#if you know someone is involved in some of these try to gently dissuade them from it

[kimetsunoyaibawritings]

Burn like the Sun

Rating: General

Relationship: Reader/Kyojuro

Summary: “Simply knowing you are safe is a plentiful reward in itself.”

As a survivor of the Infinity Train accident, the reader seeks out the man who had saved them to try and offer some sort of proper thanks. And while he is severely injured -- enough to have to lay down his duties as a Hashira -- Kyojuro is nonetheless happy to know that his actions had protected someone.

"Is this the home of Kyojuro Rengoku?"

The question pulls the attention of the young boy standing outside the front of the gate of the vast home behind him, who had been sweeping diligently before your approach.

His bright, firey-colored hair is striking, but it is dwarfed immediately by the sharp red of his eyes as they move up to look at you. The resemblance to your savior is striking -- so much that you are sure that this is the right home before he even opens his mouth to speak.

"I-It is, yes," he says, voice oddly timid. "May I ask uh, why you are looking for him?"

He can't be older than twelve or thirteen. You try to offer him a comforting smile and gesture with your chin down to the small, cloth-wrapped bundle in your arms.

"I was one of the people he saved from the train accident a few weeks ago. I heard he was badly injured because of it and I..." you let the words trail for a moment as the boy (his brother? his son?) stares at you with a look that is not at all accusatory, but sharp all the same.

You clear your throat and speak, tone renewed, "I wanted to show him my appreciation and wish him well for his recovery."

At first the boy doesn't say anything in response. In the growing silence, you almost feel foolish. It had been hard enough to learn the man's name in the first place after the accident, but something about his presence had left a moment of terror and hopelessness instead with such warmth and comfort that the simple prospect of gratitude seemed the least you could offer.

Lost among your own thoughts and worries, the sound of the boy's voice rings out and drags you back into the moment.

"Let me go ask him first, if that's alright."

You're barely able to offer but a syllable of a reply before he's already slipped past the front gate and out of sight into the grand house beyond. It is as large as you were told, though you can't recall any prominent businessman nor politician with the family name of Rengoku. Some of your contacts had called him a swordsman -- had his family once served as samurai?

The possibilities proffered more questions than offered answers, leaving you to simmer in your own curiosity for several minutes until the young fire-haired boy emerged from the house and hurried towards you.

"He says you can see him -- he's also happy to know you're okay."

The boy -- Senjuro, you later learn as his name -- quickly explains how to get to Kyojuro's room, though you're too lost in the warmth in your chest from the too-simple notion 'he's happy you're okay' to pay all that much attention past the first two turns. But you thank him all the same and shuffle towards the house, leaving Senjuro to continue sweeping up with only the slightest, softest curiosity in his eyes.

Once inside the house, you’re taken aback by how… empty it feels. You’d expect a home as large as this to be busy with people — whether family or workers tending to it. You find neither, greeted instead by silence and an unnerving amount of peace.

It doesn’t take long to start trying to recall the directions that the young Rengoku boy had given you. A turn down the left hallway, past the third door and then… ah?

You couldn’t quite recall after that. Left or right? Was there another hall, or was Kyojuro’s room along the outside? One question bumbled into another until your unsureness twisted itself up into a ball of knots. Despite the confusion, you didn’t want to seem even more foolish by moving back to Senjuro and asking for directions again when he had gone out of his way to describe them once already. So you stand there, frozen by your own indecision at the edge of a corner-

Until someone suddenly turns it, running straight into you with enough force to leave you stumbling backwards. You would have fallen on your ass if it wasn’t for the fact that the same offender reached out suddenly and grabbed your arms, which were otherwise holding with a vice grip on the wrapped bundle still against your chest.

“I’m so sorry!” a bright voice offers, soft but merrily. “I didn’t see you standing there. Are you alright?”

It takes a moment for your thoughts to straighten and your gaze to fix upon the person who had both run into you and kept you from toppling backwards.

Blonde hair with firey tips, eyes brighter than rubies and sharper than a fine point. Though his face is covered in bandages and there’s a patch over his left eye, the recognition feels like icewater dumped over your head.

“K-Kyojuro Rengoku?” you ask, embarrassed in the stutter of your own voice.

“Yes?” the man tilts his head. You’re not able to say anything further before he suddenly winces, pulling his arms back against his body and drawing your gaze down over the rest of his body — as well as his multitude of injuries. Broken bones and layers of bandages seemed to but scratch the surface for all that he is dealing with, which made you feel the heavy weight of gratitude twice, no, three times over in his saving your life.

“Shouldn’t you be laying down?”

Kyojuro merely laughs. Though the sound must pain him, it doesn’t muffle the blossoming warmth of the noise as it fills the air around your ears. It’s strange, in a way; does the sound of his voice often have this effect on people?

“I’m well enough to walk,” he finally says, pain and aches hidden so dutifully behind his eyes that you have to second-guess yourself whenever his lips press together in a brief, but tense line. A smile, however, quickly moves across his face. “I thought it would be easier if I met you halfway so you didn’t get lost! You are the one who came to visit me, correct?”

You nod.

“Y-yeah. I’m uh. One of the people you… saved. On the train, a few weeks ago. I wanted to thank you and… maybe get to know you a little bit.”

The man watches you silently as you explain yourself, but not for a moment does a sense of judgement press on your shoulders from his attention. He simply listens, politely waiting for you to finish before responding.

“It must have been hard to find me,” he comments almost idly, some mixture of amused and impressed. “How did you manage it?”

The question is filled with an odd sort of praise, so you lower your head down until your eyes are on the ground and your mind is a shambling mess trying to piece words together.

“I uh. I have some friends in high places, you could say.”

“Well!” he chuckles. “That almost sounds like a threat!”

“Oh no, no no no no-” flustered, you immediately raise your eyes up and begin waving one hand about frantically as if to dissuade the notion entirely. “I promise I didn’t mean that as a— I mean, my family—… I…”

Your broken explanation is cut short when Kyojuro reaches up a hand towards your face, index finger curling ever so gently beneath your chin that you barely feel the heat of his skin against yours.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, and for a moment you feel your heartbeat go still. “I promise I meant it only as a jest. You went to great lengths simply to see me, and you certainly didn’t need to.” His hand slowly lowers, but your gaze is held to his as if bound by unseen threads. “Simply knowing you are safe is a plentiful reward in itself.”

“I- I uh. It’s not-” the words fall broken and useless from your lips like shards of glass with no hope of coming together to make a cohesive sentence. Perhaps it’s for the best, since you’re not even sure what you can try to say in response to such an earnest notion of safety from someone who didn’t even know your first name.

And that is what finally pulls your thoughts into clarity.

You step back, providing just enough space between yourself and your savior so that your mind can clear and your heart can stop beating so damn quickly. Once you regain a sense of sensibility you all but glare at the man.

“My name is-” you say, brows knitted and stance firm as you all but aggressively introduce yourself to the man who had sacrificed so much of himself for your safety. For the safety of hundreds.

And Kyojuro watches, and listens, and then he smiles.

“That’s a nice name,” he says, then chuckles again, then bows his head for a moment. “Though you seem to know already, I am Kyojuro Rengoku. It’s quite the pleasure to meet you then! Properly meet you, at least. One less train involved.”

As the words settle humorously in the air, you watch Kyojuro turn and make a gesture to follow behind him. For a moment you’re confused, but he turns his face back to you and nods in the direction of the hall a few steps ahead.

“You wanted me to rest, yes? We can do so overlooking the back garden. I figure you’d like to sit and talk for a while-” and then he pauses, as if a moment of realization is just now moving across his thoughts. “…unless there is somewhere else you need to be?”

Bashful instinct presses at the root of your tongue to agree, perhaps even to make up some silly excuse for why you couldn’t stay for long. But then your eyes catch and hold onto a gaze that seems like brilliant rubies, and his voice echoes so warmly in your ears. And then you remember noting how empty the house felt when you stepped inside of it, devoid of anyone but what might be the last few members of the Rengoku family.

How lonely.

A shake of your head and motion of your legs happen before you can even think.

“O-oh no, I… have the day free. Though of course I didn’t assume you yourself had the time to entertain anyone, with you… healing up, and all.”

Kyojuro smiles for a moment before leading the way down the hall, his motions a bit stilted by injuries, but proud all the same. You held a deep respect for the man and his willpower despite knowing so little about him — and you certainly wanted to know more.

“I actually enjoy the company,” he says, just as you move in-step beside him. “And you are the first person from that accident to try and find me — perhaps the only one! So, if you’ll humor me for a bit of your time… I would like to learn more about you as well.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him smiling. Despite the countless injuries that undoubtedly leave him in pain, some perhaps permanent, the man continues to smile as wide and as bright as the sun itself.

And you are glad to have met him.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Serenade (Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader) Pt. 5

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Pairing: Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader (Gender neutral) Rating: T for language and mentions/references to an (emotionally) abusive relationship. Mild, brief violence. Warnings: TW for referenced emotional abuse, mild TW for possible physical abuse (sorry, angry Dani is not 100% gentle with people she doesn't love-love) Notes: Music for this chapter here. If you're following this story and really want to continue reading, but worry about the TWs for this chapter, just send me an anonymous message and I'll write up an alternative version of this post. It's not something I would do without it being requested, but it's also not a big deal so don't feel like you're bothering me if you want that. Previous Chapters: Pt. 1: Nocturne, Pt. 2: Overture, Pt. 3: Accelerando, Pt. 4: Tocatta

Chapter 5: Poco a Poco (Italian: Little by little)

Finding a schedule for lessons to follow proved to be an insurmountable task. Consistency was something that Daniela struggled with greatly, even when it came to things that she genuinely cared about. Things like ensuring you lived long enough to entertain her. Instead of working with you to find a balance that worked for both of you, the youngest Dimitrescu daughter seemed intent on doing things in her own time. Little by little. Which would have been fine, if the two of you weren’t restricted by time.

Fate wasn’t entirely unkind, however. There were still a few things that Daniella recalled from her “youth”, bits and pieces of musical theory, the bare basics of reading sheet music. Not having to teach her proper posture or the structure of a piano would save you a little bit of time. On top of that, you had been informed that, somewhere in the castle, there were a few books of sheet music you could borrow. Assuming you were eventually able to find them, that is. So far they had eluded you, but you hadn’t even had much time to search, as you were still expected to perform your usual Maiden-related tasks.

In the end, it was Daniela herself that proved to be the biggest obstacle in your way.

“Look,” Daniela said one day, barely ten minutes into a lesson, “I think we should take a break… maybe have some fun?” One of her hands is resting on top of yours, the other tucking your hair behind your ear. There’s a smirk on her lips, unsurprisingly, and she’s mere inches away from kissing you. If not for the heavy threat hanging over your head, you would have already thrown yourself into her arms. Instead, all you can do is sigh, turning away from her as you do. “Don’t be like that, sweet thing. C’mon, no one can hear us right now. Might as well enjoy ourselves.”

“Babe. Darling. Buttercup, honey, cute little button on a bear, you are not the brightest bulb in the lighting department,” you replied, holding the bridge of your nose between two fingers. Instantly Daniela is upset, giving you a (thankfully) playful smack on the arm. Before she can protest more you continue speaking. “Your family would not hear us making out, true, but they would definitely hear us not playing the piano. I’m pretty sure your mother already thinks I’m doomed to fail as a teacher, and the last thing I need is to give her a reason to drop the curtains this early into our performance.”

“First of all, I am not an idiot,” Daniela said, a bit of a growl to her voice. “Secondly, what harm can a few minutes really do? Don’t you think I’ve been working hard enough to earn a little reward?” Now she’s holding a finger under your chin, lifting it up, making sure you’re looking right at her. There’s no dissuading her, it seems, as she leans in for a soft kiss. This was one of the more frustrating aspects of dealing with (courting?) her; communication felt like a one-man play, except the audience was as likely to throw knives as rotten tomatoes. Whenever Daniela acted like this, pushing away your concerns in favor of her pleasure, it felt helpless to try and resist her.

So you kissed back, wrapped your arms around her, and hoped that she’d be more open to compromise afterwards. At least kissing her was nice. Even though it had only been a week since you first kissed her, she was already getting better, evidently learning through experience. The passion behind her movements had grown as well, leaving you a tad breathless. Regardless of her odd perception of romance, and her insistence that she knew best, you found yourself charmed by her. It was scary. Terrifying, really, how you felt yourself falling under her spell. Wait. Hadn’t you been in this sort of situation before?... Staying with someone who wasn’t good for you? Why were you kissing her? Why were you starting to tremble, tears in your eyes, mind falling down a slippery slope of memories?

By the time you snap out of it, you’re sitting on the floor, Daniela awkwardly kneeling by your side. What the fuck? You think, sniffling a little. Head spinning, mind reeling, you struggle to form coherent thoughts. Next to you Daniela is unsure of how to help. But she’s trying, sort of, one hand holding your own, the other gently rubbing your back. She’s saying something, the words going right over your head. Understanding her takes times, focus, like tuning an instrument until the pitch is just right.

“I don’t understand, we were only kissing, what happened? Can you even hear me? Is this your way of tricking me into not making out with you? Because that’s a total dick move and-” she rambles, only stopping when you give her hand a soft squeeze. Then she’s meeting your gaze, looking uncomfortable, shoulders tense. “You’ve been weird for a while. Distant. Like you don’t want to touch me anymore. Don’t you still love me?”

There’s real, honest pain in her eyes when she speaks. If the timing had been different… you’d have thrown your arms around her and covered her face in kisses, promising to hold her onto she felt better, promising that yes you cared. You cared so fucking much. But she’s making you exhausted; every second has to be focused on her, not you. Every moment of concern is flipped around until she’s the victim, or at least the one that needs comforting. You didn’t think that she even realized what she was doing. Well, you hoped that she didn’t, wanted to believe that if she understood she’d change.

“Remember the first day we kissed?... how you pulled me close, and I kissed you harder, and we started…. Remember how I made a move and you pushed me away? I’ll never forget the look on your face. I felt like shit afterwards. I should have asked before I tried anything,” you explain, letting go of Daniela’s hand so you could pull your knees to your chest. Somehow you can’t bring yourself to maintain eye contact with her- not right now, not when you could still remember what it felt like to be on her side of this story. “I don’t want to push your boundaries, or make you feel pressured to do something you don’t want to do. The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt you like that.”

“Oh bullshit,” Daniela snarled, shocking you, before getting to her feet. Confusion doesn’t begin to describe how you feel in the moment as you watch her pace back and forth. Both her hands are clenched into fists, and she’s refusing to look at you. There’s a buzzing sound in the room, faint but growing louder, like she’s a split second away from entering swarm mode. “We’re a couple, aren’t we? Shouldn’t you be able to tell what I want? Shouldn’t it be obvious what I desire, when I’m pinning you to the wall and shoving my tongue down your throat? What more do you require?”

“Holy shit, Dani, I know communication isn’t your forte, but have you really not even considered talking to me? That’s simple, easy, literally the first thing that should come to mind!” You snapped, too in disbelief to keep your voice down. For a moment Daniela stops her pacing, turning to stare at you with narrowed eyes. If you weren’t so mad, you’d be convinced she was ready to kill you. But she doesn’t move to grab her sickle, or otherwise advance on you, instead groaning and tugging on her own hair in frustration.

“Because that’s not romantic, genius!” She replied. Some dots start to connect in your mind, but you lack the full context, as if looking at sheet music with no clefs or time signature. It’s not until Daniela continues that you really understand; and, by extension, realize just how ridiculous this whole mess is. “None of the books I’ve read involve conversations like this. People just… they just love each other! And figure it out as they go along, reading each other’s body language and facial expressions, inferring what they need to know through touches and reactions. Why can’t we do that?”

“This isn’t a fucking book, dumbass! I don’t have powers like you, I can’t just read your mind and figure out what you want. That’s not how relationships work! Communication is key. And you can’t just talk, you have to listen, hard, and understand,” you continued, still on the floor, heart pounding so furiously you thought it might leap from your chest at any moment. As angry as you are, you wonder if you’re being too loud, too angry, wonder if there was a better way to get through to Daniela. Before you can think of a solution the air is ripped from your lungs. Your “partner”/student is grabbing you by the front of your shirt, yanking you to your feet. Instinct makes you struggle against her, as useless as it is.

“I. Told. You. I’m not an idiot!” Her free hand comes up to your face, cupping your cheek for a moment, then pulling away just as fast. When it moves back up she’s gripping onto her sickle. The sharp edge ends up resting against your neck, the slightest movement threatening to cut you open. This is the most Daniela has ever openly threatened you, and in that moment all your anger melts back into fear, tears spilling down your cheeks. A flicker of something shows in her eyes, making you think that even she doesn’t like where this is going. “Give me one reason not to end this right now.”

“... I don’t… I can’t think. I… Why would you?” The words leave you in a rush, even with the pauses, and each syllable makes the sickle press into your skin a little more. There’s sure to be a cut there, though you can’t even begin to estimate how bad it is. The blade is sharp, clearly, and it hardly even hurts as it slices you. Thankfully the sensation doesn’t last long. Once you’re done speaking, Daniela’s grip loosens considerably, hand slowly letting your shirt go. Her other hand takes a few seconds to move, but eventually pulls away without any fuss. For a few seconds she just watches you, eyes filled to the brim with a rich sorrow, mouth open but unmoving.

“No lesson tomorrow. I need a break,” Daniela whispers, barely audible. Then she’s dusting herself off, no longer looking at you, and heading towards the exit. Just like the first time you met, she pauses in the doorway. “How’s that for communication, hmm?” When she laughs, it’s empty, forced. Part of you wants to stop her and ask if she’s okay.

Instead, you watch her leave, unspoken words tangling with your tongue until you almost can’t swallow.

Then your feet move, automatically, leading you to the piano. You sit down without thinking. You touch the keys without thinking. When you play, you play without thinking. It’s just a song, the world tells you, and you have no choice but to play. It’s not just a song, you know this, but you can’t think. Can’t argue against the personification of your isolation, or the embodiment of your trauma. All you can do is let yourself get lost in the music, softly, recalling lyrics from a forgotten time.

I’ve been running all my life, trying to find a place to hide ‘Thought that I had settled down, but I guess things are changing now Don’t make me go, don’t make me go Just don’t make me go, this feels like home

As soon as the last note fades out you stand, wordlessly, and leave. Your feet carry you down corridor after corridor, past maidens working, some of whom gasp when they see you. But you don’t stop, not even when you cross paths with Lady Bela, who eyes you with surprising concern. She doesn’t try to stop you, though, and you doubt you would have cared if she had tried. It’s not until you are within your shared room that you finally stop moving. It is there that you sit, shaking, finally pressing a cloth to your neck. Blood stains the fabric, first in just a few dots, then spreading out. There’s not enough to make you fear for your life, but there is enough to make you cry harder. Washing the wound will sting… so you don’t do that. Soon you will have to return to your work, and the thought puts pressure on your skull, summoning an all-too-familiar migraine.

When you close your eyes, you don’t mean to fall asleep, but that is exactly what you do. And when you dream, you do not wish for nightmares. You never do- and fate never denies you their company.

[spell-cleaver]

Astrophilia

@star-wars-wlweek

Day 5: Enemies to Lovers & Canon Divergence

Read it on AO3 or on FFN!

One world trapped under a mouse's paw saw Leia and Han having a peaceful moment at odds with the chaos around them, before she threw a glass of wine in his face.

"That's not normally how I drink Corellian wine."

"This is low, even for a scoundrel like you." Leia threw the glass down as well and marched away. "We are running for our lives from the Empire while on a mission of vital importance to the Rebellion. The only thing between us and capture are those electrical storms keeping the Imperials at bay." She jabbed her finger at the red clouded sky. "This is no time for your cheap attempts at seduction."

"This wine wasn't cheap, and pardon me for wanting a drink after just saving our lives."

"We wouldn't even be in this mess if you hadn't lost your nerve!"

"Lost my—" Han's indignant splutter sounded like a speeder backing up. "Lady, I've sailed from one end of this galaxy to the other, and believe me, there's nothing out there that could make me lose my nerve!"

But Leia wasn't listening anymore. "Did you hear that? Sounded like a ship."

"And for the record, I wasn't trying to seduce you! I'd sooner seduce a gundark!"

"That's not an Imperial ship. I thought you said no one else knew about this place."

"We should run. Now."

They did not run.

*

Her ship swung down and Qi'ra may have drawn too much satisfaction from the way Han unconsciously threw himself in front of the woman he was with. The woman was staring up at the ship, eyes narrowed, but Qi'ra evidently wasn't one of the Imperials hovering just outside the storms so she didn't run—yet. She landed, cracked open the landing ramp, and trotted down it.

The probes she'd left in atmo had paid off. She'd found Han again, and now he was going to pay.

She saw Han freeze and pale, even while his companion sized her up, from her surprisingly stylish spacer's gear to her blouse to her neatly bobbed hair, as well as the blaster in the holster at her belt. She didn't bother drawing it, yet, though both her and the woman were clearly ready to at a glance.

The woman wasn't uninteresting to look at, either. She had a familiar face, somehow, with pretty dark braids and a white jumpsuit with pockets, which looked easy to move around in. "Who are you?" she demanded.

Qi'ra responded by shooting. A warning shot, fair enough, but Han got the message when it skimmed his face. He opened his mouth to bluster something before she shoved her blaster back in the holster and spoke.

"I'm Qi'ra Solo," she said. "And Han"—another warning shot, eyes narrowed—"is my husband."

*

Three shootouts, a lot of yelling and another glass of wine in Han's face, staining his yellowing collar, later, and they were in a more amenable situation to discuss… everything.

"You're not after me," Organa—Leia Organa, the Rebel terrorist princess, as she apparently was—said, squinting at Qi'ra. "Just Han?"

Qi'ra sized her up. "I could get a good price for you with those Imperials up there, Princess, but I'm no bounty hunter. You wouldn't be worth it."

"Charmed." Qi'ra almost laughed, but didn't complain when Organa put her own blaster back in its holster and inclined her head towards an outcropping of rocks a few dozen paces away. "May I speak with you, then?"

"A peaceful negotiation? I wouldn't be opposed." Qi'ra glanced at Han. "However, if he escapes—"

"We'll be able to see him still. Shoot if he tries to make a run for it."

Han looked so wounded. "Leia—"

"We can talk later. Especially about the things you've apparently been lying about."

"She's not my wife!"

Organa looked a little regretful, but turned to Qi'ra anyway. She didn't want to negotiate, clearly, no matter what a scoundrel Han may have been to her. She wanted to protect Han—a sentiment Qi'ra could once have empathised with—since Qi'ra seemed so intent on either killing him or getting something from him, but she was smart enough to try to hear the full story before navigating unknown skies.

That was sensible. Qi'ra liked that.

Once they'd walked away a little, Organa cut right to the chase. "Why are you after Han?"

This woman clearly had an excellent ability to detect nonsense, but Qi'ra tried to string her along nonetheless. "As I said. He's my husband."

Organa said nothing, but her body language said it all: she shifted her weight onto her left foot, folded her arms and raised her eyebrows.

"We were married," Qi'ra insisted, trying not to smile. She was canny, then. No wonder Han liked her.

"Han may be a scoundrel and a thousand other things, but he doesn't strike me as the type who would lie about being single when he has an," she looked her up and down, "apparently very loyal wife."

…blast Han and his overwhelming, foolish tendency to play the good guy even when he was trying to be immoral.

A blast Organa's judge of character for being able to see it.

Still, she tried. "My apologies if he led you on, then." She gave a pointed look to the spilled wine that still stained his front. "I know he can be… seductive."

Qi'ra desperately wanted to laugh, so she was relieved when Organa laughed for her. "Him? No. I'm afraid not." She straightened up. "But he is my friend, so I'd prefer it if he wasn't harmed. So I want to know the truth of your involvement with him."

"That is the truth." Qi'ra shrugged. "We were childhood sweethearts, we were roped together years later in a job to steal some coaxium… and we only escaped with our crew by staging a fake wedding."

Organa stared at her in blatant disbelief for a moment.

Then she shook her head and snorted again. "Of course he did."

"And then," Qi'ra emphasised, her tone growing colder, "he ran off with my cut."

Organa shut her mouth. "That also sounds like him."

"I want my husband back," Qi'ra said with a wicked-sharp grin, "and I want the cut he owes me."

It wasn't even necessarily about the money, she had to admit. It just also happened to be the principle of the thing. Sana, Lando, dozens of others involved in the underworld knew that he had double-crossed her, for thousands of credits. If she let it slide when she, quite literally, had him cornered, that would hardly dissuade people from crossing her again.

Organa looked at her intenty. She seemed to be mulling it over.

"What do you mean by you want Han?" she pressed. "Do you just want your credits, or do you want to take it out in blood as well."

Han, still in earshot, noticeably went pale, but still didn't interrupt, thankfully.

She considered it. "I'm not a sadist. I don't have my heart set on violence. But you understand that vengeance prevents other people from double-crossing you the same way."

Leia Organa, Princess of Alderaan, was someone who should have known nothing about those brutal, underhanded tactics, but Qi'ra supposed from her flattened lips that she did have her own personal experience with cruelty.

"It doesn't," she replied. "Fear only works so far. Eventually, the only this it teaches is how subtle you need to be."

"Of course a Rebel would say that."

"Of course a Rebel would know." She met her gaze, hard and level. "I won't let you hurt Han. If you do, I'll shoot you. No matter how skilled you are, that's two against one."

"Han would say never tell him the odds," Qi'ra parried.

"You're smarter than Han."

Han's "Hey!" told them he was still listening intently, but that wasn't what had Qi'ra red lips curving into a smile.

"More like you?" she pushed, watching Organa closely. Her eyes had been arrested on her lips by the smile, and only now did she flick them up to lock their gazes again.

"Indeed," she said, voice smooth.

"So we're at an impasse?" Usually Qi'ra was more frustrated by such a situation, but Organa was… fun… to spar with.

And even now she looked thoughtful. Thoughtful, and resolute.

"Not quite," she suggested. "Han is far from skint. He recently did a great service to me and earned a great reward. He is meant to pay off Jabba with it"—of course; Han was in hot water with that slug, too—"but since it's been months and he seems to have no inclination to go to Tatooine to actually do so, I feel the credits would be better used here."

Han opened his mouth to protest, but Organa cast him a stern look and it fizzled out. He was as rambunctious as ever, then, but now had the sense to know when a good deal was being negotiated for him.

"We are agreed," Qi'ra said. Through it was subtle, she read the relief in Organa's relaxing shoulders.

When Organa held out her hand to shake on it, Qi'ra went one step further and took it, kissing the back of it gently.

Organa—Leia—froze for half a moment, her expression torn between excited and scandalised. But she was back to her stoic, professional face a moment later as she gently took her hand back.

She was still a little stiff, but the smile she gave Qi'ra was not disinterested.

"Han," she called, "do you have the credits with you on the Falcon?"

