#instead of his *things* getting old and grey in a museum display somewhere

[groundbreakingdot872]

@pyjamacryptid you can stop right there actually!! :((

every fanart I see of Older!Arthur on my dash heals my soul you don’t understand

[clonecaptains]

CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS | vampire!oberyn martell x reader

rating: e - for typical oberyn smut & this is a vampire story so there’s some blood and some suspenseful moments! 

word count: 3.7k 

summary: You’re on a tour of the medieval prince Oberyn’s castle. You take a wrong turn during the tour and end up somewhere you don’t expect. Maybe this castle really is haunted. 

masterlist

a/n: this is an attempt at some horror-esque writing and im really excited to share this w/ yall! feedback is much appreciated and as always thank you to my partner in crime @pascalispedro for your help w/ this!!!

Closed for Renovations

Travelling the world alone is a mistake. That’s what your family and friends told you. Maybe they were right. But you needed a time of self-reflection and to do what you wanted to do. No agenda. No time restraints. Other than when tours started, or transportation would leave. You could do what you want and when you wanted.

This week you’re in Spain. You’d seen an advertisement for ancient Spanish castles, and you wanted to hit as many as you could.

It’s a sunny day when the bus drops you and other tourists off at your next castle. You’d leaned against the glass window of the bus on the way in, completely in awe of the sheer size of the estate. The stone showing its age but still standing strong. The sunlight shining on the towers and sturdy walls.

The air is fresh when you step outside the bus. A groundskeeper nearby is mowing the lush grass. There’s a clamor of excitement from the tourists with you. You hear whispers about this castle being haunted.

You don’t believe in ghosts, but there’s still a chill that goes up your spine when you look up. The walls are steep from the ground. And is that? A face you see in the window?

“Everyone gather round for the tour!” the tour guide’s voice distracts you for a moment, but that chill still lingers. You shake your head; you’re letting the whispers get to you.

The tour group shuffles inside and you’re in the middle. You cross the threshold into the main entrance, and you gasp. It’s a gorgeous room, it’s massive. Every wall and floor are dark stone, ancient bricks still mortared together after all these years. Black and red tapestries and velvet carpets and ropes line the walls and floors. Chandeliers and candles line the walls and ceilings. The old fixtures remain but are dark – the more modern fixtures illuminate the space with electricity. Many fixed with fake electric candles to look as if the lights are flickering.

The tour guide is speaking, but you’re only half listening as your eyes are drawn to a large portrait on the back wall. It’s difficult to see in the lighting. Though there are small windows, there’s a shadow cast over the dark painting. The reds and blacks match the rest of the space around it.

The man is handsome. Tall. There’s a glint in his eye, a mischievous look. His robes are exquisite. Black, with dark grey suns sewn in the fabric. A deep red tunic is under the robes, and an expensive necklace hangs low on his neck. Many rings are on his fingers. And the tan skin of his chest is on full display. He’s on the stone steps, hand on the banister. Glancing down you see the spot where this portrait was painted.

“Prince Oberyn Martell, known as ‘The Red Viper,’” the guide points to the painting. “This was his estate. It was given to him by his father the king. Oberyn was due to inherit the throne but was murdered on these very grounds in mysterious circumstances.” The tour guide makes his voice try to sound ‘spooky,’ but you can’t help but roll your eyes at his weak attempt.

“How did he die?” someone in the group asks.

“No one knows how the prince was killed. All that is known is his untimely death came in the south tower. It’s where his body was recovered, and he was buried.”

“Is the south tower on the tour?” another voice asks.

“It’s unfortunately closed due to renovations; however, the north tower is identical and Oberyn’s tomb has been recreated there!” This seemed to satisfy the crowd, but you heard someone behind you whisper about how people mysteriously go missing in the south tower.

“They had to cancel tours because someone always went missing.”

You feel that chill again looking up to the painting of the prince. Was it smiling like that before?

You really need to get some sleep.

The next room you’re led to off the entrance is the dining hall. A long table stretches the length of the room. The tour guide mentions notable guests that would have dined at this table during the life of the prince.

Another portrait of him is above the fireplace.

“This guy was vain wasn’t he,” someone snickers.

“In fact,” the tour guide laughs, “he was indeed. While known for his generosity to his kingdom, he was known for being promiscuous and a host of wild parties. There are dozens of stories of his famous orgies and the lovers he’s taken. There’s a speculation he was murdered for the secrets he knew.”

