came out was a garbled groan. Shadows crept forward from the edges of your vision until everything went black and you collapsed forward onto the table.

Blue made a tsk-tsk sound as he picked you up and carried you back to your bed. As much as he hated using hypnosis on you, he hated drugging you even more. He couldn’t let you leave the house though, not anymore. You obviously didn’t understand the dangers of the world around you. Blue needed to take care of you, to protect you from your own poor decisions, like the possibility of you leaving him for another mate or making accurate by unwanted accusations to local law enforcement.

The lamia had already reported you missing. He’d disposed of your phone in a dark alley already overflowing with trash. He claimed that your whereabouts after you left for work a few days ago were a mystery to him, but he feigned concern like a professional actor, even summoning up some crocodile tears for the officer who interviewed him. Now two officers were planning to visit the house to look for evidence.

Blue sighed, slinging your unconscious form over his shoulder. It was so much easier to hide dead bodies. You could toss them around without fear of harming them, not that he cared about harming those foolish humans when they were alive either. You belonged to him. If they didn’t understand that fact, they deserved to die. Nobody would ever take you away from him. He just had to hide you in his storage unit for a few days until the police lost interest, then he could have you all to himself forever.

The manacles on the twin size bed fastened with a satisfying click. Now you could sleep safely, away from the watchful eyes of nosey neighbors and investigators alike. You flailed listlessly for a moment after he put the blanket over you, but you settled soon enough. Blue padlocked the door behind him with a serene smile on his face. With enough hypnosis and the aide of powerful sedatives, you’d learn to accept him, and he wouldn’t need the restraints anymore.

You attempted to claw your way free of the sludge that clogged your mind. You were trapped, but you kept forgetting where you were and how long you’d been there. You lost track of the passage of time. Dreams became muddled with reality, and all you could truly comprehend were the two mesmerizing blue eyelights that haunted your perpetual twilight.

Your struggles weakened. You saw no reason to fight. You were safe here. Blue protected you. Blue took care of you. Blue knew what was best for you. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed.

Just you and Blue.

You and Blue.

Blue.

Endless blue.

INDEX

[starbuckcissou]

The Genuine Son

Ok, this is a short fic I’ve written right after the last episode... because I needed this. It takes place several days after the end of S11.

Rated G. (no sex, sorry!) but hold on to my twisted mind! I came up with some shit!

I’m sorry if it sounds silly sometimes but it’s only my second fic ever ! Also, I’m french and my english can be bad... anyway, I hope some of you will like it!!

Please tell me what you think and reblog if you like it.

The Genuine son:

Jeffrey Spender was sitting at the kitchen table.

Scully gave him coffee and joined him and Mulder at the table. It was weird having him here, in their house, their home. For Scully, Jeffrey was someone from the past, from a former life.

They had been through so much lately. So much had happened.

Since Jeffrey had called Mulder and asked to meet them both because he had “important things to tell them about their son”, she was worried: what did he want now? Why did he need to talk to them? About what exactly? Couldn’t this whole thing be finally over? Couldn’t they just be left alone, together, and able to focus on the baby to come?

She stared at his deformed face while he was taking a sip, thinking that repair surgery had done pretty well with him: except for the long scars, you could barely tell his whole face was burnt.

Jeffrey put the mug back on the table and started to talk, with the dark look of a man who has a lot to say.

I don’t know where to start. I’m so afraid you might not understand…

Mulder was getting nervous and eager on his chair, Scully could feel it. He rushed Jeffrey:

You said on the phone you had something to tell us about our so…n… (he stopped and corrected himself, making Scully want to cry)… about Jackson?

Jeffrey took a long breath before answering:

Jackson is not your son.

Mulder looked at Scully, probably to make sure she was taking it, but he was starting to get pissed.

We already know that!

No… Mulder… what I mean is… Jackson is not William…

Mulder almost jumped on his seat:

WHAT?!

Scully sighted and took her head in her hands and whispered:

God… I’m so tired of this…

Jeffrey moved his chair closer to the table and started his speech, making sure that he wouldn’t be stopped. He was staring at Scully because he wanted her to listen carefully and understand him well.

When you made your decision, 18 years ago, to give your son to adoption, Monica Reyes called me. (he took a pause) She must have understood I was only trying to protect your baby when I gave him that shot… She called me to tell me about your decision… and she said we had to do something about it…

Scully was now looking at him intensely in the eyes, trying to understand each word. She didn’t try to stop him. Mulder was not moving anymore on his chair and remained quiet, but he was ready to speak up to protect his wife if necessary. Since they let him speak, Jeffrey went on:

At the time, I knew all about my father’s sick and twisted agenda. I knew all about his little experiments on pregnant women, embryos and babies in his crazy search of a perfect alien-human hybrid that my mom had to die for.

He was started to get emotional, probably thinking about Cassandra. But he kept talking:

I knew the location of one of the facilities where they kept the children for the Crossroads Project. So after Monica’s call, I went to take a baby there, and I gave him to Monica. Then, Monica managed to exchange the boys during the night, before the adoption agency took William to the Van De Kamps’s house the next day.

Scully was starting to understand what Jeffrey was saying. But she was in disbelief. Mulder realized he had to speak for her and start asking questions:

So… what you’re saying is that… this baby, you took at the facility, was Jackson?

Yes.

So you’re pretending that Jackson was born there? And we don’t know who his real parents are?

Yes. Jackson was the result of an experiment. He was made for a life of medical tests until they decide to “terminate” him, and trainings to become a soldier in my father’s little army of freaks. I took him out of there, and Monica and I placed him in a nice family, offering him a chance to have a normal childhood and a free life. I wish I could have saved more kids like him, but I only chose him because he was the same age than William and looked a little bit like him where they were babies… It was fate… I kept an eye on him, all these years: making sure he was still safe, but also watching the development of his powers…

Mulder dared to ask the question he knew Scully wasn’t able to articulate:

And… soooo… what happened to William…?

Even before Jeffrey started to speak again, there were tears in Scully’s eyes. She could feel she was about to find out everything about her son, and she had this strange feeling that she was finally about to know the whole truth she had been expecting for 18 years. Jeffrey looked at Mulder to answer his question:

I took him with me. And… I kept him…to take care of him... I raised him… like my own son… I hadn’t planned that… but that’s what happened…

He took a pause to give them some time and take the information in. Then he looked at Scully again and addressed to her:

My intention was not to “steal” your son from you, Dana. I only respected your will of taking him away; protecting him and making sure he had a normal and safe childhood. That’s what you wanted for him when you decided to give him up for adoption… Monica and I only made sure that nobody could ever get back at him… ever!

Scully was crying now. So Jeffrey looked at Mulder:

William knows I’m not his father. He knows I’m only his uncle. I told him when he was around 6. He knows a lot about you two: I talk to him about you. And he understands the reasons why you decided to let me raise him.

Mulder was still skeptic about this craziness he was hearing, so he asked, on a strong tone:

So you want us to believe that our son… was with you this whole time? … OUR SON?

Yes Mulder. And he still lives with me today… and… he’s really YOUR SON! I checked! I tested his DNA when he was still a baby: I compared it with mine, and we have too much in common not to be related.

Scully, who had been awfully quiet, seemed to wake up and suddenly joined the conversation:

But… Jackson… !? … I tested his DNA with mine !!!

Jeffrey cut her short:

And did you get the results?...

Scully sat back on her chair, confused:

No… I didn’t…

Mulder looked at her with surprise:

You didn’t??!

No!… You came in the morgue with this file about him… and you told me he was our son, because he had been adopted and his name was William before his adoption… I just believed that! I was so sure! … but I never took the samples to the lab…

Jeffrey concluded:

If you had gotten these results, you would have found out Jackson was not your son… And that is actually what I thought would eventually happen when I came to you at the hospital and gave you the name of the adoptive family… I wanted to put you two on the right track…  I knew they were after Jackson, so I sent you to help him… thinking you would get to discover the whole truth about him… but that’s not what happened… And I’m sorry you ended up believing he really was William, only to be disappointed afterwards…

Scully, frustrated, kept on asking questions:

But I have a link with this kid!!! He sends me visions! We do have a connection! How can I not be his mother?!

