#i wonder what could possibly go wrong with those mules

[redwinterroses]

[part one] [part two] [part three]

Jimmy woke to the muzzle of a rifle nudging under his chin.

Blinking furiously, he followed the line of the gun up to its wielder: a stocky man with a bushy black beard and eyes like two ice chips. 

A sardonic smile played around the man’s mouth. “Well,” he said. “Want to explain why I got a couple’a burglars sleepin’ on my floor?”

“I—” Jimmy’s mouth was dry with sleep. The bright morning sun streaming in the windows made his eyes water and—the morning sun. He cursed himself for falling asleep. “I’m Jimmy. Ah—Tango said you wouldn’t mind—I mean, if you’re Cub?” It came out as a question, and he swallowed against the cold iron nuzzling his throat.

“Tango?” the man’s eyes flicked over to where Tango—damn him—was still softly snoring, his derby settled over his face. The muzzle of the rifle retreated a little bit, and the man kicked Tango’s foot.

With an indignant exclamation, Tango came awake, his hat falling to the side.

“Hey!” he spluttered. “What’s the big—oh. Mornin’, Cubby.”

“Tango.” Cub withdrew the rifle and held it loose at his side. “Seriously? You could have knocked, man. I’ve got spare rooms.”

Tango sat up, gesturing at the rifle. “Sure, but I know better than to bang on a door in the middle of the night when Ol’ Faithful might see me before my good buddy Cub.”

“Fair enough, fair enough.” Cub stood back, and let the rifle hang loose at his side. His eyes narrowed. “Back to my first question. Why do I have a couple’a burglars sleeping on my floor—besides the fact that they didn’t want to wake me up in the middle of the night?”

Tango groaned and got to his feet, stretching mightily. Jimmy, eyeing that rifle dubiously, sat up as well and tried to work the cricks out of his neck. 

“Train robbery,” Tango said. “Just south of here. Greysides gang cottoned onto me and had someone waiting for me when I tried to catch a ride back to Tumbleton.”

Cub whistled appreciatively. “Greysides, huh? Bad bunch.”

“We need to send a telegraph, actually,” Tango said. “Assuming Chef’s awake this early?”

“Man’s up before dawn most days,” Cub said. He nodded toward the door. “Who’re you planning to wire, though? Those pillagers’ll be gone long before any law gets there.”

“They stopped the train,” Tango said. “I’ll wire ahead to Tumbleton and if they haven’t arrived someone will have to go and find the engine—or whatever’s left of it. I doubt they killed anyone but they might have scuppered the works.”

Cub nodded, then pulled a tin out from under the counter. “Coffee? I can have it brewed by the time you’re back.”

“Cubby, I could kiss you.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

Tango turned to Jimmy. “Wait here—I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

And with that, he jogged out the door and vanished into the morning sun.

To his dismay, Jimmy felt a twinge—a pang of something in his chest that tugged after Tango. He resisted easily, for now, but that confirmed his suspicions: his curse had officially latched on to the bounty hunter.

He barely kept himself from swearing.

“You’re from Spawnheart?” 

The question was so abrupt that it made Jimmy start. He turned to find Cub regarding him with an unreadable expression. The saloon owner stared at him, and Jimmy shifted uncomfortably, feeling as if he were being measured and weighed, and that Cub wasn’t impressed with what he saw.

“I… yeah, I am,” he said. He clambered to his feet and started packing his bedroll. Glancing back at Cub, he raised a self-deprecating eyebrow. “Is it that obvious?”

Cub shrugged. “I grew up there myself, actually. And it’s a pretty obvious guess—you’re not from around here, you were on a train heading toward new-gen…” he tilted his head thoughtfully. “You look familiar.”

Jimmy tensed. “...Yeah?”

Cub’s eyes were fixed on him, his expression entirely neutral. “Maybe. What did you say your last name was?”

“I didn’t.” Jimmy wondered how fast he could make it to the door—though where he thought he’d go after that he hadn’t the foggiest—before Cub lifted the rifle at his side. He shifted his weight, and Cub’s hand twitched a hair on the gun—

And then the man smiled, relaxing. “Fair enough, fair enough,” Cub said, his voice amiable. “A guy’s entitled to his secrets on the frontier. Sometimes they’re the most valuable thing you’ve got.”

Still wary, Jimmy buckled the leather strap around his bedroll, his attention never leaving Cub. He felt like he was facing down another creeper, and he couldn’t figure out why this one hadn’t exploded yet.

He held the bedroll aloft. “You, ah… you mind if I toss this back in the ender chest?”

Cub plonked the rifle down on the bartop and gestured for Jimmy to go around behind. “Be my guest,” he said. “Again, I guess.”

Jimmy stepped behind the counter, dropped the roll into the void-space of the ender chest and let the lid fall shut. “I can pay. For using your floor last night.”

Cub shook his head. “Nah, no worries, friend.” He jerked a thumb toward the door. “Just do me a favor and keep an eye on that knucklehead, and we’ll call it even.”

Like I’ve got any choice at this point. “Yeah,” Jimmy said. “Sure.”

Pulling out one of the barstools with his foot, Cub sat, and leaned forward, resting both arms on the bartop. All the suspicious tension seemed to have gone out of him, though Jimmy was still wary of those sharp eyes. “So,” Cub drawled. “What are you hoping to find out in new-gen? Gold? Adventure? Wide open spaces?”

“All the above, I guess.” Jimmy moved to one of the tables nearer the door and sank into one of the wooden chairs. It creaked slightly under his weight. “Mostly just… something far away. Find a little valley, build a farm. Maybe breed some horses—I’ve always liked horses.” Even as he said it, the dream took shape in his mind’s eye: a long, low cabin, cozy on the inside, with a barn full of bright-eyed horses and their hay-scented warmth. 

He brushed away the vision, stowing it away to consider later. After he’d gotten rid of his unwitting partner. “How do you know Tango? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Cub grinned—and unlike every other time, this smile was missing that predatory edge. This smile was genuine, and it took Jimmy a little by surprise.

“Oh, Tango and I go way back,” Cub said. “He’s been out here even longer than me, but when my first crew came out to new-gen he and a few others gave us a hand. We’ve all spread out over the years, but we keep in touch.” Steepling his fingers in front of his face, he raised his eyebrows. “How do you know Tango of the Tek variety?”

“Tek variety?” Jimmy shook his head. “I just met him last night. He… I think he saved my life? But he also made me jump off a train so I’m not exactly sure where that stands.”

The tugging sensation in his chest told him exactly where “that” stood, but he wasn’t about to explain that to the man who had woken him up with a weapon and apparently had a long history with Tango. Didn’t seem wise.

“That’s Tango all over.” Cub sat back and slapped the counter. “Well, if it’s new-gen you’re heading for, you could do worse than hanging around Tango for a bit. See if he’ll take you as far as Tumbleton—that’s about as far out as civilization goes at this point.”

Jimmy nodded noncommittally, and watched as Cub got up and retrieved his rifle. He slung its leather strap over one shoulder and stowed the weapon comfortably across his back, then gave Jimmy an evaluating glance. 

“Feel free to hang out in here until Tango gets back,” Cub said. He jerked his thumb toward the door. “I’ve got a few errands to run before the bar opens this afternoon. Alternatively… there’s a couple bottles of water under the counter and a spare ender chest you’re welcome to. Tango’s down on the east side of town so if you head west you can probably get a few miles out before he figures it out.”

Blinking, Jimmy fought the urge to reach for his pistol—or to bolt for the door.

“Ah…” he managed, “Why—what makes you think I would—”

“Boots.” Cub pointed at his feet. “You were asleep with your boots on. Maybe you’re just weird about it, but in my experience a man who sleeps with his boots on is a man on the move. Or on the run. And I’ll be honest with you, Jimmy—” he put an odd emphasis on the name, as if he knew there was something Jimmy was hiding. “I’m not sure I’m too keen on my buddy Tango takin’ up with someone on the run.”

There was no cold muzzle at Jimmy’s chin as there had been when he woke, but Cub’s expression was as emotionless as a bullet. 

Jimmy found himself shaking his head. “I’m not on the run,” he said, aware that he didn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears. The door, with its long rectangle of golden sunshine, seemed to pull at him—get out, get away, don’t make this mistake again. The allure of the open frontier, with no connections and no risks, was heady in its promise of freedom. 

But the far-more-tangible tug in his chest that told him Tango was already on his way back, and he wouldn’t get far enough to avoid the man chasing after him. And he would chase, Jimmy was sure of it.

Casting a glance toward the window, Jimmy cursed his bad luck—and apparent inability to wake up early. 

“I’m not on the run,” he said again, and the words were more sure this time. “And I’ll do whatever I can to keep harm from coming to your friend.” He looked at Cub, hoping the man could see the sincerity in his face. “Honestly, I can promise you that.”

Cub pursed his lips, then gave a sharp nod. “Good enough.”

As he said it, footsteps tapped on the floorboards outside, and the door swung open to let in a burst of fresh morning air and the smell of dust and sage. 

“Jimmy!” Tango said, striding into the room. “I feel like I owe you a ride to Tumbleton after getting your train burglefied. You ride?”

Jimmy stood. “You got us horses?”

“Well… no.” Tango said. “Chef had a package he needed mailed to Tumbleton anyway, so he’s loaning us a couple of his mules.”

Cub laughed, and gave Jimmy a friendly slap on the shoulder that was maybe just a little too hard. “Good luck, fellas,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

And with that, he sauntered out of the saloon. Jimmy watched him go and then looked at Tango, frowning.

“Tango, why would he say that?”

Tango laughed, and rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck. “Oh, no reason, no reason,” he said unconvincingly. He gestured at the door.

“Let’s hit the road.”

[steddieas-shegoes]

i'm a freak that is searching for redemption

for @subeddieweek day seven with the prompts subdrop and daddy kink and praise kink

rated e | 2,239 words | please check ao3 for tags

Day one:  ao3 | tumblr Day two: ao3 | tumblr Day three: ao3 | tumblr Day four: ao3 | tumblr Day five: ao3 | tumblr   Day six: ao3 | tumblr

⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕

Steve dropped Eddie off at the trailer, only coming inside to make sure he got into a warm shower and had a snack.

“I’ll be back first thing in the morning to bring you to school, okay?” Steve kissed his forehead as he gently guided him into the steamy shower. “I’ll leave a note for Wayne so he knows your van broke down.”

Eddie could only nod, still a bit out of it from their fun in the car.

He still felt unmoored, even with music playing softly in his room and a candle lit that smelled like the cologne Steve wore.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but when he woke up still wrapped in his towel, pillow soaked from his hair being wet, all he could think was how much he wished he hadn’t woken up yet.

Wayne used to call him his Melancholy Mule when he first came to live with him and spent mornings pouting in bed. He had no good reason, other than most of the shit that life had handed him, and Wayne was just trying to make light of a shitty situation. But he couldn’t help but wonder if he was having one of those days again.

He hadn’t in a while, not since Steve, maybe not since he’d failed high school the first time.

But his body felt heavy, his eyes drooping closed despite the nagging feeling that he needed to get up and get ready. His thoughts were all over the place, but nothing was connecting.

Steve.

He needed Steve.

A shiver went down his spine as he realized he was still alone.

Steve hadn’t come back for him. He’d left him here.

“Ed?” Wayne knocked on his bedroom door, opening it a crack and letting in some light from the hallway. “Steve’s here. You want me to let him in?”

Steve’s here? He didn’t leave?

“Steve?” Eddie’s voice was rough, rougher than it usually was in the morning.

There was a voice behind Wayne, and then the door opened more. Eddie’s eyes squeezed shut at the light entering his dark room, his body curling into itself.

“Eds? You okay?” Steve’s voice was right next to him, and when Eddie managed to open his eyes, he was kneeling next to Eddie’s bed. His hand covered Eddie’s cheek, thumb rubbing soothing patterns under his eye.

Eddie let out a small whimper and closed his eyes again.

He couldn’t understand what was wrong, had no idea why he didn’t even cheer up at the sight of Steve, but he knew he couldn’t possibly get out of this bed right now.

“Shit. Sweet boy, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you last night, not until you fell asleep at least. Did you sleep last night?” Steve was suddenly pushing him over on his bed, sliding into the spot Eddie had previously taken and wrapping him up in his arms.

Steve was warm.

His hands felt big against Eddie’s back, strong, like they could pull him from whatever depth he was drowning in right now.

“Eddie, baby, look at me.” Steve’s voice sounded worried. Eddie didn’t want that. He managed to open both of his eyes and look up at Steve. “That’s it. Love when you’re so good for me. Did you sleep last night?”

“Mhm. Can I sleep now?” Eddie was so tired. His whole body felt like it was being dragged through the mattress, right through the floor. His chest was heavy, almost like the last time he had a chest cold, but without the coughing.

“Can you tell me what you’re feeling first? Just so I can make sure I know how to help.”

Steve still sounded worried and Eddie didn’t want him to. He was fine, just tired. And maybe a little bit sad. He didn’t know why he was sad, but it would pass.

“Just wanna sleep. Can I skip school?” Eddie mumbled against Steve’s chest, listening to his heart beat as it lulled him into a comforting silence.

“Sure, baby. Wayne’s gonna go look at your van.”

“Mmkay.”

A voice in the back of Eddie’s head was telling him to try to stay awake and talk to Steve more, but he couldn’t quite keep his eyes open or form any more words.

***

“Thanks, Wayne.”

Steve’s soft voice filtered through Eddie’s dreams, causing his eyes to flutter until he was blinking open to sunlight coming in through his window. He always kept his curtains closed so someone must’ve opened them.

He was mad at that someone.

He groaned and turned his head further into Steve’s chest, his fingers curling into his shirt.

He smelled so good all the time. How did he always smell like he just got out of the shower?

“Hey, sweet boy. Feeling a little better after your nap?” Steve asked, one hand playing with his curls while the other played with the hem of his shirt.

“Yeah. Sorry I was out of it earlier. Must not have slept good,” Eddie started to pull away, but Steve’s arm tightened, pulling him close against him again.

“My fault,” Steve muttered under his breath. “Have you ever dropped like that before?”

“Dropped?” Eddie asked, finally pulling away to look up at Steve.

“I think you dropped after last night. It was my fault. I knew you were still a little floaty when I put you in the shower and then I left without checking in again. I’m so sorry, baby. You were so overwhelmed with everything that happened with the van and then what we did in the car, I should’ve stayed or taken you to my place,” Steve was running his hands up his sides. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

Oh.

That’s what that feeling was.

He’d thought Steve left because he hadn’t done good. He hadn’t even realized until now that’s what the disappointment was in the shower and when he crawled into bed and when he woke up this morning.

“I didn’t?”

“No, sweet boy. You were perfect for me, you’re always perfect for me. Letting me have you whenever and wherever I want? God, you’re so amazing.” Steve kissed his forehead. “Do you need anything from me? Anything.”

“I…don’t know,” Eddie was feeling quite a bit better, still a little bit off, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Steve was clearly beating himself up over what happened, and his words were melting what was left of the ice in Eddie’s stomach. “Can you hold me for a while?”

“Of course, baby. All day if you want. Wayne took the van to the shop and they’re gonna take care of it. He’s gone to grab dinner and go to work.”

“What time is it?” Eddie couldn’t have possibly been out all day.

“Nearly five. You were tired, love.”

“But-”

“It’s okay,” Steve hushed him with a kiss to his lips. “You’re good.”

“Does Wayne…know?”

“He just thinks you’re having a bad day. Didn’t think you’d want me to tell him the details of our sex life,” Steve smirked. “I didn’t really want him to kill me either.”

“He knows you take care of me.”

“I didn’t last night.”

That tone was not one that Eddie wanted. That tone was beyond apologetic, bordering on self-hatred.

“You did. You made sure I took a shower. You had music playing so I wouldn’t feel so alone. A candle that smelled like you. You did what you thought was gonna work. It probably would have any other time.” Eddie kissed his chest, then his jaw. “You were good to me. You’re always good to me.”

Steve smiled at him before he kissed his lips, soft, but lingering.

“How long are you staying?” Eddie asked him.

“As long as you want me.”

“So…forever?” Eddie poked his cheek.

“Forever sounds good to me. You wanna get up and have something to eat?”

“Yeah.”

Steve helped him up and gave him a piggyback ride to the kitchen, smiling as Eddie giggled against his neck. He set him on the counter and started cooking some spaghetti, wanting something quick and easy, but still filling to make up for all of the meals Eddie had missed today.

He did everything but feed him by hand, which…hm, maybe they could do that sometime. Eddie liked when Steve got in the mood to take care of him like this, so it was worth a shot.

“Good?” Steve asked after they both had a bowl and a half.

“Good. Thanks for taking care of me,” Eddie nuzzled his neck, noticing that they hadn’t stopped touching the entire time.

“You know I love to,” Steve kissed his temple. “Bed?”

“Depends.”

“On if we’re gonna be naked.”

Steve snorted. “You sure you feel up for that?”

“I am dying to have you inside me again.” Eddie half-joked before looking at Steve seriously. “I feel empty without you inside me.”

“Eds, baby,” Steve leaned in to kiss him, hard and fast. “I would live inside you if I could.”

“You can live there part time. Like, right now. I won’t even charge rent or anything.”

They both laughed as Steve lifted him up in his arms and carried him towards his bedroom, smiling up at him and barely paying attention to where he was going. He knew the way like the back of his hand anyway.

It was more rushed than usual, but they weren’t playing right now. At least not yet.

Eddie could tell Steve needed this, needed to just have Eddie against him, touch him until he was writhing with pleasure. Eddie needed it too.

Having Steve kissing his tattoos, his moles on his chest, the scar on his thigh from when he cut himself trying to make his own sword as a kid, was like finally feeling sunshine after a rainstorm. He could feel himself shivering, but it wasn’t from the cold.

“You okay, baby?” Steve whispered against his skin, breath making goosebumps appear against him.

“So good, daddy.”

Steve paused, pulling away from him.

Eddie whined.

“Eddie, baby, look at me.” Steve’s tone was different now, not nearly as soft or calm. Eddie looked at him, of course. Whatever it was had to be serious. “Love, do you know what you just said?”

He wasn’t floating or anything, hadn’t really gone numb or thoughtless like he did when they played. They were just making out, getting a bit heated, but nothing like they had the night before.

“Um, no? I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You called me daddy.”

Eddie sat up.

“I didn’t mean to. I-”

“Eds, baby, breathe.” Steve’s hands were solid against his shoulders, holding him down, keeping him tethered to their bubble of safety. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”

“But it’s weird, right? It’s different than what we do. And we didn’t ever talk about that and you shouldn’t have to-”

Steve’s lips against his shut him up quickly, but his mind still raced with apologies and excuses, things he could say to make sure Steve wouldn’t run from him.

“Sweet boy, nothing we do and nothing you could ever say is going to be weird to me. It just startled me a little.” Steve kissed the tip of his nose while his hands rubbed gentle circles into his upper arms. “You never mentioned that’s something you were into before.”

“I didn’t think it was something I was into,” Eddie admitted, cheeks red. “I’ve never been into it before.”

“Not even in porn?”

Eddie shook his head. “I didn’t really get it.”

“Do you wanna talk about why you said it?” Steve was always so careful and kind, patient when Eddie felt ready to explode.

“I just felt cared for.”

“More than usual?”

“I guess,” Eddie shrugged. “I wasn’t even floating or anything. I just knew you’d make sure I was okay and that you’ve been making sure I was okay all day.”

“Yeah. I’ll always take care of you, baby, you know that.” Steve pecked his lips. “Do you think you wanna call me that sometimes?”

Eddie didn’t really know. He certainly hadn’t put any thought into it before now, and he didn’t think Steve had either. And with how he was still coming off of his drop, and how stressed Steve had been this morning, maybe now wasn’t the time to dissect it.

“Maybe.” Eddie leaned his head forward, resting it against Steve’s broad chest. Steve’s arms wrapped around him, centering him. “Think I need to sleep on it.”

“Mkay, baby. Whenever you’re ready,” Steve kissed the top of his head. “You wanna keep going or just cuddle?”

Eddie knew it would feel good to keep going, but he could feel the exhaustion deep in his bones and muscles, and he knew that Steve was probably just as tired. Anything they did now would be born out of necessity, not because they wanted to work each other over.

“Cuddle.”

“You’re so good for me, baby.”

He let the words wash over him as Steve pulled him against his chest. They settled together, Steve’s fingers tracing patterns along Eddie’s back and sides until all he could focus on was being surrounded by Steve’s love.

“Love you so much, sweet boy,” Steve whispered as Eddie slowly drifted to sleep.

The next time he woke up, he’d smile and curl further into Steve’s side and he’d start his day feeling good.

He’d always feel good with Steve by his side.

[mxrsmordre]

Lily Evans

hey isn’t that Lily Evans? I’ve heard that the 23 year old witch can be be kind of obstinate and brazen…. but that might not be true because I also heard the Muggleborn can be quite charismatic and compassionate. One of my muggleborn friends thought they were Kennedy McMann, but I have no idea who that is.

Ex Hogwarts House: Gryffindor Loyalty: Order of the Phoenix Gender Identity and Pronouns: Cisfemale, she/her Sexuality: Demisexual Changes to Canon: n/a

What four songs would be a must in your characters playlist?

Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles

Raging on a Sunday by Bohnes

711 by Emei

Body Bag by Neoni

Biography As a child, she was filled with wonder at each new day for each new day answered one curiosity and brought a hundred more in its place. her eyes would widen almost comically when she discovered something not easily explained or something she was not ready to understand. not all discoveries were great — both in the sense of size and meaning. finding out her mother had been santa claus all along was meaningful for a brief period in her life. but it also meant her mother loved her enough to let her believe in magic just a little bit longer before age and the loss of wonder would inevitably catch up with her. her elder sister calling her a freak for the first time seemed like such a small thing at the time — just a bit of name calling between siblings who spent too much time together — but was instead a cruel beginning to a tumultuous relationship with someone that she had always assumed would be there for her. even that could not kill her thirst for life and all the adventures it would bring. most discoveries were great ones, ones that filled her imagination to the brim with the many possibilities of life. but every child must grow up and discover for themself that the magic they had clung to as children was gone forever and replaced with the monotony of adult life. but for a lucky few, this moment never comes. lily evans was one of the few.  for much of her life, lily has heard the same few words used to describe her. passionate, charming, intelligent, and above all, kind. she has a heart full of fire, offering warmth to those close to her and scorching remarks to those in the wrong. she wasn’t perfect by any means, of course; she was the first to admit that. she wasn’t one to shy from confrontation, especially if another was being wronged. of course, that meant she probably inserted herself into situations when she shouldn’t, but lily was never one to let a perceived bully win. she was stubborn as a mule, as her father always told her, but she wasn’t completely unwilling to change. she’s never struggled to forgive another, but she never forgets what they’ve done to her. but she was so full of life, always wanting to reach higher and higher for whatever was just out of reach. independence almost seemed strange to lily. leaving hogwarts and losing her parents so close to her own entry into the adult world along with the rise of someone who would threaten the entire world truly shaped the way lily began to view the world. she optimistic, but not naive about what was going on in the world. as a child, she had always been told that good always triumphed over evil in the end. as a teenager, she learned that while good may win, there will always be losses. and now? well, things have certainly changed. lily had always been convinced in happy endings, had known everything would be okay in the end. but now it feels like they are approaching the end of the story, and there’s no happy ending in sight.

Headcanons:

Lily got a cat shortly before her sixth year at Hogwarts. It was a small thing, the runt of the litter, but she fell in love anyways. It wasn’t supposed to survive, but she recognized the determination and will to live and bottle fed him until he was healthy. She named him Apollo, but calls him Paul and brought him back to Hogwarts with her, calling him her good luck charm. She's had him ever since.

While she is working with the Order, she is also in training to become a Healer at St. Mungo's.

Her parents died during her seventh year at Hogwarts in a car accident. Something so mundane when the world was filled with magic was something that never quite made sense to her. She threw herself into her studies afterwards as a way to cope.

Lily’s favorite band is and has always been The Beatles mainly due to her parents. They'd always play old records while making Sunday morning breakfast, and laugh while dancing around the kitchen. After her parent's deaths, she inherited that record player and od records, and they never fail to cheer her up. Some of her favorite memories include The Beatles playing in the background.

Lily's boggart has changed over the course of her life. When she was a child, it would have taken the form of the boogeyman her father told her stories about. While she was in Hogwarts, it took the form of Petunia turning her back on her. However after leaving Hogwarts and seeing the direction the wizarding world may be heading, when people actually started dying, it took the form of her loved ones perishing while she stood by and watched.

ooc: Ali / 32 / she/her / est

[hexensalbei]

jealousy, turning saints into the sea

find it on ao3

Eddie has never thought of himself as a jealous type. He has never felt a reason to be jealous even when he was away, on another mission. It was a rather unfamiliar emotion. It was until he met Buck. Or, to be more specific, until he met Taylor Kelly.

She was exactly this kind of woman he has always been avoiding. Confident (or even too confident), cunning and a little bit vicious. Heʼs not intimidated by strong women—hell, he knows and works with amazing women like Hen or Athena—and he loves them. But Taylor is different, though. Sheʼs more malicious and focused on herself, on her career. Even if Buck claims she has changed, Eddie still doesnʼt trust her. He canʼt trust or like her and he was really trying to accept her. The problem is, sheʼs still very much interested in Buck and she dates him. And thatʼs something Eddie canʼt get past. In fact, theyʼre on a date right now and thatʼs the only thing he can think about.

Oh, Eddie really wants to see his best friend happy... Just not necessarily with Taylor. He wants to be that someone who would make Buck happy. Getting shot helped him realize that maybe his feelings are not as platonic as he thought. Theyʼre as far from platonic as they can possibly be. Which is why he spends his evening alone, sulking on the couch. Christopher has a sleepover at Grant-Nash house, Ana is long gone from his life and Buckʼs on a date. He was concerned earlier about leaving Eddie all alone but Eddie insisted he would be okay.

He really regrets his words now. Heʼs not okay. Heʼd rather spend his evening curled up with Buck, watching some movies. Theyʼve been doing this since Buck kind of moved in to help Eddie with his recovery and take care of Christopher. And Eddie has adjusted to this new reality embarrassingly quickly. He loves being woken up by his best friend, he loves joyous breakfasts with Christopher and Buck, he loves when Buck comes home after the shift and asks how his boys are doing. He loves that Buckʼs so patient and sweet even if Eddieʼs all whiny and cranky. He just loves Buck and itʼs hard to see him with someone else. But he wanted to be a good friend and let Buck enjoy himself instead of babysitting him.  

The TV is playing a sappy and dumb rom-com but Eddie doesn’t even notice. He stares at it but he can’t focus. He’s still thinking about Buck and his date—which should be over soon—and wondering what they might’ve been doing. Unsurprisingly, it doesnʼt help and just makes his misery worse.

He almost calls him.

He stops before he touches the dial button and bites his lip.

This is ridiculous and pathetic.

Buck told him to call if something was wrong but is he really that petty and desperate to cut Buckʼs date short and make him come back?

He wants to say no but it wouldnʼt be a complete truth. Heʼs petty and jealous and he really tries not to destroy this date even if itʼs with Taylor Kelly. God, sometimes he really has that strange urge to strangle her just because sheʼs always somewhere hanging around Buck. 

Do not embarrass yourself, Diaz, he thinks, carefully putting away his phone on the table.

But what if Buckʼs not coming home tonight?

And there it is, that annoying, pesky voice in his mind, always ready to let the doubt creep in.

No.

He canʼt behave like a whiny, little brat.

He should be better than this. 

He should, for Buckʼs sake. 

He lets out a long, heavy sigh and he looks at the phone. 9:30 pm. Itʼs still not that late, he doesnʼt really need help. He can hold on for a little longer.

He can, right?

 At 10 pm heʼs not that sure about this anymore. Heʼs still sitting on the couch, nervously tapping at his leg and waiting for his best friend.

Fuck it. Heʼll cringe at himself later.

He dials Buckʼs number, biting his lip quite hard.

Heʼs not really surprised Buck picks up almost immediately. He always does it. 

“Eds? Are you okay?” He asks, his voice all concerned.

“Y-Yeah, I am. It’s just...” Eddie falls silent for a moment. He shouldʼve thought at least about a good excuse but itʼs too late now. “Iʼm so sorry for calling you on a date but...”

“... You need my help?” Buck finishes. “I told you, you can call me if you need me. Iʼll be home in twenty.” He promises, not even waiting for Eddie to explain why.

“Thanks, Buck.” Eddie says shyly and hangs up.

It... Wasnʼt as bad as he thought it would be. He doesnʼt feel that bad as he expected to. He feels embarrassed, just a little bit, but thatʼs all. Buck is coming home and thatʼs the only thing that matters. He will explain it... Somehow.

The next twenty minutes feel like an eternity of torture but he finally hears the keys jingling and seconds later, Buck coming inside. 

“Hey, Eddie.” He says warmly. He doesnʼt seem to be upset about the date and Eddie really hopes he wonʼt be pissed about it. “How are you feeling? Did you take the meds? Are you in pain?”

That sweet concern in his voice and the way he rushes to him to check his pulse, his forehead to confirm heʼs okay, it moves Eddie to the point he almost blurts out I love you.

“No... Iʼm not in pain and I did take my meds. Itʼs... I wanted to change my clothes but I couldn't take off my shirt.” He says instead, looking apologetically at his best friend.

“You really called me to help you take off your shirt?” Buck asks curiously, raising an eyebrow. Eddie blushes and starts to worry that he mightʼve pissed him off after all. But Buck doesnʼt sound angry when he continues. “... After I told you to change your clothes before I go out but you insisted you donʼt see any reason to change it?” 

“Maybe?” Eddie admits.

Buck laughs heartily.

“And Iʼm the dumbass one. Now, sit up, Edmundo and let me change it.” He orders.

Eddie does it without hesitation. Theyʼve done it a lot of times already—even though it wasnʼt too easy at first—that they could do it with their eyes closed. Buck carefully pulls off Eddieʼs shirt and his touch is very light, almost like a brush of a feather but Eddie still feels it and it runs shivers down his spine.

“I gotta admit, though, that Iʼm relieved you werenʼt a stubborn mule and didnʼt try to do it all by yourself.”

Eddie scoffs.

“When I was the stubborn mule?”

“You want the exact dates?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Buck’s smile is very cocky and confident. “You’re doing so well because you have the best nurse in the world. Who puts up with your stubbornness and constant whining. And you love me for it.”

“I do.” 

You don’t know how much, he adds in his thoughts. 

Buck helps him put on his favourite sleeping t-shirt, takes a beer from the fridge and bottle of water for Eddie and then settles on the couch next to him. 

“It was only an excuse.” Eddie blurts out suddenly. Heʼs not sure why he said it; maybe itʼs because he doesnʼt like to lie.

“What was an excuse?” Buck asks, opening his bottle. He sounds curious, but also a little bit cautious.

“The shirt. I didnʼt want to change my shirt. I was just jealous because you were on a date with Taylor.”

Buck chokes on his beer. He needs a moment or two to process Eddieʼs words.

“Why are you even jealous? Is it because youʼre single again? Do you... Do you miss Ana?”

Eddie looks at him quizzically. 

“What? No. I donʼt miss her.” He huffs and falls silent because he doesnʼt know how to say what he means and not to sound like a complete asshole.

“Then why are you jealous? I know you donʼt like Taylor but I swear, sheʼs different now, sheʼs changed now and actually, weʼre not—”

“Iʼm in love with you. Iʼm jealous because Iʼm in love with you.” Eddie interrupts him. He looks at his hands, pretending to find something interesting here. He didnʼt even think about it, it just happened. Heʼs afraid of what he will hear next, what will their friendship look like, heʼs afraid it might be the end of their amazing relationship that theyʼve built.

Buck says nothing, maybe for a minute or two and the panic in Eddieʼs chest starts to rise. The words are out and thereʼs no coming back, he canʼt take them back. He canʼt make Buck forget about this and knowing him, not only he wouldnʼt forget but he would also spend a lot of time analysing them.