As the tour continues, you find yourself hoping to find a new portrait in each room. Each one he looks the same. Same strong jawline, same handsome features. The only difference is his pose and the background behind him. Each painting resides in the room where it was painted. And each one is perfectly placed in the room, so a shadow is cast over it. He’s never fully in the light.

It’s disappointing to discover so many parts of the castle are roped off due to renovations. You’d hoped to see the library, or his old bedroom – but both are closed.

“Last part of the tour ladies and gentlemen! The north tower! As I said before, the south tower is closed – so this tower is an extra replica!”

The guide leads the group up a steep spiral stone staircase into the top room of the tower. Immediately upon entering, you notice there’s no portrait of him in here. There’s a fireplace, a few books scattered, and most noticeably, in the center of the room is a stone coffin.

Across the top, is a statue of Oberyn laying on his back. You examine the stone seeing him in further detail in better lighting. He has a crooked nose, and a thin line of hair growing along his jaw. The artistry is beautiful, the craftsman worked hard on the detail. The very stitches of his robes are etched in the stone.

You pause at his neck, there seems to be a small scar. Two in fact. You lean in to touch the stone when the tour guide gasps, “don’t touch!”

The exclamation startles you and you topple backwards. You catch yourself on your hands, but the abrasive stone scrapes the palm of your hand. Frazzled, you part from the tour to look for the bathroom you saw on the way in.

The lights in the bathroom are harsh and unforgiving in comparison to the dimly light halls of this castle. It’s strange to be in a modern room in the middle of something so ancient.

Hissing in pain, you approach the sink sticking your hand in the warm water. There’s more blood that you originally thought, and it smears on your hand making you feel squeamish. You splash cold water on your face and feeling dizzy still – you enter an empty stall to sit down for a moment. To breathe.

There’s something in the air in here. You feel a thickness in the air, a weight on your lungs. It’s hot and sticky, but there’s a chill running up your spine and goosebumps on your arms. You can’t get those shadowy eyes out of your head.

It’s just ghost stories.

You’d read about how scary stories affect the body. It activates your fight or flight instinct, puts you on high alert. It’s perfectly reasonable to be a little spooked in a centuries old castle where there was a sinister murder.

Feeling silly, you shake your head at yourself and get a fresh paper towel to clean off your hand. Tossing it in the trash, you start to make your way back to the tour. It’ll be over soon, and the castle will be closed to the public.

You’d run into the bathroom in such a hurry you don’t remember which way you came in. Suddenly you’re down a hall you don’t remember seeing. It’s a long hall of portraits. Not of Oberyn though. You’re in shock at how gorgeous they all are. Each painting is massive – the bottom of the frame touches the floor, and the top of the frame touches the ceiling. Each portrait is of someone different, elegantly dressed with an even more extravagant room behind them – none of which you recognize.

You know now you’re in one of the closed off hallways.

You won’t stay long, just enough to see the Oberyn portrait down at the end.

You vaguely hear the announcement for the castle closure, but you want just one peek at this painting. Then you’ll leave.

This one is the most beautiful so far of Oberyn. It’s still in a shadow, but you step right up to it to look at it. Behind him is what you can only assume is his bedroom. A fireplace is in the corner and a large four poster bed in the center. He’s in the same red and black robes that you’ve seen all afternoon. The detail on this one is intricate. All the others have been mounted high on the walls – too far away for your eyes to see the tiny details.

Leaning in you look at his neck, to see if there’s a scar like on the stone coffin. You get closer and closer-

“Are you lost miss?” you hear a voice behind you, and you gasp.

“You scared me!” you laugh, turning expecting to see a worker from the castle museum behind you. Only, you don’t see anyone. “Hello?”

Your heart starts pounding. Are you hearing things? Or is this place really haunted?

You turn back around to the Oberyn painting but instead of the painting – it’s the man himself. You scream and turn to run back down the hall, only to your horror to see all of the ‘paintings’ come to life. Each portrait subject takes a step out of the wall – they were never paintings. They were only standing still – a trick of the light allowing you to believe they were paintings.

At first you think it’s a prank, until you see their eyes turn black and fangs in their mouth catch the light.

“Are you lost my dove?” Oberyn’s voice comes as a devilish whisper on your neck. His hand coming to grasp your arm to keep you from running, or perhaps to keep them from getting to you.

“Virgin blood is the sweetest blood,” a man nearby hisses, and you try to pull away from Oberyn.

