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merakiui · 5 years ago

Note

hey!! i was lucky enough to stumble across your blog, & i'm enjoying your writing!! could i request something for a first date w/ sian? maybe something more casual, like a cafe!

(I’m glad you like it! Hopefully this is what you had in mind with your request! I went for a “friends to lovers” vibe in a modern setting if that’s okay. Please enjoy and thank you for such a fun request!)

Courtesy Coffee (Sian)

You met under unpleasant circumstances. Sian was in a rush to get to his destination, and you were staring down at your phone with a cup of iced coffee in your other hand. Like that banal trope in shoujo manga, the two of you crashed into one another, and your drink spilled all over his outfit. As complete strangers, it was obvious that the one who was drenched would be incredibly frustrated. That was an exact observation, only Sian didn’t feel the need to use a filter that day.

“Are you kidding me? Watch where you’re going!” he had yelled, gripping his soaked shirt and glaring daggers at you. “How am I supposed to show up to work looking like this?!”

Anyone would feel frightened with his exasperated tone of voice and the intimidating aura that surrounded him, but you weren’t one to surrender immediately.

Straightening your shoulders, you met his heated stare. “I’m sorry. At least it wasn’t hot, right?” Hoping to dispel his anger, you smiled a little. “I can buy you a clean shirt if it’ll make you feel better.”

He puffed his cheeks out, suddenly bashful as he avoided your gaze. “It’s the least you could do! Seriously, this is the worst. I smell just like your stupid coffee.”

“Hey, don’t diss my iced coffee. It’s delicious and you know it.”

“If it’s so good, why is it all over me?” he snapped, crossing his arms. “This’ll stain, you know!”

“I offered to get you another shirt.”

“It’s not just on my shirt, you moron! I can’t face my colleagues like this. You have no idea what they’ll say.”

“Suck it up then!”

“No!”

You sighed heavily, gripping your empty coffee cup. “There’s no need to be difficult. Just let me get you a clean polo and slacks. Unless you’d rather parade around in wet, coffee-smelling attire. You’re making a scene with all of your yelling.”

“You were just yelling, too. Fine, whatever. I guess you can do that.”

Even as you spied his blush, you couldn’t ignore your thoughts. Is he seriously embarrassed by the fact that I’m getting him clothes? Anyone would do this to repay the damage.

“That’s all I needed to hear. Oh, and for the record you’re the one who should watch where you’re going.”

He didn’t take those words too well. Regardless, that was how you met the guy with a loud mouth and an even louder personality. You ran into him twice after that incident, and each time he seemed to stumble over himself. He tried to thank you for the clothes, but all he could manage was a huff and an angry comment about how the fabric was uncomfortable. Weeks later, that same boy just so happened to feel bad about starting a few shouting matches with you during those three times you interacted. He saw you in a café by chance and secretly covered your drink fee, making the barista promise not to reveal his identity. It was a sweet gesture, despite being anonymous and a bit of a shock on your end. You’d never experienced the magic that was receiving your drink for free, but it was great nonetheless.

You enter work that morning with a cheery disposition, passing by coworkers and even engaging in kind banter with those who aren’t the friendliest. You clock in and make your way towards the elevator while scrolling through an online article. Hearing a familiar ping, you glance up, urging whoever’s inside to hold the door. There are four other people crammed within the area, all of whom are silently waiting for the elevator to rise. You push the button for your floor and relax. Momentarily, you glance around the enclosed space to see if you can recognize anyone from your department. Your eyes sweep from one person to the next, and you spot polite Nine at the very back.

You’re compelled to greet him, but someone stands in your way. Someone who bears an uncanny resemblance to the guy who was showered in iced coffee two weeks ago. You gasp and turn away, hoping he won’t notice you.

No way! We work for the same company? What’re the odds? This must be a bad omen! I don’t want to start another fight with him, you think, having done your best to erase those memories.

The elevator pings, and you’re completely distracted. Though you don’t miss the hand that taps your shoulder. Your gaze follows his arm. It’s that guy again.

“Hey. This is your floor, isn’t it?”

The number doesn’t lie, but Sian’s memory might as he struggles to recall your familiar features. It clicks just as you bolt out of the elevator, the doors slipping shut and obscuring your backside for good. Sian blinks rapidly as his face heats up. That was...

Coffee idiot! he thinks. There’s no mistaking that stupid look on their face. He’s thrown into a bad mood at once, internally grumbling as he remembers that day. Even if he changed into new clothes, he still smelled of coffee. It was embarrassing, and his bothersome colleagues wouldn’t leave him alone. And now we work in the same building. Maybe I should just quit so I don’t have to face them.

"Can you believe it, Youssef?” you ask your deskmate, having ranted to him while typing up the progress of this week’s publication. At least that’s a monetary positive for the company. You can’t say the same for your mentality, though. “I do something nice in return and he yells at me. And then we meet again—twice—and he’s still rude.”

Youssef tilts his head, a childish gesture for someone his age. “Are you sure you’re not incorrectly reading his actions?”

“I’m positive. When have I ever been wrong?” You frown as your fingers slow their pace on the keyboard. “I just found out today that we work in the same building. This is totally unfair. Why do I have to bear the burden of knowing this information?”

“I’m sure he means well. What does he look like? I might know him.” You describe him to your helpful colleague, who nods and taps his chin in thought. His expression lights up with recognition. “If I remember correctly, his name is Sian, and he’s in the marketing department. We’ve only talked briefly, but I can assure you he’s quite diligent with his work.”

“Well, everyone’s got their own personality outside of their jobs.”

“I suppose, but it’s not polite to label someone based off of such little knowledge,” he advises lightly, turning his attention back to his computer screen. “Rather than using all of your energy painting a bad image of him, you should spend that time getting to know him. It’ll fix any negative impressions you may have.”

“Something tells me he wouldn’t like that...”

Since then, you haven’t run into Sian once. At first you made it your mission to keep an eye out for him, but now that you’ve been busy with this new project you can’t be bothered to let his image clutter your mind. So you brush him aside like a cobweb, certain you won’t bump into him again. Your floors are far enough apart, so it’s unlikely that that’ll happen. But you’re not always the luckiest, and fate tends to tease those who aren’t on good terms with one another.

You’re close to running late on a rainy day, having missed the train, so now you’re doing everything you can to catch a taxi. Cars speed by on the road, and you fail to flag down a vehicle. Dejected and soaked to the bone, you drag your feet along the slick sidewalk, wishing for your next paycheck so that you can put it towards a used car. Speaking of cars, one slides past you as it makes an effort to park along the walkway. In doing so, the tires kick up a huge puddle, effectively soaking your lower half. As if the day couldn’t have gotten any worse. The car almost moves out of the spot before it halts, and the window steadily rolls down to reveal the face of your greatest enemy.

Well, he’s not technically your greatest enemy, but it really feels like it in that moment.

“Do you need a ride?” As if correcting himself, he quickly adds, “I’m not doing this because it’s you! I’m just sympathizing.”

Does it matter? you wonder, bitter and cold and wet. Karma is so brutal.

“You’re Sian, right?” You approach his car, peering in at the flustered man. “From marketing.”

“Y-Yeah. So what?”

“I’m in publishing.” Awkwardly, you look up at the cloudy sky. “It’s really coming down. The forecast didn’t call for this much rain.”

“Are you getting in or not?”

“But you’re a stranger,” you jest, fixing him with a pout. “I don’t want scary Sian to kidnap me.”

He glowers at your joke. “I’m leaving now. I don’t have time for this.”

You hold back a chuckle, tearing open the door before he can drive off. “Wait! Sorry, I’ll get in. I can’t stand another minute in this rain.”

The window slides up, and he sets the car in motion after you’ve buckled up, easing back into the flow of traffic smoothly. Now that you’re sitting there with the AC blowing cool air at your face, you shudder. Oh, how wonderful it must feel to be in clothes that are warm and untouched by the rain. In his peripheral, Sian catches your shivering form, and he switches the AC from cold air to hot. You might not dry as quick as one would hope, but at least it’s something.

The silence is utterly tense. You almost expect him to bicker with you like he did in the past. Instead, he’s focused on the winding road ahead. Though you don’t miss the pink hue that tints his cheeks and gradually rises to his ears.

“So,” you say, if only to get a conversation going. “How’s work?”

“Fine, I guess. How did you know who I was?”

“My friend Youssef.”

“Oh.”

“You probably don’t know me. I’m (Name).”

“I already know.”

“Really? Stalker.”

“I’m not a stalker!” he exclaims, glaring hard at the windshield. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re always so loud at our company parties. How can anyone ignore that?” Sian then proceeds to bless your ears with a story from this year’s holiday party. A few departments got together and went out for drinks and karaoke. Naturally, you had a drinking contest with your colleagues, which led to a tipsy night of bad singing and stumbling from one bar to the next. You were surprised Sian remembered that, mainly because you couldn’t recall seeing him there. And it’s been months since that rowdy night. “Do you see my point?”

“Don’t remind me. That hangover hurt my soul.”

He quirks a smile at that. “It’s not flattering when you sing high notes in the wrong key.”

“Like you could do any better.”

“I can because I was sober.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You roll your eyes, gazing out at the scenery that passes by in a blur of dull colors. Without meaning to, you eye Sian’s reflection in the window, taking note of his side profile. He’s actually quite handsome when he’s calm and not acting so stubborn. “I guess we’re even now.”

“Even?”

“I spilled coffee on you, and you splashed me when your tires hit that puddle.”

“Am I supposed to buy you clothes now?”

“If you’re offering...”

“I wasn’t offering!”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got a spare uniform in my locker.”

I wasn’t worried to begin with, you coffee idiot, Sian thinks, gripping the steering wheel. He keeps track of your occasional trembling, and he can’t help but feel troubled. You’ll catch a cold if you don’t dry off soon. Suddenly, he regrets pulling up beside you and accidentally sending water flying in your direction. This time it was definitely his fault, wasn’t it? Sian wants to make it up to you, but it’s impossible. He’ll die of embarrassment before he succeeds in performing a good deed in front of you.

Truthfully, he’s always noticed you. The very first instance was last year at the company’s drinking party. You were glued to Youssef’s side, engaging in idle chatter with him and another guy he wasn’t too familiar with. At the time, Sian thought your behavior was obnoxious. No one wants their younger coworker clinging to them. It just made you look like an attention-seeking puppy. Although you were definitely upbeat at that party. He had watched you chug an entire pint of beer like it was nothing and then join in on a pointless game of Ten Fingers with enough energy to put a child to shame.

He thought you were annoying at first, and yet there was something captivating about your personality. He’d never had the guts to approach you outright, so when he ran into you that day all of his frustrations just spilled over. He was angry at himself for not having the courage to talk to you at every company party, and now that he had a chance he couldn’t think of what to say. He hadn’t mentally prepared anything! So he said the first thing that came to his mind, which passed through his unfiltered lips in a very abrupt manner.

But you didn’t show any fear. You hardly flinched. Instead you met his words with a few of your own, and that’s what ruffled Sian’s feathers. You were so good at communication, and he was very much unskilled, usually relying on phrases he prepared in his head. It’s not like he couldn’t talk. He could when he was interested in a certain subject or whenever he was reading from a page, but in front of someone he admired... Sian knew he’d make a fool of himself.

Now that you’re sitting in the passenger seat of his car, he has every opportunity to say what he wants. Yet the words scramble in his brain, and he can’t calm his racing heart. Before he can think of anything witty, the building comes into view, and the parking garage has never seemed so dismal. Sian’s kicking himself as he parks, disappointed with how he handled that situation.

“Thanks for this. I’ll go on ahead.” You unbuckle, holding your briefcase and squeezing water from your blazer. “I’m sorry if I got your seat wet.”

“It’s...fine.”

You’re going to walk away and then he’ll become the coffee idiot. He opens his mouth to say something that’ll stop you, but you turn around at the right moment.

“Let’s get coffee sometime in the future. You deserve it after all the trouble I gave you,” you propose, smiling earnestly. And I feel guilty for my initial judgement. Youssef was right.

Sian’s eyes widen, and he struggles to remain stoic. “Oh, uh...”

“That’s okay with you, right?”

“I guess. Whatever works for you.” He shrugs.

“Great!” You retrieve a pen from your case and close the distance between the two of you. Humming, you snatch his hand, spreading his fingers so that his palm is wide open. And then you scribble something on it, grinning in satisfaction. Sian stares at you the entire time, his face blank and head filled with static. “Text me the days you’re available. See you later!” You tuck the pen away, hastily dashing in the direction of the elevator.

Sian stands there for a moment, slack-jawed. He forces himself to look down at his hand. Your number is written on his skin in smudged ink. His face erupts in a flurry of red. That coffee idiot...

------

“It’s not a date,” Sian mutters as he walks to the café. “It’s not. Stop thinking that way.”

But maybe it is a date, the voice in the back of his mind whispers, goading him into believing so. He dressed as casually as possible, but he still hopes it’ll impress you. There are plenty of fears that flood his head, and he almost turns around as soon as he gets to the entrance. But he’s come this far, and he’d regret it forever if he left now. This might be his only chance; he can’t afford to pass it up. So he pushes open the door in search of you. It doesn’t take long to locate your form amongst the few who are inside. Sian’s pulse rushes into overdrive, and he clenches his jaw.

It’s not a date. Act natural.

You look up from your phone just as he slides into the seat across from you. A warm smile blossoms across your face, and you tuck your mobile away. “Sian, you made it! I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

“It’d be rude if I didn’t show up after you made all those plans.”

“Yeah, that’s true. Well, thank you. Now I won’t have to feel bad about Monday morning.”

You had felt bad? Sian’s cheeks must be burning intensely bright now, but there’s nothing he can do. “It’s your fault for being an idiot.”

You chuckle. “That makes two of us. One idiot ignored the forecast, and the other wasn’t watching where he was going.”

“Whatever. Just so we’re clear, I’m not as stupid as you.” He crosses his arms and huffs. “And you don’t have any taste. I mean, iced coffee? Really?”

“It’s good!” you insist. “You’re missing out. Everyone knows iced coffee is better than hot coffee.”

“Is it now? I don’t agree with that statistic.”

“You’re allowed to have your own opinion, Mr. Sian,” you tease. “Give me your drink order. I’ll go get it.”

“What? No way. I’ll pay.”

“As if! I’m treating you.”

“You already bought me clothes.”

“And now I’m going to buy you coffee. It’s to say thanks for picking me up during that storm.”

“I would’ve left you on that sidewalk if I knew you were going to make it a hassle now!”

“Just accept my kindness!”

Sian shuts his mouth, giving into your demand. He grumbles his order, and you’re very happy as you make your way towards the register to get the two of you drinks and pastries. He watches as you pay, releasing a soft sigh. It’s hard to say no to someone you’ve admired for so long. Sian’s not sure when he started to like you, but he’s certain these recent interactions have only added fuel to the burning fire residing in his heart. It’s embarrassing to think he’s even on a romantic outing with you, but it’s not like the two of you are close friends. So then what does that make this?

When you return to the window table, setting down the drinks and a plate with two strawberry bread puddings, he’s shaken from his daydreams. This is actually happening. It’s not just another fantasy he’s imagined while witnessing you drink your sanity away at parties.

“I’m not sure if you like strawberries, but I—“

“I guess it’s okay,” he interrupts, trying to hide the fact that he actually likes it very much.

“Good!” You ease into your chair. “You’re not as bad as I thought you were.”

He raises an eyebrow as he takes a sip from his latte. “Huh.”

“You seemed really upset when I spilled my coffee on you. But anyone would be, so it’s completely understandable. I thought you hated me because of that. When we saw each other again, you were pretty sensitive.”

“I’m not sensitive!” he snaps, proving your point. “That was a white shirt you ruined.”

“Will you feel better if you dump coffee on me?”

“What? Why would I do that? I’m not going to do something as petty as that!”

“Aw, so you do care.”

“I don’t. Get lost.”

You break out into a laughing fit, genuinely amused at his coldness. Even if he doesn’t want to show it, he’s quite nice, and you’re relieved that he didn’t turn out to be a bully seeking revenge. Then again, it’s been weeks since that incident.

“It’s not funny!”

“Sorry, sorry. You’re just so expressive. It’s hard not to laugh.”

A furious red darkens his face, and he decides to fumble with his fork in order to give his hands something to do. The bread pudding is surprisingly delicious. He fumes in his embarrassment while he eats.

Eventually, the two of you converse about work and that project your department took on. Sian listens to your rambling as you go on and on about how irksome it is when last-minute changes are made to a finalized draft. He enjoys every story you tell him, and by the time the plate is empty he feels as if he’s grown closer with you. Could this be the beginning of a friendship? He’s hit with a sudden wave of inspiration for lyrics that will never be sung. At least they can fester on a page in his notebook, where he’ll return on countless occasions to proofread and debate over the meaning of each line. Oh, how he’d love to share his music with you. It’ll take a while before he does something as bold as that, though.

“I just got an idea! There’s this awesome bar thirty minutes from work. I usually go with my friends because they’ve got a bunch of games you can play. Board games, card games—you name it. We should go one of these days.”

“R-Really?”

“Yeah! You seem like a fun guy to hang out with. Card games might sound boring, but they’re actually really fun when you’re playing for money. And when you’ve got a few drinks in your system.”

Sian struggles to hide the giddy smile that threatens to split his lips. “No... It sounds perfect. I’m actually really good at Slapjack, so be prepared to lose miserably!”

“Is that a challenge? What should we wager?”

"How about a meal? Loser has to pay for the winner’s lunch.”

“All right. It’s a deal. I’ll keep you updated on my schedule so that we can choose a weekend to meet up.”

“Sure!” Sian’s face won’t stop heating up and he can’t slow his erratic heartbeat. “I mean, I’ll only do it so I can get a free lunch. It’s not like I’m agreeing for your sake.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever floats your boat.”

His chest feels airy and light, almost as if he’s in a dream. Your words weigh on his conflicted heart. How can anyone make plans so easily? If the roles were reversed, he’d be an absolute mess. It’d be so embarrassing; Sian would probably want to curl up and disappear if he ever tried to ask you out on his own volition. You probably don’t even feel the same way. After all, this is merely two coworkers having a normal conversation. But he can’t get stuck in the friend zone. That’d be the worst outcome to all of this. So in the meantime he’ll do his best to act cordial. He can hide his shy demeanor and fluffy feelings behind a blunt attitude.

“All of this planning makes it seem like we’re a couple,” you muse with flirtatious intent. Leaning back in your chair, you gauge Sian’s reaction. Just as you figured, he’s turning crimson. It’s honestly endearing to see him get so flustered. “What do you think, Sian?”

“I... I don’t know. Don’t say stupid things! It’s really annoying.”

No matter how sharp his words are, you know he doesn’t mean it. After all, his expression clearly refutes those claims.

“Sian and (Name), sitting in a tree—“

“Shut up!”

If this isn’t a date, then what’s with all the flirting?

Sian’s going to have to take a cold shower when he gets home to lower his body temperature. And to scrub away the embarrassment that’s washed over him like rain.

It’s not a date. It’s just coffee with an acquaintance. Yeah. Just courtesy coffee.

He couldn’t be any further from the truth.

#after l!fe #afterl!fe #afterl!fe sian #afterl!fe x reader #afterl!fe the sacred kaleidoscope #afterl!fe sian x reader #sian x reader #oneshot

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songfell-ut · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 11 is a doozy

This one ends with what I thiiink may be the first scene I envisioned. Probably need an “angst” tag on there, but I still dun really know how the tags work. Are they a good thing to cram in, @lostmypotatoes?

Link is here. I’m going to bed

The child lay face down in the flower bed, too stunned to cry. When she lifted her head, the world spun in circles; when she tried to get up, her leg hurt so much that she gasped. She sniffled, hiccuped, and waited for someone to come help her. But no one came. It was too much: she finally gave a long wail, working herself up to sob so hard that tears and snot started dripping all over the golden petals.

Something was coming down the stone passage. She stopped and huddled into the flowers, but they weren't tall enough to hide in, and a patch of sunlight shining from above lit her up clearly.

He walked out of the darkness with a sword in each hand. His eyes glittered; when they met hers, she froze, too scared to breathe.

The...man? It must have been a monster, because it looked like a person, if a person could also be a goat: white fur, horns, and golden eyes, with a muzzle and a pointy black stripe on each cheek. But it walked on two feet and wore a long black robe with a symbol on it...like a person.

To her surprise, the monster didn't eat her, or breathe fire, or chop her up. He watched her for a moment. With a flick of each wrist, the swords vanished. "Hello there," he said in a soft, deep voice, squatting down a few feet away. "Where did you come from? Are you hurt?"

She couldn't answer. To her even bigger surprise, the monster sat down with his legs crossed and took hold of his floppy white ears, one in each hand. He flopped them over his eyes and looked around, as if surprised. "Oh, no! I thought there was a human in here! Who turned out the lights?"

Now she was puzzled, and slightly insulted. What was he doing? She wasn't a baby!

But as the goat-man kept it up, calling, "Hellooo, huuuuman?" and turning this way and that, her fear ebbed away until she started giggling. He scooched closer and peeked out from under his ear. "Aaah, no, it's the human," he said in very fake terror. "You've caught me. Please, human, if you let me go, I'll take you somewhere safe. I'll even heal you—have you ever been healed before?"

The human shook her head, leaning over to wipe her face on some of the bigger flowers. He let go of his ears, moved closer, and extended his white paw—a hand with five fingers, but sharp nails and fur, still a paw. "It's easy. All you have to do is touch the green light. See?" His palm glowed, and the child poked at it, fascinated.

After a few seconds, her leg didn't hurt anymore. She sat up, and she wasn't dizzy. The goat-man smiled at her, only the very tips of his fangs showing. "All better?"

Monsters were supposed to be bad, but he had the kindest eyes she'd ever seen. He held his paw – hand – out again, and she took it, delighted at how soft his fur was. "It's very nice to meet you," he said. "My name is Asriel. What's yours?"

She had to think for a second. "My name is—"

Sans jerked awake. Someone was banging on the door. He tried to stand up, but the floor wouldn't stay still: it dumped him right off his feet. "Fu' you, too," he told it. Dammit, his head hurt.

The banging didn't stop. With a more concerted effort, his body got off the floor and carried itself all the way to the front door. He wrenched at the knob and shoved it open.

Dr. Serif moved back exactly in time to avoid a broken nose. "Good morning," he said coolly, and pushed past Sans. "Close the door. Do not break it."

The boss monster tried, he really did, but the knob kept jumping out of the way. With a quietly profane expression, the doctor used a series of hands to shut the door, pull Sans into position, and grab the back of his head. "Holy fucknuts, that's better," the giant skeleton mumbled a moment later. "Thank—ow!"