Buck touches his chin to force him to look up and look into his eyes but Eddie doesnʼt do it.

“Eds.”

Itʼs quiet, fragile, unsure, pleading. Eventually, Eddie obliges. He sees Buckʼs face so close to his; he can see those cute blue eyes shining with excitement and how the corners of his mouth curl into a sweet smile. Heʼs not horrified, scared or disappointed, itʼs the opposite of it.

“You are a real dumbass, Diaz.” Buck says before he kisses him. Itʼs soft and chaste as if he doesnʼt want to overwhelm his best friend even if he was the one to say about his feelings. Eddie is overwhelmed, not because of the kiss, itʼs rather because he can barely believe itʼs true, itʼs real. He cradles Buckʼs face in his hands, caresses his cheek with his thumb and kisses him back. 

Buck moves closer to him and thereʼs something sweet and touching with the way he carefully shifts his position to be more comfortable and not to accidentally hurt him. Eddie wants to say something sassy and flirting, mention something about Buck being the most attentive and caring nurse he’s had but before he opens his mouth, Buck kisses him again.

“Wait, Buck—” Eddie pulls away from Buck (he does it very reluctantly but he needs to know) to look into his eyes. “What about Taylor?”

“Now you’re thinking about Taylor?” Buck asks with amusement. “Taylor is my friend. We’re better as friends rather than a couple.”

“So why did you go on a date with her tonight?”

“I’ve never said I was going on a date. I just said that I’m going out with Taylor. You just assumed it’s a date.” Buck points out, slightly grinning. 

“And you didn’t correct me.” Eddie adds accusatory. “You’d spare me a lot of misery.” 

“If I had even the slightest suspicion you might be in love with me, I would have acted sooner.”

“I thought I was very obvious. Everyone told me that, even Ana said that I looked like a lovesick fool when she saw us together.” Eddie admits honestly. “I made you Christopher’s legal guardian, wasn’t it obvious enough?”

“Uh, no? I mean… I was wondering if it means more but I don’t want to jump into conclusions and give myself false hope. So I’d rather not think about it too much.” Buck explains shyly. “I didn’t want to destroy our friendship. I could live with unrequited love but not without my favourite Diaz boys.”

“We’re both dumbasses then.” Eddie laughs and kisses his best friend again.

                                              ⸙

“I must admit, your ideas might not be the smoothest but they definitely work on Buck.” Eddie hears Taylorʼs amused voice behind his back and he turns around to face her.

 Itʼs an early evening but the whole team is at Diaz house (or, to be more specific, at Buckley—Diaz house because Buck has officially moved in a few days ago) to celebrate Eddieʼs comeback to the 118. Taylorʼs here too because Buck insisted on inviting her—even though Eddie wasnʼt ecstatic. He knows that she is no threat to his relationship but heʼs still a little bit cautious.

 “What ideas?” He asks curiously.

 “Donʼt play dumb, Diaz. You have always found a way to keep me away from him.” Taylor laughs heartily. “I get it, I really get it. You just want to protect him. But you donʼt have to worry, I have no intention of stealing him or hurting him.”

 “Okay, maybe I was trying to keep him as far from you as possible. I didnʼt like you, I didnʼt trust you. Hell, I still have trouble trusting you. But Buck likes you and I trust him.” Eddie shrugs. “And maybe, maybe youʼre not as bad as Iʼve thought.”

 “I take that as a compliment.” Taylor grins and takes a sip of the drink she has in her hands. “After you were shot... We thought for a brief moment that maybe we should try, be together but it didnʼt last long. Sure, we have a great chemistry but we want different things in life. Buck wants a family and Iʼm not thinking about it. I donʼt think Iʼm a good material for a wife or a mother. Probably not.” She says honestly. Eddie detects a note of regret, maybe a grief in her voice but he doesnʼt want to pry; they donʼt have this kind of relationship to tell about their secrets.

 “Youʼre probably too hard for yourself.” He cuts in anyway.

 “Maybe.” She chuckles. “But let me finish. My first priority is my work and Buckʼs first priority are his Diaz boys and it was easy to notice it so our relationship wouldnʼt work anyway. Especially after he told me about your will. Something this big as making Buck legally tied to your family would be problematic if you two were in relationships with other people. And the fact that you two are in love. When I met Buck again, I couldnʼt understand at first why you were always so pissed off when I was around. Iʼve tried to be nice but you were always so sarcastic and dismissive. But then I was enlightened... You were just jealous because youʼre in love with him too. Do you know how our dates,” she makes an air quote, “looked like? I was trying to convince him that his feelings are not one-sided and he was repeating that you would never fall in love with him. That was very exhausting.”

 “That sounds very much like Buck.” Eddie sighs heavily. “If Iʼm honest, I have fallen for his idiot ass embarrassingly fast. It just took me a long time to realize this.” He admits. “Sometimes Iʼm still surprised he fell in love with me.”

 “Youʼre the finest dilf in LA with the softest heart, whatʼs not to love? Itʼs not surprising he fell in love with you.”

 “Did you just call me the finest dilf in LA?” Eddie asks, completely surprised and amused at the same time.

 “I have eyes, Diaz, and I can admit it even though the mentioned dilf is not a fan of mine.” She answers with a smirk.

 “Are you calling my boyfriend dilf?” They hear Buck’s voice and immediately turn around. “If I didn’t know you, I’d think you’re hitting on Eddie.” He adds and kisses Eddie on the cheek. It’s new, fresh and even though Eddie loves Buck’s affectionate gestures, it still makes him blush. 

“Please, as if I ever had a chance.” Taylor sniggers. “You two are so disgustingly into each other, I doubt you’d notice anyone else. Oh, and Buckley? You owe me fifty bucks.” 

Eddie raises an eyebrow, looking from Taylor to Buck curiously.

“We had a bet and Buck lost it.” The reporter explains and she looks very pleased with herself. “We were betting how long it would take you to ask Buck to move in. I told him you wouldn’t want to waste more time but he didn’t want to believe me.” 

Eddie smiles widely.

“You were right, Evan. She’s not that bad at all.”

[criminalmindzjunkie]

The Reward of Suffering

next chapter

Summary: A retelling of the events of season 12 episode 13. 

Gif credit to the wonderful and talented @imagining-in-the-margins​

A/N: After several months of contemplation, I have finally decided to post part one of my first ever fic on Tumblr! This fic will follow the event of Spencer’s prison arc, so needless to say there will be SPOILERS. This first part is super long, but I felt that it needed to be in order to set up the plot. I hope you all enjoy reading! If you would like to be tagged on future updates, let me know!

Pairing: Spencer Reid/Fem! Reader

Warnings: no smut (yet), mentions of past frug use, cursing, typical CM case talk

Word count: 12.1k

           “Reid is in jail.”

           I felt the color immediately drain from my face and an intense feeling of dread began to wash through my body. I sat up in my chair, back ramrod straight. I briefly looked towards the faces of my teammates, Luke and JJ to my left and Penelope to my right. Their faces were all contorted, displaying varying degrees of shock and confusion. It was hard for any of us to process what we were hearing. The idea of Spencer Reid, the same Spencer who wore a mask to the office on Halloween and put on elaborate magic shows for everyone’s children, doing anything that would warrant being put behind bars was preposterous.

           Surely, this is all just a big misunderstanding.

           “Jail?” Penelope squeaked out. My eyes flitted to her, taking note of the way her eyebrows were drawn together in disbelief. She was thinking the same thing I’m sure we all were; that there was no way Spencer Reid had engaged in any illegal activity. Spencer was a well-educated, highly regarded FBI agent, for Christ sake. He knew the laws of the land better than any of us.

           “In Mexico.”

My attention focused solely on Emily. In the few weeks since I had come to know her, I had begun to look at her not only as a sort of fearless leader, but also as a kind of fiercely loyal friend that I was incredibly lucky to have. Emily somehow managed to find the perfect balance between being accommodating and stern. She was the kind of boss you could have a drink and cut up with after a long day, but she also carried herself in a way that demanded the utmost respect in the workplace. Emily Prentiss’s bravery was unmatched, and I admired her for that.

It shook me to my core when her eyes met mine and I saw the pure, unbridled fear in them. If Emily was scared, then this must be leagues worse than we could have ever imagined.

“What the hell is he doing down there?” JJ asked, crossing her arms and shuffling from one foot to the other.

“I don’t know. I didn’t talk to him. The call came in to Cruz from their lead investigator.”

Luke was the next to chime in. “What’s he being held for?”

“Drug possession,” Rossi said, before taking on, “with intent to distribute.”

For the second time that day, it felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. Images of Spencer sitting across from me in a dimly lit coffee shop, tripping over his words as he confided in me, spilling his deepest and darkest secrets in a voice barely above a whisper. His voice had grown stronger as he neared the end of his story and he had dug deep in his satchel, producing a small golden coin. We both had tears in our eyes as we looked at the writing engraved into the coin; unity, service recovery. Spencer Reid was ten years sober, and the pride on his face was as clear as day.

There was no way he would throw all of that away.

“What type of drugs?”

“Cocaine and heroin,” Rossi said, his voice shaky.

Rossi and Spencer had always had a good relationship. Spencer had admired his work long before he met him, having read and reread every book he had ever published. It had delighted Spencer that he and Rossi had managed to develop rapport so quickly. Rossi was the only one talented enough at the game of chess to even think of giving Spencer a run for his money, though many of us had tried. In one of many hushed conversations shared on the jet, he had once told me that he had begun to think of Rossi as somewhat of a father figure; he didn’t quite fill the role in the same way Gideon had, but Spencer was thankful just the same. One look at Rossi’s troubled expression was enough to tell me that the feelings were definitely mutual.

“Oh my God. This can’t be happening.” JJ was positively crestfallen, clutching a hand against her own chest in an attempt to ground herself. Her other hand came up to her face as she absentmindedly pushed her hair away.

“We need Lewis and Walker here, ASAP,” Emily directed her order and Penelope, who was quick to comply.

Everyone sprang into action, but I found myself unable to move, weighed down by the deeply unsettling circumstance. It felt as if I was no longer in my own body, like I was watching everything unfold from an outsider’s perspective. Maybe I am, I thought. Maybe this is all just some horrible nightmare. Any second now, my alarm will go off and this will all be over.

I waited and waited for my alarm to sound, but that never happened. Instead, Emily crouched down in front of me, grasping my arm firmly in her right hand.

“I know how devastated you must be. Trust me, I do,” she sympathized, her deep brown eyes boring into my own. “But Reid’s going to need you now more than ever. You’re his best friend and you know him better than anyone. Did he ever mention to you that he was going to Mexico?”

I shook my head numbly, my motions feeling alien and stilted.

“Never. He told me the same thing he told you; that he was going to Houston for a few days to meet with his mother’s doctor,” I whispered. I feared that if I raised my voice any higher, tears would begin to fall. Maintaining my composure was becoming harder with every passing second, and I wasn’t exactly privy to breaking down in front of my boss. “I guess I don’t know him as well as I thought.”

Emily sighed, letting go of my arm before straightening up.

“Apparently, none of us did. But I know damn well that this has to be a mistake. We’ll get him out of this.”

           The apprehension in her voice told me that even she wasn’t sure we could pull this one off.

--

           “This has got to be Scratch,” Tara stated, her voice wafting through the speakers of Luke’s laptop. Emily, Rossi, Luke and I were currently in the jet, on our way to the jail where Spencer was being held. All of us were huddled close together around the computer, listening on with eager ears. “He was laying low, and now we know why.”

           “Crossing the border as a fugitive is a huge risk,” Luke pointed out.

           “The reward is even greater. He’s been punishing the team, and now his target is Reid.” Emily’s voice was full of frustration and contempt.

           “Peter Lewis dropped off the map after attacking Tara’s family,” Stephen chimed in. Not even his deep baritone voice could do anything to calm my frazzled nerves. “Maybe he’s been hiding in Mexico this whole time.”

           “We also have to consider that it isn’t related to him,” I murmured. Several pairs of eyes locked on me, shocked. I had been uncharacteristically quiet since this whole ordeal began, limiting my responses to one word replies and hums of acknowledgement. On a normal day, I’d be throwing in my two cents any time I saw fit. Today, I was struggling just to keep breathing.

           “Who else would it be?” Rossi asked.

           “Drug cartels. Could’ve threatened Reid and used him as a mule.” Saying his name was painful, because it reminded me that we weren’t just talking about a victim with whom we had no personal ties; we were talking about our colleague and beloved friend.

           “Agreed,” Rossi nodded. “This could simply be a case of bad luck. Reid was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

           “Spencer’s mom is okay.” JJ’s announcement was like music to my ears. I let out an audible sigh of relief. “The home nurse he hired said all is stable.”

           “How long did he tell the nurse he’d be gone?”

           “Three days.”

           “That sounds reasonable. After the Palm Springs case, Reid said he had to get back to Houston to talk to his mom’s doctor,” Emily interjected. I nodded along in agreement. He’d told me the same thing when I talked to him the night before last.

The fatigue in his voice had alerted me to the fact that things hadn’t been going so well with his mother. Her condition had been rapidly deteriorating in the recent months, prompting Spencer to make the tough decision to remove her from the assisted living facility she was at and into his own apartment. His main argument had been that no one could possibly take better care of his mother that him; that he was familiar with her condition and how best to respond when she had an episode. When I had asked him how he was handling it all, he was quick to reassure me that it was not anything he couldn’t handle.

Spencer’s loyalty ran deep; so deep that I knew he would do anything in his power to take care of Diana, but I’d never imagined that it would land him in fucking jail.

“Well, Houston is only a five-hour drive from the border,” Tara mused. “The question is, why did he go down there?”

“And why does he have narcotics?” Rossi was the first to speak on what was at the forefront of everyone’s mind.

“Yeah, exactly. He wouldn’t… He wouldn’t do that. Those drugs were planted on him,” Penelope insisted.

“Absolutely, but there’s something bigger in play. That’s why he crossed the border and kept it a secret. There’s something he didn’t want to share with any of you.”

I cringed at Stephen’s choice of wording. Spencer and I were as close as two people could be, and there was nothing I withheld from him. He knew everything about me, every dark and embarrassing thought that had ever crossed my mind; yet, he accepted me just the same. I had always assumed that it went both ways, that he was just as honest and forthcoming with me as I was with him. It hurt to know that there were things he kept from me, secrets that he felt he couldn’t trust me with.

But most of all, it absolutely gutted me to think that he was dealing with something so horrible that it landed him in jail, and he that he had to do it all alone.

“Okay, so what would make him risk everything?” Emily pondered aloud.

“His mom.” My answer was instantaneous.

A ping sounded from the other end of the video call, and we all leaning in, our interest piqued.

“Cruz just sent me the arresting report,” Penelope announced, clicking away at her computer before continuing. “It says here that Reid was involved in a high-speed chase.”

“What?” I choked out, my voice coming out several pitches higher than usual. “Spencer hardly ever drives.” I could feel my stomach begin to churn, bile threatening to force its way up my esophagus. This isn’t right, I wanted to scream. Our Spencer would never get himself involved in something that would put himself or others at risk.

“None of this sounds like him,” Penelope whispered, her thoughts mimicking my own. “It says he was wearing jeans and a baseball cap and that he was really confused. According to the arresting officer, he was really high on something.”

Unity, service, respect; ten years sober. All down the fucking drain.

I shot up from my seat, bolting down the walkway and into the bathroom. I immediately fell to my knees, barely managing to push my hair out of the way before retching into the toilet bowl. I continued like this for several minutes, only pausing momentarily when I felt large, soothing hands running up and down my back. Soft murmurings of reassurance alerted me to the fact that it was Luke who was sitting with me. I let out a strained ‘thank you’ before another wave of nausea hit me, rendering me speechless. Luke held my hair back, never once leaving my side.

When I had thrown up the entirety of my breakfast and all I could do was dry heave, I slumped back against the wall, relishing in how cool it felt against my flushed skin. A stretch of silence passed before he decided to break it.

“That was an extreme reaction,” Luke pointed out, still sitting in the floor with his legs crisscrossed. I noticed how closely he was watching me, his eyes focused on reading my expressions. He was profiling me, that much was obvious. It was an unspoken rule between us all that we would never profile one another, but any fight I had left in me had long since dissipated.

“He worked so hard to get clean, Luke. I wasn’t around when it happened, but he told me about it. He was so proud of himself,” I whispered. My throat was now raw and my voice came out more than a little bit hoarse.

Luke’s eyebrows came together, confusion clear on his face.

“Get clean? What are you talking about?”

I let out a shuddery breath. It felt wrong to divulge information on Spencer’s personal life; like I was betraying his trust. Given the circumstance, I supposed he wouldn’t mind, but it still felt treacherous and left a bad taste in my mouth. Sorry, Spence.

“Ten years ago, Reid was kidnapped by an unsub with DID. He kept him in a remote cabin for several days, alternating between beating him senseless and shooting him full of so much hydromorphone that he couldn’t remember his own name. At one point, he even,” I trailed off, hot tears spilling out of my eyes and running down my cheeks. Luke took my hand in his in an act of reassurance, his way of telling me not to rush. Luke hadn’t been with us for long, and our interactions thus far hadn’t gone much farther than conversations about work. Seeing the way he was offering himself up to me as a confidant and shoulder to cry on made me feel guilty for ever having written him off.

Thank God for Luke Alvez.

After a long pause, I managed to continue. “Spencer ended up having a seizure and he died for several minutes. The unsub’s more benevolent personality, Tobias, was able to resuscitate him. Eventually Spencer was able to take him down, but the trauma mixed with the exposure to such a highly addictive drug led to him developing a dependence on it.”

Luke swore and ran a hand through his hair.

“I never would’ve guessed it. The kid carries himself so well.”

A small, fond smile tugged at the corner of my lips.

“He’s amazing, really. He detoxed all by himself and started going to NA meetings. This past October marked ten years. We celebrated by going to one of those really fancy museums he likes and he insisted on taking the guided tour so that he could see how many errors the guide would make,” I let out a light laugh at the memory. “Every time they’d get something wrong, he’d lean down whisper the correct information so that only I could hear it. I don’t think I’d ever seen him that happy,” I reminisced, allowing myself to forget about the current situation for the tiniest of moments. I wondered if I’d ever get to experience a day like that with Spencer ever again.

“You two are close, I take it?”

I nodded. Luke had fit in with the group so seamlessly that I had forgotten that he had only been with us for a short time. He didn’t really know the dynamics of everything yet.

“He’s my best friend.”

Luke hummed, and I could feel his eyes looking at me inquisitively.

“And that boyfriend of yours, he doesn’t mind?” Okay, maybe Luke was a little bit more perceptive than he let on.

Gavin and I had begun dating at the end of my first year with the BAU. He and I had meet in the most cliché of ways; bumping into each other in the cereal aisle at the grocery store. Gavin was more than a little bit handsome, but what had reeled me in had been the way he taken one look at the box of cereal in my cart and immediately scrunched his nose up in disgust.

“Plain Cheerios? Are you some sort of masochist, or something?” he had asked, a playful lilt to his voice. Normally, if a strange man had approached me in public, I would’ve been quick to express my disinterest. If my job had taught me anything, it was that a woman being approached by a strange man was a recipe for trouble. But something about him seemed wholly unthreatening, and I couldn’t help but laugh at his forwardness, raising an eyebrow at him.

“As if your choice is any better. Lucky Charms? What are you, six?”

“Don’t even go there. Lucky Charms are magically delicious, thank you very much,” he sniffed, feigning superiority. “And if we’re touching on the subject of age, the only person I know that eats plain Cheerios is my eighty-six-year-old grandmother. You look a bit young to be worrying about heart health, and I refuse to believe that you actually enjoy the taste, so what gives?”

“First of all, I find it concerning that you are so familiar with cereal slogans,” I breezed, leaning against my shopping cart. “Second, I am curious; do you make it a habit to harass people about their cereal preferences?”

“Only if they’re cute.”

And that had been that. Several dates later he had asked me to be his girlfriend over a dinner he had attempted to make himself. I said yes and he kissed me, nearly knocking over his plate of burnt chicken parmesan in the process.

“We, uh, have an understanding. He knows that Spencer and I are just good friends.”

Gavin and I did have an understanding, but it wasn’t a very solid one. In fact, I was sure that he damn near despised Spencer’s very existence. He had done a good job at hiding it for a while, but after coming home one night from an impromptu movie night with Spencer, he had revealed to me that he had a jealous streak a mile long. I reassured him that there was absolutely nothing that he needed to worry about, but I could tell he didn’t believe a word of it. Gavin had out flat demanded that I cut all ties with Spencer, and I had laughed in his face.

“I’m not the kind of girl that likes to be told what to do. Either you learn to live with him being a part of my life, or you can find someone else to boss around, because I can tell you right now, that won’t fly with me.”

My threat had proven to be effective, and he had apologized, and that had been the end of that. He still wasn’t fond of the idea that Spencer and I were such close friends, but he hadn’t tried to proposition me with any more ridiculous ultimatums.

“That’s good to hear,” Luke hummed, squeezing my hand before rising to his feet. I could tell that he didn’t necessarily buy into what I was saying, but I was thankful that he didn’t press it any further. “What do you say we go back out there. We’ve got to be getting close by now.”

I nodded and he helped me to my feet. I bent down to the faucet, swishing some water in my mouth before spitting it out.

When Luke and I returned to our seats, I was immediately aware of the way Rossi and Emily were eyeing me; like I was a delicate thing that needed to be handled with kid gloves.

I absolutely hated it.

“Sorry about that. It won’t happen again,” I said, before turning my attention back to the video call and saying, “so, what did we miss?”

--

The police station was surprisingly small. The hallways were narrow and the light bulbs above me gave off an almost green tint, casting an eerie glow on the place. The sounds of disgruntled detainees calling out drifted through the hallways, sounding akin to the moaning of a ghost. My eyes darted around constantly as we walked, the uneasy feeling in my stomach growing with every step we took towards the heart of the precinct.

“Thank you for calling us.” Emily’s words were directed at the police officer, Chief Castenada, who was leading us down the hall. He was a short man with graying hair and a seemingly permanent frown etched into his face. It didn’t take a genius to deduce that he wasn’t happy that four federal agents were in his jail.

“A U.S. fed in our custody isn’t something we see every day,” the man said, his tone entirely unfriendly. I grimaced.

“Have you gotten any of his tox screen panels back yet?” I prodded, quickening the pace of my strides until I was walking alongside him. He looked down at me like I was a pesky gnat that he wanted to bat away.

“No.”

Color me unsurprised.

“You’ll need to expedite that. We have cause to believe that Doctor Reid was drugged.”

“He was definitely high and driving like a bat out of Hell. Not to mention he had $20,000 worth of heroin in his possession,” he sneered, ceasing to walk and staring down at me with distaste. “Both of which put my officers at risk. You’re in our jurisdiction. Don’t forget that. The rules are different here.”

I opened my mouth, ready to fire back with some smart-assery of my own, but a hand at my elbow stopped me. I turned and saw that it was Luke, who nodded his head to the left of us. I looked in the direction he was referring to, and I felt my heart shatter into a million pieces.

Just up ahead was a holding cell with several poorly constructed benches in the center of it. On the very first row of seats sat Spencer, who had seemingly retreated in to himself. He was hunched over, his arms wrapped pitifully around himself, much like you’d imagine a child might do to keep warm. Spencer’s clothes were tattered and dirty and a bandage adorned his right hand. His usually beautiful chestnut curls were flying around his head in a mess of tangles and dirt. Despite the fact that Spencer towered over most of us, I couldn’t help but notice how incredibly small he looked.

Even as awful as he looked in his current state, a direct contradiction of the way he usually presented himself, I’d never been happier to lay my eyes on someone in my life.

My feet carried me forward before my brain had time to catch up. I closed the distance between me and the cell, pausing and taking a good, long look at him before allowing myself to speak. He hadn’t noticed me standing there yet. His gaze was instead trained on something at the other end of the room, his eyes red rimmed and glassy and his face completely slack.

“Spence?” I called out, the nickname falling from my lips like a prayer. In a way I suppose it was; a prayer that he was alright, that the horrible things Penelope had told us about were nothing but a horrible lie. At first, I was worried that he hadn’t heard me or that he was too out of his mind to even register the sound of my voice. Just when I opened my mouth to speak again, he turned his head in way that I would have described as comically slow if the situation hadn’t been so serious. The spacey look in his eyes told me that my prayers wouldn’t be answered.

Spencer’s eyes locked with mine, but his face remained completely blank, devoid of all expression. I stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, until it hit me like a ton of bricks; he had no clue who I was.

I wanted to be mad. I wanted to scream at him, to ask him how could he forget me, of all people. My anger was irrational and unfair, but I couldn’t help it. While I understood that it was no fault of his own, that the drugs coursing through his veins were to blame, it didn’t make it hurt any less.

I swallowed down the emotions that threatened to spill out, pushing them down into the depths of my being. I couldn’t let my emotional attachment hinder my judgment. I needed to be as vigilant as ever, no, more vigilant. The fate of my favorite person in the whole world depended on it.

“It’s me, Y/N,” I explained, keeping my voice as steady as I could manage. “It’s good to see you, Spencer. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

He watched me for a moment before standing and making his way to where I was leaning against the bars.

“Y/N,” Spencer murmured when he reached me, as if testing my name out to see how it rolled off of his tongue. His stare was still vacant, but having him in front of me after worrying about his wellbeing for the last five hours was more than enough for now. I’d take him however I could have him. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, we came,” I murmured, my eyes raking over every inch of his body for any signs of distress. Other than the bandage on his hand, he seemed to be in one piece.

Rossi was quick to join me, coming to a stop at my left.

“We’re going to get you out of here, kid,” he reassured, his tone more serious than I’d ever heard it.

           “We need to work out some details with the locals, okay?” Emily said, waiting for a response but getting none.

           “Who was your contact down here?” Luke asked.

           Spencer was quicker to respond this time.

           “Rosa,” he mumbled as he grabbed his shirt sleeve and pulled it up. On his inner arm, the name Rosa Medina was written in what was undoubtably his own handwriting. Spencer was notorious around the office for having the worst handwriting. I like to blame it on the fact that he was a doctor, which always elicited a laugh from him. “I think she’s a doctor.”

           Luke pulled his phone out from his pocket, snapping a picture of the name.

           “Where did you meet her?”

           Spencer shook his head and a frown pulled down at the corner of his lips.

           “I… I don’t remember.”

           “If you saw her, would you remember her?”

           Spencer nodded in affirmation.

           “You’re missing time, aren’t you?” I asked, causing him to look at me once more. His brows furrowed together and he was nodding again, slightly surer of himself this time.

           “It’s peeking out. It’s coming in flashes.”

           “And you’ve been drugged?”

           I didn’t know it was possible for his face to fall any more, but the look of shame that manifested itself when he registered my words was absolutely heartbreaking.

           “Yeah, but I didn’t take it myself,” he insisted, a spark of life burning bright in the depths of his eyes. Somewhere in there, under the haze of narcotics, was the same Spencer that had fought tooth and nail for his sobriety all those years ago. My heart broke for him.

           “Of course, you didn’t, Spence. We know that,” I said, almost reaching out to touch him before thinking better of it. “We’re thinking it might be Scratch.”

           Just like before, when I had first spoken to him, absolutely no sign of recognition showed itself on his face.

           “Scratch,” he muttered detachedly, much the same as before.

           Luke’s phone rang then and he excused himself for a moment before stepping away. I looked to Rossi and Emily, who seemed to also be at a loss for words. The silence that filled the room was excruciating, and I once again started to feel like the walls were closing in on me. I wanted nothing more than to scream, to cry out in frustration. The whole situation was unfair in a way that I didn’t think was possible. I was a big believer in karma; put good in and get good out, or something like that. But now, standing outside of a holding cell that looked more like a dungeon than anything, I was ready to throw away that belief entirely.

Of all the people that I know, Spencer was the least deserving of something like this.

           Just when I began to consider ducking outside for a breath of fresh air, Luke returned.

           “Hey, the team sent this. Is this the doctor you met?” he asked, pointing to a picture of a woman he had pulled up on his phone. The woman was of Mexican descent, with short, choppy gray hair. She appeared to be middle aged, from what I could guess.

           Spencer stared at the picture before nodding.

           “Her alias is Rosa Medina and her real name is Nadi Ramos. Garcia tracked her to a motel just outside of town. Does that sound familiar?”

           Spencer’s brows furrowed and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

           “No.”

           “Okay, we’ll need to take Castenada and his officers with us,” Emily announced, before turning and heading towards the door.

           “Do you want company here?” Rossi asked.

           Spencer seemed to take a moment to process before answering with an almost imperceptible nod. He turned his head and focused his gaze on me.

           “Can… Can you stay?”

           Rossi turned to face me too, raising an eyebrow as if to say ‘are you okay with this?’ I gave him what I hoped was a convincing smile. Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure that I could handle this; the this that I am referring to being a nearly catatonic Spencer Reid. I was used to the Spencer who regaled me with interesting tidbits of information whenever there was a lull in conversation. The Spencer that stood before me now was a shell of his former self, and that terrified me.

           “I’ll be fine here. Let me know if you guys find anything,” I told Rossi. He nodded once to me before enveloping me in a tight hug.

           “Resta forte mia piccolo colomba,” Rossi murmured in my ear. I hadn’t a clue what the phrase meant, but the words draped over me like a warm blanket. Suddenly the weight of the current situation didn’t seem so heavy, and I felt immensely thankful that a man like David Rossi was in my life.

           Rossi pressed his lips to the top of my head before releasing me. He gave one last, despairing look to Spencer before hurrying off after Luke and Emily. It could’ve been the light playing tricks on me, or maybe the exhaustion, but when Rossi turned away from us, I swear I saw tears welling in his eyes.

           And then there were two.

           I took glance at my watch for the first time all day, cringing when I saw the time to be 8:17PM. Quantico was an hour ahead, meaning Gavin was probably losing his shit wondering where I was. I sighed, fishing my phone out of my back pocket and turning it on.

           “Spence, I’m going to make a phone call really quick,” I murmured. He offered no reply, just as I had come to expect. He was watching me, standing stock still in the same place he had been the entire time. I moved to stand in the doorway, hopefully far enough away that he couldn’t hear me anymore.

           As soon as my phone booted up, a plethora of notifications came through. Seventeen missed calls and twenty-four unread text messages, to be exact. I decided to forgo reading the messages, instead pressing the return call button and tapping my foot anxiously against the floor. Gavin didn’t keep me waiting long, picking up on the very first ring.

           “About time you answer your goddamn phone,” he hissed out. “Do you know how worried I’ve been? I even called your office phone and no one would answer that, either. What the fuck is going on? Where are you?”

           “I’m… In Mexico.”

           A long pause followed and I held my breath, waiting for the onslaught to begin.

           “You left the country without even bothering to tell me?” Gavin asked, his voice raising in volume. I could picture him now; probably sitting on our sofa, fists balled together and jaw clenched. “Would you like to enlighten me as to why you’re in Mexico?”

           I closed my eyes, frustration bubbling deep inside me. Today was arguably the shittiest day of my entire life, and I certainly didn’t need Gavin harping on about how I hadn’t been in touch. Honestly, informing him of my whereabouts had been the furthest thing from my mind.

           “It’s Spencer,” I began, trying to think of the proper way to word it all. “He got into some… trouble. We think he’s being framed by Scratch.”

           “Isn’t that the guy that just went after Tara’s family?”

           “Yeah, it is. He’s been laying low for the past few months, and I guess he was just building up to all of this. It’s really bad, Gav,” I whispered the last bit, hoping that Spencer couldn’t hear me. If he did, he made no move that indicated it. “He’s high out of his mind and can’t remember anything.”

           “How long will you guys be there?” Gavin asked, completely ignoring the fact that I mentioned Spencer at all. I bit down on my bottom lip to keep from saying something I might regret. I understand that he doesn’t like the guy, but he could show some common decency and at least pretend.