“Aye,” Oberyn hums bringing your hand up to his lips. He tenderly brushes a kiss to your injured palm. “You had one last month,” he tuts at the man. “Leave her alone!” he speaks out to the long hallway. Most of them turn around and retreat to their rooms. You see that now; the frames were only the doorframes.

The rest of them leave the hallway to move about the castle. It’s well after dark now.

You’re alone with the prince now.

“Are you lost little dove?” he repeats. His voice is thick and smooth like honey. The rich accent coats the air.

“Is this a prank?” you start to cry, “I promise I’ll leave.”

“It is no prank sweet one.”

“Are you real? I thought you died?”

He chuckles, then looks up at you – showing you his four fangs and black eyes. You gasp, and quick as a blink he looks back to normal.

“Are you going to kill me?” the tears still falling from your eyes.

“No,” he shushes, wiping your tears with a long warm finger.

“But he said something about virgin blood,” you sniffle. Your entire world just came crashing down realizing that these creatures do in fact exist and that’s all you can think to say.

“My subjects partake in the pleasurable taste of human blood. It’s like a drug to them.” He’s stalking around you in a circle now, observing you. “I however,” he brings your hand up to his lips, pressing them to the back of your hand, “prefer to partake in the pleasure of, well – pleasure.” His smile is wicked, and you can see his fangs peek out from under his lips.

He pulls you to him, his other hand coming to rest on your hip. His lips part from your hand, hovering above your neck. You tremble in his arms and you wince when he opens his mouth.

This is it, you think. You’re going to die here in some castle in Spain and never see your family again.

Your body tenses, ready for the bite, but instead his lips press on your skin in a gentle kiss.

“I mean no harm,” he purrs. “I cannot say the same for my subjects. For your own safety you may dine with me tonight as my guest and you’ll be free to leave in the morning. If you choose to leave now, I cannot guarantee your safety.”

He offers his hand to you, waiting for you to take it.

Weighing your options – you figure why not? And take his hand.

His slender fingers weave with yours as if you were familiar lovers. He brings your hand up to his lips again to kiss your knuckles. He guides you, leading you out of the long hallway and into the main entrance, speaking softly as you go.

“How did you sustain this injury?” he asks, thumb brushing over the torn skin on your palm.

“I fell. In the north tower.”

“Ah yes, the false rendering of my tomb in the south tower.”

The night continues to get stranger – the electric lights in the main entrance have gone out. The space is illuminated now with the real candle fixtures on the walls.

“Is that how you really died?” you ask. You look at him and look for the scars on his neck but see none.

“It is,” he replies. “But when I was reborn the scars healed.”

He walks you through the entire castle, telling you its secrets. There’s a party going on in every room, men and women’s bodies tangled with each other. Food and wine are everywhere. Oberyn walks casually with you on his arm.

“Does this shock you?” he asks seeing you turn your eyes away from a group of people pleasuring each other.

“It’s – not how I thought this day was going to go,” you laugh.

“Let me take you somewhere quieter?” he offers and leads you back down the ‘portrait’ hall into his ‘painting.’

There’s a tray of food on a table, and your stomach growls. It dawns on you that you’ve not eaten in hours.

“Please,” he motions towards the tray and you hungrily grab a piece of bread.

Hunger gets the better of you, but you’re still suspicious.

“How do I know that you’re not just feeding me so that you can feed off me?” you ask him. “I don’t want to be eaten.”

He chuckles at your frankness and takes a step towards you.  

“The only part of you I wish to eat,” he steps closer. You freeze and drop the bread in your fingers. “Is that sweetness between your thighs,” he purrs his body now pressing up against yours. His hand cupping your sex through your jeans. “I only need permission.”

You shudder, but you can feel the electricity through his fingers. It’s strong, it’s a magnetic pull. You have no other option but to say yes.

The moment the word exits your lips, the lights in the room dim. The roaring fire quiets down.

His hands reach for your shoulders and he begins to kiss your neck again. This time opening his mouth a little. You can feel the graze of his fangs on your neck – but they do not break the skin.

“Wait,” you gasp and pull back. “Does the door have to be open?” you ask motioning towards the door leading to that hallway.

Oberyn smirks, his left eyebrow lifting.

“The rooms have no doors; it’s so my lovers can pour in and out of whatever room they wish.”

You look down at your feet, not enjoying the idea of being seen by others. You’ve only just barely agreed to be seen by him.