Han grimaced. "I… left them back on base." It was a poor excuse for getting out of this, if he was using it for that, but Qi'ra didn't think he was.

"Then we'll have to take Qi'ra with us when we return, give her the credits, then drop her back here to retrieve her ship." Leia seemed unruffled even as Han gaped at her.

"Take me back to the Rebel base? You are bold."

"You shan't be allowed onto it, of course, nor to know the coordinates, location, or see any part of it. But I wouldn't want you to stay behind and think we were running off. I assume you have no trackers on you?"

"No."

"Good."

Qi'ra suggested, "You could send Han back for the credits and remain here with me as a guarantee."

"With the Imperials in the sky? Not a chance. Besides," she glanced at the hand Qi'ra had held hers with, "I may convince you to join the cause along the way."

Qi'ra laughed out loud. "That will never happen."

The disappointment that pinched Organa's face was hardly visible, but her voice grew flatter. "Then this will be our only voyage together." She gestured ahead. "Shall we?"

Qi'ra smiled at her, oblivious to Han staring in confusion. "We shall."

[bytheangell]

You Can’t Keep Safe What Wants to Break - Chapter One, Magnus

(AO3) (Prologue)  Chapter One - Magnus Bane Magnus probably shouldn’t be here for this conversation, but Jace is already waiting for them when he portals Alec back to the Institute from Idris. Jace is eagerly anticipating the response from the Council meeting, nervously pacing back and forth along the rooftop where they thought they’d have a bit more time to figure out how to break the news to him before going inside. Alec planned on doing it alone, with Magnus at home preparing the strongest cocktails he can manage short of inducing alcohol poisoning to deal with the aftermath. Instead, Alec shoots Magnus a quick, pleading glance - a silent request to stay - and Magnus doesn’t have the heart to try and make an obvious exit with them both in front of him like this.

None of them are ready for the conversation that’s about to happen.

The look of immediate defeat on Jace’s face is so heartbreaking that Magnus actually looks away for a moment. He knows it isn’t his fault, that the real blame lies with the Clave, but he can’t help but feel like he failed Jace just the same.

“There was nothing we could do,” Magnus tries. “We pulled every favor we had.” It’s true - they really did try everything short of actual bribery to get the discussion and the votes to go their way… and, okay, maybe a little actual bribery Alec doesn’t need to know about, but even that wasn’t enough to get the votes they needed.

“They wouldn’t let go of the fact that the Angels took her memories and her abilities, and essentially kicked her out of the Shadow World. They don’t want to risk the Angels’ anger by letting her back in. They’re scared,” Alec says, not that Jace needs to hear it. The poor boy’s heard that argument time and time again ever since Clary remembered him at her art show that night… ever since Jace started seeing her regularly, and reforming a relationship with her.

Ever since Jace decided he wanted Clary to be part of his life - part of all of their lives - again, and started this mission to get Clary reinstated.

Magnus tried to warn him at the start to keep his hopes low and his expectations even lower, but it’s difficult to dissuade a heart so lost in love. The Nephilim have strict rules about mundanes being intimately involved with Shadowhunters, rules that have to be followed to keep them out of the Shadow World. And without her abilities, without everything that once made her one of them, that’s all Clary is to them. A mundane.

A liability.

Magnus knows the look in Jace’s eyes, though. Jace isn’t letting this go. Magnus had hoped, perhaps naively, to stay as far removed from all of this as possible. He did his best to stay out of the previous discussions between Alec and Jace and Izzy and members of the Council; because despite his personal investment in both Clary and Jace’s well being this isn’t a personal matter, not to the Shadowhunters - it’s a political one. Magnus always knew how this would play out, despite their best efforts: duty before all else, the law is hard but it is the law, and all that nonsense.

Magnus wanted to stay out of this, but now he finds himself in the thick of it, staring into the blue and brown eyes of a Shadowhunter pushed to the breaking point between heart and duty.

For a moment, Jace turns away from the two of them. Magnus thinks that Jace almost sounds determined when he finally speaks again. Is he even holding himself a little straighter? Definitely more resolved, but not in a defeated way - in a defiant one. It doesn’t sit well with Magnus but he doesn’t pry.

He also makes no attempt to stop Jace when he leaves. Instead, he watches Alec take one step forward, pause, then fall still beside Magnus.

“That went better than I expected,” Alec admits once Jace is gone.

Magnus gives a distracted nod, but he doesn’t think the matter is over, not by a longshot. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to let Alec feel a bit of peace in thinking that the worst is over, even if he has a sinking suspicion that the worst is yet to come.

“It certainly could’ve gone a lot worse,” Magnus agrees. “Let’s go home, shall we? I think we could both use that drink now.”

---

There’s no warning from his wards before the knock on the door sounds, so Magnus knows the person is a friend before he checks through the eyehole. Unexpected visits in Idris are few and far between these days, and he’s particularly surprised to find Jace Herondale standing in the hallway when he opens the door.

“Alec isn’t back from his meeting yet, is he?” Jace asks, in a tone that implies he not only knows the answer but fully planned on arriving while his parabatai is still out.

“No,” Magnus confirms. “He’ll likely be another hour or so. Come in,” Magnus says, stepping aside for the Shadowhunter to enter. Jace shrugs his coat off and hangs it on the rack by the door, then toes off his boots to leave at the base of the rack. It’s a habit of Alec’s that carries over to all visiting Nephilim, despite the fact that Magnus can easily magic away any dirt stains. It’s an endearing courtesy, and if Jace takes longer than usual to stall by the doorway Magnus doesn’t comment on it.

Instead of prompting Jace, Magnus remains silent, reading the blond’s body language, allowing the tension held in every muscle and the strain of every movement, to let him know that there’s something wrong. Something Jace doesn’t want to tell Alec if he’s here talking with Magnus first.

“I need you to be honest with me,” Jace says. “Because I already know how Alec and Izzy are going to react, and it isn’t going to be good. And I just--” Jace breaks off there, pacing back and forth. “I need someone impartial to tell me I’m not crazy.”

“I’d hardly say I’m impartial,” Magnus points out.

“But you can be. At least, you can be brutally honest when you need to be, and I need you to be. I need to talk to you as Magnus right now, not my parabatai’s husband.” Jace is pleading

“Alright,” Magnus agrees, ignoring the urge to make a joke about Jace’s ego not being able to handle Magnus’ honesty. Something tells him this isn’t the time. “What’s on your mind?”

“I want to be with Clary,” Jace says.

The words on their own aren’t surprising. Of course, Jace wants to be with Clary. Magnus knows that Jace loves her more than he’s ever loved anyone - save his parabatai - in his entire life. But Clary cannot be part of their world as a mundane, it’d never be recognized or allowed by the Clave. They could see each other in secret, but not seriously, not when Clary could never live at the Institute or in Idris. The only way for Jace to be with her now is--

Oh.

The realization dawns on Magnus and sits like a leaden weight in his stomach. His expression must give away what he pieced together because Jace notes the look on his face and continues quickly.

“I’ve thought about it. By the Angel, all I can do is think about it. She never leaves my mind, Magnus. She hasn’t since the day she left and she’s never going to, especially not now that we’ve reconnected. I can’t live without her. And I don’t have to. I just have to…” but Jace trails off there as if saying it might make it too real. So Magnus finishes for him.

“You just have to be deruned, and leave behind the only family you’ve ever known and the only life you’ve ever known.” Magnus manages to say the words with minimal infliction; no judgment, just facts.

Jace winces. “I did ask for brutal honesty, didn’t I?” he says, though the laugh he gives is forced.

“This isn’t a decision to be made lightly, Jace. I know that you know that, but do you truly understand the gravity of that decision? There’s a reason de-runing is the most severe of punishments for crimes against the Clave,” Magnus points out.

“I know,” Jace says. To Magnus’ surprise, he looks like he really does know. There’s none of Jace’s usual nonchalance or dismissive sarcasm. “But living without Clary for the rest of my life… at least the pain of a de-runing is temporary.”

“But the effects are far from temporary,” Magnus reminds him. At the look on Jace’s face, Magnus adds quickly, “I’m simply presenting all of the angles, I’m not trying to talk you out of it.”

When Magnus imagined what Jace might do in retaliation of the Council’s decision, he pictured more of a fit of rage, a ‘fuck the system’ rebellion of finding a way around their ruling to bring Clary back anyway. Magnus would’ve bet his savings on Jace using magic to hide Clary with a glamour or build her a secret rooftop room to live in at the Institute or something equally ridiculous. This option crossed his mind, of course, but never in a million years would he imagine Jace pursuing it.

Jace is quiet for a moment after that. Magnus takes some small comfort in knowing his words aren’t falling on deaf ears. Jace wouldn’t have come here if he didn’t want to talk this through, after all, but Jace is… well, he’s still Jace. It’s rare to see this serious side of him.

“I know losing the parabatai bond will hurt Alec,” Jace says quietly. “It’s the part I keep coming back to. The rest… I know Alec and Isabelle won’t abandon me if I go through with it, no matter what the laws are. I won’t lose them, not entirely. But the bond…” Jace actually looks close to tears simply speaking of it, and Magnus moves forward to take him gently by the hand and lead him over to the sofa.

“It isn’t a bond broken easily,” Magnus agrees. “You will both suffer greatly for the loss of it.”

Jace hangs his head. “I don’t want to put Alec through that, but… but he will someday anyway, right? One of us will, in the end. It isn’t like it’s inevitable. I’m just… moving up the timeline.”

Magnus can practically hear the number of times Jace must’ve repeated that to himself before now, over and over in his head until he was nearly convinced it’s enough justification. He isn’t wrong, Magnus will give him that. But it’s one thing to lose the bond through an inevitable death, and another entirely to know that you’ve caused that pain and loss intentionally.

The guilty expression on Jace’s face as he avoids Magnus’ gaze tells him that Jace knows that, too.

“And I assume you’ve talked to Clary about this?” Magnus asks.

Jace nods. “She said we could get an apartment together. I can’t tell her everything, obviously, but I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think we had a real chance, you know I wouldn’t.” Jace shakes his head. “I don’t want to have to choose. This… being a Shadowhunter, this is what I’m good at. It’s what I was raised to be. But Clary… she’s my future, Magnus. I was trained to be a weapon, but I was born to love Clary Fray.”

Magnus is struck suddenly by the memory of another Shadowhunter he knew who was willing to give up everything for the love of a mundane girl. ‘I was born to be a warrior, and I was born to be with her. Tell me how to reconcile the two because I cannot.’ The words of one Edmund Herondale ring clear in Magnus’ mind, bringing a slow, sad smile to his face. For a boy who only learned of his true lineage a year ago, Magnus wonders how no one pieced it together before then. Jace is a Herondale, through and through, and never more apparent than in moments like this.

“You Herondales certainly have a penchant for sacrificial love,” Magnus observes, not unkindly. Edmund gave up his runes, James his sanity and stability, Will was ready to give up love itself, and now Jace...

“I can give up Shadowhunting. There are plenty of others who can take over for me now, and plenty more to follow after me,” Jace insists.

It’s a strange thing, to witness the blind faith the Nephilim place in their Angels from birth begin to crumble and crack - to question outdated laws and revert back to something more basic, more simply human. Life. Love. Happiness. Desire.

“I’m not concerned about the Shadowhunter’s loss of a soldier,” Magnus points out. “And you don’t have to convince me. I know better than to think there will be any talking you out of this once your mind is made up… and it does appear to be entirely made up. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Jace nods. “I haven’t told anyone yet, but I think Maryse might have an idea. I’ve been asking a lot of questions lately about her de-runing, and what happens afterward.”

Magnus nods slowly. Maryse probably knows, or at least suspects. It says a lot about her growth as a person in the past few years that she hasn’t called Jace out on his plan yet. It also says a lot that Jace risked her piecing things together just to get a few vague answers out of her. If he’s willing to risk that, then he’s sold on the idea, no matter how hesitant he claims to be.

“You won’t be allowed back in Idris again. If the full extent of standard procedure were followed you wouldn’t be able to see any of your family or friends again, but something tells me Alexander won’t let that bit stand.”

He knows that Maryse showed up once or twice to the Institute and that Luke and the rest of the Lightwoods visit her regularly, either at the bookshop or at her home. All of which is highly irregular, but then again, not much about Alexander’s influence over the Clave’s rules and standards hasn’t fought back against their antiquated ways in one way or another. If there’s one silver lining in all of this it’s that Jace won’t be isolated from his past entirely if he doesn’t want to be, and he clearly doesn’t want to be.

Jace sounds uncertain when he replies, “I don’t know, there’s a very good chance that Alec won’t speak to me again after this, law or not.”

“If you think there’s any chance of Alexander abandoning you for this decision-”

“And why shouldn’t he?” Jace cuts Magnus off. “After I abandon him first.”

The harshness of Jace’s tone causes Magnus to wince. This is what it comes down to. Everything else aside, this is why Jace is really here talking to Magnus before his parabatai - before his brother, the person he’s closest to in this world.

“This isn’t a matter of marrying someone and moving away. This isn’t even only about losing my runes. If it was just my own sacrifice there wouldn’t be a doubt in my mind, but…”

“But it isn’t just your own life this choice affects,” Magnus supplies for him, finally realizing why Jace came to speak with him first. These are complicated, deep emotions. Alexander and Jace, when confronted with issues as personal as this, could be a volatile force. Magnus is glad Jace had the presence of mind to try and sort through his own first instead of charging directly into a conversation with Alec all hot-headed and stubborn force of will.

“I took an oath. Entreat me not to leave thee,” Jace huffs out with a broken laugh. Magnus knows the oath. He’s familiar with it enough to know that by doing what he’s planning now Jace is breaking every line of it, every promise. “‘The Angel do so to me, and more also,

If aught but death part thee and me.’” Jace’s eyes leave Magnus’ and fixate on a point beyond him, growing distant. Despite the honesty of their conversation, Magnus can’t begin to imagine exactly what he’s feeling in this moment. “How can I choose? Why do I have to choose? It isn’t fair.”

“Life very rarely is,” Magnus says sadly. He isn’t sure when he shifted from the role of devil’s advocate to a comforting friend - when this turned from discussing a hypothetical to comforting an inevitable loss.

“What would you do, if you were me?” Jace asks.

Magnus considers the question, not taking it lightly. He thinks back to all of the loves he had and lost over the centuries, of the love he has now with Alec. He tries to picture what it might be like if he and Catarina were bonded like Jace and Alec, to have to sever that bond to keep Camille in their prime, or Etta, or Alexander, and thinks that for those few he might have. But in the end, he can only shake his head.

“I can only begin to imagine the intricacies of the bond the two of you share,” Magnus admits finally. “I’ve sacrificed everything for love, more times than many would consider wise, and I’ve been burned every time but one.” It probably isn’t what Jace wants to hear, but it’s the truth. And what follows is also the truth. “But every time was worth the possibility of true love.”

That gives Jace a bit of hope, which is what he needs. It’s what he’s searching for, behind his call for honesty and council.

“If I were you? I’d probably risk what you’re planning now. It’s foolish and reckless, a gamble beyond measure, but isn’t love always?” Magnus smiles softly at that. “And if I were Alexander, and my dearest friend came to me in your situation, I can promise you that any anger or betrayal I felt would be temporary, eventually eclipsed by the joy of knowing they found all the happiness they were looking for in life.”

“You think?” Jace asks, daring to sound optimistic at the mere suggestion that there’s a possibility of Alec being alright with this in the end. Not right away, but someday. That might be more than Jace has allowed himself to hope for before now, but Magnus doesn’t think it’s a stretch to imagine.

“But I’m not either of you, and this is not my decision to make.”

Magnus feels the gentle ripple in his warding that alerts him to his husband’s arrival downstairs.

“Alec’s back,” Magnus says. “I can portal you to the Institute if you’d like to keep this between us for now.” It’s a simple offer, no judgment if Jace wants more time to consider his options, or simply to stall before talking this out with Alec. As difficult as keeping something like this from Alec will be he wouldn’t betray Jace’s trust in coming to him for advice. Magnus watches Jace closely, able to see the flash of panic on Jace’s face and the hesitation as he debates accepting the offer of a portal.

“No,” Jace says with a determined shake of his head. When Magnus thinks back to his similar encounter with Edmund nearly a century ago, he distinctly recalls the feeling of witnessing a disaster, something reminiscent of wreckage. But this is different: Jace Herondale isn’t ruining himself, he’s rebuilding.

“I’ll make myself scarce, then,” Magnus says, standing up to make his way toward the door.

“Thank you, Magnus.” Jace rushes the words just as the sound of the lock turns in the door.

“Magnus, hey,” Alec greets, leaning in to give him a kiss in greeting after he opens the door to find Magnus standing next to it, grabbing his coat off the rack. Alec catches sight of Jace behind Magnus and his brows furrow. “Jace? Is everything alright?”

“I’m heading out for a bit. Give me a call if you need anything,” Magnus says instead of answering Alec. The question isn’t meant for him, after all.

Magnus looks over at Jace one last time before leaving the two of them alone to speak, still surrounded by the ghosts of his past. He sees so much of Edmund’s determination to follow his heart, no matter the personal cost. He sees Will’s enthusiasm and desperate need for the potential of love. He sees James’s consuming passion.

Magnus sees enough of Jace’s ancestors in him to know without a doubt that Jace will be just fine in the end; and if he isn’t, then Magnus imagines he has enough experience assisting lovestruck Herondales to help him through.

[elmidol]

Error: Program Not Found - Fourteen (Kind of NSFW)

Summary: You are in charge of programming the droids that work most closely with both General Hux and Kylo Ren. Unbeknownst to you, each of these two men have it in their heads that your relationship extends beyond the workplace. This causes things to escalate quickly when your two apparently secret boyfriends compare notes on their respective partner who is far too similar for their liking.

Read on AO3

Chapters Warnings: some groping/dry humping

Side Note: At the end of this chapter, on AO3 there is a question regarding potential routes for the remainder of this fic. I am personally comfortable with any of the three options I present, but do appreciate people weighing in on this particular aspect. 

“Try to be a rainbow is someone else’s cloud.” - Maya Angelou

 Fourteen: Analyses

 Spending time with the senator had proven to be a surprisingly enjoyable experience due to your being equipped with the poem and the painting as topics of discussion. His mind appeared to have wandered away from the potential TR8-0R project. The budding camaraderie also instilled in you a sense of peace regarding the man; you believed that he would not be so inclined to speak ill of the First Order or overshare on any of the other projects he had helped to finance. This was not to say that you were not mentally taxed by playing nice. His adviser being present had dissuaded you from broaching certain lines of dialogue to include information about your other project. It remained an Ace for another day, possibly during the meeting itself.

 Massaging either side of your temple with two fingers, you willed away a small headache that had formed from the prolonged conversation. General Hux would have risen from bed an hour ago, you noted, debating whether you wanted to rest a little first or pursue interaction with him now. As the saying went, there was no time like the present. On top of that, there were less chances that you would be interrupted with the majority of the other officers still asleep or else only then rising for the day.

 He was, unsurprisingly, in the community area with a datapad in hand and two others on the table. You valued working for someone with nearly identical work ethics and habits as yourself. With a small smile, you slipped onto the seat next to him. General Hux did not object to your nosiness when you glanced at the datapad that was in his hand. This particular report required minimum clearance. Your interest in the document wavered within seconds. Reminding yourself why you were there, you cleared your throat while setting your hands in your lap, one atop the other.

 “Hm?” he grunted. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, not at his mediocre acknowledgment of your presence so much as the fact that you felt like a schoolgirl. You were an adult, you had had multiple conversations with the man. Maker, you had kissed him and sexted with him. Why were you nervous now?

 I feel like I need to make a choice between them once I know, you realized. You trailed your tongue along your lips and shoved that thought to the side. Regardless, it had to be done. “I think a bigger concern is not the individual themselves but the company they keep.” Only partially cryptic on the off chance that there was surveillance.

 General Hux turned his head. You mirrored his actions, locking gazes with him. Those eyes were so deep, you noted. You could not tell if they were more green or more blue. You reached up, setting a hand on his jaw to trace your thumb along his lips. You nearly jumped though you had been the one to initiate contact. His skin was warm beneath the pad of your thumb, his breath offering moisture. Your heart hammered in your chest, in your ears. The increase in contact you had with both him and Kylo Ren, it was scrambling your ability to think. All you could do was focus on them and how it felt to kiss and touch them. To be touched by them.

 This is not why I came here, you thought despite the fact that you were even then letting your eyelids descend as General Hux leaned in closer. His nose brushed along yours though he did not kiss you. Your thumb remained on those lips, running back and forth.

 “Would you like to come to my room?” You held your breath, your eyes snapping open. Searching his face for any sign that he was teasing or would reveal his full intention of extending the invitation, you quickly learned that he was leaving that up to you. Going into his room did not have to lead to sex. It would offer you more privacy to interact with him, to kiss him if you wanted...or, yes, to have sex with him. You were not quite ready for that step, not until you knew if he was Anonymous or Unknown.

 With a hesitant nod, you rose from the seat that you had taken and lowered your arms to your side. General Hux followed suit. He gathered up his various datapads while nodding his head in the direction of his room. You turned to walk in that direction with the awareness that he would follow. The entire time, your mind was racing. Kissing him was not out of the question; stars, you wanted to kiss him now that you would be in a setting where it was less likely to be caught. Bringing up the painting could work, although since you had spoken with the senator about the poem first, that would flow more naturally into a conversation. Mentally rehearsing what you would say to steer the conversation in that direction, you stepped to the side so that he could unlock the door to his room.

 Everything was in order; you could not tell if the bed had been made by the maids or by the man himself. It was tempting to ask, however you held your tongue. Your eyes swept about the area to note where he had placed four other datapads. He was, you realized, involved in more projects that you were. Which did make sense if you stopped to think about it. You dealt with droids and programming, whereas he had to hear of those matters alongside stormtrooper and officer training, ships and weaponry, and a multitude of other matters. Each of those required a keen eye to ensure that they fit perfectly into the largest project of all, the success of the First Order.

 “The durasteel walls tighten like a cage around you,” you murmured. It had not been intentional on your part to quote the poem in that moment, yet for some reason the words flowed over you as you stood there in the room. You were not thinking of these walls, but of the ones on the Finalizer and the other ships that you had lived on while in service to the First Order. A part of you did enjoy traveling, however now being on planet, you realized that you missed it.

 General Hux closed the door after entering the room and walked over to the pile of the other datapads to stack it higher with the ones in his hands. He looked over his shoulder to consider you. “You’re interested in poetry.” A statement. You shrugged while offering a noncommittal noise. His lips pursed forward for a moment. Inwardly, you were pleased with yourself for having gained an answer before you had consciously pursued it; he was familiar with the poem to know that it was a line of poetry you had recited.

 “Are you?” you countered, ensuring that your tone was playful. He now smirked at you, openly amused by your flirting. Stars. The realization dawned on you, how comfortable you were to slip so easily into flirting. To be conscious of it. This was happening. You ran your tongue along your lips. “Do you have any favorites?”

 The pair of you walked closer to one another. Your mind began to again race, working through what you wanted. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to know if he had sent the art or the poem. You wanted him to pin you down and fuck you. You wanted to wait, afraid of the repercussions. You placed your hands on his chest and tilted back your head, letting your eyes slip closed again. This time his mouth descended upon yours in a kiss that you happily returned. His hands roamed your upper arms before skimming along your chest. You cupped his face, as though doing so solidified that this was real. His tongue danced with yours, exploring you in a way that had you clenching. You shuddered, hands diving upwards and toying with his hair.

 General Hux grabbed hold of your hips then pulled you along with him further into the room. You let him push you onto the bed and climb atop you. Wrapped your legs around him, whining into the next kiss and whimpering as he bit gently on your bottom lip. “I enjoy the poems that help me win battles.” You wrinkled your nose at that, delighted that he had answered your question and enthused over the fact that he again sought your mouth with his.

 It would be so easy to lose yourself in the moment, however you were not going to allow that skilled tongue, those wonderful lips, to make you forget that you wanted answers. “Paintings?” you asked between kisses. He grunted above you. Pulling away a fraction, General Hux skimmed his nose along yours. His eyes were searching your face. You could not tell if this was confusion; did he not know why you were bringing up paintings, or was it that he was inwardly debating how much he would reveal? You reached up to brush aside strands of hair that had fallen out of place and onto his forehead.

 “I do have an appreciation of multiple forms of art.” He was cleverly evasive when it came to potentially handing you the information you sought. Not that this was in any way surprising; as a General of the First Order, he dabbled in politics more often than you did. You rolled your eyes at him in hopes that it would cause him to budge. Instead he only smirked and kissed you. His lips pressed to your mouth, next directly next to it, along your jawline. He made a trail up towards your ear, where he whispered, “I want to see you guess.”

 “That is rather frustrating, I must say,” you huffed out though you were grinning. It was comfortable to be under him like this, more than you had thought it would be. He grunted. “Can I call you by your first name when we are alone like this?” Another grunt, this one an affirmation. ��Armitage,” you said, testing how it felt in this more intimate setting and his reaction to hearing it from you. He licked his lips, his pupils momentarily widening. You could feel his entire body responding to you; his hardening cock pressing into your thigh. “I am not...exactly rejecting you, however…”

 You trailed off in part because he was already nodding, his expression conveying that he understood. This was proceeding at a faster rate than you were ready to handle due to the amount of players. On top of that, to enter a relationship with him would have an impact on your career, as well as your daily life while you worked for the First Order.

 “I never realized how comfortable I was with the two of you.” Armitage did not react to the way that Kylo Ren was brought into the conversation. No insult was taken, for which you were glad. Fingers dancing along the collar of his shirt, you found that it was easy to picture yourself stripping him. “Being safe behind the screen, talking to both of you, not knowing which account belongs to you and which belongs to him…” You moved upwards and kissed him. His mouth was hungry against yours. Armitage’s hands wandered along your body. He was emboldened by each moan and whimper that escaped your. Simultaneous to kneading your breasts, he began to rock his hips into yours. You spread your legs wider then wrapped them around his waist.

 You could feel yourself growing wet with each thrust that you met. The way his body rocked into yours had electric heat spiraling through your veins. His breath was hot against your mouth, your throat, through your shirt as he mouthed your breast. You felt his teeth, felt yourself once more clench as your arousal grew. Tears of pleasure were gathering in your eyes, and they could have spilled for a much different reason as a hard knock on the door interrupted the moment.

 Armitage pulled away from you, rising and taking a moment to gather his bearings. You ran a hand down the length of your face. Were you disappointed or thankful for the interruption? You were conflicted, experiencing both as you rose from the bed as well. You smoothed out your clothes just as General Hux walked over to the door to answer it. On the other side was a stormtrooper alongside one of the individuals that had escorted your group to the building the day before. General Hux was being summoned to help lay out a timetable for the meeting so that all elements could be discussed without interfering with any other schedules. Neither of the other two seemed to notice you standing there, and General Hux did not wave towards you to draw attention. Instead he headed out of the room. This was not out of rudeness; you appreciated his discretion and internally counted up to a few minutes so that you could exit the room with the lowest possibility of being seen by others.