"You and your foul mouth are welcome." Gaster surveyed the front room. "This is a lovely house. I hope you've treated it well." He sniffed the air several times. "Whatever did you do? What have you had to drink?"

"Water! Mostly. A little cider, no liquor in it." Now that Sans was sober, he was chagrined to follow Gaster to the kitchen and see a huge heap of brownish apple cores on the table. "They were sellin' a bunch on my way back here last night," he mumbled. "I was hungry."

Gaster pointed at the cores, and the wastebin. Sans obediently lifted the pile and dumped it into the bin with a touch of magic. Gaster then pointed at the compost heap outside, and Sans heaved a huge sigh as he picked up the bin to take it outside.

The older skeleton gave him an odd look as he came back in. "Do you mean you were on your way back here last night from the Underground?" Gaster inquired.

"Well, yeah. Where else'd I be comin' from?" Sans stuck his head in the sink, opened his mouth, and turned the faucet on.

"Apparently, a place where you can be drunk enough to lose an entire day."

The boss monster coughed violently, turning the water off before he drowned himself. "Where I what?"

"You set out with Snowdrake two days ago. The High Priestess expected you back at some point yesterday. It is Sunday, and she had to attend matins, or else she would have come with me to check if you were dead or merely sleeping off your overconsumption of...hmm." A pair of hands took hold of Sans' skull and pulled it down for closer inspection. "You still smell like apples. The priestess also said she smelled it the other morning." Sigh. "At least you spent the missing day here, judging by the age of those apple cores, and not out gallivanting after poachers." Gaster released him. "By any chance, did you stay in human shape for a long time, then eat, and then remove your device before you went to sleep?"

Sans couldn't remember anything. "...Yes? I think?"

"I would call you names, but as I did not figure it out, either, I will call you only one: idiot." The doctor sighed again. "Apples ferment fairly easily. I've never heard of fluctuating magic levels and shifts in internal chemistry rendering them an intoxicant after consumption, and there's no reason for such a weak form of alcohol to affect you this badly, but it's a viable hypothesis. No more cider or apples for you, young skeleton, until we can test the theory in a more controlled setting. Till then, we'll need to check the rest of the house before we can leave in good conscience."

The forensic evidence was not difficult to unravel. Most of the house was fine, but little puddles led from the wet patch in the living room where Sans had fallen asleep all the way into the bathroom, where every single towel was wet, either from being thrown on the wet floor or folded up and placed inside the tub...which was full of water. Without being told, Sans sheepishly set to work unplugging the tub, wringing things out, and draping them over surfaces where they could drip dry. His drunk self must have been experimenting with his human form, taking several baths and...

Oh. Oh, wow. Now he sort of knew what he'd been doing yesterday. It wasn't his fault that he'd gotten so worked up from snuggling Frisk; when he awoke, he'd had the idea to put the chain back on and see if that one thing down there would happen again, and it had. The little he knew of male human physiology and its parallels to monster reproduction had finally coalesced; he'd realized was going on and what he could do about it, and did it. It'd been really fun for a while, but then he...had he had to stop for some reason? Had his hands gotten tired, or was it something else that wasn't working? He couldn't remember.

As for what had been working, damn. He still loathed humans, but this explained a lot.

He had some questions, though. He'd have to peruse Frisk's textbooks when he got back, or ask the doctor, in the event the books failed to cover the finer points of magic boners.

Gaster watched him tidy up in silence. When the bathroom was back in order, he said crisply, "Find your device and come with me. Frisk has been working very hard and sleeping very poorly, and she needs moral support."

That sounded about right. Sans found his silver chain tied to a light fixture in an empty bedroom, put it on, and followed Gaster out of the house, stopping long enough to lock the not-quite-damaged front door.

It was a cold enough morning to see their breath; they passed several children pretending to hold cigars and exhale smoke. "Nice day," Sans complained, huddling deeper into his overcoat. "D'ya mind if I just go somewhere no one can see an' take a shortcut back?"

"She made her decision," said Dr. Serif.

Sans came up alongside him, sure he'd misheard. "She did what?"

"She decided to throw the box away yesterday morning. I disposed of it myself. It's gone."

They walked. It was cold. "Huh," said Sans.

"Indeed."

Five minutes passed. They kept walking. It was still cold.

The doctor looked sidelong at him. "Are you all right?" he asked delicately.

Sans shrugged. "Is she all right?"

Dr. Serif looked this way and that as they stopped at a crosswalk. Several heavily laden wagons were trundling by, drivers and horses alike shivering in the relentless wind. "Not entirely," he said over the noise of wheels crunching on pavement. "She's no longer uncertain of herself, but she has been writing letters nonstop instead of sleeping. Lord Owen has departed to visit his sister for a few days, just in time to miss the news. Did the first fortune have any sort of timetable attached?"

Sans shook his head a little. There was nothing to say, so he didn't bother trying.

One of the wagons was stopped because a horse had decided to take a break in the middle of the street; the driver was climbing down to convince it otherwise. "I'd like you to attend a discussion with my colleagues this afternoon," said Dr. Serif. "Most of them are excited about the possibilities of solar energy conversion, but several are requesting more details before they will support the project."

"Sure," Sans mumbled.

The wagoners behind the recalcitrant horse were getting impatient. If the doctor felt the same way, he didn't show it. "Two weeks," he said, as if to himself. "It's been approximately that long since you were captured, hasn't it? It feels much longer."

No answer. Dr. Serif shifted around until he was facing Sans and took a look at his chest. He grimaced. "Sans, may I just say—"

"Ya think she'll let me come back?"

The doctor blinked. "Beg pardon?"

Under the sounds of the drivers cursing and other pedestrians complaining, Sans said, "Even if she marries that fu—friggin' dork, it's not like she's gonna be locked up fer the rest of 'er life. An' it's not like I'm gonna learn every damn thing she knows in one month. If she can't come to the Underground, I'll just hafta drag my bony ass back here for more lessons. Right?"

"More or less," said the royal sorcerer.

"But..." Sans rubbed his chapped lips, which made them hurt more. "Remember when I talked about killin' someone if they bugged me, and Frisk said I was just doin' what I wanted, 'n not ta come back if I did? What if I run into poachers again and I have to kill 'em?"

"...Because of a life-and-death situation, or because you personally cannot stop yourself?"

"I dunno! Both?"

Dr. Serif discreetly wiped his nose on a handkerchief. "I suspect her definition of 'life-and-death' differs from yours, but I believe she was more concerned with your self-restraint. Let me ask you this: have you ever killed a human purely for enjoyment, or found an excuse to kill one who was not an immediate threat? Even if eliminating someone was fully justified, have you ever deliberately used a slow or painful method to inflict more suffering?"

For the first time since he'd become a boss monster, the thought of slaughtering humans made Sans uncomfortable. "I only ever fight 'em where they're not s'posed ta be," he pointed out. "The only ones ya see out that far are lookin' ta catch monsters. I'm not goin' to their villages or anythin'."

"You're not answering me. I repeat, have you ever—"

"What am I s'posed t'do?! Sit down everyone I see carryin' a buncha chains an' explain that it hurts our feelin's when they're mean to us?"

"I think you'd be better off asking yourself these things instead of trying to argue with me. I also think you know what Frisk would say if you were to ask her directly."

Sans shuffled his feet, wiggling his toes inside his leather boots. The stubborn horse and its wagon had finally started moving down the street. "Here's another question," said the doctor. "Have you ever successfully restrained your temper around the High Priestess?"

The human-ish boss monster glared at him. "Are you kiddin'? Ya think I wanna worry about breakin' 'er like a twig every time I get pissed off?"

"I do not." Dr. Serif employed his handkerchief again. "Have you ever fully lost your temper with her, or in her presence?"

"Well..." He thought guiltily of the time he'd badgered her about singing till she damn near whistled a hole through his skull, and he smiled at how she'd climbed on the table to get in his face afterward. Man, he'd deserved that. Then there was the dent he'd bashed in the tabletop that other time... "I was just bein' a dick. I didn't even think about hurtin' 'er."

"Really? You've made it sound as if it is not possible to restrain yourself in moments of duress. The High Priestess is a remarkable young woman, but she is a human being, just like the ones you—"

"She's not like them, an' I'll break yer fuckin' neck if you say that again."

The people standing near them inched away as Dr. Serif looked at Sans. Sans stared at him, unblinking, until the doctor sighed. "If I have to put literally everything in a Frisk-centric context to get through to you, I will," he said testily. "Do you think she would be pleased to hear you threaten to kill someone for insulting her, which I was not?"

Sans bit the inside of his weird, fleshy cheek. "No," he admitted.

"You will not be with her all day, every day for very much longer. Do you really think she would allow you to return if she had reason to believe you'd killed or needlessly injured anyone in the interim?"

Sans tapped one foot, then the other. "Dunno how she'd even know if I did. S'not like I'd be strollin' up t'her with blood 'n guts all over...my..."

He trailed off as a memory prodded him: that dream recounting his very first encounter with poachers, how he'd crunched the sorcerer's spine and then slammed the other humans into each other until they stopped screaming. He'd enjoyed it immensely till he heard that familiar whistle behind him and realized that Frisk was standing there, seeing him in all his murderous glory.

The moment he heard that sound, before he even turned, he'd instantly gone from elation to abject terror. He thought she would run away from him, or demand some kind of justification he couldn't give, or tell him never to come near her again; she could have accused him of tricking her, pretending to be the kind of person who wouldn't do something like this, much less enjoy it.

She hadn't. She didn't even flinch when she saw the literal blood on his hands. She'd just been herself—said she wanted to see him, apologized for hurting his feelings, and opened up to him about her fears and frustration, as though he hadn't just slaughtered a bunch of people and laughed about it. When was the last time anyone had asked him for help with anything, period? Had anyone ever asked him for touchy-feely advice? In the last few months, he'd spent so much time away from the Underground that even Pap had pretty much stopped bugging him about puzzles or picking up his socks whenever he was home.

...Damn. What if he enjoyed killing stuff so much because it was the only thing he was good for anymore? If he could somehow stop, what would he have left?

And the worst part was that after all that, she'd still wound up hugging him again, and even now, his SOUL was still a little mushy around the edges.

He didn't understand. Frisk wasn't blind or stupid; how could anyone with half a brain see what he was capable of and still care about him that much?

And why was he getting aroused again?!

The last wagon had trundled out of the way. "It's very simple," the doctor remarked, pulling Sans along by the elbow as the backed-up crowd surged forward around them. "What would you rather have? Freedom to be as horrible as you wish, or the right to ever see Frisk again?"

"But—"

"But what, Sans?"

But what, indeed. All this moralizing was background noise compared to the fact that she'd chosen her "adequate" future, and the only thing he could control was whether he'd be allowed to drop by from time to time. He had no right to pout – or be a complete fucking wreck – because she'd taken his advice and stopped agonizing over her decision. It wasn't as if anything had really changed, as far as he was concerned; she wasn't going to stop being his friend or teacher just because she was getting married to some human moron. Was it her fault that his deep-down, germ-sized hope of somehow fitting into her second fortune had been crushed like it deserved?

Stupid Gaster. If he hadn't given Sans that stupid chain, the idea of fathering her kid would never have been so cruelly plausible. Sans remembered how he'd found out he could make a tongue for himself when he wanted: he'd been curious about Toriel's famous pies a few years back and wanted to see if he could taste them somehow. In the same vein, the chain hadn't given him brand-new powers of smell or touch or boners, just shown him how he could've done it at any time.

Then Gaster had gone and told him for a fact that skeletons and humans could have children together, which meant sex, which brought it all full circle: he should be capable of manifesting and fully employing the relevant equipment, just like his tongue. Of course, there was that awkward size difference between him and the average human, and Frisk was even smaller than average, but if he could conjure a thing with magic, wouldn't it be logical to assume he could adjust it as needed? Hell, why couldn't he temporarily downsize his overall structure long enough to—

"—ans? Sans!"

The boss monster twitched. Dr. Serif had tugged him down a side street and looked ready to slap him to get his attention. Sans raised his hands. "What? Whaddya want?"

"I want to ascertain how you're going to behave before we arrive." The doctor somberly folded his arms, then spoiled the effect by getting the handkerchief out to blow his nose. "Are you going to be a friend, or a problem?"

There was that painfully accurate summation again. He needed to remember that he was operating under different rules than human males, or even other monsters: his actual parts weren't the biggest issue, no pun intended for once. He had to accept that it wasn't gonna happen. "I'm her friend," answered Sans. "Not like I can be much else. She's not a boss monster, so..."

"No...no, she is not." The doctor paused, as if in thought, then took Sans' elbow again. "To the castle, please, the stairwell outside her quarters. I don't know about you, but I'm freezing my ass off."

Sans was so nervous to face Frisk again that it was both a relief and a letdown to find out she wasn't in her rooms. "I did wonder," he remarked to Gaster as they threw off their disguises. The boss monster stacked some logs in the fireplace and tossed a handful of flame on them. "Right after I came here, she said her mom was sick, but I never heard anythin' else about it. This's the first time I know of that she's gone t'see 'er."

"Rosa doesn't do well with most visitors," Gaster explained. "She suffers from a degenerative neurological disorder. Frisk ensures she has the best possible care, but there is little to be done except keep her comfortable."

Sans scratched his metacarpals—using fire always made him itch. It was no wonder now that Frisk hadn't wanted him to go bug her mom with questions about her visit to the Underground. No wonder she was always so stressed, either, with a dad who was somehow neglectful and nosy, and a mother physically and mentally out of commission. Poor lady—and then, when she'd just wanted a little bit of guidance from the fortune-teller, she'd gotten this fate-of-the-world shit dumped on her!

That did it. No matter how crappy and torn-up he felt, Sans vowed he wasn't going to do anything to make her life harder. He wouldn't kill that Owen guy; he could help deliver stuff, make sure no one tried to murder her before the wedding...

Fuck. He wished he'd never gotten caught, or that someone, anyone else had come to get him out of his cell that day. He'd known better than to get close to another human, he'd done it anyway, and now look what had happened!

...No, whatever he was feeling, she had to be feeling way worse, even if it was for different reasons. As things were, at least he could be here to help. He'd have to keep telling himself that.

Gaster had picked up a huge folder and was leafing through its contents, his face impassive. "She's left you some guidelines for your next set of experiments," the older skeleton said, indicating a small set of books and papers on the counter. "Completing them to the best of your ability would be an ideal apology for your absence. Let me know if you need help."

The boss monster could see the sense in that, so he read over Frisk's list of supplies and recommended recipes, each book marked conspicuously with a new bookmark. He had to smile at that. Her handwriting was cute, too, with little swirls on the ends of some letters.

The materials she'd set aside for him included a block of alfalfa hay, cubes of alfalfa meal, and pellets of various plant materials, though it was mostly alfalfa. Sans amused himself as he worked by thinking alfalfalfafalfa until the word fell apart and reading it made him snicker. Hay, he had to stay sane somehow!

It wasn't enough. Waiting for Frisk was killing him. Her lunch was delivered a couple of hours after they got back, and she wasn't there. Gaster told him not to be alarmed, that she'd probably been called to mediate something or help someone else now that she was being accompanied by humans instead of a giant skeleton, but that didn't make Sans feel any better.

Eventually, when the mixtures had all been applied to the seedlings and everything was labeled and recorded and double-checked, Sans got so antsy that he started looking through the other books on the worktable. One had a freshly dog-eared page that made him open it up to smooth it out, wondering why she'd bothered to get the damn bookmarks if she wasn't going to use them, and then why she'd been reading up on truth spells.

Huh. There was a scribbly mark at the start of one paragraph: The stronger the application, the less ambiguous a subject's words become. Sarcasm, hyperbole, and similar rhetorical devices cannot be employed to say anything the subject does not sincerely believe to be true. Sans shrugged, put a bookmark in like God intended, and set it aside.

"It's time," the royal sorcerer said presently, several hours after lunch. He put the folder away and beckoned to the younger skeleton. "This way. Please leave your device off."

Sans had forgotten about talking with the other sorcerers, and absolutely did not want to go. The doctor had to speak to him rather sternly and at great length about the importance of alternative energy, educating the highest levels of human society and allowing the best possible knowledge to be passed down therefrom, filtering out rumor and bad information before it began, all for the mutual benefit and future coexistence of monsters and humanity.

Sans still didn't wanna. Dr. Serif ended up having to shove him bodily out the doors and most of the way down the hall, unseen hands prodding him until he gave up.

Nevertheless, with his resolution to make things smoother for Frisk, Sans got through the meeting pretty well. It was held in a library with about a dozen whey-faced nerds in black robes, most of whom were too curious to be scared of him; he had to spend a half hour answering questions about monsters and letting them watch him breathe and talk and all sorts of crap first.

Then they went over Dr. Serif's notes, clarifying a few points Sans had forgotten or mixed up. The boss monster had to admit that the sorcerers were good about catching mathematical discrepancies, and one woman had some solid ideas about different alloys that could improve the solar arrays' efficiency and reduce the chance of warping or melting the panels. Her wavy hair reminded him of the High Priestess—one of her half-sisters?

Whatever. The discussion lasted a few hours, and though he did find it interesting, Sans wanted to see Frisk so badly that the moment they adjourned and Dr. Serif indicated he was going to go to his own quarters, the boss monster didn't even bother leaving the room before he teleported himself back. The guards were getting used to his sudden appearances, and informed him without much fear that Her Eminence had returned less than half an hour ago.

Sans faced the double doors and fought down his sudden nervousness. It was cowardly of him, but he couldn't bring himself to knock. Instead, he eased a few tendrils of magic through the crack in the doors – did she even realize the barrier was permeable there? – and lifted the bar very, very carefully, setting it against the wall on that side with as little noise as possible. The doors swung open on well-oiled hinges, and Sans shut them behind him just as quietly.

She wasn't in the workroom. The light outside was fading; the bedroom was dark, as was the office, and the dressing room. To his surprise, he heard faint splashing sounds from the tub—what was she doing in there so early?

At a loss, Sans wandered over to the worktable. At least he'd cleared it before they left for the meeting. The problem was that the dent was showing, the one from their argument over transitioning monsters from slavery to partnership. He still hated the idea, but there was no reason it couldn't work, maybe, eventually...in the other future where she'd opened the box.

Sans shook himself and applied his frustration to that stupid dent, hating the loss of self-control it represented. Sure enough, when he released a burst of magic over it, the damaged wood creaked, swelled, and filled itself back in like rising bread dough, leaving a solid surface with only a few fissures. I'll be damned, I fixed something on purpose, he mused, poking at it.

The splashing in the bathroom stopped. The skeleton froze, wondering if she'd heard or felt anything, but then the sounds resumed. It occurred to him for the first time that she probably didn't have clothes on, and he immediately decided to think about something else. Oh, look, there was the folder Gaster had been reading the whole afternoon. Sans reached for it—

Something shot straight through his SOUL, seizing his entire body up, magic and bones and all. It was a sweet, unearthly sound—it was Frisk.

She wasn't humming, or whistling, or tapping a rhythm on something with her hands. She was singing, very low, just loud enough to give him chills: "The years now before us, fearful and unknown—I never imagined I'd face them on my own..." A deep breath. "May these thousand winters swiftly pass, I pray—I love you, I miss you, all these miles away..."

Sans was rigid, every fiber of his being waiting for the next verse. But the voice had faltered, and the next sound was an all-too-familiar sniff, and another, till it became clear that she was, if not actively crying, too upset to continue. Well, no shit, that's the sappiest thing I've ever heard and you're already a mess, said a very tiny corner of his mind.

Meanwhile, his feet were moving, and the rest of him followed straight to the bathroom. Too bad she hadn't locked it, because he could not physically stop himself from opening the door and striding in to kneel by the tub, reach down, and drape his hand over the very startled priestess' back and shoulders, pulling her as close to him as the side of the tub would allow. "Hi," he murmured into her hair.

Nothing happened for several seconds. "...Sans?" Frisk had hunched over in alarm when he burst in, but after a moment, her hand crept up to rest on his humerus, though she remained huddled against the high enamel side. "What..."

His eyes were closed, his mind still a hazy mess of feeling. It didn't help that she smelled amazing, and she felt amazing, and...

"Sans?"

She was much warmer than before. Well, that made sense. The bathwater was very hot, and she was in the bath.

Something felt different under his hand. How had she gotten even softer? His metacarpals flexed, and she squeaked. "Sans!" she hissed.

"Hm?" How was he supposed to concentrate on anything when he was touching bare skin?

Wait. Why was he touching b—

Oh.

Shit.

...So, if she was in the tub...that meant he shouldn't move his hand down like—

"SANS!"

The good news was that she didn't seem sad anymore. The better-than-expected news was that once the shock wore off, she wasn't really angry with him, though he didn't know that right away. The split-second he snapped out of it, Sans had been so mortified that he took a shortcut straight back to the bedroom and locked himself in, half out of fear for his personal safety and half afraid she'd be mad enough to leave again if he hung around.

But within ten minutes, she was knocking on the door and saying his name. "Nope," he muttered back.

A sigh. "Please let me in, Sans. I just want to talk."

Dammit. Sans twitched a phalange at the lock, and it clicked open.

Frisk was in her purple robe, face still flushed. Sans remained sitting on the side of bed by the opposite wall, staring at the cold fireplace, awaiting his doom.

Another sigh. She clambered onto the bed, or so he inferred from the rustling of the mattress and the scent that drifted over him a moment later. "You're not in trouble. That was my fault," she said, strangely matter-of-fact.

Blink. Blink. Blinkblink. "How."

The priestess shifted around, and he risked a peek at her. She was sitting at about his-arm's-length away, her hands and feet tucked in, legs pulled up and cheek resting on her knees. "I wasn't sure if I'd heard you come back or not. I was lonely, I wasn't thinking. I had this stupid idea to...I don't know, lure you in, if you were here?" Frisk buried her face in her fuzzy sleeve. "That didn't sound any better in my head." Squirm. "I didn't think I was using that much magic. I wasn't thinking at all. I'm so sorry."

Okay. That was unexpected. Sans was relieved, but didn't know whether to also be pleased or angry or what. He could start by kicking himself that he hadn't gotten any kind of look at her—she was so small that when she was scrunched up at one end of the tub, he'd have to be looking straight down to see anything, which he hadn't. He hadn't busted in there with any intention except to be near her.

So...should he tell her that he didn't understand many nuances of human interaction, but he was pretty sure that being lonely was the worst possible reason to call someone else in while she was in the tub? She probably didn't think that he was as functionally male as he was, which was completely understandable, but still...