“Fear not,” he coos and hooks a finger under your chin. He snaps his fingers and you hear a slam of a door behind you. Turning to look, you see a door has appeared. You don’t question it. This is already a weirder night than possibly imagined.

Oberyn pulls your attention back to him, and he shrugs his outer robe. Leaving him in the tunic underneath. For a moment you wonder if he’ll have issue taking off your sweatshirt and jeans, but then you think – he must have been doing this for years.

“Why me?” you ask, trying to calm yourself down as he kisses along your neck and under your jaw.

“I smelled you when you first walked in, knew I wanted to taste you,” he licks your neck and you shudder again. He pulls on your sweatshirt – tugging it off you. Your shirt comes next, then your jeans.

When you’re left exposed in your underwear, he licks his lips – he sucks on his teeth making a sharp sound.

“You look ravishing,” he hums – tracing his finger along your shoulders and down your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

He shrugs his tunic then, leaving him in pants only. That chain and rings also remain on his tan skin.

The trembling never stops. His intoxicating presence is clouding your judgement, the alarm bells in your mind are being muted. It was only just a few hours ago that you were learning about this man, and now he’s unhooking your bra with swift fingers.

“Here sweet one,” he coos and guides you to the bed for you to lie down, “your knees shake.”

You lay back and he comes to lay down next to you. He props up on his elbow, and his other hand comes to grasp at your breast. Fingertips trace around your nipple, he chuckles when it perks for him. He pinches your nipple then with two fingers and you jolt. He does the same to your other breast, and his mouth comes to rest on the other. His lips sucking, his fangs ever so slightly grazing. It’s hot in the room, stifling. That chill up your spine is no longer a chill, but deep arousal. It’s not in the back of you neck anymore, it’s pooling between your legs.

When he’s satisfied that you’re satisfied, he slithers off the bed and kneels between your legs dangling off the bed. Those quick fingers dance along your panties and he looks to you for permission, which you give with a sigh. He tugs them down and parts your legs with his hands before you can close them in your shyness.

It doesn’t scare you to have his dangerous mouth so close to you. In fact, the first touch of his tongue almost kills you from pleasure, not from fear. His fingers tease your opening and slide as far as they can go. You gasp roughly when you feel a cold ring pressing against your slick wet entrance.

His lips suck on your sex while his fingers move inside. The combination of the two has you toppling over the edge in no time.

No one at home will believe this.

As you come down, he stands to rid himself of the rest of his clothes. He pushes you back further on the bed so that you’re resting on a pillow. You look around for a moment, taking in the scene. From this angle, you can see the closed door, if it were open, you’d have a view of the entire hall. There are no windows in this room, only paintings and tapestries. Oberyn comes into your sight then, very tan in the orange glow from the fire, and very naked. The flames catch his necklace and rings, they shine even in the dull light.

You blush to see him so naked, but it arouses you all the same.

“Are you alright my dove?” He purrs laying down on top of you.

You nod, growing to like this pet name he’s given you. You have no thoughts in your head about what tomorrow will bring, only that you feel the tip of him at your entrance. His skin burns like a furnace, you thought he’d be cold. But it’s quiet the opposite.

He kisses your lips hungrily when he pushes inside. Your hips rise up to meet his and his hands wrap around your body to hold you to him. He swallows your cries and your body tingles and burns with the intense heat and pleasure he’s giving you. His thrusts are sure, slow, and heated at times, but fast and harsh in others. It’s as if he knows exactly what your body needs to reach that delicious high that you’re chasing.

His lips move down to your neck when your orgasm closes in. He’s pushing, thrusting hard and fast on that spot that has you seeing stars. Your body shakes, pulses, quivers. He bites on your neck when you come undone, the pleasure pounding in your veins. You’ve never felt like this before, never felt this good. Your entire body thrums from the nerves and exhilaration of having been taken to bed for the first time. The pleasure is blinding.

The rest of the night is a blur to you, your orgasm so strong.

The next thing you remember that’s clear – is you wake in the morning in the bathroom. A worker comes in to find you on the floor.

“Are you alright?” she asks, panic in her voice at finding a person so early in the morning.

“I think I must have passed out,” you laugh. But you don’t remember anything. The last thing you remember was scraping your hand and coming here to clean it off.

She laughs politely, but then turns to leave quickly. You shrug it off and try to remember what happened last night. Now it’s last night that is a blur.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you feel a sharp pain in your neck. You gasp to touch the wound to feel four holes. The memories all flooding back.