Jackson has many powers and abilities… the truth is he’s probably always known you were not his real parents: I’m sure he knows exactly where he’s from and what he is… He must have seen his past in his dreams the same way he sees the future! Jackson can send visions to anybody… He actually shared some of them with Monica at some point. And William too… He must have heard about you or dreamt of you, and for some reasons, he got to like you and trust you, so he decided to send you these visions so you would help him… and stop the project. Or maybe he doesn’t do it on purpose: he just thinks of you and the visions strike you… The truth is, because Monica and I chose him 18 years ago, he DOES have a connection with you, and William…! It’s a fact, we created that connection…

Scully was starting to understand and believe Jeffrey’s words:

Oh my god… I’ve always known…she said to herself.

Mulder didn’t sound so sure, and almost laughed at Scully’s reaction:

Scully…? Come on…!

Scully looked back at him, with a defiant tone:

Mulder… Think about it: the dates aren’t right, they’ve never been! I mean, even if the smoking man managed to reverse whatever they did to me during my abduction, and made me able to conceive again somehow, the IVF I had didn’t take! And I got pregnant months later! They may have planned this for me, tried to make me pregnant with the product of their experiment, but it didn’t work!!! They failed!

Her face darkened as she continued:

 I’ve always know it Mulder! I KNOW that we made this baby together! You and me! I’ve always felt it, in my guts! That William WAS your son! Think about it: they didn’t take him when he was born! Because he WASN’T what they wanted him to be! He’s never been! I gave birth to OUR son, Mulder, to a normal baby!

Mulder nodded quietly at her to show he’d heard her: he was lost, but he didn’t want her to get too upset. He looked back at Jeffrey and asked, in a tone of reproach:

Why tell us that, now?

Jeffrey looked down at the table:

Because Monica is dead. And I owe it to her to tell you the truth. Tell you that she did everything she could to protect your son. She has devoted her life for him these past 18 years. She sold her soul to the devil: getting close to the smoking man, she could make sure he would never find out about William, and she also tried to keep him away from Jackson as long as she could…

Scully looked at Mulder, with shame:

I thought she had betrayed us…

Jeffrey was still talking:

And also, that smoking son of a bitch is dead too. And the child that everyone wanted, was Jackson. Even if the real identity of William is revealed today, I don’t think anybody is interested in him anymore! William is just your son: he’s a normal teenager, with no power! The smoking man believed he had succeeded in making you pregnant of the perfect hybrid… But he was wrong! William has never been what he thought he was. Also, let’s face it, if that bastard wanted to get to William so bad all these years, it’s also because he was your child: he just wanted to hurt you! The same way he hurt your dad when he took Samantha from him… Now that he’s dead, nobody is gonna care about William anymore if they find out he’s normal! It’s over…

Scully suddenly remembered:

But…? William had… abilities…when he was a baby… he could move things with his mind! I saw it!

Yes… these abilities… came from his parents in some way… from you two.

Mulder looked at Jeffrey with incomprehension… so Jeffrey explained:

You both carried the virus at some point. You were both abducted, and infected. Even if you don’t carry it anymore, there’s probably traces of it in your blood. And Dana still has that chip in her neck… It must have had effects on William’s body. He must have carried a small amount of the virus in his blood. My theory is this feature could have remained completely dormant, but your enemies tried to wake them up when they gave you these pills while you were pregnant. They do that with all the surrogate mothers they use for the project: they manage to give them a treatment to enhance the foetuses’ future abilities.

Jeffrey saw that Scully seemed worried now, so he tried to reassure her:

That’s why I had to give him that shot when he was a baby. And the shot was efficient: William has never developed any abilities again, and I’m pretty sure he never will… the amount of virus that may have been in his blood at some point was too small…

Scully was gradually realizing… When she took her hands off the table, they were shaking. And when she started talking again, her voice was trembling:

So… we DO have a son… OUR son… and he is… out there, somewhere?

Yes…

And… he’s… normal…? And… he’s happy?

Yes…Well, I tried my best… I hadn’t planned on raising a kid, and I sure wasn’t prepared for it! I hadn’t thought this through when I took him in my arms the day Monica gave him to me… I really had to learn how to take care of a baby, and he gave me hard times!… But, after days, and months, I came to love him, we came to love each other. I’m just his uncle, but I did raise him like a father. And he became like a son to me, even though I’ve always kept in mind he was yours. He’s a good kid. He’s very smart… you two can be proud…

Scully was crying again, so he tried to comfort her:

I’m sorry Dana, sorry I never told you… But we had decided not to. It was important you didn’t know. We knew you would want to see him and you could bring danger to him. We thought you would never be able to reveal where he was if you didn’t know… There are so many times I felt like taking my phone and tell you the truth! But I convinced myself that you two were making your life together, that it had been hard enough for you to learn to live without your son… And I couldn’t go back on this promise we had made with Monica to keep him safe… I kept telling myself that if William had been really placed in an adoptive family, like you wanted, you would have never been able to meet him either… I was just hoping that one day, things would change and get better, and you could all be reunited…

Jeffrey stopped. When he went on again, he looked sorry:

I have to apologize to you. If I’m completely honest, I have to admit that taking William and keeping him with me was not only because I wanted to protect him … In the beginning, there is also probably a part of me who did it to get back at my father. He always thought William was his own son, his masterpiece, his success… And after what he did to me, his real son… and what he did to you, Fox… I have to admit keeping William away from him, and making sure he’ll never know, was the best revenge I could ever get… a way of getting justice and making things right...

Scully was getting overwhelmed by emotions, she reached for Mulder’s hand on the table, this was too much for a pregnant woman!  Jeffrey grabbed a briefcase he had left on the floor next to him, and he took a heavy file out of it. He put it on the table and kept a hand on it, then looked at Scully again:

This is everything I gathered about William since he was a baby: his medical file, some school papers… I’m giving them to you now so you can check he really is your son… and get a chance to get to know him a little.

He took a pause to make sure Scully could handle what he wanted to say next:

And I brought some pictures…

He slid a file to Scully on the table:

If you’re ready…?

Scully was crying so much she had to dry her tears. She left Mulder’s hand to take the file, but she looked at him before opening it. She realized Mulder was almost crying too, but he nodded to show her he was ok. However, when she opened the file, he looked away, like he didn’t want to see him yet… He heard Scully crying out:

Oh my god… Mulder… I recognize him!

She was looking at the pictures, taking some to analyze them closely, then putting them back in the file, and taking them again, they were now all over the table in front of her.

Look Mulder! It’s him! There are pictures of him as a baby: he looks just like he did when I gave him up!

Mulder started to look at the pictures on the table, then looked at Scully, with love and mercy.

This is my son Mulder! He’s the baby I held in my arms, the baby I gave birth to! I recognize him: he’s our son, Mulder…

Mulder started to take some pictures to look at them.

Mulder… Look! He looks like you, when you were a child! He also kind of look like my brothers somehow…

Scully was now holding a picture of a tall smiling teenager, in the stands of a base-ball game. She turned to Jeffrey to ask:

Where does he live?

We live together in Canada. I crossed the border with him right after I took him, and we’ve been living together there, in a small house, kind of like this one, this whole time.

He looks good… he’s cute…

She turned to Mulder again:

Don’t you think?

Mulder didn’t answer… he was still thinking about this whole thing. He looked at Jeffrey instead, and asked:

You and Monica were the only persons to know about this?

Jeffrey wanted to answer, but Mulder kept on going, with an accusing tone:

And now, she’s dead… so really, there’s only you left now to tell us this story?

Scully knew this tone: she tried to calm him down, nicely:

Mulder…

But Jeffrey answered:

Actually, John Dogget knows too…

Scully looked at Jeffrey with surprise:

What? John knew about this?!

Yes. Monica and him were dating at the time so she told him. And John agreed on the exchange. But he wanted to tell you… We disagreed about this point. After a while, it actually became a fight between him and Monica and eventually the main reason why John left Monica and never came back. He went away, he left the city so he wouldn’t have to lie to you anymore, because he couldn’ take it. The secret was too heavy for him to bear. But he could testify… and confirm I’m telling you the truth.

Scully couldn’t believe it:

Oh… my god… I had no idea… I didn’t know William’s birth would have such an impact on so many lives…

Mulder still had questions:

What about Walter Skinner? Did he know?