Still, here she was. And it turned out that his tiny, squishy, beaten-up hope, the idea that he could somehow cram himself into a bigger role in her life than "pet project," wasn't as dead as he'd thought. It was resurging, and so was the now-familiar urge to grab her, except this time, he knew exactly what he was supposed to do with it. He knew that she'd missed him and had just admitted enticing him in while she was naked, and—

Sans didn't remember that he was a boss monster, or that she trusted him not to do anything like this, or any of the other terrible things that could happen if he got carried away. He was shifting his weight to reach over and pull her toward him when she said, with her face still buried, "Where were you yesterday?"

Oh. Right. The skeleton moved back, screaming internally and crossing his legs as hard as he could. "I—I wasn't off hurtin' anyone. I was at yer house...uh..." There was no other way to say it, was there? "I was drunk as hell, pretty much the whole day. Doc says switchin' back and forth from me ta human 'n back made some wacky chemical reaction that fermented all the apples I'd had, 'n...yeah. I didn't do it on purpose, I swear."

She raised her head, frowning. Sans wracked his brain for something to make her stop it. "At least we found the core of the problem, huh?"

Her expression lightened a little. "All right, I believe you." But then she frowned again. "Please don't do that again. You really scared me when you didn't come home yesterday."

Come home? Was she trying to fucking kill him? "Sorry." Sans forced a laugh. "You can always come check on me when we're asleep, right? Now I know ta clean up whatever I'm dreamin' in case I have company."

The young woman fidgeted, tugging a lock of hair behind her ear. "Do you have a lot of those, where you're reliving things you've done?"

She didn't sound upset. Why didn't she sound upset? "Sometimes," he admitted. "Depends how I'm feelin' when I go ta sleep, what I've had to eat, how tired I am, that kinda thing."

Frisk rested her head on her knees again, looking right at him. "You weren't always like that, were you?"

It wasn't an accusation. It was a calm, non-judgmental invitation to talk about it if he wanted to, which made him feel worse. "Well, no," he said, throttling down his...everything. "I wasn't a giant psycho till I got hit 'n started growin' like this." The boss monster tapped his sternum. "It's been a little at a time, but I get bigger n' meaner every year. Back when me an' Pap first met Kris, I hated humans, but I never woulda dreamed of killin' 'em full-time. Now..."

Her gaze didn't waver. "Did King Asgore order you to guard the Underground from poachers?"

"Nope. 'Fact, 'm really not s'posed to be out there at all. No one is." Sans scratched the back of his skull. He could still feel it where she'd touched him the other night. "I started doin' it a few years ago when a kid came through Snowdin cryin' fer his mom. We all knew she'd gone t'look for her husband 'cause he left to hunt some deer 'n didn't come back. So out I went, and I found 'er pretty quick. They'd wrung all her magic out. She was still alive, but not for long."

Someone knocked on the outside doors. Frisk very quietly rose and went to open it, bringing their dinner inside and putting the heavy bar back in place. Then she returned to her spot on the bed. "So the King doesn't know what you're doing?" she asked.

Why were they talking about this depressing shit instead of hugging some more? ...Probably because he couldn't trust himself right now to stop at hugging. Besides, he'd never told anyone any of this – especially not Pap – and he'd probably never be this comfortable with anyone else. "Oh, he knows," said Sans. "He's just useless, an' scared of me."

"Asgore? What do you mean?"

Her eyes had gone wide. Sans studied them for a second, thinking vaguely nice things about the color of wine and being very lovely in general, but it wasn't enough to drag him out of the mood he was working himself into. "I mean he's no good without the Queen, and she's hunkered down in the Ruins 'cause she blames him for everythin' that happened with Chara before the accident. Meanwhile, his big dumb ass knows she's right, but he won't apologize 'cause he's still pissed that she stood up to him in fronta everyone and let the humans go, as if killin' 'em woulda brought Asriel back. It's almost worse than havin' no rulers at all." The boss monster looked at his hand, feeling his eyes light up. "There's no food, no leadership, no one knows what's gonna happen."

"Sans—"

It was too late. Now that he'd started, the words came pouring out: "It wouldn't be so bad if everythin' in the Underground wasn't made of pure magic, but when there's that much fear and anger goin' around, you can actually see it build up, like fog. No joke. It's this shit-awful funk just kinda hangin' over everything. A couple years after the humans left, it got so bad that it even started infectin' Papyrus. The first time he yelled at me – I mean, screamin' at me outta nowhere, when I wasn't even buggin' him – I went out an' I saw this cloud over our house, and I just kinda snapped."

His hand opened and closed. Frisk stayed quiet. "I was so pissed that I tried ta pull some of that crap out of the air with my magic, just t'see what'd happen," Sans continued, "an' it actually worked. It came down, and it vanished. So I grabbed all the rest of it I could find, 'n it stayed gone. 'Fore I knew it, Pap was his old self again, 'n everyone seemed a little happier."

She shook her head. "When you say that it vanished, do you mean it evaporated, or did you absorb it?"

"Yep! Turns out when my magic touches any of it, I can't get it out again. It's just...in me. An' I hafta siphon more it off every couple of years, or everyone starts gettin' screwy again." He chuckled, a hollow sound that made her wince. "Gotta say, it's powerful as hell. The more I take, the stronger I get, an' now look at me." Sans shrugged. "I dunno. It's like gettin' hit with that explosion opened a hole in me I could fill with whatever I wanted, an' I didn't have anything else ta put in it."

Frisk watched him in silence, letting Sans get the last of his thoughts out. "So here we are. Pap's stayed his cool self, I'm a big ol' grouch, an' I could probably take Asgore in a fight if I really wanted. He knows damn well what I'm doin', but as long as I'm out protectin' everyone, he doesn't hafta worry about what else I'm up to, an' I feel like a helper. Everybody wins."

"I doubt that," the priestess murmured. "If you've spent years soaking up all the negative energy in the Underground and then feeding it with constant violence..."

It was now dark outside. Sans made a careless gesture. "I'm hungry. Ya hungry? Let's—"

"I'll go back with you."

The skeleton stopped in the act of pushing himself to his feet. He slowly turned to face her. "What did you say?"

"You asked me to come with you to speak to Asgore. This is my answer," she said calmly. "We still have a little over two weeks left. I've organized a series of inspections that will probably end up with more monsters being confiscated and placed in my custody. We can have one of them bring a letter to the Underground ahead of time to let him know we're—"

"Nope." Sans got up and went into the workroom. "Time ta eat." He unloaded the trolley, got everything set out, put the trolley out in the hall, barred the doors, and sat down.

Then he sighed, and went back to the bedroom, where Frisk was still sitting on the bed, just staring at him. "Look. Frisk. I've been thinkin' it over, an' it was a bad idea. I..." He shut his eyes as tight as he could. "Asgore will kill you. Okay? You've got the most unbelievable SOUL I've ever seen, and he'll see it, too, an' he's gonna try ta take it. He's gotten so bitter since Toriel left that I don't think we could even talk to 'im. He'd kill you, or we'd hafta kill him."

Frisk stood up on the bed, so that she was only a couple feet shorter than him, several feet away. "It's true, then? A monster can steal a human SOUL to become more powerful?"

"It's true, and it wouldn't be 'more powerful.' Try 'godlike.' An' that's just a regular monster 'n human. If Asgore got ahold of your SOUL, he could kill every human in this kingdom, an' nobody could stop 'im."

Her face had grown pale. "I see," she managed. Frisk slowly sank back to the mattress. "I...go ahead and eat. Please get started without me."

Sans felt that helpless anxiety that, unbeknownst to him, was so common among males of both species—should he at least try to comfort her first? "'Kay," he rumbled. "'m really sorry, Frisk. If there was anythin' I could do ta—"

"Please get started without me!"

Crap. He should've just listened to her. "Okay, okay, I'm goin'!"

Sure enough, the moment he stepped into the workroom, the bedroom door closed, and Sans felt a fresh barrier go up. He sat down and poked at his food. It didn't look that great anymore, but he might as well be miserable, not miserable and hungry. It wasn't like she was going to be in there all night, right?

...Right?

No sooner had they stepped out of the flowery cavern than she heard more footsteps, bigger and heavier ones. "Asriel!" It was a woman's voice echoing from far off, stern and a little scared. "Asriel, my child, where are you? They'll be here any moment!"

"Here, Mama," called her new friend. "We're coming." He tugged gently on her hand, and she let him guide her down a long, purple-tiled hallway.

"'We'?" The motherly voice was moving toward them. "What do you mean, dear? No one else should be down here unless—"

They rounded a corner, and so did Asriel's mother. She'd sounded like a normal human mom, but she was another goat monster, with short horns and a purple robe. "My goodness!" The goat-lady hurried forward and dropped to her knees in front of the child. "Where did you come from, little one? Are you hurt? Is he hurt, Asriel?"

"No, Mama," he said, smiling at the child again. "I found him in the golden flowers. He got separated from the others and fell down here."

"I see," the goat-lady said, her voice sounding funny. But then she smiled warmly at the human, who smiled right back. She'd never had a real mom, and this one seemed like everything she'd ever dreamed of, except with more fur. "Welcome to the Underground, my child. I am so very pleased to have you with us. I am Queen Toriel, and it seems you've been lucky enough to meet my son, Prince Asriel."

The little human looked up at him in terror. The prince? Had she been rude to him, or to the Queen? Should she bow, or say something royal, or—

"It's all right, Kris," said Asriel. "Mama, I'd like to take him to the house and get him cleaned up before the rest of the humans arrive. We'll be in the Great Hall as soon as we can."

"You most certainly will not! You will go tell your father that I am attending to our very first guest, and we will be there when Kris is ready." Toriel got to her feet and took the child's hand from Asriel. "Come with me, little one. Off you go, dear." She made a shooing motion at her son.

Asriel sighed, but arguing was clearly not an option. "Yes, Mama. I'll see you again soon, Kris!"

The child nodded, watching him disappear around the corner with amazing speed. Monsters could do that, couldn't they? At least some of the stories seemed to be true.

Toriel smiled down at her again. The child suddenly felt strange, but in a good way. Asriel was wonderful, and his mother looked so loving that the child wanted to throw herself into her arms right there.

And just like magic, the Queen released her hand, knelt, and opened her arms for a huge, warm, cloud-soft hug. "Poor child," Toriel murmured, the vibrations in her chest rumbling against the human's cheek. "We will take care of you for as long as you are here. I promise."

The child burrowed her face into the monster's robe, where no one could get mad at her for crying. If this was what the Underground was really like, then she wasn't scared anymore. She wouldn't run away; she'd stay as long as the others did, and fib all they wanted her to. She wished she could stay forever!

Sans jerked awake as a fork rattled onto a plate. "Dirt," said Frisk. "Sorry about that."

He'd fallen asleep on the workroom floor. It was dark out; the clock was about to strike 2. "What're you doin' up?" The skeleton got up and sat at the table.

"Cleaning," she said pointedly, stacking the last plate onto the last tray and setting them on the neglected trolley.

There was a stack of paper and a couple of ink bottles laid out, and Sans recalled how Gaster said she'd been writing nonstop. "What's all that?" he asked suspiciously.

"It's paper." Frisk sat down and grabbed a fresh sheet. "I have arrangements to make."

Sans made a rude noise, ignoring the twinge in his SOUL. "Yeah, but isn't it kinda soon? He hasn't even asked ya." He rapped the tabletop with his knuckles. "What's the first step again with all that crap? Gettin' a ring?"

The priestess paused, face going blank. "The first...?" She shut her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Can I assume you had a talk with Dr. Serif on your way here?"

Twinge twinge. "Yep. He tol' me he threw the box out for ya." Twiiiiinge. "He wasn't lyin', was he?"

"No." She opened her eyes. "I've checked your work on the seedlings. I don't know exactly what you had in mind for that last batch of pellets, but we'll see how it goes over the next week. Do you have any questions?"

What the crap? Was that all she was going to say? Maybe she'd do some other thing when the seedlings had grown a little more. "Uh, yeah, one question. How much sleep did ya get just now? I was up fer a couple hours before I passed out."

"Hm." The priestess rummaged in a little box of writing supplies. Only two witchlights were on, just enough to show that she looked terrible: pale, red-eyed, and...resigned, as if someone had done something really awful and left her to deal with it, but it was somehow her fault, too.

"Don't 'hm' me, lady. Ya look like total crap," he said bluntly.

Frisk ignored him, fishing out a pen. He was ready to demand an explanation when she started whistling again, the same beautiful but sad song from before. This felt much more pointed than her usual soothing noises, but it was still effective; Sans could muster just enough energy to be indignant that she was putting him back to sleep, and then his head was on the table, and he was asleep.

To Sans' surprise and frustration, the next few days followed the same pattern, but worse. There was no more hugging, or talking about feelings, or any of the things he'd grown to expect. Frisk stayed a little too busy and grew more and more tired, but she ignored his questions, saying she'd explain what she was doing once it was over; after the second day or so, it was all he could do not to blow up at her. He couldn't force her to act happier now that her decision was made, but it sucked that he'd advised her to pick something and stop being miserable, and she'd picked something, and now they were both miserable.

Not only would she not talk to him, she kept inviting Dr. Serif to the workroom to go over solar panel specifications or observe his experiments. There was no more quiet time alone together in the mornings or evenings: if they weren't studying, she was writing, or so mopey and distracted that it wasn't fun to beat her at chess anymore. The moment they were done eating dinner, she took a bath and went straight to bed, or at least to her office, leaving the light on and probably doing more goddamn work instead of sleeping.

She also started making him escort her into town in the afternoons to help her carry stuff. She'd gone instantly from no interest in shopping whatsoever to buying large quantities of the most random things imaginable: play scripts, different types of magic stones, miniature targets for archery practice, hair accessories, bath items, bolts of silk, children's toys, dance charts, expensive figurines, sheet music, a silver tea service, books on education—it couldn't be some kind of weird impulse thing, because the few times she let him peek over her shoulder as she wrote, he'd seen that she was making shopping lists. Whenever they brought another load of crap back to her rooms, she didn't unpack anything, just had him stack it clear up to the ceiling in her office.

The kicker was that Frisk didn't even seem to enjoy hoarding all that stuff, or anything else she was doing. She almost never smiled at him or made puns anymore. She just kept writing, and dodging his questions, and looked ready to cry pretty much all the time.

It would've been neat if his libido had also gotten mad and decided to grab its toys and go home...but no. Sans had now perused enough of Frisk's science and anatomy textbooks to piece together the entire picture of human reproduction; through his own hands-on experimentation – in the bathroom, in the middle of the night, sober this time – he could say with reasonable confidence that the process for humans and monsters was much more similar than he'd thought, and everything was working fine on his end. If he had his skin on, he could of course feel more, but he couldn't finish. As himself, the process took a lot of concentration, and he got weirded out if he looked down at it too long, but—

Why was he even bothering? Sure, it felt pretty great, but he wasn't a human. He was a monster, and monsters weren't designed to waste their time or magic playing with themselves. His instincts were all pointed straight at Frisk, and now that he knew what he was supposed to do, it was getting harder – ha – to content himself with alone time. He couldn't stop thinking about holding her again, and he didn't think it was that disingenuous to want to point out to her how much better she'd feel if she'd opened up to him again. And then sex.

...Damn it all to hell. Was the entire second half of his apprenticeship going to be like this?

It was her own fault. She wasn't supposed to be there. She'd snuck in to get some chocolate from the refrigerator, and when she heard the grown-ups come in, she realized she'd taken too long to sneak back out. The best she could do was run behind Toriel's armchair in the living room and flatten herself against the back of it at an angle. Never mind how hot the fireplace was; they already sounded mad.

"For the thousandth time," she heard the King say in his big, rumbling voice, "if I had known that he could not marry you—"

"Then I still wouldn't have been welcome in my own home. Would I, Papa?" The child buried her head in her arms. It was her. Chara. She wasn't even pretending to be nice anymore. All her hatred was out in the open, aimed right at her former parents.

"My dearest child, please," Toriel said desperately.

"Your dearest child? Where? It would be so lovely to meet them! Ah, don't tell me—did you pick up another stray human?"

"Chara," protested the King.

"Is it Kris?" A short, cruel laugh. "I'm sure you'd rather have a boy this time! If they get someone pregnant, they don't have to deal with the consequences, do they? By all means, you can have him. I know you both love surprises."

The little human wished she was dead. Toriel and Asgore were both such nice people! Why was Chara saying these horrible things to them? Did she really like anyone? Was it some kind of game to her to be so pretty, act so perfect, and sing such amazing songs, then turn around and be a bigger monster than anyone with fur or horns?

"What do you want, Chara? What would you have of either of us? We cannot turn back time, but—"

"But you can do whatever you damn well please now. Don't worry, Mama, Papa. You might've thrown me out like a dog, but I made do. At least I survived."

The armchair rocked back into the child's body as Toriel sank into it. Asgore was silent; there was no sound except the Queen's sobbing.

More footsteps. Oh, no, it was Asriel. He was going to come in and see his mother crying and hear Chara, and—

"Big brother!" Light, prancing footsteps ran to meet Asriel. "I'm so sorry, Azzy, but we were talking, and I think I upset Mama," Chara said sheepishly. "Can you and I go for a walk so she can calm down?"

"Of course!" A brief pause, as if Asriel was seeing his parents' expressions. "Er...we'll be back in a bit. Is that all right?"

Asgore grunted. The child could feel Toriel shaking through the back of the armchair, though the Queen held her tears back till the front door had closed behind Asriel.

The King cleared his throat. "Tori, I—"

"Don't you 'Tori' me! Not now. Maybe not ever!"

The child hunched down even further as Asgore hurried away down the hall, slamming the bedroom door. This couldn't be happening. Maybe, if she stayed still enough, she'd wake up. If she was still...if she was good, maybe—

Fourteen days were left of his month at the castle.

Frisk had gotten up looking as pale and worn as usual, but the moment Sans saw her leave her office, he knew something had changed. She was still unhappy, but now she also looked determined. "We're having dinner with His Majesty and Prince Gaius tonight," she announced as he unloaded breakfast onto the table.

"Oh yeah?" Sans glanced at the tray of unopened mail. "How d'ya know? You didn't mention it yesterday."

"I just decided it," she said flatly.

Sans sensed this was not the time to ask stupid questions, and he couldn't think of any smart ones, so he nodded and turned his attention to his food while Frisk wrote yet another note and put her scary-looking official seal on it. A few words at the double doors, and a guard ran off to take it straight to the King.

The course of the day itself was decided for them: before they had finished eating, someone else came to the doors with a sheaf of papers. Frisk brought them back to the table and asked, "Do you remember how I mentioned surprise inspections on how monsters are being kept?" She held up the papers. "I ordered fifteen of them for last night. These are the reports."

That explained several of the letters she'd been working on. "Didja ever get those records you wanted from the doughy guy?"

Frisk didn't crack a smile, but at least she wasn't frowning. "Yes, the Cardinal provided them the day you took Snowdrake home. I'll keep my promise to show it all to you, but I wanted to get the worst of the worst taken care of first. This way, you don't have to worry about anyone being in immediate danger. Please get started on those root measures while I go through these."

He did, and she did, and Sans could only console himself that he at least knew what she was writing this time. Of the fifteen near-simultaneous visits, five had resulted in citations and scheduled followups, while eight monsters had been found in such dangerous or unsanitary conditions that the Church agents had immediately confiscated them. That explained why she hadn't told him sooner what those letters were for—he might have gone straight out to liberate the monsters.

Frisk had prepared a dozen custody letters with blanks for monster and owner names and specific offenses, so that she had only to fill those in to get the custodial paperwork started. In the meantime, the monsters were being cared for in temporary quarters by people who knew that the High Priestess would hear of anything at all being done wrong and take swift action to correct it.

Watching her scribble her way through the pre-written letters and the documents necessary for the deposits on each monster, Sans had to reflect on the amount of time and forethought all of this had required, and congratulated himself on not going off on her for being so little fun the past few days. Granted, it was a pretty low bar, but he'd stumbled all the way over it! Even if she was going to marry some other schlub, he, Sans the skeleton, had been a helper, and he hadn't had to kill a single person to do it!

...Huh. He really had helped, and he really hadn't killed anyone, had he? Now all he had to do was keep his hands to himself and focus on his genuinely interesting homework for a couple more weeks, and...and he'd figure out what to do then.

Once Frisk was done and had summoned someone to whisk the papers away to their exciting new life, she had a new task for him. "When you return to the Underground," she told him, "I'll send as many seeds and herbal ingredients along with you as I can. But you also have your salary, and if you're going to use it for large quantities of foodstuffs, we need to arrange it ahead of time. I've compiled a list of current prices for wheat, barley, different kinds of beans, rice, and other nonperishables. Please look through these and make a rough estimate of what you'd like to pick up on your way back. I'll pay for the rental of a horse and wagon, or wagons, depending what you choose and how many trips we want to do."

"Neato." Sans glanced at the tray of letters, still untouched, and recognized the crest on one that had fallen slightly askew from the pile. "Hey, isn't that from yer boyfriend?"

"Don't be childish," Frisk said, so sharply that he wished he'd kept his mouth shut. She plucked the note out of the stack and ripped it open, scanning the few short lines. "Of course he heard about it already." The priestess tossed the note aside. "Before you ask, no, he's not proposing. He says he'll be there another week, and then they're both going to visit their parents."

Interesting. Sans didn't know if the guy was being overly confident that she'd wait for him, or what. Ha, maybe rich humans just took so long to set up big weddings that he was giving her a couple months' head start to get her shoes made or something.

...Actually, that could be the case. But at least it'd be a while before the guy came back! Who knew? Maybe he would choke to death on something or fall off his horse or—

Sans knew he should try to not wallow in evil thoughts, but it wasn't his fault: Frisk had bought some perfume when they were out yesterday, a light vanilla with hints of citrus that made her smell like candy. He'd had trouble focusing around her before, and now Sans found himself crunching his femurs together to help remind him that no.

Still, he had plenty else to think about; figuring out what to buy for the Underground, how much everyone would like of which food within his budget, was kind of like a puzzle. Papyrus probably wouldn't have enjoyed it, but Sans got so into it that lunch came while he was still scribbling in the margins. "We have more paper, you know," Frisk remarked at his shoulder.

That sounded more like the lady he knew. Sans didn't know what she'd been thinking, but as long as she was happy again, or on her way there...

Another good thing happened a little while after they were done with lunch. A couple of servants came puffing down the hall with two enormous boxes that turned out to be a cavernous black overcoat trimmed with white fur, a giant red shirt, and correspondingly large trousers. "Surprise," Frisk said as the men unpacked everything. "I ordered them when you were out with Snowdrake. I thought you could use more than one set of clothes. Very fancy, I know."