You turn to look in the mirror to get a better look at your neck. The pain is getting worse, it’s white hot.

You gasp then when you see – you have no reflection.

[thelittleredheadedmusician]

Rats!

Rating: G 1,701 words Gen AO3

For @radioactivepigeons who loves Babs being Oracle, Dick Grayson, and rats, written as celebration for her paper! I hope you like it!

Babs glared at her screen. The motion detectors were going crazy in the West Wing, second floor of the Gotham Natural History Museum. The hall where the collection of precious stones and gems was on display behind thick panes of pelxiglas with thick locks and liberal alarms. The problem was the security cameras showed no one there. The footage wasn’t looped or old, she’d already checked, and yet nothing. But the motion detectors going off? In only the West Wing on the second floor? It was almost an annoyance more than anything.

No alarms had been tripped. There was a possibility of malfunction. Except Babs had already piggy-backed into the system and looked for anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing. The motion detectors were genuinely going off, registering actual movement. Except, it made no sense the pattern that they were flashing. She couldn’t trace any path or direction; they were just alerting at random.

Oracle had notified Gotham’s resident vigilantes of the oddity happening at the museum. Since no alarms were tripped, the police hadn’t been called. Babs didn’t think they’d be much use anyway.

Nightwing was the one who answered her request to check it out, slipping into the museum unnoticed except on her screens. “Oracle?” his voice came through her speakers. “I’m here but it looks like all the gems are in their places and the only break-in tonight is mine.”

“Thank you, Detective Wonder, I couldn’t see that myself,” she let a note of dry teasing slip into her voice.

Dick turned to smile at the closest security camera, “Happy to help!”

Smartass. At least it was a good one.

“You’re my hands and feet, Nightwing. So, get to gumshoeing before I boot you for one of my Batgirls.” It was only half a threat and they both knew it.

“Point taken,” Dick laughed. He began a slow trek through the space, looking for anything out of the ordinary and more importantly, anything missing. As he walked, Babs watched the screen showing the motion detectors. If anything, this little exercise was making it all more confusing instead of clearing it up. The sensors registered Dick’s steady and methodical progress and yet still were blinking seemingly at random. So, they were definitely registering movement. But of what?

“Nightwing, is there anything to your left right now? Anywhere to your left, low high?” Babs frowned at the steady blinking of the sensor right next to Dick’s current position and the video feed that showed empty air.

“No. Should there be?”

“According to the security system? Yes,” she sighed. Babs was good at puzzles, genuinely enjoyed them too. Twisting the information this way and that until a pattern appeared. Organizing and sorting until she had exactly what she needed. Taking something apart to see if she could determine how it worked and then put it back together once more. Looking at angles and theories and data. Taking it all in and making something new.

But this? This was chaos. Chaos that was giving her a bit of a headache with the insistent flashing. Not to mention the frustration that was building somewhere between her throat and her chest. In her jaw and her hands.

“O?” Dick said, spinning in a slow circle. “I know this is gonna sound crazy but, do you think this might be something… paranormal? Supernatural?”

Dropping her head into her hands knocked Babs’s glasses askew. “It does sound crazy,” she grumbled. “Except,” she sighed and sat up, “this is Gotham and our line of work so…”

Her fingers darted back to her keyboard, ready to pull up Zatanna or Raven’s contacts. Failing that – and god forbid – she was owed favors from Jason Blood and John Constantine so one of them could figure it out and Babs could wipe her hands of it. Just, she’d probably make Dick stick around to keep an eye on the gems if that was the case.

The call to Zatanna just began ringing through when a flash of white darted across the screen by Dick’s feet. Babs hung up on the mistress of magic and switched back to Dick’s comm. “Nightwing, what was that?”

“Not sure,” and he sure sounded it as he got down on his hands and knees. Dick reached into the shadows and Babs lost sight of what was happening. “Aha!” came his exclamation a few seconds later.

Dick stood again with something clutched between his hands. It was white and grey and wiggling slightly. “Is that… a rat?”

“A rat I know!” Dick sounded downright pleased. Babs hoped that meant he would hurry up and get to the explanation. “Oracle, say hi to Impulse!” he held the rat up to the camera.

“Unless something happened that no one told me about – and that is highly unlikely – that is not Impulse. Impulse is either a five-foot three teenaged ball of hyperactivity or a chaotic eight-year-old. Not a rat.”