 None of the other officers were out in the community area and Kylo Ren was also absent. There was a pang of disappointment in the latter until you recognized that it would have been more awkward than anything. Approaching him after having just kissed--and groped--Armitage? Your eyebrows rose and you shook your head. It was important that you gathered yourself before speaking with Kylo Ren. With this in mind, you returned to the room that you were sharing with Aelin. He was finishing the breakfast that you’d had delivered for him as you entered the room.

 “I spoke with Eddard a few minutes ago,” he said, patting his mouth with the edge of a napkin to get rid of any food that may have clung to him. Aelin gestured to the other chair, which you took while waiting for him to continue. “The TIE for Millicent is fully functioning as a bed; its conversion from one form to the other can use some work. He showed holofeed during our conversation, and if the issue is what I believe it is, that should not take much time at all.” It was rewarding to know that the project was wrapping up. The one downside, in this case, would be less interaction with Millicent. You had grown so fond of her these past weeks.

 With a nod of acknowledgment so as not to be rude, you allowed yourself a moment to dwell on that more melancholy thought. As soon as your proposal went through--you were more and more certain that it would--your focus would need to be fully on the anti-procrastination and physical therapy droids. There was also the mouse droid that was awaiting your return in your quarters. Not that you would not find a way to squeeze in some time with Millicent if the opportunity presented itself. It was more that this could not and would not be a priority any longer. You scowled at that, the feelings of conflict refusing to subside. You knew that these were rooted more deeply than just the projects. It had to do with potential relationships.

 “I have been compiling notes on what may be best for the physical therapy droid’s body.” From another, you might have worried that the individual was attempting to take lead on the project. With Aelin, though, you knew differently. There was the added fact that his tone held a more inquisitive quality, the man seeking approval. You gave a nod for him to continue. “Obviously we will want to limit how many resources are pooled into it--at least for now, though that may change--however I think your aim is to have it capable of physically assisting the individual if need be.”

 “Oh, definitely.” That was an area that you had been toying with numerous routes and had been planning to discuss the matter with Aelin. You loved that he was on top of things. “I want to know if you think synthskin would be useful for their hands.” He hummed and you could tell that he was working through some mental calculations, weighing the pros and cons of this route. You reached forward to pluck up one of the extra rolls. Nibbling, you also started to make more notes in your head that you would later work into the file you had started. These would not be necessary for the proposal, which helped you to not feel so pressured to jot them down immediately.

 The pair of you spent the better part of an hour discussing what materials would best serve the physical therapy dorids before delving into differences between them and the anti-procrastination droids. For one, synthskin would not offer much for the latter and thus would be a waste of resources and credits. It was near lunch hour that you broke away with the intention of at last approaching Kylo Ren. Discussing work had helped you to calm, clearing your head in preparation of when you were alone with him.

 Though one of the officers and a stormtrooper were in the community room, Kylo Ren was not present. You walked to his room, knocked on the door, and were thankful that he responded, that he was there. The door started to swing open as you were beginning to identify yourself. Wasting no time, you stepped inside and did not feel any surprise as it closed behind you. Kylo Ren was seated on the very end of the bed with his legs crossed. He appeared much as he had in the training room when you had first kissed. The difference here was that he wore all but his outer robes and mask.

 “You met with the senator,” he stated, his voice deep as always. It was pleasant to hear, although that was partly due to the fact that he was not your enemy. How did those who opposed him feel when they heard him speak?

 Unsure if a response was necessary, you waited a beat before saying anything at all. “I did not have to reveal the other project. I did lie a little about patents… I should have addressed that with General Hux.” Kylo Ren at last looked your way as you said the name. His expression was unreadable, yet his hands were not in fists. “I was hoping to discuss something else.” A single, slow blink. “A painting.” No reaction other than his eyes searching your face.

 These men, you inwardly growled. You stepped nearer to him. With gazes locked, a sense of understanding dawned. He knew of the painting yet was on his guard. For what reason, you wondered; it had to be something more personal. Did that mean that he had sent it to you? Or had he simply observed General Hux doing so?

 “Part of me wants to come out and ask, to be blunt.” His mouth twitched, his eyes pinching in the corners as amusement visibly flowed through him. “There were moments I thought I could tell who was who. Then I wasn’t sure anymore.” You were walking towards him without having made a conscious decision to do so. You paused inches away from the bed. How easily you could touch him if you reached out. So you did, you set your hands on either of his knees. Kylo Ren did not shy away from your touch nor reject it. “You each picked something the other would know about. Like a blind reaction. No bias from me because I don’t know the sender.” You leaned forward, your face in his. “I really, really do not like being tested.”

 “They haunt you. The poem and the painting.” It was irksome, that he found so much humor in this. You fought off the childish pout that wanted to form. Of all the things that could have been sent, art felt the most intimate to you. To blatantly ask which he had sent, he could reject you. On the other hand, if he obliged, that was equally intimate. A willingness to bare more of himself to you without the guise of a datapad screen. You stroked his legs. Gaze dropping to where your hands touched, you let yourself sigh and relax into the moment. “We became more human to you this way.” He had managed to hit the nail on the head.

 It had not been difficult to be mad at them for their mistakes or to pull yourself out of the moment before. You had felt awkward yet not exactly guilty for having kissed both of them. Now? The idea that you would have to fully reject one or the other...or both.

 “I want to hear your guess.”

 It was a kind way for him to make a demand of you. There was the option to deny him the satisfaction, at least until you were again behind a datapad screen. Kylo Ren placed his hands on your hips in a loose hold. You could shrink away from him if you had wanted, except that was the opposite of what you wanted. With a sigh, you instead leaned closer and pressed your mouth to his. The kiss was softer than any that you had shared with General Hux. It was as though Kylo Ren recognized and acknowledged how the tables were being turned, that you were now the one in a more vulnerable position.

 “You can smirk, but don’t laugh at me if I am wrong.” It was simultaneously a request and a demand. Kylo Ren instigated the next kiss, this one more forceful, more hungry. You melted against him. One of his hands went to the back of your neck while the other groped your rear. You felt your body responding to him, to his touches, to his hot mouth. With a shudder, you climbed into his lap then let him roll you onto your back.

 “Tell me.” That deep voice dropping to a whisper. You nodded without immediately obeying. His mouth was at your throat. Teeth and lips and tongue all assaulting you. “Which one?”

 “From you?” you asked. A deep inhalation and widened eyes. He had slipped a hand up into your shirt to toy with your nipple, rolling it with two fingers. “Uhm… I had debated the poem because Force users were always said to study a lot, to read and write.” Another nip at your throat before he began to suck at the captured flesh. You curled your toes and swallowed thickly. “Er… The painting, though…” Trembling, you closed your eyes and licked your lips. Allowed yourself a second to drown in the sensation of his mouth claiming you. “The eyes stuck out to me as being something from you. The way you’re so closed off with what you wear like the woman in the painting. Trying to figure out if she is life or death. It reminds me of your role in the First Order.” A sigh from you as he paused in his kisses. “That’s when the poem felt like General Hux. The durasteel walls of the machines, the bases he’s on. Arkanis doesn’t necessarily have green like Naboo, but it’s different. And it felt more like something internal. Closing himself off to others. This sounds so stupid, Maker.” You placed both of your hands over your face, hiding it. “Are you going to tell me if I’m right or wrong?” you asked after a delay. Lowering your hands, you looked down at him and discovered that he was watching you. Once more his expression was unreadable, the man on his guard.

 Kriff...was I wrong? Worse still… If I got it wrong, is he insulted?

 You sucked your lips into your mouth and waited for him to say something, anything at all.

[baby-n-boo]

Embrace Chapter 1

Roman was having a crisis, and he was trying his absolute best to make sure everybody knew about it. And that world-ending, catastrophic, scream-it-from-the-rooftops-crisis? He was bored. Clearly the most tragic thing that could ever have befallen anybody, ever, most of all the creative side. He had only recently been in the imagination, the twins' usual fix for the bone grindingly painful boredom. But, unfortunately, that meant he couldn't go back yet, needing to take time in the real world to detox from the hazy, sort of floaty feeling he always got from indulging in his own specific daydreams. Much to the detriment of the other three sides, trying to do their own thing in the common area, it meant a lot of listening to him mope about dramatically, and, in Virgil's case, occasionally dodging a sharp blade with practiced skill, as Roman swung it about listlessly. It wasn't exactly new, for the prince to have lulls in his activity availability, but usually his brother would be around to keep him entertained for the half an hour he usually had to wait. However, today, Remus was mysteriously absent, Jan having said he was taking a personal day, everyone being too scared to pry into what that exactly meant for the least predictable of the group. So, instead, Roman's fellow core sides were charged with keeping his blessing of a presence from tearing out his own hair. Pat was trying to uphold a conversation to distract him, having spread out some paper across the coffee table to doodle on, since three of the four had some sort of restless energy to expel in some way or another. But, when he was interrupted by Roman's bored groan for the fourth time, he stopped trying so hard, just picking up a brown crayon to scribble a small blob in his quadrant of the paper. It was meant to be a puppy, but, no matter how much effort he put into the patches and wagging tail, it wasn't working out too well. Virgil, on the other side of the table, was staring up at Roman's restless pacing with an irritated face, the movement making his head start to hurt, and the heavy footsteps peaking his anxiety every time they drew near again. The purple sharpie in his hand was coming dangerously close to breaking, as he squeezed it, eventually just carefully controlling his voice to speak before he burst. "What about Thomas?" He spoke quietly, as if he didn't even have faith in himself but still, it drew the other three's attentions. "He's probably having a writers block, he did say he was writing a script today..." He trailed off, three sets of eyes now staring directly at him, and pulled his sleeves down lower over his hands, burying them in his lap. With hunched shoulders, he continued. "I dunno, maybe you can go talk to him, see if you can help?" It was a half baked plan to get Roman to leave, and everyone could see through it, most of all Logan, who, silently pulling up the display of Thomas's needs that he had access to, shook his head curtly. "Negative. Currently, Thomas is engaging in a new series recently released by Netflix, and instant messaging one of his....numerous acquaintances." He cut in, bookmarking his page in the textbook he had been browsing, and sitting up from his arm chair, accompanied by Virgil's frustrated muttering. "Texting, you absolute nerd, its called texting." Virge rubbed his temples, and went back to scribbling his strange sort of creature at this, quite content to once again exclude himself from the conversation now that Logan had weighed in. "I dare say your presence would indeed be welcomed, Roman, however you are not required at this present moment for a practical purpose." Logan continued, gesturing towards the ceiling to indicate Thomas's apartment, out in the real world, trying to dissuade the princely side from interrupting any peaceful times their host may be enjoying. But Ro just nodded, his eyes lighting up at the thought of talking to Thomas's friends, as he sheathed his sword, sending it back to his room in the process, and prepared to rise up. Patton quickly scrambled up from his crosslegged position on the floor to wrap Roman in a big bear hug before he could leave, his head barely reaching the prince's shoulder, making the both of them smile a little "Have fun out there, kiddo! Tell Thomas i love him!" He wished his friend well, giggling as Roman ruffled his hair. "I'm sure he already knows, sweet Pop-corn." Roman laughed, full bodied now that he had something to do, absently straightening Patton's shirt collar, before patting his back. "But i cant do anything of the sort if I'm stuck here." He joked, not maliciously, just familiarly, the situation being identical to a million other times. Logan watched the casual shows of touch with a carefully curated sort of detached curiosity, interested as to how the two of them could be so comfortable, his eyes softly drifting towards Virgil as he remembered he was also frequently involved in the hugs, trying not to feel jealous or angry, though a small fluttering in his stomach told him that he was definitely feeling something. Something he couldn't share. Patton reluctantly stepped away as he felt the strange not-quite-there sensation start to take over Roman's figure, waving goodbye happily. The smile he wore for almost anything not dropping as they all watched Roman shimmer and fade, in the dramatic way he liked to rise up, leaving a quiet sort of void left over in the room, that nobody seemed particularly keen to fill. But fill it, someone had to. And that someone ended up being Logan, clutching the engineering textbook to his chest like a precious relic, as he stood. "Farewell, to the both of you." He addressed Patton and Virgil formally, the feeling starting to spread upwards, making him limbs shake almost invisibly. "Should you care to reach me, i will be performing experimentations, within my private room." He managed, before it got to his throat, choking up his vocabulary. Trying to head up the stairs, he felt almost like that fawn from Roman's films, skidding with almost every carefully placed footfall, especially as the thick shag carpet seemed to pull at his soles, dragging them down and making him stumble in a rather undignified manner over the top step, peculiarly not glad he was out of view of Patton. He knew the naturally paternal figure would insist on fussing over him, showering little kisses over every injury, real or imagined, and smiling. By all rights, it should have been a relief he had avoided such a mortifying fate, it certainly was any other time. But on this occasion, all Logan could feel was a disappointed nauseous prickling deep in his stomach that his fall hadnt at least prompted a called ascertaining of his wellbeing. He could hear the small giggles as Patton's pen clearly skidded out of control again, or Virgil made a witty quip, so he knew they hadnt suddenly made the decision to move, but Logan couldn't think clearly by this point. The cold, but yet fuzzy, feeling had now spread up further, gripping his heart tight, making every thought he focussed on for longer than a few seconds seem to be tinted with a strange filter, highlighting blocks of primary color and erasing any finer, more complex lines of enquiry. Especially as he stood again, dusting himself off with one hand, before even noticing the other had crept to his mouth, the thumb lodged firmly between his lips, and he was absently pulling it in and out. Shaking his head, with how absurd the gesture was, Logan removed the intruder, ignoring how his mind instantly protested, and staggered on down the hall, toward the practical white painted door at the opposite end, the only of its kind, that hid his bedroom. But, once again, the strange colorful filter drew his eyes instead to Patton's door, covered as it was in cut outs of hearts, flowers and puppies. They surrounded a heartfelt, handmade plaque bearing his name, a gift from Roman only a few months previously, and made Logan aware of the bitter taste in the back of his throat that had come up since seeing the casual shows of affection the others shared. Scoffing, to hide the way his mouth pulled down into more of a pout than a frown, he turned away, his hand sliding down the glossy paper lightly, and finally, finally, stumbled through his own door, slamming it behind himself. It was only then that he realized his hands were empty. Trying to force his mind into some semblance of usefulness, he realized he must have dropped the precious textbook when he fell, feeling strangely like he should go apologise to it. Sighing at the absurd thoughts sprinting through his mind, Logan sunk down to sit upon the edge of his bed, head in his hands, before instead tilting to lay on his back, his head upon the pillow, sure rest would do him good, in setting everything back to rights. But, try as he might, he couldn't sleep, turning over until his sheets were a rumpled mess, and he was no better off. Peering at the clock, an hour had passed, with nothing to show for it, so, sighing, Logan gave in to the strange feeling that had been prodding at his mind for the past few minutes, feeling as it infiltrated every part of his brain, relaxing and simplifying as it went, uncovering exactly what it was he needed, though he was still reluctant to do it. Lying on his side, curled into a ball, which was very out of character, should anyone have found him, Logan sniffled quietly, his nose starting to run as tears pricked at his eyes. Despite having wrapped himself in some blankets, and a kidney cushion to emulate someone holding him ay some point in his efforts, he still felt lonely as before, one hand threaded into his hair, pulling gently on it as every part of his body was finally over-taken by the hazy sort of jealous feeling. He couldn't remember the last time anybody had hugged him, certainly not with any sort of genuine affection, or as any more than a courtesy. Wrapping his own arms about his chest softly, he shifted to be sat up, the blankets falling away, and buried his face in his knees, to let the tears evoked by such thoughts fall. Usually, the whole idea of crying would be completely repulsive to him, the idea of showing emotion via fluid falling from your eyes? It seemed to pose no purpose, but, for some reason or another, it seemed to be the right thing to do in that moment. It was his own fault, really, all the sides thought he regarded affection as distasteful, something dirty to be cleaned up and hidden away as soon as possible. And, to start with, they would have been right to assume as such, he had no idea how it felt, how much it happened so suddenly and explosively that nobody could even have known ig would happen. But now....now it was different. And nobody had even bothered to ask him how he was feeling. Not once, in the three years Thomas had known them, or even the years before that. Not a single time. And here he was... crying over them, and just wishing he could go to Patton for a hug. It wasn't like he didn't know what the feeling was demanding, Remus had explained what really happens when he takes "some personal time", and Logan had worked hard until he understood, always eager to learn, but, after a while, his purely objective research started to impact him a little more than he thought, until he was just like Remus, a toddler in mind, though he still stayed adult externally, despite his best attempts. It seemed that the mindscape's energy wouldn't let them warp their physical appearance that drastically. And, this time, it seemed that the stress of the jealousy had pushed his mind to slip into that mindset, which, once again, was no surprise, he often involuntarily regressed due to all the stress the mindscape put on him. Trying to reach out, to find Jan somewhere in the mindscape, since he usually ended up looking after the two of them, Logan quietly whimpered to himself when he couldn't feel even a trace to latch onto, the loneliness crashing down upon his all over again, making him pull a pillow onto his lap to hold tight, since he didn't have any little gear. The others could never know, cause what would they think, if their fearless leader, knowledgeable and mature, was nothing better than a dumb toddler, that could barely even speak? He could answer that himself, they would most definitely shun him, until all he had left was words. So, it had to stay secret, no matter how much he wished he could be held by the paternal side like all the other sides. Trying again, he shot out a small tendril of energy, looking for Remus, since his precede was usually overwhelmingly powerful, no matter where he went. Still nothing met his call, an emptiness starting to fill his stomach, as more tears started to pour down his cheeks, dripping unceremoniously onto his shirt and tie, soaking them through. The formality of the clothes felt like they were suffocating him, but, in his current state, he couldn't pull himself to get changed, or even will new clothes to appear on him, so, wrestling with the tie, he tried to at least loosen it. Anything to stop the loud, choking sobs that were now making his entire body shake. Once again, it didn't work, and Logan found his limited energy stores entirely drained by the simple act, causing him to slowly tip back onto his side, still curled into the tense position he had been in. It wasn't that he had accepted that he needed age regression, and all the trimmings that came along with it....it was more that it had taken over him and forced him to seek the safest way of dealing with the situation until he could resolve it. And, this time, that had meant seeking help, from Janus of all sides, to make sure he didn't do anything....regrettable. After Remus, Jan had assured him, Logan had been a dream to babysit, but, in this moment, alone and very much deep in headspace, Logan couldn't help but imagine the worst. That Janus had realised looking after two littles was too much, that he hated Logan's regression so much that he felt he had to hide, that something absolutely horrible had happened to Remus and Jan was calling Lo selfish for needing a caregiver at this time. And that did nothing to help the panicked and heartbroken sobbing now soaking into the mountains of pillows and blankets the-previously logical-side had built around himself. Inwardly reprimanding himself for ever thinking he was deserving of Jan's care, Logan drifted into an exhausted sort of sleep, still sniffling back tears even as his mind succumbed to the slumber. His sleep was dreamless, every breath he took in feeling as if it filled his lungs with treacle, each exhale heavy, bearing the last of his adult concerns, as his brain regressed, back to where it was comfortable. Back to where it was safe. Shifting softly as a cools breeze blew around him, his thumb absently found its way back into his mouth, his lips instantly forming a seal so he could suck upon it babyishly, helping to soothe the ting unconscious whimper that escaped at the bizarre feeling of flying, even as he slumbered on, every part of his body rejoicing as they relaxed, the tension he didn't even know he was holding in them, finally releasing, leaving him floppy and helpless as a newborn, as the digital numbers upon his clock sped past. Waking up again slowly, a strange heavy feeling had settled over his form, making Logan's breath catch in his throat. A soft, blue blanket covered in duckies had materialized wrapped about him whilst he slept, keeping him tightly swaddled, like a real baby. But that wasn’t what had caused his sudden surprise. What really took him aback was that Remus was stretched out, mischievously, across his-rather messy- bed, giggling as he played with a few small cars, liking to run them up and over Logan's pillows. After a few loud crashes, paired with explosive sound effects, Lo's sleep fuzzy, still regressed mind caught up with his eyes. If a clearly toddler-Remus was on his bed, where was he? A question quickly answered as a soft voice broke through his reverie. "Awe, there you are, baby." It seemed full of care, not a single ounce of doubt or repulsion, and altogether calming. Janus. "Did you have a nice lil nap?" Lo didn’t have a response, turning his head to press into Jan's chest instead, so he didn’t have to answer, words just…not coming to his mind. The awkward moment wasn’t helped as a chuckle vibrated through Jan's chest, Lo looking up tearfully, in case he was being laughed at. "Hey, it's okay, lil star, you're just cuddly today. Aren't you? Huh?" He laughed again, softly tickling the still sleepy intellectual's tummy through the blanket, pulling out a small giggle, even as the tears built up in his eyes. "Awe, my smiley star." The comment was idle, the Big looking over to Remus in the moment, but it did help to fight some of the oncoming fragility Lo was feeling, so deep in headspace now. The toddler's little game now seemed to have a dinosaur that needed to roar to scare the people from the cars, and eat them, all at the top of his lungs, in graphic detail, which Janus was watching with fond affection, used to it, even managing to softly rock the infant at the same time. But not everyone was as used to it. Whining slightly at the noise, Logan tried his hardest to bury deeper into the blanket, sure it would muffle some of it, startling audibly as a warm, gloved hand came to rest over his exposed ear. It shocked him for a few seconds, but, upon realizing it did, indeed, protect against the screams Remus was gleefully performing, he melted into it gently, though his limbs not at all wanted to work with him, and closed his eyes, the little kids game making him feel icky, and, strangely, jealous. A few shuffles were the only indication he had that they were on the move, his eyes popping open fearfully again, only to see that Janus had moved nearer to the bed, now sat just on the edge, and was quietly scolding the little kid, who, at least, had the grace to look a little cowed as he shifted to go stand in the corner. His movements were reluctant, but rehearsed, as if it wasn’t the first time he had been sent to timeout for misbehaving. Lo watched him go guiltily, well aware it was his negative reaction to the volume that had punished the regressor he almost thought of as his brother, and started sniffling, wanting Ree to come back. Surprised by the whiney sniffles, Jan looked down at the bundle in his arms, and his eyes softened. "oh honey…" he whispered, manifesting one of Remus' un-used pacifiers to offer instead of getting the one he had in his back pocket, not wanting to jostle the regressor any more than necessary. "I know, it's icky to see him go… but I told him before we came, I said he had to be nice and quiet for you." Jan tried his best to explain, not used to talking to someone in such a small headspace, but it didn’t seem to make a difference, Logan tearfully taking to the paci as soon as it was close enough. It gently bobbed in his mouth, the rhythm helping to soothe the fear just long enough for Janus to adjust his grip and pull the regressed ruminator closer to his chest. Frankly, from an outside point of view, it was an adorable scene, Lo's eyelids starting to droop again as he listened to Jan's heartbeat, the fond smile on the snakes face as he watched the baby- his baby-start to drift, even the fidgeting three year old with his nose pressed into the corner. But soon enough, it had to end, Ree getting to come back out after a few minutes, quickly hugging his CG, and mumbling a 'sorry lo-lo' to the baby. They didn’t manage to get much further than that though, Ree having just picked his favorite green car back up from its crash site in the quilt when a knock sounded on the door. "Logie? All good in here? Just your silly ol' dad checking in on you!" Came a chirpy greeting from the other side, Patton having no idea what he was a few feet away from. Eyes popping wide open again, all thoughts of sleep forgotten, Logan panicked, thrashing against the juvenile blanket, to get down and stop the other side coming in, his mind racing. He couldn't- not now. Not when he was like this. He couldn’t find out. Nobody could know. Nononono, not now, not ever. But Janus just held him fast, all warmly swaddled, placing a hand on his paci to stop him spitting it out in his desperation. Terrified of Patton finding out, Logan's gaze shot to Jan's face, which was the picture of serene calm, trying to figure out what to do. A small gesture to Remus drew Lo's attention though, especially as the side, no questions asked, straightened up from his position and-in a perfect replica of the logical sides voice-called back. "Affirmative, Patton. Merely immersed in a particular experiment. I seem to be in perfect health, no reason for concern." Remus spoke perfectly, even daring to look proud of his achievement as Logan gazed in shock. "Alrighty then! Don’t work too hard, you hear me, kiddo?" Pat chuckled back, none the wiser as to how ironic his phrasing really was, before retreating footsteps could be heard. Shocked into silence, Logan looked back to his Big for an explanation, but only got a sly smirk. "Told you it was ok, little one." He smiled, gently bopping the regressor's nose. It made him sneeze gently, a tiny little noise that he would be ashamed to have made when bigger, but now, it just made him giggle, reaching for Jan's nose to return the favor, the worry forgotten as soon as he had been distracted.

[writtingfiction]

Ohhhhhh I'm the demetri angst asker I would love demetri reacting to caspar and blythes kids scrambling to get to him fighting over who favorite uncle he is. All the while caspar is jelping blythe because shes super pregnant. The angst!!!

And another one involving the wonderful Caspar! Please enjoy this one it was a good one to write! ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

pairing: Dimitri x Byleth x Caspar

words: 1.8k

Dimitri had fallen for Byleth years ago, it crushed him deeply to find out that her heart was reserved for the Black Eagle she had recruited all those years ago. He had to swallow his feelings and pick himself up from the ground and move forward. He thought he was doing quite well, working on himself, trying to get better mentally. With Byleth’s help and the help of his wife Marianne.

He loves Marianne deeply, there is no doubt. However, there are moments where his mind is against him. Saying he has no right to love this gentlewoman that lays beside him every night. That he doesn’t deserve her, he’s a monster, his heart loves another. The worst part is true, he does love another.

“Uncle Dimitri!” A small child cries out to him. He turns and sees it’s Byleth’s and Caspar’s daughter with their son running behind her. “Catch me!”

“N-now hold on!” It catches him off guard but he catches her in his arms. Loud giggles escape her.

“Ellie! That’s not fair, it was supposed to be me this time!” The small boy cried out. Ellie sticks her tongue out and Dimitri is quick to react.

“Now, Ellie there’s no need to do that. Jeralt, you can always do it as well. Here,” Dimitri settles Ellie down on the ground, on her two feet before open his arms for Jeralt. “Try it again.” A small smile appears on his face as the young boy's face lights up.

Jeralt sprints towards him and jumps as high as he can. Dimitri catches the boy with ease and swings him around in the air. Loud laughter and giggles echoed the halls of the church. Laughter even spilled from his lips as he entertained the young children and for a moment he thought of them as his own. However, reality quickly sets in when he places Jeralt down and sees Byleth and Caspar walking towards him.