It was almost exactly the same outfit as his human form, but real, and exceptionally well-made. How much had the materials alone cost, never mind getting clothes this size in less than a week? "Are these slippers?" Sans demanded, lifting out a pair of enormous black slippers.

She grinned for the first time in days. "Remember the time we were arguing about whether you needed shoes? Here's a compromise. Try them on, please."

The shoemaker must have thought she was joking about his size, but the joke was on him: they fit perfectly. It was more comfortable than clacking around with bare bones. Way more. "Huh," he said.

"Excellent. There's no charge for these, by the way. Consider it hazard pay for taking me to the festival, and all that shopping." Frisk gave each of the servants a hundred-dinar piece and nodded them and the empty boxes out of the room.

Aaargh, she smelled great and she was being ludicrously generous—oh, good, she was going into the office now to let him try the new stuff on. Well, from a civilized point of view, he could see the sense in having more than one set of clothes: he'd only had his newish ones washed one time, and had worn the gross old ones while he waited. This way, he could just throw those out.

...Or he could throw out the other set, too. The black and red ensemble was warm and comfortable, it had great pockets, it looked cool, and he was never taking it off.

That resolution stayed with him all the way to their dinner with the King. When they arrived at the small dining room where King Stephin ate with his son every night, Sans remained decked out in his new stuff, including the slippers. To his absolute bemusement, not only had Frisk not argued, she'd donned a black dress with little sparkly bits and a garnet necklace and earrings. It was stupid and dumb of him to be so pleased that they matched, but, they matched.

This did not escape the King, who welcomed him with the same cordiality as their first meeting and gave Frisk a weird look as she came in. The Prince was a thin, sandy-haired, sickly-looking kid who had obviously been warned about him, because when the greetings and introductions were over, he seemed more relieved than scared. When he wouldn't stop staring, Sans ignored his own instructions and looked directly at him to say, "No worries, I don't bite."

Gaius nodded, fascinated. Frisk took a dainty spoonful of soup and, under the table, kicked Sans in the tibia. "Sans has made remarkable progress in his studies," she said pleasantly.

"Oh? How wonderful," the King said, also pleasantly.

"Yes, he'll be invaluable to his people when he returns to the Underground. I wanted to ask you, Majesty, to consider whether it may be permissible for me to accompany him there for a short time, to offer him my continued assistance."

Sans glanced at her in disbelief. Yes, he'd heard right, and she was smiling at him in open defiance. The skeleton had to force himself not to snarl at her. What the hell was this?

The King didn't seem much happier with the idea than he was. "That may not be wise, Your Eminence," he replied. "I wish relations between our nations were at a point where such a venture would be possible, but I have been made to understand that my brother monarch is no longer inclined to receive human emissaries. We must consider your personal safety."

"Of course." Frisk sipped her wine, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "It's a pity you couldn't have visited with the last delegation, Majesty. I'm sure you would have enjoyed catching up with King Asgore."

From the King's stiffened back and tightened mouth, Sans guessed that it was one of those polite little conversational bitch-slaps humans were so good at. He wasn't sure about dishing one out to the actual King, but the old man seemed to recover well enough. "Indeed," he said. "I'm sure your pupil will prove capable."

Frisk inclined her head, earrings swaying. "I hope this will be the case, Your Majesty, and that the knowledge he gains from us will be useful enough to prove our good intentions to his King."

The conversation moved right along from there, but Sans was barely listening. He made the correct noises when Gaius started babbling at him about the book he was reading about people fighting each other with giant cats or swords or something; he sort of laughed at Stephin's jokes; he let the High Priestess tell them about the things they were working on. "Sans says there are magic flowers in the Underground that will repeat whatever you say back to you, and to the next person who touches their petals," she informed the young Prince.

"It'll repeat anything?" Gaius asked eagerly, no doubt plotting the sort of words he'd say.

"Any sound at all. If I ever make it to the Underground, shall I bring one back for you?"

The boy agreed so enthusiastically that he started coughing, and dinner was brought to an end by the arrival of dessert: apple turnovers. Sans took several, mind still buzzing, though he noticed that, like the rest of the food, the things were pretty damn tasty. So was she messing with him, or trying to throw him off so he would be too distracted to do something rude or scary?

No, she knew exactly what she was doing: as they bowed their way out and returned to her workroom, her head stayed high, and she carried herself to her dressing room with absolute certainty. Frisk came out in her robe and stopped in front of Sans, who was blocking the bathroom door. "Yes?" she asked rhetorically.

"Oh, nothin'. I'm just tryin' ta figure out what's wrong with my ears. It sure sounded ta me like you told His Majesty that ya don't care if my Majesty wants to rip your heart out 'n eat it."

The priestess feigned dismay. "I'm so sorry to tell you this, Sans, but...your ears, they're—"

"Not now!" Sans jammed his hands into his pockets, leaning down to look her in the face. "I already told ya, I'm not takin' you with me! Ya got that?"

"I got it." Frisk crossed her arms at the waist. On a hunch, the boss monster checked her SOUL—oh, fuck, it was already that bright? And her determination was still rising. "That's really unfortunate. It'll make getting in a lot more difficult for me, not to mention dangerous," she added.

The boss monster ground his teeth. "Ya know what's not hard or dangerous? Keepin' yer ass away from the Underground!"

She smiled, and said, "No."

Sans was at a complete loss. He had never heard anything more definite than that one word. "Why 'no'?" he asked, incredulity overtaking his anger for a moment. "Do ya really not trust me to teach the others the stuff I'm learnin'?"

"That's not it," she replied.

"Then what the hell is it? Are ya curious? Do you wanna tell everyone yer mom said hi or somethin'?!"

"No." Frisk's arms dropped to her sides. "I want to tell them that I say hi." She smiled again, but in a wistful, absolutely unyielding way. "Thank you for being so patient with me the past few days, Sans. I haven't..." Her smile disappeared, one hand brushing her hair back and the other curling into a fist. "I lied to you. I lied to everyone, but I should've told you the truth already. I..." She swallowed, her pulse racing so that he could see it in her throat. "I opened the box, Sans."

The clock ticked. The fire hissed and popped.

"No you didn't," the boss monster said blankly. "The doc threw it out for ya."

"He threw it away after I opened it," she said, enunciating each word carefully. "After our dream, I woke up, I opened the box, and I took out this little orb inside it—" Frisk made a small circle of her thumb and forefinger to illustrate its size. "I made a barrier. I stuck the orb into it, and when I pulled the barrier back in, the memories came with it."

The skeleton felt as if someone had opened the top of his skull and vigorously swished his brains around, then slammed the top back on. "So...?"

"So I gave him the box out in the hallway in front of the guards, and we acted as though I'd never opened it." Frisk swallowed again. "It's been coming back to me in bits and pieces, but now I know what happened. Mostly. And I am telling you—" Her face hardened until she was almost unrecognizable. "I am going back to the Underground, with or without you. I'm going to see everyone again or die trying. I am not exaggerating, Sans. Do you understand me?"

"Hell fucking no, I don't understand you!" Sans' foot rose and hit the floor so hard that, even with the slipper on, he felt a board crack beneath the carpeting. "Whaddya mean, 'go back'? Are ya makin' shit up 'cause you have some kind of death wish?"

She was breathing rapidly, her throat still pulsing. "A death wish? How many times has someone tried to kill me here, Sans, even in my own bedroom? If I go with you, at least I'll have someone to hide behind!"

"I'm not takin' ya anywhere more dangerous than the candy shop, or whatever other shit you wanna get next." He snorted. "'sat why you've been buyin' all that crap? Are ya gonna play Father Christmas an' bring everyone in the Underground a buncha presents?"

"Yes," she snapped. Sans was seriously considering teleporting in order to avoid wrecking something when Frisk went on, "Think about it. Who do you think the targets are for? Do you want Undyne destroying your front window again because she got carried away and forgot that Monster Kid couldn't catch any of her spears? Then Papyrus had to send her home because she treated cleanup like another challenge and kept pounding the glass instead of sweeping it up."

Cold shock poured down Sans' spine. "Wha...how—"

"The magic stones are for Alphys to study. She's probably starved for more plays to read, and she can act them out with the new figurines, but she'll have to share the scripts with Mettaton. The luxury goods are mostly for him, and a few are for Toriel. Does she still have trouble with the skin itching at the base of her horns? Either way, I also got her some books on teaching. I'll leave the tea service outside Asgore's door with a note on it—shall I go on?"

"This isn't funny!" Sans was breathing heavily, too. "What—how the fuck d'you know all that? None of the humans were there when Undyne broke the window! It was just us an'..."

"And Kris."

Sans shook his head wildly, stumbling back until he bumped into the bathroom door. "This is messed up, Frisk! Ya found Kris and didn't even tell me?! How long were you gonna sit on that?!"

"I only just found out, and I'm telling you now," she said firmly.

Sans' SOUL felt sick, and ecstatic, and so scared that he wanted to hurt something. "Okay. Great. Perfect. What are you tellin' me now, Frisk? Where is he? Is he okay? What else did he tell you?"

Frisk shut her eyes. She opened them. "We don't give Papyrus enough credit," she commented. "He figured it out before I did, and you still don't—"

"Would you fucking stop the cryptic bullshit an' spit it out already?!"

"Fine! I'm Kris!"

Another crystallized moment. Sans felt his head move back and forth, back and forth, on its own. "Shut up."

"I'm not joking."

More shaking, spreading down his frame. "What the hell, Frisk," he muttered, almost more disappointed than angry.

"They brought me along to see how the monsters would treat a child, as a guinea pig," she spat. "Why do you think I was allowed to spend so much time with you completely unsupervised?"

"Just knock it off, Frisk! Kris was a friggin' boy!"

"Kris had short hair and wore boys' clothes! It's not the same thing!"

"God damn it, Kris was, what, four or five—"

"None of you ever asked me how old I was! I was ten, thank you, but I was so malnourished that I probably looked like a toddler!"

Sans dropped to a squat, resting his elbow on his knee and his hand over his face. "I don't fuckin' believe this. Didja get brainwashed, or is this some kinda joke?"

"Why in God's name would I or anyone else joke about this, Sans?!"

"I don't fucking know!" Sans slammed his fist into his femur so hard that Frisk jumped. "Ya know what? We're done here. I'm goin' to bed." He got up, hobbling a little to move past her. "Have fun in yer little fantasy world. Lemme know when—"

"Do you want to see my stripes?"

Sans stopped as though he'd run into a brick wall. He could feel his sockets burning red-orange as his SOUL tried to yank him backwards. Sans slowly turned to look at Frisk, who hadn't moved, her back still to him.

Stripes. Sans watched, too heartsick to speak, as the young woman opened the neck of her robe and began easing it off her shoulders.

It wasn't entirely Papyrus' fault. Sans should have been keeping at least one socket on them, but it was late and he was busy on the floor with some very important dozing. A pillow came flying at him, and he caught it with his eyes still closed, sending it end over end back at Papyrus.

"NYEH HEH! WELL DONE, BROTHER! (PSST! HUMAN! LET'S HIT HIM WITH THE SPECIAL ATTACK NEXT!)"

Kris giggled. "Okay," he whispered, somehow even louder than Pap.

"ARE YOU READY TO SURPRISE HIM? VERY WELL! ONE! TWO! ...WHOOPSIE!"

Sans did not see what happened next, but he did hear the distinctive sound of a full glass of water being knocked flying, and sighed, opening his eyes.

"ACK! YOU ARE WET, HUMAN! SANS! PLEASE ASSIST KRIS BEFORE HE MELTS!"

"I'm gonna melt?!"

"probably. i dunno." Sans got up and beckoned to the child, who was holding his shirt away from his body in obvious panic. "you go get a towel, pap, and i'll find the squirt something dry to wear."

That got him a smile. Sans led the way to his own room, where he probably had a clean shirt somewhere. He switched the light on and selected a likely suspect from the top of the laundry pile. "here we go. survival of the fittest, amirite, kiddo? heh. gimme your shirt, and we'll put it over—"

Kris had already pulled his shirt off. He was painfully thin compared to the other humans Sans had seen, but as the kid turned to wring the wet shirt out – all over the carpet, sigh – it wasn't his protruding ribs or spine that brought Sans up short. It was the livid pink and too-white lines criss-crossing each other in the middle and lower parts of the little human's back, with one or two errant marks near his shoulders.

Scars. Those were scars. Someone had hurt the kid so badly that it'd messed up his skin for the rest of his life. How could—

Sans didn't mean to stare, but Kris looked up and caught his gaze, and the absolute worst part was that he smiled, and laughed a little. "You're lucky. None of your stripes probably show."

"stripes?" the skeleton repeated.

"Yeah." The child's tone was so casual that Sans' SOUL hurt. "It's okay. Mama told Cook to stop leaving so many marks."

Sans gestured, almost mechanically, for Kris to raise his arms. The child did so, and Sans pulled the dry shirt down over his head, tugging it down until the hem almost reached Kris' knobby knees. Then the monster did something that confused the human quite a bit: he leaned forward and put his arms around the child, resting his hand on Kris' head. "no one gets stripes around here, pal," he said into the human's fleshy ear.

Pause. "They don't?" queried Kris.

"nah. it's a very important monster rule: no stripes. if anyone tries to give you any more, you just send 'em to me and pap. we'll explain the rule for you." Very, very thoroughly, he thought, gritting his teeth.

"Oh. Okay." Kris dutifully put his arms around Sans, with a slightly puzzled air. "Thanks, Sans."

Holy moly, did the poor kid not know how hugs worked? What the actual hell was wrong with humans? The skeleton stood up and held his hand out. "c'mon, kiddo. let's go tell pap your skin melted."

"Okay!" Back on familiar ground, Kris hopped up and down. "Can we tell Toriel my skin melted?"

"haaa ha ha ha no."

And they'd gone back to Pap's room, and Pap had immediately bought it, and they'd snickered while he lost his mind about what Toriel was going to say and whether they could make some new skin for him out of paper. Sans had pointed out that that would make bathtime problematic, and—

And Sans had never, ever told anyone about the "stripes."

And now he was watching a beautiful young woman ease her robe all the way down to the small of her back, and there was the same pattern of scars, the same long, thin pink and white lines he'd seen on Kris twelve years ago. "It's not a trick," she said, her voice a little too calm and steady. "You can touch them if you still don't believe me."

"I believe you," he said roughly, but he couldn't help himself: a second later, Frisk jumped as his phalange grazed the spot where the most lines intersected. "Shit! Sorry. Sorry!" Sans snatched his hand away. "I...I believe ya, I swear. I just—"

"It's all right. Go ahead." She turned her head enough for him to see her attempt a smile. "It doesn't hurt anymore."

Liar. Sans sat down and crossed his legs, accepting the pain where he'd hit himself. He turned his hand and very gently ran the side of his forefinger down her back, starting at the velvety, unbroken skin below her neck and across the bumpy scar tissue. Then he did what he'd seen her do too many times and wiped his eyes on his sleeve, where the red wouldn't show. "So...Kris, huh?"

"That's me." Frisk's voice cracked. She was clutching the robe against her front, so that he could only see the graceful lines of her shoulders, and the marks someone had put on the sweetest kid, the best person anyone could ever meet.

"They had to remove my memories at St. Brigid's," she continued. "My father didn't go with the delegation because his wife was about to deliver and had already been sick. She died while we were on our way to the Underground, and he started checking on all of his illegitimate children. After they made me leave with the others, I was sent to the convent to be educated, and I was a mess." She swallowed twice. "All I wanted was to go back to the Underground. It didn't matter how many times they told me the monsters didn't want another human down there. I wouldn't eat, I wouldn't sleep, I just kept—"

"What the fuck! Of course we wanted ya there!" Sans slammed his fist into the floor. "Do you have any idea how much everyone missed you?!"

"Yes! And I wanted to go back just as much!" Frisk's facade was crumbling rapidly. She hadn't pulled up her robe yet, possibly because her hands were clenched too tightly. "I didn't know if everyone was all right after the accident! No one would tell me anything!"

"No. They tore it all outta your head instead." Sans ground his eye sockets into his sleeve again. "An' ya got it back, and you've keepin' it to yerself?"

"I'm sorry!" The pain in her voice was so raw that Sans flinched. "I'm sorry! Kris wasn't real, it was just me! And no, I didn't tell you any of this! I was so scared of what you'd say, if you'd believe me or not—"

He hadn't. He hadn't believed her. She'd had to get half naked to prove it. If Sans could have ripped his SOUL out and punched it, he would have done so right then and there. "Whaddya mean, it's 'just you'?" he demanded, rougher than he meant to.

Her head drooped, leaving a long curve of neck and shoulder that the stupider parts of him couldn't stop staring at. His instincts were starting to kick in: she was hurting, she needed him, she'd already showed him this much skin and let him touch her—

Sans' whole body twitched as another thought crashed in: the fortune. Her second fortune.

The pain of that sorrow and regret will be unbearable for a time, and they will not be yours alone.

But the rest of it, the joy and power, and a child—

Frisk buried her face in her hands, shaking her head harder and harder. "I have to go back, Sans. I have to! Please, Sans, take me home with you! I just want to go home! Please—"

Sans didn't think, he acted. Frisk gasped as he turned her around and opened his overcoat to sweep her under it before he put his arms around her, holding her as tight as he dared. "Okay," he said, swiping at his eyes again. "Okay, kitten. I'll take you with me. We'll both go, and we'll tell everyone you're back." After all, the monsters – especially the King – would never accept the humans' High Priestess trying to cozy up to them, but they just might listen to Kris, especially when she was returning Sans to them safe, bringing food and gifts. They wouldn't let Asgore hurt her.

That was the difference in her fortunes. The other humans had done too good a job of erasing "Kris" and turning Frisk into the ideal High Priestess. If she hadn't been brave enough to remember everything—

This wasn't fair! He already loved her so much, and now this? What was he supposed to do?

Right now, he just held her as she buried her face in his new shirt and gave vent to huge, racking, wailing sobs, finally letting out years of grief. He allowed her to cry until she started hiccuping, and then he started petting her hair and just a little down her neck and shoulders, nothing objectionable—all he needed to do to quash his sex drive was think of Kris smiling ruefully about his "stripes." The bones of his face itched where the red kept trickling down, but the sky could have started falling, and he wouldn't have moved before she was ready.

#songfell #made me sniffly to write but damn cant wait for reactions

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mst3kproject · 5 years ago

Photo

Exo-Man

Failed series pilots were very much part of MST3K’s stock in trade. We’ve sat through San Francisco International, Stranded in Space, Code Name: Diamond Head and I’m sure there were others. I generally recall all of those movies being kind of dull and lacking in personality, and I can’t imagine this 70’s superhero mess being much better. I don’t think anybody in Exo-Man was ever on MST3K but Jose Ferrer (the first Latino actor to win an academy award, for 1950’s Cyrano de Bergerac) was once in a movie called Zoltan, Hound of Dracula, which I am deeply remiss in not having seen yet. You may also recognize Harry Morgan, who was Colonel Potter on M*A*S*H.

Dr. Nick Conrad is a wacky physics professor of the type nobody has ever encountered in real life. He’s somehow both smart enough to invent anti-gravity and memory plastic, and stupid enough to chase after a fleeing would-be bank robber. The latter stunt, set to wakka-chicka Mitchell music, makes Nick the target of a mafia assassin, who kills his lab assistant and leaves Nick himself paralyzed from the waist down. He wallows in self-pity for a while, but then rediscovers his passion for invention and builds himself a suit of armor that will allow him to walk again… and to take on the mob single-handedly.

I don’t know why they called the movie Exo-Man. That name is never used in the dialogue. I guess the more accurate Fiberglass Avenger just wouldn’t have sounded as cool.

The first thing you’re likely to notice from the plot summary is that Nick’s story starts off as Dr. Strange and then takes a hard left into Iron Man. I’m pretty sure the latter at least was an intentional ripoff, with bits of the first thrown in, knowingly or not, to distance Exo-Man from Marvel’s lawyers. What’s funny is that posterity has actually made it a hat trick: the movie opens with a weirdly homoerotic jogging scene, so now he gets to be Captain America, too!

Exo-Man is a really stupid, often boring, and consistently ugly movie. The actors are mediocre, the music bland, the effects terrible, and stuff is made to look ‘high tech’ by sticking lots of blinky lights on it. Way too much time passes before we get to the action and when we do, we find a deep pit of disappointment. Yet at the same time… I kind of enjoyed it.

A major part of why has got to be the incredibly dopey super-suit the main character wears, which looks less like ‘Iron Man’ and more like ‘Fiberglass Commando Cody’. It moves really slowly and I doubt the guy in the costume can see very much. Nick controls the bottom half of it using switches on one sleeve, which appear to have simple functions like ‘sit’, ‘walk’, and ‘jump’ (there is, of course, no ‘run,’ because nothing happens fast in this movie). He puts the thing on by lying down in what looks like a tanning bed (or maybe one of those contraptions from Avatar). My personal favourite is the warning light labeled malfuntion.

All this is in a movie that sometimes manages to be surprisingly subtle. We are introduced to Nick while jogging, we watch him play tennis with his girlfriend, and see him maintain this exercise regime even while he’s supposed to be under police protection. These shots are in brilliant sunshine, and the camerawork is as active as the subjects. Post-injury, Nick never outwardly complains about his inability to participate in sports, but we now see him sitting in his wheelchair in dark surroundings, with the camera held perfectly still. We feel that he has lost something he loved dearly, and we never need to be told it outright.

We are also introduced to Nick as somebody who is devored to furthering minorities. His two lab assistants are an east Asian student and a Jewish one (the latter identified as such by a surname, rather than appearance), and the reason he was at the bank was to help a Latino student get a loan. Again, the script trusts the audience to get this without having to draw attention to it through dialogue. These minority characters are, of course, still just accessories to Nick’s story. The Jewish guy in particular is there to be fridged – its his death that leads to Nick flaunting his police protection and getting hurt. But the effort was made to say that minority rights are important to Nick, without hitting us over the head with it.

Theme-wise, Exo-Man is about a man coming to terms with a disability. I should preface this by saying that I am not disabled, so my perspective is necessarily biased. If anything I say below is offensive, that is out of ignorance, and please let me know so that I may edit or delete the review and do better next time. I was actually pretty impressed by how the script and director handled the life-changing nature of Nick’s injury… mostly. I’ll start with the bad stuff.

The attack on Nick comes with a heaping helping of victim blaming. As an important witness in the bank robbery, he was offered police protection. The assassin tries to get around this by putting a bomb in his car, but one of the lab assistants borrows the car for a late-night pizza run, and gets killed in Nick’s stead. This leads Nick to deliberately place himself in a vulnerable position, hoping to draw the killer out for capture and punishment. In the hospital with a broken back, Nick blames the police for failing to protect him, but I’m pretty sure the movie wants us to think that this is really Nick’s own fault. Like the tragic accident victims in Days of our Years, he has nobody to blame for his own misery, or that of his loved ones, except himself.