Dick was petting the rat and making kissy faces at it. Normally Babs liked his kissy faces but her patience was just about gone. “The rat was named for the former. By the Flash. My Flash. This is his roommate’s rat.”

“Well, Zookeeper Wonder, I’m going to take your word for it but if I call the Pied Piper and you turn out to be wrong, I am sending the recording of this conversation to everyone in my contacts.” Babs trusted Dick; she wouldn’t have been that extreme if she didn’t. Also, it wasn’t really going to be everyone. Just a few key members of the family, Justice League, Birds, and Titans. They would take care of spreading it to everyone else.

The call to one Hartley Rathaway’s personal cell connected and Babs switched on her voice modulator. It wasn’t worth it when running comms, they all knew who she was anyway, but the Pied Piper was a little outside her normal sphere of influence.

“Hello?” was the hesitant voice on the other end.

“Hello Piper, this is Oracle,” Babs said smoothly, watching Dick play with the rat and making her smile.

There was an audible gulp. “How can I help you?”

“You wouldn’t by chance own a rat named Impulse who is currently running around the second floor, West Wing, of the Gotham Natural History Museum?”

A pause. Babs waited.

“Uh, yeah actually? How’d you know?”

“Nightwing is currently giving it scritches.”

The soft sounds of cursing made her smile. Sometimes her job was just fun and even with the headaches she had to admit that. “That would explain a lot. Uh, I am not trying to rob the place if that makes you feel better? I got wind of some of the Rogues going out of town for a heist and thought I could stop them. Think of the rats as my field troops?”

“Ah, so you are the reason the motion detectors have been going nuts.”

“Sorry?”

“No worries. Just, for future reference, a courtesy call would be lovely and the local rodents and birds would certainly be happy to assist in such matters.” Babs smirked at her own joke.

“Right. Of course. Sorry,” there was a distinct wince in his tone.

She almost felt bad, but her scary reputation was more helpful than not. “I’m assuming you’re still in the area and the Rogues have yet to make a move?”

There was a pause, as though he was trying to figure out how to answer in a manner that wouldn’t incur her wrath. Or Batman’s. Ha, as though Babs was going to tell him any of this. No, what Bruce didn’t know didn’t hurt him and if he asked, she’d tell him she and Nightwing sorted it out and instruct Dick to do the same. And for her, he would. Granted, Mr. Rathaway on the other end of the line was unaware of all this.

“Piper?” she prompted. There were other things Babs had to do tonight and while her annoyance had waned and changed into amusement, she still wanted to wrap this up soon.

“Right. Sorry. I’m in Gotham? Fire escape on the building on the other side of the back alley to be exact.”

“Excellent. Do you have a shortwave comm?”

There was a breath of a laugh. Babs smiled; she’d known it was a dumb question too. Wally had a tendency to forget things here and there, which Babs had managed to get her hands on. She knew Piper’s tech and knew it was good. “Yeah. I do.”

“Switch to local channel eight, I’ll have Nightwing do the same and send him out to you. Not that I don’t trust you or your methods, but he is on the scene.”

“No it’s fine, I get it. And I appreciate it.”

Babs grinned. As they talked she had taken the liberty of hacking into one of the cameras on the museum’s rear and used it to locate Piper. Crouched on the lowest platform of the fire escape, a glint of silver that must be his flute in his lap. She could see his face from this angle, the hand he used to hold his phone to his ear pushing the dark green hood back just enough.

“Excellent. Thank you so much, your cooperation is appreciated and let me know if there’s anything I can assist you with tonight. I’m on channel one.”

“No problem. And, uh, thank you.” He seemed a little dumbfounded, eyes going wide on her screen.

“Oh, one more favor,” Babs said before she hung up and switched back to Dick. He didn’t seem to mind being left hanging this long so far anyway, combination of being used to it and distracted by Piper’s rats. “If you could call off your, ah, foot soldiers? I have nothing against rats, but I was this close to calling an exorcist. They’re doing murder on the motion sensors.”

He chuckled softly, just a hint of embarrassed. “Consider them gone.”

Without further ado, Babs hung up and sent Dick to meet him. Thank god it wasn’t a ghost. Magic users just mucked up the security systems for weeks after and she didn’t have the mental energy for all the footage that would need erasing.