No. Walter Skinner never knew. Walter Skinner has always been a pawn for my father… He’s always been kept in the dark about everything and he was told only what they wanted to tell him so he would obey their orders… He didn’t betray you. He’s really been trying to help you find your son during these years and he really thought Jackson was William…

Scully was still talking to herself:

He almost died... and he lost his legs to protect Jackson, because he thought he was our son… He killed Monica…to protect the boy he thought was William! He didn’t know she was fighting the same fight! Oh my god...

Jeffrey tried to calm Scully a little:

Monica knew that having secrets could be very dangerous… she had made that choice. Nobody’s responsible.

Mulder was still thinking:

Do you know where Jackson is now? If he’s alive? Have you heard anything?

No… I don’t. I kept an eye on him during his childhood but now he’s not living at the Van de Kamps anymore, there’s no way I can find out… All I know is the visions people were having seemed to have stopped… But they only found the smoking man’s body in the river… not Jackson’s… Maybe he is dead… maybe he’s just gone…

Scully looked sad again, thinking about it:

Poor kid… He didn’t ask anything… He’s alone, out there… he’s lost his parents…

If he’s alive, I think Jackson will be fine Dana… I’m pretty sure his powers can take him out of any trap and help him hide for the rest of his life. I’m actually hoping he won’t get too dangerous…

Mulder seemed to agree:

Yeah… and if he needs our help, I’m sure he knows we’ll be there for him…

He looked at Scully:

Even if he’s not our son, I think we both agree on that, right?

Yes, of course. We will help him. He’s a good boy, he doesn’t deserve this… And… I got attached to him.

There was a silence. Each of them was thinking about all that has been said these last 30 minutes.

Nothing was moving in the unremarkable house, in that kitchen where they could still smell coffee.

Then, Mulder broke the silence. And Scully noticed emotion in his voice:

When… hum… Do you think we can… meet… William… eventually?

Jeffrey looked at him to answer:

Well, actually, that is another reason why I’m here today. I’m telling you all this because of Monica’s death and the end of my father’s projects, but there’s that too… William is 18. He’s becoming a man, you know, an adult… so he’s at a point of his life when he’s wondering a lot about his origins… he’s trying to figure out who he is. He’s been asking more and more questions, and… I can’t answer all of them… He’s asking a lot about you: he wants to know who his parents are, what they do, what they like… So I think it’s time… yeah…I’ll talk to him and I’ll call you back, okay?

Mulder looked at Scully before answering: he needed to make sure she was ready for this. She smiled at him in return, but he knew damned well she was holding tears. She was touching her stomach and Mulder knew she was probably realizing that, against all odds, there was a chance that maybe one day, their son William, the same one they had lost 18 years ago, the REAL one… might get to meet his little brother or little sister that Scully was bearing… Mulder took Scully’s hand to let her know he knew what she was going through. Then he looked back at Jeffrey:

Okay. We’ll be waiting for your call.

Then he tried to make a joke to break the ice:

We’re unemployed now, so, we’re available anytime!

[artificialqueens]

When it all gets too much -(Shalaska) by Ty5000

A/N: I Know y’all are waiting for Soccer Punch but I’ve had a really bad few days and I didn’t want to take it out on that universes Sharon and Alaska so instead I wrote this monster oneshot. This is around 5k words which I didn’t event think I was capable of producing in one night but here you go I am really proud of this.

Massive Trigger warnings for eating disorders, depression, suicide and Self harm. It’s pretty dark but I wrote it as a kind of vent/ form of therapy please listen to the triggers and stay safe ily <3

P.S Its 6am and I’ve been writing all night so I proof read the best I could but there may be some mistakes.

Summary : College freshman Alaska suffered with poor mental health in the past and thought that she finally had it all in control until it all gets a little too much .

“Hi, it’s me, I’m just calling to say I won’t make it in today.” Alaska’s voice came out soft and quiet as if she hadn’t spoken all day, well she hadn’t so that made sense.

“Is everything okay sweetheart?” Her boss Kasha replied sounding genuinely concerned for her health.

“Yeah, I’m just not feeling well.” It wasn’t completely a lie she really didn’t feel just not the kind of unwell that you would expect. She wasn’t sure why she was expecting Kasha to believe that though, her boss was incredibly attentive and had made Alaska spill about her past with mental health when she had saw her taking her medication during her first week on the job.

“Okay, Well I’ll ask Courtney to cover your shift tonight it shouldn’t be a problem just let me know if you’ll make it in tomorrow.”

“Thanks Kasha.”

“Take care Alaska.” The older women replied with empathy that she pretended to not hear as she hung up the call. 

Alaska let the phone fall from her hand onto her bed, there was nothing she hated more in the world than letting her mental state get in the way of her life. Since starting at university almost three months ago now she had done her best to stay on top of things and worked through the occasional bad spots more so as a distraction than anything else. She had always known in the back of her mind that going to college would be a lot of pressure and despite the doubts from her parents there was no way she wasn’t going to do it, performing arts was her dream and now that she was steadily on that path nothing was going to stop her.

Well that part wasn’t entirely true as it was 2’Oclock in the afternoon and her Broadway history class was just ending yet here she was curled up in bed the same place she had been since she woke up from a troubled sleep at 5am that morning.

  That’s the thing about depression, the thing that most people don’t necessarily get: A depressive episode doesn’t need to be caused by anything (It can be of course.) but depression is funny like that it doesn’t need some sad event to rear its ugly head in fact often sadness doesn’t make you depressed, depression makes you sad. It makes you so sad that you almost can’t remember ever having felt anything else, and then just when you think you are used to the sadness it stings you deeper and makes you numb. Numb is okay right? numb is better than feeling miserable right? wrong. The numbness is what paralyses you, what drives you insane, leaves you bed ridden and wishing to just feel something.

Alaska had been feeling it for a week now, the beginning stages of a depressive episode. Her first one since… she thought she was in recovery. It had been over a year. Yet here she was again, and she recognised the feeling all too well: the ball of sadness, loneliness and general irritation brewing inside her, but she fought the urge to curl up on her sofa and instead choose to power through. She had too much at stake. Everyday she would wake up, shower, get ready and leave for class, eat her lunch, go to rehearsals, and then head off to work at the diner. Some days her girlfriend Sharon would come in on her way home from work and spend her break with her. They were both so busy during the week with college and jobs, so the hour of each others company was always welcomed. Routine was key, if she stuck to her routine she could beat this, that’s what the doctors had said.

 However yesterday had been the downfall of it all.

  Rehearsals weren’t going well. Half of the dancers were away on a field trip and the lead male was extremely hungover and constantly muddling up his lines. Alaska didn’t have a huge part in this play, as a freshman it was extremely difficult to get a notable part in any of the full class productions. As small as her three-lined part was she was just lucky to have a part at all.  Only she wasn’t feeling lucky at all, they had been in this room for over half the allocated two hours rehearsal time and they weren’t even close to her lines. She was extremely tired having stayed up most of the night to study for her test in music theory which had caused her to sleep in and almost miss the test itself. Come lunch she had discovered that her wallet had been left at home, Alaska really tried not to skip meals after…. But this couldn’t be helped. Now here she was sitting in the old theatre which was cold in the late November weather and seemingly getting nowhere.

 She thanked a god that she didn’t believe in that Wednesdays were her day off and that Sharon Didn’t need to be in work until 12pm on Thursdays meaning she would get to spend some long-overdue time with her girlfriend. Sharon had been so busy since starting her new job working at a popular alternative website keen to make a lasting impression that she didn’t get to see her as much anymore. The selfish part of her liked to awaken her self-doubt and tell her that Sharon didn’t care anymore but Alaska knew better than to let thoughts like that get to her. Sharon had been incredibly lucky to get her foot in the door of her dream job straight out of college and Alaska was happy for her. Really.

Finally, her theatre professor Miss Monsoon let them go, sending them off with a “Good work today people.” That Alaska couldn’t bring herself to believe.

She left the building and walked the ten minutes to her flat in what felt like a record speed beyond excited to be away from the cold for the day and back in the comfort of her own home.

 Once safely back at home, curled up on the sofa under a blanket with a mug of warm tea to heat her up and also to curb off the hunger until she could eat with Sharon she pulled out her phone to text her girlfriend.