           “I’m not entirely sure. Rossi, Emily, and Luke just headed out to go check on a lead. I don’t know how long that’ll take.”

           “Wait, so, where are you?”

           “I’m at the jail with Spencer, why?” I inquired, running my hand through my hair and absentmindedly combing out the knots that had formed. I was sure that I looked a right mess, but I couldn’t be too bothered to care.

           “Let me get this straight. They left you alone with a guy who is wasted on God knows what, not knowing how he’ll react to it?” A bitter laugh flowed through the phone speaker. “Sounds like you don’t exactly work with the smartest bunch. What if he tries to attack you or something?”

           I let his words hang in the air for a moment, unable to formulate a reply that wasn’t something like you’re being an absolute fucking dick bag right now. No, I was a grown woman and I was going to communicate like one, despite the fact that his ignorant reply was making me shake with rage.

           “The first thing I’m going to address is the fact that this is not some guy. We’re talking about my best friend and teammate, and his name is Spencer. Use it,” I said through gritted teeth. “The second thing is that he’s not some wild animal. He’s not going to try to come through the bars and pounce on me. What he’s going through right now is traumatic, and he doesn’t need to be left alone right now. Show some compassion.”

           “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry,” Gavin muttered. It was the most unapologetic apology I’d ever heard in my life, prompting me to roll my eyes. I don’t understand how I can love someone and want to throttle them simultaneously. “I’m just worried about you, is all. How are you holding up?”

           “I’m as good as can be expected,” I sighed, bringing my free hand up to rub at my eyes. “I’m just tired of watching this guy terrorize all of my friends. First, he takes Hotch from us, then he nearly kills Tara’s brother, and now this. I’m beginning to think we’ll never catch a break.”

           “I know you’re tired, baby. Just try to hang on a little bit longer. As much as I question some of their decisions, your team is good at what they do. You guys will catch him. I have faith in you.”

           There it is. That’s the Gavin that I fell in love with.

           “Thank you,” I murmured. “It’s been a long day and I needed to hear that.” I cast a glance back at Spencer, who was now staring down at his bandaged hand, an indiscernible expression on his face. He looked so lost, standing all alone in the grimy holding cell. The lights cast shadows on his face, making his already angular face look gaunt. The Spencer I knew was the human embodiment of light; filling up every room he was in with his delightfully idiosyncratic presence. The Spencer in the cell was so shrouded in darkness that the room seemed to be swallowing him whole, taking his brilliance and crushing it into smithereens.

“Gav, I think I need to get back in there.”

           “Yeah, alright. Just keep me in the loop this time, please. I don’t like not knowing where my girlfriend is.”

           “I’ll make sure to check in whenever I can,” I promised, before tacking on a, “love you.”

           “Love you, too.”

           I pocketed my phone with hands that shook, no longer from rage but from apprehension. I liked to think that I was good at my job. I had done well at the academy; not well enough to have graduated at the top of my class, but I did manage to be in the top ten. After lucking into the job of a lifetime, I had fully committed myself to learning to be the best profiler I could possibly be. Two years of piecing together the innerworkings of criminal minds had taught me more than I ever could have imagined about the human psyche. I had talked many a deranged psychopath down from the ledge, and I had saved more than a few lives along the way. Unfortunately, not all cases can end favorably. Those are the ones that taught me the most.

           For all that I learned, nothing could’ve prepared me to deal with the shell of a man that stood before me.

           I was standing in front of him now, fiddling nervously with my hands. When Spencer had originally told me about his battle with addiction, I had taken it upon myself to do some research of my own. I wanted to be able to identify the signs, God forbid he ever relapse. While conducting my research, I had read somewhere that the best way to support someone during a come down is by remaining positive and creating a calm, safe environment.

           I was currently the antithesis of calm, but for Spencer’s sake, I was going to do my best.

           I took a step forward and offered him a small smile.

           “I’ve never seen you in jeans and boots before,” I said. I was proud of myself when the words came out sounding relatively casual. “It’s a good look on you, but I have to admit I prefer the academic look. I suppose it’s the sapiosexual in me.”

           He gave no response, but the tinniest tug at the corner of his mouth told me that he found my comment amusing.

           I let my eyes drag over him again and I fixated on the bandage on his right hand, frowning.

           “Do you remember what happened to your hand?”

           Spencer raised his hand up, absentmindedly flipping it over and inspecting it.

           “I don’t know,” he murmured. Spencer’s usually high pitched voice came out gravely, no doubt a byproduct of dehydration related to the drugs. My eyes skimmed across the holding cell and I frowned when I saw no water fountain in sight.

           “M’ gonna go get you some water, okay?” I turned away and pivoted on my heel, taking one step before a hand wrapped around my upper arm. I spun around so fast I nearly caught whiplash.

           Spencer’s eyes were wide and full of panic, conveying more emotion than he’d had since we’d arrived. His eyebrows were drawn together as well, contorting his face into a pitiful expression.

           “Don’t go,” he rasped, his hand still firmly grasping my arm. “Please.”

           The hopelessness in his voice was like a dagger through my heart. I nodded fervently and placed my hand over his, prompting him to loosen his grip. He did, and I took his hand in both of mine. I rubbed my thumbs over his skin, haphazardly tracing patterns in an attempt to calm him.

           “Yeah, okay. I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” I soothed, bringing his hand up to my mouth and placing a chaste kiss to the skin. “I’ve got you, Spence. It’s all going to be okay.”

           The look of panic slowly washed away the longer we stood there. He held onto my hands like I was a lifeline, the only thing tethering him to the ground. While I longed for nothing more than to really embrace him, to pull all of him into my arms and hold on for dear life, the bars that separated us inhibited me from doing so. So instead I just relished in the feel of his hand intertwined with my own.

           It would have to be enough for now.

--

           Nadi Ramos was dead.

           I didn’t have to ask Emily to know that the situation had gone from bad to absolutely fucking terrible. We knew Scratch was a horrendous individual; that much had been proved by his preferred modus operandi. We also knew that he had become fixated on taking down each of us one by one. He’d tried twice with Hotch, even going as far as to target his son, resulting in the two of them joining WITSEC for their own safety. The next blow had come when he had set his sights on Tara, or, more specifically, her brother. We’d gotten lucky with that one, having located and freed her brother just in the nick of time. After the incident with Tara’s brother, we all expected the next attack to come in quick succession. When several months passed with no sign of Scratch, we all became terribly on edge. No one was saying it, but we all were waiting to see which one of us would be next, crossing our fingers and hoping it wouldn’t be us.

           I knew that none of us were exempt from Scratch’s wrath, but for some reason, I’d never imagined him targeting Spencer.

           And target him he fucking did.

           “We know you didn’t do this,” Emily spoke for the group, knowing good and well that we were all on the same page.

           “How did it happen?” Spencer’s back was to us. His shoulders were slumped and his face downturned.

           “She was stabbed multiple times. It looked personal,” Luke answered, his voice low and careful. It was obvious to us all that he was being extra careful with his wording, making sure to broach the subject carefully. We all knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Spencer was innocent; but that didn’t mean that Spencer did.

           Chief Castenada trudged into the holding cell, the portrait of all things cranky and unpleasant. His presence acted as a proverbial storm cloud on an already shitty day.

           “We got the results of your blood work. There’s cocaine and heroin in your system.”

           “What else?” Emily asked, causing Castenada to give her a confused look.

           “He was in possession of cocaine and heroin when he was arrested. I found what I needed.”

           I felt myself bristle and before I knew it, my mouth was open and I was spouting out pure venom.

           “Thanks so much for doing the bare minimum, but we’re going to need a full tox screen panel. We’re looking for scopolamine.”

           Emily’s eyes cut over to me and if I hadn’t been fighting on Spencer’s behalf, I would’ve withered under the weight of the shut the fuck up look she gave me. Instead, I continued on, silently praying I’d still have a job after today.

           “It’ll take longer, but we need it,” I explained in what I hoped was a slightly more accommodating tone. Castenada gave a curt nod in reply before exiting the room, grumbling something in Spanish that had Luke and Emily shooting daggers at his retreating figure.

           “Do I want to know?”

           Luke shook his head, shooting a small smile in my direction.

           “Let’s just say he’s not your biggest fan, and we’ll leave it at that,” he offered, before straightening out his expression and turning back to Spencer. “You were given a speed ball. The opiates block the dopamine in your brain. That’s why things go from clear to hazy. The combination of the drugs causes a dissociative state and explains the memory loss. Are you coming down now?”

           “I think so,” Spencer said. His cadence wasn’t as slow as it had been earlier, which was a relief.

           “Do you think you could do a cognitive interview?” Emily’s voice was hopeful, and if Spencer was one thing, it was a people pleaser. It was obvious that he was overwhelmed; I had taken note of the fact that he was displaying one of his nervous ticks. Spencer was touching the pad of his thumb on the tips of his other fingers in rapid succession. Despite his obvious discomfort, he nodded his head in agreeance.

           “I’ll try.”

           Rossi took the lull in conversation as an opportunity to hold up the plastic bag in his hand. I narrowed my eyes at it inquisitively. There were five vials of a murky, dark brown liquid in the bag.

           “There were five of these in your bag at the motel. Do you recognize them?”

           Spencer’s eyes zeroed in on the bag and its contents, his brows furrowing. It wasn’t long until a look of partial recognition flashed across his face. It was so faint that if he hadn’t been in a room of profilers, it would’ve gone unnoticed.

           “What is it?” I asked from my place at his side. He’d been somewhat clingy since the incident that had transpired while everyone was at the motel, gravitating towards me as soon as we all had been granted entrance to the holding cell. I knew that he needed familiarity right now; he was in a very vulnerable state and he needed something that made him feel safe and secure.

           Butterflies erupted in my stomach when I had realized what he was doing, that I was that thing that made him feel safe and secure.

Spencer opened his mouth once before closing it, as if trying to put his thoughts into words was difficult. He did this a few more times before settling on,

“Whatever’s in those vials, I was giving it to my mom,” he said, his eyes darting around the room as he spoke. “That’s the only thing I’m sure of.”

           “I’ll have them run it through the lab,” Rossi said, before leaving and heading towards the direction in which Castenada had retreated.

           Emily and Luke were quick to hop into a rushed conversation, leaving only Spencer and I still in the cell. I looked up at him, at the way his forehead creased as he bit his lip in quiet contemplation.

           “Are you sure you’re ready for a cognitive? I know the effects may be wearing off, but you’re gonna be cloudy for a while. If you don’t want to do it now, all you have to do is say the word,” I murmured, keeping my voice low so that only he could hear it. “I can tell that you’re a bit overwhelmed, and that’s okay.”

           Spencer’s response came in the form of a shrug of his shoulders.

           “I want to try, because I know it’s important. I just don’t know that it will be of much help,” he replied, casting his eyes down to me.

           “Yes, it is important, but don’t put too much pressure on yourself. We’ll figure this out even if you can’t remember it all right now.”

           Spencer nodded once before running his tongue across his chapped bottom lip.

           “I don’t remember what happened, but I know I didn’t kill her,” he whispered, barely audible. Even though his words were quiet, I could hear the desperation in them; almost as if he was begging me to believe them, begging himself to believe them.

           I made the irrational decision then to throw professionalism aside and wrap both of my arms around his torso, my grip tight and assured. Spencer’s aversion to touch was common knowledge amongst us all, but for some reason that never seemed to apply to me, and I could see in his eyes that the way we were all treating him like he was fragile was wounding him more than he would ever admit. I hoped to remedy that with my embrace, and the speed in which he reciprocated was so fast that I was certain he was thankful. He wrapped his injured hand around my waist, the other finding purchase in my hair. I felt his chest move as he let out a shuddering breath.

           “I know you didn’t, Spence. Everyone on the team knows you didn’t,” I reassured him, my words muffled as my face was pressed against his chest. “And we’re not going to stop until everyone else knows it, too.”

           I was well aware that our embrace had garnered the attention of our teammates, but Spencer’s hold on me hadn’t faltered in the slightest, so I didn’t let mine either. Instead, I gripped the fabric of his flannel shirt tighter in my hands.

--

           When Emily exited the room in which they had conducted the cognitive interview, the look on her face was grim. I visibly cringed at the sight as I felt the sliver of hope that I had left die a miserable death.

           We are so beyond fucked.

           “How’s he doing?” Rossi asked, obviously taking note of the distress on Emily’s face.

           “He’s made some breakthroughs, but I’m not sure how helpful they’ll be,” she sighed, running a hand through her jet-black hair. When none of us spoke, Emily’s eyes flitted around, finally noticing that our expressions were a direct reflection of her own. “What is it?”

           “They just charged Reid with the murder of Nadi Ramos.”

           Hearing it said aloud wasn’t any easier the second time.

--

           While the rest of us had taken it upon ourselves to lean against the cement walls, Luke had begun pacing down the short hallway. After about ten minutes of unbearable silence, he decided he’d had enough.

           “We can’t get him out of here, can we?” he finally spoke, his voice a mix of anger and desperation.

           “I don’t know how.”

           “He didn’t kill her,” I reiterated, speaking more to myself than the three of them.

           “If all I had to go on was the evidence, I would swear he did,” Rossi sighed. I knew he was right; Spencer’s personal belongings were all over the hotel room, which was about as incriminating as you could get. “But knowing Reid, hearing the cognitive…”

           “Yes, he said there was another person in that motel room, but,” Emily pressed play on the audio recording, and her voice proceeded to flow through the speakers.

           “Who has the knife? Who is stabbing Rosa?”

           “I don’t know. It’s in my hand.”

           Emily pressed the power button and the screen went black.

           “Right now, this is just more evidence against him.”

           “So, what do we do now? Do we just sit and twiddle our thumbs until the consulate agrees to the extradition?” I asked. “There’s got to be more we can do. We can’t let them take him to jail, he won’t survive in there.”

           “I called in some help from IRT. Clara Seger and Matt Simmons will be arriving at any moment,” Emily said, checking her phone after hearing it ping. “In fact, that would be them. They’re here.”

           I breathed a sigh of relief as we all fell into step beside Emily. Having people from other areas of expertise that are willing to help is a good thing. Maybe they’ll be able to see something that we didn’t.

--

           “We come bearing good news,” I announced, leading the group as we all entered the holding cell. Spencer was quick to turn around and the corners of his lips pulled upwards as he set his sights on all of us. “Back up is here.”

           “Hey Spencer,” Matt greeted, offering up a small smile before crossing his arms across his chest.

           “Hey,” Spencer replied, moving to stand up from his spot on the bench. He was still a little wobbly on his feet, but he was doing much better than he was when we had arrived. “Thank you for coming.”

           “Yeah, of course. Jack and me are finishing up a case in Costa Rica, so we hopped on a commercial plane to get here,” Clara explained.

           “We’re trying to stop you transfer to El Diablo.”

           Spencer’s eyes darted over to me and he swallowed hard before speaking.

           “Do you think it’s possible?” Hearing the hope in his voice tugged at my heart strings. The way that he could manage to stay optimistic at time like this was a true testament to his character.

           “Yes,” Clara began. “Lab reports on the vials came back and some of what was in there hasn’t been approved by the FDA, but there aren’t any illegal substances.”

           “That’s great news,” I sighed, letting out the breath that I didn’t know I had been holding.

           “Is there anything else you remember about your time here?”

           “I remember what happened to the vials at home. My mom threw most of them out.”

           “So, that’s why you were here. To get more,” Clara said in an attempt to clarify.

           “It must be,” Spencer murmured, shuffling anxiously from one foot to the other.

           “Well, you’re off the hook for that. There’s no contraband involved,” Matt announced. Okay, this is good. One less thing to worry about.

           “Yeah, but we’re still looking at the planted drug and the murder charges, which could keep you here for a long time.”

           “Can we do anything to delay the transfer?” I wondered aloud. Clara took into account what I said and sighed, before turning towards Spencer once again.

           “You said that you met Nadi, who calls herself Rosa, in Houston. Why didn’t she just give you the vials in the U.S.?”

           “I don’t know,” Spencer said, running his uninjured hand through his hair. “I don’t know, but she helped us and I trusted her. I was right to. I still believe that.”

           “Well, she convinced you to cross the border multiple times. She had you risk your life,” Matt argued.

           “Because she must have something to lose, too,” I mumbled, eliciting a series of fervent nods from Clara. “Family, maybe?”

           “We need to know more about her,” Clara said.

           And then, something glorious happened. It was like a switch had flipped inside of Spencer’s head, and all of the sudden the lights were back on. I could tell that he had been struck with an idea, and it was a wonderous sight to behold.

           “What was in those vials?” Spencer asked, only solidifying my observation.

           Matt produced a paper with the lab results and began reading off the results.

           “There are so nootropic compounds like Ampalex, uh, but also some more natural stuff; coral calcium, jimson weed, coconut oil, a variety of vitamins. B12, D3-”

           “Where are we right now?” Spencer interjected.

           “Matamoros, Northern Mexico.”

           “Jimson weed, otherwise known as the Devil’s Snare, originated in Mexico but its natural growing region is further north or south of the border,” Spencer said, his words flowing out rapidly. I felt my heart soar and I didn’t even try to suppress the smile that fought its way to my face.

           “Boy Genius is back,” I announced, and for just a moment, the mood in the room lightened for the first time all day.

           “So, if it isn’t from here, then were did she get it?” Clara asked.

           “Let me get Garcia on,” Emily murmured, dialing the number and tapping her foot as it rang. On the third ring, Penelope’s bright and cheerful voice filled the room, a sunbeam shining through on a cloudy day.

           “Please tell me you’re calling to tell me some good news.”

           “Garcia, I have some questions for you.”

           “Hey, Penelope,” Matt greeted, earning a pleasantly surprised gasp from the woman on the other end.

           “Oh my God, it’s the dulcet tones of Matt Simmons,” Penelope gushed. “Are you there to save the day?”

           “I’m trying. Clara’s here, too.” A relieved sigh floated through the speakers.

           “Knowing we have you guys as backup is providing me some much-needed hope, and I work better this way.”

           “Hey, lady,” Clara greeted. “We’re trying to catch up on a few things. Where is Nadi Ramos from?” Before Clara even managed to finish her sentence, the sound of Garcia’s acrylic nails tapping away at her keyboard could be heard.

           “Mm she lives with her family just north of Matamoros.”

           “That must be where she got the jimson weed,” Emily pointed out.

           “What’s weird in she crosses the border, like, a lot.”

           “Why?”

           “Well, she works in Houston at that clinic, but she also helps at a low-income healthcare center. I can’t find a visa on her, which is double weird. And, in finishing the weird trifecta, there’s a social security number on her W2 form.”

           “Social security? She’s an American citizen?” I asked. Matt confirmed my suspicions with a nod of his head.

           “Yeah, she had dual citizenship. She was born in Houston, and her family had to move back to Mexico. She lives with them and she works in the U.S.”

           “This changes everything. We need to talk to the consulate,” Emily stated.

           Just as things were beginning to look up, Chief Castenada decided to grace us with his presence once more; and this time, he had an entourage.

           “It’s time for his transfer,” Castenada announced, looking pointedly in my direction.

           “We’ve had a break in the case,” Emily argued, shaking her head at him. “The victim was also American, and that calls for extradition.”

           Castenada merely shrugged before walking past us all.

           “I’ve got orders, sorry,” he muttered, making Gavin’s apology from earlier in the day sound heartfelt in comparison. Castenada wasted no time in beginning to place handcuffs on Spencer, locking them in place with a definitive click. Spencer and I shared a look of panic before both of us looked towards Emily in a silent plea.

           One of the men roughly grabbed Spencer by the arm and led him from the room. I watched in horror as they led him away, my heart threatening to beat out of my chest. I barely registered the fact that Emily was now on the phone. I just stood there, staring blankly at the entrance to the cell.

           “With the victim having dual citizenship, we now have concurrent jurisdiction. It was my understanding that the official order to extradite SSA Spencer Reid would be evaluated,” Emily damn near snarled into the phone. She paused for a moment, listening to the voice on the other line, before a look of relief washed over her face. “I understand, thank you.” She promptly hung up the phone before turning to face Luke. “They’re taking it to their brass. Go get him.”

           Luke took off in a rush, not needing to be told twice.

           I only wished I could be there to see the look on Castenada’s face.

--

           “We’re working on all channels here. Matt Cruz is on with the consulate right now. We could get an immediate extradition, but it’s just the beginning,” Emily explained, her voice stern.

           Spencer regarded her with a weary expression. The drug induced haze had finally lifted, leaving him painfully aware of how dire the situation was.

           “I really screwed up and I’m so sorry,” he choked out, resulting in a crack forming in Emily’s hard exterior. I couldn’t blame her; it wasn’t easy to stay mad at Spencer Reid. Spencer’s eyes were like kryptonite to most; big and brown and full of emotion. I’m sure if you searched ‘puppy dog eyes’ in the dictionary, a picture of Spencer Reid would be found in example.

           “It was for the right reason.”

           “I can’t remember what happened, but I know I didn’t kill anyone.” It was obvious in the way that he kept repeating the words that he was desperate for us to believe him. No amount of calm reassurance from us could quell the voice in his head that was surely telling him that we thought him guilty.

           “We do, too.”

           Clara was first to enter the cell, immediately followed by Matt.

           “Hey, they approved the extradition,” Clara announced, smiling brightly at the three of us.

           “Effective immediately,” Matt added on.

           We all exchanged relieved smiles before Matt and Clara led Spencer from the cell. Emily and I were quick to follow, right on Matt’s heels when we were stopped by Castenada.

           “I must point out that I feel like justice isn’t exactly being served with this move.”

           I pursed my lips together. In the short time we had been in Mexico, my feelings towards the man had grown from distaste to almost a full-blown hatred. That being said, I couldn’t help but understand where he was coming from. If Spencer hadn’t been a federal agent, he wouldn’t be granted the privilege of the extradition. Nor would he be allowed to fly home with us. I hated to admit it, but Castenada made a valid point.

           “I understand, but I can assure you that this has gone to the highest ranks and there will be a full investigation,” Emily reassured him.

           “Thank you for working with us,” I offered in an attempt to smooth over the rift I had created earlier. Now that my judgement wasn’t so clouded by my need to defend Spencer, I could see the error of my ways. I hadn’t been the most professional.

           Castenada nodded once in my direction before turning his attention back to Emily.

           “For our reports, I would like to have the recording of that cognitive interview.”

           I felt my blood run cold. That interview would just add to the list of things that could be used against Spencer in court. He had openly admitted to holding the murder weapon in his own hands, an admission that would surely earn him twenty to life.

           We cannot give him that recording.

           Emily seemed to be on the same page as I was.

           “I didn’t record it.”

           Castenada’s face contorted into an ugly frown.

           “But that was our agreement,” he squawked angrily.

           “I determined he was still under the influence. Anything he said wouldn’t have clarified matters.”

           Castenada’s gaze never faltered, eyeing Emily in an attempt to discern if she was giving him the run around. Luckily, Castenada was unable to find a hint of dishonesty on Emily’s face, and he nodded in resignation.

           Years of profiling will teach you how to control your micro expressions.

           “You’re committed agents. And I’ve worked with the IRT before. I trust you know what you’re doing.”

           “We do. I promise,” I stated, my voice giving off more confidence than I felt. Yes, I thought to myself, there’s no doubt that we’re good at what we do.

           But so is Scratch.

--

           All was quiet on the jet, the steady thrum of the engine being the only sound that could be heard. Rossi had been the only one able to fall asleep, something that I would be sure to tease him about later. Next to Rossi sat Emily, who had busied herself with flipping through Spencer’s arresting report. Clara and Matt sat across from them, engulfed in their own hushed conversation.

           Spencer had opted to sit on the couch, but he didn’t allow himself to sprawl out like he normally would have done. He was visibly exhausted, wiping at his eyes frequently in an attempt to keep the fatigue at bay. It was almost like he was punishing himself; like he didn’t feel he deserved the solace that sleep would bring.

           “You should go talk to him. See if you can’t get him to lay down,” Luke whispered encouragingly from his seat beside mine.

           “I have no idea what to say to him,” I confessed. I tore my gaze away from Spencer and turned my attention to Luke. “There’s nothing I can say that will make this any better.”

           “You’re not wrong about that, but maybe just letting him know you’re here for him will help. Just go and sit with him, I’m sure he could use a friend right now.”

           Luke was right. I let out a dramatic sigh before shooting Luke a pointed look.

           “Since when did you get so insightful?”

           A grin stretched its way across his face.

           “Always have been, sweetness. It’s part of my charm. I’m more than just a pretty face, you know.”

           “And on that note, I’ll be going,” I announced, standing up from my seat and walking the short distance to the couch. Luke’s chuckles sounded off behind me and I couldn’t help but smile; note to self, make more of an effort to get to know Luke Alvez.

I approached slowly, hoping not to startle him as he seemed to be lost in his own world. He didn’t notice me until I came to a stop in front of the couch. Spencer’s head shot up suddenly, the worry on his face melting away to form a small smile.

“Hi,” I greeted, returning his smile tenfold. “You looked like you could use some company. Do you mind if I sit?”

Spencer gave me a soft smile and scooted over, patting at the space next to him. I lowered myself onto the couch, angling my body so it was facing him.

“You’re tired,” I observed, leaning back into the soft cushions. Spencer shrugged in reply, opening his mouth to argue, only for a yawn to slip out. I let out a light laugh. “Don’t even try to argue. There’s no telling how long you’ve been up. Why don’t you try and get some sleep?”

Spencer’s eyes reluctantly met mine and I felt almost paralyzed when I saw the sheer vulnerability in them.

“Researchers from the University of Cardiff conducted a two-part study looking at whether people’s daily frustration or fulfilment of their psychological needs, such as feeling autonomous or competent, affects their dreams. The results from the first study showed that people who were frustrated with their daily situation tended to have recurring dreams in which they were falling, failing or being attacked,” he rasped out, his words jumbling together as they fell from his mouth in rapid succession. “The lead author on the study concluded that negative dream emotions may directly result from distressing dream events, and might represent the psyche’s attempt to process and make sense of particularly psychologically challenging waking experiences.”

“And you’re worried your dreams will reflect what happened today.”

Spencer bit the inside of his cheek before nodding in affirmation.

“I can’t promise you that you won’t dream about those things,” I began, my voice coming out soft. “But I can tell you that sleep deprivation can cause lots of very unfortunate symptoms like impaired memory, reduced physical strength, and inability to concentrate. Do you know how I know those things?”

A light flush dusted over the tops of his cheeks.

“Probably because I’ve made it a habit to bore you with my information dumps.”

I shook my head adamantly, reaching a hand up and ruffling up his hair. He batted my hand away, ducking his head to try and hide the smile tugging at his lips.

“Never a bore, Spence. But yes, I know those things because of you and that remarkable brain of yours. And we’re going to need that remarkable brain in tip top shape if we want to get you out of this mess, understood?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he relented.

I patted a hand on my lap, an invitation for him to use me as a pillow. He seemed hesitant, eyes flitting from my face before going back down to my lap.

“Don’t act shy around me, Pretty Boy. I know better than anyone that you’re a secret cuddle bug,” I teased, earning a snort from the man next to me.

“Am not,” he harrumphed, before deciding to take me up on my offer. He laid his head down on my lap before stretching his legs out across the expanse of the couch. My heart lurched pitifully when he nuzzled his head into my leg before letting out a loud sigh.

“Thank you,” Spencer whispered, voice thick with emotion. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, casting tiny shadows on his face. I smiled at the sight and began carding my hands through his hair.

“No need to thank me,” I murmured, raking my nails against his scalp and eliciting a pleased hum from him. “Don’t you worry about a thing, okay? We’re going to get you out of this. I know we will. And don’t worry about your mom, either; I’m going to check on your mom every day, I promise.”

Spencer’s breathing stuttered at the mention of Diana, and I worried I had crossed a line. He stayed silent for a moment, before moving his hand up and squeezing my knee.

“You’re entirely too good to me.”

“Yeah, well, you’d do the same for me. That’s what friends are for.”

No more words were exchanged, and within five minutes Spencer’s breathing evened out and he was asleep.

--

Several hours later, we were all filing out of the elevator and into the bullpen. I shivered slightly as the cool air hit my bare arms, but I tried not to show my discomfort. I’d shrugged off my sweater and offered it to Spencer the moment we stepped off the jet, draping it across his cuffed hands in an attempt to conceal them. Spencer had thanked me with a pitiful smile and I returned the sentiment, blinking several times to try and stifle the tears pooling in my eyes.

JJ was the first to greet him, with Stephen, Tara and Penelope following closely behind. I watched on for a moment before my attention was pulled elsewhere. Stephen’s phone had rung, prompting him to slip away from the group and retreat further down the hall. I furrowed my brow at this, taking advantage of my colleagues’ distraction as I wandered towards Stephen. I strained to hear his whispered words, but just as soon as I neared, he ended the call.

“What was that about?” I asked quietly. The look on his face told me that the news couldn’t be good, and I didn’t want to ruin the reunion going on just down the hall. They all deserved a few moments of relief.

Stephen let out a long sigh and ran his hand through his hair before speaking.

“I, uh, just got a call. Reid isn’t eligible for the bureau’s legal assistance.”

Stephen’s words sent a jolt of white-hot dread through me. “How is that even possible?”            “Spencer went without being briefed, and he wasn’t in Mexico on government business. They refuse to represent him.”

I let my wary eyes drift down the hall, towards the group of wonderful misfits that I had grown to think of as family;

Penelope, whose optimism never wavered, even in the face of the absolute worst that the world had to offer.

JJ, a devoted mother with a heart of gold and a fierceness that inspired me every single day.

Tara, one of the most intelligent and caring women I had ever had the privilege to know.

Rossi, a father figure to all with enough wisdom to create a legacy that would inspire generations of profilers to be.

Emily, a fearless leader whom I trusted with my life and would follow into battle without question.

Luke, a newcomer who took special care to comfort me when I was at my worst.

Spencer, a man too remarkable to even try to describe with words. A man that anyone of us would defend until our very last breath.

That undeniable truth gave birth to the tiny sliver of hope growing inside of me. Spencer Reid was innocent, and we are all hellbent on proving it.

I nodded once in affirmation, more to myself than to Stephen, before allowing myself to meet his gaze.

“We’re on our own.”

And if anyone could pull this off, it was this team. My team.

There is a point when facing the unknown stops being a longed-for adventure and becomes a terrifying reality.

           -Storm Constantine

[wyofabdoms]

Ten Days - Day Four

Characters: Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: Javier is shot and refuses to take his antibiotic while recuperating. You get creative and make him a deal that ensures he will take his medicine everyday: one kiss for one pill. It's gonna be a long 10 days.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Major character injury, slow burn, mutually unrequited, medical inaccuracies

Word Count: 1589

Note: After his night on his bathroom floor, Javi's probably given up on the whole one pill, one kiss deal...right?

Read the full series on Ao3

Though Javi wasn’t cleared to go back to the office or into active field duty yet, the man was relentless when it came to his work.  Before Monday was over, you had received no less than 20 phone calls and pages throughout the day from him, bouncing ideas off of you, calling to ask a question or asking you to check some statistic or fact for him.  It seemed as though the plethora of down time that Javi now faced only served to heighten his focus on the job.  You hauled a brown file box up the stairs to his apartment that evening, along with a bottle of wine for yourself and several take-out containers balanced precariously on the lid of the box.  You were only a little annoyed at his request to schlep some of the paperwork from his office to his apartment, but you hoped that having the work at home would keep him from tormenting you throughout the day tomorrow.

Once you plopped the carton on the kitchen table, you made quick work of the cork in the wine bottle and poured yourself a small glass while Javier dove into the take out containers.  You had inquired on several of his earlier calls as to whether he had eaten anything throughout the day; he had only grunted like a caveman and changed the subject, so it was no surprise to you now that he ate ravenously.  Seriously, how has this man managed to survive on his own this long? You thought to yourself as you dug into your own food.  