[crescent-quill-writings]

When Raindrops Fall on Moonlit Roses: Tomes (2/3)

Part 1     Part 3  

Fandom: Hamilton - Miranda 

Words: 3404

Relationship: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson

Additional Tags: Vampire AU, Strangers to Lovers, Thunderstorms, Panic Attacks, Astraphobia, Thanatophobia, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to be Added

Summary: It’s a cold and stormy night and poor Alexander Hamilton is caught out in the rain trying to make his way home from the next town over. Better yet, he’s gotten himself lost in the woods by trying to take a short cut home and now the sun is sinking below the horizon. It feels like all hope is lost until Alexander comes across an old manor with candlelight in its window. With nowhere else to turn, he knocks on the door. 

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Stirring with a quiet groan under his breath Alexander rolled over in bed and pulled the duvet closer to his body. The room was still dark and the sheets around him were warm and so soft he nearly let sleep overtake him again before he sat bolt upright with a gasp. In his sleepy state, the feeling of being in an unfamiliar room and wearing unfamiliar clothes made panic start to fill his chest before the events of the previous night slowly began to come back to him.

"So it wasn't a dream... The Count- Jefferson, was real."

Rubbing his eyes he slipped out of bed, feeling his way over to the window so he could pull back the thick curtains and let in some light.

Jefferson hadn't been lying when he said that the storm would last for days, it was light enough for it to be well into the late morning but the sky was filled with dark clouds and thick sheets of rain were pouring over the landscape.

Alexander stepped back from the window with a frown. He still hated the rain, but at least he was safe inside away from the torrents of wind and water and it seemed the thunder and lightning had gone away for the time being.

Now with more light to see by, he took in the space. The same dark hardwood floors from the rest of the house carried into this room as well, but the wallpaper was a misty grey colour that complimented the periwinkle fabrics of the bedspread and drapes. While the decor may have been more subdued than the other rooms in the manor, Alexander's expression still scrunched up at the thought of how expensive it all must have been.

He shook his head with a huff, going to cross the room before he spied a bundle of clothes and a note addressed to him laid out on top of the dresser. He took the slip of paper in his hands and unfolded it, admiring the neat loops of elegant cursive for a moment before he began to read.

 Alexander,

 These clothes are yours to wear and I have left some oatmeal on the stove for when you awake. ��I wish I could greet you personally, but I have some business that needs attending to elsewhere.  I should be home not long after sunset.  In the meantime do try not to get lost in the manor, as I will not be there to rescue you.

 Best regards, your host Count Thomas Jefferson

Alexander just scoffed with a roll of his eyes, folding the note back up and setting it aside so he could look at the clothes. The pants were a simple walnut brown yet looked well-made, most likely hand-crafted by some fancy seamstress from far away, but the shirt was gorgeous. It was silk, and the colour reminiscent of ivory with golden buttons down the front and embroidery around the cuffs of the sleeves.

"Okay, now he's just showing off." He mutters, but he still takes the clothes and begins to change.

It's not like he had his old clothes on hand, and he didn't exactly want to be found wandering around the house in just his pyjamas. As much as he hated to admit it, the clothes were comfortable and fit him quite well. There was no mirror in the room to check how he looked, so Alexander just ran his hands through his hair and hoped he didn't look too worn down by travel before making his way down to the kitchen.

The manor somehow felt larger than when he first arrived, and without the Count there to guide him the halls felt like a labyrinth, but Alexander still managed to find his way to the kitchen by following his nose.

Just like the note said there was a covered pot on the stove as well as a bowl and a spoon set out for him as well. Alexander lifted the lid off the pot and gave it a sniff, smiling at the scent of warm honey and cinnamon and caramelized apples. It was wonderful and made his stomach growl, a reminder of just how hungry he was.

It didn't take long for him to help himself to a few bowlfuls.

________________________________________________________________

After breakfast Alexander found himself wandering through the many halls of the mansion, occasionally checking behind doors and poking his head into rooms.

"He said something about a library last night, didn't he? It has to be around here somewhere, there's just too many goddamned rooms in this place." He grumbled, continuing on under his breath as he furrows his brow and makes his way deeper into the labyrinth of the manor.

Alexander was just about to give up, turn back and try to find something better to do with his time that wouldn't get himself lost before he came upon a pair of large mahogany double doors.

"Is this it...?" He asks himself, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches for the handle, hesitating for a moment before he pushed the doors open and stepped into the room.

Alexander couldn't help but gasp at the sight laid out before him; the room was absolutely massive, with walls lined with towering bookshelves and more filling up the spaces in between and creating smaller sections within the room. He couldn't help the smile that broke out across his face or the bubbling laugh that escapes him as he rushes into the room.