To : Noodles (at 5.36pm)

God, I have had the worst day I think the worlds out to get me!

What time are you coming over? I need pizza and cuddles.

She casually flipped through some pizza menus mentally preparing her order as she awaited her response

To: Lasky (at 5:40pm)

I’m sorry Lasky I promised Raja I’d work late tonight, we need to finish that article on some cool new punk band but the research department didn’t bother to fact check so I promised I’d help out. Raincheck?

Alaska sighed deeply, of course the world would be so against her today that she couldn’t even have the one thing she had been looking forward to all day.

To: Noodles (at 5:41pm)

You work too hard ☹

I miss you

To: Lasky (at 5:43pm)

I know

I’ll come to the diner on your break tomorrow okay x

To: Noodles (at 5:44pm)

Okay <3

It wasn’t okay.

Alaska’s eyes burned with tears, she felt stupid for crying over something so trivial, but she couldn’t help it, she had been holding onto this one good thing throughout all the shit she’d dealt with today and now it was gone and with it went any remains of a good mood. Just like that the plug she had firmly pressed down over her feelings for the past week was pulled and a wave of surprised emotions emerged sinking the ship that was Alaska. Once the tears started they didn’t stop, she cried and cried a cocktail of sadness, anger, loneliness ,  exhaustion and stress. Loud aggressive sobs wracked her small frame, her hands reached up to grab her hair pulling tightly as her teeth dug into her lip subduing the urge to scream.

When she finally got herself somewhat under control a good while later her chest was tight and breathing erratic due to her sobbing, her throat and eyes burnt like fire, her head was pounding like a small army was marching on her brain and her bottom lip throbbed angrily from where she had bit down. A stinging in her arm drew her attention down where she discovered angry red scratch marks from where she had subconsciously dug her nails into her skin. It wasn’t by far the worst she had done in the past but staring down at the bright red standing out on top of the white skin already flawed from the past. This is when she realised she was in too deep and she needed someone. She needed Sharon.

To Noodles ( at 7:12pm)

Are you done with work?

Normally Alaska wouldn’t want to bother Sharon with her problems, she always felt that Sharon saw her as a child and found her poor mental health to be an inconvenience more than anything else. She put this down to the fact that she was 18 and could easily be easily seen as a child in the eyes of her 21 year old college graduate girlfriend. Being a freshman who could barely juggle her classes, part time job and social commitments without a daily dose of prescribed medication being seen as immature or too much for her girlfriend to handle was one of biggest insecurities. Sharon however despite appearing to be much more mature with her full-time job right out of college in her chosen field, her own apartment which she had gotten without special circumstances unlike Alaska and a cat was not perfect and had her own problems too. She worried endlessly about the wellbeing of her girlfriend and would never consider her lesser because of her past no matter what Alaska thought. 

       -     -    -

Alaska and Sharon first met the previous December almost a whole year ago at the university open day, Alaska had begged her mom to let her come. Her Mother had been hesitant due to the fact her daughter had just been released from the hospital and was unsure if college was such a good idea in her state, especially one three states over that she wouldn’t be able to get to in an emergency but eventually she gave in agreeing that maybe it’s exactly the distraction she needed.

Alaska had bumped into Sharon within her first half an hour in the building, there she was standing behind the information stall for the GSA with two other people who Alaska would come to know as Danny and Katya not that she really noticed them at first, all she saw was the tall girl with the dyed grey hair and black lipstick wearing the torn misfits shirt.  She remembered how self-conscious she felt in her black skinny jeans and her pink sweater practically falling off her body as she wobbled like a baby deer towards the stall. She remembered their first words, Sharon being as overly confident and bold as normal and Alaska being shy and quiet in a way that must have come across endearing. She remembers getting more freebies from that stall than anyone else. (she knows this because one of the stickers had a phone number scrawled across it.) She remembers the first time they met up and how lovely it was, she remembers the conversation where they agreed that they had to stay just friends at least until she turned eighteen and she remembers finding her closest friend at GSA stall.

She recalls the night about two months later when her sleeve rolled up too far in the car and Sharon caught sight of her scars. That was the night she told her everything. She told her how she felt worthless how the smart kids thought she was dumb and how the theatre kids didn’t think she was good enough, she told her how she would try to starve herself to perfection and how she’d dig a blade into her skin to punish herself and cry herself to sleep almost every night. She told her about that Halloween night when it all got to much and she chased a bottle of pills with a litre of vodka and went for a bath. She remembers crying, she remembers Sharon crying and she remembers feeling proud for the first time as she tells her that she’s getting better and she really believes it.

She remembers her eighteenth birthday a month later how she celebrated the day with her family and a close group of friends but really all she wanted was for the next day to be here when she could spend it with Sharon. She remembers that day so well how she took her ice skating and to a vegan restaurant because she knew high calorie foods still stressed her out. She remembers the ride home and kissing her goodnight.

She remembers getting her first girlfriend and being happy and confident for once, Sharon makes her happy and confident. (not all the time no one is capable of that, but she helps.) She remembers crying down the phone to her girlfriend when she got the acceptance letter. She remembers her girlfriend crying on her at her graduation because she didn’t know what she was doing with her with life. She remembers the road trip back for her own high school graduation. She remembers how she didn’t go to prom instead she spent her prom night with her girlfriend kissing every inch of her and calling her beautiful and making her see stars all night long.

She also remembers their first fight like it was yesterday. It was the week Alaska moved into her apartment a few days after classes had begun and Sharon was constantly on her back trying to help and offering to do practically everything and worst of all, constantly asking her if she had remembered to take her medication that day. To an outsider it’s an innocent question, a nice incentive but to Alaska it was patronising and made her feel like she couldn’t take care of herself. Of course, when she told this to Sharon she had gotten offended and it had ended in a huge fight. It had been loud and quick with both parties failing to see the others valid view. It ended soon enough with Sharon finally realising that she may have been full on and apologising for worrying and assuring Alaska that she knew she could cope. She finished of her apology with one last line before they cuddled up on the sofa to watch The Golden Girls.

“Just remember if it ever gets to be to much I’ll be here, no questions and no judgement.”

And that is how Alaska fell asleep curled in on herself on the sofa with makeup stained checks and her phone in her hand, thoughts of Sharon running through her head.

                                                                   -   -   -

When Alaska jolted awake it was dark out and her mouth was dry, she stumbled blindly into the kitchen for a glass of water, relishing in the brief relief its coolness brought her before moving through the living room, grabbing her phone on her way to the bedroom. Her movements seemed robotic almost working on memory rather than necessity as she whipped of her tear streaked makeup and changed into sweats and a comfortable shirt. She didn’t bother with her usual routine of moisturising or brushing her hair or teeth instead just pulling her hair out of her already messy bun and crawling into the comfort of her bed. Only then did she allow herself to check her phone, the bright screen blinded her momentarily and made her migraine call out in anguish, quickly she turned the brightness all the way down before daring to look again.

The time on the top corner informed her it was almost ten thirty meaning she had been asleep for just over three hours, not that it did anything she was still exhausted. Both mentally and physically.

She pulled down her notification menu to see she had one missed call from her mother (she’ll check that later.) and one text from Sharon. She clicked on quickly eager for a nice distraction from her mind.

To: Lasky  (at 9:43pm)

I told you I was working late, I just got home.

Is everything okay?

Alaska paused there was one of two ways she could reply, and she wasn’t sure which would be worse.

To: Noodles ( at 10:29pm)

No. I’m getting bad again Sharon.

I’m scared, I need you please come over.

Her finger paused over the send button, if she sent that she knew Sharon would worry and come over right away with comforting words and soft touches but part of her, the part that had won the battle earlier told her that Sharon would be laughing at how pathetic she was being. Surely, she could get through this without her, she wasn’t a kid after all.

She deleted the message and started again.

To : Noodles (at 10:31pm)

Everything’s Fine I just miss you.

No, it’s not.

To: Lasky (at 10:32pm)

Are u sure?

To : Noodles (at 10:33pm)

Yeah.

No.

See you tomorrow <3

To: Lasky (at 10:34pm)

See u tomorrow bby

I love you

No, you don’t.

To : Noodles (at 10:35pm)

I love you back .

She locked her phone and placed it on the nightside and rolled into her usual sleeping position, not that she was expecting to get much sleep in this condition.  So, she lay there lonely and let her thoughts take over.