Talk was mostly about work, for which you were grateful.  It prevented you from having to think too much about the pill bottle sitting next to the kitchen sink.  The tiny plastic tube had become a harbinger for you; a constant bright orange beacon that reminded you of the last three days.  As Javi carefully collects the empty food containers and throws them in the trash, your eyes float over to the bottle, wondering if the chasteness of the kiss the night before in the bathroom means that Javier has seen the light when it comes to this silly deal; that perhaps after his painful time spent on his bathroom floor he’s realized the importance of just taking the damn drugs already.

But, if there was one thing you had come to know for a fact about Javier Peña, it was that he didn’t give up so easily on something that he wanted.  

And you knew that he wanted you.

You knew when you made this deal that it was a dangerous dance, toeing on up to the line with the devil himself.  A logical voice inside your head (the one you hated more than anything) had asked you several times why you had agreed to this deal if you knew how tempting it would be for the both of you?  And for that annoying voice with that equally annoying question, you had no good answer.

Because if the truth were known, deep down inside somewhere, you knew that you wanted him too.

But, your resolve was just as strong as his.  No matter how you felt about him or what desires you may have for him, so long as you were partners nothing would ever move past occasional flirting and camaraderie.

And 10 days of kissing, apparently.  

Javier snatchs up the pill bottle from the counter, his back to you, and tosses back a pill.  You stiffen, waiting for him to turn to you and seek out a kiss in exchange.  He surprises you by making a beeline to the couch instead and begins spreading out the files, photos and reports on the coffee table in front of him, chattering to you the whole time.  Careful to maintain your distance, you sit in the chair close enough to see the table, still leery of your partner’s nonchalance towards your pill deal.  As you continue to pore over the files and photos, though, you relax and slip into the comforting certainty of work: the thing you were both the best at.

At one point, you rise to refill your wine glass (careful not to drink too much, too fast) and when you reenter the living room, Javi holds up two nearly identical satellite photos of a jungle compound for you to examine.  Without thinking about it, you take both photos and sink down on the couch beside him, studying the images.

“I don’t think Rinaldo would be stupid enough to send a convoy on these roads.  There are too many eyes on them, they wouldn’t want to risk someone tipping us off and laying a trap for them.”

“They don’t need to worry about anyone ratting on them if they’ve got the local cops on their payroll.” Javi argues back.  “It’s brazen.  Rinaldo would do it just so he could say he moved product right under our noses.”  You shrug, still not convinced, but knowing that there was a very good chance that he was right.  Which would make your job 10 times harder.  You lay the photos down side-by-side and pulled a topographic map from underneath the pile, laying it out on top of the photos.

“Well, if we’re talking waterways, he has access and exit routes here, here and here,” you indicate on the map.  “But a water entry seems too messy for him, too risky.  Too many things could go wrong.  Cars would be his most reliable bet.”  Javi nods in agreement.  

You both stare at the map for several minutes, listening to Peña lay out a possible and fairly plausible strategy for bringing in a top drug mule.  When he’s finished, you nod in approval, sitting up straight for a moment then leaning back and slouching into the couch and stretching your arms over your head, realizing too late that doing so raised your shirt up towards your breasts, revealing your stomach and torso.  You don’t miss the way Javi glances over at you, his eyes traveling down your body and taking in the exposed skin, before looking away and back at the photographs.  You quickly lower your arms and sit up, pulling your shirt down. “I’ll uhm…..I’ll speak with the ambassador tomorrow, see if we can’t get some eyes on those mountain roads.”  Javier nods again, looking back over at you.  

You meet his gaze, and feel a jolt as you realize his eyes have lost their focus and glimmer from discussing work, and have shifted to reflect something darker and more intense; you’re starting to become more and more familiar with that look.  You’re also still completely baffled how that same look manages to pin you in place and make you freeze, seeming to cause your brain to turn to mush and your legs into useless jelly.  There was still almost a full couch cushion’s worth of space between the two of you, but it felt like that space prickled with heat and electricity.  You needed to move away from him before…

Too late, you watch in fascination as Javier carefully leans across the space between you.  He places one hand on the cushion between you to brace himself before continuing to follow the momentum of his body’s lean toward you.  How was he able to stretch that far? A tiny voice screams in fascination.  You notice how his neck seems to become longer and leaner, revealing muscles and tendons that you never normally noticed...not that you spend much time studying your partner’s neck.  

Though you are proud of your body for not leaning towards him, you were still disappointed in yourself for not moving away.  But, staying still, his face comes within a hair’s breadth of yours and he pauses, his eyes roving over your face for a moment, searching your eyes for…something?  You aren’t sure what.  You keep your face still in what you hope is a blank expression, which Javi seems to interpret as a green light.  He carefully closes the last centimeters separating the two of you and slots his lips against yours. You feel him release a soft puff of air through his nose, causing the tiny hairs of his mustache to dance against your skin.  

This kiss is soft.  He doesn’t try to pry your mouth open with his tongue, his hands remain where they were.  He barely moves his head at all, but simply presses his lips to yours, seeming to study and memorize the feel of your lips against his.  Though it’s tame and quiet, it is one of the most sensual things you have ever experienced.  

Before you can come to your senses, Javi breaks the kiss, lowering his head for a brief moment, his forehead grazing across your lips as he pulls his entire body back across the space between you on the couch.  He looks at you for a moment, then turns his attention back to the information spread out on the coffee table.  He picks up an overflowing manilla folder without a word and settles back into the couch cushions to read the reports.

You sit stunned for a moment, then swallow carefully.  You rise and say your good nights, to which he wishes you a good night and sweet dreams.  Turning your back to him as you leave, you let a small smile play across your lips that still tingles with his taste and the weight of his soft lips, thinking that a guest appearance by him would certainly help make those dreams sweet.

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

Day Five

[tahitianmangoes]

Absolution

Pairing: Micah x Arthur Summary:   Micah often felt like he and Arthur were two sides of the same coin. Whether or not Artur shared that sentiment, ever since an encounter out west, inexplicably they keep finding themselves pulled back to one and other. Smut | Not canon compliant 

Chapter One -  Two Sides of the Same Coin

Chapter Two

It was hard to believe that less than a day ago, they had been in the sticky New Austin heat and now, Micah Bell was spending the night freezing his balls off in some godforsaken outhouse half way up a mountain with Bill Williamson snoring loudly beside him.

Things turn on a dime, Micah knew that better than most.

Micah doesn’t sleep. He’d been part of the Van der Linde gang for around six months and that was probably one of the few things that people really knew about him. No one cared to ask why he didn’t sleep, not that Micah would tell them anyway. He would usually sit around the campfire, sharpening his hunting knife or cleaning his revolvers. Sometimes sleep would get the better of him and he’d be woken up by the sudden jerk of his head falling forward onto his chest and that’s when he would hear it - that voice that still struck fear into him even twenty years on: Do it!” The voice screamed at him, “prove to me you ain’t the yella bellied coward you say you aint, boy!”

Just one day ago, Micah had been doing just that, sitting at the campfire in their camp outside of Blackwater. His hat was pulled low but he was listening, he usually was; he could hear John Marston and Abigail Roberts squabbling as usual, he could hear Lenny and Jenny twittering like lovebirds and Reverend Swanson’s drunken singing off in the distance somewhere.

It was Dutch and Hosea that Micah was listening to, though. They were arguing in Dutch’s tent. Dutch was playing his gramophone in a bid to muffle them but Micah didn’t have to hear them to know what it was about; Hosea didn’t think they should do the ferry job the next day. Hosea and Arthur had a lead, what it was Micah hadn’t asked but probably something akin to a theatre vaudeville performance if he knew Hosea Matthews at all. Micah wasn’t a fan of all of the conmanship - it felt underhand. Of course doing what he did, going in all guns blazing, was no better but it didn’t feel as sly - you knew where you stood with a gun being pointed at your head.

Micah was told that Dutch and Hosea used to have more of a united front, in more ways than one but it looked to Micah as if this had run its course.

To Micah, Dutch and Hosea seemed so very different; Dutch was charismatic, charming and spoke such pretty words and had big ideas. He was an optimist, believing that he could change the world and Micah believed him, so did everyone else for the most part. Hosea on the other hand was a pessimist. He sat around the camp with a dark cloud over him, picking Dutch’s plans apart and doubting him at every turn. Dutch, of course, was as patient as a saint with his partner - more than lenient with him in Micah’s opinion - but even a saint has their limits.

So Dutch had proceeded without Hosea this time, entrusting Micah with helping him with this job. It didn’t go unchecked by Micah that this was a big deal; he had been part of the gang for less than a year yet Dutch trusted him to help him with this job. He had to do his best to impress Dutch because who knew where this could lead…

Micah had never known the gang so quiet or sombre the night before a big job. Some people retired early but Micah knew they weren't sleeping, they just didn't want to talk about it. Charles disappeared for guard duty, Javier wasn’t playing guitar and Arthur lay with his hat over his face so Micah couldn't see him but he had a feeling that he was listening hard to Dutch and Hosea too.

For a few moments, Micah let his attention settle on Arthur Morgan - Dutch’s right hand man. Arthur didn't like Micah much but Micah got the impression that Arthur didn't like many people. Arthur had intrigued Micah ever since Micah had joined the gang. From what he understood, Arthur had been taken in by Dutch and Hosea when he was just a kid - it sounded like something out of a boyhood dream, to be taken care of and raised by outlaws… Whether Arthur was grateful or not, it wasn't clear; he was sullen and surly, got that moody cowboy thing down to a T. Always complaining about something or other. He was as stubborn as a mule and as dumb as a dog yet Micah was drawn to him inexplicably.

Maybe if things had worked out differently, he would have been more like Arthur. If his daddy had been a fine man like Dutch. Maybe Micah and Arthur were two sides of the same coin… Micah wondered if Arthur saw that they weren't so different, too. Regardless, Arthur avoided Micah wherever possible, especially after what had happened out at Gaptooth Ridge…

Micah let his thoughts settle back there for a while. It wasn't a particularly happy memory but one he played over and over to himself, trying to work out what it meant. Maybe it didn't matter anymore. So why did he keep thinking about it? Letting himself get lost in the gentle morning sunlight again and again when he closed his eyes, imagining Arthur lying beside him, feeling the heat coming from the younger man and remembering the look in those brilliant blue eyes...

He often wondered if Arthur thought about it too. Right now, in the small, delipidated building on the mountain, he thought of Arthur in the next building over and wondered if Arthur couldn't sleep either.

****

Sooner or later, a job's going to go wrong and boy oh boy, did the ferry job go wrong. Maybe they'd been set up because no sooner had the ferry been too far out for them to retreat, there were Pinkertons and lawmen everywhere. Everyone had been whipped into a frenzy, John Marston , Mac Callander, Davey Callander and Jenny Kirk had all gotten shot and the latter hadn't made it out alive. Charles Smith injured himself and Sean Maguire was taken captive by some bounty hunters. And then Dutch shot that girl...

It was a mess. Micah had never seen a job go so wrong so quickly, not since him and his daddy...

They'd managed to flee to camp, to pack up in record time though things were lost and misplaced along the way and Dutch told them that they were heading north. "North?" Hosea repeated looking sceptical. "North." Dutch replied firmly. "We gotta get outta here and we got get outta here fast." "What... What happened on that boat, Dutch?" Hosea asked sheepishly. Dutch turned his dark eyes to his partner and said solemnly, "nothing good."

Dutch had meant north as they headed deep into the mountains of Ambarino. Soon, a terrible storm set in. The snow swirled around them and Miah could hardly see three paces in front of him if it weren’t for his lantern. He followed the caravan blindly, his loyal Missouri Foxtrotter Baylock stepping carefully through the snow that came almost to the horse’s forearm.

He accompanied Arthur and Dutch in the hopeless pursuit for supplies once they found somewhere to settle. All they found was O'Driscolls and another mouth to feed, a woman named Sadie Adler. Exhausted and freezing, Micah curled up on the floor of the building he'd been delegated to with Bill Williamson, Lenny Summers and Charles Smith. He dozed for a short while but he heard that voice again, piercing his slumber and jerked awake to find that light was seeping in through the cracks in the rotting wood of the structure.

That next day was calmer, as if the storm before had never happened. Outside was bright, the cold sun reflecting off of the untouched snow.

Javier Escuella shivered around a small fire. He’d been outside all night on guard duty. Javier was warmer to Micah than Arthur or even Hosea. He wasn’t brooding or stoic, he could take a drink and a joke and Micah liked that about him.

He wasn’t dressed for the cold, a poncho slung over his shoulders and a denim jacket the only thing between him and the sub-zero temperature only made worse by being sent up a mountain earlier that morning with Arthur to rescue John Marston who’d gone and got himself lost in the storm.

“Are you taking me off?” Javier asked, tired eyes looking hopefully at Micah. “Dream on,” Micah replied gruffly. There was no way he was taking up guard duty out in the cold without orders from Dutch. Javier narrowed his eyebrows, looked like he might want to argue but maybe didn’t have the energy.

Micah warmed his hands briefly by the fire, not that he could feel them and if he didn’t hold them out in front of him, he could have sworn that they had fallen off in the night. Javier muttered something inaudible before disappearing towards the stables.

They had managed to find a place up on this godforsaken mountain, a place that could hold all of them - for now. It looked to have been a mining town at one point but long abandoned now, most of the buildings still stood but were derelict, some beyond repair. They wouldn’t be able to stay for long - sure Pinkertons might not be dumb enough to follow them up here but they’d most likely starve, freeze to death or both if they didn’t leave soon.

Micah never thought he’d miss their camp out of Blackwater, god knows he’d been complaining about wanting four walls and a roof over his head but he hadn’t factored in the snow...

As Micah moved away from the fire, he could hear voices coming from the next building. He recognised the familiar low rumbles of Arthur Morgan. Before Micah had time to move, Arthur and Dutch spilled outside, Hosea hovering in the doorway.

“Arthur, we’ll starve up here,” Dutch was saying. His voice had changed over the past couple of days - he sounded tired, desperate in a way but not yet defeated. “Dutch, I ain’t no hunter.” “I know, son. But we got no supplies here - Miss Grimshaw and Mr Pearson did their best but… We got a few cans from the Alder woman’s homestead and we can’t ask Charles to hunt with his hand in the state it is…” “I don’t know what I can do.” Dutch looked up and caught sight of Micah “Take Mr Belll here with you, go scouting. There’s gotta be something else up on this miserable mountain,” he said. Micah knew he was grasping at straws if he was suggesting that the pair of them went out scouting together. Arthur heaved a sigh, not needing to say anything. Dutch continued, “You’re two of the fittest men we got …I wouldn't normally ask like this. Please, son. We gotta try. People are dependin' on us.”

His voice was soft and coaxing, he usually used that voice when he wanted something from Arthur and Arthur usually fell for it. This time was no different. “Fine.” Arthur muttered in a tone that suggested that it was anything but fine.

The pair of them looked at each other; it wasn't the fact they were being asked to go scouting but the fact they were asked to go together.

****

They rode in silence for what seemed like a long, long time, Arthur just up ahead of Micah, obviously not interested in small talk.

These mountains were all but barren - they saw some deer that fled too quickly for either Micah or Arthur to pull their rifle out, heard the echoes of a distant grizzly bear washing over them periodically but nothing else.

"Maybe we should just head back now." Micah suggested after over an hour of them riding away from camp and seeing nothing but more snow. The sun would soon be going down and the last thing they needed was to be stumbling about in the dark. "Jus a little further…" Arthur muttered. Micah knew Arthur didn't want to let Dutch down - he never did.

So they carried on, climbing and following a trail so buried by snow it was barely visible. Once they reached the top of the climb, a basin came into view - a frozen lake surrounded by trees whose leaves had never cared to grow back and at the top of the frozen lake was a small cabin.

The pair urged their horses towards the cabin, a spark of hope for the first time in days. Arthur went to knock on the door only for it to swing open at his touch. The cabin consisted of one room: a small cot was pushed up against one wall, a table was in the centre of the room beside a fireplace. There were various cupboards and chairs but not much else. It looked like someone had been there once upon a time but not now. Everything looked to be covered by a thick layer of dust but there were provisions - mainly canned goods. On the table was rancid bread and cheese that was covered by mould and newspaper clippings that when Micah inspected them, saw they were from three years prior.

"Well, looks like they won't miss this stuff," Micah said more to himself than Arthur as they set about taking whatever they could. It wasn't a huge haul but it would be enough to feed them for a day or two when added to what they found in the Adler house. “This oughta keep us goin’ til we get off this goddamn mountain.”

There was a pause before Arthur shot back, “we wouldn't be stuck on this goddamn mountain if it weren't for you."

Micah turned to look at Arthur now. He was older than Arthur by around five years, they were around the same height, give or take an inch or so, both blond however Arthur’s hair was more a fawn colour and looked soft to the touch. Both had blue eyes, Micah’s icy and Arthur’s rich like the ocean. He was broader and more muscular than Micah who was perhaps thirty pounds heavier than Arthur and couldn’t boast of the same brawny frame as the younger man. Arthur was handsome, even if he couldn’t see it. Maybe Micah resented that, resented the way that his uncomplicated good looks often made things easier - women around the camp didn’t look at Arthur with the same repulsion they did Micah and maybe even Arthur’s looks meant that he was treated more favourably by Hosea and Dutch - not having to go on guard duty, always getting a tent with a cot and having any mistakes he made glossed over so easily...

Different sides of the same coin

Micah drew himself up to his full height before responding. “And how'd you come to that conclusion, cowpoke?” Micah asked, rolling his eyes at Arthur. Arthur always had something to say about him or the way he conducted himself.

“If you hadn’t egged Dutch on with all the ferry crap, we’d be well on our way to gettin’ ourselves some land. Me an’ Hosea had it covered-” “Sure looks that way,” Micah retorted with a sneer, “what was it this time? Hosea pretendin’ to be an college professor or maybe a magician? And you his pretty assistant? Or maybe you was both dressin’ up as ladies and stealin’ from a church fund?” “I have had enough of you!” Arthur snapped, “all you done since you joined us is cause problems, an’ now we lost Jenny, Davey, maybe Sean and Mac too!” “Less mouths to feed don’t sound like a problem to me, cowpoke.”

Arthur made a sound similar to a growl. Micah saw his fists ball, Arthur was the type to settle his scores with fights rather than words, maybe because words so often illuded him. Micah smirked. “Go on then cowboy, show me what you got.”

Micah saw the thought flicker through Arthur’s eyes briefly like lightning in the night’s sky and then he decided against it.

He turned, heading back to the door of the cabin muttering about going back to camp. When he flung the door open, the light had dwindled considerably quicker than either of the could have imagined and snow was coming down in thick, heavy flurries. “Shit!” Arthur hissed. “Well,” Micah sighed, heading to the door too and surveying the magnitude of the situation, “don’t look like we’re goin’ anywhere fast, sweetheart. Jus’ you an’ me now.”

****

There were logs that had been left by the previous tenant that Arthur threw into the fireplace and proceeded to light. The pair of them sat close to the fire, the night had drawn in fast and not only was it the only source of heat in the small cabin, it was also the only source of light.

Micah could see that Arthur was shivering, his arms folded flush across his chest and jaw tight. He glared into the fire. “I’m freezin’ my ass off,” He grumbled. “Well we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Micah replied with a hint of snideness about his voice. Arthur shot him a look colder than out in the storm but Micah continued, maybe because he liked to see Arthur squirm. “You ain't cuddlin' up to me to keep warm if that’s what you want.” “I’d rather die o’ hypothermia than let you anywhere near me.” But they both knew that wasn't true.

Both knew the other was thinking about Gaptooth Ridge again now. It was all Micah had thought about since the day it had happened. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in their tent, panting and moaning softly with Arthur’s lips on his like nothing else in the world mattered, and perhaps didn’t even exist anymore. He could hear trains rumbling in the distance and condors circling above, the warm air enveloped him just as Arthur’s smoky scent did and everything in the world was still aside from his racing heart.

“When we gonna talk about it, Morgan?” Micah asked without even thinking. He’d wanted to ask Arthur for weeks but Arthur had been avoiding him even more than usual. He felt so weak caving and asking first. He didn’t know what he wanted the answer to be; did he want this to be a thing? No. That wasn’t Micah’s style… Yet… He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thinking about Arthur. About the way they had been together that day.

“Ain’t nothin’ to talk about.” Came Arthur’s gruff reply. Micah let out a snort of disbelieving laughter, “ain’t there?” “No. There ain’t.”

Arthur got to his feet now and walked to the back of the cabin, Micah's eyes followed him. Micah watched as Arthur leant against the wall and nonchalantly lit up a cigarette and smoked it, not looking at Micah but watching the tip of the cigarette burning down in his fingers between drags.

“Bullshit.” Micah said hotly, squaring up to Arthur. “You’re talking bullshit as usual.” “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout it, Micah. As far as I’m concerned, it didn’t even happen. It was nothing.” A twisted smirk crept across Micah’s face. He wanted to play it the hard way, huh? “That ain’t what you was sayin’ when you had my dick in your mouth.” Arthur’s eyes flashed and his face turned stony. “You watch what you say to me.” He growled. Micah wasn’t about to back down, his body pumped with adrenaline. “What would ol’ Dutch say if he knew what you got up to? Or does he know you like to get on your knees-”

Before Micah could finish his sentence, Arthur had grabbed him by the collars and pushed Micah up against the wall with such force that his hat toppled from his head. Micah would have laughed if the wind hadn’t been knocked from him. Arthur threw his cigarette to the floor and that hand found its way to Micah’s throat. Micah’s eyes flickered, Arthur was panting, they stared at each other wordlessly. Micah still wore his lopsided smirk, as if willing Arthur to do it.

Arthur’s brows were knitted together, eyes mean and jaw clenched. He looked like he would kill Micah. Micah didn’t doubt that he could.

Before Micah knew it, Arthur had pushed his lips to Micah’s in a kiss. Micah made a sound - a groan. Oh, how he’d longed for this again, thought maybe it would never happen and that their time out at Gaptooth Ridge had been a one off, one of those crazy things that never happen again no matter how hard the yearning. Arthur kissed hungrily, one hand still pressed against Micah’s throat and Micah kissed back eagerly, tongue sliding into Arthur’s mouth and Arthur permitted it with a sigh, as if he had been longing for this too.

Micah brought his hands up, cupping Arthur’s face, the skin cold, the stubble scratching against his fingertips and Arthur shivered at his touch. Arthur removed his hand from where it rested now so Micah could breathe again and tugged Micah’s head back by his hair, exposing his neck so he could kiss it bruisingly, making Micah gasp.

He placed his hands on Arthur’s broad shoulders, fingers curling around the thick material of Arthur’s winter coat, submitting to the younger outlaw, almost paralysed in pleasure at the feeling of Arthur’s hot mouth - tongue licking and teeth grazing - sucking at the sensitive skin of his neck.

He felt Arthur wedge his thigh between his legs and his hips moved instinctively before he could stop himself. The friction was delicious, Micah was uncomfortably hard in his pants already and he let out a soft moan at the relief Arthur’s leg provided. He heard Arthur growl into the crook of his neck. They remained like that, Micah shuddering as he rutted against Arthur and Arthur biting at Micah, hard enough to leave bruises, hands groping at him through his clothes, making Micah sigh and moan.

Suddenly, Arthur ripped away from him. Micah panted, whimpering quietly- unsatisfied. His breath visible in front of him in the cold, cold cabin but the heat between them was like a furnace. Micah stared at Arthur, for once lost for words. Arthur’s expression was unreadable. Had Arthur come to his senses?

Perhaps not. Arthur’s gaze was fixed on the bulge in Micah’s pants. He was hesitant as he reached to press his hand against it but Micah didn’t stop him, of course not. He had wanted this, hadn’t he?

It didn’t go unnoticed by Micah that Arthur’s fingers seemed to tremble as he unbuttoned Micah’s pants and freed his erection. Micah turned away at this, slightly embarrassed at how hard he was. He could hear Arthur’s breaths heavy and hard before he felt the other man’s hand wrap around his cock.

Arthur held him firmly. Micah let out a sound, higher pitched than normal. He felt his cheeks burn but he didn’t have time to feel embarrassed, the feel of Arthur’s hand on him so starkly made him quake. And then Arthur’s hand moved, grip strong as he pumped Micah’s cock. “M-Morgan..!” Micah choked. Arthur's shimmering eyes met Micah's, as if asking for permission to continue. Micah didn't say anything, he leant his forehead against Arthur's shoulder and let his hips rock into Arthur's hand.

Arthur stroked him fast, making Micah's breath catch in his throat. He found himself clinging to Arthur, clawing at the other man's wide back as he tried to stop himself calling out. He felt Arthur's lips on his neck again, kissing along the exposed collarbone to his shoulder. Arthur's name tumbled from Micah's lips like the snow from the sky outside.

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for Micah's orgasm to coil in his stomach. He found himself moving faster, rutting helplessly against Arthur as he began to shiver, knowing he couldn't hold on any longer. He tried to stifle himself as he came, burying his face in Arthur's neck, taking in Arthur's strong musky scent of gunpowder, cigarettes and whiskey.

He stayed like that for a few moments, blood pounding in his ears, eyes closed trying to compose himself. Arthur didn’t move either, they leant against each other. It was Arthur that moved away first. Part of Micah wished Arthur would stay like that just a little longer.

Micah’d gone soft now, his release was on his pants, on the floor and on Arthur’s pants, too. When he looked back up at Arthur, he could tell that the younger man wasn’t finished with him just yet. He had a dark look in his eyes that Micah wasn’t sure he had seen before. Arthur didn’t say a word, his eyes still fixed on Micah’s. It was his turn to unbutton his pants now and then, he laid his hand on Micah’s shoulder, gently but firmly pushing Micah down to his knees. Micah didn’t resist.

Arthur’s length was strainingly hard and tip slick with precum as he freed his cock from his undergarments. Micah'd seen it before, of course; part of him had known that Arthur’s cock would be generous in size and he had been right about that in both length and girth. Micah had never felt an urge quite like it, an instinct almost, to take it into his mouth and suck. Tentatively, he touched the reddened skin of Arthur’s throbbing erection, it was burning hot under his fingertips. He wet his lip before he opened his mouth and as he did, Arthur grabbed a fistful of his hair and stuffed his length down Micah’s throat without giving him a chance to adjust. Micah made a choked sound and tears instantly filled his eyes at the stretch from the sheer size of Arthur. Arthur didn’t relent. Micah knew this was punishment but part of him didn’t even care, there was something about having Arthur above him like this , powerful, doing his best to repress his moans that turned him on.

Arthur didn't talk, just fisting Micah’s hair and snapping his hips forward rhythmically so he can fuck the older outlaw’s throat. They didn't talk last time either, just their touches had been enough. Micah's gags and heavy breathing filled the room along with Arthur's low growls and soft curses. As the length hit the back of Micah’s throat, Arthur hissed and fuck, that sounds made Micah’s own cock twitch awake again. Micah felt his face redden, he could feel the drool and precome spilling from the sides of his mouth and his jaw ached. He tried to steady Arthur, putting his hands on Arthur’s strong thighs, using them as an anchor so he can bob his head back and forth on the length, sucking as best he knew how, using his tongue to pressure the underside of the shaft like the whores he’d used before had done to him… like Arthur had done to him before.

He closed his eyes now, getting used to breathing through his nose. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, drawing back to pay attention to the tip and then taking as much of the length in its entirety at a time. He used his tongue to flick the tip, let his throat and jaw go slack so Arthur could press in further until he felt the younger man shiver.

Arthur groaned softly, when Micah looed up, Arthur's eyes were closed and his face was sheer portrait of perfection - lost in a rhapsody of bliss. Micah took hold of his throbbing cock now, needing some relief and as he did, Arthur gasped, hips stuttering, eyes open now, a flash of blue as he cursed loudly, "shit, Micah!" and spilled himself into Micah’s mouth.

Micah retched at the taste but was taken by surprise, swallowing the majority of it and coughing as Arthur pulled out. Arthur’s breathing was hard as he moved away from Micah and tucked himself back into his pants. Micah remained on his knees and wiped his mouth. He stared after Arthur who returned to the fireside, composing himself.

Arthur didn't look back at him as he spoke. “Now we’re even.” Arthur said almost emotionlessly. Micah didn’t want to admit it to himself but it hurt.

[kotosnoozy]

「witness me, old man」

chp 1 - recollections of dinners in eden

1st in a series of yuraven oneshots for my favourite aus, both canon to the tales series and of my own creation. ao3 link in the replies.

1. tales of asteria | recollections of eden 2. modern/coffee shop au 3. tales of the rays | 'it's new years! brave vesperia' event 4. schwann brigade yuri au 5. zestiria setting au 6. modern/band au. ao3 link in the replies.

Claw truly is a fantastic cook.

It’s rare, in honesty, that he gets a chance to taste his food. It’s an offer rarely made - only on those seldom occasions where he comes to seek Raven’s information-gathering expertise, and even then only when he deems his work to have gone above and beyond his expectations. He’s a harsh critic, for a man who clearly knows he wouldn’t personally be able to do the job, though the quality of his food is certainly worth the extra effort Raven has to put in to pass the grade.

He has to chase Norma away from the office on nights like these. At times, that feels harder than the information gathering he has to do to get to this point - she’s stubborn as a mule, and has a good nose for his lies. She doesn’t know about his… side-job, so to speak, and he has no intention of telling her any time soon if he can help it. She’d only nag for a free meal herself anyway, and there’s something special about these evenings he gets to spend with Claw, just the two of them. The addition of a spunky teenager would kill the vibe - even if the teenager in question is technically mature enough to be his business partner.

The only consistent method he’s found is to send her off to the next town over on some errand he swears that only she can handle, that he couldn’t possibly join her and get in the way of her work. Of course, it’s tricky to convince her that there’s anything she could do that he couldn’t - the bulk of their work is, after all, odd jobs and chores for the elderly, but if he bitches and whines enough (“Oh Norma , you know how my back gets, ancient as I am!”) then she’ll finally give in and head off with little fuss.

He gets to put the ol’ bad back excuse to good work when Claw arrives too - he couldn’t possibly help out in the kitchen, he’s so old and slow that he’ll only get in the way, or else mess up the recipe.

Claw, unsurprisingly, is far more skeptical of his tall tales than Norma. But for whatever reason, he’s never once complained at Raven sitting on his lazy ass and watching instead of helping. If anything, he almost seems a little happy about it.

After he does his little dance around the kitchen - finely dicing onions with nary a tear, pulverising potatoes efficiently, mixing it all together with a meat Raven’s tastebuds can never quite place, and frying the little balls of the concoction after coating them in breadcrumbs - there’s a plate of perfectly crisp croquettes placed in the middle of the table. It feels almost criminal to allow them to sit in the same spot that they usually just throw cheap takeout and sloppily-made sandwiches, mouth-wateringly good as they look.

“I really don’t know how ya do it, Cap’n.” he says, polishing off his first and skewering a second with his fork. “Makin’ something as tasty as this with just a couple of ingredients… Y’ ever think ya might be in the wrong line of work?”

Claw snorts in amusement, simply resting his head in his hand with a roll of his eyes.

It’s always like this. He’ll cook enough for both of them (or maybe three, or even four people - Raven can’t deny that he’s a real glutton when it comes to Claw’s cooking), but never eats himself. He simply watches Raven from over his collar, expression indecipherable from just his eyes alone. If it wasn’t something of a routine by now, then he’s sure he’d find the constant dark-eyed gaze unnerving, to say the least.

Instead he just feels guilty - it feels unfair to be the only one eating.

“...why is it that ya never eat yerself while yer here?” he asks tentatively. He really can’t imagine such a high ranking member of Her Highness’s guard suffering from eating-related stage fright, but it certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing he’s ever heard of.

Claw quirks an eyebrow.

“You know as well as I do that Her Excellency forbids my face to be seen.”

Ah.

How did he let that slip his mind?

“That must be a hell of a pain when you’re on the road with your platoon, huh.” he quips instead to cover his lapse in memory.