Dimitri’s heartaches as he looks at them. Byleth loved Caspar, she had kids with him, she had a family with him. She chose a black eagle over him. The age-old anger was starting to rise again, but when Byleth reaches towards him and places her and on his shoulder and gently smiles; everything fades. He is instantly reminded of the first time she smiled in front of him. Then, the image of Marianne smiling and blushing appeared in his head, reminding him who his heart belongs to.

Yes. He loved Byleth and his feelings wouldn’t change. He has learned to accept his feelings and know that it’s okay to feel this way. So, when he sees Caspar playing with his children, Byleth by their side. Dimitri starts to ache the same way he would for Byleth towards Marianne when she isn’t by his side.

“They really love hanging out with you.” Byleth whispers to Dimitri.

“What?”

“Ellie and Jeralt. When they hear that you’re visiting, they can’t help waiting by the gates every day until you arrive. I wonder if they love you more than their actual parents.” Byleth lets out a small laugh and Dimitri can only smile. This may not have been the future he had hoped for but perhaps it was for the better. Byleth is happy and he is slowly learning to be happy once more.

“I wouldn’t say that I just bring them gifts. Marianne said it’s the way to children’s hearts.” Dimitri responds. “Besides, how are you feeling? Are you doing alright?”

“Oh.” Byleth looks down, placing a hand on her large belly. A smile creeping on her face. “I’m doing just fine, thank you for asking, my friend.” A small twinge in his heart as she says it.

“Then all is good then? When are you expecting? Marianne wants to be here when it happens.” Dimitri said.

“Roughly three months from now, there’s an important meeting with the King of Almyra at around the same time as well.” She gives him a wink and all he could do was chuckle.

“What a coincidence.” Dimitri plays along.

“Indeed, and imagine if you were invited to that meeting to set trade routes with the Almyrian King.”

“Then all the reason for Marianne and I to be there, Arch Bishop.” Dimitri says and a new sense of happiness flows through him. He would get to see his old friends again, and see someone new all over again.

“Byleth,” Caspar comes up beside them breathless, Ellie and Jeralt hanging onto his arms with all their strength. “Are you sure you still want to do your duties for today? If it stresses you out too much, let me know and I can take over.”

“I’m doing alright, besides, today is just reserved for Dimitri.” His heart skips a beat at hearing it but his mind reminds him harshly that he is a king.

“Right, but still my offer stands.” Caspar sends a wide smile towards Dimitri. “Like for instance, what would be a good name for our child Dimitri?”

“My love, that’s hardly a diplomatic question!” Byleth tries to dissuade Dimitri from answering.

“Hmmm, that is a very important question.” Dimitri closes his eye to show that he is in deep thought. However, his mind is in a frenzy, trying to think of something that isn’t surprising about how Caspar wants his advice for something so important. He thought Caspar didn’t like him despite having apologized years ago for his behaviour. “Perhaps something along the lines of Phila? Priam? Severa? Maybe Odin?”

There are sparkles in the children’s eyes as they hear the names. They drop from their father's arm to the ground as they quickly swarm their mother and Dimitri.

“Our new sibling could be named Odin!” Ellie shouts out.

“But Severa is so much better!!” Jeralt shouts just as loud. The adults all laugh together.

“Yes but what about, Deen?” Caspar speaks up. “Maybe even Jesse?” The children think about for a full second before shaking their heads vigorously.

“Odin!”

“Severa!”

Byleth laughs and she can do is explain that if they get a sister or a brother it all depends. Dimitri’s heart warms again as the children turn to him and tell him that he would be their favourite uncle if he was able to convince their parents to name their sibling to the desired name.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The children hugged him tightly before they left his side to drag their father out towards the courtyard to play some more. He bids the three of them goodbye before he faces Byleth. She guides him with her hand, to begin their diplomatic discussion and he breathes in heavily before letting it out and following her.

His heart ached in her presence from time to time, but he knows that it is okay to feel the way he does. He hears that he wasn’t the only one who felt this way so many years ago. He barely remembers who it was, Felix? Or was it Sylvain? Either way, he knows that he isn’t alone. Dimitri may love Byleth but his heart is with Marianne.

[gdcee]

I haven’t exactly made it a secret that I don’t really like Satine Kryze. This is my attempt to vague headcanon for things that bug me like:

How the daughter of an apparent warlord ended up being sent to Coruscant to learn diplomacy and little sister Bo-Katan...apparently wasn’t

Why her relationship with Obi-Wan seems to oscillate sharply between affection and arguing

Basically I’m trying to convince my brain to treat her in a more nuanced fashion. The stuff involving Korkie and his mother, the unknown Kryze sister, is taken from @izzyovercoffee​ and is explained in much greater detail here

Satine is 11 when she is informed that she will be sent to Coruscant to learn diplomacy and politics. She will be going alone. The initial plan had been to send her little sister Bo-Katan with her, but...

Well. Bo-Katan had always been Father's favourite (just as her older sister Karine is Mother's favourite). All she had to do was wibble her lip a little and say that she wanted to train to be a warrior like him and he caved.

Oh, what a great row Mother and Father had had over the matter of her little sister's education! The raised voices and back and forth barbs had used to upset her when she was younger, but she now understands that this is simply how things are done.

Satine supposes she should feel proud. After all, Karine had received a core-world education for a year or two as well before returning to further refine her knowledge with the help of Mother and a host of private tutors. Karine was going to be an important person someday, so she needed all the help she could get.

Well, Satine assumes that Karine will be important. She overhears a lot of conversations between Karine and Mother about a betrothal and the New Mandalorians. Satine doesn't know the exact details but it all sounds terribly important.

Satine does not like her new school. Everyone here is from the Core and they all speak Basic fluently.

She is not, and cannot.

The Kalevalan dialect of Mando'a is the common tongue of her world - a hodgepodge of Basic and Mando'a, the harsh edges of the latter smoothed down by the civilizing influence of the former. This is the language she speaks to her sisters in, the language Mother uses to address the common folk.

When Satine speaks Basic, the words come out halting and hesitant, strange, non-standard pronunciation colouring every syllable.

The other students giggle and mock her, but never in a manner that is too obvious or overt. On one occasion she hears someone muttering "stupid Mando" under their breath.

It makes her blood boil. How dare they call her stupid? Don’t they know who she is? She is a scion of House Kryze!

She gives into instinct and decks the offending party right in the gob.

She gets into trouble of course. She's suspended for one standard week and subjected to a blistering lecture from Mother via holoprojector.

How dare you embarrass us so! You are only reinforcing their negative stereotypes about us! Karine never gave us problems like this, why can't you be a good girl like Karine-

Satine spends the suspension week practicing her Basic. By the end, her throat is hoarse, but the words come easier and her diction is a touch more clipped and precise.

She studies hard. She is consistently in the 99th percentile of her cohort. She learns how to smile, how to banter and make small talk with other students. They smile back and praise her for her accomplishments, but Satine does not forget that they once mocked her.

They are not her friends.

Satine does not need friends.

Satine is 14 when she is told that she will not be returning to Kalevala.

For once, it is not Mother who greets her over the holoprojector but Father. She has not seen him for a year since her last visit home, but it looks like he has aged five in the interim.

Karine ran off with some shabuir from Irmenu. Your mother is running interference while we figure out how to deal with this mess. Best you stay where you are until things blow over. 

Her father's words are blunt, but she finds them infinitely preferable to her mother's brand of half-truths and hyperbole.

She senses that there is something else that he is not telling her. Before she can even attempt to weasel it out of him, he signs off with a gruff: "K'oyacyi" and the line goes dead.

K'oyacyi is a multi-purpose phrase. Depending on context, it could be anything from a simple greeting or a command to stay alive.

Satine wishes she knew which meaning her father meant to convey.

Satine is 16 when she learns that she has become an aunt. She has not been home for 3 years now.

Her mother's hologram relays the news to her. She does not say anything about Karine. It seems, in the eyes of House Kryze, Karine Kryze may as well be dead.

Satine asks her mother when she can come home. She does not receive an answer. Only instructions to stay - to study, to improve, to show the Republic that Mandalorians were more than savage brutes.

"I will make you proud, Mother."

Mother smiles, and Satine finds herself remembering an incident when she was 5. She had been learning how to read and write in Aurebesh and toddled off to show her mother her penmanship exercises.

Her mother had smiled then. She'd smiled and petted her gently on her head.

You are very clever, my dear Satine. I am very proud of you.

The blue image of her mother blinks out, and Satine resolves that no matter what the future may hold, she will never give her family or her people cause to be ashamed.

Satine is 19 when she learns that the Clans are at war, her sister is missing, and her parents are dead.

The New Mandalorian representatives at the Senate attempt to dissuade her from returning.

It is too dangerous. Let the barbarians fight and kill each other off like they did during the Civil War. Within the great citadels of Kalevala and the walls of Sundari, we will outlast them.

Satine will hear nothing of it.

Barbarians or not, they are Mandalorian. They are her people and she will drag them kicking and screaming into the light of modernity and civilization if it kills her.

[fakeyellow]

Serafine reveals what happened 50 years ago.

Summary: Kamilah and co. win the war against Gaius but at great personal cost. Fifty years have passed since their pyrrhic victory when a stranger, looking exactly like the woman they lost, enters their lives.  Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

(49 years ago)

It was a testament to Kamilah’s iron control over herself that she didn’t rip down Serafine’s door. Or perhaps the entirety of the wine cellar she’d emptied was affecting her more than she wanted to admit. 

But at last, fifteen minutes after her initial knocking, Serafine opened the door. She looked effortlessly put together as she always did but there was a strained air around her. 

“Kamilah, what brings you here?” Serafine asked overly brightly, her figure surreptitiously blocking the door, but Kamilah ignored this, pushing past her and sinking down into the couch.

“I can’t stop seeing her. Her smell is everywhere I go, I can’t escape it. She’s everywhere.”

Serafine fell silent at this admission, continuing to guiltily stand in front of the couch as if she was on trial.

Kamilah took a deep breath in and looked up at her, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

“I miss her. Our time together wasn’t enough, it wasn’t… Enough.”

She breathed out the last word with such pure, heartbreaking pain that Serafine finally broke, rushing over to comfort her on the sofa. 

“Oh ma cherie,” Serafine breathed into Kamilah’s hair, embracing the woman tightly as a few tears escaped her own closed eyes. Guilt seemed to drip from her voice but this escaped Kamilah’s notice, as she pulled back from the embrace. 

The tears were gone from her brown eyes but she stared into Serafine’s watery eyes with a penetrating sharpness.

And then Kamilah kissed her. 

There was a brief exclamation of surprise and only the briefest sensation of their lips touching before Serafine pushed her back. But Serafine’s skin was flushed, her breaths ragged, and Kamilah knew they were both thinking of their past night of passion.

“I’m not her Kamliah.”

The words hung in the air between them and Kamilah seemed to freeze. Because she knew Laia was gone. She’d never lay eyes upon that bright face again, never look at her disapprovingly when she decided to do something more brave than smart, never hear those gasps of pleasure, never...

Laia was gone.

And no one could ever replace her.

And then Kamilah was gone as fast as she had appeared, as if she’d never been in Serafine’s apartment.

—-

(present)

Unlike the last time she’d been here, Kamilah didn’t bother to knock, ripping the door down with sheer strength. She stood in the centre of the living room, her fury growing with each second that passed until Serafine finally appeared.

“Oh Kamilah, you startled me,” Serafine said, her cutlass falling to her side. 

“What’s wro-” The shorter woman fell silent before stating, “You know.”

“Fifty years,” Kamilah said darkly, “Fifty years you let me believe she was dead. That I had Turned her too late.”

“I-”

“Tell me. Everything.”

Serafine sighed and took a seat.

“Laia came to me five days after her funeral...” 

—-

(50 years ago) 

Serafine opened the door to find a pale, dazed-looking Laia and before she knew what she was doing, her protective instincts kicked in, causing her to usher the girl into her home.

Although there were questions racing through her mind at the appearance of someone whose funeral she had attended only five days ago, Serafine restrained herself, waiting for Laia to speak first and Laia looked at her gratefully. 

Laia took a sip from the cup on the table without a thought as to what lay inside, and shakily exhaled before opening her mouth.

“I woke up in a coffin.”

Serafine looked at her with wide eyes and Laia closed her eyes, taking a moment to breathe before continuing.

“It was dark and I had no idea what had happened but I somehow dug my way out. I… I remembered Gaius stabbing me but when I looked down at myself, I didn't even have a scar. I thought maybe I might have been Turned but my teeth were the same, I didn’t have fangs. I didn’t feel thirsty. I-I, I”

She found herself beginning to hyperventilate at the sheer insanity of her words but Serafine quickly calmed her down.

“And then I started seeing things. Memories, but these weren’t like what I saw before because I didn’t just see them. I lived through them.”

“What do you mean?” Serafine asked gently, her brows furrowing.

“I, I was a woman and I was being dragged away from a throne room. I remember feeling so desperate as if the gods themselves had turned against me but then it just angered me so much and I refused to simply lay down and accept my death.” 

“And then I was back in the throne room and I felt so powerful as if I had finally become who I was destined to be. I was bathed in the blood of so many men but it was like I was clean, I was pure, I was divine...”

“I was reliving Rheya’s life, wasn’t I.” 

And her last words weren’t a question, more a resigned statement as if Laia already knew the answer.

“What does it mean Serafine?” She asked desperately, her voice suddenly becoming hysteric, “I didn’t know what to do, you were the only one who I thought could help me.”

But Serafine could offer no words of wisdom, no words of comfort as she struggled to comprehend the meaning of Laia’s revelations. 

“I have to do some more research before I can tell you anything definitively,” Serafine said finally, “But you can stay with me as long as you need.”

Laia nodded thankfully, slumping back into the couch as the stress of the past five days caught up to her in one overwhelming wave of exhaustion. As Serafine made her way to leave and ready Laia’s room, Laia suddenly grabbed onto her hand. 

”How…. how is she?” Laia whispered the question that had plagued her since the moment she’d woken up, and the poignant worry in her eyes was almost painful to look at. 

Serafine paused but could only give her a sad smile before she left Laia alone. 

—-

(two days later)

Laia sat on the couch, holding a steaming cup of coffee to her chest. The heat scalded her fingers but Laia anchored herself to that pain, that sign that she was still, truly alive. 

Serafine sat grimly next to her and at Laia’s look, she began to reveal the fruits of her research.

“There isn’t a lot we know about Bloodkeepers because there’s not a single lineage we can trace. We know that they’re always female and that Bloodkeepers are thought to hold the memories of the entire line of vampires because they’ve existed as long as vampires have. But that’s wrong. The first Bloodkeeper appeared shortly after the fall of the First.”

“Nothing is completely certain but you told me Rheya was stabbed by the very Tree that Turned her. and that was how she died” 

Laia nodded.

“I don’t think Rheya really died that night. When vampires die, we turn into ash because our bodies are finally confronted with the mortality we’ve spent our entire lives evading. Rheya didn’t turn into ash and I think instead, Rheya was absorbed into the tree so her essence, her soul was kept intact. The First had unimaginable powers and somehow, her essence must have escaped the tree. I think the Bloodkeepers are a result of Rheya’s soul trying to find a capable host body so that she can rise again.”

Serafine paused to let Laia digest her words but pressed onward. 

“Bloodkeepers often go their entire lives without knowing what they are and that prevents Rheya from taking over them. It’s only when they get involved with vampires that they start seeing visions and I think that’s because Rheya slowly starts to awaken.”

“When Kamilah fed you her blood, that was the first time a Bloodkeeper was ever Turned. But instead of Turning you, her blood fed Rheya’s soul in you. She’s still far from the power she once had but her soul is slowly getting stronger in you. That you experienced those visions as Rheya is a sign of her returning strength and they’re only going to grow in intensity until she finally gets strong enough to take over you.” 

Serafine finished and Laia stared down into her empty mug. Somehow this information didn’t surprise her, as if she’d unconsciously known this truth the moment she’d woken up. 

“So what am I now?”

“As far as I can tell, you’re not a vampire. Rheya’s soul probably absorbed most, if not all of Kamilah’s blood. But because Rheya’s getting stronger in you, some of her powers will slowly bleed over into you. As the First, she was never affected by the sun, so you won’t have to worry about that but you’ll probably find yourself being stronger than usual and you might have a taste for rare steaks if anything.” 

“Am I immortal?” Laia finally asked, her voice steady and showing not a single sign of the raging emotions inside her. 

Serafine sighed, “Honestly?... I don’t know.”

Laia looked down to the mug that she was still clutching tightly in her hands; it was cool now and she desperately missed its burning heat.

“If I die, there’s nothing to stop Rheya’s essence from travelling into another woman’s body and making a new Bloodkeeper, right?”

Serafine nodded hesitantly.

“If I’m immortal, then wouldn’t Rheya’s essence be trapped in me?”

Serafine didn’t know where Laia was heading in her line of questioning but she could tell it wasn’t something she’d like. And yet she couldn’t deny the truth of Laia’s words.

“Yes.”

“If… If I didn’t have any of my memories, if I didn’t know who I was or what vampires were, would that stop Rheya’s awakening?”

At last, Serafine understood and it was with a growing look of pain that she answered.

“Yes.”

And Laia was grateful that Serafine didn’t say anything more, that she didn’t try to dissuade her, remind her of what she’d be giving up because her chest had already begun to ache in pain the moment she’d woken up. She knew what she had to do, she knew she’d be resigning herself to an eternity of perpetual longing that would never be fulfilled, and even the thought of it hurt more than anything she’d ever experienced. But there was nothing that could be done.

“Will you help me?” Laia asked and she knew that she was asking a lot from Serafine as well: to lie to her dearest friends and devote her life to the eternal cause of Laia’s safekeeping. Theirs was a lofty goal, to protect the world from the wrath of the First, but it didn’t make the cost hurt any less.

Serafine closed her eyes and nodded. 

—-

(present)

“So I set up everything she needed to be a completely normal, unassuming woman. Birth certificates, passports, everything. I erased her memories and told her that she had been in a terrible car accident. She lived with me here in Paris for that first identity but then you visited me and I knew I couldn’t risk keeping her so close. I sent her off to college because that was the most normal thing someone of her age could do and then when people slowly started to get suspicious of how she didn’t seem to age, I staged her death and erased her memories so she could start anew.”

“It’s funny though. No matter how far I placed her, from Switzerland to Germany, no matter how much she traveled, from Egypt to Peru, she always wanted to go to New York.”

“She never stopped searching for you even when she didn’t know who she was.”

Kamilah sat still, frozen, as she struggled to wrap her head around the enormity of what they had planned. Laia...

“I tried to find another way but there wasn’t. I… I won’t say I’m sorry I did it, but I’m sorry for the pain it caused you,” Serafine said, maintaining the distance between them.

Kamilah laughed bitterly, the first sound she’d made since Serafine had started to speak, “Of course you aren’t.”

“How did you even find out?” Serafine turned wide-eyed, “No. Don’t tell me-”

“Laia’s in New York. She’s been working for me the past month,” Kamilah said emotionlessly, taking no pleasure in Serafine’s gasp.

The woman reeled in horror, shaking her head furiously “No, no. She can’t- have you noticed anything unusual about her?”

And Kamilah didn’t want to respond, didn’t want to tell Serafine a damn thing, but her silence was answer enough and Serafine grew faint.

“It’s too late then. If she’s in New York, it’s too late.”

Serafine suddenly regained her colour, staring at Kamilah with a steady calmness that made Kamilah want to break something. 

“Rheya’s not going to go dormant in Laia again. She’ll have gained too much strength to do that. Listen to me. Laia needs to die.” 

“No,” Kamilah immediately growled, jerking away from the shorter woman. 

“She has to die. Do you still have the stake?” Serafine asked, her eyes bright with a frantic fervour, “Even if Rheya’s gotten stronger than she has in millennia, she’s still nowhere near as powerful as she once was. Laia’s body is still fundamentally human. If we get her now with the stake, there’s a chance we can end Rheya for good.”

Kamilah thought of the stake laying safely in her bedroom, the stake that had been entrusted into her possession before her betrayal, and her hand tightened at her side. Serafine would have to kill her if she wanted it because there was no way Kamilah could agree to this far-fetched plan, to Laia’s...

“Kamilah,” Serafine raised her voice, her eyes locking onto Kamilah’s.

“It’s not a matter of if she dies now. It’s how she dies.”

—-

A/N: I had a productive day of studying so I decided to end it by writing another chapter of this. But also my brain kinda feels like it’s about to explode so I’m sorry if this chapter isn’t satisfactory. 

If it didn’t make sense, Bloodkeepers aren’t keepers of memories, they’re keepers of Rheya’s soul. Rheya’s soul finds a new woman every generation in order to try to take over her so she can rise again. Kamilah’s blood awakened Rheya’s soul in Laia and Laia/Serafine believed that the only way to stop Rheya from awakening was to have Laia not know anything about vampires (That Bloodkeepers only awaken when they interact with vampires is taken straight from Jamison’s notes). So every 15 years, Serafine erases her memories so Laia can live like a normal human, not knowing anything about Rheya or herself, which effectively forces Rheya’s soul to go dormant. 

In that first scene when Kamilah visits Serafine, Serafine doesn’t open the door because Laia’s living with her and she needed time to hide her away. 

There's one specific scene that I really wanted to write ever since I started this story and that’s going to be in the next chapter (the final chapter) so I’m excited. In a way, I wrote this story just so I could write that scene lol.

[nitr0glycer1ne]

Ducktober/Duckvember Day 8 - Ship

Hooooo there it is!!! Some Drakepad!!! Well, some pre-relationship Drakepad, but still! And also I get to write Lena and Gos for the first time! My headcanon is that Gosalyn is a year younger than Webby (HDL's age), and that Lena "is" a year older than Webby. Gos and Violet are the same age, but Violet skipped a grade. Also I mainly took inspiration from the original Gosalyn, though I did make her a bit more done with her dads maybe??? Please enjoy!

“Uuuuugh!” “What’s going on, Gos?”

The redhead let her head slump on the table, while Webby gave her a puzzled look. It was rather unusual to see Gosalyn look so discouraged; the fiery girl was usually the first to motivate other people when they felt down, and was a seemingly endless well of energy. But Gosalyn had seemed a bit distant since the morning. Since they were a year older, Webby and Violet didn’t have classes with her; but when the three of them and Lena had met up before classes, Gosalyn had already seemed a bit down.

“It’s my dad.” she mumbled. “And Launchpad.” “Are they arguing about whether or not you should be allowed to stay up past nine again?” Violet asked, finishing her yogurt. “No, thank God.” Gosalyn answered, her face still again the table. Lena, who was a grade above Violet and Webby, looked at her with a small smile. “Then come on, spill the beans."

Drake had bonded with her and Violet’s dads, and while she considered him a friend, she also loved teasing him, since he was very easy to tick off.

“It’s just that they won’t go out together! It’s annoying!” Gosalyn complained, lifting her head from the table and rolling her eyes. “They look at each other all lovey-dovey, Launchpad basically lives in our guest room and acts like he’s also my dad, and when they argue it’s like seeing an old married couple!”

She almost added that they fought crime together, but she wisely decided to keep quiet about that last fact.

“It’s true that I did hear Launchpad talking to Dewey about the many ways in which your dad is amazing and looks dashing and stuff for half an hour the other day.” Webby remembered as Lena snickered and Violet nodded in understanding. “It was sweet, but also pretty funny to see the exact moment when Dewey’s face lost all expression. He does that a lot when he’s bored.” “See!” Gosalyn roared. “That’s why I’m talking about! There’s nothing not romantic about that! But when I tell dad that he should date Launchpad, he gets super pissed off!” “Hmm…” Violet lost herself in her thoughts for a moment, gathering them. “Maybe you should try a different approach, if direct confrontation was inefficient.” “I’m sure I could make some sort of love potion.” Lena offered, eating the last piece of her fruit salad. “They’re already in love, dummy!” Webby smiled and affectionately ruffled her best friend’s hair. “But I have another idea, and I’m sure you’ll like it!” “You do? Really?”

Webby nodded, offering her friend the brightest smile she could. Gosalyn couldn’t help but be a little bit scared.

-

“Ahem. Ladies, thank you for being here today!” “You literally dragged us here right after school.” Lena reminded Webby, who coughed a little. “Details, details, my dear Lena. Anyways, let’s kick off Operation Drakepad!” “Drake… pad?” Violet asked, tilting her head. “Is that a portmanteau of my dad and Launchpad’s name?” Gosalyn asked in disbelief. “That’s so… cheesy. Exactly like them. I love it!” “Thank you, Miss Mallard.” Webby bowed, pleased. “But I’m not the one who came up with the name. Meet my associate in romantic cases, Hueeeeey Duck!”

Like a proud mother, Webby pointed her two indexes at the duckling who was standing right next to her.

“Why does he have to be involved?” Gosalyn asked. She didn’t mind the Duck triplets at all; but she was curious as to why Webby had decided Huey would be, in her words, “a precious ally”. “Oh, because he was the other brilliant mind behind Operation Fendra!” “Fendra?” Lena repeated. “Huey, seriously?” “Hey!” Huey replied defensively. “It was a great name! Short, efficient, straight to the point!” “Silence!” Gosalyn yelled. “Was that operation about making two idiots in love realize that they’re in love?”

Huey and Webby looked at each other, suddenly embarrassed.

“… kind of?” the girl answered. “OK, and did it work?” “Weeeell…” Huey hesitated. “Not really, but we didn’t really have a backup plan for the eventuality of one of them being a spy sent by Mark Beaks to infiltrate Gyro’s laboratory, so it… wasn’t a failure either?”

Lena, Violet and Gosalyn looked at each other in disbelief. Gosalyn was starting to look even more disappointed than during lunch, so Webby was quick to do her best to avoid further damage:

“But there’s no reason it shouldn’t work for Drake and Launchpad! I mean, I don’t think either of them own a laboratory? Or that they’re an enemy of Mark Beak?”

Gosalyn thought back to the time her father had investigated a case involving the egotistical and childish owner of Waddle, but she remained silent. After all, Launchpad had been investigating alongside Darkwing Duck, and there was absolutely no way the loyalty the pilot had towards her father was anything but genuine.

“Nah, I don’t think so.” “Then the plan should be an absolute success, I guarantee it!” Webby giddily promised, although Huey looked a bit more skeptic. “And what is than plan?” Violet inquired, curious. “Will you tailor it to the targets’ personalities and interests, or is it something you can apply to every situation and soon-to-be couple?” “A mix of both.” Huey answered. “The idea is to set them up for a date, and to try to make it a date they’ll enjoy.” “So, Gos!” Webby turned her attention to her redhead friend, who seemed a bit lost, somewhere between tempted by the idea and being in utter disbelief at the somewhat surreal scene that was unfolding in Webby’s room. “What do you think your dad would like for an ideal, romantic, sure-to-sweep-Launchpad-off-his-feet date?”