After that, however, the movie’s treatment of Nick’s disability improves quickly. His girlfriend Emily leaves him, but that’s not because he’s in a wheelchair, it’s because he’s too busy wallowing in self-pity to even let her into his apartment. Later when he apologizes to her, she takes him back and they resume their happy relationship, and the fact that they can’t play tennis together anymore is not an issue. She does not treat him as something to be pitied, she speaks to him on his eye level, and they avoid that weird trope of having the abled partner sit in the wheelchair-user’s lap. Emily loves who Nick is, not what he can do. His colleagues and students, likewise, treat him with respect and help him with his chair, and never make the latter feel like a burden.

By the end of the film Nick has come to terms with his disability. The suit he’s built is not a cure for his condition: in fact the first time he wears it out, it breaks down and he needs help getting back to his high-tech armored van. It’s a tool he has built for a purpose, and he doesn’t feel the need to wear it in non-superhero situations. Based on what we see, he could have built a legs-only version to wear under his trousers and let him go jogging and play tennis again, but that is no longer who Nick is. And when and whether to wear the suit is always Nick’s own choice, not something imposed on him from the outside.

Of course, it would also be really helpful in later maintaining Exo-Man’s secret identity, and I suspect the writers were thinking of that a lot more than they were of things like parents forcing questionable ‘cures’ on disabled children. The secret identity probably would have been a big deal if the pilot had sold, but in this stand-alone story, I thought the suit worked well as a metaphor about a disabled man at peace with himself.

Exo-Man also takes a quick little peek at the morality of vigilante justice, although this comes in pretty late and clearly isn’t something they wanted to get into in any detail. The first person Nick confronts in the suit is the assassin who actually beat him up. He says he didn’t go into this encounter with any real plan… perhaps he just wanted to scare the guy. What ultimately happens is that the assassin climbs a drainpipe to get away from the terrifying robot man, the pipe comes off the wall, and the man falls to his death. Nick feels this is his fault, and so the next time he takes the suit out he does so with a particular goal in mind: he wants to capture the mob boss and provide evidence of his wrongdoing to the police, not to kill anyone.

The mob boss’ name, by the way, is Kermit Haas, which is probably the least intimidating name a movie has ever given to its big bad.

Would that work? Is evidence a guy in a robot suit left in your dumpster for you admissible in court? Isn’t where stuff was found kind of important? I honestly have no idea and I’m not sure how to go about finding out. People might wonder why I want to know and I don’t think saying it’s for my blog would allay their suspicions.

At the end of Exo-Man, I was more entertained than not, but mostly on the level of laughing at the dumb-looking suit and appreciating the fine art of ripping off comic book characters. If that’s your kind of thing then this movie ought to put the fun in malfuntion for you. If that’s not your thing, well… this is an MST3K blog. What are you doing here?

#mst3k #reviews #episodes that never were #exo-man #tw: abelism #70s

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salexectrian-heir · 5 years ago

Text

Loki: Chapter 12*

Pairing: Solavellan Rating: E*, this chapter is NSFW

Summary: Lavellan rescued a mischievious sphynx kitten outside her work who loves her dearly. But his destructive habits start to get out of hand when he steals her attractive neighbor’s underwear… repeatedly.

Chapter 12* (4.8k, NSFW)

Anise wove in between bodies at a record pace, clutching her lunch bag to her chest, dodging interns left and right. She needed a moment of silence to clear her throbbing head, and if one more first year came up and asked her how to properly intubate someone, she might just scream. Normally, she would be all for teaching freshly graduated doctors-to-be techniques, but after what she just witnessed in the resident lounge? Absolutely not.

Anise took a sharp right and dove into the stairwell that would lead her towards the basement, her feet moving on autopilot to the once familiar place she would run off to escape to early on in her career at Haven. At the second to last door from the bottom, she slumped into it, letting her weight push it open. Her brows arched as she saw someone else who apparently had the same idea she did, sitting on a gurney in the hallway of the abandoned wing of the hospital.

“Old habits die hard,” Dorian said with a smirk, and gestured for her to sit in empty space beside him.

“Gods, this takes me back to first year when we all would eat down here,” she said, hoisting herself up on the forgotten piece of equipment. She proceeded to open her own packed lunch, a tuna wrap with carrot sticks.

“Let me guess, your reason for avoiding our common area is the same as mine?”

They locked eyes, and said in synchrony, “Anders.”

Dorian cackled.

He fished a carrot stick out of her bag for himself before saying, “Honestly, I don’t know what we all saw in him. It ends the same way for everyone. You can’t fix him, no matter how hard you try,” he bit into the carrot stick with a loud crunch, “but at least it’s Hawke this time, and not a new intern. Maybe she will finally knock some sense into him.”

Anders was a brilliant doctor, one of the best neurosurgeons in the nation if not the best. He turned down multiple offers from hospitals all around the country before settling at the Ferelden teaching hospital. But his personal life was a total mess wrought with commitment issues, and he was constantly getting in over his head with the medical board with his fiery attitude and unorthodox approach to medicine (which was not necessarily always a bad thing, and definitely something that had drawn Anise to him in the first place, but his sometimes he just skirted the lines of what was ethical). Anise had made the mistake of getting involved with him shortly after starting her internship (as did Dorian) but quickly realized Anders was… a lot to say the least, and she politely ended things. To her surprise (and relief) he was understanding. They got along much better as colleagues than they did as lovers, anyway. Anise vowed never to date another doctor at her hospital moving forward. She was much more content to over hear gossip, than be the reason for the gossip.

And then, there was Hawke--their fellow resident, good friend, and ruthless rival. She was a handful, too. Equally as fiery, passionate, always managed to make everything a competition, and went tit for tat with Anders. He may have finally met his match. It didn’t surprise Anise they were sleeping together, or that they were airing out their dirty laundry in the resident lounge at this very moment. Something she had walked in on in her effort to get her lunch.

They had both stopped yelling and stared at her, mortified at the fact they had gotten caught. She had given them a painfully awkward wave before zipping over to the fridge, snagging her lunch, and darting out of the lounge in under ten seconds.

Their fighting resumed before the door had even shut on her way out.

“Let’s hope only metaphorically, Anders has a surgery this evening, and I’m getting to scrub in and perform the craniotomy.” She stuck her tongue out at Dorian’s envious expression.

“Brat. Does Hawke know about this?”

Anise rolled her eyes, “If I were to hedge a guess, it’s what started their fight.”

As she bit into her wrap, her phone vibrated in her pocket. When she checked it, she promptly choked.

[Vhenan]

Will you let me take you out to dinner this Friday?

Schedule permitting, of course

[1:13pm]

Friday.

As in The Fourteenth of February.

As in, Valentine's Day.

“Best steer clear of Hawke for the rest of the day then. Otherwise she might just knock you instead.”

“Hah..ha,” Anise replied weakly, eyes still glued to her phone. Her brain, temporarily out of order.

Solas wanted to take her out.

On the national holiday for couples.

Granted, he had taken her out before, but that had been more casual, and hadn’t felt as exclusive. From the outside, they could have just been good friends dancing together, grabbing a bite afterwards. People did that all the time.

(Well, he did kiss her, but no one had been around to witness it, so therefore it didn’t technically count, or so she tried to rationalize.)

That date also had been before they started sleeping together…before he called her vhenan...

A wave of heat rolled up her neck, burning the tips of her ears. She had been too cowardly to bring up what he had said to her in his sleep filled haze the day after the last time they had slept together. Their snow day together had been too picture perfect, and she didn’t want to chance ruining it. She spent the entirety of the day on top of him on her couch (they had switched apartments for Loki’s sake). And when they weren’t alternating between their favorite movies… they engaged in other forms of entertainment.

[Anise]

I believe my shift ends at 5 next Friday--if you don’t mind having a little bit of a later dinner, I would love to join you

[1:20pm]

[Vhenan]

I do not, I’ll make the arrangements.

[1:20pm]

[Anise]

Nothing too fancy!! You’ve seen my laundry, I only own scrubs and that one dress

[1:21pm]

[Vhenan]

It is done.

[1:22pm]

“Who’s Vhenan?”

Anise nearly jumped out of her skin and almost dropped her phone on the floor.

“Dorian,” she chided, shoving him hard, and scrambling to send off one more text.

[Anise]

No presents! And we go halfsies

[1:22pm]

“It’s your fault you made no effort to hide your screen. I’ve been talking to you this whole time and you’ve so carelessly ignored me. I had to know who was more important than your very best friend.”

“Absolutely no one.” Anise tucked her phone safely back into the privacy of her pocket.

“Darling Anise, we both know that’s bullshit.”

It was at that moment the door to the hall bust wide open, the sound of it slamming against the wall echoed like a gunshot, startling both Anise and Dorian.

“Oh fuck,” Hawke’s horrified face was quickly covered by her hands, sending tufts of her pixie cut jet black hair to stick out at even odder angles than they normally did, “and here I thought I could escape today for one fucking second.”

Dorian and Anise exchanged a quick glance and said together, “Old habits die hard,”

Dorian shifted further down the gurney, as did Anise, leaving space for one more body. Anise gestured to Hawke to take the spot, and offered her a carrot stick. Hawke made a disgusted noise but took the seat, and carrot stick, anyway. It looked like she might snap it in half. She fell into an awkward, tenuous silence beside Anise, who suddenly became very interested in the tuna of her wrap, taking small nibbles and examining the bite marks she left behind.

Finally, at long last Hawke said, “I can’t scrub in with Anders anymore.”

“Because you’re sleeping with him?”

Hawke shot Dorian a dark look. “I’m dating him, asshole.”

Anise paused mid bite, “Wait… like…?”

“Like, it’s official, All-Spice,” she quipped at Anise using that stupid nickname that speech pathlogist gave her that Hawke hung around with. Apparently, he gave everyone nicknames. “We went to the Chief, came clean, and everything. Anders had to speak privately with Viv for like an hour.” Hawke rubbed her face. “And then he comes back and tells me that I no longer am allowed to scrub in with him anymore.”

“I mean, that makes sense,” Dorian said, which was clearly the wrong thing to say to Hawke, earning him another, darker, glare as she chomped down on her carrot stick.

“Fuck you,” Hawke said with her mouth full, pausing to swallow before continuing, “I know that. I still get to be upset about it.”

“Valid,” Anise said, taking another small bite of her wrap.

“Sure, but you don’t have to scream about it,” Dorian retorted.

“Also, valid point,” Anise commented, covering her mouth with a hand as she chewed.

“Fine, you’re right. Sorry,” Hawke sighed, shoulders rising and falling dramatically. “And I’m also sorry for what you walked in on, Anise. I want it to be clear, I didn’t mean to sound like I was angry at you. I’m not. I just let--”

The door to the hall opened again, with considerably less banging this time, but all three residents snapped to attention as they saw who stepped through.

“The Witch,” Dorian hissed.

The Chief Resident’s expression soured.

“I heard that, Dorian,” she drawled, “why is it that when I need a competent resident, the three of you are nowhere to be found. Incoming abdominal gunshot wound, no exit, OR three.”

All of them immediately jumped up, pushing each other out the way to stand before Morrigan, Dorian and Anise shoving their lunches haphazardly back into their packs as Hawke edged them out.

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Lavellan, you have a surgery tonight, you’re out.”

Anise didn’t fight it, given the circumstances, and quietly stepped back.

“Hawke with me. You look like you need it.”

“What,” Dorian protested, gesturing flippantly at Hawke, “how is that the basis of your decision?”

“Dorian, you suck up to every attending, you’ll find a surgery to scrub into before I make it back to the OR floor.”

Hawke’s amber eyes sparkled as she flipped off Dorian when Morrigan had her back turned. Dorian returned the gesture with equal flair.

“Remind me why we’re friends with her again,” Dorian asked, after they were gone.

“Because she’s a pariah like us, and you do actually like her as a person, flaws and all.”

Dorian grumbled something in Tevine under his breath, slumping back down onto the gurney. “And remind me why I’m friends with you, when you won’t even tell me all the interesting bits of your life?”

Anise sighed.

If she started telling Dorian about Solas, it would mean someone else would know, which would make it all the more real.

It really didn’t take her that long to decide.

“Okay, but you have to promise me not to laugh and call me crazy,” Anise warned, and Dorian’s face lit up, “but it started with my kitten and my neighbor’s boxer briefs…”

***

The restaurant was one of those scratch kitchen types, where everything was locally sourced and organic. It had a rustic feel to it that reminded her of home the moment they sat down at their booth, surrounded by plants and large glass windows. Surprisingly, it was comfortably warm. She had shrugged off her winter coat, but kept on the black blazer she had dug out of her closet that she hadn’t worn since she graduated medical school, and was happy to know it still fit perfectly. She had gone with a floral turtleneck underneath with a pair of tight jeans and ankle boots. Not too fancy, but still dressed up. He had worn something similar in fashion, a pair of nice jeans, a green sweater, and sport coat over top.

It was surreal. To be out, with him, clearly as a couple. Her heart hadn’t stopped fluttering since he took her hand when they left their apartment complex.

She hadn’t meant to talk about work, or make Solas talk about work, knowing how bringing it up seemed to ruin his mood. But when he asked about how the surgery with Anders she was able to scrub in on went, the incident with Hawke naturally came up, and suddenly she was discussing work.

“I’m sorry, I’m monopolizing the conversation. I would ask you about your week, but I get the impression it wasn’t any better than the last.”

“You would be correct in that assumption,” he said, rubbing his temples. “I managed to avoid the C.E.O for most of it. One awkward elevator ride was all I had to endure. Luckily, in silence.”

Even with that simple statement, she could see the tension set in his shoulders. “Let’s not talk about work anymore.”

He peered over his steepled hands at her. “What would you like us to talk about, Anise?”

Anise ran her tongue over her teeth and thought for a second. “I want to learn more about you. So let’s play a game.”

Solas’ brows arched. “What kind of game do you have in mind?”

“You try to make an assumption about me. If you’re right, I drink. If you’re wrong, you drink. And vice versa.”

He chuckled. “Where did you learn this game?”

“Med school. We had to find some way to cope,” she said with a laugh of her own.

“You might want to order a second glass of wine before we start.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you think I’ll only make wrong assumptions, and you’ll only ever make right ones?”

“Indeed, I do.”

Anise rolled her neck. “Game on. I’ll go first. Your favorite color is green.”

“You went for something easy.” Solas took a generous sip of his wine. “What gave it away?”

Anise grinned. “Your sweater. Your ties are mostly green. Your socks have intricate green patterns on them. Your briefcase is a very dark green, almost black if you’re not looking close enough. But your sweater tonight really sealed the deal for me.”

“Astute observations. Then let me counter with this, your favorite color is blue.”

“Guilty.” Anise blushed behind her glass of wine, and took a sip. “I’ll bite. How’d you know?”

It was Solas’ turn to smile. “Your bedsheets are blue. As is the accent wall in your bedroom. The gift wrap you covered my wintersend gift in. Most of your scrubs are light blue, though this could be required at your hospital, but I took the risk.”

There were also two very obvious reasons, she wasn’t about to admit to as she gazed into them.

“Only attendings have a specific uniform color, and its navy ironically.”

Their dinner arrived after that, but they continued their little game even after their drinks were finished, using water instead until they ordered a second glass each. Solas guessed Anise had broken bones as a kid--she drank, she had broken two in her arm when she was four years old, and was religious--he drank, which prompted a long philosophical conversation about the elven gods and their teachings in which he was surprised to find she wasn’t religious, or spiritual, at all. That she viewed them more as lessons in morals more than anything. Anise soon learned, after a few more wrong guesses, Solas hated plums, but not as much as tea, loved to read research articles, if only to critique their methodology and sample size, and to her greatest surprise, had been arrested twice before the age of eighteen.

Anise finished off the last of her ravioli, and asked, “For what?”

“Disorderly conduct, and Trespassing,” Solas said, pusing around some of the vegetables on his plate, “I was very misguided in my youth.”

“I remember you saying that. My my, what a troublemaker you turned out to be,” she teased.

His lips twisted into that half smile she loved so much. As he studied her from across the table, setting aside his cutlery and dish, her stomach did flips. “You are the youngest child.”

Anise took a sip of her wine. “Youngest of three.”

“All girls?”

Anise shook her head triumphantly, “Only girl.” Solas took a sip of his.

“I have two older brothers. One is in law enforcement, the other is in a metal band.”

“Metal band? Diverse interests in your family.”

“Hah, you don’t even know what my father does for a living.”

Solas did that deep stare again. There was silence for a beat, then he said, “Politician.”

“Damnit,” Anise whispered, taking another sip.

Solas eyes lit up with a realization. “Is he--?”

“The Dalish politician, yes, yes, the one and only,” Anise rolled her eyes rather dramatically, feeling the wine settling in, “kind of obvious. Know how I mentioned in the past my family was busy with legal matters in Wycome? Well, I’m sure you saw recently on the news, the Dalish settlement in the Free Marches was officially recognized as a historical site and can no longer be bought or demolished, because of his advocacy and support from Wycome residents who rallied.”

“I did, it’s incredible what he has done for the history of his people.”

‘I agree. They are in the process of creating a museum to preserve the artifacts and culture from the ancient Dalish in the city. The land will remain untouched and essentially become a nature preserve with trails and historical markers. He keeps saying I have to visit once everything settles down and it’s opened to the public.”

The waitress came around to collect their plates and ask if they wanted dessert. The answer was obviously yes, as if Solas could ever say no to anything sweet. It was entertaining to watch his face light up over a simple frilly cake.

“I do believe it's your turn,” he said, licking icing off his fork.

That was… distracting.

Anise recovered, tips of her ears burning, “You’re an only child.”

Solas stared off at the space behind her quizzically. “What happens when someone does not know how to respond to a statement, do we both drink?”

“I’ve never encountered that kind of situation before playing this game,” Anise admitted.

“To answer your question, I do not know if I have biological siblings. I don’t remember my biological parents. I was placed into foster care in Arlathan when I was very young. I met kindred spirits there, people I would have considered siblings, at the time.”

“I would say they absolutely count.”

He nodded, and drank. While doing so he dug out his phone, scrolled through it for a moment, before smiling, a true smile, and catching her eyes again. “You must not laugh.” He held out his phone.

Anise raised a brow. “No promises without context,” she said, accepting his phone and turning her attention to the picture he had left up.

“Oh, my gods,” her hand quickly shot to her mouth before she could let a giggle escape. “This is you. You have hair. How old are you here? This is… your friend that took you dancing?”

“Seventeen. And yes, that’s her. Her name was Sage. I met her while in the boarding school the state sent me to. Scroll if you want to see more.”

The picture was of two teenagers in school uniforms, standing in the middle of a city street. Solas clearly the younger of the two, with messy brown hair that just barely glinted red in the sunlight. The girl beside him had a shock of green hair that fell just below her chin. One of her arms slung around his neck, laughing at him, as he flipped off whoever was holding the camera.

The next one was Solas eating a cupcake in a dorm room, or to more accurately describe it, having a cupcake shoved into his face by Sage, who had icing on her nose already. The third was an action shot of them dancing. They got a little older every couple photos or so. At the bottom she realized the photos belonged to a memorial album he had on Facebook. While she was busy admiring photos of Solas’ over the years she had not known him, and tearing up as she realized what he had given her, a piece of his past, he had paid for their date.

Sneaky.

“Hey wait, that’s not fair,” she said, returning his phone and standing up, “you baited me.”

“I did.” He pressed a quick kiss to her temple and helped her into her coat.

***

The moment they made it into the lobby of their apartment complex, they were inseparable. In their favor it was empty, and the elevator was theirs alone. How they got that lucky, she didn’t know. What she did know was how badly he wanted her, evident with each pass of his tongue as it pushed past her lips. How his hands slipped under her shirt and roamed her stomach sending heat sliding down her spine to pool in her core. How the elevator brought them to their floor all too soon.

They stood in front of his apartment, her back pressed against his door with clothes entirely wrinkled and lungs breathless, torn between not wanting to stop but also wanting to move inside. She chased his lips as he pulled away to take out his key, but landed on his neck. She continued to kiss him as the lock clicked open. He groaned as her teeth grazed his pressure point, the fingers of his free hand digging into her hip. As the door swung inward, she grabbed a fist full of his shirt and pulled him across the threshold.

“I thought you might want to come back after,” he said between kisses, stripping themselves of their outer layers once the door had closed securely behind them. “Bathroom,” he instructed, nudging her with his nose to her cheek to get her to turn in that direction.

Her bra was shed somewhere between the entryway and his bedroom, leaving her only in jeans. She didn’t want to break their connection, but when she stepped into the bathroom what she saw demanded her full attention. Candles and flowers in petite mason jars lined the tub and sink counter. And a bath bomb on the lid of the toilet seat, still in its packaging. Her heart throbbed.

Oh. He remembered I liked those.

The strike of a match brought her focus back to him. He went to grab one of the candles, but Anise got between him and his target, blowing out the lit match. She took the box from him and tossed it somewhere on top of the toilet without breaking his gaze. Her mouth was on the skin of his neck a second later, backing him up against the wall. Nipping and sucking with a couple little harder bites in between, her tongue caressing spots she had marked him. But when his fingers slid into her hair and clenched, it sent a sharp twinge of pain across her scalp making her moan.

“Mm, interesting,” he said, licking along her bottom lip.

It would have taken way more self-control than she had to to resist the impulse to roll her hips into him, and as she did she was rewarded with feeling the hard press of his erection against her hip through his jeans. It sent a current through her, making her throb between her legs.

His fingers curled into the waistline of her unzippered jeans, yanking them, and her lacy underwear down her thighs. It took a little effort as they clung tightly to her thighs, but eventually he wrestled her out of them. He managed to get his pants off with one fluid movement, and had her against the counter in a heartbeat, the cold stone biting into her lower back, his mouth slating against hers.

He lifted her with no effort, setting her atop the counter space, spreading her legs wide open. His fingers raced along the inside of her thigh, finding her clit and starting a steady and slow rhythm that had her writhing in what seemed like no time at all. He pulled away and lazily dragging his fingers aroud the lips of her sex, taking a sharp breath at wet she had become.

“Anise,” he groaned, sliding a finger inside her.

She gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he moved within her. One finger soon became two, and she bit her lip to stop from mewling as they curled in just the right cadence that set her nerves on fire. How he had memorized her body, and the way she liked to be touched so quickly was beyond her. When she couldn’t hold it back anymore, she let a whine escape in the form of his name. He removed his fingers just before she could tip over the edge he had brought her to. Some part of her brain realized she was so wet she was dripping onto his counter, but she quite couldn’t bring herself to care. He pulled her hips forward, bringing her to the edge so he could angle himself to take her.