Her brain tortured her all night reminding her of every wrong move, every stupid question, every time she messed up her lines, every rejection email and every failed attempt at friendship through her life. She’s flashed back to the one party she went to in high school where she hadn’t eaten more than a banana in almost 2 days got super drunk super quick and threw up and passed out in the living room of an acquaintance. Absolutely any memory that she wanted to forget resurfaced over the next two hours.

Just when Alaska was beginning to become exhausted and hot tears were burning behind her eyes as she was pleading with her head to just shut up and let her sleep the worst memory was projected to her.  Halloween night 2017.

She still remembers it like it was yesterday. It wasn’t a spontaneous decision made in the climax of a mental breakdown like it’s portrayed in the movies, no this was a carefully planned for and researched event. Let’s be clear by this point Alaska was pretty secure in the fact that she was dying even if she didn’t directly “pull the trigger” herself she was still dying, she was wasting away with each skipped meal but that was too slow, and she couldn’t wait any longer. It wasn’t an emotional decision for her it was just something that had to be done and it should scare her how little she cared about the impending end of her life. She was numb.

The letter had been written almost two weeks in advance, the Pills secured from a source she couldn’t disclose and finally as an extra measure she had stolen a litre of vodka from the local store. She felt no remorse or guilt for that either. She was numb.

She chose Halloween because it was her favourite day, the only day where she felt like she could be anyone without judgment, the only day where she didn’t have to be herself. It made sense to her to go out on the best day rather than on the “worst day of her life.” A nice ending, not that she deserved it.

When the day comes, she takes care of herself, she sleeps in till 10am, later than she’s slept in so long. She changes into a dress that she had meant to wear to the schools Halloween ball that night, Its short black and lacey with hues of green glitter. It was meant to be part of a witch costume, but she much prefers this use.  A glance in the mirror brings her to tears; she looks beautiful, she looks like she’s already dead.  She had planned to indulge in one last meal, a cheese cake she’d picked out herself but decided against it, what if her parents wanted an open casket?

Before she knows it, she’s sitting cross legged on her bed, the bath is already waiting. She lays the pills out in rows and takes them two at a time with a mouthful of vodka in between each until she starts to feel fuzzy, not drunk fuzzy, this was different. She took this as her sign to go to the bathroom. She got in with the rest of the vodka just in case and waited and waited and waited. She had to way to tell how long it had been, but she was sure it was hours, her parents must be due home any moment. Just as panic began to set in and she really began to worry about what exactly she had did wrong her ears began to ring and black spots appeared in her vision.

She doesn’t remember much after that, in fact the next few days are a blur of screaming, crying, pain, needles and doctors. She knows that her mom found her in the bath covered in vomit and called an ambulance.

Once at the hospital they pumped her stomach, gave her various IVs with different things such as medication, fluids, and nutrients that her malnourished body craved. She was placed on suicide watch for a week and was admitted to a physch ward where her “recovery process” began but of course her mind didn’t want to focus on the positives.

                                                                 -     -     -

Alaska is brought back to reality then a shaking, crying mess. She’s slick with sweat and her heart is pounding at speeds that should be considered dangerous, it’s the same flashback she’d wake up from in the weeks following her attempt screaming and crying but she hadn’t thought about this in so long and she hadn’t been ready to live through it again.

She sprints to the bathroom as waves of anxious nausea make her dizzy, hardly making it as she spits bile into the toilet bowl. It does act as a cold reminder that she hasn’t eaten today. She briefly remembers her sessions with Doctor Visage who has helped her establish an eating schedule to help keep herself on track, she hadn’t really stuck to that in over a week now.

Once her breathing had returned to normal she manages to get herself a glass of water and a protein bar, which she just manages to finish before she passes out into a dreamless sleep.

                                                                      -      -      -

Which brings us back to where we left off on Thursday Afternoon.

After the guilt of blowing off her shift for a mental health day had worn off slightly Alaska made the mistake of checking her emails. She didn’t have many as she usually stayed on top of them pretty well, but she did have an email from her Broadway History professor sent only a few minutes ago waiting for her. The subject line “you were absent in class today.” Made the details of the email very clear but never the less she opened it.

To: AlaskaThunder5000@gmail.com

From :ProfJinkxMonsoon@univeristy.com

Subject : You were absent in class today

Hi Alaska,

I see that you were absent today, I am sure you had a very good excuse which I would be understanding about had you notified me before hand as per college protocall!

You missed a fair bit today so please get in contact with me as soon as you can.

Prof.J.Monsoon

Alaska closed out the app as soon as she was finished reading and threw her phone onto her bed, she was not in the right frame of mind to be dealing with whatever work load was waiting for her and she didn’t want any added stress she was already on the constant brink of yet another breakdown.

Instead she chose to listen to her body and attempt to make herself some food. She started of slowly easing her sore body our of bed for the first time in over twelve hours. She entered the bathroom and washed her face which felt swollen from all the crying, she made sure to avoid the mirrors as she did this.

“Okay Alaska you’re doing so good, baby steps.” She whispered to herself as she made her way into the kitchen. This was already so much more than she could handle in a normal depressive episode, but she was determined that this wasn’t going to beat her this time.

She opened the cabinet and tried desperately to ignore that voice that yelled out the calorie count for everything she saw. Soup, yes soup was safe she told herself. The next step was to get a pot and turn on the stove. She could do this.

From her bedroom she heard her phone ding with a notification, but it could wait she decided, distractions weren’t a good idea right now.

Once the stove was hot enough she poured the can of soup into the pot and began to stir it. She was doing so well.

Suddenly the phone began to ring startling Alaska from her train of thought and causing her to drop the spoon. And that’s when it happened.

As she was coming back up from picking up the spoon she accidently nudged the edge of the pot causing it to topple over and spill hot soup right onto Alaska’s bare feet.

“Fuck!” She screamed out as the hot liquid burned her skin. She Jumped away from the mess attempting to find a cloth to clean it up.

“Why are there no fucking cloths!” She yelled as her hand reached up to pull at her hair in frustration.

Her phone began to ring again. “Shut up” She suddenly screamed at the object in question. “shut up shut up shut up shut up!” hot tears burned behind her eyes. God why couldn’t she do anything right.

She turned around quickly remembering that there were some clean clothes in the cupboard above the stove, as she did this she slipped on the soup puddle on the floor. She reached out to grab onto something to save herself and slammed her arm down onto the hot stove. She yanked it away almost immediately with a yelp of pain but instead of running to put the burn under running water she pressed her finger against the inflicted area and winced at the searing pain.

Oh no.

Before she knew what she was doing Alaska was pressing her other wrist down onto the hot stove, and again and again and again until she was sobbing and shaking with the pain.

Unable to take anymore and completely mentally exhausted she slid to the floor and wrapped her arms around her knees crying out brokenly.

At this exact moment the door opened.

“Alaska baby?” Sharon’s voice called out from the hallway clear worry evident in her voice. “Are you home? I went by the diner after work like we planned, and Courtney said you called in sick.”

Alaska bit her lip to stifle her sobs as Sharon came closer to the kitchen, it was a fruitless attempt as she would have to find her eventually.

“Alaska?” She called again “You’re worrying me sweetheart.”

Alaska closed her eyes now preparing for the worst as the footsteps reached the edge of the door way. No going back now.

Sharon gasped as she turned the corner into the kitchen, she probably would have screamed if she had been capable of making any noise at the moment instead she stared at the scene in front of her before bouncing into action.

“Lasky, what happened?” She asked kneeling down beside her and reaching out to touch her shoulder.

 Alaska jerked away from Sharon’s touch like it was searing hot, she didn’t deserve this she didn’t deserve to be treated so nice she’d ruined everything. She wanted Sharon to yell to tell her how she’d fucked up and how much of a mess she was but instead the older women just looked at her with sympathy and hurt shinning in her teary eyes. That’s what broke Alaska’s shield. She had cried so much in the last twenty-four hours out of frustration and anger and hurt and exhaustion but this time when the tears started it was an over flow of sadness and of realisation. If she had asked for help last night when she felt herself reach breaking point maybe she wouldn’t be in this position, but she was too scared or too proud and now here she is in the middle of a complete relapse after eleven months and she truly hates herself for that.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” Alaska cried out, she wasn’t sure if she was apologising to Sharon, to herself or just because it felt like the right thing to say in this situation.