Gosalyn did have an idea, but she wasn’t sure making the date Darkwing Duck theme was going to help set a romantic tone- it would just be like one of their regular Darkwing Duck marathons.

-

“It’s really nice for your boss to invite us for dinner.”

Launchpad, Drake and Gosalyn were in the pilot’s car, an old thing that had seen better days but that Launchpad lovingly took care of. The trio was headed towards the McDuck manor, the two adults sitting in the front while Gosalyn was in the back, seemingly innocently reading comics. However, her mind was focused on what awaited her father and his almost-boyfriend that night.

“In fact, it’s almost too nice.” Drake continued suspiciously. “I mean, he does owe us for the heroic help I provided when those aliens invaded us, but still, isn’t it a bit weird for Scrooge McDuck to-” “Daaad.” Gosalyn rolled her eyes. “Geez, can’t you enjoy a nice gesture from an old man?” “Gosalyn is right!” Launchpad nodded. “Mr McD is nicer than people think. He took me in when I didn’t have a place to stay, you know!” “Mmmh.” Drake nodded. “Still…” “You worry too much!” Gosalyn scolded, putting her comic aside. “That’s what too much crime fighting will do to you.” “What?! There’s never enough crime fighting, young lady!” “Whatever. Just… let Darkwing in the car for tonight, okay? Be Drake and have fun.” “Yeah, DW! It’s gonna be a fun evening!” “Launchpad, don’t call him that!”

They had been so busy bickering that they barely noticed they had arrived. Launchpad almost crashed the car when parking it in front of the garage, but the three of them arrived in one piece in front of the manor’s entrance. Out of habit, Launchpad was about to open the door, but Drake gently grabbed his wrist and rang instead. A surprised Mrs Beakley opened them.

“Launchpad? What are you doing here? I thought you wouldn’t be coming back here before Sunday.” “What?” it was the pilot’s turn to be puzzled. “We’re here for dinner?” Drake clarified, suspicious. “The one Scrooge McDuck invited us to?” “Dinner? Mr McDuck hasn’t told me-” “Oh hey, hi Launchpad! Hi Mr Mallard! Hi Gos!”

Webby had sled right in front of her grandmother, offering the trio the warmest and most welcoming smile she could. Mrs Beakley looked at her granddaughter, suspicion growing more and more obvious on her face, but the girl ignored the heavy gaze she felt on her back:

“How wonderful of you to join us for a magical evening sure to please your minds and your palate! Please, come inside.”

Launchpad stepped inside the house, oblivious, but Drake kept looking at Webby as if she had grown a second head. He then glanced at his daughter, but she raised her shoulders, the very picture of innocence. Sighing, Drake followed his friend. When Gosalyn entered the manor, she saw Mrs Beakley was talking with Lena in a hushed tone, looking somewhat displeased but mostly perplexed. The redhead understood Webby hadn’t told her grandmother about their plan, probably because she would have done everything in her power to dissuade the kids from putting it to execution.

And, to be honest, Gosalyn couldn’t blame her.

But the plan was now in motion, for better or for worse. Gosalyn had, of course, been heavily helping Webby and Huey with it; but in the end, the last steps were entirely up to them, and she truly hoped it would succeed. She would never forgive herself if her meddling somehow hurt her father and Launchpad’s relationship; but she truly believed neither of them would do the first move, and that someone had to intervene, for their own good.

She met with Violet and Lena, who had apparently managed to convince Mrs Beakley to let them handle the situation if the way the housekeeper had gone upstairs while muttering “children…” half annoyed and half affectionately was any indication.

“And now, we wait.”

 -

“Woah! Did you change the decoration? The kitchen didn’t look like that last week!”

While Launchpad looked around the room, amazed, Drake felt like he had stepped into one of those trashy novels oozing with over the top romanticism. Every surface available was covered in rose petals and candles, save for the table at the center of the room, covered with a pink tablecloth. Soft jazz music was playing, and strings of small paper hearts had been taped to the wall.

One of the Duck triplets – Drake still had trouble telling them apart, this one wore a white shirt with a red bow tie – greeted them, a napkin thrown over his arm.

“Ah, welcome, welcome! Your table awaits, gentlemen.”

The duckling guided them to the table, which was around two meters away from them, and let the two adults sit down. Launchpad was still looking around, marvelling at the gentle and cosy atmosphere the candles gave the room, while Drake listened to him, feeling a smile blossom on his beak.

It was when Webby brought them a menu, one that only had a single option available – labelled as “Cupid’s Choice” and whose main dish was a plate of meatball spaghetti – that everything clicked in Drake’s head. Gosalyn’s enthusiasm when she had told them of the dinner, the way she had been looking at him and Launchpad all day long, Beakley’s confusion, the ridiculously romantic decoration of the room-

Gosalyn may not have been his biological child, but she was definitely his clever daughter. She took so much after him, and after Launchpad too, now that he thought about it.

And as a complete understanding of the situation hit him, Drake laughed, taking Launchpad by surprise.

“DW- uh, I mean, Drake, what’s going on?” “Oh, nothing, nothing, don’t worry.” Drake reassured his friend, looking at the emerald eyes he could get lost in, noticing for the first time how close their hands were, resting on the table. “I’m just looking forward to this dinner.”

-------

And of course the dinner was a success!! Let me know if I should write it! I'm just weak for the Mallard-McQuack family......... and Webby and Huey's matrimonial agency of sorts... and Team Magic befriending Gos.... I hope I did this pairing justice, it's my favorite DT17 ship!!

[chicgeekgirl89]

Breaking Down Doors: Chap. 2

Fandom: SEAL Team

Characters: Sonny Quinn, Lisa Davis

Read Chapter 1 Here!

A/N: This chapter takes place right after “Unbecoming an Officer.”

                                XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX                             

It was probably inevitable that he found himself banging on Lisa’s door at two in the morning. He was mid-knock when she wrenched it open from the inside. “Sonny? What are you doing here?”

She looked surprised and a little bit annoyed but he didn’t let that dissuade him as he pushed past her into the apartment. “I came to find out why the hell you didn’t call and tell me you were in jail.”

He’d left the bar an hour ago and driven in circles until he couldn’t take it anymore. His mind was buzzing and his skin felt so tense he wanted to crawl out of it. She’d gone to jail and there hadn’t even been so much as a phone call. To any of them. He wasn’t leaving until he knew why. 

“Please come on in.” Lisa’s voice held sharp notes of sarcasm as she closed the door behind him. “Is there some reason you couldn’t ask me this at the bar? You had to show up here in the middle of the night and make a big scene instead?”

“Lisa!” She was avoiding the question and he was too twisted up to be graceful about how he dealt with it.

She crossed her arms, eyes narrow and fierce. “I had it handled.”

“Oh did you? How? By ignoring it and pretending it would go away? And then when it didn’t just going belly up without defending yourself? Is that how you had it handled?”

“What should I have done differently Sonny? Please, you’re the expert on bad drinking behavior, so go ahead, tell me. What exactly would you have done?”

“This ain’t about me!”

“You’re right, it’s not!” she snapped. “So I’m not sure why you came barging over here in the middle of the night acting like it’s any kind of your business how I handle myself and my career!”

“It might not be my business but it damn well should be yours!”

“I told you, I had it handled!”

“YOU DID NOT HAVE IT FUCKING HANDLED!” he roared. 

“You know what?” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and glared at him defiance. “If you just came here to yell at me you can get the fuck out.”

“I didn’t—“ He ran a hand across his face in frustration and tried to lower his voice as he realized how aggressive he was coming across. “I didn’t come over to yell at you.”

“Then why? You made it pretty clear you didn’t want to be involved in my life anymore. Why the sudden interest?”

“Just answer the question!”

“I didn’t need help.”

He was tired of being put off. “God damn it Lisa! You have been acting like the weight of the entire fucking Navy is on your shoulders for months. If you believe for one second that we would have left you hanging on this, that if you’d called Brock or Trent or Clay and asked for help they would’a turned you down, you’re out of your god damn mind.”

She laughed grimly. “You can say that all you want, but when it comes down to it, I can’t just go to them the way you can. Not anymore. Being an officer changed things.”

“Then you should have called me!”

“Sonny you and I haven’t had a real conversation in months. I didn’t call you because we’re not friends anymore, which was your choice, not mine. You wanted me out of your personal life so I’m out.”

She’d thought he wanted her out when all he’d wanted, all he’d needed, was some space to breathe, to try and untangle the mess she’d made of his heart. He shook his head. “I didn’t mean for you to go and do something like this.”

“What do you want to hear?” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “That this was some kind of desperate cry for help? That losing you sent me into some sort of spiral? Hate to disappoint, but you’re not that special. I just screwed up. That’s it. Someone with your track record should understand that.”

She was hitting below the belt and it was working. “This ain’t—this ain’t you Lisa. We broke up because of the job. And then you just go and throw it away?” he asked.

“I didn’t throw it away! I didn’t—“ she worked her jaw, struggling for words, “I didn’t know what to do. I’m a woman in the Navy. I have fought my entire life to get where I am. And I knew that if I got called up for disciplinary action they probably wouldn’t see past my gender. I was just trying to figure out what to do and I ran out of time.”

She wasn’t wrong. He’d seen the inside of the bars a couple times, so had some of the other guys. It had never ended in anything more than a slap on the wrist. Granted she was an officer now and there were more serious consequences attached to her pay grade, but he’d seen other women ousted for less.

“That’s what you have us for,” he said quietly. “To figure things out when you can’t.”

“You all have to trust me with your lives. I can’t go around broadcasting to everybody that I’ve made a mistake.”

“Yes, you can. We’ve all been there. Nobody would have thought any less of you,” he said. “So next time, call. The team bail fund covers you just as much as anybody. We couldn’t do this without you.”

“Is that what you came over here for tonight? To tell me that the team needs me?”

Her question caught him off guard. “I…yeah. I guess so.”

His response brought her hackles back up. “You guess so? What kind of answer is that Sonny?”

“Listen Lisa, you were right. I shouldn’t even be here. I’ll get outta your hair.” He was just starting to realize what a mistake it had been to come here. He was opening them back up to a world of hurt and he needed to go before things went any further. 

He turned to open the door but she grabbed his arm. “No! You don’t get to just barge in here and demand answers from me then walk away. Tell me why you really came over here. What, you just needed to blow off some steam?”

“No.”

“You felt guilty? You needed me to tell you that this wasn’t your fault?”

“Lisa I—“

“Well then what was it Sonny? Why are you here? This isn’t your problem, so why are you so upset about it?”

It was like lightning shot through the room. Before he could stop himself he turned and cupped her face in his hands, his lips finding hers in that familiar, intimate rhythm they’d perfected over so many months together. “I miss you,” he breathed when they pulled apart. “I miss you all day, every day. I pushed you away because I can’t—I can’t be close to you without wanting to drag you out of the room and kiss you until the sun comes up.” 

She took in a sharp breath eyes locked on his as he continued. “When Jason told us that you were in trouble, all I could think about was getting back here to you. Because I think some of this is my fault. And I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you like that.” He scrubbed a hand across his face. “And I promised myself I wouldn’t mess around with us anymore so I’m sorry. I should…I should go.”

But she grabbed the front of his shirt, dragging him back, pressing her mouth to his once more. His fingers threaded into her hair and he pulled her into his chest as she tightened her grip on him. She always fit so perfectly in his arms and having her pressed up against him for the first time in weeks lit his blood on fire. 

Somehow they ended up on the couch, Sonny’s back going into the cushions as Lisa continued to kiss him like it was the only thing keeping her alive. “Lisa,” he managed, “we said we wouldn’t—“

“Please,” she whispered, voice thick with need. “Please I just—please.”

He should have stopped it there. He should have walked away and let a clearer head prevail. But he wanted her, he always wanted her, and when she began tugging off his shirt and reaching for his belt, he didn’t stop her. Instead he let the clock rewind to six months before, moving his body with hers as if no time had passed at all.

“You want to tell me how you got arrested now?” he asked later, when they were both wrapped up in one another’s arms, the familiar warmth of her pressed up against his side.

Despite their heated conversation he still wasn’t satisfied that she was telling the whole story. Something was hurting her and if he could figure out how to fix it, he was going to.

“Sonny we already talked about it.”

“We talked about what happened after. I want to know how you got there in the first place.”

She sighed. “I’d had a few. More than I usually would alone. A couple of guys started getting handsy, so I hit back. The cop grabbed me from behind, didn’t identify himself, so I just swung. Got him right in the nose. They took me in and that was it.”

“D’you break his nose?” he asked, a smile quirking his lips.

“Not the point Sonny.”

“Right. Yeah.” He rubbed a hand gently up and down her arm. “Something happen with Ronnie? Is that why you were drinking alone?”

She hesitated. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. He’d pushed enough and he wasn’t going to force her, even if he thought she had something she needed to get off her chest.

“I know.” She seemed to be weighing her choices. They’d just cracked open Pandora’s box, again, and neither of them quite knew where the line was anymore. “I was supposed to meet her family. And then at the last second it just…it didn’t happen. I guess she’s not ready. And after all this I don’t know if it’ll ever happen.”

“She’s your sister,” Sonny said, “she’ll come around.”

“You don’t know Ronnie.”

“I know you. And if she doesn’t want to, that’s her loss,” he said firmly.

She grew so quiet that he thought she might have fallen asleep. “I’m really glad you came over,” she finally said.

Maybe in the morning when he had to walk away and leave her here, maybe then he would start to feel the guilt creeping in. But for now he just kissed her bare shoulder one more time and let himself be content.

[winnerloser]

@earngalar​ / cont. from x ;

She notes the nickname first —— her eyes widen, but the way they go half - lidded after is a sure sign that she’s PLEASED.  Her smile quirks.  Lil…that’s cute.  Nobody’s ever given her a nickname before.  What follows steals some of her joy, but not as much as she’d expected — supposes it was inevitable.  Expect to hit the ground and the impact doesn’t hurt.  It’s what she’d expected — that he wouldn’t want to be around her, after a while.  That he’d see whatever Noah or Ethel or her father did, and decide…

Her chest lurches.  Maybe it does hurt.  But she smiles, placid, like it doesn’t, and nods, and ——

She sees the wounds, and her heart drops out of her chest into her stomach.  Without thinking she lurches forward with a wounded sound, hand extending through the cracked door to hover around his injured eye.  No.  No!  What happened?  They don’t BEAT HER often, but she knows what INTENTIONAL HARM looks like, and this was no accident! But —— but who’d ———— WHY WOULD ANYONE —————— ?

She feels tears press at her eyes and isn’t that funny — they never got tears out of her by mocking or hurting her, but the idea of hurting him is so repellent that she can’t do anything but blink and let the tears track down her cheeks.  Victor had seemed guilty he couldn’t do more to help her.  Victor is kind.  Victor wants to protect her.

The thought strikes her with the force of a train : did Victor try to protect her?

The next thought is sick with guilt : that means this is my fault.

“N —- no ——- !”  It’s hard to speak when she’s this anxious — this furious and sad and TOO MUCH.  She feels like her heart’s going to crack.  Like her skin’s too tight, veins too thin, can’t breathe.  “Vi —– Vi — V —– n - no,” she gasps again, a miserable sob.  PLEASE DON’T MAKE HER LEAVE.  LET HER HELP.  IF THIS IS HER FAULT THEN SHE HAS TO HELP, SHE HAS TO, OR ELSE SHE REALLY IS AS BAD AS THEY ALL SAY SHE IS.

“S — s — so — suh ——”  The words are slurred as much with her tears as with her muteness; she can’t breathe.  SHE DID THIS.  THIS IS HER FAULT.   THE ONE PERSON THAT DOESN’T HURT HER AND SHE…  “S — sor — so - sorr — y ——-”

The door is pried upon by Lillian’s lurching, and he stumbles backwards- almost falling if he hadn’t held onto the door frame with his free hand. Lillian’s sudden concern, fear, guilt is the last of what he’d wanted; he had planned to hide himself and stay lowkey until his face managed to heal itself. 

So much for that plan. 

“No, no, Lil, please... it’s...”

He pushes aside his own nervousness to gently dissuade Lillian, holding her hand as to keep it away from his face whilst comforting her at the same time. His brows upturn sheepishly- guilty himself, and he lets out his usual lopsided smile, this time apologetic. The door hangs open on its own accord.

“No need t’worry, t’s not your fault t’ all. ‘Kay? It’s not. Promise. I just... got carried away myself,”  He wasn’t one to worry about his appearance all too much on the regular- but with the door cracked wide open for the whole world (bystanders, reporters, television, who knew,) he suddenly felt a spike of anxiety. Because the Champion wasn’t supposed to encapsulate such ugliness, not with the implications the marks held either. The fear of the scratches scarring sits in his gut- but it stays there, as there was far more important matters to tend to. He committed to that risk when he decided to do what he did, anyway.

He slowly steps aside, allowing Lillian to come in- weary smile still on his face as he tried to coax her out of her tears. He gently lifts his thumbs to wipe at them. The middle two knuckles of his dominant hand were busted, with the rest of the fingers’ skin being generously scuffed.

“...I went askin’ for a fight, so it’s my fault, anyway. T’s okay, I won’t get in trouble, an’ ideally, neither will you... not for a good, long time, I hope.”

Victor tried his best to be thoughtful. The last thing he wanted to do was to cause Lillian any more grief and harassment by trying to be some sort of knight in shining armor for her; only for her punishment to be doubled behind his back. He could guess just how much his... well, him being a friend was a double-edged sword. And he knew he was selfish in befriending Lillian in the first place, because he just felt so distant and guilty for all the things he’s stolen from his friends that he saw someone his age so hurting and -- he supposed it would be easy. To make her his friend. He was overflowing with compassion and patience, and here this girl was... without anyone. Maybe he was a bad person for setting his sights on someone who was arguably vulnerable. It wasn’t necessarily like he didn’t know Lillian to be a quiet and generally decent girl as she were, that they’d get on well if she gave him the chance-- it didn’t stop him from feeling a pang for the additional burden he’d put on her from expecting her to accept him. Just because he was the only one to help her when no one else wanted to or could.

So this was the very least he could do, to be genuine. To atone. To set his record straight as Lillian’s friend. And he was willing to do more- not even for the purpose of atoning, but because... it was so wrong. And as the Champion- no, as Masaru Tsurugi, who was he if he couldn’t even be bothered to do something? His mum supported him, and so would his dad without a doubt, if dad was still around. His extended family would click their tongues at him for not looking away from problems that didn’t involve him. But the moment Lillian continued to reach out to him beyond what was obligated from her to repay his initial kindness-- thats when this problem became his problem- no, their problem.

He compulsively goes up to touch his face, skin all scratched dry. The cuts were all disinfected, but looked gnarly nonetheless. Guess it was a fair trade for winning a messy fight (as messy as two teens could be), considering he wasn’t exactly a fighter himself.

“I’m sorry for actin’ on my own, Lil.” He finally admits. “But I’m not sorry for what I did, tha’s for sure."

[marigoldbaker]

imperfections (54/?)

read it on ao3!

in which the scooby parents have a conversation.

Upon arriving at home, Jenny shepherded Willow and Xander into the kitchen (Faith, off to get milkshakes with Buffy, gave Jenny a quick, awkward hug before leaving), and Rupert made them hot chocolate. Xander took his mug up to bed, but fifteen minutes later, Willow was on her fourth mug and going strong.

“Giles, can I have another one after this?” she asked absently, wrapped in a flannel blanket Jenny had pulled out of the hall closet.

“Five mugs and you’ll have had more than everyone else in this house combined,” said Rupert, placing a gentle hand on Willow’s shoulder. “It’s getting late, Willow. I think you should head up to bed after this.”

Willow nodded, eyes unfocused. “I keep on thinking about, about how maybe my mom might be worried,” she mumbled. “On account of me not being home, and after all that stuff that went down—”

“Do you want me to call her?” Jenny asked.

“No,” said Willow.

Jenny uncurled Willow’s fingers from the mug, handing it to Rupert. “C’mon, sleepy,” she said, pulling Willow carefully up from the chair and into her arms. “Come here. It’s okay. How about you go up to bed and I make you that last mug of hot chocolate at breakfast tomorrow?”

“My mom says hot chocolate from a mix is cheap and tacky,” Willow said into Jenny’s shoulder, “but she never makes me hot chocolate with syrup ‘cause she says she never has enough time—”

“Okay, honey,” said Jenny, focused primarily on getting Willow to go to sleep. “It has been a long night, huh?”

“I wanna go home,” said Willow, and sniffled. “I mean, I don’t wanna go home, I just want to not be at home right now. I want my home to be where it’s supposed to be.”

Jenny decided that now probably wasn’t the time to start a conversation about home and family with an exhausted, upset Willow. Momentarily, she buried her face in Willow’s hair, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. “Let’s go to bed,” she said, and was gratified to find that Willow had relaxed when she pulled back.

To Jenny’s surprise, Rupert, who had been tentatively following them both, stopped them in the foyer. Without a word, he tugged Willow into a hug, wrapping the blanket a little more securely around her shoulders as he did so. “Do you need something to sleep in?” he murmured, squeezing Willow’s shoulder. “I have a few t-shirts if you need to borrow—”

Stunned, Jenny watched as Rupert steered Willow the rest of the way up the stairs, speaking to her in a low, comforting voice as she leaned against him. Up until his decision to quit the Council, Rupert had been visibly uncomfortable whenever one of the kids was going through some kind of emotional turbulence, leaving Jenny to make sure they were okay. Up until right now, Jenny hadn’t realized that, ever since that decision, he’d been making an effort to support the kids in the same way she did.

Rupert came down the stairs just as this realization was sinking in, and ended up getting the full brunt of Jenny’s touched smile. He looked wrung-out and sad, but his face relaxed at her expression. “I’m glad I could at least help someone,” he said, giving her a self-deprecating grin in return. “I worry I’m not all that good at providing the sort of comfort Willow needs.”

“You’re lucky you make idiocy look sexy, because that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said,” said Jenny, and stood on tiptoe to hug him. She meant for it to be a quick hug, because they really did have to get to sleep, but all of a sudden, she remembered the hollow, painful loneliness of that summer without him. Her arms tightened around his waist. “You did good, Rupert,” she whispered, pressing a hard kiss to his shoulder; she wasn’t sure how else to articulate how much his helping the kids meant to her.

Rupert seemed to get the gist. “Terrible as it is that her mum can’t provide her with one, I think our home is right where she’s supposed to be,” he said very softly.

“Yeah,” said Jenny. “Me too.”

That was when the doorbell rang. Startled, Jenny jumped, then reluctantly pulled herself away from Rupert, crossing the room to open the door. In response to his worried expression, she reminded him, “Vampires don’t generally use the doorbell.”

“They could have learned,” said Rupert, but he seemed appeased.

Opening the door, Jenny stared. “Joyce?”

“Hi, Jenny, Rupert,” said Joyce, in a shyly earnest way that made much more sense than crazy-witch-burning lady. “Can we talk?”

When they entered the kitchen, Giles busied himself with clattering around in the cupboards pretending to make tea. This was, he knew, a conversation that he should probably be involved in, but the look in Joyce’s eyes suggested that it was Jenny she had come to talk to. Being in the same room seemed like a compromise of sorts.

“It’s a little late for a social call,” Jenny was saying, a light laugh in her voice. Giles well recognized that laugh: it only ever surfaced when Jenny was worried. “Is everything okay? Is Buffy—”

“Oh, Buffy’s fine,” said Joyce immediately. “I think she’s still out with Faith.” She let out a wobbly laugh of her own. “I came here because…”

“Because?” Jenny prompted gently.

“God, this is awkward,” said Joyce ruefully. It took her a few seconds to continue. “I understand Rupert’s involvement in my daughter’s life,” she said. “Buffy’s explained the whole Watcher deal to me, and while there are some parts of it I don’t necessarily like, I can at least respect it. But you…this isn’t something that you have to be a part of, and yet I think your being here has helped my daughter and her friends in so many ways.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Jenny began.

“Now’s not the time to be modest,” said Joyce firmly. “Buffy talks about you a lot at home. She says you’re the reason that Faith isn’t staying in that seedy little motel downtown, and I’m inclined to agree.” She paused, then said, “You’re clearly an important factor in making this part of Buffy’s life something a little less…”

“Horrible?” said Jenny helpfully.

“Yes,” said Joyce. “That.” She swallowed, then said, “The things I said under the influence of that demon…it hurt to know that Buffy believed me so readily. I know so little about being a Vampire Slayer, but I want to be able to support my daughter. And I can’t do that if I’m not there for her in every part of her life, not just the ones that I feel like I can handle.”

Giles stilled. The statement resonated with him, but he didn’t know how to express that in front of Joyce.

“So what are you saying?” Jenny asked.

“I’m saying…” Joyce trailed off. “I’m saying I’d really like a crash course on the life of a Vampire Slayer from someone else who hasn’t always been a part of it,” she said. “Preferably not by stumbling across a dead body or two. I know that that demon did things to my mind, but I don’t know if it’d have been as easy for it if I’d known at least a little bit about…I don’t know. Protection symbols.”

Jenny laughed, this one a low, warm sound that made Giles smile softly at the kettle. “I’ll say,” she said, and when Giles turned to look at them, he saw that Jenny had reached to touch Joyce’s hand over the table. “Look, there really isn’t a lot to the supernatural. If you want, we can call you in for the next Scooby meeting and you can watch how we work? I’m sure Buffy’s not gonna be over the moon about the idea initially, but merging the supernatural aspects of her life with the, uh, natural ones…I think that could be good.”

“I rather agree,” said Giles tentatively. As Jenny and Joyce looked up, he continued, “If these last few years have taught me anything, it’s that treating Buffy solely as a Vampire Slayer is…” He trailed off. “Cruel,” he said. “She’s a talented, capable girl, and the Council’s determination to use her as a weapon is utterly reprehensible. I think having you involved in her supernatural responsibilities might help remind her that being the Slayer is not the only thing she has to focus on.”

Joyce smiled slightly. “It’s good to see that you have Buffy’s best interests at heart,” she said. “I must admit, Rupert, hearing about this arrangement for the first time, I had my doubts about you.”

“You had every reason to,” said Giles, thinking of the man who had flown to Sunnydale, economy class, thinking of bloody course they assign me a secondhand Slayer who’s due to die in a year or two anyway. “Buffy is a remarkable girl to have changed me so thoroughly.” He smiled too, glancing over at Jenny, who blushed. “Though I don’t think all the credit lies with her.”

“No, I don’t think it does,” said Joyce warmly, squeezing Jenny’s hand. “You two are doing incredible work, taking care of those kids.” She hesitated, then said, “If you ever want any adult company, I do attend a neighborhood book club, and they’re always happy to welcome new members.”

Giles tried to remember the last time he’d been in the proximity of adults he actually liked (excluding, of course, Joyce and Jenny). “We might have to take you up on that,” he agreed.