There’s a slight change to Claw’s breathing that he doubts he’d notice if he wasn’t so good at his job - the tiniest of sighs. He remains otherwise silent.

G r o o o o w l

...Although the same cannot be said for his stomach, it seems, as it heartily voices its protests. Raven simply cannot stop the wide grin that rises to his face.

Claw’s eyes narrow, no doubt already anticipating what will come next.

“C’mon, Cap’n, you should try some yerself!”

He scoffs.

“It’s fine. I’ll just eat whatever’s leftover when I get back to the barracks later.”

“You know as well as I do that’s a hell of a waste - why let it go cold when you could just eat it right here and now?”

Claw’s gaze narrows further.

“Raven…” he drawls, warningly.

“C’monnnn, it’ll be our little secret! I promise, I won’t tell a soul!” he says, leaning over the table to wave a skewered croquette in his face. Claw’s eyes tick back and forth like a metronome as he watches the morsel, and he thinks he’s almost got him- and then he furrows his brows, eyes clenched shut like a baby rejecting a snack it doesn’t like the look of.

Raven sighs.

“Spoilsport. No one would’ve ever needed to know,” he whines. “‘m just thinkin’ about yer health, Cap’n. Nothin’ more, I swear.”

It happens as he goes to sit up straight - quick as lightning.

He snatches the hand Raven’s waving in front of his face, like a cat pouncing its prey, and hooks a finger over his high, wide collar. Scoops the bite Raven had thought was now destined for him into his own mouth. Replaces the collar as quickly as it left.

It’s maybe 3 seconds at the most. An absolutely miniscule amount of time. But more than enough for a man in Raven’s line of work to get a good look at his permanently-obscured face.

To take in his delicate features - nose long and beak-like, but cheeks far more rounded than he’d expected, pink lips thin yet surprisingly plump, a proud chin despite his round jaw - to be absolutely enraptured by how beautiful he is.

‘Do they hafta keep their faces covered,’ he wonders idly, ‘because they’re all this distractingly beautiful? Or is Claw just a special case?’

He can’t break his eyes away, even after Claw finishes his mouthful, looks up at him expectantly, once more quirks an eyebrow in confusion. His heart is pounding , stirring in a way that feels almost like nostalgia for some reason. He’s hot and cold all at once, cheeks burning but blood like ice, and he longs to reach out and touch him, pull the collar down for a better look, truly commit his face to memory. But then there’s a pain in his heart like a knife, pure grief , and it twists, makes him feel sick to the stomach, and his brain is fuzzy, he doesn’t understand-

“What’re you staring at, old man?”

It feels like being clocked around the head. He scrambles up straight, trying to put as much space between them as he can even as he yearns to be closer.

“Nothing! Nothing at all!”

Claw’s eyebrow climbs ever higher. Raven scrambles for something to say - whatever that was is definitely something to unpack later , if ever at all.

“Anyway, my darlin’ Claw,”

(‘Wait, darlin’??? Where the hell did that come from???’)

“How does it feel to get a taste of yer own food pipin’ hot for once?”

He swears he can see a gentle flush of red to his cheekbones where they peek above the collar.

“...I guess it’s better than when it’s cold.” he mumbles, gaze never meeting Raven’s.

He smiles, satisfied, and does his best to squash down the rest of that strange sensation as he tucks back into his meal.

Later, when Claw is gone and he’s alone with his thoughts, he’ll make a decision. That next time Claw cooks for him, he’ll persuade him to remove the collar again. And maybe he’ll figure out exactly what the lurching of his heart means. Who knows? He might even cook for Claw for a change.

(Something tells him he’s got a sweet tooth. Maybe he likes crepes?)

Little does he know that though certainly, he will receive the offer of Claw’s cooking in exchange for hard work at least once more, never again will he have the opportunity to actually sample it.

((it’s that night that the dreams start))

[splat-dragon]

The man that looked him in the eye on that mountain, though, was Dutch. The one he’d known for twenty years, that had cradled him and loved him and known him and taught him. He knew his tells, knew his eyes.

And that man, the one who was silent though he’d never known him to be, was his Pa.

‘Pa, please don’t go. I don’t want to die alone.’

Thank you to @thedoodlenoodle-wa who got my butt in gear to finish this that has totally not been sitting in my WIPs for over a year

Written to this version of Knockin' on Heaven's Door

He couldn’t breathe.

 His face was throbbing, his chest was burning. Micah had done a number on him, and his only solace was that he would die of his wounds instead of his illness. But… he didn’t want to die. There was so much he still wanted to do, he was terrified. He still had so much he needed to do.

 He needed to talk to Dutch, get him to see that he was wrong. That following Micah would only drag him further into ruin, further down than he was already, if that was possible. He had already lost Hosea, had lost those he had raised as sons and daughters, to death and to leaving in hopes of a better life. What more could he lose?

 His life, he supposed. But with all of his gang lost, everything he had built up destroyed, did he have much of a life left to lose?

 No, not really. As much as Dutch had changed, he still loved them: the gang was as much his family as they were Arthur’s. If Arthur lost them… he would be crushed. He’d never be able to go on. Would go insane, most likely, lose his mind—they were all that was keeping him together. He’d rather die than lose them, couldn’t imagine a future where he wasn’t surrounded by his brothers and sisters in arms.

          ‘I don’t want to die.’

 He wanted Hosea.

 Desperately.

 When he was a kid and he was sick or hurt, or just needed attention, the old man (although he hadn’t been that old back then) would sit with him, tell him that it would be okay, would card his fingers through his hair. Read aloud to him from whatever book he was reading at the time, even if Arthur didn’t understand a word of it. Tell him about one of his favorite cons or heists, and Arthur would be just as fascinated as the first time he’d heard it, even if it was the hundredth time.

 But Hosea was dead, wasn’t he? He’d been shot in front of him, captured in that damned bank robbery that had gone so, so wrong. He’d been made to watch him turn to stare his death in the eye, collapse to the ground in a spray of blood and writhe pitifully in pain. His pa’s death hadn’t been dignified, or peaceful, or even something worth telling stories of as he had wanted; he hadn’t died in some amazing shoot-out, or protecting his family. He’d been shot down in the streets like some mangy, flea-ridden dog. Made the most horrific sound as he’d been torn open, punched through by a bullet and put down without a second thought.

 If Hosea was still alive… well, this wouldn’t be happening. He would never have allowed Lenny to be shot on that rooftop, Micah to bring in Joe and Cleet, Dutch to stir the pot that was the Wapiti and the government. Would never have allowed Susan to be shot down as she had been. He would have been horrified, heartbroken, to see Dutch walk away from their sons and Arthur wondered if, perhaps, it was better that the man wasn’t around to see how far his pa had fallen.

 Could Hosea have fixed things? Dutch had been falling for years, but he’d only gotten worse since Micah had joined them, worse since he hit his head, worse since Hosea died. No, maybe not. But Hosea could have lessened the impact. Could have gotten them all out before Dutch broke, could have kept them from being hit by the shrapnel, from being collateral damage. Could have restrained the ticking time bomb such that only Micah and Joe and Cleet were affected, so that only they were left to deal with the fall-out when Dutch drew the Pinkertons down on their heads, when Dutch turned on his family.

 But Hosea was gone, and they had all been damaged. Shrapnel had dug deep, the shock-wave doing damage that no one could see, but that they would feel for the rest of their lives. Still, though, he wanted Hosea. He was sick, sicker than he had ever been. He wanted Hosea to sit with him, to run his fingers through his hair and read Rip Van Wrinkle or Robin Hood or any of those other books he seemed to always be re-reading, or even those books that Arthur could never remember even the title of, never mind the contents.

          ‘I want Hosea.’

 Dutch wasn’t saying anything.

 He wasn’t sure what he, himself, was saying. There was some sort of disconnect between his mouth and his brain, his mind fuzzy, his ears buzzing, and the edges of his eyesight had gone grey, but Dutch was a solid figure, as sturdy and unchanged as always.

 And he had nothing to say.

 For as long as Arthur could remember, Dutch always had something to say. He was always talking, always moving. Gesturing, pacing, orating.

 But when it mattered, he was silent.

 And then the pressure lifted from his hand, released his broken fingers, and Dutch made some sort of noise, an involuntary sort of one, a moan or a groan or a gasp, and then he was walking - staggering - away.

 Perhaps it was Arthur’s fading mind trying to comfort him, but he could have sworn that he saw a tear in his Pa’s eye.

          ‘Dutch, please don’t leave me.’

 He’d never been one to fear death.

 It was part and parcel of their life. When your job included bullets flying, being chased by the law and by bounty hunters, then you became desensitized to death. He’d gone through being sick with the Russian Flu as a teenager, with Hosea and Dutch at his side for fear he might die alone, had suffered Scarlet Fever much the same. Had been bitten by more snakes than he could count on both hands, been bed-ridden by near half of them, had nearly died from so many bullet wounds that it was almost a common occurrence for him.

 When he’d nearly died of an infection of the blood after escaping the O’Driscolls, he’d been angry and indignant, not mad. He’d sworn up and down that he would see Colm dead before he died, to protect his family from the man’s machinations, and he’d be damned before he died of an infection of all things.

 And Hosea had, laughing wearily, said that it was that anger that had made him live. He was just too damn angry to die.

 But now? Lying alone on the cold stone, bleeding out, drowning in his own blood, watching as his father walked away, abandoning him to whatever death took him?

          ‘I’m scared.’

 They’d always been there for him.

 From the moment they’d pulled him from the mud, shivering of the cold, his lips tinted blue, a sigh in Hosea’s chest and an offer on Dutch’s lips, he had always been able to count on them.

 They’d fed him up, put a gun in his hand and taught him to read. Hadn’t needed to - he’d have been a perfectly good little soldier if he were illiterate - but had done so out of the goodness of their blackened hearts. Had sat for hours, put up with his sulks and whining, spent years shoving books in front of him until he could read even Dutch’s philosophy books, even if he didn’t understand them.

 When he’d fallen from the saddle, his pa never having taught him how to ride proper, they’d been there to pat the dirt from his shoulders and to boost him back up, to teach him that you always get back up on that horse, and to teach him how to ride a horse. How to sit a trot, how to show it how to go, how to hold on as you let it have its head when fleeing the law. How to break a wild horse, how to coax away a stolen horse.

 And when he’d had his son, his baby boy Isaac, they’d been there to hold him close, to smile proud as any grandpas would be, to love and adore him, to give him gifts they’d made themselves, to hum and sing even if Dutch didn’t look particularly comfortable, afraid he’d break him.

 And when Isaac and Eliza had been killed, they’d mourned with him.

 They’d been there as he grew up, as he grew sour. Talked him down when he turned surlish, snarled and snapped, knew when to pull him aside and tug him in close, squeeze him tight and tuck his head under their chins until he stopped shaking, until the world stopped thrumming and he could breathe again.

 No matter what, they’d been there for him. When he was scared he could turn to them, find them there, ready to lend an ear or just sit as he sketched, or look at the stars, or nothing in particular at all. Sometimes it had seemed suffocating, as though he couldn’t take a step without stumbling over them, but at that moment he’d give anything to have them back.

            ‘I want my dads.’

 They’d never turned their backs on him.

 Not when he’d been cruel - when he’d turned to the bottle after his baby boy had been killed, taking out his agony on the world, not when he’d tried to test them when he was young and mad at the world, at everyone and everything, terrified of them, sure that they had some motives he couldn’t yet see and trying to test them.

 But they’d never turned their back on him. Sometimes they’d step away, take a breather if he was drawing their ire, but never did they give up on him. They’d pull him to sit by the campfire, try to talk to him or just sit with him, wait for him to cool down and wait for calmer heads to prevail.

 Maybe… maybe things had changed as the world raced ahead of them. Dutch had grown suspicious but, even then, he’d never turned his back on him. Not until Lone Mule Stead - before then he’d accused him of being a traitor, of intending on betraying him in the future.

 But he’d left him to rot there, to be tortured and to die. He’d sworn, up and down, that he’d been intending to come for him, but Arthur had known him for twenty years and though Dutch was a fantastic liar, it came with the territory after all, he had his tells.

 And Dutch had been lying.

 But then he’d been Dutch again - playing, racing him and calling him his son, taking he and Hosea fishing and singing in the boat, eyes bright and clear and playfully directing them as they all sang their ridiculous songs.

 And he’d saved him on the cliff. Could have fled, left him to be chased by the military. But he’d even covered his back and sent him ahead. Curled around him as they leaped into the river, risked wading into the current to grab his arm and haul him out, waited as he fought to breathe, fighting his traitorous lungs, only leaving once he was breathing steadily or, at least, as steadily as his breathing got these days.

 But then came the oil fields, and he’d turned his back and left him to die. He’d been so happy only moments before - “Arthur… we are nearly there…” - and then he’d looked him in the eye, his hands on his guns (and Dutch was a quick shot, it was a shot he’d made thousands, if not millions, of times before), and walked away.

 Dutch wasn’t his Dutch anymore, he could tell that now.

 Wasn’t his Pa.

 Wasn’t the man who laughed and distracted him from the pain of his wounds being tended with ridiculous stories, who would put on weird hats as he told of how he got them. Wasn’t the man who held him in his arms and rocked him when he suffered the sadness he got from his mother, who knew how to talk him down when he lost himself to the anger his father gave to him.

 Wasn’t the man who hummed and cradled John when the kid woke up screaming, clawing at a noose that wasn’t there. Who laughed and played horsy with Jack when he thought no one was looking - wasn’t even the man who snuck treats to Cain behind Pearson’s back, who twirled Molly by the campfire and took in Sadie up in Colter.

 The man that looked him in the eye on that ledge, though, was Dutch. The one he’d known for twenty years, that had cradled him and loved him and known him and taught him. He knew his tells, knew his eyes.

 And that man, the one who was silent though he’d never known him to be, was his Pa.

          ‘Pa, please don’t go. I don’t want to die alone.’

[evabellasworld]

By the Stream

March Madness Challenge for @starwarsfandomfests

What happened, what’s wrong?

You’re sitting alone by the stream

The green grass is sprouting up

And the water splashes with the spring wind

I’m sure there was a promise

That even if you go, you won’t be gone forever

But every day you come to the stream

What are you thinking about?

Even if you go, you won’t be gone forever

Is that asking me not to forget you?

——————————————————————————————

Summary: Obi-Wan and Vanya were sitting beside the stream, not knowing what will become of the long-standing friendship that they built together.

——————————————————————————————

AO3 Link

Staring at the crystal-clear stream in front of her, Vanya was seated on a large rock, with stalks of yellow-orange daisies in her hands, with a smile on her face. Her surroundings were filled with wildflowers and polka-dotted mushrooms grown across the emerald field, along with the refreshing breeze in the air. The sun was shining on the blue sky as the puffy cloud above her glided, giving a sense of serenity inside her.

For months, the battles across the Outer Rims were bloodthirsty. Many of her troops were sacrificed in the battlefield as a price to pay for the Republic's victory. The fields that she was admiring were once soaked in blood and rotting corpses that painted across the bare valleys.

Trenches were dug deep and barbed wires were set up, marking each territory for both the Republic and the Separatists forces. Anyone who trespasses was either shot on sight or disappeared, never to be seen again. Vanya recalled assigning 35 clone troopers to gather intel from their enemies and so far, only 5 had survived.

Her heart aches as she laid on her bunk every single night, wondering whether the rest of her soldiers were still out there. It would be easier to think that the remaining 28 men and women were all dead, probably buried somewhere in the area. On the other hand, Vanya could not help but think that maybe, just maybe, they would return home to their brother’s and sister’s embrace.

Why did I even bother fighting this war in the first place? she thought, sniffing through the sweet scent of the flower. It’s not like we were protecting innocent people of the Republic in the first place.

She glanced at the stream again, only to notice the fishes that were swimming along together. For three years, she had been fighting a war that doesn’t seem to end anytime soon. Though her friends informed her that the Separatist were losing their grip on the Outer Rim, Vanya cannot be too sure about their statement.

In truth, nobody, including herself, had any idea when the Clone Wars would end. She was sure that the war would be over in a few months, but that few months became a year, before it turned into three excruciating years. If another year has passed, then she would be a forty-year-old woman, along with her longtime friends, Cinta Kaarim and Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Her former apprentice, on the other hand, would be a fourteen-year-old girl, the same age that Ahsoka became a commander of the 501st Legion. How time flies so fast, she laughed to herself. Just yesterday, Lira was the little girl who was always asking a lot of questions and talking endlessly and now, she’s blossoming into a teenager and soon, she’ll grow into a strong and brave woman.

The thought of her Padawan growing up made her shiver, realising the uncertain future for her and her twin sister, Eva. Will the girls have to grow up to finish the war for us? Vanya bit her fingernails. Will they survive, or will they die young?

That was the question that bounced around her head the moment they were assigned as Jedi Generals for the 101st Battalion, much to both her and Obi-Wan’s distress. As she watches an Eden green butterfly land on top of the flower, her lips curve downwards when it flees in fright, prompting her to turn around and figure out what startled the fragile creature.

Rather, she found Obi-Wan pacing towards her the entire time, making her cross her arms and gave him an icy glare. “You know, your tactics of scaring other people is starting to bore me,” Vanya remarked, as he let out an amusing chuckle.

“Well, in that case, I’ll have to find another way to grab your attention,” he teased, as he sat beside her and grinned, hoping to crack his stone-faced friend. “Besides, you seem to always be in your head all the time. Should I be worried or should I stay out of your internal conflicts?”

“What do you want?” she breathed, her lips stiffened.

“Well, you’ve been sitting alone by the stream,” he answered, his voice laced with concern. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing really,” Vanya shook her head. “It’s just the thought of us not seeing each other again just pains me too much.”

“But even if you go, you won’t be gone forever,” Obi-Wan assured, placing his hands on her shoulder. “Besides, we promised that we would always have each other’s back, no matter what.”

“But what if I didn’t make it alive?” she pined. “The Outer Rim is currently in siege and right now, I can’t even guarantee if I’m able to make it back to the Jedi Temple.”

“Vanya, don’t say that. You will come back to the Temple once everything is over, and you will see Lira and Eva again, I promise.”

“How can you even be optimistic right now, when you’ve been seeing your own men die under your command? You’ve even lost Satine on Mandalore, and you lose sleep worrying about Anakin and Eva’s strained relationship with each other.”

Obi-Wan bobbed his head, his eyebrows drooped. “You’re right. It’s difficult to think positively, especially when both your apprentices are fighting with each other too frequently. It’s hard when Eva kept crying on how Anakin was saying nasty things to her and how he felt unfair when I called him out on his behaviour. But what can I do? Eva has been depressed for years, and I have to stay strong just for her sake. I can’t afford to break down in front of her, since she’s already been through a lot.”

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan,” Vanya apologised profusely, her head hung low. “I didn’t mean to provoke you like that.”

“No, Vanya, there’s nothing to apologise for,” he let out a weak smile. “It’s just that I’ve been keeping to myself for too long, and I thought that it would be better if I just let it all out, you know.”

She nodded as she squeezed her nose and wiped her hands on her dress, shifting her focus to the gentle stream. “So, how’s Anakin?”

“The usual,” shrugged Obi-Wan. “You know, flying recklessly, almost getting himself for a billion times, yeah, those are the things that I have to deal with for more than ten years.”

“That bad, eh?” her nose crinkled.

“Well, he had a rough upbringing when he was around Eva’s age. He was enslaved until my master, Eva’s father, rescued him and made me his master as his death wish. Then, he had to watch his own mother die a decade later, and even till today, he blamed himself for not being able to save her from those Tusken Raiders.”

“That was sad,” Vanya sympathised. “But that doesn’t excuse him for hurting other people’s feelings, especially Eva. The girl’s only thirteen, and she’s already in a fragile state of mind.”

“That is true,” he acknowledged. “Ever since Ahsoka left, Anakin is back to his destructive behaviour. His possessiveness towards Padmé, his anger issues, says it all. I’ve tried talking to him, but you know him. He’s as stubborn as a mule.”

“The apple doesn’t seem to fall far from the tree,” she commented. “You were just as stubborn as him when you were still an apprentice to Master Qui-Gon Jinn.”

He snorted, before clearing his throat. “I could say the same for you and Master Plo Koon. You always insisted on flying, even if it was too dangerous.”

“Yup, and now, the cycle repeats with Lira. I have to admit, as jumpy as Lira is, she is one hell of a pilot.”

“It’s like you said, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Obi-Wan repeated her words. “Master Plo was a pilot, you are a pilot, and now, Lira is following your footsteps into becoming a star pilot like the both of you.”

“And Anakin and Eva also have your piloting skills, though you hated flying so much.”

“Yeah, I had a bad experience with them,” he rubbed behind his neck, plucking a small, white daisy beside him. “You know the incident on Pijal. Even to this day, it still haunts me in my dreams.”

“I know, and I’m sorry that you had to go through that, really. No child should experience these kinds of horrors.”

“And we let a fourteen-year-old and two 10-year-olds fight in a barbaric war,” he exhaled. “I just hope that this war will end sooner. I miss the days when the only thing we had to worry about was maintaining peace in the Galactic Republic.”

She groaned in frustration. “God, I hate politics so much. It’s just too many red strings that prevent us from taking further action, you know. I don’t even know why the Jedi Council had to get involved in the first place.”

“I see where you’re coming from. Too many politicians, with a few exceptions, are corrupted. They would rather fill their pockets with credits than caring about the citizens instead. Honestly, I have a feeling that the Republic will crumble eventually. It’s too fragile to maintain its pillars.”

“True,” she relented as she got up from her seat, holding a bouquet with both hands. “Well, I should get going. The Council assigned me to another battle and I have to depart as soon as possible.”

He nodded and bowed. “Is that asking me not to forget you?”

“I guess so,” Vanya lifted her shoulders. “But like you said, I won’t be gone forever, and so will you.”

“Goodbye Vanya,” Obi-Wan gave his last wave at her. “I hope we’ll see each other again once the war is over.”

“I will, Obi-Wan,” she promised, before leaving him by the stream, where the grasses were sprouting up and the water splashes with the spring wind. Little did they know, this was their last conversation with each other before the end of the era.

[danddymaro]

Trusting | Steve Rogers x Reader

PT 1 : Wanting compromise

A/N: This will be a 3-4 Part. Quite enough to fit a bit of drama I suppose. This starts off in  Civil war goes through to Endgame.

warning this one is lengthy,

Word count: 4224

 Wanting compromise

“ Steve,” (f/n) said firmly, staring at the said man straight on, her (dark/bright) eyes filled with determination, unwilling to back down, being just as stubborn as he had taught her to be.

Fiercely glaring with stern (e/c) orbs, she held her chin up as she spoke to him, attempting to push down everything else that wasn’t reasonable understanding, stepping over her own sentiment to meet him halfway and go just beyond that point if it was necessary.

‘I’m willing to do anything...anything to stop this,’ She thought to herself.

She was more than willing to come to a comprise, hoping he’d do the same, desiring nothing more than to have him return the same effort.

" You need to stop this...Stop before it escalates any further...before it gets any worse," she said soberly.

‘If that’s even possible…’ she thought to herself, adding onto her words, but keeping the snide thought silent.

‘No...I’m not here to play the blame game...’ She rationalized with herself, knowing that it would only invite more resentment to surface if she stayed on those cracking grounds.

" You don't want to do this…" she continued on lowly, cautioning him for what was to come.

‘I know if I can get through to him, then it won’t come to it... We won’t have to fight,’ She reasoned, knowing that the only other way to stop him would be with force.

But she detested the thought, just thinking of raising her hand at him made her insides bubble. However, she willed herself, knowing that there were only two roads she could take....

‘Whatever it takes, I can’t be the one to back down,’ she thought with a harsh swallow.

If it wasn't possible to reason, she wanted to show him she wasn’t afraid to stand in his way, that she wasn’t willing to let him just trample over her and everything they had built.

Because It wasn’t just about her...

It wasn’t just about Bucky either...

There was just too much on the line, so much to lose to simply let him walk away.

‘Not like this,’ she thought stubbornly, knowing every action in which he had taken had only caused a greater rift between every member of the once united Team.

And it would only get worse if she didn’t take action,

‘We were once a team...And there's still plenty to salvage,’ she thought with hope, accompanied by a nod of assurance.

‘we won’t come to it...To the fall of the Avengers, ‘

It hadn’t ever crossed her to believe they’d ever be on opposing sides, almost as though they'd never been friends... partners… and perhaps something more.

‘ No No No No No, ‘ she chanted, ‘I’m here as just a friend,’ She reminded herself, because any other way would complicate things.

Any other way would bring the rotten bitterness she’d been trying to swallow down right back up.

"You know that I’ve always had your back,” She told him, “I always have… and will continue to,” she added, speaking earnestly. “ I'm always at your side... so please, don't treat me like the enemy," she pleaded him, her eyes softening, her mask of hard ice melting for a moment to give him sight of her true inner turmoil, exposing it for him.

“I don’t want to fight you,” she said quietly, the words not reaching him, but with his focus on her, he could read her lips as they moved with each uttered word.

“I wouldn’t ever want to hurt you,” she added, forcing up a smile, her hand going out to him.

“So Please,” she said to him, her eyes glittering with hope, “Please take my hand,” and stilly, he stared at her open palm.

He stared at her gloved hand, his fingers twitching as they responded to the action that had been repeated so many times in the past.

He had become used to taking it, after training, after sparring, after battle...

But this time all he did was stare on, motionlessly.

She took a hard swallow after clearing her throat of the knotted ball formed within it, " Steve, “ She started, her voice reaching him once more, sounding sturdier. “I've known Tony for the longest,” she continued on, her ties with the other man being just as strong as the ones she believed to have with the blonde.

“He sees you as a friend. And I know at times he can be hard-headed,” she mused, “ But let’s face it… you are too,” she added with a soft chuckle being forced out from within her chest.

The two of the most important men in her life were hard-headed mules, which in itself was a struggle. And it was even more troublesome when the two often clashed, causing her to be pinned in between.

She was often stuck choosing between the man who was, and had been her best friend for years, and the man who she not only had formed a solid bond with, but also coincidentally admired and loved.

“But regardless of that, I just know he'd do whatever it takes to help you out,” she told him, nodding, believing it to be true. “ I just know he will...because he’s your friend.” She assured him. “And I’m your friend too,” she reminded him.

“So is Nat, “ she added with a secure nod. “And we’ve all been through too much together to let this cause us a rift.”

“ Right now, you have to understand that things aren’t looking good for Bucky.“ She explained to him, hoping he’d turn over. “And I know you love him. I know how much you've struggled to get him back. We understand. We really do...but you have to come to reason as well.” She said to him. “ That if anything, it’s better to stay together. Because that way, we can get through this. Trust me,” she urged him, stepping forward a step, still holding her hand out for him to take.

“ We can do this...together,” she assured him.

Hearing her out, his jaw tightened, something she caught sight of and with a shuttered breath, she took a step back, her hand coming to her chest.

She retreated shaking her head at him as her eyes rounded, being stunned by that one simple twitch.

She then strayed her gaze away from him, growing disillusionment notable in her (e/c) eyes, because he had already made his mind.

He had already known what he’d have to do and was willing to push forward...

He had found it easier to face her, all the while she’d simply wasted her breath, strummed on false hope, naive enough to think she could break through to him.

The decision which would have torn her apart was one he had already made, taking the path to no return.

“ I see, ” she said softly, drawing more space between them.

“You know...You're standing in front of me, holding your shield so tightly within your hand. Your muscles are all tensed... Steve, I can see it…” she informed him, “ And if you could only see the way you look at me right now... you’d understand why it hurts…” she told him. “After all, it’s the same way you look at your enemies…” she said with a dry chuckle rousing out from her to mask the hurt residing within her chest.

“ I would know... Because I've stared at you enough times to know. I’ve been at your side enough times to have memorized it,” she said sadly. Looking around, she let (e/c) colored her eyes gazed over to see their friends fighting among themselves, the entire airport a battleground, ensuring more destruction than what had already let loose.

“ This is tearing us apart, but I guess you already know that, huh?” she told him, a seldom smile slowly growing over her face as she lived through their final moments of peace together.

“ And as much as it pains me,” she shuttered, her body running cold with what she was going to say, “ I’ll have to stand in your way, " she warned him, lifting her hands from her sides, her feet elevating from the ground, levitating her body off the concrete by only a foot, ready to confront him straight forth.

“ Because I have no choice if you don't back down,” She informed him.

His stubbornness, though at times annoying, was a trait she had admired. She had always found respect in his steadfastness, his devotion in what he believed to be right, something she wished she had more of, something she’d striven to be like.

What made him a hero wasn’t the power he had gained from the enhancing serum, it had been his determination, and much more that only Steve Rogers had. His will was just as powerful as his fists, able to go against greater powers than his own in order to protect, that was his strength.

‘Damn it...’ She thought to herself, because even then, all while she was ready to go against him, she found herself admiring his drive, stunned by his love for his longtime friend as well.

Far from within, she began to question whether or not she was on the right side,

‘ I’d wreak havoc for you,’ She thought to herself, understanding him, uncertain if she was doing the right thing by opposing him because she too would go against the world to save him.

But then she remembered Stark, she remembered his words, his own reasons.

His own pain...

“Just answer me this...” she breathed, “Why?” She questioned him. “ Do you not trust him?” she asked. “Does his word mean nothing?”

“Steve...Are we not friends?” She asked him.

‘What did we do wrong?’ She wondered. ‘Just say anything... something,’ She pleaded, having received nothing but silence from him all along.

“ I won't let anything happen to Bucky, “ He informed her, making those his chosen words.

“ I won’t take the risk,” he added, “And even if I have the whole world going against me, I have to do what’s right,” he informed her. “ Because even if someone is telling me that something wrong is right...even if the world is telling me to move... ” he continued on, drifting off towards the end, securing a direct lining to connect his blue eyes to hers as he continued on, “ No...I won't move,” he said with assertiveness.

“I won’t be the one to move aside,” he told her. “I’m sorry (f/n),” he told her, his lips pressing together tightly afterward.

She had her answer, but shaking her head rapidly, she still couldn't accept it,

“There’s another way!” she persisted.”You know there is!” she said out loud. “we can come to an agreement!’ she argued frantically, nodding her head furiously.

“Don't you get it? There is nothing to compromise!” he fought back, “ I can't trust anyone else to do this. I can’t trust him, and I can't trust -” he stopped himself mid-sentence and bit his tongue, holding back his words.

His fists tightened at his sides, his face whipping itself towards another direction, anywhere else but her way.

He hadn’t wanted to say that last bit, and yet, it slipped past him.

And then it dawned on to her…

‘of course...’ Of course, it all made sense.

Her chest tightened in pain, making her breath hitch.

She immediately tightened her own jaw, teeth clamping tightly together, grinding against each other harshly to the point it became painful. “ Finish what you were going to say... go ahead…” she rasped, feeling her blood boil, bubbling like scathing water.

She urged him to continue, but instead, he stayed silent, not willing to repeat his words, nor continue on where he stopped.

“ You don't trust him...and you don't trust me either, “ she said finishing for him, her hands balling. "Is that it?" She asked him, her voice rising with viciousness.

It stung, striking her right at the center of her chest when he revealed that he had no trust in them. It pained her to know he hasn't been filled with the same sentiment she had been, because she had been certain they had grown to be true family, one where they all fit together.

She HAD been convinced of that.

“You don’t trust me…” she repeated, feeling a stabbing pain within her chest. “I’ve taken so many bullets for you,” she reminded him, “ I was so sure you’d do the same for me,” she admitted.

“ But no...of course not, " she murmured to herself.

‘You’re such an idiot... a complete moron,’ she berated herself. ‘He never had...’

"....But you trust her right?" She asked through clenched teeth, venom spitting out from her mouth. She couldn't help but show the bit of green that had festered within her. She tried to press it down the entire time, but his sudden revelation made the thought of HER rise...