“Shh it’s okay, it’s okay.” Sharon whispered almost as if she was too scared to speak any louder and scare her off. She reached out to touch her shoulder again only this time Alaska didn’t shy away and instead collapsed into her touch sobbing uncontrollably. Sharon let her lay on her and rubbed her back for as long as she needed until the sobbing subdued.

Alaska lifted herself from Sharon’s lap, hyper aware of the pain that radiated from almost every part of her body.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” She rasped, her voice hoarse from crying for so long.

“Don’t be, I’m glad I got her before…” Sharon didn’t dare finish her sentence. “You should have told me you were suffering again.”

“I didn’t want to be a burden. You’ve got so much going for you right now and you’re so busy you don’t need a mentally ill kid girl friend too.”

“Hey, no don’t you talk like that.” Sharon began frowning slightly. “I knew exactly what I was getting myself into when we started dating, I always knew this was a possibility, god I hoped it wouldn’t, but I always knew it might and I’d be an asshole if I was willing to throw away the best thing that ever happened to me because she was hurting.” It was Sharon’s turn to cry this time a rare site.

“Do you remember what I said to you after our first fight?” She asked.

Alaska shook her head.

“I said that If it ever got to much again I’d be there.  I meant that then and I mean it now, you got through this before and we  can get you through it again. It’s going to be okay. You are going to be okay.”

                                                                        -     -    -

She was going to be okay.

Not right away because that’s not how these things work, it’s going to take a lot of hard work, a lot of pain and tears and self-discovery but in the end, she’ll be okay. Because if it’s not okay then it’s not the end. 

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Any chance of more a hundred lesser faces soon?

A Hundred Lesser Faces: Ten 

Section One {A Hundred Lesser Faces} what if Voyager!Claire had gone first to Lallybroch instead of directly to the print shop in Edinburgh? :  [(One) (Two) (Three) (Four) (Five) (Six) (Seven)

Section Two {A Hundred More}, the aftermath of Claire and Jamie’s reunion, following their journey as they work to build a new life together [(Eight) (Nine)]

“Mind yourself, laddie,” chided the cook from behind as she passed by the doorway. “Pay heed to that blade, or ye’ll be cuttin’ your throat along wi’ the beard!”

He answered with something lighthearted and offhand, for she was a kind woman and he greatly appreciative of her generosity. Whereas the innkeeper had shuffled sleepily off to bed as soon as he’d paid for their lodging, she—a lady of advanced years who bade him address him as Flora— had ushered him to her own chamber off the kitchens and settled him before the glass with soap, water, and razor, ‘at no charge, laddie, dinna fash yerself.’

Jamie saw to his surprise that the face in the reflection was nearly smooth. He’d been shaving mindlessly, it seemed, only the skill of long habit guiding his hand while his mind wandered—raced.

God in Heaven, did I not survive all those years of loneliness only by dreaming of being in Claire’s bed? And yet here he was, about to walk up the stairs and enter that very place, that sacred, hallowed place, and damn him, his hands were trembling.

Thank God they’d managed to exchange those few words after their hasty meal. She knew for certain now that he wanted her. That worry had weighed on them both, he thought; a natural insecurity given their age and long absence. But even as he’d left her standing there at the table, he’d known she was still hesitant, that something about the impending intimacy between them still troubled her. Damn his eyes, he ought not to have left her side until he’d discovered what it was, that nothing might be between them. As it was….all he could do was wonder. 

Did she take other men in our time apart? 

…Apart from Frank, he supposed he meant. She had gone to be the bastard’s wife again, after all, and certainly there would have come a day when they resumed—when they likely would have— Well, and they had loved one another before Claire had fallen into his own life, had they not?

But after the Englishman died? Did she seek out comfort in other lovers? Were they on her mind, tonight?

Though it made his blood heat and boil to consider it, he could hardly cast the first stone with regards to that possibility. He thought of Geneva, of Mary, and despite the accustomed pangs of shame, he couldn’t truly regret those nights, after all. Mary, in particular, had given him the gift of touch, something for which he’d starved himself for seven long years. Her tenderness, her softness with him had kept him feeling human for a long time after. If Claire had felt such emptiness in her time, if someone had offered her the same gift, that ounce of sanity, his most reasonable self (not to say the loudest of the voices in his mind) could hardly begrudge her for having taken it. 

If that’s indeed the case, though….what will she be thinking on, this night? About….how those other men were good to her? Or because they were cruel? Jesus, what if—

“I must say,” came Flora’s voice again as he finished and set the razor down, “we dinna often get folk hereabouts that care so verra much about how they look.” Glancing up at her in the mirror, he saw that she was examining him appreciatively—not lewdly, but as though taking genuine pleasure in the sight. 

He gave a gracious bow, grateful for the interruption from his uneasy thoughts. “Then I’m all the more grateful, Mistress Flora, that ye were able to accommodate the needs of a poor, vain wretch so down on his luck.”

She hummed graciously and dipped her head, wiping her hands on her apron. “Bound somewhere important in the mornin’, are ye?”

“Nay, it’s only that I’m here wi’—” He cleared his throat. “Wi’ my wife, this night.”

“The brown-haired lass? Well, an’ I should ha’ HOPED she was your wife, a ruiadh!” she snorted. “We’re no’ runnin’ a house of ill-repute!”

Jamie wondered what she would say were he to divulge that he was, technically, willfully engaging in bigamy. Technically only, thank God. “Aye, she’s my wife,” he said firmly, to reassure both Flora and himself. “We’re reunited, this day, after a long separation.”

“Separation?” she repeated dubiously. 

“We…” He needn’t say anything at all, of course, for it was no one’s business but their own; but even despite his worries, he couldn’t help but grin (and feel the prickling of tears in his eyes) to share their news, even with a stranger. “We each thought the other dead for many years, and found each other again only hours ago.” 

“Oh, how GRAND!” Flora beamed, clapping her hands together, then coming over to clasp his own warmly. “And what a blessing! God was smilin’ upon ye, and no mistakin’ it.” 

With a startling flood of both affection and grief, he realized that it was Glenna Fitzgibbons she minded him of. Corpulent of body and cheery of feature, she moved with that same indomitable energy, certain of her domain and any that chose to enter it, and yet warm and lavish in showing love and care to those in her charge. 

She took a step back to look him over again, then gave a derisive pfft. “Well, in THAT case, a shave isna goin’ to be enough. I’ll draw ye some hot water so ye can wash up a bit wi’ a cloth. I’ll fetch some of my best chamomile soap for ye, too.”

“That’s most kind, Mistress Flora, I thank ye,” he said in genuine gratitude. With sudden inspiration, he asked, “Will ye offer the same to my wife? Not—” He flushed. “Take care that she doesna think I’m insinuating that she—ah—”

“She already requested a basin and got it, dinna fash, though I didna ken the grandeur of the occasion.” Flora was already bustling about, and he could hear the sounds of water being ladled into a ewer from the hearth. “We’ll reserve the insinuatin’ for comment on your own person. Beggin’ your pardon, a ruiadh, but ye stink to highest heaven and back.”

“Canna just say that you’re wrong,” he laughed.

“A long-lost wife…restored….” Flora murmured contemplatively as she returned and walked about, gathering the bathing supplies. “All the more reason to scrub the road off ye, then, for as bonnie as ye are, I dinna think I’m wrong in observin’ that she’s a good sight fairer, even on yer best day.”

“Aye, she is certainly that,” he said, laughing at the spirit of Mrs. Fitz present here, that could make him feel warm and happy even while being fussed and picked over like an unruly bairn that’s fallen in the manure pile. 

Ten minutes later, he was wrapped in linen towels, shivering from the icy drafts of night air on his wet skin, but clean for the first time in weeks. Flora had left him be as he bathed, but as he was casting about for clothing, she reappeared, tsked, bade him ‘Be still, wee gomeral. You’re far from done,’ and plunked him down onto a stool with surprising force. A moment later, a warm, woolen rug settled around his shoulders and she took up a spot behind him, beginning to work through the snarls in his hair with a comb.