“Is there anything else we can help with?” Jenny added.

“Thanks, but I should really be getting home,” said Joyce with a small, tired smile. “I don’t exactly like the thought of Buffy coming back to an empty house.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Jenny suggested, standing up. Joyce followed her out of the kitchen, leaving Giles to contemplate this development.

Even as recently as a few months ago, he might have been comparing Joyce’s request with what was and wasn’t accepted by the Council, trying to decide whether involving the Vampire Slayer’s mother was Council-sanctioned, perhaps even attempting to dissuade or ostracize Joyce if he believed that it wasn’t. The concept of the Council being an infallible, trustworthy source of information had been one that had comforted him after Eyghon: their rules, he had felt, would keep him in check.

But that was a man who hadn’t seen what the Scooby Gang looked like under the guidance of Jenny Calendar. Willow, Xander, Faith…all of them, Faith in particular, had desperately needed care and attention. Though the Council rules did provide a baseline, they also required one to look at human beings as chess pieces, and Giles was beginning to find that concept more and more distasteful.

Jenny reentered the kitchen, yawning. “I think this could be good,” she said. “It’s really nice to know that at least one of our kids has a parent with a brain.”

The phrase our kids, coming from Jenny, sent a fierce twist of want through Giles, one that more than surprised him. He filed this information away to process at a much later date. “It is fortunate,” he agreed. “Gives us a bit less to worry about in terms of Buffy.”

Jenny hesitated. “About that,” she said.

“This is about the Cruciamentum, isn’t it?”

Jenny nodded. “Her birthday’s approaching,” she said, “and we really need to tell her about it before the Council shows up with the drugs and the vampire.”

Giles wavered. “Jenny, I don’t at all like the idea of telling Buffy anything about this,” he began.

“Look, I know it’s not going to be a fun conversation—”

“It’s not that,” said Giles. “I can very easily see Buffy deciding to take on the Cruciamentum so as not to jeopardize my job. She is a reckless girl, but her impulsivity is almost always motivated by compassion. Hearing that I might not be her Watcher if she doesn’t comply to this test…”

“You don’t get to make that decision for her prematurely, Rupert,” said Jenny firmly. “Whether or not you and I agree with what Buffy wants to do, the fact remains that this is still something that’s gonna really affect her, no matter how it plays out. She deserves to have a say in its outcome.”

Giles exhaled. “I don’t like it when you’re right about these things,” he finally said.

“I know,” said Jenny, grinning. “But if you sulk every time I’m right, you’d be sulking in perpetuity.”

“Debatable,” said Giles, letting her tug him out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

[bat-losers-inc]

Collisions in the Dark (Ch 6): Gambit

Warning: dub-con

Summary: In the aftermath of his night with Jason, Tim learns many things. Like the target of Ra’s attack and that he might not know Jason as well as he thinks he does.

Pairing: Jason Todd/Tim Drake & Ra’s al Ghul/Tim Drake

Chapter Notes: Gambit: A sacrifice (usually of a pawn) used to gain an early advantage in space or time in the opening.

“Please keep him safe. Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed to pieces.” — “Saying Your Names”, Richard Siken.

The room was cast in darkness when Tim was awoken by Jason’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Tim stirred, shifting his cheek from Jason’s naked chest to search out the other boy’s face in the dark. Tim grimaced at the slick feeling of sweat that coated his cheek, wiping it away with his hand.

“You need to head back.” said Jason, his steady voice and straight posture suggesting he’d been awake for awhile.

Tim’s eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness of the room and he could now see how Jason would not hold his gaze. Had he had another nightmare? Tim had only witnessed one of Jason’s nightmares once and Jason had never told Tim what it had been about after Tim had woken him. He could imagine Jason waking in fright, limbs jerking as the paralyzing hold of sleep released him, only to lie still and wait for his heartbeat to calm as Tim slept soundly on the other boy’s chest. It was definitely something that Jason would do and it irritated Tim that Jason wouldn’t want to wake him and talk about it.

Then again, Tim realized, why should he? Tim had no claim on Jason, in fact... they barely knew each other as far as their personal lives went. If it wasn’t jeopardizing the mission or their secret identities, then it didn’t need to be shared with the rest of their family. Tim guessed that Batman’s emotional repression had rubbed off on all of them and for better or worse Tim would just have to deal with it.

“I don’t want to go back to him.” Tim admitted.

Jason rubbed at the dark stubble that lined his jaw. Was he going to grow a beard to match the locals who lived in this frozen landscape?. “Tim… you have to.”

Jason’s words betrayed how tired he really was, though Tim was not sure quite yet if it was emotional tiredness or physical. Probably both, thought Tim. If he knew anything about Jason he was worried about the events to come today and the future implications of that.

“Are you thinking about that family? Was that what the nightmare was about? Are you worried that you’re going to have to do something bad to them?”

Jason’s eyes flicked to his face for a moment, just long enough to show Tim his suspicious surprise. “Don’t you worry about my nightmare. It’s an old wound, nothing I can’t handle.”

And Tim flashed through the possibilities, oh how there were so many. The Joker…  the explosion…  his burial… the pit. There was a Lazarus Pit hidden somewhere deep in this mountainous compound. Ra’s wouldn’t feel safe dwelling here if there wasn’t. Did Jason know about it? Did it scare him being so close to it again? Once you’ve been resurrected by the pit there’s no way to use it again. You get one extra life with an added dash of pit rage, but it was still only one life. If you die again after that…  that’s it. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

“Ra’s is expecting you to do whatever it takes to make the doctor work for us. Even if that means hurting his family.” Tim warned him.

“I won’t hurt that child.” Jason objected instantly.

“I know,” said Tim. “I’ll make sure to keep the girl out of the way and out of Ra’s mind as much as possible. But you might have to hurt the mother…”

Jason shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve hurt a civilian to get what I needed.”

It didn’t sound like something Jason admired in himself. He sounded a bit disgusted by his actions, but he also seemed to have come to terms with them.

“Not to sound like a broken record here, Tim, but you need to head back. Like seriously, you’re already risking your skin staying here this long.”

Tim slid out of Jason’s bed and started to pull his clothes back on. He found Jason’s clothes in the same pile where they’d been shed the night before and tossed them to him. “I told Ra’s we’d try talking to Dr. Stafford again today, this time with his wife and daughter. If we go there now and Ra’s questions me when I return to our room then he won’t suspect anything. I’ll just be following his orders.”

“That’s a weak out, especially for you, Tim.” Jason paused to pull his shirt over his head, his bed head springing loose once his head cleared the collar. “But I’m inclined to let you have it for once.”

He hopped into a pair of jeans, slipped on shoes, and made an honest attempt to tame his messy locks though it didn’t seem to do him much good.

Finally, he sighed.  “Let’s go see that family.”

They walked side by side down the dim hallways that turned Ra’s large compound into a confusing maze. It was only when they reached the lower levels that it became almost impossible to continue on as they had because of the traffic of people that passed by them.

Tim fell back behind Jason after that, Jason’s tall frame and broad shoulders blocking his view of anything in front of him. He would have liked to see the path they were traveling in case he had to return here by himself. Once again, Tim cursed his short stature.

They arrived at a gate and Jason nodded a greeting to the guards stationed in front of it. “Pemba. Tashi.”

The two guards returned his greeting with silent nods and unlocked the gate to let them pass through. Tim took notice of the old fashioned ring of keys in the guard’s hands. For all of Ra’s’ high tech in the command center, he was strategically low tech with some parts of his security. If Tim had to venture a guess, the only places with one set of keys to unlock them were probably here and the lazarus pit. Ra’s would not be foolish enough to risk those to any more than a few people.

They heard the the voices before anything else. The light cadence of a mother’s voice as she sang to her daughter. Jason paused at the sound of it, just for a second, long enough for Tim to figure he didn’t want to disturb the moment. He watched as Jason clenched his fists and continued on.

The mother heard the sound of their footsteps on the stones. Her voice was an urgent whisper as she hushed her daughter. “ — quiet for Mommy.”

A few hiccupping breaths were the only response she got. Jason shoved the bar across and yanked the cell door open. Mrs. Stafford was crouched on the dirty floor of the cell and recoiled to the far wall when she saw Jason standing over her. “Please…”

She didn’t bother saying anymore, for even Tim could see that she didn’t know what to plead for. He had no doubt that any past cries from her had gone on deaf ears down here.

“Do you remember me?” asked Jason. His voice was soft, entirely devoid of force to keep the woman calm and at attention.

She nodded.

“This is my friend, Tim. He’s going to be taking you to talk to your husband. You’re going to convince him to start working.”

“Why?” The woman’s voice was thick with confusion but Jason continued to talk over her unasked questions, trying to keep her focused.

“You’re going to remind him that the safety of his family depends on his involvement. That the longer he resists, the more he is putting your life and the life of your daughter in danger. Please, do not make me hurt you or your daughter.”

Jason seemed to have said all he needed to, for he shifted aside to let Tim through the doorway. Tim took the mother by her elbow and lead her out into the hall.

“Mommy!” a high voice cried out from another cell. The woman jerked around in Tim’s hold, swiping matted blonde hair away from her eyes as she found the cell her daughter was in, though she was too small to be seen through the window.

“Tim, go now. Cell 58. The guards there will take care of it from there.” Jason urged, voice loud over the continuous cries of the girl. Tim was quick to tighten his grip and tug the mother farther down the hall.

Mrs. Stafford did not put up any struggle as Tim lead her down the hall, her gaze turning back every once and awhile towards the way they had come, though they had walked far enough now that the voices of her daughter could no longer be heard. It did not take long after that for her to regain her composure.

“What are you two doing here with these people? You’re still children, you shouldn’t be tied up with terrorists.”

Tim scoffed a laugh at the idea of anyone calling Jason a child… or himself for that matter. Sure he had people in his life who cared about him, but none of those people had ever stopped him from risking his life.

“Jason’s not a child. He’s 21 and I’m 18. We’re old enough to understand what we’re doing. We can take care of ourselves.”

He was hoping that the sternness of tone would dissuade her from further discussion, but it only seemed to anger her more.

“You’re a child. ” she spat, coming to a stop so sharply that she nearly broke Tim’s grip on her. “And just like every child does you think that you’re invincible, but at some point something horrible is going to happen and you’ll know that you were the cause of it. You’ll be all alone and then you’ll wish there was someone there to take care of you.”

Perhaps you’re right, thought Tim but he said nothing. Instead he pulled his gaze away from Mrs. Stafford’s cold expression and directed it ahead of them. He tugged on her arm to continue forward. Cell 58 was in a small hall all on its own with another pair of guards monitoring the door.

They stepped forwards when Tim came towards them, grasping the woman by either elbow. Tim stilled the guards before they opened the cell door.

“Talk to your husband,” he urged. “and when you’re done knock twice on the door and your be returned back to your daughter.”

Tim specifically did not say “cell” for fear that she wouldn’t follow their orders. If she thought she was being reunited with her daughter after this, then perhaps she really would try to convince her husband to start work on the device. Tim, of course, could not fulfill this promise but he also did not want to deny Mrs. Stafford hope that her family would remain safe.

When Tim returned back to where Jason was waiting for him, he was surprised by the scene that laid before his eyes. The Mrs. Stafford’s cell door stood open still as they had left it, waiting for her to be returned to her cell, but open also was the daughter’s cell. Jason’s voice carried through from inside the small room.

“Shhh, didn’t your mom tell you to be quiet for her? You’ve got to be strong for her. How about I sing you a song like she did, would that make you feel better?”

There was a short silence that followed where Tim could not guess what the girl had answered with, but a moment later Jason’s voice started to sing quietly, so Tim knew the answer. The song was vaguely familiar, a rock song turned acoustic by the slow lull of Jason’s voice. Tim knew he’d heard it long ago but couldn’t remember the band or the song name.

Jason sang without hesitation, knowing that the girl was not old enough to truly understand the lyrics. He let his voice rise and hum, the part of him that recalled his own childhood remembering that it was the tune of the song that mattered more than the words themselves.

Tim crept forward until he could see Jason sitting on the ground next to the little girl, one of his calloused hands stroking the back of her head, his own head tilted back against the wall eyes cast up at the ceiling. Jason hummed the tune for a line, and tried to fill in the spaces with bits of lines that he could remember.

Tim blinked and froze at the realization that Jason’s eyes were now on him. Jason’s voice faded off and his hand stopped stroking the girl’s hair.   “I didn’t mean to—”

Jason gave a small shake of his head, looking tired. “It’s fine.”

But as Jason rose to his feet and watched the little girl curl up like a cat on the warm spot he’d made on her mattress, Tim couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d interrupted something deeply personal for Jason. And he knew instantly that it was a type of intimacy that Tim had never shared with Jason, even with how close they had recently become. Tim had followed him when he was Robin, he’d saved his life, shared his bed… but he did not know the Jason that sang to little kids. Perhaps Bruce had caught glimpses of that Jason years ago, but Jason made sure that no one else did nowadays.

He closed the cell door quietly and locked it, not looking at Tim when he said, “Let go. It’ll be awhile yet before the guards return Mrs. Stafford to her cell and longer till we know if the doctor will cooperate.”

“Doctor Stafford began work this afternoon. I brought the finished blueprints with me if you’d like to look over them together.” It was dark again when Tim was able to tell Ra’s the news and Tim realized he had passed the whole day away without seeing the light of day. Most of his time had been spent hanging around the lower levels of the compound where the cells were situated and the rest of the time perched on a stool under the fluorescent lights watching Mr. Stafford start his work. Getting to see the blueprints before Ra’s, though, had been well worth it. At least now he knew the size of the device and it’s potential range of effect.

Ra’s smile was genuinely gleeful, but that did nothing to calm Tim. “I told you Jason would do what needed to be done.”

“I guess we won’t know until that actually happens. The wife was the one to convince the doctor. We sent her in to talk to him and whatever she said must have worked. I’d be careful not to mistreat her if she has that much persuasion on her husband.”

“I believe you’re right. We should reward the woman. Tomorrow I’ll tell the guards to put her child in a cell with her.”

“That’s awfully nice of you.” said Tim, but then realized that though the mother and daughter would be together it could not distract them from the fact that they were still locked in a cell. Just like me and Jason, he thought, two prisoners locked together in this compound. We’re no freer than they are.    

“I told you I can be a lenient man, Timothy. I knew that it upsetted you to keep them apart, so I’m easing your conscience now that you’ve come through for me. “ Ra’s smiled. “But, I believe that one favor should be repaid with another and it is past time that we sealed our agreement.”

Of course he did, for Ra’s never did anything that was not in his favor. He took Tim’s hand. Tim allowed himself to be lead towards the bed. His mind already detaching itself to reside within memories of last night. His memory of the night was still fresh and it took no effort at all of pretend that the hands removing his clothing were Jason’s, wrinkled because he’d just gotten out of the shower instead of from old age. The stubble that rubbed Tim’s neck and chin raw was the beard that Jason had grown during his time here.

With thoughts of Jason’s muscular form in his mind, of him flexing over Tim as Jason panted and whispered his name in Tim’s ear, Tim’s body did not betray him. Neither did his words as a different man than the one in his mind thrusted within him. Tim dug his teeth firmly into his bottom lip, blocking off the name that threatened to pass from his lips, knowing it would condemn him if Ra’s were to hear it during such an intimate moment. His heart pounded in the same frantic beat as Ra’s own when the older man collapsed on the bed next to him, but for an entirely different reason.

Ra’s pulled Tim’s back against his chest, his arm firm against Tim’s torso. “You were just as beautiful as I’d thought you’d be, Beloved.”

Tim’s eyes closed tightly. He pressed his face deeper into the pillow under his head, his mind already thinking of another place to inhabit for the rest of the night. He thought back to the low croon of Jason’s voice bringing the sound of it into the front of his mind and trying to recall the words.

“I’ll look forward to having you at my side when we strike New York.”

Tim’s eyes flashed open, all thoughts of Jason vanishing from his head at Ra’s words.

“New York?” he asked, hurrying to turn around in the small room Ra’s embrace allowed.

When he came face to face with Ra’s, the older man smiled and shrugged. “You had been asking where the target was, weren’t you? New York City. We’re going to plant the weapon inside the UN.”

Tim swallowed around a suddenly dry throat. “We’re going to attack the UN.”

And once again Tim went another night without sleep.

[alittlestarling]

Welcome Home, Good Hunter

Their quest into the Hinterlands to meet with the rebel mages doesn’t go as planned and an upsetting discovery brings Roz and Vincent closer.

Read on Ao3

Part 1

Part 2: The Hinterlands

“Can you hear that?” Roz pulled gently on the reins of her mare as they crested over the final few hills, dipping lower into the valley.

“Hear what?” Vincent asked, her ever-constant companion in the last week as they made their way from the mountain pass and into the heart of Ferelden. Where Roz was uncertain in her riding, Vincent was a natural, murmuring gently in a foreign tongue that she didn’t know to soothe his steed as they trekked onward. The mere fact that he was there, that this wasn’t a fever dream, was still hard for Roz to believe. Staring was hard as well and she had tried to keep her gaze from lingering too long on him.

Instead, she smiled as she gazed out along the vast expanse before them. “Quiet,” she replied after a moment, relishing the sounds of nature instead of fighting that had so often surrounded them in these hills. With the encampments gone for both warring sides, the survivors in the Crossroads could enjoy a little peace before they rebuilt their lives in the hills.

Patting her mare along the side of her neck, Roz couldn’t stop herself from giving what might have been a far-too-early sigh of relief. Fewer fires to put out, less time placing themselves into the crosshairs of danger and more opportunities to see exactly what the people needed here.

What they truly needed.

Leading the way, Roz glanced over her shoulder as they trekked down the steep incline their horses seemed to take with greater ease and confidence than she would have. Vincent had, of course, come along, but he wasn’t the only one. Iron Bull held up the end of the group, shooting the breeze easily with Varric and, right in the middle, Vincent’s older brother, Rolfe, had been flirting with Cassandra at a steady clip since they left Haven.

Though they had only just begun to grow closer, Roz could tell that, despite the rebuffs and irritated sighs, Cassandra wasn’t completely indifferent to the lighthearted teasing and flirting Rolfe offered. Resistant, stubborn to admit it, but Roz didn’t think anything with Cassandra came particularly easily. Especially when it came to close relationships, not just romance.

“Do you think your brother will tire of flirting with Cassandra?” Roz leaned in conspiratorially, glancing back a moment to let her gaze linger over Rolfe riding alongside Cassandra.

“I doubt it,” Vincent had leaned in close, the warm scent of cedar and salt making her dizzy a moment. She tried not to think too hard as the pair of them shared a moment; his laugh was low, rumbling from his chest while Roz stifled a giggling snort before straightening along her saddle again.

“He has his work cut out for him,” Roz shook her head with a little laugh. “She’s a tough one to crack.”

“And my brother isn’t so easily dissuaded, so long as she hasn’t outright rejected him.”

“It doesn’t seem that way,” Roz snickered lightly but leaned back away from him, straightening once more. “I wouldn’t discount his chances just yet.” Besides, despite her tough exterior, Roz had caught a glimpse of what she had discovered was a rather delightfully dirty romance novel during their first night on the road to Redcliffe, sworn to secrecy once Cassandra realized her secret was out.

Without the threat of attack looming over them, the people of the Crossroads looked a little less world-worn, the weariness gone from their postures. Tents had been set-up for those still transitioning and efforts to rebuild homes that had burned in the fires were underway.

Even with their need to reach the rebels in the village, Roz couldn’t just leave without making sure things were doing alright.

“Rosalind,” Cassandra gently interjected as Roz finished dropping herbs off with a healer that had finally taken up residence in the small camp (with a quick chat about some tinctures that could be brewed with spindleweed that grew in abundance along the creek nearby), “we should make our way towards Redcliffe.”

“I know, I know,” Roz blew a small strand of red that had strayed from her usual braid, the small wispy hair refusing to stay put, “I just have a few more things to look into.” The caches had been marked, food was being distributed and the land may have been safer to hunt on now, but Roz felt the itch to simply do more. Their worlds had been torn apart, flipped off their axis, and if she couldn’t help with the smaller things, how could anyone trust her to help with some of the larger, more overwhelming tasks that stretched before her?

As if to counter her thoughts, her mark sparked and she curled her palm tightly into a fist to extinguish the green light that constantly haunted her.

Her mood soured slightly as she passed along a letter from a templar; despite her own, personal feelings towards the establishment, she wasn’t about to let anyone’s last words to someone they loved go without remark. Vincent noticed, stepping into stride behind her after she’d finished recruiting Ellandra to their cause.

“You seem troubled.” It was a statement rather than a question, an opening for Roz to speak her mind if she decided to. Finding the words, however, were hard, especially when her own feelings were a mixed bag these days.

“I don’t understand how anyone in the Circle could have a romance with a Templar,” she began, dropping her voice low, pausing to pluck fresh elfroot from standing water beside them. “All the Templars I knew were…well, no, let me start again.” Frowning, she started over, trying to find any shred of tact she had left for the order.

“Not all Templars were terrible, but enough of them knew how to abuse and use their powers to benefit themselves. I’ve seen too many of them remain passive while others held the leash over mages tighter than necessary.” An image unbidden came to mind, those last moments before Alderis was dragged away playing before her. She shook her head, as though she might be rid of them if she tried hard enough. “Perhaps she was lucky. I just can’t understand it.”

“The more I hear about the Circle, the less I like it,” Vincent commented gruffly. “I can’t imagine spending my life living in fear of my gifts.” He glanced to her, holding her gaze a long moment as he added, “And neither should you have gone through such a thing.”

“I survived it. Not everyone did.” Perhaps it was easier in the long-run to lie about her involvement with the rebellion, especially when it helped gain allies to continue to help them seek to bring peace to the regions once more. But it still stuck to her tongue, the bitter pill she had to swallow after lying to Ellandra about exactly where she stood with the rebellion. It was the one thing she didn’t say aloud in those moments, glancing about the Crossroads once more.

Peace, relative quiet and stability. They’d be alright for now. “Come on,” She turned, Vincent falling easily into step with her again, “Cassandra’s been eager to get to Redcliffe. As am I.”

As they mounted back onto their horses, Roz sent a quick prayer to the Maker, her own quiet hope a burning ember in her chest.

Maker, please, please, please, let me find friends among them.

“Something’s not right,” Varric was the first to comment once they’d made their way down to the docks along the lake. Roz’s mind was reeling, piecing together information that didn’t quite make sense. From the first moment they set foot in the village, Roz could feel the unease rolling off the villagers. They whispered behind their hands, eyes wide with uncertainty but that was expected, especially when she considered that they hadn’t anticipated the Inquisition to arrive there at all.

“I don’t understand it,” Roz murmured, playing with the folds of her tunic, pacing back and forth along the shoreline. “We saw Grand Enchanter Fiona in Val Royeaux,” She shot a quick glance to Cassandra and Varric. “I’m not imagining that, right?”

“No,” Cassandra agrees, her own expression grim, sitting on a nearby rock. “I saw her, too. There is something afoul here.”

“If we believe the ‘Vint,” Bull interjected with a dissatisfied grumble, “magic’s to blame.”

Roz closed her eyes tightly, lips pressed together in a thin line as she let out a huffing breath. “Perhaps,” she murmured after a moment, allowing herself to catch her temper in time. Bull, she was realizing the longer they traveled together, didn’t have a high opinion of magic. While she couldn’t discount his suspicion towards the Tevinter mage who had just happened to be there with a far-fetched explanation, she knew better than to write it off completely.

Nothing felt right here. Tevinter was on their doorstep, had indentured the Grand Enchanter herself and, if she believed that time had been altered? Well, the implications were too vast for her to name. She felt a headache coming on, pressing the bridge of her nose with a muted sigh.

“I don’t think you’re going to like my decision, Cassandra,” Roz turned to face the Seeker, pulling her into private conversation as the others peeled away from them.

“Oh?” Perhaps she was gruff and a little too blunt, but at least Roz knew she could be honest with Cassandra, regardless if they shared the same viewpoint on the situation. “And what would that be?”

“I don’t think we have time to seek out the Templars.” It was a relief, in a way, knowing that she wouldn’t be walking into the viper’s nest. Even with support, Roz couldn’t shake the fears that rested in her bones, the knowledge that she had often known through her life with the Order. “With everything we’ve seen today, we have to act, and soon, before things spiral out of control here.” If things fell apart here, it would spread; all the good they had done would be destroyed and the people they had helped would have to flee for their lives once more.

“I can see where you’re coming from,” Cassandra tilted her head, pausing as though to parse out a thought, “but I do not think we should act without the facts. And we do not have any facts from the Templars that abandoned their post in Orlais.”

“But how can they possibly help us close the breach?” Roz snapped back, “Shall we go chase down Lord Seeker Lucius, who I might remind you isn’t our biggest fan, and convince them to, what? Wave a sword at the breach? Compel it to close itself with the power of smite?” The comments clawed from her throat before she could stop them, pacing once again before the Seeker.

“I know what people say, how they view me and all others like me. They did in Orlais and they will do so again if I try to reach them. I know,” she held a hand out as Cassandra made a move to interrupt, stopping for Roz to continue, “not all of them, but enough of them seem against us. To them, we’re a danger that needs containing, a threat that needs to be brought to heel again.” Enough of them wanted to stop the Inquisition before Roz had found herself in the middle of it, never mind now that a mage had the gall to be “chosen” by Andraste.

“You should not judge the Order too harshly.” Cassandra added softly once Roz had finished rambling off all the reasons not to seek out the organization that did not want them.

“And yet that’s exactly what they do to me.” Roz offered a sad sort of smile, the truth of her words seeming to sink slowly into the Seeker. “I do not see that changing anytime soon, Cassandra, do you?”

Tense silence followed and, had they been given a moment longer, perhaps Cassandra would have come up with a different opinion, a new way of looking at things despite what Roz felt in her gut was true. The Templars weren’t the way to go and she just knew that it was a waste to leave things precariously as they were here.

Varric’s voice, however, broke the spell, calling out from down the shoreline. “Seeker, Rosebud, you two might want to see this.” Roz felt her own guard go up at the apprehension in his tone, taking careful strides away from the spot she’d been pacing to approach what she had assumed was an abandoned home along the water’s edge.

The moment she stepped inside, the very air seemed to change. Her breath caught in her throat at the sheer wrongness of it all. Magic rippled from the shelves, the strange whispering echoing in her ears that accompanied any discovery of the strange skulls in the countryside.

What she saw before her were those exact skulls. Dozens of them lining the walls, a few piled along the ground. A bundle of cracked and shattered skulls lay in the corner, abandoned in their lack of usefulness. A shiver ran down her spine, stuck in the doorway a moment longer before she dared to reach out. Her fingertips grazed across the nearby skull, snapping her fingers back quickly at a tingle that slithered down her hand upon contact.