“You trust her enough to have her sneak all your gear out for you, right? “ she asked darkly. “You trust her enough to talk to her, don't you?” she continued on. “ You trust her enough to meet up with her, and conspire," she spoke with envy, her fists tightening to the point they shook.

He looked at her with surprise, and he asked himself what Sharon had to do with anything, what role she played in the woman's agitation.

"I ask you one final time Steve," she said with a long breath, her heart gearing up, it's pace fastening as she already knew his reply.

His blue eyes shut tightly seeing her so visually hurt, but even then he couldn't back down. He rolled his shoulders, steadying his stance, and it was a wordless signal showing his final decision, one he hadn’t been considering to change since the start.

One she hadn’t been able to accept...

Her vision blurred slightly and with a frustrated grunt, she quickly swiped her arm over her eyes.

"I hate you...I hate you so much," she rasped, rising up higher before shooting towards him like a quick bullet, her right arm clenched back.

From her mouth words she'd never dream of uttering to him with wholeheartedness had escaped. However, as she claimed to hate him, it wasn't the case.

The female avenger spoke out of heartbreak, out of betrayal.

She had spoken as a wounded woman...one who felt betrayed and scorned.

No…She didn't hate him, she had just become disenchanted with him, the pedestal she had placed him on breaking down as though the foundation had been nothing but cheap wood.

Had their friendship been nothing more than a cheap mess?

Had she been stupid enough to think there was anything more there as well?

And of course, there was the question that haunted her, ever so present in the bitter moment,

‘Why Sharon...Why her?

Why not me?’

As her right fist struck him, he fell back, rolling into a safe land, his own right hand taking hold of the ground to stop himself.

His blue eyes glared right at her, sternly looking towards her with confusion, absolutely stunned.

Without hesitation she went towards him again, her other fist colliding at the star center of his shield as he raised it up before him.

His right leg was placed further in front of his body while his left stayed behind him being dragged back as a result, digging into the cement ground as she pushed forward.

A cry of frustration left her as he pushed his body forward, adding a jut to the vibranium made guard in his possession, successfully pushing her back.

Falling back herself, she dragged along the hard floor before wordlessly lifting herself from it, her rage-filled face unaffected by the aftermath of his opposing strike.

With a mocking grin, she cackled out with laughter, her head inclining back as she displayed dark amusement. She felt her eyes sting as little pricks jabbed and prodded at her already wounded heart,

“Don't hold back now!” she cried out, running straight towards him.

The damage had been done, by that point it was an insult to pull punches, and she saw it nothing more as cruel mocking.

‘If you see me as an enemy then fight me as one,’

" I always trusted you! " She said angrily, her eyes beginning to glow, going from their normal (e/c) glimmer to a glowing white brilliance.

Beneath his mask he showed obvious concern, his eyebrows creased with worry as he looked on at her,

‘Somethings not right,’ He thought to himself, knowing it wasn't normal for her eyes to change.

It wasn’t normal for her to have such physical force either, something he’d noticed from the start.

" I Looked up to you! " She continued on, pushing him back with a straight kick, snarling as he once again blocked it with his shield, pushing her back as he had before.

Stumbling, she fell back, both her tightened fists slamming onto the concrete ground, cracking the floor with two craters.

And yet again, he was left stunned...

Stepping back, he eyed the formed hallows with caution.

She choked up, hating the wetness that fell from her two eyes, and with another harsh wipe to them, she forced herself up. She stood up with stiffened muscles, breath coming out from her parted lips in harsh pants.

With quick steps she went towards him, her left arm sweeping over to him, and with that a blue, cylinder container came from behind her, shooting towards him with incredible speed.

Whipping his own arm right he sent the object hurling another direction as it bounced off the metal shield in his hold.

Immediately afterward, knowing he’d parry the attack with his guard, her right arm whipped aside, picking up the large metal piece once again, and aimed it back at him.

Mercilessly hitting its target, it struck him right at his midsection, a huff leaving him as it knocked the breath from him.

" I thought you cared, " She seethed, watching him be hit, both her arms raised high above her, a strained heave sounding out from her. He could hear her struggling, pushing herself until she tore herself from within,

“ Are you alright? “ he asked her, placing a hand at her upper back, kneeling down with her. Nodding enthusiastically, she beamed up at him, giving him a dismissive wave, “ It’s nothing,” she assured him, not convincing him in the least bit, and he was about to argue back, but another voice cut him off.

“It’s not ‘ nothing ‘,” Tony interjected, the metal armor he wore giving away his approaching figure before he had even spoken.

He then offered her a hand, his brows creased with concern as he lifted her up, forcing her to stand on wobbly legs. Leaning onto him she gave a deep sigh, (f/n) looked over at Steve, watching as he raised himself from his crouching position as well.

“Ok, so it’s not just ‘nothing,’” she admitted sheepishly.

“Meaning?” Steve said with a question filled tone.

“Meaning,” Tony started, “ She’s not able to go on all day like you can,” he informed the first avenger. “ She can overexert herself if she’s doing too much,” he continued on, making (f/n) grimace.

“I know it’s stupid,” (f/n) admitted, smiling tiredly, “ Don’t get me wrong,” she said strengthening her back, “I can pull my own weight, “ she assured him, “But i have my limits,” she admitted.

“I’m just as human as anyone else, “ she reminded them, “Just with a special talent,” she added.

“One that I have to control... or it could very well kill me,” she murmured with a dry chuckle, the last bit meant for herself, something true and grave, but amusing to her.

" Dammit! I loved you!" she said out loud, her voice ringing clear as day as she said it.

And at her final words, his eyes widened, growing as large as they could as even she seemed surprised at her confession.

It had been caused by the slip up she had made in her frustrated state, something she hadn’t wanted him to know, especially not then when she begged him to stay.

She hadn’t wanted him to know, not when he clearly showed he hadn’t felt the same either.

She felt pathetic, even moreso as she caught sight of the look he gave her.

He stared at her like she was a kicked dog like he felt bad for her.

But it made sense to him now...

All the missing pieces fit snuggly and he began to understand many things.

“(f/n)...” he started, stopped by her frustrated cry.

With a snarl, she shook off the look she wore, erasing the traces of heartache worn over her. Instead, she dashed towards him again, her face shifted to anger, the only feeling powerful enough to hide everything else.

But as she advanced, she was stopped by a barely visible wall created by red magic, causing her to be frozen just a couple of feet from the blonde man.

Staring dead on she swallowed hard, seeing him gazing right at her, his eyes hardly blinking.

Her (e/c) eyes then moved to find the Chestnut haired enhanced female, glaring at her as she felt her red magic begin to shell over her body, coaxing over her. Wanda's fingers moved against each other, her face filled with focus, teeth pressed together as she encased the other woman in her red aura.

Resisting, (f/n) put her own power into use, gaining function in her movements in a manner of seconds. "Little red.. you're a long way from being able to take me on," she warned her friend.

She had always used the loving nickname given to the other female as a show of care, but in her agitated state, she spat out the words with vice, making it seem like it held a disgusting flavor in her mouth.

Wanda Maximoff was undoubtedly a hell to be reckoned with, and (f/n) was sure she'd rank the strongest of the Avengers... but that was only with more years to go, only with more time. unfortunately, the teen had yet to fully manipulate her powers, and the elder could see by the pained expression formed over her that she was exerting far too much energy at attempting to stop the (h/c) haired, more experienced telepath.

(F/n) had years of practice in hand, born with the talent, so it was only natural.

“You can’t possibly believe you can, Right Red?” (f/n) said lowly.

"I know," Wanda replied back, half-heartedly smiling as she looked on towards the other woman with sympathy, because all in all, they were friends. Not only could she see the visible pain within her (e/c) eyes, she could feel it.

There was a ridged darkness to her typically kind face, one that made her seem like a completely different person.

But there was no mistaking her...

Wanda was certain it was the same (f/n), simply muddied by darkness, too hurt to see with anything but hazy eyes dimmed with spite.

"... I'm only drawing time," Wanda revealed.

With a short gasp (f/n) looked back towards the first Avenger as he threw his shield at her, striking her right at her chest, and with its force as well as Wanda's own she was sent back.

Sighing and wiping off the sweat formed over her forehead, Wanda trained her eyes on the First Avenger as he held up his hand, waiting to grab his shield.

" You hesitated too long," she complained.

"I know," Steve replied back with a heave, worriedly looking back to where the woman had crashed.

Enveloped by cold metal the (h/c) young woman wheezed, partially wedged through a parked plane’s outer wall. Tears bubbled from her eyes, the pain induced wetness seeping into her parted mouth, the taste-making her huff.

“I...I have to...” she groaned, using both her strength and power to free herself, ungracefully falling to the cement ground in a filthy heap. she continued to weep as she lay there, her eyes glued to the man that stared back her.

From afar, Rogers stared over to the woman, clenching his teeth as he saw her lay still.

“You said to not hold back,” Wanda told him, “ Take your own advice,” she offered him, making him nod, pressing his lips together with a tightened smile,

“ Yeah your right,” he replied, tearing his sight from (f/n).

It was hard to do so, and it pained him, but he did.

"come on," he said afterward, beginning to run off, "we have to leave," he told her and as Maximoff watched him pick up speed, she trailed behind him.

Meanwhile, (f/n)’s hands balled tightly over the cement ground, shaking as she tried to force herself up.

Her legs wobbled as she walked forward, her eyes glued to the fleeing man, and only him. Her left hand then went to clutch her aching heart, right at where he struck her, knowing she’d hold the pain far into her future.

Her vision was hazy, unable to see fully well, but even then she trudged forward, her (e/c) colored eyes glued to the blue blur.

“It hurts...It all hurts...” she said to herself, slowly moving, her hand still resting at her heart.

Next : Getting through it

[yastaghr]

Nightmare’s Gang of Wranglers 2

Sorry for the long wait! I've been dealing with some crippling back pain and only just found a medicine that helps with it without making me loopy. I'm going to get imaging sometime in the next two weeks to see what the hell is wrong with me this time. Then I see my new doctor again! In the meantime, enjoy this long-awaited chapter 2!

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341953/chapters/63698353

Dream made that final turn into the driveway to the ranch and sighed. It looked absolutely perfect. There were fields of hay blowing in the wind and huge tracts of grass dotted with horses. All of the horses looked happy, not too thin and not too fat. There were old ones, too, who clearly were getting to enjoy their retirement. Dream had to resist the urge to go and pet them. They wouldn’t take kindly to a stranger trying to touch them, even if he did have treats.

A little bit further up the road Dream came to the main house. It was huge, practically a castle, with so many windows and doors that Dream lost count. In front of the house were three giant trailers on the back of three king cab trucks. Dream could see horse noses poking out of the windows, and it brought a smile to his face. He couldn’t wait to cuddle one. He loved the smell of horses more than anything. There was something about that smell that soothed him like nothing else could.

Standing in front of the trailers in a loose line were the wranglers, but Dream had eyes for only one. His brother was standing there, tentacles waving in the wind, with his hands in his pockets and a slight frown on his face. He looked good, even after all these years. Something inside of Dream relaxed when he saw his twin. He was okay.

Dream parked the car and jumped out of the Jeep, tucking the keys into his jean’s pocket. Blue and Ink jumped out after him, Blue in old jeans, Ink in a pair that was brand new. They lined up with Dream as he stared at his brother; Nightmare and his gang of wranglers facing off against Dream and the Star Sanses. It was one of Nightmare’s group, a black-boned skeleton that was somehow even more glitchy than Geno, who broke the silence.

“Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I’d like to get out on the trail before it gets dark. Why don’t you go get your bags and we’ll load them up?”

Dream blinked at him. His brain was lagging a little bit behind. When he got it, he smiled and ran for the back of the car. “Oh! Before we head out, I have a little treat for all of you. I have some for the horses, too, but they can wait until we hit camp.”

All eyes were on him as Dream pulled out the box full of treats. It was huge! He grabbed a container out of it and held it out to the wranglers. “I know you’ll like these, brother, but I hope everyone else does, too!”

Nightmare visibly hesitated in front of Dream. Then, from one second to the next, he went from being empty handed to holding a little homemade candy bar in his hands. He stared at it for nearly a minute before he said, in a voice that had haunted Dream for years, “Is this… one of our Mom’s apple pie candy bars?”

Dream nodded. His voice hardly shook at all when he said, “Yep! I brought enough for everybody to have one every day if they want. She always did say to take care of the people who help you, so I do! Um… is that okay with you?”

Everyone pounced on the package of treats as Nightmare nodded slowly as he stared at the treat in his hand. Then he turned his attention to the treat box. “That’s more than enough for two weeks, Dream. Unless you brought extra?”

Dream waved his hand dismissively. “The rest of the box is full of treats for the horses. I made your salty oat treat for them. I’ve never met a horse that didn’t love them. Or a mule, for that matter. Don’t worry, I wrapped them in wax paper so the horses can’t smell them in the packs.”

Dream was too wrapped up in watching his twin to register the expressions of the rest of his gang, but they all had grins that were growing by the second. And here they’d been worried that this monster had forgotten everything he ever knew about horses. Two minds in particular were thinking something else. Cross and Killer saw the way Nightmare was standing and reacting, saw the way Dream was focusing on him, and came to the obvious conclusion; i.e., that they needed to set the twins up on a date as soon as possible. Dream was definitely worth keeping.

Killer looked around to take in the reactions of the rest of their crew, since it was obvious that Nightmare was too busy to do it. Those reactions had him raising an eyebrow. Not all of them; Dust, Horror, and Sugar all seemed to be confused more than anything else. It was the other two that had him wondering.

Cross seemed more than a little pissed at the stranger with the paint vials. The feeling didn’t seem to be mutual. The other (and what kind of a monster carried around paint vials like bullets?) had interesting eye lights. At first, while he was looking at the horses in the trailer, they were a blue horseshoe and a yellow star. Then he caught sight of Cross. His eye lights changed into a question mark and an orange square. Then, between one blink and the next, they changed into a red exclamation point and a green four-leaf clover. Killer had no idea what those symbols meant. He hoped he could learn soon.

Error’s reaction was even more interesting. He seemed embarrassed when he looked at the short skeleton dressed all in blue. The other just seemed happy to see him. He was waving at him like he’d just seen a long-lost friend. Error quickly looked away and pretended not to see him. Very interesting.

It was Killer this time who broke the silence with his silver tongue. He bowed to the Star Sanses and gestured to their car. “Well, cuties, these treats are perfect to warm our bellies. Why don’t you set your bags into their own piles? We’ll be happy to get this packing business started.”

Dream and Nightmare blinked at him, even as Nightmare absentmindedly stuck his treat in his mouth. His face was never the best for showing his positive emotions, but it radiated pleasure today. Killer could tell that he’d missed those treats. He also knew that he would refuse to admit, even to himself, that he’d missed his brother, but it was obvious that he had. He hadn’t missed the creature he had thought Dream had turned into, but this Dream, the real one, didn’t seem like that at all. Looks could be deceiving, though, as Killer well knew. He’d reserve judgement for later.

The Star Sanses didn’t have much luggage, just five boxes. There was the treat box, one suitcase each for the blue-clad one and Dream, and two suitcases for the paint guy. That’s okay. They’d allowed for two each, given that it was a two week trip and these were city slickers. What they hadn’t allowed for was the contents of the suitcases. Three of the suitcases were filled with clothes. The last suitcase, one of the paint guy’s, was filled with jugs of paint.

Killer could feel the energy radiating off of Nightmare, and it was anything but positive. Most of the rest of the crew was almost laughing out loud. Paint guy couldn’t have picked a worse thing to pack.

“What. Is. This?” Nightmare asked, barely able to keep the fury out of his voice.

Paint guy didn’t seem to notice it. He laughed and waved a hand. “Oh, that’s just my paint. I need it to feel emotions since I don’t have a soul. Weird, right? I’m pretty sure that’ll be enough for two weeks plus a few days extra in case of a big event.”

Everyone was stunned for a moment. At least, everyone from Nightmare’s gang. Dream actually burst out laughing, and his laugh was sweet and clear. Killer wouldn’t mind hearing it again. And again. And again. He definitely wanted to keep Dream around, not only for Nightmare’s sake, but also for his own selfish pleasure. He was already plotting his next move, and at least the next half dozen after that. Killer was a planner. At least, he was when he wasn’t actually fighting someone. Then he just let his instincts carry him through.

Dream recovered from his burst of laughter and wiped his eyes. “Ink, we’ve talked about you just saying that. You’re supposed to be more gentle, remember? Gradual introductions are key.”

Ink’s eyelights changed into a blue question mark and a yellow hourglass. “Um… No? I don’t remember that. Did I write it down on my scarf? Should I have checked my scarf before I said that?”

Dream nodded. “It’s near the first quarter mark, Ink. In the green pen.”

The scarf was removed quickly, then folded and scanned. Killer noticed the hundreds of scribbles in different colors along its length. Were all of those notes? He wasn’t quite sure he believed that there could be a monster who was that forgetful, but the scarf said differently. Killer was pretty sure that a notebook would have been a better choice.

“Oh! Yeah, sorry, my bad. My memory is horrible. Souls do more than give you emotions, they give you a big memory, too,” Ink explained.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but Error cut him off. Error looked ticked off, which didn’t surprise Killer. Error’s default state was angry. It was part of his charm. “How the hell are you alive without a soul? That’s what gives us monsters our lives, not to mention our magic and our personalities. Without a working soul you die! Everybody knows that!”

Ink shrugged in an extremely unhelpful manner. “No one’s really sure. Lots of doctors have tried to figure it out. They haven’t figured out how to give me a soul, either. Right, Blue?”

The third of their guests jumped. He seemed nervous, and Killer instantly picked up on it. He couldn’t figure out why, though. They hadn’t even done anything threatening yet, not that they would. They had money to earn, after all. Killer had even put his trusty knife into its sheath and hidden it under his jacket. No one who didn’t know him would be able to tell that he was wearing it. Dust’s and Cross’s magic knives were both not summoned. Horror’s butcher knife was hidden in his packs. So why was Blue nervous? Did they really look that threatening?

“Y-yeah, Ink. None of them have been able to figure it out, and you won’t let them run any more tests,” Blue accused, “despite the fact that there are several promising new ones that might show them how to help you.”

Cross, unexpectedly, laughed. Killer’s skull whipped around to face him, but his other mate was already waving him away. Killer’s eye sockets narrowed. Oh, did he want to fuck the answers to all this mystery out of him. Well, that could happen later. Right now they really should be getting packed and then out on the trail.

“Okay!” Killer said brightly, “Since it’s pretty clear that you need these paints to show us your wonderful personality, I’ll pack them for you while the rest of our gang gets everything else squared away.”

Everyone turned to blink at him. Then they got to work quietly… except for Ink. He seemed to be unable to stop himself from talking. Killer could see the way that Nightmare’s tentacles were waving, and he decided then and there that he would put the chatterbox towards one end of the line so Nightmare had to deal with him as little as possible.

Time passed. Nightmare surveyed the lineup of their little caravan one last time before they started out on the trail. Everyone was mounted on their horses or mules. Nightmare was on Razz, already ready to ride sweep.

Riding at the head of their troop was Killer on Slim. Nightmare trusted them to lead them safely along any trail in the mountains.

Second in line was Ink. Ink was quickly becoming Nightmare’s worst nightmare (heh). He never stopped talking, he had those stupid paints, he had never even seen a horse before, his jeans were stiff; every little thing about him quickly got on his nerves. At least Rustle seemed to be able to stand him. That horse would put up with anything or anyone.

Error followed after, mounted on Shadow. There was no way Nightmare was putting anyone else next to that chatterbox. Error would just have to suck it.

Dream came next. He’d actually been the last to mount; not because he had forgotten how to ride. No, his mounting was too smooth for that. It was because Nightmare had almost literally had to pry him and Classy apart. Nightmare had forgotten how much Dream loved to just snuggle with the horses. He was addicted to the way they smelled.

Cross was next, on Honey. Killer had insisted that he be in front of Blue. Cross was gentle company, and Killer had told Nightmare in a moment of privacy about Blue’s skittishness. Nightmare hadn’t argued with him. He trusted his mates implicitly.

Next was Blue on Berry. Nightmare had learned that he was once an accomplished horseman, but some kind of an accident had led to Blue getting bucked off. He needed Berry’s steadiness to build his confidence back up. Nightmare could respect that. Besides, he was the shortest out of the entire group.

Ghost carried Dust next. He always rode in front of the pack mules, so that was where he was. If Blue could handle Ink’s nonstop talking he could handle it from Dust.

Crown, Regal, Cherry, and Boss followed one after the other. They were good mules (except for Cherry, who was a good horse). They wouldn’t cause any fuss or problems. They knew better by now than to do that. Besides, they had ridden this route before. Bar something unexpected it was highly unlikely that these solid pieces of horseflesh would so much as bat an eye.

The final two mules were Pumpkin, carrying Blood, and Shanks, carrying Sugar. Those lovebirds always rode tail. Nightmare was never sure how the guests would react if they found out about the two brothers’... arrangement. He hoped it never came up.

That was everyone, and every cinch strap and tie was perfectly in place. Nightmare couldn’t really get away with keeping them here any longer, so he didn’t. “Alright, everyone. Remember what I said - yes, that means you, Ink - and try not to get yourself or anyone else hurt. Understood? Good. Then it’s time to move out.”

Slowly, one horse at a time, they headed out on the path that would lead them into the mountains… and their future.

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG165! X_X

- I really wasn’t expecting to hear the calliope music again one day! That took me back to the end of season 3 – it felt like another (successful) Unknowing, a glimpse of what would have happened if the Circus had pulled through in MAG118/MAG119?

Also, confirmation that Tim definitely got his revenge and blew up the Circus to pieces, including Grimaldi/Nikola:

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: [LOW] I’m hoping if we’re quick, we can avoid her notice. MARTIN: “Her”? [SILENCE] J–Jon, please, don’t tell me there’s an evil clown doll down there– ARCHIVIST: No– MARTIN: –because… ARCHIVIST: N–no, Nikola died with The Unknowing; it’s, uh… [INHALE] An old friend.

At least, Tim got that T__T

- The pattern of beginning the statement with “There is…” already got broken with this one:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: … Wha…? [STATIC REACHING A PEAK] … “There is a place, deep in the heart of Fear, where you trap yourself and claim that it is safety. [STATIC DECREASES] It was once a cabin, and professes still to be such, but as with all in this new world that promises respite… it is a trap.”

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: … Alright, then. [INHALE] [SIGH] [STATIC RISES] “There is a wound in the earth. [STATIC DECREASES] A bayonet gouge, scored through the soft and sodden mud for uncounted miles. A trench that marks the front line of a war that has no name. It has always been raging, deep in the hearts of the powerful and those that thirst to see bodies piled high in their name.”

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “There is a sickness in this village. Perhaps you would not see it from a distance and the faint sting of rot on the breeze is easy enough to dismiss; but as you get closer, that infectious feeling of wrongness is harder and harder to shake. The grass is not the green of nature, the buildings are warped by more than age, and the voices that come from behind the inhabitants’ masks… are hoarse, and wet. They move with exaggerated casualness, a parody of idyllic village life.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] … Right. [STATIC RISES] “Your face is not your face is not your face [STATIC DECREASES AND FADES] around the curling carousel, it twists in place to take from you and all the tattered stolen souls whose sense of ‘me’ is swollen and distended into nothing.

Could be because The Stranger (/the Circus/identity thieves/I-Do-Not-Know-You) is Like That and can’t conform to little boxes, or could be because there isn’t really a “pattern” to begin with, we’ll see with the next nightmare pockets.

Consistency-wise: the use of “you” (as a way to include/pull the listeners in?) went through the roof, but was understandable – “you” is “something/someone who isn’t me, in front of me”, and doesn’t need to be as personified as third person. Jon once again used “End recording” at the end of the ~statement~, which is… a reminder that 1°) these aren’t really statements as we knew them (Jon has never labelled them as such; actually, the only times characters have mentioned “statement(s)” this season were dead people mentioning them in the tapes Jon was listening to in the first two episodes); 2°) there is still that recording/pouring-into-the-tapes thing going on, that Jon is aware of, even if the tapes weren’t relevant in this episode for themselves. Unclear whether Jon had any influence on the tape recorder clicking on both times in the episode, or whether it autonomously reacted to stuff (Jon&Martin approaching the Merry-Go-Round, Jon&Martin walking along the edge of it while the Not!Them was coming close… or just because Jon&Martin were chatting about personal things?).

Still *squint* at what the heck is happening thanks to/through the tape recorders at the moment – it still reminds me of Albrecht von Closen pouring out his stories to Jonathan Fanshawe, there is still the possibility that Jon is feeding the tapes themselves to create something even worse, and mmmmm… (New kinds of Leitner books?)

- I’ve already forgotten almost everything I used to know about English poetry, but lots of iambic constructions (up and down) combined with lots of ternary syntactic structures (round, circularity)? My references are mostly French, but the work on sounds really reminded me of Antonin Artaud’s – though way faster, fittingly, since it was also a relentless chase in which selves kept getting stolen and lost (and so was my attention). Beautiful piece, but ooft did it keep losing me before I was picked back up and forced to run with the words again.

Lots of themes that we had seen with the Circus in previous manifestations:

(MAG119) ARCHIVIST: Yes… Yes, I s… I see the sad clown, b–bitter and hateful. I see him finding his way into a ci–circus where nobody knew him. I see him torn apart, becoming the mask, remade by a… a cruel ringmaster. Sometimes a doll, sometimes a mannequin, always hiding in somebody else’s skin. Somebody else’s name. NIKOLA: Not always, and it’s far too late for any of that. Nothing you see can help you. […] Tim… TIM: … Grimaldi. NIKOLA: Once, a long time ago, before Orsinov made me. And sometimes, even now, on special occasions. Like your brother!

(MAG128, Breekon) “When we left our destination, the mule whining at the new weight behind it, he would reach behind us and find a face, sagging, sloughing off its skull, and would pull it to him. He’d place it over the one he wore already, and he would laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Sometimes it fell off. Sometimes it stayed for weeks. I kept the face we chose, but I loved him for our levity, and the corpses piled ever higher. […] But with the Circus we were amongst our own kind at last. They all had names, true enough, but none would dare pretend that names were real. Faces changed more often than clothes, and nobody truly knew who anybody was, save for their function within the show. […] We didn’t like the puppet, when Orsinov began to carve it. It seemed wrong to us to try and bring one like us about; to create or remake it in such a solid, static shape. We were wrong, of course. When Orsinov carved into the thing that had once called itself Grimaldi, and fed the pieces they didn’t need to the shuddering organist, even we found ourselves impressed. And when the faceless puppet peeled its creator and moved itself with their tendon strings, he looked at me… and laughed… and laughed…”

Identity loss, the loss of self, permutability. But it’s interesting that it fit so well to the other Circus members we had encountered and… still was incredibly Hunt-y, with the premise of an ongoing chase where the victims become the new mob of predators (who may become victims once again if they are successful, etc.), taking place in a circular space, where things can never truly end. Really reminiscent of the concept of The Everchase, I feel? Fears bleeding into each other, etc.

(There could be something about a “(word) chain” of Fears, since MAG163 was mostly Slaughter/War and had bits of Corruption with the medical malpractices, then MAG164 was Corruption with what was identified as “strangers” being targeted more heavily, then MAG165 being Stranger with very a Hunt logic, which would lead to MAG166 going for Hunt… But I’m not really feeling it.)

- It wasn’t clear in MAG164, but this one also made explicit that people in the nightmares can’t really die-die – either they seem to respawn (or get stuck in a nightmare inside of a nightmare inside of a nightmare etc.?), either they just… can’t:

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: “There is a rumbling in the earth around him, as a tank speeds along its unstoppable path, and Charlie is immediately pulled under its tread. He has a moment of shocked horror, before being reduced to a smear in the mud. […] Next to his bleeding corpse, Charlie wakes from what passes for sleep in this place. A sergeant is yelling at him, screaming for him to take his gun and get into the waiting transport.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “And so they fall to frantic terror and conflict, just as vicious as it was when it was bearing down on you. You lie there in the fugue of vivid pain and feel that gentle rain from violence overhead, as some fall dead or close as this place lets you lie, for truly thus to die would be too eager an escape; and listen to the ebb and swell of slow, melodic wail that well you know conducts the flowing rhythm laced into this endless, faceless dance.”

Does The End feel cheated, or is the fear of dying (or the fear of not being allowed to die) enough to feed it? Will we meet a pocket mostly dominated by a facet of The End…?

- I wonder if we’ll meet people not yet taken by a “place” since we got a couple mentions of an outside/inside and people still coming in…

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “And people do still come to the village, for however thick the paranoia, however terrible the disease, there are worse things beyond.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “But no, for all the dreams of bounding, leaping off into the great Unknown, you see the ring of broken mewling wretches who have shown the sting that comes with such rejection of the truth, so seldom spoken yet inside you all, that there is no – way – off the merry-go-round. […] It’s not the same as what you had when first you climbed the brightly painted stairs, but not the worst “who” you have been.”

Are the places making people feel like they could leave/that there are newcomers, when they’ve actually been stuck here forever? Or are there people who are still “free” until they’re taken by one of the places? (I mean, outside of main characters: we already know that Daisy is tearing through these places, and that Basira is following her (though that… sounds like a Hunt nightmare in itself), and Jon was unable to tell where Melanie&Georgie were – so unless they’ve been taken by a Dark nightmare, they’re probably outside of the boxes somehow.)

- I’m still trying to narrow down what is making me feel uneasy this season so far, and it’s sadly not something that will be warned for in the content warnings: it’s… about the whole ideology regarding free-will, agency, guilt and responsibility.

So far, all the “nightmares” we have encountered made it clear that it was, yes, people prisoners of a nightmare tailored to make them suffer, but also in which… most of the violence was committed by people against people:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “Something moves outside, struggling to crawl upon a hundred reaching grasping hands. It shudders, and grips the earth, pulling itself along as nails rip free and skin scrapes loose. It is afraid of what it has become, and where it might be going. […] Outside, it is raining. Heavy drops fall, ice-cold and laced with salt; tears of voyeuristic delight from The Eyes that see and drink in all – it sinks into the dry cracked ground, and from the mud faces struggle to push themselves free and breathe. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] They cannot breach the surface, as the slick soil flows down their throats.

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: “Ishaan had been afraid, terrified that they were going to strap him to it, pin him to the Goliath’s hull like all the other flayed flags of war, striking fear into the hearts of the enemy. But instead they fed him to it, tossed him into its burning innards and sealed the hatch behind him. Now, his body has contorted itself to fit, his fingers clutched around the firing lever; pulling it frantically is the only thing that will reduce the impossible heat even for a moment. From the tiny slit in the metal, he can see other soldiers: baby-faced friends and the monstrous, pig-faced enemy, both falling beneath his iron coffin’s advance. He tries to cry, but his tears turn to steam. […] Hasanna’s eyes fall on the entrance to the tent, and she sees the line of civilians, stretching away into the distance. They are no less maimed, their agonies no more bearable; but there is simply no room. She tries to apologise – but instead, she closes the tent. […] Far in the distance, she sees Alexei look out over the battlefield, and her stomach turns at the detestable wrongness of his face. Alexei in turn looks out from deep in the trench. He catches sight of the enemy, their shrivelled rat-like heads causing the bile to rise in his throat.”