And take her he did.

Her back arched as he smoothly thrust up and in, her head pressing into the mirror behind her. Her legs curled around his waist at the pleasurable stretch she felt as he filled her, pinning him there against her. The other hand wound its way back into the tresses of her hair, spilling out between his fingers as they scraped along her scalp. He twisted her hair sharply, forcing a blissful cry from her mouth into his, which he devoured greedily, and only encouraged him to fuck her harder. With each snap of his hips his grip in her hair tightened, the tension in her pulling taut until she broke, clenching around his cock in such powerful waves she couldn’t help herself from riding against him. He barely pulled out in time to finish on her stomach. They remained as they were, her legs wrapped around his waist, ass on the counter, foreheads pressed together as they caught their breath.

“We did this out of order,” he said, his breathless laughter dancing on her cheek, “Bath first, then sex, was the intention.”

She hummed blithely, “I have no regrets.”

He released his hold on her hair, tucking several loose strands behind her ear, and laid a soft kiss on her temple before pulling out of her embrace. He cleaned his mess off her, and then himself while she wiped down the counter. Through some unspoken agreement, he went to draw the bath and she attended to the candles.

Finally, they sunk into the blessedly warm water, Solas first then Anise. Unable to contain her excitement, she unwrapped the blue bath bomb, and dropped it into the water with a very quiet, noise of delight. An explosion of blue and purple spread like smoke beneath the water as the scent of jasmine rose to greet her.

“Thank you,” she said, settling in against his chest, enjoying the way the heat of water made his body a cool relief at her back in comparison. An inky twilight surrounded their limbs, making anything underneath invisible to the depths of its color.

He laced his fingers through her own resting on his knee above the water, and squeezed.

For some reason, that simple gesture, that subtle contact, overwhelmed her. Her vision swam as the too familiar sting of tears rushed to the corners of her eyes. She took a deep breath and let it in. It wasn’t sadness, no that was a raw, hollow aching feeling that suffocated you until you could feel no more.

This… this was different. This was overwhelming, and in the best way imaginable. Like taking a breath for the first time after not being able to breathe, like lungs so full of fresh air it sent racing through her veins straight to her heart in a sweet release.

Am I really that lonely?

Or…is this…?

She knew the answer. Had known the answer for a while now, but refused to let it surface. At least, until...

“Solas,” she whispered.

He drew his free hand out of the water to caress her arm. “Yes, Anise.”

“Did you mean it?” She swallowed, her throat suddenly thick. “Did you mean it when you called me vhenan?”

He let go of her hand, and tugged on her to turn around. She hesitated for a moment, realizing he was going to see her crying but obliged, twisting her torso to face him. His furrowed brows that softened when he saw her expression. He cupped her face with both hands, the water from the bath mixing with the tears on her cheeks as he stroked her face with his thumbs.

His ever steady eyes bore into her own as he leaned in and whispered, “I meant it,” before closing and capturing her in a kiss. “Vhenan,” he said against her lips, kissing her in such a way she felt dizzy when he finally broke from her mouth to pass over her eyes, whispering “vhenan,” over each one, before coming to rest on her forehead.

“Ar lath ma.”

#solavellan #solas #solas x lavellan #solavellan fanfiction #dragon age inquisition #modern au #Anise Lavellan

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bellarxse · 5 years ago

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Get to know: Cesca Joyce (TMOHB)

100 Questions (https://the-moon-dust-writings.tumblr.com/post/159843387908/100-oc-questions) to get to know Cesca Joyce, MC in The Motion of Heavenly Bodies

1. How do they present themselves to others? Soft femme – she has had the importance of femininity and her appearance drilled into her from an early age by her mother, but she has withdrawn from the idea of high-maintenance femininity as much as she feels she can

2. Do they like animals? Cats and marine life. She doesn’t like dogs.

3. How do they dress? Often as casual as she can manage, and often in something which hides her chest.

4. How many language do they know? Fluent in English and German. proficient in French. Likes to watch K-dramas with subs, so she can pick up on the odd phrase now.

5. How big is their family? Parents divorced. Two full siblings, two paternal half-siblings.

6. What is their purpose in the story? Uh..they’re the main character. Ha. No, Cesca’s “arc”, such as it is at this point, is going to be about the importance of recognising and pursuing your own desires rather than letting people tell you what you should want.

7. Do they know how to fight? The extent of her knowledge is basically that you should tuck your thumb into your fist if you throw a punch. That’s basically it.

8. What is their back story? Distant father (working in international finance), mother (thwarted model, pregnant too young and unable to cope) at home with children she never wanted in the first place. She wants them to be the successes she never was, to shine with radiance that blinds the world. Sarah, their first daughter, is genial and hard-working but painfully plain, and the youngest, Alice, is manipulative and cruel, and looks it. But sweet little Franze, with her angelic curls and innocent blue eyes? Yes, she will do nicely. But it isn’t long before she rebels. Skinned knees and grubby hands (“Mutti, look what I found!”), and a profound disinterest in how to make herself more beautiful. So Julia tries again, taking away her rocks and microscopes and replacing them with vanities and lotions and potions, until Franze is a dejected little doll – almost literally, listless and lifeless. A teacher at school flags up “Cesca’s” (Franze’s) behaviour as being a “concern”, and threatens to involve child protection services. But how could it possibly be a concern? This is what little girls are supposed to be like.

9. Why is their name their name? Conceived on holiday in France – and it’s generally considered an upper middle-class name in both countries

10.Do they have any nicknames? Francesca (anglicised), Franze (German diminutive), Cesca (English diminutive – her favourite), C (school friends)

11.Do they have a romantic interest? …I mean, yeah, that’s the point – but that would be telling. So instead, let’s talk about her only other long-term relationship, Julian, when they were both 17. A son of Father’s friend—and Father is friends with some of the best society has to offer, he’s told her himself—he is sure of himself and charismatic enough to make Cesca believe it as well. She thinks he loves her, though he only ever really loved chasing her, and she cries when he breaks up with her, not one week after they had had sex for the first time.

12.How do they cope with struggles? At work, depends on the struggle. She tries to judge carefully what the best course of action would be – either she’ll take some time away to let it simmer; or she’ll keep at it until she finds another way in. In her personal life, she avoids whatever she can get away with.

13.Do they have anyone they can lean on? More than she knows – she’s never tested it with anyone else other than Sarah. She isn’t always sure how her friends feel about her, not truly, especially after she is selected to go on the show without them.

14.How do they react to someone dying? Lot of numbness. She can seem insensitive or uncaring, but it takes a while for it to sink in.

15.Can you name 5 personality traits they have? Reserved, analytical, emotionally perceptive, avoidant, sensitive

16.How did they become a character? Because I was fed-up of the S3 MC being just different flavours of the same bold, confident person. I mean, it’s a CYOA game, there aren’t exactly many opportunities to feed in complex hopes/wants/fears, but even the S2 MC could choose to be “cool and mysterious” or “all out”.

17.Do they get along with others? She often chooses the path of least resistance – so often people think they get on with her better than they actually do, because she isn’t always honest with how she feels about things or people

18.What flaws do they have? Arrogant (mostly at work), naïve, perfectionist, practical, rigorous/over-zealous

19.How do they influence the story? A little too spoiler-y for now…

20.What do they look like? Honey blonde curls (usually pinned back), blue eyes, 5’ 3”. Quite pale, even after weeks in the Spanish sun – it would take a lot more time and effort for her to tan. Some freckles, but not many. Looks delicate at first blush, but is deceptively strong for her build. Bottom hourglass.

21.What are their hobbies? Collecting and listening to old vinyl records. Swimming and free diving.

22.What are their ticks? She blushes at the drop of a hat, and she bites her lip. She doesn’t intend it to come off as sexual or flirty (quite the opposite) but people don’t believe her.

23.Do they like children? If you ask her, she’ll laugh and tell you no, loudly. But Sarah has just had twin boys, and Cesca thinks that she might just die for them anyway, even if they don’t need her to.

24.How do they react to being around wild animals? Aquatic animals – loves it, very affectionate/serene (even when she went cage diving with sharks). Land animals? More of a mixed reaction, depending on how physically large/imposing they are.

25.If they were given the task to prank someone, who would it be, what would they do and would it work? She doesn’t so much prank people as plot to ruin their lives, particularly careers.

26.Do they have survival skills? Not really – her mother didn’t think it was necessary for girls, and she has thrown herself into science since.

27.Are they more book smart or street smart? More socially savvy than she gives herself credit for, but mostly book smart

28.How do they get out of a difficult situation? Depends on the situation. In a dangerous situation, she will call for help. In a socially awkward position, she’s like to use her looks to get out of the situation (e.g. sending someone off to get her a drink from the bar and then disappearing into the crowd). In a romantic situation, she’d use her intellect and talk through in excruciating detail why they’re not compatible.

29.Do they use their body, mind, personality or force to get what they want? See 28

30.What music do they enjoy? Older music, from the 1960s-1980s (90s at a push). She does like some more modern things, but usually if they’re either drawing inspiration from older trends or europop. Trashy Europop is a guilty pleasure of hers.

31.How do they overcome obstacles? Grit and determination, mostly.

32.When faced with a difficult decision do they get stronger or break? At work, stronger. Emotionally, she’s never fully broken down but she’s come close a few times.

33.Do they have any special powers? Just her brain.

34.How do they change throughout the story? She gets a little more assertive in articulating what she wants – but there will still be some room for growth

35.Do they have any friends? If so, are they close knit? Two close friends from school, who would do anything she asked of them (in terms of emotional support), but she is too scared to ask them. So their friendship appears more superficial than it actually is, in terms of what they do together

36.How is their family life? She only really sees her older sister. She avoids Alice (younger full-sister) like the plague and doesn’t make an effort to see her father’s new family. Will basically shut down if she has to see her mother. Christmas is not a happy time for her.

37.Are they likable? I certainly think so, but she’s my ambitious little alien baby so…

38.Are they the hero, or anti-hero? Depends on your viewpoint – certainly some of her “competitors” wouldn’t see her as the hero…!

39.Do they make questionable choices? I mean, we’ll see.

40.How do they become who they are? Through putting her head down and ploughing on. Ultimately running away from…

41.How was their childhood? …being made to feel like the only thing that mattered were her looks. Her mother tried to enter her for pageants and the like, and it was actually one of the terms of the divorce – her father wouldn’t give her mother any alimony if she made Cesca compete in anything like that.

42.Are they close with anyone who is going to screw them over? Again, we’ll see, don’t want to get into plot elements too much…!

43.How do they adapt to different situations? Do they adapt at all? She adapts because she has to, but she’s not particularly good at it.

44.How do they speak? (e.g. soft-spoken, hot-headed, vulgar) Usually soft-spoken, which makes a genuine laugh all the more startling.

45.Are they opposed to violence? There’s something about having been raised to be a good girl and knowing how people should behave in polite society which makes taboos like violence more exciting.

46.When is their birthday? 1st January 1997

47.Are they quick to judge? She tries not to, but she can make snap judgements based on appearances or actions that she finds hard to shake

48.Do they have anything they are trying to hide from others? How she doesn’t like being complimented on her looks, because they just wouldn’t understand.

49.Do they act different around different people? She is much more confident around her work colleagues, because she feels like she can show off her processes, rather than dumb herself down for people. She is very reserved around people she doesn’t know well and most of her family.

50.Do they enjoy the arts? Not a huge fan of reading, unless it’s science-related. Loves music, especially on vinyl. Likes films, usually action/thriller/horror.

51.Do they like science? Loves it. There’s a kind of beauty about it, about how it lets her order the world, and how she can see the world reflected in her microscope.

52.Are they more emotional or logical? I mean I don’t agree with the premise of the question, because it’s a false dichotomy, but she would say she’s more logical. Make of that what you will.

53.How do they deal with their emotions? Distraction tactics. Which means that there’s some stuff that she’s just…never dealt with. Massive issues with her mother.

54.How do they cope with sadness? She’s almost constantly sad, and she’s never really let the weight lift from her shoulders. It doesn’t bother her personally – it only really bothers people that care about her.

55.What is something they care about? She cares about the environment – she tries to be as sustainable as her budget allows, and she’s almost fanatical about saving water. (So she’s clean but she showers only as often as she needs to)

56.Would they die for anyone/anything? Probably her nephews.

57.What do they do when they are happy? Being happy looks very like being sad – she behaves much the same way, but she might fidget less or smile slightly.

58.How would they come across to other characters? E.g. messy, lazy, caring, childish Calm, shy (especially in the context of Love Island, since she doesn’t cope well with being flirted with overtly), clinical

59.Do they have a phrase they use over and over? No? Not yet, anyway

60.In a crowded room are they in the corners, sides or middle? She would gravitate to the sides, so that she can see everyone more clearly. If she’s with friends she trusts (and particularly if she’s had some alcohol) she’s not averse to being in the middle of the room, but it’s not her first option.

61.Are they comfortable being in a crowded room? She can find it overwhelming.

62.How do they relax? Listen to records, watch TV. She usually needs to relax by herself and “de-person” for a bit.

63.Have they ever harmed anyone and regretted it? Verbally or physically? She is usually the one to break off any budding relationships, usually before they become sexual. So for some of these early relationships, they were hurt because they thought she was really into them, but they were usually at an early enough stage that it was fairly minor emotional pain.

64.Do they like to dance? Not unless she’s drunk some alcohol. She doesn’t feel like her body moves very naturally, she needs her inhibitions to be much reduced before she even considers it.

65.How do they get around their environment? (vehicle use) She cycles a lot. She learned to drive when she was 17, but she’s a nervous driver and she doesn’t like it.

66.What about pet peeves? Loud chewers. It’s a sensory thing, she really doesn’t like it. Linked to this – people who talk with their mouths full constantly (she’ll allow it if you’re surprised or if you didn’t expect to be asked a question but if it’s your default? Get in the bin)

67.Do they have a disability? No.

68.How do they react to getting flowers? It depends on the person – if they’re someone who she would like to receive flowers from, it can make her month. If it’s from someone she wasn’t expecting, she can be a bit unsure of how to react – are they are thank you? Are they a proposition? She really doesn’t like receiving flowers from a “secret admirer” or something like that.

69.Would they ever wear a flower crown? Not usually, maybe for something like a wedding? And definitely not if she’s the only one.

70.Do they like themselves? Sometimes. She likes herself when she’s at work and successful. She usually likes herself when she spends time with friends. If she’s left on her own for too long she can start to doubt herself.

71.Who do they dislike? People who aren’t genuine/honest. People who focus on their appearance too much.

72.What is their motto? When she read “If I look back, I am lost.” in the first ASOIAF novel, she had to take a few minutes.

73.Do they have any markings on their body? A few minor scratches from falling off her bike a couple of times. Some freckles, more on her arms than her face.

74.Have they ever been abused? Physically, not at all. Emotionally? Most of her interactions with her mother and her sister are hostile in some way or another, and her father’s attitude can best be described as neglectful.

75.What is their biggest fear? Not to get too body horror about this, but her recurring nightmare is that she makes someone (and the person changes depending on what’s happening in her life) and they push/hit her and she’s hollow, or she smashes to the ground like porcelain.

76.What are their goals? She wants to finish her research into biodegradable plastic, and ideally start a second study to see if the same desired results can be achieved with fewer/cheaper resources.

77.How do they go about achieving their goals? She keeps her head down and ploughs on.

78.Do they have a fight or flight response? Yes, but she almost exclusively chooses to flee.

79.Is there someone in their life that they care about more than themselves? Her sister and her nephews. I don’t necessarily think that her having fewer people she cares about more than herself indicates that she’s selfish or overly arrogant. It’s just that her feelings are a little more subdued, so she doesn’t necessarily think about most people in that way.

80.How would they fare in a zombie apocalypse? Pretty badly, probably – unless she was in an area that hadn’t been affected yet, and she was able to work on a cure/”silver bullet”.

81.Do they have any tattoos? If so, are they significant? No, but she’s not averse to getting them. But if she gets one, she wants it to be significant, and she doesn’t want it to be linked to something that she might regret (like a relationship)

82.Are they good at mental math? Frighteningly so.

83.Do they get along with others? Again, she often takes the path of least resistance, so she seems to get along with lots of people, but she can get quite resentful.

84.Are they lazy? No

85.Are they self-motivated? Yes

86.How do they cope with anger? Short answer, she doesn’t. She was told from an early age that girls don’t get angry, and that means she struggles now to pinpoint when she is feeling angry. She often experiences other symptoms, like headaches or nausea, which she will treat instead of expressing herself.

87.Have they ever been in a situation where they were helpless? Physically, no – she’s been lucky. Emotionally – she felt helpless for a lot of her childhood, and then worries now about letting someone else make her feel helpless again.

88.Are they organized or messy? Pathologically organised – think Monica from Friends.

89.Can they remember a lot of information at once? In the right context, yes. At work, she’s like a machine, remembering formulae and compounds. In her personal life, she often gets overloaded. But she picks up on a lot, and it’s a sign that she likes you if she notices or remembers little details about you.

90.What is their occupation? Environmental scientist (specialising in chemistry, but her degree is in biochemistry).

91.Do other characters respect them? Yes, I think so. Especially at work, she’s seen as one of the key members of the team. In her personal life, it depends – she chooses friends carefully, and her friends respect her. Her father and siblings (aside from Alice) respect her more than she’s willing to notice. Her mother doesn’t, and Alice (younger full sister) loathes her.

92.If they were given minutes to live, what would they do? Who would they want to see and say? She would want to spend time with her sister. She wouldn’t want to talk about her feelings, but she would be more physically affectionate.

93.How do they deal with stress? Burying herself in work. Also, free diving is a good stress-reliever for her, because it requires so much of her concentration that she cannot afford to think about what is stressing her out.

94.Do they have a more submissive or dominant personality type? Depends – very dominant at work, less so among family and friends. I’ll cover NSFW stuff in a different post, but the short answer is, “it’s complicated”

95.Do they have a pet? No – she would like a cat, but she feels bad about leaving it in a London flat all day.

96.Do they have a stash of weapons? …no?

97.Where do they live? Who do they live with? She used to live in Putney with Ellie and Tina; now she lives alone in a small one-bedroom flat in Westminster that’s really meant for students.

98.How do they calm themselves down? Listening to music, staring at a wall. I’m a little worried that I’m making her sound crazy, but she can feel the tension leak out of her, and she can move on, at least in the short term.

99.Are they co-dependent? She makes an effort not to be – she is so affection- and touch-starved, though, that she is in danger of seeing another person as a source of self-worth.

100. Are they a day or night person? Day person – she wakes up very early (probably at about 5am), even when she doesn’t need to, and so she struggles with late nights. She isn’t usually smug about being an early bird, but she will let herself be a little more overt if there’s a particularly annoying Morgenmuffel…!

#cesca #litg fanfic: tmohb #tmohb headcanons #tmohb cesca #i Don't Like doing moodboard but skyler samuels is too pretty not to #i might revisit the moodboard at some point to make it prettier #maybe fix the colours or sth idk

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13thgenfilm · 5 years ago

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Team Building: On Wanda Bershen and Film Safety Nets

Written by 13th Gen’s Founder and CEO Marc Smolowitz, this article originally appeared in Filmmaker Magazine in March 2020.

On September 28th, 2019, Wanda Bershen died quietly, alone and under fairly tragic circumstances, after being rushed to the hospital from a rehabilitation facility on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. She was 75 years old, and very few people were aware of her passing. This piece is one part obituary for Wanda—a remarkable woman who certainly deserves to be remembered lovingly in Filmmaker—and one part urgent call-to-action for our industry to have a long-overdue discussion about a difficult and troubling topic: the lack of safety nets, resiliency and end-of-life supports in place for aging independent film professionals.

The vast majority of you reading this did not know Wanda, but you may know someone like her—she could very well stand in as an everywoman whose story is far too common, one of those stalwart and passionate behind-the-scenes indie film culture workers who loved cinema and wore a compelling mix of hats: writer, curator, teacher, festival director, publicist, producer’s representative, film booker, television programmer and distributor. Her boutique company, Red Diaper Productions, made a huge yet hardly known impact on an incredible list of films and filmmakers around the world for more than 25 years. These efforts included focusing much of her attention and efforts on supporting women directors and organizing a powerful slate of word cinema touring packages, which introduced US audiences to contemporary cinema from Iceland, the Netherlands and various countries across Eastern Europe. Decidedly proud and fiercely independent, she did all of this entirely on her own as a freelancer, independent contractor and consultant. For most of her career, she managed to be reasonably vital even without the benefit of strong institutions backing her up.

There are countless people like Wanda who march through film careers, working hard without much recognition and likely without the means to plan—in any real or comprehensive way—for their long-term security and retirement. Wanda was also unmarried, without children or close family members nearby. Her community of closest friends and colleagues was a global one. While this is something to treasure when you’re well enough to travel to Rotterdam, Berlin and Karlovy Vary each year (the latter, in Czech Republic, was her favorite festival to attend), what happens when you stop traveling for work because it becomes impossible financially—not to mention physically dangerous? More important, what happens to someone older like Wanda when a new generation of leadership takes the industry reins without knowledge of her unique contributions? The sad, hard fact is that you kind of, well, disappear. This is exactly what happened to Wanda.

For many years, whenever I visited New York for business, Wanda and I would have dinner if our schedules aligned. I treasured our time together. Her wit and sense of humor were delightful, and her deep knowledge of film, especially international and genre cinemas, could put most film scholars to shame. But, in very recent years, our conversations became quite heartbreaking. She was struggling to find work that could sustain her financially. Her professional emails often went unanswered. When she tried to connect with others for networking opportunities at festivals and press screenings, she felt shunned and set aside largely because of her age and gender. The industry to which she had given her life’s work did not have space for her anymore.

Last August, I was planning a shoot in NYC, so I texted Wanda to reach out and get on her calendar. I got a message that her number was no longer valid and was immediately concerned. I sent her an email with no response. So, I did what made the most sense and went looking for her on Facebook. As I scrolled down her page, I realized there had been no posts from Wanda since March 13th. On March 20th, a post from her sister read, “Wanda Bershen was hospitalized Monday night at NYU Langone. If you are a friend of Wanda’s in NYC, please contact me…. Diagnosis is not yet determined. Wanda needs visitors and support as she goes through this. I live… too far away to be actively involved.”