Vincent wasn’t far, his own eyes gazing warily at the skulls before him. “Magic,” he muttered, their gazes meeting for a brief moment; Roz nodded in agreement, struggling to take another full breath as she turned.

“You’re right,” It was Rolfe, however, who found the answer, papers held firmly in his grip. “What do they mean by ‘tranquil’ in these papers?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Roz was dizzy, her stomach coiled and knotted, nausea rising up hard and fast along with horror and grief hot in pursuit. “No,” She whispered, her hands shaking as she reached out to touch the nearest skull. “Oh no, no, no, no.” Faces of those she had known flashed before her eyes, the unspeakable horror of this acting as a sinking pit in her stomach.

“Rosalind?” Vincent had a hand on her elbow as she swayed a moment. His touch was warm, grounding a moment as she turned to him, her mouth opening to try and find her words.

“Poor sods,” Varric murmured.

“Not like the Tranquil were doing much with ‘em.” Bull’s comment cut through the air and Roz felt all the breath leave her lungs with a sharp hiss. The grief, the sorrow, the anguish all burned swiftly into anger that she’d felt mounting since they arrived in the region. There was nothing gentle in her as she abruptly pulled away from Vincent and his comforting grasp on her. Instead, she whirled on Iron Bull with a snarl.

“You have no right to say those things,” Roz growled, heat rolling off her in waves. Despite their height difference, she walked to him, one finger against his chest, blue eyes hard as steel. “They were people. Their lives should have been their own. You do not get to judge them.” Her teeth gnashed together as she let out an angry huff, adding, “You are not better than them.”

Still shaking, she continued, “I’d think over my next words carefully, The Iron Bull.”

Tense silence followed and, had she been in a better mood, Roz would have laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it. She was no match in height to him, aware that she barely came up to his chest. But he met her gaze levelly, his own expression hard (and, if she were right, a hint of surprise), neither of them moving from their spot.

“Boss.” He rumbled and the moment broke. Roz pulled away swiftly, turning on her heel.

“I’ve seen enough here. I’m done.” But there were words still unspoken, caught in her throat as she stepped back out into the open air. I don’t want to be here anymore.

For the first time in a long while, Roz let herself slump by the fire, the weight of the world pressing hard against her shoulders. Guilt and grief were warring internally as she wrapped her blanket tighter around her body. It didn’t fit all the way, made for a slim cot and not a plush body, but there was still something comforting in the act itself. As though she could make a cocoon of it, keeping the world at bay a moment longer instead of letting the chaos and the anger eat her from the inside out.

Exhaustion was a constant companion but sleep hadn’t come. Instead, Roz had pulled herself from her cot, slipping to sit by the fire. The sounds of Lake Luthias were almost comforting, the waterfall and chirping of crickets making the world seem a little softer and perhaps more peaceful than it felt in her mind.

Every single one of the skulls they had come across, each ocularum, was from a tranquil that had been killed. The thought made her sick, her stomach continuing to knot and roil in her gut. How many of them had they seen? How many had been lost when the Circles fell? Was he-

It was the one question she didn’t want to answer, squeezing her eyes shut to will the thought away. Spots blinked before her vision when she opened them again, disoriented for a brief moment. Any answer to her own lingering doubts would only add more guilt to her already troubled mind; no answer was better than the alternatives that were far more likely than the idea that he may have survived it all.

“May I join you?” Vincent’s voice murmured quietly from her side, causing Roz to jump. The blanket slipped a bit from her shoulders as she attempted to wrap it closer around her body again.

“If you like.” Running a hand across her face, letting the blanket slip again, she frowned into the fire. “I’m afraid you’re not seeing me on my best day,” Roz sighed apologetically, unable to lift her gaze from the fire. Everything felt like a constant fight the last few weeks, growing more and more apparent the last few days as the time to make a choice loomed ever closer on the horizon.

“You’re allowed to have feelings about it all, Roz,” Vincent reached out, a hand gently resting upon hers, “you’re only human.” The contact was brief, but she felt it again: a soft shiver rolled down her spine, but this was a pleasant sensation, as though stepping into a warm bath. It was gone as quickly as it came, her own expression confused before she shook her head.

“I don’t think that’s what they want from me.”

“Aye, but what do you want? It can’t just be about them and their needs. You’re the one they call Herald and you have more power than you think you have.”

Roz snorted, a ghost of a smile tracing her lips. “Don’t tell them that. I think the idea of a mage in power scares them, even if they don’t admit to it aloud.” She twisted, reaching for the blanket edge that kept slipping. Vincent reached for it instead, lifting it to her shoulder. The action paused in his hands, a frown shifting his features.

“They have you sleep with these scratchy things?” He questioned, experimentally rubbing the fabric between his fingers in obvious distaste. “How can you get comfortable with this scratchin’ and itchin’ at you all night long?”

“I’m certain they’re made to be more utilitarian than comfortable,” Roz commented dryly. “Honestly, I think the fact that we even have supplies really shows just how far we’ve- wait, where are you going?” Right in the middle of her sentence, Vincent stood abruptly. She watched with a strange curiosity as he moved away from the fire, all but stalking back towards the tent he had set up with Rolfe earlier in their evening.

Vanishing into his tent, he reappeared looking a little ruffled in the firelight, carrying something she couldn’t discern in his hands. “Here, this should be better.” He was careful with his movements, gently placing a sleek, soft pelt across her shoulders. Not before, he course, he helped pull the other blanket off of her.

“Oh.” Roz felt a sigh bubble up from her lips, marveling at the softness and the warmth that encompassed her effortlessly. “Maker, this is lovely.” She paused, adding softly, “Thank you. You didn’t have to-”

“Aye, I didn’t, but I wanted to.”

It was the earnestness that caught her off-guard; cynicism followed her every step when it came to anyone getting closer with her. The members of the Inquisition she was learning to trust, but part of her always wondered how much they wanted from her.

Roz pressed her cheek against the softness of the fur, closing her eyes again. “Still, thank you.”

The silence was interrupted only by the flowing water and crackling fire. Then, so softly, Vincent asked the question that had Roz’s stomach coiled in knots once again. “What does it mean to be made Tranquil?”

She didn’t speak for a few, long moments, eyes opened again as she stared into the fire. Her frown deepened as she tried to think of a way to explain it easily, but she knew there was no easy way to do that.

“If a mage is a danger to themselves or others, Templars have the choice to use the Rite of Tranquility upon them,” Roz murmured, bitterness lacing her words as she lifted her gaze from the fire, meeting his. “It means they are cut-off from the Fade. They become shells of themselves: docile, able to enchant, but unable to be who they once were.” She swallowed hard, adding softly, “Not all who are made Tranquil are dangerous. I’ve seen it used as punishment as well.”

“So those skulls belonged to-”

“Mages who had been made Tranquil, yes.” Roz paused, her face screwed up in an attempt not to weep at the fresh onslaught of emotion that welled up in her throat. It was a wound that she didn’t know would heal, a scar that kept opening every time she thought it was closed.

Vincent met the statement with horrified silence, his own expression darkening in the glow of the fire. He muttered what Roz could only assume was a curse in his native tongue. “To be cut-off from your true self,” he muttered, “must certainly be a fate worse than death.”

“Yes,” Roz murmured, her voice thick as she pulled the pelt tighter around her shoulders, “it is. And to see them and know that they’re not truly there, all of their light just…gone.” She swallowed hard again, letting out a shaky breath.

“You’ve known those made Tranquil.” Another statement of fact came gently from his lips and Roz swore she could feel his gaze on her as she stared directly into the fire.

“Yes,” She whispered, blinking back tears unsuccessfully. “Some I didn’t know very well, but others…” She trailed off a moment, brushing a hand across her cheek with a sniffle. “Someone I loved was made Tranquil.” It was the one story she had never truly told amongst her new companions, uncertain how to even begin. But Vincent reached out, tentatively, his hand resting over hers.

“You don’t have to tell me,” He reassured her gently, “if you don’t want to.”

“I know,” Roz gave him a watery smile, “but I think I want to.” The truth was a hard burden to bear alone and, even though she knew this changed nothing of what had happened, there was a small part that needed to simply speak the words into existence.

“His name was Alderis, and I loved him desperately.” And so she spoke, weaving the story in soft tones about her mentor who had turned into her dear friend and then lover. How smart he had been, how passionate about their freedoms, how kind he had been to her and others.

“He wanted our freedom as much as anyone in the Circle,” Roz confided, “and perhaps not all of his methods would have been viewed upon with kindness from the Chantry.” Blood magic never was, but that was part of her story that she kept tucked away. “Suspicions were flying and everyone was tense in the Circle in the weeks leading up to it. In the end, I think it was easiest to make Alderis an example, if not to stop him from preaching of just what we might gain from autonomy and life outside the Circle.”

Those last moments Roz knew she’d never forget. The classroom where they were working with a few of the newly Harrowed students before the door was shoved open. Alderis had been smiling a moment before they grabbed him, the Templars showing no mercy as Roz surged forwards. She’d been stopped and charges were laid at their feet.

“I don’t know why I was spared yet he was not.” Her voice dropped so softly, shaking her head as a few errant tears slipped down her cheeks. “None of it made sense.” She had her suspicions that her mentor, Lydia, had kept her from the same fate, but that had meant little when faced with the results of the rite done on Alderis. Blank eyes, a monotone voice and the mark on his forehead for everyone to see.

Taking up his mantle in the search for their freedoms had seemed easy comparably. Her grief had turned to rage and resolution in the face of rebellion.

“I heard few survived the uprising at Ostwick. I don’t know if he or the others found their way out.” Roz had planted the seeds, pulled away to the Conclave when her friends and comrades in arms rose up against the Templars. The story had been spun to sound peaceful, as though a compromise had been sought by both sides. It was an effort to keep the peace; Roz knew the truth, though, clutching tight the hope that her students and friends had made their way from that place in one piece.

His hand squeezed hers, fingers gently lacing between hers to hold tightly to her. “That sounds like it’s been a heavy burden to carry, Rosalind.” And that was the truth, murmured to her by the campfire, thousands of miles from the only place she had known as home. She let out a sharp, soft laugh, bitter and sorrowful as she sniffed hard again against more tears.

“Sometimes I prefer to think he died that day when they cut him from the fade,” Roz admitted, her features twisted again in grief as she continued in a broken whisper, “It was kinder to me, as selfish as it sounds. I’d rather remember him with life and passion. I can cherish his memory of what was rather than what they made him.”

“If you found him tomorrow, would you still care for him the same way as before?” He asked her and the question had her pause, deep in thought as she stared at the fire.

“I don’t know. Maybe? Or maybe not?” There were too many factors at place in her mind, wondering exactly how she might react to finding him again after all that had happened. “In the end, I feel he was a dear friend to me, a companion to share ideas with. If he were alive, if I found him, I would want to make sure he was safe and cared for, not left to the whims of the world and those who would exploit him.” She swallowed hard, adding softly, “I’d owe him that much.”

Alderis had given her hope, a spark that had grown into a fire that burned inside her. There would always be an ache for what could have been or what she could have done, but nothing could change that. And, while she wouldn’t say it aloud, Roz had long since come to peace that nothing could sway her from the path she walked now. She had been willing to die for the rebellion, yet she had been offered the chance to live and see parts of it some to fruition.

It wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but it was a start.

They sat in quiet, his hand still intertwined with hers. His thumb rubbed soft, soothing circles along the back of her hand, a gentle comfort that left her with feelings she couldn’t quite put to words. And maybe now wasn’t the time to do it, not with her emotions raw as they were.

There was relief in having shared though, a wave of it washing over her with a suddenness. There were tears again as she leaned against Vincent’s shoulder, her cheek pressed against him, but there was no sorrow in them this time. His hand slipped free and Roz nearly pulled back, afraid she’d overstepped, but instead he tucked her close, an arm resting gently at her shoulder.

“Thank you for listening,” Roz murmured thickly against his shirt.

“Of course, Rosalind,” He whispered against the crown of her head, “of course.”

Roz didn’t remember going back to bed, but she woke with the pelt still tucked gently around her. She pressed her nose against it, breathing it in, her heart feeling lighter than it had in months. The sounds of the camp waking up and the scent of rashers being cooked on the fire were enough to draw her from the tent at last. An idea had struck her late in the night that wouldn’t leave her alone, swiftly rubbing the last winks of sleep from her eyes as she exited her tent.

“Iron Bull,” Roz called, arms wrapped tightly around herself, “can you come with me?”

They walked in slightly awkward silence; it wasn’t a long trek back to the ledge, but the moment seemed to linger on and on. Roz knew she didn’t want to apologize for getting mad, but she didn’t want to leave things as they were. Instead, she had a different idea.

The skull sat upon the strangely carved pedestal at the edge, the faint whisperings of magic brushing against her ears.

“What do you need, Boss?”

Roz tilted her head a moment, gesturing to the skull. “I need you to help me get this unstuck.” She blew a strand of hair from her face, adding quietly, “I don’t think I’m strong enough physically to get it to move without a little help.” When she used them, they only rotated so far and never had she been able to shift and adjust it. With her smaller hands to pry it a bit and Bull’s strength, she assumed they might make a go of it.

The request seemed to surprise Bull, who raised a brow and then nodded. “Sure.”

As she had predicted, the effort took both pairs of hands to remove it. Roz whispered some ice magic into her fingertips, turning the base brittle in an attempt to get it off without completely shattering the skull. There was a small crunch before Bull had it in his hands, finally, after a few minutes of their work.

Bull held the skull aloft a moment, the light filtering through it a moment, magic slowly dissipating from it once it had been removed from its place. Only when it dulled again did he hold it to her, letting her gently lift the skull from his palms. Roz wished she knew how to describe how she felt to him, the hurt that came with the discovery, the pain at knowing that she may have known these people. She swallowed hard though, cradling it close to her.

“You told me about Seheron,” she began softly, meeting his gaze with misty eyes, “and the people you lost. Know the pain that you felt, the kind that led you to the Re-educators, is the same pain I’m feeling right now. I wish I didn’t know this, but I do and I have to live with it.” There was no turning back from this new information, no pretending it didn’t exist or changing how they discovered the cabin. Now she knew and she could try to do something good with it.

“I get it, Boss,” Bull rubbed the back of his shaved head. But even the spy didn’t have the right words to truly encompass everything Roz was feeling or to untangle the complications that surrounded her heart in that moment.

“What’s done is done,” Roz intoned gently, “and now we can move forward.” She gazed back out to the expanse of the land that stretched out before them from the spot. “I don’t want their deaths to be in vain. We continue to pull the shards from the field, but after we’ve marked their locations we take the skulls and give them a proper burial. They deserve that.” She didn’t know how or where, but they would be laid to rest.

Bull had a hand resting between her shoulder blades, a weight that pulled her from the depths of her emotions. There was a moment, soft and quiet as she smiled at him sadly. “Some of our brightest were made this way. I hope something like this doesn’t have to happen again. I hope to change it.” Perhaps the pair of them would never see eye-to-eye, but an understanding passed between them as she walked back into the camp, finding a spot for the skull and a map marked with the locations of the others in the region.

“I’ll only be a few moments,” Roz argued with Cassandra as the pair of them trekked up the sloping incline to the top of the lake, “I don’t need an escort to gather spindleweed and blood lotus.” They’d be leaving the region soon enough and Roz already knew the Adan would appreciate more stocks to add to his stores back in Haven. She had her own concoctions to test out, but first she needed ingredients to work with beyond what they’d already gathered.

“It’s no trouble,” Cassandra followed dutifully behind Roz as they crested the hill. The banks of the lake were teeming with plant life and Roz was careful each time she stepped further to the water’s edge to gather what she needed.

Lost in her own thoughts, Roz hummed gently to herself as she plucked and picked and moved closer to the edge of the waterfall. Their camp was well within sight and there was a soft swell of encouragement to see most of their party relaxing in the late morning sunlight.  And then her gaze drifted to the lake below.

“Oh.” Nearly dropping her satchel, Roz felt all the breathe leave her lungs, eyes wide as she caught sight of the brothers below. The mist and water kept much shrouded from her eyes, but there was quite a lot for her to see. And, Maker, it was a sight that she couldn’t help but drink in.

Both brothers, swimming and splashing in the lake below. Completely and utterly naked.

“Roz, what have you-” Cassandra began but Roz grabbed the Seeker’s arm to tug her down and out of sight before they could be spotted in their peeking.

“Shh!” Roz jerked her head down, unable to stop the rising heat in her cheeks as she glanced back down at the bare forms of Vincent and Rolfe in the water.

To her surprise, Roz caught Cassandra blushing when she realized exactly what they were watching. “Oh!”

“Yes.” Roz let out a slow, shaky breath, her eyes tracing the whorls and tattoos that decorated Vincent’s chest and shoulder. She had seen some peeking out from under his clothing, but nothing with quite so much detail as she saw in the moment. Water dripped down Vincent’s shoulders, flexing and stretching as he swam away from Rolfe’s splashing. It was innocent, playful as the brothers sent water flying at one another, Rolfe’s baritone laugh and an undignified squawk from Vincent when he was dunked under.

She swore softly, swallowing hard. “I…Andraste’s frilly knickers, we shouldn’t be doing this, should we?”

“Probably not,” Cassandra muttered, though she made no move to leave just then. Despite her own apparent indifference towards Rolfe when they were together, the Seeker was very quiet now, her eyes fixed on Rolfe below. Roz glanced to Cassandra and then back down to the lake below.

There wasn’t any harm in this. It wasn’t like they planned to do it again. She cleared her throat, settling down, allowing herself a few moments longer to enjoy the view and the wild workings of her imagination. Cassandra broke the silence with a gruff murmur.

“We’ll never speak of this to anyone.”

“You have my word.”

[thestraggletag]

Ties of Blood, aka the Rumbelle cursed!faux!incest fic, Part One

Summary: There’s nothing more tragic that rip two lovers apart, except piecing the broken pieces together wrong. Never say the Evil Queen doesn’t know about revenge.

Rating: NC-17

AN: This is NOT an incest fic. It is, however, a “lovers are cursed to think they’re brother and sister” fic so it IS kinda an incest thing, in a way. Let us all remember fanfiction is full of things we would rather NOT see happen in real life, just so the hate is kept to a minimum. If it’s not your think then please, don’t read. There are hundreds of other amazing Rumbelle stories out there waiting for you.

Happy Rumbellesary, guys!!!! Hope it doesn’t take me forever to put up part two.

Rent day was never easy. The people of Storybrooke were under the mistaken impression the landlord lived for those days, for the threatening and the squeezing people dry, but it was a common misconception, one he was careful to never act against. It served his purpose to have people think it gave him a thrill to go around one by one collecting the money he was rightfully owed. It tended to dissuade people from trying to slip by him or make excuses as to why they didn't have the money and how they just needed a bit more time. For the more problematic tenants he had Dove, the gentle giant who couldn't hurt a fly but looked like he was one nasty look away from snapping and going on a killing spree with his bare hands.

As always, he finished his rounds with Granny's, after which he limped back home, feeling the stress of the day melt away with each step he took. Even so he all but collapsed on his favourite Chesterfield club chair, feeling the butter-soft leather as his hands gripped the armrests. Its low back didn't quite allow him to lean back comfortably, but it was precisely that feature he loved the most. The reason why made her appearance a few seconds later, wrapping her arms around him from behind and resting her forehead against his lower jaw, allowing him to press his face against her hair. The shampoo she used smelled faintly citrusy and distinctively like home.

"How's your ankle?"

He felt the words against the side of his neck, the beautiful accent wrapping around each one, as thick as his own. Belle planted a kiss on his cheek before rising to pour them both a cup of tea. She'd made a batch of shortbread in preparation for rent day, to help cajole a smile or two out of him, and the buttery taste was enough to get rid of most of the tension settled on his shoulders. He was the one that did the cooking on a regular basis, a secret hobby of his. But Belle loved baking, and it showed.

"A bit swollen, it's been a long day. Chased three tenants up and down town, almost had to run Mr Clark over before he stopped trying to squirm away. Would've made a mess of the Caddy."

Belle's laugh washed over him, one of his favourite sounds. It was genuine and free, embodying her to a T. She didn't laugh easily though, and had an endearing predilection for his brand of dark humour, the kind that made most people shudder. That little quirk of hers unsettled everyone else, he knew, but it warmed him right up.

"Did you wear that shirt for me? I know you hate it."

She gestured to her checkered skirt which, indeed, matched his shirt almost perfectly. He liked to do that, to incorporate a particular colour, texture or pattern she wore into his own outfit so they seemed like a matching pair. Silly, of course, but he couldn't help it. He wanted everyone, at all times, to be reminded of who Belle was connected to, who she belonged to in the most basic way.

"Nonsense, it's just a happy coincidence."

Belle made a noncommittal sound, clearly not buying it.

"Any other surprises? No fights with Moe French, I hope."

She had a soft spot for the hapless florist, for some reason. Moe French was a useless waste of space, with no head for business and a perpetual sheen of perspiration, no matter the time of the day or the temperature. He could be counted on for two things: being late on the rent and always stocking hydrangeas, which happened to be Belle's favourite flower. It was likely the reason why he hadn't evicted the lowlife yet.

"He forked over the money eventually, after swearing up and down he didn't have it, of course. Oh, and..." he paused, frowning, feeling a wave of something wash over him. The stranger at Granny's, he'd forgotten about her for a moment. Which was odd, because the moment he'd seen her, heard her name, it was as if his world had tilted, had shifted in some profound way. It had been deeply unpleasant, as used as he was to micromanaging every aspect of his existence, but coming home to Belle had for a moment made him forget. "There's someone new in town. An Emma Swan. Has the looks of a troublemaker."

"Well, that's unusual. Can't remember the last time anyone came from out of town."

For a moment that gave him pause. Wasn't it strange, after all? Storybrooke might be small and quaint, but it should still attract tourists and the occasional wanderer. And yet he couldn't recall the last time he'd seen a new face around town.

"You're in deep thought. Guess this Emma Swan's made a bit of an impression."

Belle's tone was mildly suggestive, only hinting at something. He pretended he didn't notice, humming in pleased surprise when Belle combed a hand through his shaggy hair, murmuring something about him needing a trim. He staid absolutely still as she petted him absentmindedly, something she did when she thought he needed some human contact. Sometimes he wondered if Belle was as physical as she was because he was so touch-starved, as if she'd learned to compensate.

"You're the only woman in my life, sweetheart, and I rather prefer to keep it that way."

He took her hand and kissed it, trying to push the memories of his time before her to the back of his mind. She smiled at him, and as if she knew of the unwelcome thoughts in his head, leaned over and kissed his forehead.

"You need to make room for more than just your little sister, Rabbie."

"Nonsense."

In spite of his put-on nonchalance Gold found that, indeed, Miss Swan had made an impression on him that first night because he found himself wondering about her almost relentlessly over the next few days. For some reason her name pressed into his mind, as if it was trying to jostle something inside. To try and get rid of the feeling he set out to learn as much as he could about the newcomer, and what he found out was extremely interesting, indeed. Emma Swan, biological mother to one Henry Mills, teenage delinquent turned bailsbonds person, who seemed to have no personal attachments whatsoever. A product of the American foster care system, apparently, discovered lying on the side of the road hours after being born... just outside Storybrooke.

What were the odds?

Miss Swan, contrary to what her commitment-phobic background would suggest, seemed to be leaning towards staying around for the time being, apparently at the behest of her son. She seemed to have more than a few misgivings about Madam Mayor's parental abilities, not that he could blame her. Other than Regina's patently-clear emotional issues it said a lot about her that her ten-year-old son had ended up alone in New York City. He bet the kid had snuck out while Regina enjoyed her bi-weekly... meeting with Sheriff Graham. Getting a nanny or someone to mind the child would have potentially exposed her trysts to the general public, so he figured she left him alone with a stern warning to stay put.

There was something to gain out of all of this, he considered. Emma Swan was an exciting new weapon against the mayor. Untried and untested, for sure, but with boundless potential. Already she seemed to be having a bit of an effect in town, if her newfound friendship with mousy Miss Blanchard was anything to go by. And then there was that strange episode with the comatose patient... Not that he could really blame it on Emma Swan, but it felt like too much of a coincidence, all the connections there.

Belle was uneasy about the newcomer.

"I just worry about how serious she is regarding Henry. The kid already adores her, I don't wanna know what will happen to him once Miss Swan decides she's had enough of Storybrooke."

Gold knew little Henry Mills was a regular at the library, and not just for the books. Belle often told him the boy sat down to do his homework or read his comic books. For him it was a safe place away from home. And his sister, bleeding heart that she was, had gotten attached. Henry Mills was a charming little boy, after all, he couldn't blame her.

"Oh, I wouldn't count on it. Miss Swan looks quite determined. Ready to take on the Mayor herself for the wee lad. It's quite commendable."

"She already gave him up once, remember?"

He didn't reply to that, knowing that parental love was a sore spot for Belle. Instead he gently squeezed her waist as she passed by, a silent reminder that she was loved.

He was looking to try and figure out a way to get a bit of power over the woman when Ashley Boyd gave him a golden opportunity. Stupid, feckless girl, with very little impulse control and no common sense, but her sudden attempt at skipping town without paying her dues ended up working in his favour. It was almost worth the concussion he'd given himself after being attacked by the pregnant little chit, and he had to admit that his puffy eyes and the gash on his forehead did make him look the right sort of pitiful for Miss Swan to brush aside the rumours of his reputation that she has, surely, heard already. Getting her to agree to locating Ashley was easier than even he anticipated, and Miss Swan's guilty body language hinting that she might have had an involvement in Miss Boyd's decision to quit town.

He had to force his feet not to carry him to the library the minute he was out of Miss Blanchard's apartment. His eyes stung and the cut on his forehead felt like it was on fire and he wanted nothing more than to go to Belle, to let himself be petted and tended to lovingly. He remembered skinning his knees as a child or cutting himself while out playing, remembered first the utter indifference of his parents and then the well-meaning but awkward touch of the "aunts" he'd been left with when his parents high-tailed it to Australia, running away from trouble and responsibility (him being the main responsibility). His aunts had loved him, but in a stilted, strangely devoid of touch way, the only way they knew how to love him. But then Belle had come into his life again and she had made him addicted to loving touches. Hugs, kisses, passing touches in the arm or the back and, of course, caring, loving touches when he was sick or injured. He used to hate it when she tried to approach him when he was weak, the product of his upbringing, but Belle had patiently wormed her way in so thoroughly that he now had to actively fight the instinct to get to her.

As a child she'd treated her role as his own personal nurse very seriously. She had put band-aids on every tiny little cut he'd ever gotten, had applied antiseptic with the precision of a surgeon, telling him sternly not to move. She'd always kissed his injuries after patching him up, what she called the "kiss cure". His cut was certainly in dire need of a kiss, but it was necessary to see things through first. Time was of the essence, as it turned out. Like he had predicted Miss Boyd did not manage to get too far from Storybrooke- not even past the town line. He hadn't counted on her going into labour, though he couldn't deny it helped his plans immensely, gave the situation an urgency that would play in his favour.