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “It is, alas, those who are unblemished that suffer worst. So incomprehensible is it that any from outside could be clean, that there might be another source or vector, the inspectors devise another theory: an invisible infection. A hundred Typhoid Marys spreading mildew and decay. […] For no one would speak up if Gillian Smith were to mark you infected, or declare you foreign. No one would lift a finger as they dragged you to the green. […] What Mrs Kim is… is scared. Scared of her neighbours, scared of her friends, scared of the moment when someone will smell the spreading patch of darkness on her back and decide she is infected, or remember she has only been in the village since her grandfather’s day, and judge her to be an outsider. Should she accuse someone else? Send them to the village green? Perhaps she might petition to join the council, though that would invite their attention as much as anything might. Even through the masks, Mrs Kim knows the looks she gets in the pub; but what can she do? When she hears the shouts outside and sees the smoke pouring from the thatched roof, she knows it is too late.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “The world in which the carousel will twirl is not the hollow hell you fear; it is the world. Just the world. A world where if you’d wish to have a name, it must be stolen, carved and pulled full-bloody from the frame of others who would wish in vain to hold their selfness close. You want a face? Take it. There are so many here; and those who cannot hold them, well, whoever chose to give them such a gift must take the blame, knowing they could never keep it in a world of so much thieving strangeness. […] 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. […] then comes the briefest flash that surely now it’s done, so much, perhaps… the pain will be somewhat lessened. There’s no way it could hurt as much as you remember. But it does. And so of course, you scream, and scream; and curses, foul, obscene will tumble garbled over where there once sat other people’s lips or yours now gone, and teeth that once shone yellowed ivory a crimson in the flowing sanguine flood. And as you lie in agonies and fading dreams of personhood, of knowing who you were and what that might have meant, you hear the bitter whisper of recriminating seekers, who have found the treasure of their eager dreams, but see, it seems there’s not enough… for all. And so they fall to frantic terror and conflict, just as vicious as it was when it was bearing down on you. […] You are, of course, a faceless thing as well, and so should quickly match the pace of those who chase the self-same prey. But now, it is too late, they’ve gone. Their chase will not abate until their former friend is ripped apart in turn. And you have learned to wait. For there are many faces out upon the carousel, and many names that you might be. So bide your time a while and wait the coming of another one whose fate and face might sit upon your grinning carmine skull.

And I feel like there has been a shift compared to statements in previous seasons: it used to be monsters or eldritch things going after people, but we also got people trapped in these oppressive systems, who could have chosen their survival over others’… and still said “no”. Is that even possible in the nightmares? Are we assuming that people are constantly remade in order to keep the circles of violence going (in order to serve them) and that it’s going past a mere influence, that it’s erasing any responsibility in their actions? Or is it still an individual choice and are we heading towards the idea that anyone (or 99.99% of people) would choose to inflict direct violence against others if it means lessening their own pain? (I’m honestly super uncomfy about the latter idea, because it feels bleak and edgy to me, because it’s hard to forget that in this reasoning, marginalised people would always have it worse, and because it narratively feels like “cheating” to have Jon&Martin on the frontline, who are super fluffy and obviously wouldn’t push the other under a bus for their survival… while other people would just be eh, people. ;;) In summary: can people currently be held accountable for their actions, in the same way Daisy took responsibility for her Hunt-influenced actions, or are they deprived of any choice?

Interesting, though, is that in these nightmares, we… have never seen families or groups of friends, so far (Charlie had one, who seemed to exist just to get killed? The fungus village had neighbours who didn’t seem to know much about each other?). It feels like in rewriting reality, the Fears have also isolated people, fractured their previous social links to impose new “societies” with their own rules and mechanisms? Jon, at least, still labels them as “victims” even when aware of what is happening:

(MAG165) MARTIN: Because, uh… [LOWER] I really don’t like the look of those riders. ARCHIVIST: Would you believe me if I said they were the victims? MARTIN: … At this point, I’m not even surprised.

But I’m kind of wary and expecting an argument to be made about how Human Nature Is Fundamentally Selfish or something like this, precisely when The Web is lurking around and had such a knack for the theme of free will… ;;

- What does Jon know that he’s not sharing with Martin? He confirmed that they needed to “experience” these places to reach the Panopticon:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: Martin… It’s going to be a hard journey. MARTIN: [RELIEVED EXHALE] ARCHIVIST: One– MARTIN: Yeah, yeah, yeah– ARCHIVIST: –in which we… MARTIN: –so, I’ve actually had a couple of bags packed for a while, now! [HEAVY ITEM DROPPED] ARCHIVIST: Oh! MARTIN: And, I found some rope in the attic, and I packed that with the maps.

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: And if you walk towards it, eventually you’ll get there. But you have to go through everything in-between. […] Nightmares. [BANG IN THE DISTANCE] Come on – that trench is our first. […] MARTIN: Jon… I’m scared. ARCHIVIST: … Yes… That’s the idea…!

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: We’re fine. MARTIN: A–are we? I mean, that place is– … I don’t, I don’t feel fine, okay, and you were there a long time doing your… y–you–your guidebook, which, you know, I get it, but that place is… I–it’s–it’s infectious, and, I don’t– ARCHIVIST: We’re not infected, Martin, that place, it– … It isn’t for us.

(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: Hm! [SILENCE] D’you think we could get that experience just… walking along the edge?

And his explanation of what they need to do is getting a bit more precise every time.

* It’s not only about Jon experiencing the places, it’s about them experiencing the places. Makes sense since they’re on a journey to the Panopticon, but still interesting: Jon gets overwhelmed by the places to the point of needing to do his “guidebook”; Martin doesn’t, past his discomfort/casual fears, but it’s working anyway. What is happening with Jon…?

* Fear.jpg because “experiencing” them had been mentioned by Elias/Jonah as a way to prepare Jon towards his goals:

(MAG092) ELIAS: [SIGH] What are you? ARCHIVIST: I… The Archivist. ELIAS: Precisely. It is your job to chronicle these things, to experience them, whether first-hand or through the eyes of others. To simply be told, well… ARCHIVIST: It doesn’t please your master? ELIAS: Our master, Jon.

(MAG160, Jonah Magnus) “Because the thing about the Archivist is that… well: it’s a bit of a misnomer. It might, perhaps, be better named “the Archive”. Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, Jon – you are a record of fear. Both in mind, as you walk the shuddering dread of each statement; and in body, as the Powers each leave their mark upon you. You are a living chronicle of terror.”

So what is happening exactly…? Is it because Jon simply needs to “experience” the various layers of the new world before reaching the centre of the storm? Are these steps actually “undoing” — or furthering — something…?

- Also confirmation that Martin&Jon seem immune to what is happening, as long as they don’t push their luck:

(MAG161) MARTIN: … Are we still safe? ARCHIVIST: Y–yes, it… it doesn���t want to harm me. MARTIN: And me? ARCHIVIST: I won’t let it.

(MAG163) MARTIN: Good. Good. [SILENCE PUNCTUATED BY PANTING] … J–J–Jon, Jon, w–we’re not alone. ARCHIVIST: I–ignore them, they’re not… Just ignore them. MARTIN: … They’re not… real? [VOICES SHOUTING IN THE DISTANCE] ARCHIVIST: [MIRTHLESS CHUCKLING] No…! They’re real; they were… normal people before the– … Before me. But now they’re here, meat for the grinder. I just mean there’s no point… talking to them. MARTIN: Don’t be a prick, Jon. Hey! I’m, I’m sorry about him. He’s–he’s going through a lot – well… we all are, I suppose, but well… “Hi”, I guess. [SILENCE] Hello? ARCHIVIST: They won’t hear you, Martin, they’re all… too busy waiting to die.

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing, if we could help it. […] MARTIN: You, you sure? [CHUCKLING] I could speak to an attendant! ARCHIVIST: [CAUTIOUS] I would advise against doing that. […] MARTIN: Jon, do we– do we need to run? NOT!SASHA: Oh, yes, Martin, you very much do. I’ll even give you a head start! ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLE] MARTIN: … Jon? ARCHIVIST: You’re bold! [FOOTSTEPS] I’ll give you that. NOT!SASHA: [HISSING] Last chance…! ARCHIVIST: Desperate for one last morsel of terror from us? NOT!SASHA: [HISSES] ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLE] A final sip, and then we’re gone! Somehow we manage to keep just ahead of you and get away. NOT!SASHA: [SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: God forbid you actually catch us. NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: Doesn’t bear thinking about…! 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, ruled by The Eye. [CHUCKLING] And she hates it…!

Is it only because Jon is the Archivist, is it thanks to their connection to the Institute/the Eye (… after all, Basira apparently wasn’t taken)? What would happen to Martin if he were to be separated from Jon?

Also curious that both the Not!Them and The Distortion are what I would label “monsters” (as Martin&Simon did in MAG151), and yet the Not!Them was shown trapped… and Helen is roaming free. Did The Distortion lie about its own contentment in the new world? Did it get a better seat thanks to its connection to the Institute, since its Door had often appeared in the tunnels? (Helen had told Jon that this is how she knew a bit more about the tunnels, back in season 4.)

- Martin’s poetry is back as a theme! (Not included: Tim recording over one of Martin’s poems in MAG079.)

(MAG042) ARCHIVIST: I’m glad [Martin]’s moved out of the Archives, as it gives me a chance to work here without his constant presence. Also because he managed to leave some of his possessions behind. For the most part it’s just a few books of… relatively awful poetry… There are a few pieces I feel could almost have been affecting if his style wasn’t so obviously enamoured with Keats […].

(MAG124) MARTIN: Uh, yeah. Yeah, no, I’m… I’m alright, uh… Everything’s… fine. ARCHIVIST: … Right. Hum. … H–how’s… How–how’s the poetry? MARTIN: Oh, uh– Well, I haven’t… exactly had a lot of time recently, so… ARCHIVIST: Yes, uh… Of course… MARTIN: Hm. ARCHIVIST: You’ve been busy. MARTIN: Yeah. ARCHIVIST: …

(MAG165) MARTIN: So was it any good? ARCHIVIST: U–uh… What do you mean? MARTIN: Was it a good poem? ARCHIVIST: I don’t know! “No”? You’re the poetry expert, Martin, not me…! MARTIN: Well, did it stir any feeling in you? ARCHIVIST: Yes! “Nausea”. Because of the horrible things in it! MARTIN: That’s not quite what I meant. ARCHIVIST: Then I don’t know what you mean, Martin, I’m not a poetry person, I don’t… “get it”. I never have. MARTIN: That’s… That’s fine, I understand…! ARCHIVIST: Look. I’m better than I was; I used to think all poetry was bad. MARTIN: Sorry, what?! ARCHIVIST: I mean, I just thought of… [SIGH] I sort of thought it was pointless! Just… write some prose and stop… wasting everyone’s time! MARTIN: Hm! What changed? ARCHIVIST: I don’t know, I just… mellowed on it, I suppose. MARTIN: That’s… kind of weird. ARCHIVIST: In my defence, there is a lot of bad poetry out there.

* With this new information: it’s actually BIG from Jon that he had qualified Martin’s poetry as “almost affecting” given his personal feelings about poetry in general.

* Obviously, I want to tease Jon mercilessly about the idea that he began to mellow down on poetry since someone he was developing a crush on liked it so much… But also, just simply, people’s tastes change.

* … Okay, so if Jon managed to survive uni without getting poetry at all, either he did really well besides that, either it rules out that his degree might have been in literature. (History could fit him well?)

* … I find it interesting how Martin somehow managed to… not say anything about himself in this episode? We learned a few things about Jon – that he had fond memories of the London Zoo carousel, that he was in a bad mental space at a point before the Institute (break-up with Georgie? Being thrown in a new city for his academic studies, leaving Bournemouth? “Regular” student stress?), that he doesn’t get poetry but that his opinion has changed on it a bit.

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing, if we could help it. MARTIN: Fine – by – me, eh! Never really liked merry-go-rounds anyway. ARCHIVIST: No? You… gone on any recently? MARTIN: What? Uh– No, I don’t think so, not since I was a kid. ARCHIVIST: Hm! I actually, uh… There’s one at London Zoo – uh, was one at London Zoo. Big old thing. Went quite fast, actually, su–… [CHUCKLE] Surprisingly thrilling. MARTIN: [BURSTS OUT LAUGHING] ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: Seriously? ARCHIVIST: It was years back, before the Institute, I… I was in a weird place. Had a good time, though! MARTIN: [CHUCKLES] Well! ARCHIVIST: I mean, obviously I wouldn’t want to ride this one, we’ve got… quite enough thrills already. MARTIN: You, you sure? [CHUCKLING] I could speak to an attendant! ARCHIVIST: [CAUTIOUS] I would advise against doing that. [SILENCE]

But Martin? Asked questions for Jon to answer, but managed to avoid having to tell anything about his own past. It’s not really surprising, it’s kinda fitting – Martin has probably got into the habit of not telling much about himself because of his fake credentials and his fake age? But still, I wonder if he will talk about himself at some point… (I still feel like we’re missing his own perspective on his mother or Tim, for example, since these subjects were mostly mentioned by other people and Martin only even mentioned his mother’s death when he poured his heart out at Peter&Elias in MAG158).

- I randomly really really love Martin’s nasal “Fine by me”:

(MAG102) ARCHIVIST: What about Daisy? MARTIN: Don’t see her much. Which is fine by me. [UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE]

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing, if we could help it. MARTIN: Fine – by – me, eh! Never really liked merry-go-rounds anyway.

Martin…

- … So, hearing Not!Sasha like this confirms that she didn’t “take” Julia or Trevor! (I guess that one of them could have died from her attack or Daisy’s, but… at the very least, the Not!Them didn’t take on a new identity through them.)

- There are various ways of interpreting what the Not!Them said about Martin:

(MAG165) NOT!SASHA: And what if I let you choose this time, which one of you would I wear next? Martin looks very comfortable, positively roomy; oh, wouldn’t you agree, Archivist~?

… and my favourites are either that Martin indeed big, either she was making a tease about them (aND THEY’VE BEEN ROOMMATES).

- Jon Has Upgraded – the Not!Them used to call him “Jon” as a taunt, and now…

(MAG078) NOT!SASHA (HEAVILY DISTORTED, DISTANT): Jooooonnnn… ARCHIVIST: Er… I… [SOUND OF A CREAKY DOOR OPENING] MICHAEL: You – need – a door.

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): Jooooonnnn… ARCHIVIST: Oh Christ. […] NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): Jooooon… Jooooon… Come out, come out, wherever you are. ARCHIVIST: [SCARED BREATHING] NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): It’s okay Jon; it’s Sasha. Reliable old Sasha. Nothing to be afraid of. … You seem stressed, Jon. You’ve been under a lot of pressure. You should talk about it. Have a real good chat. You like talking, don’t you, Jon? … I’m going to wear you, Jon. […] I’m glad we got a chance to run, Jon. It makes it so much more satisfying.

(MAG158) NOT!SASHA: [MUFFLED, HEAVILY DISTORTED] Jooo–ooon~! [SOUND OF STONE AND BRICK SHIFTING, LOUDER, THEN GRADUALLY STOPPING] NOT!SASHA: [HEAVILY DISTORTED] [PANTS] So you finally decided to let me out, Jon! Joooo–oooon~! … Who’s there? MARTIN: [PANICKED BREATHING] NOT!SASHA: Who let me out? [SILENCE] Don’t be shy. I just want to say thank you. [SILENCE] All right, have it your way. Now, if you’ll excuse me: I have some unfinished business. [MENACING SATISFIED LAUGHTER] […] [CRASHING SOUND] NOT!SASHA: Hello, Jon. DAISY: Oh, shit! ARCHIVIST: You gotta be fucking kidding m–

(MAG165) NOT!SASHA: Eh! My dearest colleagues…! MARTIN: Just get back! [THUMP] NOT!SASHA: I can’t believe you’d decide to pass through my neighbourhood and not say hello, to – dear – old – Sasha. ARCHIVIST: Just ignore it, Martin. NOT!SASHA: Oh, you wound me, Archivist. And we used to be so close! […] And what if I let you choose this time, which one of you would I wear next? Martin looks very comfortable, positively roomy; oh, wouldn’t you agree, Archivist~?

… it’s “Archivist”. He’s really had a special status/power-up, uh?

- So, The Distortion is having a blast in the new world (MAG164), or so it says… but it’s not fundamentally the case for all monsters/avatars out there. It makes sense for The Stranger since it had been presented as opposed to The Eye:

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA: So the monster got its friends to carry the table all around, and it still got to take faces and scare people. Then one day it was sent to the house of its enemy, which had the biggest eyes you ever did see. The monster was sent there to steal all its secrets, but it was sad because it couldn't scare anyone any more.

(MAG092) ELIAS: The Stranger is antithetical to us. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH HEAVILY] ELIAS: We thrive on ceaseless watching, on knowing too much. What we face is the hidden, the uncanny, and the unknown. If you are to stop them, you need to get better at seeing. And my explaining things is simply not enough.

(MAG119) SARAH: You… idiot! Do you really think the world will fare any better under the Watcher? You think you’re saving anyone?

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: She’s just like everything else here, ruled by The Eye. [CHUCKLING] And she hates it…! NOT!SASHA: Well, of course you want to wallow in my shame like your voyeur master! Do you know how it feels? To be… anonymous, and yet known? To have all the sweetest dread I can create tainted by the relentless gaze of that damned Eye! I’ve suffered enough!

So people from the (survivors of the) cult of the Divine Host probably won’t be extremely happy about it either – we know that some were still roaming around, Jon had mentioned seeing people with the pendant at the beginning of season 4. Martin mentioned their lack of allies in MAG164, are we heading towards them getting some “help” from unsatisfied avatars…?

- ;; I said I would put the Not!Them amongst the “monsters”, but technically… the victims in the carousel felt like proto-Not!Them themselves? And Not!Sasha had enough reasoning to try to go into denial – pretending that it could still catch and hurt Jon&Martin, while it knew that it couldn’t anyway, but ready to create the illusion that it could. That’s some very human mental structure…

- Sob, but also:

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Pathetic. [SHRILL SCREAMS] Martin, let’s go. NOT!SASHA: Not as pathetic as your little friend when I ate her life…!

… I really like the description of what she did as “eating Sasha’s life”: it was not only that it killed her; it’s that it erased and reshaped her whole life as a memory and a possible influence on others…

- ;; I’m even happier that we got Sasha’s tapes at the beginning of season 5, because it brought her back as a presence, as an existence, and not only as the concept of “the friend we lost but can’t really remember”. The Not!Them getting killed closes a very long chapter: Sasha’s murder at the end of season 1, which was a wound that kept being reopened (Jon realising that she had died long ago, then Martin&Tim having to learn about it; Nikola teasing Jon about her during The Unknowing; the Not!Them getting freed during the season 4 climax), the fact that the Not!Them had been spotted and described as soon as in MAG003, and also… the first time we heard of Adelard Dekker was when he imprisoned it within the Web table?

I’m especially ;; that The Stranger regularly used Sasha’s murder against Jon, and that it has always been a sore spot… until he snapped:

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): … I’m going to wear you, Jon. I’m going to wear everything you are. Like you never existed. Noone will even know. And it will hurt. Oh, yes, it will hurt. It hurt Sasha. ARCHIVIST: Shut up! NOT!SASHA (CLOSE AND DISTORTED): There you are. […] ARCHIVIST: [WHISPERING] I’m sorry. Martin, Tim… Sasha. I’m so sorry. I should have… I didn’t… I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.

(MAG096) ARCHIVIST: He was a–a tax inspector. He came here, and Daniel Rawlings, or his replacement, showed him something he claimed to be the oldest piece of taxidermy in the world. Gorilla skin from Carthage. SARAH: Heh, was this when you sent your “Sasha” to interrogate us? ARCHIVIST: Don’t you dare talk about– DAISY: Sims. Sims. Shut up and focus.

(MAG119) ARCHIVIST: Who are you?! NIKOLA: Who am I? Tim, of course! Who else would I be! ARCHIVIST: You’re not– you’re not… Tim. NIKOLA: Oh, you caught me~ I’m… Sasha! ARCHIVIST: Shut up! NIKOLA: No~! Really, it’s me! Sasha– whatever her name was! Back from the dead, just like you wanted~! ARCHIVIST: Get away from me, or, or I swear I’ll… I’ll…

I mean. Yes, if Jon had to lose his temper and go terrifying due to feelings, it would be about Sasha’s murder ;;

- It’s also jarring how Jon used to be terrorised and victimised by monsters, and took the upper hand this time: the dynamic between him and the Not!Them in this episode was an extreme reversal of what had happened at the end of season 2. I’m also curious about how “Jon using his powers against other monsters” has felt more and more threatening over time:

(MAG091) ARCHIVIST: What, I? I–I didn’t– [RUSTLING NOISES] Plea– Please don’t shoot me… [SOUNDS OF PANIC] [STATIC] W–why are you doing this? Tell me! [GURGLES MORE AS DAISY GRABS HIM ROUND THE THROAT] DAISY: Stop – asking – questions.

(MAG101) MICHAEL: I had hoped that you would stop the Unknowing first, destroy the workings of I-Do-Not-Know-You. But instead you are here, and may bring it about faster. So better your death happens now…! ARCHIVIST: I… [STATIC] Is there anything I can do to stop you from killing me? MICHAEL: [LAUGHS] If you scream loud enough the Circus may take notice of me, but… I promise you will die far more pleasantly with me than with them. [MORE LAUGHTER]

(MAG119) NIKOLA&GERTRUDE: A terrible new world and it’s all your fault. GERTRUDE&LEITNER: Though I suppose you never really had a chance ARCHIVIST: … I see you. NIKOLA: Do you, now? ARCHIVIST: Yes… Yes, I s… I see the sad clown, b–bitter and hateful. I see him finding his way into a ci–circus where nobody knew him. I see him torn apart, becoming the mask, remade by a… a cruel ringmaster. Sometimes a doll, sometimes a mannequin, always hiding in somebody else’s skin. Somebody else’s name. NIKOLA: Not always, and it’s far too late for any of that. Nothing you see can help you.

(MAG128) BASIRA: Get. Out. [STATIC RISES] BREEKON: Make. Me. [RATTLING SOUND] ARCHIVIST: Stop. [HIGH-PITCHED BUZZING SOUND OVER STATIC] BREEKON: What’re you doing? BASIRA: … Jon…? What are you doing? BREEKON: What’re you– Stop it… Stop it! ARCHIVIST: [ECHOING] No. BREEKON: [STRUGGLING, BUZZING INCREASES] Enough! Stop… looking at me! [SCREAMS] [DOOR SLAMMED OPEN, FLEEING FOOTSTEPS WHILE BREEKON IS STILL SCREAMING, DOOR SLAMMING SHUT] ARCHIVIST: [PANTS] [HIGH-PITCHED BUZZING SOUND FADES] BASIRA: Jon…? ARCHIVIST: It’s fine…!

(MAG159) ARCHIVIST: … I, I don’t understand. PETER: And you won’t. Not from me. I’m done. ARCHIVIST: Tell me. [STATIC RISES] PETER: I’m. Not saying. Another. Word. [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: Tell me, or I will rip it out of you! [STATIC INCREASES] PETER: [STRUGGLING] No…! ARCHIVIST: Answer. My question! PETER: NO! Leave – me – ALONE! [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: TELL ME! PETER: [GROANING SCREAM] [RIPPING, EXPLODING SOUND] [STATIC FADES] ARCHIVIST: … Stubborn fool…

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “This place wishes to be our tomb. But The Eye does not wish that. No. [STATIC INCREASES] The Eye wishes instead that it be my chrysalis. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] It is time that I emerge…” [STATIC REACHING A PEAK] […] I, I–I was listening, and I–I was filled with this… hatred. This anger; I–I wanted to leave, and hunt down Elias, a–and…! MARTIN: W–wow, okay… ARCHIVIST: But, when I thought it… the–there was… [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] There was something else. Th–this place, it… it didn’t want me, it… [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] didn’t want us to go.

(MAG165) NOT!SASHA: Not as pathetic as your little friend when I ate her life…! [RUMBLING SOUND] [THE CALLIOPE MUSIC DERAILS, TAKES A HIGHER PITCH] ARCHIVIST: … What did you say? [STATIC RISING: LOW AND SPIRALLING, PRESSURING] NOT!SASHA: [SHAKY BREATHES] I’m–I’m sorry… MARTIN: Jon? ARCHIVIST: You were wrong, you know. NOT!SASHA: [GASPS] [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: There is more suffering than you can ever experience, so much more. The horror of your victims… NOT!SASHA: [CRIES OF PAIN] ARCHIVIST: Their constant, senseless agony… NOT!SASHA: [CRIES OF PAIN] [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: Feel it now. Understand it. You have drawn out so much despair, and now finally, it’s your turn. [STATIC INCREASES] [DIGITAL GLITCHING SOUNDS] Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing! [STATIC INCREASES, WITH MORE PRESSURE] NOT!SASHA: No! No, please, no…! [DIGITAL BURSTING, RIPPING SOUNDS] NOT!SASHA: [FADING] No…! [STATIC DECREASES AND FADES] ARCHIVIST: [PANTS]

Jon used to rely on compulsion to try to struggle his way out (when it was his only weapon), in a panic. But since MAG119, it has begun to feel as if something was coming out from it, as if he were possessed? It really feels like something is trying to come out (and we precisely began the season with The Eye wanting the cabin to be his “chrysalis” and Jon announcing that “he” would emerge…). There also had been a clear escalation in his use of his powers: from giving Tim the tools to prevent Nikola from achieving The Unknowing, to stopping Breekon when he was ready to fight Basira, to compelling Peter to death while Peter was resisting, to… an execution, triggered by his anger. Jon had made a point to tell Martin that the Not!Them couldn’t harm them; it was a murder purely motivated by anger. The Not!Them had it coming, and it’s really interesting that Jon weaponised the suffering of the Not!Them’s victims to force it to feel pain (so, a case of… forcing empathy on it?), but… still a murder, still scary, still concerning that Jon did that when Martin and him weren’t threatened, and that it happened when Jon’s feelings got out of hand.

(Jon, you’re just a shounen anime protagonist gdi.)

- And Jon did nooooooot feel fine with it:

(MAG165) MARTIN: … Whoa–oh–oh! ARCHIVIST: I, uh… MARTIN: What was that?! ARCHIVIST: … I–I destroyed it. [ECHOING CREAKING SOUNDS] Ki–killed her. MARTIN: Are you kidding me, you–you obliterated her! You… you smote her! [ECHOING CREAKING SOUNDS] ARCHIVIST: We, we should go. MARTIN: What about the merry-go-round? With her gone, is it, is it still th– ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know! MARTIN: [CHUCKLING] Yes you do! ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t… want to know, plea– We need to go. [SHUFFLING] Please. MARTIN: Oh, oh, okay. A–alright. Alright. Lead on. [CREAKING SOUNDS]

* Martin sounded… kinda very very into it (mARTIN), not surprised – Martin was already ready to use whatever he can even if it means compromising himself. Jon sounded more upset, so I’m half-expecting them to discuss this at some point?

* It had already felt a bit like it with Peter (when Jon mentioned the powers of The Eye in relation to The Lonely), but it was way worse here: … Jon really felt like an actual priest of Beholding when he obliterated the Not!Them. As if he was accepting it as a god, and himself as its agent, able to channel its powers.

* It was also SO CLOSE to what Elias did to Melanie and Martin, with the whole implanting memories/truths in someone’s head to make them suffer… oofffft ;;

* ;; I’m. Also very concerned about the fact that the end of the episode seems to imply that Jon made it worse for the victims in the carousel, since we can hear it creaking. Has he just condemned these people to an actual death, or to worse doom? If it turns out that Jon has powers allowing him to have an effect on these nightmares, the fact he chooses to remain an observer and only “uses” the place to experience them will feel iffier and iffier… ;;

- Welp, it does clear up right away why The Web hasn’t tried to contact Jon directly. On a scale from calling his partner while Jon himself is further away to directly taunting him, how much self-preservation instinct do you have?

  MAG166’s title is… interesting, because?? Corruption?? But it also feels too easy?? (And would be the biggest Middle Finger at something Smirke mentioned in MAG138.) I see a way in which it could potentially be Hunt, or Flesh, or Vast, or Buried, or End, or Web (well… it’s more like there’s an existing connection for that one + RQ’s teasing about Web stuff this week), but, wow. Bold move.

[cchexmex]

ballad of paladin

chapter two worked out in my head, just need to write it all down. was hit by the desire to write this up, possibly part of chapter three after I work it all out, this is a bit of a rough draft. 

warnings:child abuse implied/referenced, underage drinking, mild mentions of gore. summary: a few drinks shared, the men talk about their fathers for a moment.

near 2000 words.

The bottle handed out to him, Erron took it-cautious, wondering what was going on in Reid’s head, the man sporting a weak smirk, eyes glimmering. “Go on, it’s alright… I don’t mind sharin’.” 

He took it, surprised by the heft of glass. Holding it up, he looked into it-lantern light reflecting off of the contents, a murky amber, the smell hitting him even from a few inches away. “Thanks.” A mumbled response, the saliva on his lips drying-making his skin peel-the air too dry. Eyes on him, Shaw lifting up the brim of his hat and glancing over at him, Delany tutting and leaning back in his chair-casting a glare over at them both. Erron drank, fighting back a cough when the liquid tore through his throat and burned down towards his stomach. A long swig, wanting to prove himself. 

“See? He’s fine…” Reid stuck out a hand, his face growing redder as he turned around to grin at the men, gaze lingering on Delany-beads of sweat now forming on his forehead as he continued to clean his revolver, grumbling something under his breath. “Just fine, a little drink never hurt no one…” he chuckled, holding his bottle up high before leaning forward and tapping it’s lip against the larger bottle held in Erron’s hand. 

The minutes passed by silently, swigs taken as he tried to keep pace with Reid-the man taking down another bottle, lightly tossing them on the ground-the clang of glass meeting the clicking of metal and the soft breathing of the men around him. A scoffed breath from Delany as he wiped the excess oil from his revolver-putting it back together now, his attention half held on the task as he glanced over at Erron. Reid spoke first, his words slow-like molasses dripping off a spoon. “Now… Erron… son-” he laughed, flashing Erron a yellowing grin. Erron grimaced, clearly he was still amused by the discussion the day prior at that homestead. The gentle prods from Shaw, annoying when coming from Reid. Gut burning, he steadied himself and took another drink, ignoring him.

“What…” Reid leaned back, the chair creaking as his heft shifted “what was your daddy like?” he spoke each word with a curious eye twitch, the skin around his eyelids jumping up and down. Erron raised a brow, face burning as he mulled his question over. 

“My what?” He muttered over the lip of his bottle, tipping it back slightly-head starting to buzz.

“Leave him alone, R-”

“You hobble your lip, we’re just talkin’” Reid interrupted him quickly, Delany’s cheeks puffing out with a huff-his ears turning a dull purple. 

“I didn't ever call him daddy…” Erron spoke up, covering his mouth as a belch rolled up and out. 

“Well, what’d ya call him?” Eyes narrowed, a slight jump of a brow as he focused on Erron.

“Pa…” a response that was half true, in recent years before he left he had rarely called him by that address. How his father had expected to be addressed as Sir and Sir alone once Erron began to grow taller, once he began to fight back. Yes Sir, no Sir, the few accepted words to leave his lips. 

“Pa…” Reid repeated the word, nodding in an exaggerated manner, rubbing his fat chin with calloused fingers. “I’ll go first… I’ll tell ya about my daddy.” he hacked out a cough, saliva catching in his throat. “Now.... my daddy was a good man. A damn good man. Taught me how to fish… how to shoot.” A pause in his words as he tipped back his bottle, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before continuing. “But… when I was ‘bout eleven-he cut himself on accident. A big ol’ gash when we were out gettin’ a trapped coon. His damn leg rotted from the inside out.” he clicked his tongue against his teeth “killed him… damn bullshit takin’ my daddy from me.”

Erron stared at him, a queasiness in his stomach as he imagined the sight-the smell. Surprise that Reid was so open about his father, never having heard the man talk about anything in a serious manner-aside from how to make gunpowder blow shit apart. 

“Now my mama, she couldn't go on takin’ care of me… or so she said. She sold me-sold me off to some well off fella. He got me workin’ on his damn farm, treatin’ me like a mule-beatin’ the shit out of me when I complained. Hope she got her money’s worth…” he grumbled, tossing down his empty bottle, the glass thick enough to hold from the short distance “one night, it got bad-so… I had to do it. I snuck into his room when his lady was away-little knife I used to peel potatoes and shit… stuck that in his neck and took care of him.” A chuckle left his lips, the room quite-save for a small cough coming from the corner of the room. His eyes dark, drifting up from a point beside Erron’s head-meeting his eyes. Expectant, sitting loosely in that chair-waiting for Erron.