After a time of sitting tense and ramrod-straight, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the calm of it, to the soothing sensation of the tiny tugs at his scalp. His mother had brushed his hair just so, when he was a wee one prone to snarls from rough days at play. Years later, his Claire had done the same, her touch light and soft. She had always brought his face around, when she had finished, to kiss him, sometimes melting down into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck…

God…

Claire. 

That very woman, his beloved wife….She was upstairs, waiting for him. He could still scarcely comprehend the joy of that simple truth. She was whole. She was here. 

She’s expecting me…

Expecting a man that can please her. 

And therein was the greater part of the worry that had caused his hands to shake. Jamie wanted so badly to give her pleasure as he used to, and yet he hadn’t satisfied a woman—not in that way, not to his knowledge—in over twenty years. With Mary, and then with Willie’s mother, it hadn’t felt the time or place for that kind of passion. With Laoghaire—God, how he’d tried, but with no success. Try as he might to justify himself by insisting that she had been cold long before they wed, and there naught HE could have done about it, the icy fingers of doubt gripped at him, now. 

I wasna able to please one wife. What if it wasna Laoghaire that was the problem at all? What if I canna—

“There, laddie,” Flora interrupted with fond finality, smoothing the back of his head tenderly before moving to the table. “That’s much better, aye? And here’s the fresh shirt. Tis many years old, but clean and sturdy, and should fit ye well enough.”

“You’re verra kind, a nighean,” he said, touched by her care and not a little hoarse from it. He examined the shirt. “‘Tis extremely well-made,” he commented appreciatively, seeing the fine, strong stitches, the linen showing hardly any signs of wear.

“Made it for my youngest….Tàmhas,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “…Drumossie, ken?” He gripped her hand. He knew. 

A long time after she’d excused herself, Jamie stood before the mirror, staring at the man therein; and, unbidden, the vice around his heart eased, a calming peace flooding inward in its wake. 

Even if he made a grand mess of this, even if he couldn’t please her the way he used, or made himself to look a fool, this was still a day of miracles. Here he stood, in the garment of a man who had died on Culloden field—died as and where he himself should have died—and yet, he had his sight, his freedom, the use of his hands and legs, a home, and a living…and Claire had been restored to him, beyond all reason and all hope. 

He brought his hand up and kissed the scar at the base of his thumb, pressing it to his heart, as he had done for twenty years. It was theirs, now, this world, to do with as they wished, and though he didn’t know what those wishes might be, he knew there was no fear greater than the hope he had in his wife. In them. 

As she’d said herself only hours ago, ‘we’ll manage with the rest. All the rest.’

“Come in,” came her startled answer.

The candlelight danced beautifully around the walls, bathing all in a warm, red glow. Claire was already underneath the blankets, but they fell away as he entered, showing that she’d a sheet wrapped around her, tucked under her oxters like a garment. “Sorry,” she mumbled as he stared at her bare, elegant shoulders framed by the dark curtain of her curls. Her cheeks reddened and she dropped her eyes. “I—didn’t have a shift or anything.”

“No, dinna be sorry,” he said hastily. Lord, there ought to be no sense of forwardness between them now. They were married, after all, and in fact, the very notion that she’d undressed for him made his heart lighten even more than it had downstairs. If he had had any doubts, still, that she truly wished him to—

“You shaved,” she said.  She was smiling, weakly, nervously, but with real happiness across the dim room. “Let me see?” 

He set his things on the table by the door and came to her, kneeling beside her on the mattress.  She came up on her knees before him and took his face between her hands, gasping a bit as she ran them up and down. “God…you’re just the same, too.”

“A bit worn ‘round the edges,” he murmured, following her touch with his cheek, savoring her.

“But beautiful,” she whispered. She traced the lines around his eyes, the crooked knot—yes, that would be new to her—that now shaped his nose.

They knelt there, knee to knee for a long time, clothed in their linen wrappings, just drinking in the sight of one another. 

She swayed precariously of a sudden and he reached out a hand to catch her round the middle but she fell backward onto her hand. Her eyes went wide with shock as she realized what she had done, and she covered her face with both hands, shaking. “Oh, Jesus…” 

It was almost like being back on the hill, that shock and hurt. “Mo ghraidh….?”

No, she hadn’t just fallen. She had recoiled from him.

“Mo ghraidh?” he implored, reaching out a hand but not daring to touch her. “Claire?” 

She was crying. He thought she wouldn’t reply, and she didn’t, but she did reach out blindly and grab onto his hand, hard. He clung to it, nudged closer and pressed it to his lips, then his heart.

“I’m sorry—” she was whispering, hanging her head. “I’m so—so sorry—”

“You’ve naught to be sorry over,” he said intently, keeping her hand pressed tight to his chest. “What is it, lass? Is it— same as was troubling ye below? Over…going to bed wi’ me?”

“I want this—” she gasped out, “I want it—Want to touch you—want you to touch me— but I’m so—just so—”

“…what, Claire?”

“—afraid,” she gasped out at last, her voice a strained whisper between quick, shallow breaths. “I’m so afraid.” 

He forced himself to speak softly. “….Of me?”

“NO!” she breathed at once, shaking her head, hard. “Jesus Christ, no….Just—Damn, I don’t—It’s just—FRANK, and—”

“Fr—?” Jamie felt rage boil up within him, revising his conclusions from those earlier speculations and feeling them burning through his mind. “Did he hurt you, Claire? If the bastard forced—”

“NO,” she moaned, vehemently, “NO, Frank would never do that. No. Not his fault. It’s me. My fault.”

His chest eased, but the thought of what else the bastard Englishman might have done to her for all those years—MUST have done to her to make her feel these things, to be ‘afraid’ in a man’s bed—was enough to make him wish to slash his way through the goddamn stones and kill him… were he not already dead.

“Claire, hear me,” Jamie said with decision, squeezing her hand in both his own. “We dinna have to do this, tonight. We shall—” 

“I’ve wanted you every day these last twenty years—” she interrupted, her eyes squeezed tight shut as she laid one hand on his chest. “And I want you now, Jamie, I do. God,” she moaned, “more than I can—” She took a deep, shuddering breath and trailed off. 

“Mo chridhe… you can say anything to me. Anything. Ye ken that, aye?” 

“It’s just been so long,” she whispered, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Frank was the only man who touched me since you and I parted, and I—I can barely wrap my mind around what it’s supposed to be, anymore.” 

Christ, it shouldn’t matter to him—and he cursed himself roundly for a shameful, wretched hypocrite—but he silently rejoiced and shuddered in relief. Only Frank. 

“I don’t know the way, anymore, Jamie,” she was saying; so mournful and heartbroken, that voice. “Something—It took something from me, to be…to be without…to not…Damn…Fucking, fucking damn….”

He remained kneeling beside her as her breaths stayed shrill and strained, waiting, trying to think. Frank hadn’t forced himself on her, and yet their intimacy had left her with fears and doubts, had her struggling to look him in the eye. 

Could it simply be that they never found the secret of one another after she returned? Just as Laoghaire and I did not? 

“It’s…maybe no’ precisely what ye mean, Claire…” he began slowly, very quietly, “…but I can say in truth that I havena felt— joy in a woman’s bed since ye went away…. Is it anything like that?”

She stilled and looked up at him, then nodded, whisky eyes glassy. “Yes.” 

A pulse of relief and love filled him and he grasped at it, reaching out and cupping her cheek, holding onto her lest she slip away again. “To be hungry and desperate?” he went on, holding her eye with such sadness in both their hearts, “and to get something of it, to crave it again and again because ye think that this time it will be better, but to always leave the bed all the emptier in your heart? And feel that emptiness hardening ye into someone ye scarce recognize?”

“Twenty years—of—” 

It was a long time before she could manage to finish. When she did so, it was so faint he couldn’t understand her.

“Heat,” she repeated in a whisper as desolate as the winter wind outside, “without light.”

…Heat without light….

Aye, that was just the way of it. Need and hunger and the fire rousing to slake it, but no accompanying brightness, no beam of light in which to bask and be soothed in one’s heart. No relief or comfort: just rippling scalding, choking air that suffocated, rather than sustained. 

“And it used to come so easily, with you, the heat and the light together,” she whispered, trying not to fall apart, “I need it again so badly, and yet I’m afraid… of what I’ll do if I can’t give you that same—” 

“Sorcha.” 