But news in Storybrooke travelled fast, and so he wasn't surprised when his sister walked into the hospital looking for him. Though he knew Miss Swan was watching and it didn't serve his purpose to let her see him so vulnerable he didn't try to stop Belle when she bent down to gently cup his face, cooing in that soft, sweet tone that could put him in a near-catatonic state. For someone so prickly it was stupidly easy how Belle managed to utterly disarm him.

"Oh, my sweet darling..."

She ran her hands through his hair before bending down further to place a feather-light kiss on the cut and two on his swollen eyelids. Though he knew he didn't have time for it, that his confrontation with Miss Swan was important, he wrapped his arms around his sister and rested his head against her lower stomach, breathing in her scent and basking in her warmth. Her hands carded through his hair and, Lord, it was heaven. Almost tempting enough to side-track him, to make him give up his machination. But after a while he straightened out, taking a deep breath to prepare himself. Gently but firmly he told his sister to go home, that he had a deal to close. Belle always respected that, strove to separate herself from his shadier practices, but he did catch the faintly hurt look in her face and the way her eyes darted towards Miss Swan, unsure. True to herself, however, she kissed his cheek and took off.

He was finally confronted by an enraged Emma Swan when he sauntered close for coffee. He'd banked everything on her fledging mothering instinct, in whatever was keeping her in Storybrooke in the first place. She was passionate, for sure, as she rounded in on him for dealing in children. Apparently, her disgust did not translate to Ashley, somehow managing to make this about him buying a child but not her selling one. People were very good in general about making their mistakes somehow into some nefarious plot of his own doing. The conversation, in the end, well exactly as he planned. She was all bluster and self-righteous anger, the right frame of mind to be to start making stupid, rash decisions. And he remained cool and almost playful, sipping from the awful cup of coffee from the hospital machine mainly because he knew it made him look all the more nonchalant. He did a marvellous job of hinting at all he had discovered about her, to throw her off balance, and of hitting all the sore spots in the process, from her voluntary surrender of her baby to the horrors of the system she had grown up in. And in the end, when she thought she had him beat, all cocky and self-assured, he had "conceded", as if this wasn't where he had wanted the conversation to go all along. And just like that he had gotten Miss Swan to owe him a favour. A small thing to others, perhaps, but a powerful tool in his hands.

Dinner that night was a quiet affair, Belle's distance and her silence putting a damper on the high he had gotten from deal-making. Familiar, cold fear crept up his spine, like it happened every time he let his dark side out too much. He was always afraid then that Belle would finally see the monster she called brother and leave him, move away and distance herself from him, leaving him alone. Losing his parents had been rough as a child. Losing Belle, though... he didn't think he could survive it.

"Do you ever wonder what it must feel like?"

Her voice was quiet, subdued, very unlike her. It made Gold uneasy.

"What what must feel like?"

"Being loved by a parent like that. Being wanted as a child. Going to meet the mother you never knew and have her fight so fiercely for you, for no reason other than she gave birth to you."

He knew where this was going and did not like it. Usually Belle was not one to go down memory lane. As much as she had suffered in the past she rarely alluded to any painful events or recollections, always seeming to choose to focus on the present. To a certain extent it was one of Belle's greatest strengths, her resilience and ability to move forward, to hold on to her sweetness and her positive outlook on life. It was also, to a minor extent, a blatant lie, a mask she donned so carefully, so craftily, that almost no one noticed it.

But he did.

"Sometimes... sometimes the past seems like a haze. And I wonder if it's because of... of what happened, or if it's something else."

There was a vaguely worried look about her face, and he felt raw, blind fear grip him. Whenever Belle even as much as alluded to her ordeal he dreaded what it might lead to. Nightmares, usually, and sometimes days on end of disconnection with the rest of the world. Sometimes Belle could burrow so deep inside he wasn't able to reach her. For some reason the sheriff seemed to be able to sniff out whenever Belle was suffering one of her spells and they'd do something, spend some time together. For some reason the sheriff seemed able to connect to Belle in a way he couldn't and, in spite of the lingering jealousy it gave him, he was glad of it.

"I've never wondered, myself. I know what it is to love unconditionally, and have that love be reciprocated." He looked at her intently, adamant about getting his meaning across. "I know what it is to have someone to belong to, to call home. I only regret the years of my childhood I spent waiting for it, waiting for you. Mama and papa might have been right bastards, but they did provide me with a family. They gave me you."

Belle reached out for his hand, and he noticed that hand-holding was something they did often, most of the time unawares.

"I never loved our parents, not in any deep way. I knew it wasn't safe. But you... I loved you the moment I saw you, the instant you were in my arms. You were mine and I was yours and I knew then what it felt to have a family."

She squeezed his fingers gently, her long nails scratching his skin pleasantly.

"I wish I could remember. But I know that, ever since I can remember, you've been the first person to catch my attention. My first memory. You and Peter Rabbit."

Change seemed to be everywhere, which was unusual in Storybrooke. Ashley Boyd's ordeal was big news for a while, along with her reconciliation with baby daddy Sean Hermann, against his father's express wishes. Everyone thought it incredibly romantic, though Gold thought it rather trite, not to mention fickle. Two teenagers raising a child, with one of then barely now acknowledging the child was actually his, was lunacy. Thankfully, at least, the boy hadn't gotten it into his head to cross him out of some misguided and rather late sense of chivalry. On the contrary both him and Miss Boyd avoided him as much as possible, even though they were forced to rent one of his smallest properties to live in. Miss Boyd, however, became a frequent presence at the library, to peruse material about child-rearing. And it later evolved into her dumping her little bundle of joy on Belle whenever she had to take the odd job and could not arrange for a friend or cheap baby-sitter. It seemed ridiculous for Ashley to trust the sister of the man she claimed had "tried to take her baby", but in the end everyone knew Mr Gold always kept his deals, and that meant like Alexandra was safe from him.

The child was well-behaved, thankfully, though no one would know that from hearing her mother talk. Having had little to no experience with babes he'd expected the new-born to be fussy and prone to crying, but she was a quiet, rather solemn child. Pretty, too, with wide eyes and pinkish skin, and dressed to the nines thanks to the efforts of Granny Lucas and a gaggle of people she had rather strong-armed into charitable donations. Gold knew that Belle had made her own anonymous contribution, which she had kept secret from him, as if he'd oppose. He rather approved of it. No matter the circumstances the child was not to blame for the way she'd been brought into the world or what her parents had done.

The baby also brought with her a strange freshness to Storybrooke, as if the time before had been stale and lifeless somewhat. She was a constant, unavoidable proof of the change he felt all around him, tugging on his senses, pressing on his brain. The nebulous feeling of forgetting something had turned into a pressing, anxious itch, and little Alexandra with her chubby hands and baby smell for some reason seemed to make it worse. Sometimes when he was in the library and the baby made a sound or fussed and, strangely, he knew exactly what it meant, how to differentiate a sound of hunger from one that meant uneasy digestion. Though he promised himself not to get close to the child, lest someone see him and send Miss Boyd into a panic Belle alone managed the entire library, so it was inevitable that, during a lull in the afternoon, when she was too busy reshelving to look after the baby, she'd ask him to do it. And, though he expected to fumble and fail spectacularly, the moment she'd been in his arms he'd known what to do, as if some sort of muscle memory was kicking in. He had Alexandra burped and soothed in no time at all, leaving his mind free to wander to strange places, images of rustic cottages and the strong smell of sheep plaguing him. It was all accompanied by a strange wave of almost crippling sadness, as if he had lost something, something vital to his very existence, only he couldn't recall what or when.

He was quick to give the child back once Belle came back, his hands twitching in that nervous way of his he always tried to hide. He took several steps back, relieved, trying to dispel the strange feeling having the babe close had caused. Belle held the baby with the certainty of someone who had gotten used to doing it and for a second all he could think about was that Ashely Boyd was taken advantage of his sister's kind and trusting nature to get a free babysitter. Belle already worked hard at the library, volunteered at the also-understaffed local animal shelter and even, on occasion, helped out at Granny's when they were swamped or Granny's arthritis acted up. Adding unpaid nanny to the list of chores seemed more than a bit extreme.

The babe fussed, prompting Belle to gently rock her and coo softly. She made such a pretty picture, clasping the child close as if she was her own, looking at her with such tenderness. And it dawned on him what a lovely mother his sister would make. She was affectionate by nature, though not prone to sharing her most intimate self with a lot of people. Naturally shy and wary she let her guard down only for those closest to her and those too innocent, mainly children and animals. But he'd never before stopped to consider her as a mother. She had never seemed eager to find a bloke, move out, and start a new family, but seeing her with the baby made it clear how right it was. If she wasn't interested in finding a man for that all the better, there was no one in Storybrooke or beyond good enough for her. He could give her a child, a child that would be lovingly raised in their home, lacking nothing in terms of material goods or affection. A child who would have her endless curiosity and, perhaps, his cunning.

He snapped himself out of his daydream as soon as he started imagining a child with his sister's cheekbones and his brown eyes. Adoption was the only way for what he'd been foolishly entertaining. It'd be incongruous for the child in his fantasy to resemble them in any way. And it was entirely possible, likely even, that it'd never come to pass. Belle would likely meet someone, some strapping, able-bodied young buck, and would get married and moved away. And she'd have handsome children who'd call him "Uncle Gold".

For some reason that made his stomach hurt.

It wasn't often that Gold caved in to his sister's request to eat at Granny's but he'd agreed to meet her at the diner that day, to try and cheer her up. The recent quake at the mines had the Mayor sniffing around the Library with veiled threats regarding its closure due to what she claimed was a "shaky foundation", though she had yet to provide any documentation to support her allegations. After some subtle threatening, and a well-placed please, Regina Mills had relented to only chaining up the doors of the ancient elevator, which hadn't been used in ages anyway as the library had ample storage space in the attic, where the old librarian's apartment had once been. Knowing a burger and some strawberry pie would cheer her up he'd proposed the outing himself, earning an extra-long hug and goodbye kiss that morning. His cell-phone rang just as he was getting ready to close the shop, forcing him to drop the keys to pick up.

"Sweetheart, I was just about to close and go- What's wrong?"

Over the years the Gold siblings had developed an almost uncanny ability to read each other, something that didn't even require them to be face to face. Belle hadn't said anything since he'd picked up the phone, but her breathing was off and he knew- he knew- something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

"Sweetheart, please answer. Where are you?"

"H-hos-hospital..."

His blood turned to ice and for a second he thought it impossible to breathe. He spared a second or two to pull himself together, to calm down. Belle needed him calm.

"Are you injured? Did something happen to you? Was it someone else?"

The silence that followed seemed to stretch on forever. Finally, after letting out a wet, pitiful little sigh his sister spoke.

"Graham's dead."

He'd never understood the connection between his sister and the sheriff. It had always seemed to be there, a sort of camaraderie, a companionship different from that she had with him. It wasn't romantic or sexual, at least it had never felt that way to him. The sheriff was an honest, caring man and he supposed a good potential love match for his sister if it had ever come to that, but he was relieved that it never showed signs of progressing in that way. The good sheriff's complicated, unsavoury relationship with the mayor made him dangerous dating material. Regina hated his and Belle's platonic friendship, anything else would have been too much of a provocation for her.

But for whatever reason Belle and Sheriff Graham shared a tight, close bond that had more than once pulled Belle back from some very dark places, from shadowy corners of her mind where even he could not venture. They'd go for walks in the forest mostly, after which they'd get ice-cream and Belle would come home later looking more like herself. Sometimes they went to a movie, the sort Belle knew her brother wouldn't enjoy, or for a bite at Granny's. He hated it, of course, hated how Graham was privy to a part of Belle he could barely scratch the surface of, but he was also deeply thankful. The sheriff could piece his sister back together when he failed, and that made him invaluable in his esteem.

Only now he was dead.

The Caddy took him to the hospital in a flash, and no one even tried to get in his way once inside. One of the older, less jittery nurses led him to the waiting area of the ER. He spotted Miss Swan first, hair in a dishevelled ponytail and face red from crying. She looked fragile for the first time since he'd met her, like she could barely keep herself together. He felt a stab of pity for her. It was unpleasant to see someone so strong, so guarded, be so publicly broken. She was still crying, only she was trying to make it look like she wasn't.

Belle was sitting to the side, looking at the floor. Her hair obscured her face but he knew immediately that her eyes were likely dull and vacant, as if she wasn't there at all. He stamped down the panic that threatened to engulf him and rushed to her side, sinking to his knees as soon as he was near.

"Belle, sweetheart, I'm here."

Gingerly, as if afraid to spook her, he rested a hand on her knee, noticing she didn't seem to register him at all. Too deep inside her own mind. He sat down next to her, kissing her forehead and stroking her hair, willing her to come back to him. She looked stupidly young at the moment, almost child-like.

"I'm here, sweetheart, I'm here. It'll be alright."

Dr Whale strolled by, having the decency to look somehow sympathetic when he passed them by. Everyone in town knew of his sister's friendship with the sheriff, though he gathered few understood the nature of it. Though the sheriff had been beloved he hadn't had many close friends, mostly beer-buddies and some friendly acquaintances. Belle had been the closest thing the man had had to a family, which he supposed meant that they ought to see about his funeral arrangements. Just as he began to make a mental checklist of all that would need taking care of Mayor Mills strolled into the waiting room, her high-heels clacking unpleasantly against the linoleum. She looked distressed, like he would have expected, but also strangely... cold. Detached.

"You fucking bitch!"

It came out of nowhere. One second Belle was unresponsive in his arms, looking dead to the world, and the next he was having to forcefully pull her back as she lounged at the mayor like a madwoman. Though Belle was small he struggled to hold her back, wincing at the strain he was putting his ankle under. It was a testament to how far gone his sister was that she didn't notice. She was usually uncannily attuned to his moods, and in particular to his pain.

"You killed him, you killed him!"

Her screaming attracted the attention of a couple of orderlies and three nurses, but none dared act against her in his presence. He chanced a glance at the mayor, surprised she seemed more rattled about his sister's outburst than was warranted. A second later her usual mask came down and she sneered.

"Control that crazy sister of yours, Mr Gold, before I have her committed in the name of public safety."

As much as he hated to admit it the threat hit home. She caught the gleam of fear in his eyes and smiled, once more the in-control, seductive viper she was.

"After all, she does have a history of... mental imbalance, doesn't she? Spent quite a few years in a padded cell, from what I remember. Perhaps they weren't enough."

Belle finally stopped struggling in his arms, sagging against him and almost sending them both toppling to the floor. He bared his teeth at the mayor, asking her to please leave. Though she seemed put off by it she stormed down in the direction of Dr Whale's office. He sat down heavily on one of the waiting room's uncomfortable plastic chairs, his sister cradled close and sobbing against his shoulder, whimpering over and over about how Regina had killed Graham. It made no sense, as far as he'd gathered Miss Swan was present when Graham had collapsed. Whatever seemed to have happened to the man looked to be a natural occurrence.

Even after it was ruled a heart attack Belle didn't seem convinced, though to his profound relief she didn't seem eager to go after the mayor again. Instead she threw herself on the funeral arrangements, viciously securing the spot on the local cemetery closest to the forest. Burying him in the actual woods was impossible, regulations and all, but his sister was adamant Graham's resting place would be as close to the wild as she could make it. She made sure the headstone was simple and was resolute about there being no flowers at the funeral, but rather people donate the money to the animal shelter.

The event itself was simple and classy, with Dr Hopper leading it and saying a few words. Belle herself didn't participate in any way other than attending, choosing to stay near the Lucases. She had dressed up for the occasion in a lace Zac Posen dress and a Burberry coat, her armour against Regina, a subtle power-play of sorts. She was beautiful in her grief, now that the sting of it had lost its freshness, pale and distant, like some sort of winter maiden. They'd barely spoken or interacted since leaving the hospital, the metaphorical distance between them making him feel uncomfortable in his own skin.

"It was nice of you to arrange this. I was dreading having to bear Regina organising Graham's funeral."

Emma Swan sidled up to him, wearing black skinny jeans and a blouse under a black coat, her red leather jacket forgotten for the occasion. Her posture was loose but her eyes tight, tension visible in them.

"I didn't do anything, this was all Belle. They were... The sheriff and she were close."

He saw her tense more out of the corner of his eye and smiled joylessly.

"Mind out of the gutter, Miss Swan. Belle and Graham were friends. Close friends, true, but nothing else."

"Yeah, how close?"

The tone was hard, brittle, but he knew better. Miss Swan, for all her hard-ass New York City bail-bonds person attitude had begun to have feelings for the deceased sheriff. And that necessitated a level of vulnerability that he knew was uncomfortable, not to mention hard to achieve. He knew what it was to feel like being alone was the safer, better option. And he knew the risks and the pain of letting someone in. It'd be unfair to let her memories of the sheriff be tainted by suspicions.

"Belle was born when I was a teenager and I loved her since the moment they placed her in my arms. Our parents... were no parents at all, lowlifes and conmen who had no business having children. I raised her, taught her her first words, saw her first steps, bought her clothes and made sure she ate. We... we were family, the two of us."

The pain that accompanied the recollection of his past was as vague as the memory itself, but it was real.

"But one day I was dumped with a couple of aunts while my parents took Belle for some scheme or the other. Wasn't that uncommon, I had been used in plenty of those as a tot. They never came back. Moved to fucking Australia, running away from a loan shark or ten, taking Belle with them because she was still useful. I was too old to elicit pity or play along without questioning. But I knew she'd at some point grow tired, or rebellious or simply too old like me and they'd dispose of her like they did me. So, I made it my mission to get her back. Earn enough money to support both of us, get a plane ticket and just... yank her out of there."

He could tell he had Miss Swan's undivided attention. She always seemed to be watching both of them, for some reason, always suspicious, but undeniably intrigued by their bond, by their nearness. Poor wretch didn't know what it was like to have a family, didn't know what it was to have someone be a part of you. She didn't understand, but she wanted to, on some level.

"Took years. Years to gain the means to support us and even more to find her. My parents never used their real names, and the ones they adopted didn't last long. It took them dying for me to find them, some car crash. When I went to Australia everyone I talked with claimed they'd never seen my sister. No one had ever seen her with them."

As he talked he looked at Belle, safe and sound a few feet away, talking to Hopper, Ruby like a sentinel by her side. A far cry from the little wisp of a thing he had found fading away in Brisbane.

"Turns out my wilful little Belle had outlived her usefulness a long time ago. Became a burden, so they had her committed to a mental fucking hospital. Passed the evidence of their abuse off as mental illness. She spent... years there. Locked up in some grungy little room, forgotten. When I managed to get her out she wouldn't talk, wouldn't eat, wouldn't leave her room. I feared she'd forgotten me, that they had stripped everything that was her away at the asylum."

"So, what happened? I mean, Belle is such a lively person, clearly she's recovered from... everything."

With anyone else he would have thought the need to pry too much, too gossipy. Miss Swan, however, was not the type. She was good, annoyingly so, and had a great capacity for care, almost against her will. He felt the need to give her something, to show her a glimpse of the man she'd begun to fall for. Graham's association with Regina, as unsavoury as it had been, must have tainted him to her somehow. It seemed inevitable. But Gold was sure he had been a victim in it, like most people that had any sort of link to Regina. And though he couldn't explain this to Emma, he could at least give her a glimpse of Graham's true personality: loyal, kind-hearted and compassionate.

"Belle's resilient. Tough as nails, even though it doesn't show. At first, I thought I could make her better all by myself, chase whatever monsters plagued her on my own. But it soon became clear that there was a part of Belle, some dark and hidden part, that I couldn't reach. She'd have these... spells. Get very quiet, sleep very little. Hated being inside, hated walls and confined spaces in general. Graham... sensed that, somehow. Began taking her on hikes in the woods, and later to the animal shelter to volunteer. It became a thing. Whenever Belle got into a mood there was the good sheriff, ready to take Belle fishing or bird-watching or whatever else he could come up with. He'd always make time, and it would always do Belle good. She returned more herself, pieced back together in a way that I could never... That I have never been able to accomplish."

The panic hit him all at once, like a sharp stab through the heart. He struggled to breathe, trying to imagine what he'd do the next time his little Belle went down a path he couldn't follow, couldn't pull her out of. Without Graham there to do something, he risked losing her.

"Hey, Gold, calm down, deep breaths."

He felt one of Miss Swan's hands on his back, doing something that was half-patting and half-rubbing, her body pressing up against his to make sure he stayed upright, as if unsure of his footing. He was glad they were far enough removed from everyone else that his little show of weakness went mostly unnoticed. He did feel, every now and then, Belle's attention on him, as familiar a feeling as the sun on his face.

"I'm fine, Miss Swan." He tried not to let her see how it bothered him to have her see him anything less than perfectly composed. He fiercely pushed aside the gnawing fear threatening to choke him and reminded himself why he was sharing this with Miss Swan. To repay, in some small way, a bit of the considerable debt he owed the late sheriff.

"I hope... I hope you won't judge the good sheriff harshly. I know there are... details about his personal life that were unsavoury, to say the least. But, if it's any consolation, I rather thought he was a man trapped by circumstance more than anything else."

"Thanks. Knowing the kind of person you are, opening up like this wasn't easy. I appreciate you doing it."

She glanced over at the freshly-filled grave, wistful tenderness blooming in her eyes. He imagined she was contemplating what could have been, what almost was. He thought about the sheriff's now empty apartment, about his things. Maybe he could offer Miss Swan a keepsake of sorts, something to hold onto. He put a call to Dove, who was in charge of packing up the sheriff's apartment- under strict orders of having everything put into storage as soon as possible, so Regina could lay claim to nothing- and arranged for a box of personal items to be delivered later to the pawnshop. The rest was to be sold and the proceeds donated to the animal shelter, as per Graham's instructions.

The drive home from the cemetery was a quiet one, but not the sort of silence that sat well between them. There was a coldness to his sister that he didn't like, a distance that didn't have anything to do with the melancholia that had set in since Graham had been pronounced dead. There was something faintly accusatory about her eyes, the way she pressed her lips together. After a quiet dinner she retired immediately to her bedroom, which she never did, and her made a conscious effort to let her. Seeking Belle out when she was closed-off never worked. She tended to shy away even more, retreat further into herself. Only Graham was able to reach out successfully but without him he'd have to trust that Belle would come to him when ready.

When she stopped by with his lunch- he had a bad habit of skipping meals if left to his own devices- he brought her the box with the sheriff's personal possessions, thinking that she bringing him food was a small way to try and re-establish the bond.

"What, Miss Swan didn't want any of this?"

Her voice was so brittle it was almost unrecognisable.

"What?"

"I know you were kind enough to offer her Graham's stuff. And she might be satisfied with the walkie-talkies for now, but what if she wants more later? I'd rather not pick something that Emma might later want to claim. Thanks for the afterthought, though."

Though he expected her to sit and have lunch with him, as she often did, she waltzed out of the shop before he could even process her last words.

She wanted to be happy for him. After all, she had liked Emma Swan well enough for Graham when it had become obvious the sheriff was getting attached. She'd even encouraged such an attachment, seeing how it was managing to draw Graham away from the mayor and her poisonous affection. Though she worried that the blonde might decide to leave Storybrooke as abruptly as she'd arrived, she had still nudged her friend in her direction, hoping for the best.

But it wasn't just Graham's attention Miss Swan had managed to catch. Henry seemed besotted with her, even though she'd already given him up once and was liable to do so again. Graham was an adult, he could cope with rejection and disappointment, but Henry was a kid already dealing with a difficult family situation. He was fragile, for all his boundless optimism and cheerfulness. Emma Swan could do a lot of damage there with minimum effort. And considering her own upbringing, and her own parents, it was easy to justify why she felt a bit of hostility with the newcomer whenever it came to Henry.

It was difficult, however, to justify similar thoughts when it came to her brother. She had noticed his blossoming interest in Emma Swan early on, but she had given it little thought, thinking it had more to do with one-upping the mayor than anything else. She'd often wondered about the source of such dislike, how it almost seemed like Regina Mills had done something personal to him, something other than squabbling for power. She'd wondered if perhaps the mayor hadn't unkindly rejected some romantic advance her brother had made in the past, though something about that theory seemed off. But Rabbie delighted in toying with the other woman a bit too much to let her rest easy. In that sense his newfound interest in Emma should've made her happy. She was miles more palatable than Miss Mills. But, far from it, it unsettled her. The way he said her name, Emma, made the skin on the back of her neck prickle uncomfortably, as if it held some sort of power.

Perhaps she'd been encouraging of Graham's suit because it allowed her to rest easy when it came to her brother's heart, and the thought, now that the sheriff was dead, made her sick. He'd been so good to her, so supportive, but she'd been willing to risk his heart to protect her brother's. And she hadn't even been able to give her friend her full attention at his own funeral, not with the way Rabbie and Miss Swan had spent most of it whispering to each other, heads close and body language intimate.

And now Emma Swan was acting sheriff, Graham's badge on her belt and one of his walkie-talking always nearby, the other in the hands of little Henry, looking like she might love to stay. And Belle hated herself for caring about that at a time when her friend's death should occupy her thoughts completely. Hated herself for the distance she was forcing between herself and Rabbie, who she knew was worried. Who thought her kind and good and had no idea she was petty and jealous and was worrying him just because she couldn't deal with the idea that he might not want to be just hers anymore. Rabbie had always been the one person whose love was constant and all-encompassing, who always had time for her, who was, in a way, hers alone. She had never before had to even contemplate the idea of sharing him with anyone, and hadn't realised it'd upset her so, that she would be so selfish as to want to keep him from making a meaningful connection with someone else.

She could see it, what could possibly draw them both together. Desperate souls, prickly and damaged, with a sort of sarcastic veneer and a standoffish nature. They could be good for each other, and she needed to make her peace with it. Needed to get her act together, needed to sleep and eat and function like a human being again before she worried her brother to death.

It wasn't until she knocked on his door and got no answer that she realised it was a little past three in the morning. Softly she opened the door, wishing to erase the distance she herself had created during the last few days. Rabbie seemed sound asleep, dark circles under his eyes indicating, however, that he wasn't doing much better than her. She brushed the hair out of his eyes before toeing off her slippers and tucking herself right next to him, like she'd done a million times in the past when a nightmare or something else unsettled her in the night. Instinctively he turned to the side, wrapping an arm around her waist.

"We're good?"

His voice was soft and uncertain, almost afraid. Belle snuggled closer to him, as if it was possible, trying to make up for the hurt she'd caused.

"We're good."

She closed her eyes, humming in contentment when he began to recite an old Scottish poem, his accent deepening until the world ceased to make sense and her eyes finally grew heavy with sleep. If and when the moment came, and if Emma Swan proved worthy, she'd be ready to let Rabbie go, ready to share him with someone else. But until then he was hers and she was his and all was right with the world.