It didn’t take long to uncover that she had experienced a devastating stroke and been bedridden without speech and the ability to move for the better part of five months. Her dearest friend in the city, also a film producer, had been valiantly trying to help, but if Wanda were to have any chance at survival, it would require that many more people get involved. Within days, I became part of a wonderful group of people from around the world—many of us filmmakers and film professionals who knew and adored Wanda for decades—who attempted (perhaps naively) to organize over email on Wanda’s behalf and advocate for her well-being and recovery. One of us referred to this small but mighty group as TEAM WANDA.

This sort of scenario is as dark and bleak as you might expect. In short, there were no immediate and apparent resources available to help someone in Wanda’s situation. When I managed to see Wanda in person several weeks later, it was clear very few visitors had been by. She lay in a hospital bed almost comatose yet her mind still seemed sharp, and she clearly understood the gravity and heartbreak of what was happening to her. I sat with her and kissed her forehead gently. I told her that there was a group of us around the world trying our best to help her. While I could sense her relief in hearing some encouraging news, I left her bedside that afternoon feeling helpless and hopeless. I urged the nurses on her floor to continue caring for her and to keep up her hygiene. My main concern at that point was her basic dignity. I knew in my heart that there was no way our committed worldwide cohort could move fast enough to change Wanda’s destiny. She died just 10 days later.

From my perspective, all of this is quite chilling, and the more I pondered what happened to Wanda, the more I wanted to kickstart a discussion among colleagues, so we can all work to make sure there are no more stories like this one. But, it’s not that simple. While we have a great deal of work to do on this topic as an industry, our nation seems unwilling to have an honest and forthright public conversation around the lack of meaningful policies that advance the cause of older Americans: retirement, long-term care and what it means to approach end-of-life with dignity. This is particularly concerning because we now live in a nation where people are both living and working much longer, yet we offer very little in the way of substantive help to our aging populations.

When one looks closely at specific industries, there are helpful models out there for safety net services and resilience (see roundup at right), but the independent film industry literally has nothing of our own, nor have we contemplated these discussions in any forum that I can find. By contrast, the Hollywood community, where there have always been more resources, has a great deal in place through its guilds and unions; for example, The Actors Fund of America. Even the visual arts have managed to develop funds to support artists affected by natural disasters (Craft Emergency Relief Fund, or CERF). And, of course, Visual AIDS was one of the most inspiring organizations that emerged during the worst years of the AIDS pandemic (see visualaids.org/history).

Not long after Wanda passed, I took to Facebook and posted about her story. While I certainly didn’t want to exploit Wanda’s passing, I also didn’t want her to have died without someone making a little bit of noise about the travesty of it all. What I encountered in the comments was revealing. Unsurprisingly, a great many people in our shared networks knew and adored Wanda, and there were just as many who were shocked to know she had even been so unwell. More important, there was a universal agreement when it came to one important point: We cannot let the tragedy of what happened to Wanda continue to happen to others like her who have helped build this business. To be sure, ours is a compassionate and beautifully collaborative industry with some of the most dynamic tentpole institutions around, many of which have been serving film professionals for some 50 years. We must turn to them now and insist on space for this mission-critical discussion. It will be an uneasy one to have, but we must do it for all of our own sakes.

_____

ROUNDUP OF SAFETY NET AND END OF LIFE RESOURCES:

National Coalition for Arts’ Preparedness and Emergency Response (NCAPER) ncaper.org/about

CERF+ The Artist’s Safety Net

cerfplus.org/stories-resources/how-to/

The Actors Fund

actorsfund.org/

Reimagine (End of Life)

letsreimagine.org/

Death With Dignity

deathwithdignity.org/learn/end-of-life-resources/

Speaking of Dying

speakingofdying.com/end-of-life-resources/

#film #filmmaker #film maker #film maker resources #aging #aging workforce #freelance #freelance issues #team wanda #Wanda Bershen #Marc Smolowitz #13th Gen #social safety net #film resources #film discussion

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my-little-dumpster-fire · 6 years ago

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Let It Burn. 8/?

Catch Up Here

The inside of Billy’s car was not exactly what you expected from the sleek black exterior. Camel toned leather made the interior seem bright and welcoming, especially with the afternoon sun warming your face through the huge windows. You’d sat in the buttery passenger seat before, but the contrast between your dusty blue scrubs and the luxurious vehicle was not lost on you. You didn’t belong in a car like that, but some days when you turned to look at the man on your left, you thought he didn’t either. Billy wasn’t born for this, no, but that wasn’t what concerned you. It always seemed like Billy was trying to be free from something or someone. He deserved that. To be free. Without realizing the gilded cage he’d bought himself was just as stifling to the fire within him, Billy had convinced himself that freedom and power were synonymous. You could see it in his eyes, that he was just as bound by his chosen lifestyle as he was by the world he’d been born into and it wounded you beyond what was reasonable. The car slowed to a stop and as usual, you tried to exit on your own as you had thousands of times before, but Billy’s long legs carried him to your door with just enough time for a hand to brush your lower back and close the black door behind you.

Before leaving the home, you and Billy had been stopped by a nervous social worker, trying to secure Carla’s spot and gauge the likelihood of a lawsuit after one of their residents attacked a visitor. Billy surprised you by announcing that Carla would be staying until she was well, perhaps longer if she proved herself unfit to live alone. Your colleague shuffled off with ample “Yes, Mr. Russo”s and promised to have the paperwork drawn up by the time he returned you from your lunch. You shot a suspicious glare up at him as he led you out of the building, but his grin bordered on playful as he shook his head at you until the staring contest broke. “You are full of surprises, Mr. Russo.”

You assumed that any discussion about the events that had just transpired would be tabled, but in the middle of you telling him about the friend from college who’d recently tried to reconnect with you, Billy interrupted with an agenda of his own.

“I don’t want you working in that shithole anymore,” his words were curt and he offered no explanation before using his fork to stab at his food a little too aggressively.

“You can’t call it a shithole. Your mother lives there now.” Billy looked up in time for you to witness his eyebrow shoot up as he chewed. You rolled your eyes and continued. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Billy, but I can’t just-“

He interrupted again. “I know a guy. Works in that hospital downtown and owes me a favor. I’ll set you up with him.”

“Billy, I don’t need to work in a big hospital,” you sighed, but he had already pulled his cellphone from the breast pocket of his jacket.

He waved one hand flippantly as he typed with the other. “Your talents are wasted in that dump,” he said quickly, but his voice slipped into a moment of sincerity without sacrificing it’s severity. It made you want to believe him, like his men at Anvil when he told them the same.

“I’m a physical therapist, not a doctor. My job is to keep bedridden patients’ muscles from turning to mush, that’s all. I can do that in where I am now,” you defended yourself. You weren’t overly attached to working environment, nor were you unhappy, but Billy’s implications set you on edge despite knowing it likely had very little to do with you and nearly everything to do with Carla.

“Plenty of atrophied muscles in a place that pays better,” he stated matter of factly. You opened your mouth to argue, but your mind drifted back to the letter on your kitchen table and you realized that you had no right to argue. Billy must have sensed something, he always was observant, but the speed with which his eyes left the email he’d been typing to find yours was dizzying. He couldn’t possibly know. “What do you need?” You shook your head, not understanding, but he shook his head back at you, slower. “I can see it, you need something,” he said with eyes narrowed, but void of accusation. You wrestled with the look that held you captive. Somewhere between genuine care and curiosity, Billy Russo was waiting for you to answer him. To share with him a need, something that he could potentially fix. “Tell me.”

So it came to be. Your cohabitation with Billy Russo.

You honestly hadn’t planned on mentioning your dilemma to Billy at all. At least not until long after you’d resolved it and found a new place. He wasn’t that kind of friend, just a soulmate you added with an internal eye roll. When he insisted you stay with him, it was disturbing, the idea unsettling and his persistence even more so.

It wasn’t an offer of generosity. Part of you suspected it was out of convenience. Whatever Billy got out of your meetings, that had dramatically increased in frequency before that fateful meeting with Carla, he wouldn’t have to pay to take you out to get it anymore. He wouldn’t have to make time, if he ever made time or simply filled the little he had, you weren’t sure, but having you in his spare bedroom meant exerting even less effort on you than before with all the same reward. Whatever that reward was. The benefits of your presence outweighed the costs to some extent and for that, you were thankful. You weren’t as disciplined as Billy, so you never took offense to being treated as an item on his checklist. At least he had a list and from your observations, he rarely let anything on his list fall to the wayside. It was admirable. Or perhaps it was all he knew how to do, barter with the people in his life. You’d found Carla, brought her into his life. While it wasn’t what he wanted or expected, you could tell that he was scrambling to settle the score. Billy Russo didn’t strike you as the kind of man who’d be willing to stay indebted to anyone. He wasn’t interested in owing anyone anything, even you, even for something as unsuccessful as meeting his mother again.

If you didn’t know better, you might even let yourself think that he wanted you there. In his own way, that’s what he acted like. You hesitated to view Billy as a provider, as some who could save you from a tough bind and help extract you from between the proverbial rock and hard place, though he seemed the perfect person to do so. He was your soulmate and while you constantly felt jostled by the term, like you’d never fully understand what that meant for the two of you, you couldn’t lie to yourself much longer. Having Billy in your life was the best, most confusing, and strangely fulfilling thing that could have happened to you. If you were honest, you were wary to expect too much and didn’t look forward to giving him an opportunity to let you down in the new role. You weren’t sure you could take it if he did. Yet moving in and then living with Billy, logistically, was one of the easiest moves you’d ever made. After being a sideline observer to his life for months, slipping into the fray was simpler than it should have been. Just the soul thing, you reminded yourself. You crossed paths casually, usually over coffee on your way out, or his way in after another successful date. You shared the occasional night in together. Hell, you cooked meals together, Billy stunning you to silence with his proficiency in the kitchen.

“You shouldn’t be surprised,” he’d grinned, spinning a large knife between his long fingers as nimbly as he would his beloved Ka-Bar.

“No,” you laughed. “I supposed I shouldn’t be.” Laughing with Billy seemed easier too.

You had only one true hesitation to living in Billy’s apartment and though you eventually realized you were right to be concerned, it thankfully only happened once. A legitimate face to face run in with someone that Billy Russo was sleeping with. It only needed to happen once for you to know it felt like death warmed over. Blood still pumped through your veins, your muscles could still tense without any hope of release, your ears could still hear, and your eyes could lock on hers. For those reasons you assumed death might be easier to stomach.

Billy emerged from his bedroom, more unclothed than you’d ever seen him and it took your breath away as you turned away from him in the hope that he wouldn’t catch your gawking. Whether he did or not was uncertain, nonetheless he made his way over toward you and you heard his bare feet padding across the dark wood floors.

“Good morning, sweetness,” he whispered into your hair, taking a deep breath as yours caught in your throat. His lips were pressed against your temple and instinctively you leaned back into him, half expecting him to drop you, but a strong arm curled around you, holding you against a bare chest. Your heart was pounding so fast, fight or flight taking over as confusion and hope muddled your brain beyond the ability to return his sentiment. You heard the door to his room slam shut and you jumped slightly in his arm, prompting his thumb to rub a soothing circle against your stomach. You swallowed hard and tried to breathe again, slightly worried that your rigid form would discourage him from ever holding you again.

“You’re an ass, Billy Russo.” An unfamiliar voice interrupted your moment, the most intimate moment you’d been allowed to share with your soulmate since meeting him, and the memory was spoiled instantly, soured and curdled by the sound of high heels angrily marching toward the front of the apartment. She paused, gripping the door handle with white knuckles and a perfectly manicured hand. Her eyes traveled up and down your joined bodies with disgust. Fair. You stood frozen in disbelief, but Billy’s arm wrapped tightly around your stomach, holding you to his chest, warm against your bare shoulders, only served to remind you of your status in his game. Pawn, not queen. Dispensable, but necessary as he shielded himself with your body, stubbled cheek resting against the side of your head. Her eyes grew angrier as they fell to your side.

Billy was stroking your arm languidly and you, naively content to accept the gentle affections without thinking anything of it, suddenly made sense of your odd positioning. Her eyes were locked on his forearm, shirtless, his mark was on full display and her mouth gaped at the sight, though you were sure she’d seen much more of him only a few hours before. The angry blue eyes moved up his arm to yours, where he’d been drawing his fingers over the inside of your elbow and you’d reflexively turned your arm out to him, seeking more and inadvertently flashing your own mark to the room. You are an ass, Billy Russo. Using you was one thing, unacceptable in its own way, but at least somewhat understandable. Escorting a woman out of one’s apartment must be tedious work, you couldn’t deny the brilliance of your unintentional role in his act. Using your connection, however, was another thing entirely. Cheapening something meant to be lovely, meant to ease souls and hearts and lives with the mingling of two who were meant for each other, felt wrong on a level that you’d never be able to explain, so you resigned to never try.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” he lilted behind your ear, lips brushing the shell, without an ounce of guilt. It was for her benefit, not yours. The woman vocalized your feelings, on a much smaller scale, with a frustrated high pitched grunt before she held up a middle finger and exited the room with another echoing door slam. She was gone, but Billy didn’t make any move to release you. If your stomach hadn’t been churning, the touch would be more than comforting, but your face was hot and your gums ached under the clenching of your jaw and all you could think about was going back to bed. He shifted slightly behind you, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. There was no resistance. There never was when Billy touched you. It felt so natural, like you should always be touched by Billy and the much more common absence of his fingers was the strange sensation. Despite three decades without his touch, without his presence, you knew that being this close to him, regardless of his intentions, had ruined you. Nothing would feel as right as this felt, even with the cramping of your heart as it attempted to turn in on itself and hide from the last three minutes.

“You’re a life saver,” he whispered, wetting his lips as his eyes descended upon your lips. No, you thought. Not like this. Please. Was it the soul connection or the sliver of a conscience that drew Billy’s black eyes back to yours? He was searching them for something and though you never consciously hid from him, you decided the baring of your soul in the moment couldn’t hurt anymore than you already did. His beautiful face was turned down, uncharacteristic frown marring his features and the tiniest part of you regretted placing it there. Billy turned your body to face him, arm still slung around your lower back, so that he could continue his search of your eyes head on. You felt the warm pooling of tears against your lash line and set your jaw again, refusing to let them overflow. With unexpected tenderness, Billy traced a finger up your neck to your cheek, ignoring the shiver it sent through you, in favor of reaching a destination unknown to you. The tip of his middle finger dragged lightly under your eye and it took all of your strength not to collapse in his arms again. A single eyelash rested against the pad when he pulled his hand away. “Sorry,” he muttered, turning away immediately. You doubted it was guilt, but the brief connecting of your fingers as he pulled his arm from your waist felt like more of an apology than his words. You wanted to squeeze them as they passed through yours, but your body stayed frozen in place until long after Billy’s door had closed.

After that, Billy took his entertainment of dates to other locations, suddenly preferring to sneak out in the middle of the night than chance another interaction with you in his kitchen. It was a small courtesy, but one that made breathing infinitely easier. Running into another woman, in the place you were supposed to think of as home, at least for the time being, would be unbearable. The memory alone was intolerable and you were certain that a repeat performance would crush you. You were mortified at the thought of him sensing that in you, but knowing it wouldn’t happen again was comfort like you’d never known before. How low your bar had fallen since meeting Billy. He simply ceased flaunting his conquests in your face and you had to remind yourself not to swoon at this, the loosest interpretation of a gentlemanly act.

Something about that morning lingered in the air, making any room you shared with Billy feel instantly heavier. Perhaps the weight of your swallowed words were going to suffocate you into sharing the regrettable truth with your match. You loved him. It was the unconditional love you were promised, plus extra in spades, wanting infinitely more than you were allowed to want. Your interactions were polite as always, now coupled with tender touches that you reminded yourself not to read into. A hand on your knee, an arm slung around your shoulder while seated, a finger tucking hair behind your ear while you talked. You weren't allowed to want those things, but you received them all the same. Uncertainty swirled around both of you as you considered the implications of not rejecting them and the implications of Billy desiring them to begin with. Everything he did had meaning. He was always in control of himself and he never did anything he didn’t want to do. This thought alone brought you comfort as you leaned into him. He wants this. Maybe not always, but he wants this now. Maybe not even me, but he wants my touch. A rare evening when Billy was home -it was still shocking that you’d come to share his home not simply his space- became increasingly more likely. Not regular. Not even expected. But from never to maybe felt like leaps and bounds to a soul that found its other half, a soul that was finding it more and difficult to survive alone.

@something-tofightfor @littlemermaidprobz @actuallyazriel @cerezahowl @iaintnofurry

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo x reader imagine #pre punisher s1 #let it burn #soulmate au #billy russo soulmates au #soulmate tattoo

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bambyeol · 6 years ago

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Radio FM (For me.) (final)

disclaimer : i can’t link the first part because Tumblr removes my fic from the searches if I link the first part ughsduashdihidas

pairing/s: DJ Jaehwan ! x OC

genre: angst, fluff , song-fic

summary: DJ Jaehwan composes a song for a heartbroken listener not knowing he was the one who broke her heart.

“That was the greatest show yet. People never run out of heart-fluttering stories to tell, don’t they?” Jaehwan raved, still basking in the energy he said the show gave him. Agreeing with his previous statement and acknowledging his efforts, you nod.

“Thank you, Yeonrin.” he said in such an endearing tone as you two waited for the elevator to bring you down to the ground floor.

“You can stop thanking me, Jaehwan. You know I needed you too.”

Jaehwan gave you an exaggerated look as though he was unspeakably flattered. You wanted to hit him in the head playfully but decided against it, knowing that the simple gesture will open up gates and bring back feelings which were otherwise already thrown away. But were they really? Why does your heart keep beating this fast, then?

At a nearby convenience store, you both decided to stop for a drink before walking to the subway station on the way home, a routine that the two of you naturally got into.

“So..Jaehwan. You and Gayoung.” Trying to sound as casual as you can, as though this was simply a talk over a drink with a friend, you asked him. “How did things go?”

“Still going. Can you believe it?” Jaehwan took a sip from his drink and giggled. “It’s been a full decade.”

You just smiled and listened to the rest of his stories with staged interest. Them going to the same university. Graduating together. Finding jobs as close as possible to one another and finally, what hit you the hardest, them finally moving into their own quaint apartment. “It’s small,” he says. “But it’s our own and it’s perfect.”

A perfect home for their perfect love story.

And here you were - the shattered bystander.

The past week’s episodes were filled with first love stories, fluttering proposals, touching reunions. Not a single heartbreak story ever since he started the show. You thought this was quite odd. Where in the world were the other people who had their hearts broken like you did?

And then an idea crossed your mind. One that had more of a personal motive. Your mind has been tugging at you ever since you met Jaehwan again. Was it that you wanted him to know your side of a decade-old tale? However futile the effort may be? Or was it because, seeing him again, you thought it was the sign of another chance?

None of this matters.

At least, you’ll finally have a song especially written for you. At least, it was by him.

---

“He was a high school acquaintance who had a passion for music like no other person I knew at the time. We did not know each other until senior year came along and even then, we didn’t have the most pleasant of first meetings. But eventually, I found myself admiring his talent and his determination. We talked sporadically throughout the year, bonding over his songs and music in general. Right when I thought he felt the same way about me, he confessed to a girl. With my favorite song of his.”

The office floor was dark and silent except for a desk lamp shedding its yellowish glow on the far corner of the room and the sound of you typing away inside your cubicle. As is common when you had some extra work to accomplish, you stayed back, asking Jaehwan not to wait up for you as he had to do his own preparations for the next day’s show.

You read your entry again and again, making sure it was exactly at the line between vague and excessively specific. Despite wanting to get your message to him, you weren’t exactly sure if it would be to your convenience that he knew it was from you. You simply wanted to hear from him since your connection, if it could even be called a connection, was so abruptly interrupted.

The block of text stayed in your screen for what seemed like ages as you swiveled in your office chair again and again, as if the continuous turning would help you muster the courage to click the button.

And though it felt ridiculous, feeding audience content to your own show, you clicked send and shut your laptop without second thoughts.

----

Jaehwan entered the broadcast room the following evening with his forehead creased in deep thought. Right then and there, you thought he figured you out. But when you asked him why he came in looking like he had the world on his shoulders….

“I’m just internalizing. The story today is quite...heartbreaking, for once.” So he did read it, and he actually chose it. Although, there were no signs of suspicion in his features.

Quite heartbreaking. An understatement. In your case, anyways.

You heaved a sigh, but whether it was a sigh of relief or a sigh to brace yourself for what was to come, you had no clue.

“Yeonrin, 2 minutes.” a colleague got your attention and you sat down in your chair, trying to pull your mind back to work.

“Jaehwan-ah, all set?”

“Yep.” he pulled in his chair, positioning his face directly in front of the mic.

Within the two minutes before the start of the show, he went through the mental list he had: the lyrics he wrote, the chords of the song, and the advice he wanted to give. Contrary to what you thought, that moment ten years ago did cross his mind by the time he finished reading the entry. However, he simply acknowledged the similarities between the confession and nothing else. He never considered that his own confession resulted in the heartbreak of another.

“Our story today is a bit different from the content of the past week. A love that was stopped by a sudden confession. You listeners may be wondering ‘Huh? But confessions usually start up a relationship, don’t they?’” He started, putting on a silly voice which was supposed to mimic the audience.

You almost laugh as he struggled to keep the atmosphere appropriate to today’s story. Kim Jaehwan’s antics can be really out of place.

“That’s not wrong, dear listeners. But the said confession, sadly, was not directed to our letter sender. Yes, the hidden love that blossomed in her heart was not returned. And she witnessed someone she loved confess to someone else.”

He proceeded by reading the very words you wrote the night before, and it seemed like you were back in that cramped and humid broadcasting room on that last day as he uttered your story from his own mouth.

“Before I sing for this sender tonight, let me give my two cents. It is possible that you invalidated your feelings after such confession happened. But you had every right to those feelings, being human. Do not despise yourself for hanging onto them. But now, time has passed and both of you have your own stories to write. Acceptance will come with time and distance.”

And with that, he introduced his song, started strumming his guitar, inducing a melancholic tune.

Park Ji Min - Hopeless Love

I know there’s no hope, so every time I look at you It’s so hard, because I love you so much It hurts so much when you say I’m just a friend I’m standing outside the line that I can’t ever cross

It hurts but why can’t I turn away? This hopeless love In your eyes that look at me, there aren’t any feelings that are like mine It’s such a sad thing to know your heart

He finished the song and for a few seconds there was a resounding silence inside the broadcast room, all of the employees, bosses and assistants alike, had expressions as if their own hearts were touched by the music they just heard.

Jaehwan looked up from inside the booth and you stood up and moved your chair so that your back was to him. You had no assurance that your face did not completely mirror your heart.