The word fairly burst from him, breaking his face into a smile of pure joy without his bidding.

“W-what?” she croaked.

“Sorcha,” he said again, brushing the hair from her eyes. “’Tis your name in Gaelic, mo chridhe. Did I never call ye that, before?”

“Not that I can recall.”

He’d thought of her by that name for so long a time: her very self in his own language. His forehead pressed against hers, he looked deep and long and lovingly. “It means ‘light.’”

She inhaled sharply and gasped out something like a laugh. “You’re making that up.”

“Even in English, the root of your name has to do wi’ light, or brightness, or clarity….Et en Français, aussi.” 

“Au clair de la lune….” she recited. By the light of the moon. 

“Aye, just so.” He had her face in both his hands now, and he thumbed away her tears, kissing the tracks left behind. “You are my light, Sassenach. Ye always have been, in name or no.’”

 Her lips trembled as she smiled. “And you’re mine.”

“Then we’ve everything we’ll ever need.” He kissed her. “We can love, and never fear.” 

Claire fell slowly into him, then, wrapping her arms around his neck, weeping, not in despair, but in the sweet surrender of trusting, of loving. 

“When we wed,” he whispered into her ear, kissing the dear, warm spot just behind, “we barely kent one another. Ye didna want me for your husband, that was clear enough, and I had resigned myself to what ye could and couldna give me…. And yet that light was upon us even that first day, aye? Even wi’out your willing it, ye felt it, that—that— rightness between us?”

“Yes.” She was nodding, hard, her hands gripped tightly in the back of his shirt, her lips softly caressing his neck. “I felt it.”

He held her tight, rocking them gently. “We didna earn or deserve it, that day. We hadna prepared for it or practiced it as to be ready or worthy. It was a GIFT, that joy and ease between us. I believe it shall be granted us again, just as freely.” 

And in saying it, he, too, believed, the last of his own fears and insecurities loosening their grip and floating away.

He kissed her neck, her hair, then tucked her to his chest and laid them down, holding close around her back as they lay facing one another. “Tell me what’s in your heart, Claire.”

“Thought I had been,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes, though he could hear the hint of a smile. 

“Nay, but if we were to stay just like this until morn, only sleeping in one another’s arms, and leaving the rest for another—”

She made a frustrated sound. “I’m not saying I don’t WANT—”

“I know,” he cut her off gently, half-laughing, “I ken, Sassenach, but there’s nay hurry, aye? There’s the two of us now, and I’ll not let ye go.” 

She touched his face and exhaled, trying to smile. 

“Aside from any fears, what is in your heart right at this moment?” 

“….Happiness….” she said at last. “…such unfathomable happiness.”

“Aye…” 

“I…I can hardly believe you’re here. That I’m here.” Her voice cracked. “I’m still reeling from relief and joy from the hill….and I’m…overjoyed….” She ran the back of her knuckles down his cheek, staring intently into his face. “…that you finally know about our daughter…that you’ve gotten to see her face and learn that she’s safe….. that I’ll have the rest of my life to tell you about her.” 

He kissed her hand, pressing it tight against his lips. She kept on, the sorrow and abating from her voice with every word, replaced with warmth and joy. “I’m grateful that I know about Laoghaire…and the girls….and William…. I want to know more, in time, but there are no secrets between us, now, and that’s—You are who you appear to be….as I remembered you to be…..And Jamie, I’m so happy you’re alive,” she choked out as she pressed her forehead to his, her voice trembling, “and I can’t believe we finally get to keep one another this time…. To have you and hold you… I couldn’t ask for anything more….Nothing.”

“I have two hands,” Jamie said hoarsely as he held her, “and they’re yours…. I have a body, and it is yours….. Anything that I am, I give to ye freely again today, Claire Fraser.”  

At hearing her name, that name, she let out a tiny, broken sound and pulled him down to her mouth. Almost at once, the kiss changed, became harder, urgent. His mouth and his hands and his body responded to hers without conscious thought, seeking her with every movement, every breath. 

His arousal was strong, violent, but he forced himself to pull back enough to look into her eye…..and at last, there was no fear written there.  

With a ferocity that startled and ignited him, he captured her mouth and slid his hand beneath her head as she rolled onto her back. With the other, he untucked the sheet from beneath her arms and bared her, sliding his hand down her length. She moaned into his mouth as he cupped her boldly, felt the warm, wet fullness of her there between her thighs, and that sound was honey to his soul.

She moved with him, the two of them joined by the trailing of his fingers through the slick center of her; her gasps when he moved up toward that small, precious spot; the exquisite pain of her fingertips digging into his flesh as he circled and caressed it. Claire was coming alive for him, moving against his touch to double every sensation. He could have wept only to feel her rouse to him so, but to watch her face breaking again and again with that beauty, to hear against his neck the same sounds that he’d treasured in his heart all those lonely years—He felt as though he were running up a mountain and down it again all at once. “Claire,” he could only groan into her hair, her skin, scarcely aware of his own body, enthralled to hers, “Jesus, Claire….”

“Jamie—” She was mounting and gathering under his touch, her legs and hips moving languidly, her cries becoming more urgent and and more frantic with every stroke. 

“Aye, Sassenach,” he moaned, circling and pressing harder, feeling the throbbing wetness of her. “Now—please—”

“Wait,” she panted, slipping out from beneath him and pushing him back onto the pillows. It didn’t cross his mind to question her. He obeyed by instinct, pulling off his shirt and emerging from the cloud of white to see her straddling him, poising her body—Jesus, her exquisite body—just above him. He was half-sitting, hard and aching for her. Her legs trembled with wanting, too, but she reached slowly forward to pull him up, to kiss him, to press herself against his chest and twine her fingers in his hair. Their eyes locked and the world vanished for a moment in a burst of breath and light as she sheathed him to her. 

He grasped her tight, hands gripping and holding as the two of them gasped and shuddered from the shock and wonder of being joined and naked; ONE. Her breasts were so full, begging for him to put his mouth on them, but he couldn’t look away from her face.  

“Jamie—Love—” she moaned, settling him still more deeply within her body. 

“Claire—” 

He could see tears gathering in her eyes even as her entire body trembled and shuddered with the growing tension. She gasped and rolled her hips, her hands shaking and her breath catching, eyes fluttering.  “I’m going—to—”

“Please,” he begged, “please—let me feel you—” He moved within her, and she upon him— And almost instantly she cascaded around him, pulsing and rushing and crying out with that sound—THAT SOUND— “Sorcha,” he moaned, her release nearly taking him, too. He couldn’t hold her close enough, couldn’t treasure her deeply enough. “Mo sorcha….”

“More,” she moaned before he could say more, grabbing his face and moving along his length with a ferocity that tore from him a feral sound to match her own, “More.”

He lost all speech and all restraint. He plunged up into her, his mouth on her neck, her breasts; his hands raking across hips and thighs and arse. They moved together, he taking her and she, him, joined in a fury of need and love that had them both gasping and snarling and moaning and near-weeping.

At one pass, she thrust down upon him such a way that he nearly lost himself, and in a flash, he was throwing himself forward with a growl so that she was beneath him, his hands under her buttocks, pulling her to him fiercely with every movement. Claire cried out, a sound of both need and satisfaction that echoed around the room. They were on fire, the two of them, thrusting and seeking with such wild energy, it was like nothing he had ever felt before. Every inch of him burned for her.

But there WAS light along with the burning. Even as they raced and tore and pounded, her eyes were in his and she was shining, smiling even as she destroyed him. As they each neared the end, they were beaming, glowing with such the most glorious joy. The most glorious light. 

After it was over, after she had come around him and he within her, there had been no slumping of exhaustion, none of that immediate, selfish isolation of the mind and body in adapting to the altered state. He had pulled her at once back up and knelt; knelt so that she could hold him as much as he, her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and cupped his head in both hands, touching his hair, his face, saying his name again and again like a prayer, as he was hers. They were both crying, hard, but they were tears of joy, a cleansing of all fears and all sorrows. 

“Thank you,” he gasped out suddenly, broken with it, “for coming back for me.”

She had left everything. She had left EVERYTHING she knew, the entire life she had built, on the mere hope that he still needed her. He did need her. He always would.

She held him, body and soul. “I always will.”