Another swig, wanting the burn to distract him. He licked his lips, tapping his fingers against the glass that had now warmed up in his hands. Eyes darting from Reid’s gaze, looking over at Delany for a second-the man staring down at his clasped hands. “My pa…” he began, searching for the words “he was always drinkin’. Always drunk…”

A soft sound leaving Reid’s lips, comprehension-brows darting up. “What’d your pa do for work?”

“Miner.” he muttered, wondering if he was giving him an out.

“A miner…” The words repeated over on one of the beds pushed up near the wall-Shaw’s voice half muffled by his hat-now covering his face. “Those folk are always four sheets to the wind…” a laugh shared by him and Reid. Reid turned back to face him,giving him a short nod, expected to continue.

Erron shrugged. Never having talked to anyone about his parents, about what he left behind. A few simple words mentioned here and there, to Delaney or Avilla. No explanation really ever asked from him-easy to figure out from a few reasons why a young man like him would be out on his own. “Yeah… both of them were… I don’t know-” anger in his gut, he bit at his lower lip-a little too hard “my ma… she said she never wanted me, a damn accident gettin’ in bed with my pa-she’d say. That she ended up stuck with a man she didn’t love. Said she’d hoped I’d at least been a girl...” he could hear the bite in his words, the bitterness that made him sweat. “They both hated me… hated each other. Or maybe…” he paused, face burning again-the alcohol and the memories in his head “they just hated themselves and put that on me…” nothing more he wanted to say, everything flooding into his head-wetness forming at the corner of his eyes as he tried to steady himself.

“That’s enough, Erron…” A gentle voice-Delany reaching over, taking the bottle from his hand and setting it on the table. “We best get some sleep.”

“I ain’t done drinkin’” Reid chuckled, leaning towards the table, scooting closer-chair squealing as it was dragged across the floor. He grabbed the bottle and tipped it back. “Just talkin…” he mentioned offhandedly, making to offer the bottle back again to Erron.

Erron watched him, sourness in his stomach “Do you just wanna feel better about yourself?” His words surprised him, the edge in his voice unexpected even to him. 

Eyes narrowed, Reid snorted, pulling the bottle back and holding it against his chest “I was just curious… and y’know what? Maybe it did make me feel better bout myself…” he huffed, standing up with a groan, stumbling slightly as he made his way over to the bed he was to share with Shaw. 

A frown teasing his lips, arms shaking slightly with a barely noticeable ache of adrenaline. “Erron, c’mon, lets go.” Delany helped him up, his legs trembling just the same-the room spinning. “He don’t mean no wrong, he’s just…” Delany sighed, a curse leaving his lips as he grasped around Erron’s waist. He leaned into him-a few steps over to the empty bed-passing by Jacob tucked into his bedroll on the wider plush chair he’d volunteered to sleep on. Delany settled him on the bed, asking if Erron needed help with his clothes. He shook his head, kicking off his boots and then working on his shirt and trousers. Crawling over to an end of the bed, he laid his head down-listening to the shift of the bed as Delany climbed on. 

“Damn drink. That’s what it is…” Erron opened his eyes, the room dark-lantern light gone. He heard Delany groan beside him-the man rolling over to lay on his side. “For god sakes, Reid-if you piss yourself…” 

Erron chuckled softly, sitting up an inch-dark muddled shadows moving as the men jostled for space on the bed across from his. 

“That’s what it is… my pa… he drank. Drank like a damn fish. But he’d just do that and that alone. Drink himself into a stupor. Don’t know how many times I came across my momma-sobbing her eyes out and trying to wake him up.” he sighed deeply, the sparkle of glass against wood as he dropped a bottle from the bed “it’s in our blood ain’t it… shit…”

“No, no it ain’t.” A slurred response from Reid, the man sitting up-staring down at his bedmate “my daddy, he never drank… only drank on his birthday-or my mommas birthday… and look at me-” 

“Can you men just drop it and close your eyes?”

“Drop what?”

“Goddamn it… don’t have enough patience to deal with y’all…” Delany muttered under his breath-patting a hand against the pillow under his head. Erron laid back down-staring at the dark ceiling as he listened to Reid hack up another cough, the sound too loud, filling up the room. 

“Goodnight.” a simple word, spoken in a tired raspy voice after he came out of his coughing fit. Goodnights traded, even from Jacob-speaking up in his corner of the room. Erron licked his lips, feeling out the drying blood, tasting the copper. He bid the men goodnight, eyes drooping heavily-breathing slowing. Turning to lay on his side-back against Delany, he pulled up a corner of the sheets, covering his legs. The last few blinks of a conscience mind, he stared out the window, thin curtains still letting him see the outline of glass, the muted light of the moon. He fell asleep, picturing those stars in his mind.

[zecretsanta]

To: @akane-crashkey From: @seen-true-evil

Hopefully I was able to deliver on the angst front! Just couldn’t pass up AoiLight prompts, writing this was a christmas gift for me in itself, but this is a gift for the wonderful person who was up for suffering this holiday season. Eat a lot of good food, stay out of the cold!

Ao3 Link

—— Finding Snake was easy, he never really hid himself, after all how many blind harpists are out there? Finding him was easy, approaching him — incredibly hard. What could he say? How could he try to explain the mess they are in if he doesn’t fully get it himself? What can he do, to soften the blow?

Snake, no, Light looks forlorn as he plucks the strings of his harp. The audience is in awe, entranced as usual by the musical magic he weaves, but Aoi has been watching closely for far too long, always far too observant for his own good. The melody is different from his usual compositions as well, something more melancholic, an accompaniment to a thin line between Light’s brows. He looks the same as he did when they met for the second time, almost a year ago. Pale and delicate, a watercolor painting of a person, serene and peaceful, but Aoi doesn’t have to imagine the steel core hiding inside, a steel wire as quick to suffocate as to produce a musical note. Only that one faint wrinkle laid across Light’s forehead is enough to tell Aoi that something is very, very wrong. The first time Aoi sees him play, he thinks he might choke on the guilt he feels constricting his entire body, slithering like a coiled snake around his throat. He orders a cup of coffee, black, two sugars and listens to Light play. He doesn’t dare to make a sound to announce his presence and once his cup is empty, he fades away into the streets, promising himself to approach Light the other night. Nights come and go and there’s even less resolve in Aoi’s actions. Where there was one line, now there are two. Where gray lashes fanned out over bone white cheeks now are deep shadows, lead heavy. His hands are still quick and deft, but there’s a slight hesitance to them, a minor twitch here and there. Something only Aoi could see. Aoi sips his coffee, not feeling the taste and wonders, for the thousandth time. Why does he still waste time with his music when he should be searching for her, day and night? Has he already lost hope? Decided it was a lost cause? Of course not. Aoi doesn’t have the guts to meddle with SOIS investigations, doesn’t have courage to trail Light more than he already does, but Aoi is sure, Light is doing anything that is possible to find his sister. It’s almost an accident when Light finally notices him. A waitress at the cafe is very insistent in her flirtations and as Aoi finally blows up to tell her off, between words he notices that the music has stopped. Mortified, he looks at the harpist, who’s eyes, still unseeing, are open in sheer shock. His devoted fans murmur to each other as he stands up, knocking his stool over, seemingly not noticing it clatters to the ground as he tries to zero in on the direction of a familiar voice. Another waitress runs over to him and in the quiet that hangs in the room after the initial clatter, Aoi even through the frantic thump of his heart hears what must be words of concern she offers Light. Light tells her something quietly, sternly, and she looks over the audience, looking, searching for something, someone. Obviously, searching for Aoi. Aoi feels like he can’t breathe. He runs. He doesn’t come again for a week. He spends it running in circles, muling over and over in his mind the words to use. What would make it easier? What would make Light understand? What would make Light forgive him? What would help them both? Still, after an entire week spent clawing at the walls, he has nothing. He curses himself inwardly and under his breath as he waits in the alleyway behind the cafe’s back door, waiting for Light to finish his performance. What comes out of his mouth when he notices a familiar figure is “Hey”. Just that. That is enough to make Light swivel around in the direction of the sound. He pivots on his heels, turning to face Aoi and Aoi thinks he should just run again. Run and this time never come back, move to a different country, forget anything ever happened, drink until he can’t remember his own name, not to mention some Machiavellian world saving plot. Because Light looks positively broken. Dark shadows under his eyes turned to puffy bags. His skin without the warm lighting of the cafe looks sickly gray, almost the same shade as his hair. His posture is guarded, uneasy when he calls out. “Aoi?”, he sounds unsure. His hands fiddle with the cane strap. Aoi saw it before, but he has never seen Light use it. Seeing him with it is like a punch to the gut. Clover would have been there, Clover would have held his hand, guided him, Clover would… “Yes. I’m sorry”, Aoi croaks out, overwhelmed. he expects to be punched, yelled at. He expects shock or disgust. What he doesn’t expect is Light approaching him in what looks like one fluid stride and crushing him in an embrace. His cane is pressed hard between Aoi’s shoulder blades, but he doesn’t notice, because this time he’s actually suffocating. Light’s grip is strong, Aoi knew it would be, somehow, but still it’s unexpected and throws him off entirely. He can hear someone apologizing, over and over again, breathless and rasped and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s his own voice. Light doesn’t seem to hear, but he doesn’t let go either, so all Aoi can do is wait. Light’s words are a whisper, a ghost laid over the shape of Aoi’s ear, “Where is she?” and Aoi feels like he’s falling, like his legs would give out if not for the Light holding him, still holding him so close despite everything he did. “She didn’t tell”, and there’s so much bitterness in these three words. The weight of the world. Light lets go, instead gripping Aoi’s shoulders, his fingers porcelain white from exertion, Aoi is sure his bones would splinter and shatter, but he knows, he deserves the pain, he deserves so much worse. He just places his own fingers over Light’s. One of his hands is colder than the other one, skin smoother, Aoi notes absentmindedly stroking his thumb over the vice grip. “You should come back with me”, Light says, and he looks pained and relieved at the same time. Like a thorn in his side is gone, but the wound it left is still bleeding and hurting. When Light lets go of him, Aoi follows. He’s sure there will be bruised imprints of fingers on his skin, but it’s the least of his concerns as he runs after Light. He’s almost as adept at navigating the city as he is in the close quarters of a ship. His cane clicks on the ground before him, but he’s moving quickly, surely in long strides and Aoi at times has trouble keeping up. Light weaves between alleyways and buildings, following a path he has surely walked on many times, he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t check if Aoi is following and Aoi is sure, if he wanted to, he could have just stopped. Waited until Light’s back disappeared behind another corner, and he would never be seen again. He wants to, god knows he wants to. Light leads him to a small apartment block. He unlocks the gates with a magnetic key and holds the door open for Aoi to enter. He does it again with the door of his apartment. Aoi isn’t certain how he’s trusted enough to let him in, if it’s even a good idea for him to enter someone’s home, but the lock clicks into place behind his back and there’s no way to run now. Light places his cane into an umbrella stand beside the door and shrugs off his coat. He’s silent and Aoi wants to scream. “Why am I here?”, he asks instead and in the quiet of the apartment his voice is a crack of thunder. Light turns his face to him. His face is unreadable in the dim lighting of the entryway, shadowed even more by his hair. “I don’t know”, he says, “Why are you here?” It’s absurd. Aoi wants to scream, he wants to curse, wants to laugh. “Why are you here? Why have you been watching me, following me? Thinking I wouldn’t know, thinking I wouldn’t notice. Well, I did. Not without help, but I still did. So… why are you here, Aoi Kurashiki? Shouldn’t you be running from the law? Living a happy life with your beloved sister who you fought so hard to get back?”, Light doesn’t sound angry, if anything, his voice is an admittance of defeat. Aoi wants to laugh from how stupid he is. Aoi wants to cry from emotion overwhelming him. “Akane is gone too”. Saying those words feels liberating. Saying those words is admitting defeat as well. Light doesn’t respond. Instead, he grabs Aoi’s shoulders again and levels their faces. He doesn’t look, but the shadows dissipate at this angle and Aoi can see his face clearer, the expression is almost pleading. “Tell me everything you know”. *** And Aoi does. Granted, he doesn’t know a lot. There’s been another game and there’s going to be an apocalypse and another game after that. In this time, at least, but maybe not in the others. Not if Akane can help it. Not if her plan works out. And it certainly will, Aoi repeats over and over, trying to convince himself as well. Light listens intently through his explanation and at some point they move into the small kitchen and Light puts on a coffee pot. His hands are noticeably shaking, but Aoi doesn’t mention it. He can’t stop talking, the words bubbling to the surface and overflowing in an unstoppable spill. He talks and talks about the plots and plans and the hurt, the hurt of being left behind, and he barely even notices a warm mug pressed to his fingers. It’s pink and has a picture of a rabbit on it. Certainly Clovers. In it — black coffee, two sugar cubes, he’s sure. And those little details throw him off. First, the level of care Light put into the gesture. Did he ask the waitresses at the cafe about his usual order? Did he just guess? Second, the mug itself. Now that Aoi looks around, he notices more details about the flat. It’s small, probably cheap as well. There’s not much furniture, but what is there is uncharacteristic for someone like Light. There’s a pink fuzzy blanket thrown over the sofa, a flowery apron on a hook in the kitchenette, fashion magazine cutouts stuck to the fridge with magnets. Aoi feels himself choke up and the words get stuck in his throat. “I am sorry” is all he manages, after a prolonged silence. Light turns away, pouring his own cup, “You keep saying that, but what exactly are you apologizing for?” It would have probably felt better if Light actually punched him. Aoi takes his time, composing himself to provide an answer, but he realizes, halfway through the cup that he’s not sure. “I’m sorry for not telling you sooner” is the only thing he comes up with. Light hums over the rim of his mug. “I suppose you could have done that. But I am sure you have enough on your plate to not bother with my feelings”. And it’s true, Aoi never cared before, not at all, he would do anything, hurt anyone to get whatever he wants, using and discarding without remorse, but it’s Light. Aoi knows exactly how it feels to love and lose someone. How anger poisons your entire being, a desire for revenge, retribution and hope, hope against hope that it can be fixed. He knows exactly what it’s like to lose someone so important, and he doesn’t enjoy being at fault for that in the slightest. “I should have stopped Akane”, he says, hoping his real feelings come through. Light hums again, tracing the edge of the counter top with his fingers. “But could you?” And Aoi laughs. He feels like his whole being is cracking open, letting out a hysterical noise, half-laugh half-sob. “No”. He could never stop her, he would never stop her, his sister is the most important person in the world to him and now she’s the most important person in the grand scheme of the world as we know it surviving and how could he be so selfish as to interfere? Still, he can’t feel good about that. Not when he has to lose her again. Not when other people have to lose their loved ones. Not when Light’s face is so somber, deep half-moons of eye bags betraying his exhaustion. “It’s funny in its a own way, you know”, and Light actually has the nerve to sound amused, or at least as amused as he ever gets. “That our little sisters get to save the world while we have to spend the rest of our time here, just waiting for the inevitable”. Aoi doesn’t really have the heart to tell him. That they won’t be saving this world, they will be saving the other one, the next one, some other one they’re not in. Some world with another Aoi and another Light and another and another until the loop is closed, until every mistake is fixed. “You don’t have to lie to me, Aoi. You don’t have to tell me as well. I can’t hear her. Can’t feel her anymore, couldn’t for the longest time. She’s either far away where I can’t reach her or dead”, Light laces his fingers together, that one final word coming as easy and calm as all the others, as if admittance of his sister’s possible demise doesn’t bother him at all. “But if she’s alive, will I ever see her again?” Aoi tries to remember, the glimpses and glances of the plan he could collect. He is not sure. He isn’t sure, and he doesn’t want to say it out loud. Instead, he gathers all his strength and smiles, as sincerely as he could. “Depends on if we can survive the apocalypse”. *** Aoi visits Light frequently after that. At first, they don’t talk much, but there’s still comfort in finally having some company for both of them. Someone who would understand. Someone who knows because they felt it too. The bizarreness of the experienced shared doesn’t weigh that much. Aoi comes to the cafe to listen to Light play still, but after he follows him home, and they share coffee or tea and Aoi watches Light compose or listens to him reading or reads to him. They cook together and eat together and sometimes even watch movies, even if Aoi is annoyed at audio descriptions. Aoi insists on helping whenever he can, reveling in being useful, almost as if it’s his penance, and he doesn’t ask questions. In turn Light doesn’t ask any either. It’s the smallest things Aoi notices again, while Light surely looks less weary and exhausted, instead he’s getting restless, angry. There’s no outward anger in anything Light does, he’s as levelheaded as he is usually, but the unconscious movements betray him. It’s a quiet simpering rage of a drinking glass held too tight to the point it shatters, embedding shards in Light’s skin, it’s snapped chopsticks and torn shoelaces, a door slammed shut and a window thrown open. Aoi would pick up the pieces, when Light, confused at his own force would look bewildered. Aoi would carefully remove pieces of glass from pale hand and go over the cuts as gently as he could, another apology. Light doesn’t even react to the pain, he just looks surprised and laughs wistfully that he’s thankful it was his “real” hand. Skin doesn’t grow back on prosthetics, he mentions, it would require repairs. Aoi wants to punch him sometimes for treating himself so recklessly, but instead, when he feels his own exasperation rise, he reverts to his old self, arrogant and foul-mouthed, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”, he almost spits, as he puts the first aid kit away. “It’s not me, it’s this apartment”, Light muses, closing and opening his palm, checking the fresh bandages. “It’s worse than a coffin”. *** The decision to move in together is Aoi’s idea. Light can’t bear to stay in the house where everything reminds him of his sister and Aoi needs a new place as well. he mostly spent his nights at Crash Keys headquarters or even in his car, faced with the same problem as Light. Too many things at his personal place reminding him of Akane. Its quick work, quicker than Aoi would have ever expected. Neither of them owns much they would like to bring together and with two flats left behind, full of their sister’s things, they move on. Crash Keys has enough money for Aoi to get them both someplace nice, but they both agree on a two bedroom apartment not far away from the cafe Light still works at. Moving farther away seems impossible, because there’s still hoped, still hope they will return. Someone has to stay behind and wait, says Aoi, terrified of Light not agreeing, but in the end they both stay. The days flow by. Aoi only leaves the house to work, but insists on driving Light to SOIS headquarters for his own job. They don’t talk about the specifics. Light is sure Aoi is doing something barely legal again, Aoi is sure Light is working really hard to not catch him scheming. It’s an unspoken agreement between them that no one interferes with anothers day job. In the evenings, when they both get home, it’s the same old routine. Cooking together, reading or movies, Light writes music while Aoi slaves over spreadsheets. Comfortable silence and comfortable companionship and not an object in sight to remind of their shared loss. Ignoring the world while drowning in day to day trappings seems easy, almost natural. So when Aoi wakes up, choking on his sobs from a nightmare of fire and ash for the first time in months, he’s genuinely surprised. Even more he’s surprised when he notices Light standing in the doorway to his bedroom, concern clearly painted on his face. Damn his perfect hearing. “Go to bed, Light”, Aoi grouses, clearly upset at breaking their unspoken arrangement of not bringing emotions up, even if unconsciously. “Can I lie down with you?”, Light asks and before he can hear Aoi protest, moves over to his bedside. Aoi just shuffles over, against his better judgement clearing some space. Light acknowledges it and hums, laying on top of the covers beside Aoi. He lies on his back, unseeing eyes watching the ceiling and Aoi watching his face, moonlight making his hair and eyelashes glint silver, a thin line between his brows never smoothed back, thin lips slightly parted on words he chooses to say. “You know I don’t blame you, Aoi?”, his voice is soft, so soft and yet so certain and final. A reassurance Aoi so desperately needed, but could never accept. “If I saved Akane then…”, he starts. “You couldn’t have”, Light cuts him off, “I was there, remember? It was futile.” Aoi chuckles, oh, futile, she loved that word. Futility. What better way to describe their predicament? “But you still did everything to save her, you risked your life for her”, Light continues, “It’s natural to feel that way, but it’s not your fault. You did everything you could”. “Wasn’t enough”, Aoi croaks out, tears still in his eyes, “Was never fucking enough”. And then Light moves, turns and wraps his arms around Aoi’s middle, over the blanket. Still, it’s warm. It’s soft and reassuring just like his words and it makes Aoi realize, how long he was waiting for something like this, holding his breath to finally have someone who understands. Someone who wouldn’t blame him as much as he blames himself. “You know I risked your life too, I risked Clover’s life for fuck’s sake. How can you not blame me? I am the reason she’s gone”, Aoi hides his face in the crook of Light’s neck, so the other boy won’t see him cry. Light’s hand worm their way under the blanket, clutching Aoi tighter. “Is it your fault then that the world is ending?”, his embrace is so warm as he strokes soothing circles along Aoi’s back. “As I see it, the world would end one way or another. And if you’re right then six billion people would die. Eventually more, if society isn’t rebuild. And it’s your sister who’s trying to prevent it at least for someone someplace. Somehow Clover is important for this as well and I have to come to terms with it, as should you. If anyone is to blame for this, it’s certainly not you”, Light talks and his breath is ghosting against Aoi’s cheek. Aoi can’t hold back his sobbing anymore, “How can you be so kind to me?” “Somebody has to be”, and Light’s smile is an impression against Aoi’s skin, “Now go to sleep and I will be here when you wake up”. When Aoi falls back into sleep, lulled into the darkness by the gentle touch, he dreams of nothing. *** It’s pathetic, Aoi tells himself. Pathetic, the way he clings to Light after that night, looking for warmth, for that same kindness, gentleness he was never allowed. But Light concedes with ease, as if it’s perfectly natural for him. He lets Aoi hold his hands, even in public on rare occasion they go out together. Aoi’s things are long strewn around Light’s bedroom and it’s not even a question that they’re going to share a bed. Light returns home more often to find Aoi on his side of the bed, face buried in the pillow, sound asleep. He doesn’t say anything, just tucks the blanket around Aoi’s shoulders and joins him, eventually, when he’s done with the chores for today. It’s disgusting, Aoi thinks to himself, when he steals a bite out of Light’s plate, when he doesn’t give it a second thought to thread his hand through Light’s hair when he’s reading something to him, some obtuse poetry he woudn’t understand even if he was listening, not too preoccupied by staring at the shape of Light’s lips, moving over syllables, when Light sighs into the gesture, closing the book, saying something about his hair growing too long and something about Aoi maybe cutting it for him. Disgusting, in a way Aoi’s heart thumps as he agrees all too eagerly. It’s miserable, Aoi decides for himself, that now he’s not only waiting on his sister, he also waits to see Light return every day. How scared he is whenever Light is late, even a little bit, how he panics and his mind runs in circles, imagining all the terrible awful things that come with working for a government agency, with being who Light is and when the lock on the door clicks, Aoi knows Light notices him practically run over to the entrance, to see him, to ensure he’s okay, he’s not hurt, he’s fine. To see Light smile and apologize for worrying him, even if it’s Aoi who has been paranoid. *** It’s hard to not get angry at Light sometimes. He’s entirely too selfless, too reckless in how he treats himself. It’s hard not to get annoyed with Aoi’s insecurities and fears. They don’t fight, because hurting another human being seems unfathomable to both of them. Maybe because they remember other times, things they did then. Maybe because they know what they’re capable of. Aoi slams a glass into the wall and Light turns at the sound. “What happened? Are you hurt?”, he’s so concerned, always so fucking concerned about Aoi’s well being, always so attentive and ready to help. “Why the fuck are you still here?”, Aoi fumes, because it’s unbearable. To be cared about so much, to be held in such regard, to be treasured and understood when all he deserves is pain. When he would have killed Light a thousand times just to save Akane. When he would have destroyed the world just to see her again. So selfish, so greedy, so evil. Light looks perturbed, “Do you want me to leave?” “Yes, yes, yes please, FUCKING PLEASE”, and Aoi is screaming, he’s not sure why, but he’s screaming, because he can’t take this anymore, even this question is intolerable. Even now Light cares about what he thinks, what he wants, he cares so much. “I will leave, but you have to be honest with me”, Light stands up to approach him, but there’s glass on the floor, there’s glass and Aoi moves to step over it and close the distance first, “What is wrong with you?”, without profanity, it’s not as meaningful of an echo, but Aoi still remembers the words that got them here, living in the same space, sharing their hurt, surviving together. “I think I am in love with you”, he doesn’t stumble over his words, they come easily because he thought them over and over again in the passing days, driving himself up the walls of their tiny apartment. Light’s expression changes, but Aoi can’t tell what it means. He never saw it before. He doesn’t want to look either, averting his glance to study the low glint of broken glass. His throat feels like it has been stuffed with the same sharp shards as well. They stand across from each other and if Aoi would outstretch his arms, he could touch Light’s face. Trail fingertips across his pale skin, thread through his hair which Aoi knows is silky soft, even if cut a bit unevenly by his own hands. He keeps his hands down, clutching at his sleeves. It’s Light who reaches out first. It’s his hands on Aoi’s face, one is always a little bit colder than another, they cradle his jaw and smooth over his cheeks ever so gently, as if afraid to hurt. Always so careful. Aoi despises that. Craves it more than anything in the world and despises it all the same. “Don’t do this to me”, Aoi bites out, but it doesn’t seem like Light is listening. His fingers fly over his skin, and he’s reading Aoi like a book, other faint lines of his pained grimace. “Please don’t fucking do this to me”, Aoi repeats as fingers fly over the shape of his mouth, following it gently with butterfly caresses. It’s almost as if Light wants to touch him, it’s almost as if he actually cares. Aoi should move away, but he’s frozen in place, caught between wanting to snap out of this ridiculously intimate gesture and wanting for it to last forever. “Stop!”, he screams, not sure if he means it. This time Light flinches as if struck, torn away from his reverie, his face a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotion. But instead of pulling away Light brings him closer, a mirror of embrace from an alleyway all those months ago. Crushing, bruising one, a ghost of a breath over an ear, warm, soft in contrast with a suffocating grip, “I said I will be here”, Light says, and he sounds as sure as he is always, like he already knows the right answer to every question, the right solution to every problem. Aoi feels himself shake in his grip. “I am staying.” These words are enough to make Aoi feel the ground fall away from his feet and it’s all so familiar, it’s all the same, except this time there’s a feathery touch of lips on his neck as Light mouths words into it. “I don’t think I am ever able to lose someone I love ever again”, Light’s words sear themselves into Aoi’s skin, and he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “And if the world ends, I will still be here for you”. It’s pathetic, it’s disgusting, it’s miserable to love and be in love, Aoi thinks, but as he moves to press his lips against Light’s, he thinks that maybe it’s what he deserves after all.

[1358456]

Review Response, April 12-18, 2020

Another week, this one with a Legacy update!

Legacy Prologue - Kanto

1)  Was hoping for an update but I wasn’t getting my hopes up since I thought you might not continue but thanks for another amazing chapter

I’m guessing you don’t check these review response posts, since I said that I was going to continue to your last review. And... thanks for putting in a review for the wrong chapter.

2)  FINALY SOME LUCKY STORIES! This site is covered in oldrival and special. Loved this cant Wait for the next updates

Yep. There are too many of those out there... just like SA... (f*ck). Gotta fight through to push Red & Blue pairing. Heh...

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Legacy #009

1)  Yes! Blue finally confessed! Oh yeah! And Yellow saw the whole thing. I wonder if that means that she'll find an excuse not to travel with Red now. She'd probably feel too awkward. You really like torturing her, don't you? And Black...just set the shopping bags down and take a break! Your arms are going to fall asleep from holding all of those bags. For some reason, Sun doesn't seem much like his manga self. Did you mellow out his personality because you don't like it?

Hey, you’re back! ... Just a heads up, that this chapter is NOT the update. This chapter was out for the entirety of 2020 thus far.

Ahem. Anyways. Yep, Yellow saw the entire confession. Again. That is her purpose now, to witness Red and Blue happy together. Torture? This? Nah. I mean, it’s nowhere near as bad as it was in Destiny.

Black the pack mule! But hey, if he can carry White in his arms, I’m sure he can handle some grocery bags! As long as he’s not hauling like 50kg of groceries! (Weight distributed along the arms vs. weight pulling on the fingers)

Yes, I replaced Sun’s personalities with Black’s, because... f*ck Sun. If I was to keep it super realistic to his personality, he would not be in Legacy. He’d be off doing some other jobs to make money and not giving a damn about what really happens. “Oh no, Hau and Lillie died and Miss Customer is really badly hurt! But... I have all these deliveries to make, so... I have to go!”

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Legacy #010

1)  Awww red and blue fluff is the best kind of fluff. Keep it up!

Thank you! Hehe. Gotta add more fluff!

2)  Nice, another super-sweet Lucky confession scene. I normally don't like Red for being a typical protag, but for Lucky's sake, it's a good thing. Your portrayal of the relationships between all the dexholders is always so well done. Now that you mention that Y is going to train, I wonder if Dia plans to get stronger and if so, how? He's probably the one who'd hate those thugs the most. I'm looking forward to seeing Y's growth though. And Moon for that matter. It was a creepy scene, but I think that Shuppet scene was my favorite part of this chapter. Moon's really got that whole dark vibe going, especially with that blue gleam in her eyes, and now I just can't wait to see her next Pokemon capture scene! I'm wondering how Galar ends up being incorporated here, especially when there don't seem to be too many SWSH chapters out yet? Awesome chapter, as always, and can't wait for the next one!

Yeah, I don’t really like Red as the standard issue hero, but... for Blue’s sake... hehe. He’s going all hero mode. Until the time comes for him to snap and take out a bat or something, like he did as Santa in the SC update back in December.

Diamond (and Pearl) will also be training of course. He (they) will be really mad at the bad guys for what they did to Platinum, and he (they) also got some new Pokemon after the update/overhaul, so... time to train! Hehe. Y’s team growth... will finally unlock her ability to use strafing runs of FIRE and DESTRUCTION!

Moon’s growth would involve a lot of curses. Not like... “f*ck”, but... Ghost type Pokemon driving metal pins into themselves. Especially once that Shuppet becomes a Mega Banette.

Her next Pokemon... hmm... I think it’s probably going to be an Eevee for Umbreon. I just have to give her the proper reaction upon seeing a wild Eevee, and upon capture. Hehehe.

There will not be a lot of Galar being incorporated into Legacy. Sword and Shield will not be following Moon back to the “main plot”, so... yeah.

3)  Awww shy blue is really sweet. Also splitsing them up sounds pretty cool. Looking forward to the next one!

... Nice... ID there. Heh. Yep, shy and timid Blue is really cute! ... But she won’t be that shy and timid for long as she gains confidence and happiness. Soon, it’ll be back to her old self, but really happy!

4)  Could we get Some red training black action? As always Great chapter

Yes, Red will be training Black... and White. Everyone’s going to be training next chapter. It’ll be like a training montage! Except without skipping since this is not a video clip!

5)  Hey man how you holding up with the whole virus outbreak. Great story btw really fun to read. Really like the interactionele between red and blue.

The virus outbreak has not really affected me. I mean, sure it broke my glasses, and is preventing me from tutoring anyone, but all in all... meh.

6)  Could we get Some more black action? Really liked this overall

... This review is almost identical to the 4th one. So the response is the same as the 4th one.

7)  Hmm what could they be doing in galar... is the villain team from there?

I’m pretty sure that the very first chapter (Legacy #001: Rendezvous) says that the bad guys are stationed in Kanto, so no. Sun and Moon are going to Galar so that Moon can get the one Generation VIII Pokemon for her overhauled team, but with the plot excuse of going somewhere unknown to train, where no one can possibly recognize her.

8)  Cool! When is the next update

Hoping for another update before this month ends, but... we’ll see. It depends on the data.

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And this is the data. The update probably got the most reviews within a week than any other chapter in the past couple of years. If it gets 5 or more reviews added in, then I’ll update Legacy once more before April ends.