Soft applause finally filled the room and Jaehwan wrapped up the show with his signature closing credits as you were left to organize the thoughts running through your head while pretending to be occupied by the control buttons.

Acceptance, time, distance. You’ve got the latter two taken care of, what with you having been away from him for a decade. But acceptance.

It felt hopeless.

---

It felt like the world was mocking your plea for closure, a stab to your desperation when Jaehwan’s song for you, “the anonymous sender”, became a big hit, ranking number 1 in the most-searched on Naver and opening up petitions for a complete song.

Several agencies winded up getting interested, sending their offers to Jaehwan to be under their label to which he dutifully declined, opting to use the radio station instead as means of publishing the full version.

“Why’d you reject the offers?”

“Oh. It would be better if it would be under the radio station still. Besides, I don’t want to make money out of someone’s heartache. That song was for her alone.”

“Oh.” you remain silent, pondering on his words, heart beating rapidly uncontrollably. You tuck stray hair behind your ear, “I’m sure she agrees.”

You look up. For sure, if Jaehwan just met your eyes then, he’d know. You were willing to let it slip, to finally come undone, to lay down the secrets you kept for 10 years.

Even if it meant a rejection was on-hand.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he busily rummages in his bag until he grabs a hold of a thin white envelope. A little too fancy, with the embossed gold patterns, and the emboldened letters.

You are invited to…

“Right. I’m sorry what were you saying again?” Jaehwan faces you, the white envelope bound to be passed to your now opened palms.

You didn’t know when you unfurled your palms as if you were expecting it. You shake your head before staring at the envelope.

“No. It’s nothing…”

“I wanted to invite you,” he starts. Every word after that became heavier. It was like quicksand - the more you tried to move, the more you sunk into that feeling of helplessness.

“We’re going to get married. I mean.. I wanted us to get married first before we moved together, but being a musician was tough. But now, with my job and how the show’s a success, there’s nothing hindering us anymore.” he swung his arms animatedly, a mixture of embarrassment, joy and most of all endearment.

“Really. You always save me, Yeonrin. More than being my guardian angel. The more I think about it, you’re our guardian angel.” That was the finishing blow. Your heart was crushed completely, tears just a word away from spilling.You look down, regretting sending your story for the first time.

“That’s why, I’ll really appreciate it if you will come. You’re someone special to us. “

But I wanted to be the one special for you. You thought grimly.

“I can’t.” you reply immediately even before you could form a tactful rejection to the invitation. “Ah. I mean…” you scramble for a reply, and a stray tear falls across your cheek. You wipe it off immediately hoping Jaehwan wouldn’t have caught it, but he did and he reached for your wrist in concern.

“Yeonrin?” he asks softly. You swat him away, retreating into a fetal position and the tears didn’t stop. He bends down, rubbing your back though unsure why you suddenly bursted.

Kim Jaehwan always can’t read the atmosphere for the love of God.

“I’m sorry,” you croak. “I can’t.”

“No. No. It’s totally okay. I mean, you don’t need to come if you can’t,” a flustered Jaehwan replies still missing the mark.

With one deep breath, you momentarily pause the tears on your eyes. “I can’t wish you happiness, Jaehwan.” You half-smile.

“Not back then, and definitely not now. I’ve always.” your arms folded atop her knees. “I’ve always, really, loved you.” you confess.

He freezes, “How long?” It was the only thing he could form despite the multiple questions rounding up his mind.

“Senior year.” you reply curtly, sniffling.

“Why didn’t you..” his question was left hanging, but you understood

You laugh mirthlessly, “How could I? When you beat me to it and confessed to Gayoung. I really thought that you liked me too. I guess that what we were was just confined in that broadcasting room. Similar to what we are now.”

“I sent that story.” you open up. “The one whose song became a hit, but even until now, all that I am is just a guardian angel. A person who leads you to where you wanted to be. “

His lips were pressed into a thin line. It hurt him that you endured everything, but he knew where his heart laid.

It will never be with you.

“I’m sorry.” he concludes

You nod understandingly.

“Thank you.” you bite your lips and muster up a smile. “It may have taken 10 years, but you finally sang for me.”

He nods, hands delicately removing his touch from your back until it’s beside him again.

Although many have requested for a full version of the song, Jaehwan did not sing it anymore and it was soon forgotten.

On the night of his wedding, you received an anonymous email with an mp3 file attached.

To my guardian angel...

-fin-

a/n : i will never be not sad over this fic :< my friend and I long completed this fic and I just really forgot to update it. I”M SO SORRY BUT THIS IS ALSO HARD TO READ FOR ME WITH THE HEARTBREAK. wanna one is disbanding soon also :< i’ll miss them dearly but writing for them has been such a gift. I remember typing in the middle of the night, fueled by their songs (and Day6 of course) . I wish to continue writing for them before they disband, but in the case that I won’t be able too, this mini author’s note will serve as a thank you for all the readers who read my fics. For all your support, and for all your patience as I continually break my promise of “i’ll post it soon” . Thank you for staying ;-; . Thank you for all your kind words. It’s been a great pleasure to write for you all.

#wanna one #wanna one scenarios #wanna one imagines #kim jaehwan scenarios #kim jaehwan imagines #kim jaehwan

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projectcubicle1 · 3 years ago

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3 Essential Things to Become a Better Global Leader

If your employer has a work-from-anywhere policy, you might have to collaborate with colleagues around the world in countries you’ve never visited, with people you’ve never met, and listening to accents you’ve never heard before. Over my 20-year career, I've contributed to and managed global projects. Here are 3 essential things that can help you become a better global leader. 1. Talk Globish English is the language of business, but not the first language for many people: 1.35 billion people speak English. The majority aren’t native English speakers, however. Only about 360 million people speak English as their first language. English was not my preferred language at school but I loved grammar, so I concentrated on learning this aspect, but didn’t enrich my vocabulary. When I had a 6-month internship in an international research center in Japan, I became aware of the power of English: I could talk to Australian, Canadian, and Japanese colleagues. I improved a bit. I still had an inner voice saying that I wasn’t so good in English, and that my accent was not good. When I began to work on projects with British colleagues, this inner voice was reinforced: I remember once I received an email from a marketer (let’s call him David). It was very long and contained words I didn’t know. It took me some time to read it. In the corporate world, we need to speak Globish – a simplified form of English for communication. Do you think this kind of email can build trust or a meaningful collaboration? Not really. I felt ashamed and, in a way, despised. For David, it was easy to write this kind of email as it was his native language. In some meetings, another colleague, Bryan, talked very quickly without articulating, making it hard to understand him. Some of my British colleagues learned French, and when I talked to them in French, I slowed down and articulated clearly. It requires effort, but this is the price to pay to create bonds and collaborate with your project teams. It’s a way to include people. Globish is a tool, not the purpose of the project: after all, we’re not taking a literature course. Some basic rules of Globish are: - Make an effort not to use too many idioms, or, if you use them, give a simple explanation - Be careful with jokes and don’t exclude people - Articulate clearly and speak slowly - Define a glossary of abbreviations Despite all these efforts, you might not be understood because people are not used to your accent. When I first worked with Chinese colleagues, we had to familiarize ourselves with each other’s accents. During conference calls, I share a document where I write everything down. This also enhances transparency and shows the efforts I am making. 2. Team Contract As a global leader, you need to spend time with your team to define the ground rules and best practices. With the shift to a hybrid/remote world, voice and video call times have doubled and IM traffic has increased by 65%. We have all experienced more meetings than before, as people tried to recreate office life while working from home. Some negative impacts of constant video usage are: - A high-speed connection is necesary. - The feeling of being watched: I sometimes need to have drops in my eyes and then I turn off the video. Other people may need to relax their body or stretch their legs while they listen. - Intrusion and loss of privacy: some people will be proud of showing off their interiors and furniture as status symbols. Others will prefer virtual backgrounds. Why not talk about it within the team and decide if rules are must-have or not? Why not create a virtual background for the whole team? You can define the communication rules according to the type of meeting, as shown in the table below, for instance.

3. Understand the local context while avoiding microaggressions This is the hardest part if you haven’t worked or travelled in the country where your colleagues are based. Asking questions is a way to learn and show interest, but sometimes you can find yourself walking a tightrope. Some well-intentioned questions may be seen as offensive. Microaggressions are defined as verbal, behavioral, and environmental indignities that communicate hostile, derogatory, or negative racial slights and insults to the target person or group. For instance, once, I was asked: ‘How long have you been living in France?’ or ‘Where are you from’? When I answered ‘France’, I was asked: ‘Yes, but what about your parents?’ Before asking this type of question, you must take stock and ask yourself: How can the answer help me to collaborate better with my colleagues across the miles? If the answer is negative, it’s better to refrain asking this question, at least not at the beginning of the collaboration. A person’s name in itself doesn’t mean a lot: some people change their names. I’ve discovered a colleague of mine – whom I’ve known for almost 20 years – had a Polish mother. Some people are adopted, so asking questions about individual background may uncover personal stories they don’t necessarily want to share in the workplace. By asking some questions, you may also project a judgment or send a signal that ‘our values are the best ones’. If people talk freely about politics and religion in your country, good for you! But in some countries this is not ok, and other topics may be similarly taboo. For instance, in France we don’t speak at all about money and salaries in the workplace. You may be open to answering any question, but other people may not be – not only because of national cultures, but also because of their individual personalities. It doesn’t mean people are less open. This doesn’t mean you must refrain from asking any questions. It means you have to stick to non-judgmental questions, especially when you are building the relationship. How to Become a Better Global Leader: Last Thoughts I’ve been working with colleagues based in African countries since 2014 and I’ve not visited most of these countries. Every time I talk to a colleague in Africa, I try to ask some open questions like: do you eat outside during lunch time? Do you have fixed working hours? I’ve noticed you have three names, what name shall I use? What languages do you speak? Are there any upcoming festivals or bank holidays in your country? Leading global projects and working in global teams mean building bridges to deliver projects in a collaborative way. You’ll have to juggle with communication methods, you’ll face some challenges, and you’ll have to sort out misunderstandings. However, patience, effort, and respect will pave the way to a better project outcome and a rich and rewarding human experience. Read the full article

#becomingabettergloballeader #howtobecomeagloballeader #managingglobalteams

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sleepyfan-blog · 7 years ago

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How about #7 ('All I see is you') of the Song Lyric Prompts for ConHayth? uwu

pairing: Conhaythwarnings: father/son incest, modern AU, CEOxVet AUwords: 2,884

@balsaminaceae

summary: Haytham visits Connor at work

Connor was having lunch in the breakroom of the research facility that he’d been working in for the better part of a year and a half. His father’s plans for having Abstergo offer some low-cost veterinary clinics in New York City – as well as in a couple of other cities were well on their way to being fully implemented – and they were starting to hire staff for it, and while Connor wanted very much to apply for one of those positions… He’d bonded with Corbin – one of the eagles that the research facility was doing behavioral studies on. The fact that he could see through the eagle’s eyes was something of a great deal of interest – not just with his supervisor, but with the rest of the research team. They had asked him an awful lot of questions –many of which were dizzyingly confusing and others he refused to answer without asking Haytham if he should answer first… As they pertained to the strange second sight ability, and as Connor suspected that his father had it as well, the young man was… Unwilling to speak of it, without Haytham being fine with him answering those questions as well.

His uncertainty and reticence hadn’t gone well with his research partners – and he had noted more than a couple of suspicious glares from his supervisor as well. Although what they thought that he was hiding beyond not being comfortable answering what little he did know about the strange ability… Connor had no idea, and while the young man would normally just ask Haytham outright – as the two of them had been living together for the better part of six months now… His father was half-way across the world, taking part of an international business conference that many high-powered CEOs were attending, and had been for over a week. Connor missed his beloved dearly, and though they had been able to text one another occasionally – it wasn’t anywhere near close to what he wanted… Especially since they weren’t able to have texting conversations for more than an hour or two, as the time zones that the two of them were living in were so badly mismatched. Haytham wasn’t sure how long the conference was going to be – and to make matters worse his father had also implied that he might be staying longer than the end of the conference, depending on whether or not he was able to make connections with one or more of the CEOs who were based in that city or country… So then he would stay and hammer out some sort of business thing that would be beneficial to both of their companies.

The radio was playing quietly in the far corner – it was set to an older music station, and the world seemed to be out to make him miserable – as a maudlin love song started to play – just as Connor was checking his phone, in the hopes that Haytham had answered his phone – which the other had yet to do so… Prompting a long, unhappy sigh to leave him as he stared morosely at the delicious lunch that he had been picking at for the better part of ten minutes, unwilling to eat and not hungry anyways. The young man sighed again, pushing the salad away from him as he folded his arms on the table as he pressed his cheek against one of his forearms, as he continued to stare at his phone, willing Haytham to suddenly respond to him. With his colleagues exiling him socially for reasons the young man could only vaguely guess at, and his father being so unavailable (though for good reasons…) he was terribly, terribly lonely…

“Hey, are you alright Connor? You look a little down.” Salai asked, frowning a little at him as the other moved closer. They were a new addition to one of the other research teams – and the only person who would actually talk to him, since he’d been unable and unwilling to answer his own team’s questions about the strange ability he had – as he didn’t know how he’d been able to bond with Corbin, only that he’d managed to do so accidentally.

“Oh… It’s just… I miss my boyfriend. He’s been at a business conference for a while… It’s out of the country so it’s not like we can really talk and…” Connor answered with another unhappy sigh. With a concerted effort of will, he straightened up, looking at the other and asking “How are you, Salai?”

"I… Oh… I understand what it’s like to miss your beloved. I… I had been dating someone for years – he was a few years older than me, but oh… He was brilliant, warm and amazing. But I… I found out that he was in love with another, and though he was… Fond… Of me… It was this other person who held his heart so completely. I… I broke things off with him, as it was terribly unfair of me to ask him to stay with me, as though he did love me… I didn’t seem to be quite enough for him.“ The Italian responded, looking utterly miserable and unhappy.

Connor’s heart lurched painfully, and he shoved away any anxiety or worries that started to spring to mind “I… Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that, Salai… I know that it’s a rather trite thing to say…”

“But I know that you genuinely mean what you say.” Salai responded, sitting down next to the empty chair next to him, answering with a tiny smile “I… I broke up with my former boyfriend several months ago. I’ve heard rumors about your mysterious boyfriend from the others. How you talk so happy about him, but you never mention a name.”

Connor shrugged a little, still somewhat distracted by the maudlin tone of the love song, reminded strongly of the years he'd spent on the small town run by anarchists, as he really had missed his father every day... and the only person he'd ever seen in a romantic sense was Haytham – not that had changed in the least. "No one's asked – besides... You know what Abstergo's policy is, regarding dating fellow employees is..."

"Ah, but I heard that your mysterious Vampire doesn't work in the building – that he was part of the business side? Or was he one of Abstergo's lawyers? Or so the rumors have whispered." Salai responded, a small smile appearing on his face "And, since no one has apparently asked... What's your boyfriend's name? I promise that I won't tell."

There was no good answer to that question, and Connor knew it. He shouldn't have spoken more about Haytham... But how could he not, when the source of his unhappiness stemmed from the fact that his beloved was so far away? "I... It's not that I don't trust you, Salai... It's just that... You know what the fraternization policy is with Abstergo and I'd rather not mess anything up, you know?" That and though he could technically use his father's middle name – Edward – instead of his first name, as the latter was much more common... Trying to call the other by his middle name, even as a not-quite lie to one of his coworkers felt... Wrong.

The Italian hummed a little, nodding and smiling amicably "If that's how you feel... I understand. But... And I'm not trying to say that your guy is doing the same that mine was... But sometimes some of the so-called business trips that he took weren't business at all... But rather visiting his other lover. Not that I blame the other lover – he was under the impression that the two of us were in an open relationship as he's poly, and the two of us had met before. Ezio thought that our initial meeting was him meeting me as one of my boyfriend's steady lovers."

Connor blinked a little in surprise, dark eyes widening a little as he connected the dots – as Salai had seemed vaguely familiar – as one of the anarchists who had several hunting dogs was named Ezio – and was dating both Sofia and Leo – and the latter had a boyfriend named Salai. The chances that this man and the one that he was thinking of were the same person were... Unusual – but Salai worked in the same field that the possible-other Salai did and... "… Your old boyfriend wasn't Leonardo Vince, was it? And his other boyfriend – Ezio Auditore – about six inches shorter than me, black hair, dark eyes and a grin full of mischief?"

"I... Yes... How did you...?" Salai sputtered, eyes widening a little "How did you know?"

"When two of Ezio's hunting hounds went into labor, I was the vet who delivered both litters. I also oversaw both litters' shots and vet visits, while I was working at that clinic. He really had no idea that the two of you were in a monogamous relationship as he's many things... But though he flirts with anything on two legs, he tries very hard not to be a homewrecker." Connor responded, a small smile appearing on his face. "Ezio found you to be quite charming, and spoke of you to me a couple of different times, actually."

"I... Oh... That's flattering. And you're absolutely right about Ezio... He was... Is, quite the charmer. I wouldn't have minded sharing Leo, if he had only talked to me." The Italian responded unhappily, shifting a little closer to Connor, looking as if he was about to start crying.

"Err..." The younger man responded, uncertain if he should try to reach out to Salai and lightly pat the other on one shoulder, or to politely look away so that he had a couple of moments to compose himself without being watched by someone.

Before he could decide either way, the head researcher of Connor's department poked her head into the breakroom and ordered, looking anxious, voice pitched low but tense "Salai – get back to your station. Hill come with me. Kenway himself is visiting the facility, and he wants to meet you – since you were the one who was able to bond with one of the eagles. Perhaps you'll answer his questions, if not ours."

The young man flinched a little, startled by the darkness in her voice, but nodded, getting up and following her out of the breakroom, startled that Haytham was actually here – and though he'd have liked a bit more forewarning by his beloved... It should be nice to see the other again... Besides, his surprise at the CEO being there was just as genuine as everyone else's. "Of course boss. And as I said earlier, it's not because I won't answer your questions... It's that I don't know how, and I can't answer them, ma'am."

As his boss had said, Haytham was there, looking unfairly handsome in a well-tailored suit, watching several of the eagles fly around in their large enclosures. Connor wanted very much to enthusiastically greet his beloved, it would be wildly inappropriate for him to do so in this setting, not in the least because his boss was starting to speak with Haytham, which was why he was staying quiet while listening attentively, catching the end of what she was saying.

"And as I have stated in my report, the only member of any of the teams who have been working with the eagles, only one of them has been able to bond with one of the birds as the... Long held rumors whisper is potentially possible. Ratonhnhaké:ton Hill, the young man behind me, is the one. He claims that he had contact with the eagle when the two of them had been younger – and has of yet, been unwilling – or unable – to explain how or why he was able to bond with the eagle – and to see through the eagle's eyes. He did once take Corbin out of the facility, although why he never did explain, beyond the apparent need of the other's ability to fly to search for something." His boss stated, her voice a little sharp with irritation.

Connor tried desperately not to fiddle with his hands, looking down and away from the both of them as he waited to be asked something to speak. The three of them were the only ones who were in the observation area, the young man noted.

"Anarchists – the very people who had kidnapped me almost two years ago – had taken something that I... Could not afford to lose. Connor used Corbin to find who had the Object in question, taken it back from said anarchist and took it to where I was – as another of their group had nearly managed to kill me." Haytham responded, voice firm, catching both of their's full attention. His boss gasped in shock and horror, and the younger man shivered, wincing in pain at the awful memories associated with that day – as his beloved had very nearly died that day.

"I... I see. But who is this Connor you are referring to, sir?" His boss asked, frowning a little in confusion.

Connor cleared his throat a little, scuffing one of his feet against the floor, answering uncertainly "Ratonhnhaké:ton is my middle name. My first name is Connor."

"And Hill is his mother's maiden name – which is the one on his Birth certificate." Haytham responded, bright blue eyes dancing with mischief. The young man realized moments before it happened what was about to – and couldn't help but blush a little – knowing that it would probably be easiest to get out of the trouble that he'd been increasingly under by his boss if this particular revelation was given now.

"But Hill is not my only last name. Rake:niiii we agreed that you wouldn't interfere with thing while I was working." Connor responded plaintively, unable to stop himself from pouting at the other, drawing out the second syllable of what he was calling Haytham at the moment to show his displeasure.

"Ah, but if I did not, your boss may have had you dragged away, as she thinks that you might be an anarchist, sent to try to ferret out the secrets of this facility, son." The older Kenway responded, voice light, but eyes serious and worried, showing just how serious the situation really was.

"And why the... There is no way in the coldest depths of hell that I would ever support anyone who wants to hurt you, father." Connor nearly growled, finding himself moving closer to his father, taking the other's hands in his own. "All... All I see is you. I love you, and I care for you, rake:ni. There's nothing that I wouldn't do to try to protect you... To make you happy."

"I know that, Connor. And I love you too." Haytham responded, gently squeezing his hands back, pulling him in for a hug, murmuring quietly "I've missed you."

"Missed you too, rake:ni. You were gone for too long." Connor answered unhappily, hugging his father tightly, relaxing into his beloved's touch.

"I... Ah... I'll leave the two of you to reconnect. I wouldn't want to... Erm. Intrude on this familial moment." His boss managed out, rushing off – the door on the far end of the hallway clicking shut as the both of them could distantly hear her hiss "Shoo, the lot of you!" And the sounds of confusion from Connor's research team – all of whom wanted to understand what was going on with something.

There were cameras recording everything that happened in the observation room – which was why Connor murmured quietly into his father's shoulder "Want to kiss you, but not here."

"I'll speak with your boss, see if I can't convince her to let you have the last couple of hours of work off, as I've only just arrived in the city. My phone died on the plane ride over here, and I was unable to charge it since." Haytham responded quietly. "When your boss's report came in, stating that there was a possible anarchist who had infiltrated this facility yesterday I... I arranged for a flight as soon as I could to investigate as I... I was worried for your safety – as well as the safety of your coworkers and the behavioral research that was going on here."

"I... I just wasn't sure how to tell them about... 'Bout the second sight and I wanted to talk to you about what I should tell them first and I don’t know how I was able to bond to Corbin – or why the bond is there in the first place... Just that it is." Connor responded quickly "And... I don't want special treatment although I... I really, really want to head back home with you."

Haytham sighed a little before answering "I understand – we'll speak about second sight later. And, though I would rather not admit to it, there are several things that I should do, and they will take me several hours to complete. See you home, after you get off of work? I will be working at home, finishing those things up."

"Alright." Connor responded, nodding a little as he slowly let go of his father. "I love you."

"And I... I love you too, Connor." Haytham responded, releasing his beloved and the two of them went their separate ways.

#conhayth fic #my fic #ceoXvet au

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