"This is one hell of a collection! It must be passed down through his family, it'd take centuries to build up to something like this!" He exclaims, grinning as his voice echoes through the room as he continues into the book-lined passages.

Some of the sections had display cases filled artifacts that ranged from ancient sets, crystal daggers, old scientific contraptions made of brass, and musical instruments. Another had tables and shelves full of hand-drawn maps from all over the world, and yet another by the east windows had a golden telescope and star charts across the walls.

But by far Alexander's favourite was the space in the center of the room. It was the largest, framed by a stained-glass skylight that detailed the phases of the moon in a silver ring on an indigo background, and in the middle was a mahogany desk and fainting couch placed between two armchairs.

"And Jefferson called this place a library! It's more like an archive-- a museum!" He exclaimed with another laugh as he stopped in the centre of the massive space, looking up at the stained-glass above him with a wide grin before his gaze turns to the shelves surrounding him, "I don't think he'd mind if I read a few things, right? Books are meant to be read, after all..." He adds to himself, still grinning as he rushed off into the book-lined passages once more.

Alexander didn't know long he had spent amongst the shelves or how many books he had read. Right after he'd finished one pile of novels he'd move on to another section and build himself another stack and start reading those. He was so engrossed in the books that he hadn't even realized the sun had set.

He was passing by another section of books, searching for another something to read when one shelf, in particular, caught his eye. The books looked ancient but beautifully bound in dark shades of leather with brass clasps on the spine where chains kept each volume in its place on the shelf behind lock and key. All except one of the books were unlocked.

"That's... strange." Alexander murmurs to himself as he reaches for the unlocked tome and pulls it off the shelf.

None of the other books were locked away, so what was up with these ones?

There were no indications of the book's contents or an author on the front cover, but instead, a ruby inset in the centre and surrounded by intricate metalwork. The book was heavy too, probably thousands of pages long, and Alexander could only imagine what information it held. Opening the book to the first page he saw the elegant loops of the Count's signature looking back at him.

"So did Jefferson write this...?" He asks himself quietly before he flipped to a random page and began to read, brow furrowing in his concentration.

 As the centuries have progressed human records have become more accurate and more easily accessed by the general population. More of our kind go into hiding each decade, finding the risk of being placed in the history books and exposing our secret too great. Another issue that has arisen is both the improved medicinal practices and investigative techniques humanity has developed, making hunting without being found out difficult.

 As a result of these changes, the ancient art of blood alchemy has gained popularity in covens all across the globe and has become a new science. Old recipes by the ancients are currently being researched and developed and improve to better serve the needs of modern vampires. The new science of blood alchemy shows promise in better sustaining vampire society well into the future, with few living specimens needed to create enough wine-like elixir to sustain a small coven for centuries to come.

Alexander had to stop, closing the book yet leaving his thumb between the pages to mark his place as he tried to wrap his head around what he was reading. The passages read like they were part of a textbook, yet it had to be some kind of strange fiction. Vampires weren't real after all, they were just some monster made up to keep kids from wandering away from home at night, right?

He opened the book again, flipped to another random page, and began to read again.

 Vampiric influences and abilities have been a long-debated subject among scholars from covens all around the world. Most seem to agree on our kind having some sort of general aura that affects the human mind and hypnotic abilities, though the extent of the latter is heavily debated. Another subject that comes into question is self-transfiguration. Some claim that the matter is a fairytale invented by humans to scare their young ones with, others claim to be able to perform this action with ease. The exact form that is taken during self-transfiguration varies between regions, though are most commonly bats, wolves, or clouds of mist. Another ability some vampires claim to possess is a sort of influence over their home. Including but not limited to brightening, lessening, or extinguishing firelight in the room without direct interaction, opening, closing, and/or locking objects such as curtains and doors, and finally causing appliances or instruments to operate on their own without the need for direct interaction.

 I myself have had personal experience with--

He had to slam the book shut at this point, his thoughts racing too quickly to process the words on the page. If Jefferson really had written this book like he originally suspected and its contents as literal as it stated, it could only mean one thing.

"I see you've figured out my secret, then. I knew you were a smart one from the moment we met, I just thought I might have a little more time..."

Alexander jumped at the sudden sound of Jefferson's voice, dropping the book and whipping around to face the Count as his heart began to pound in his ears.

"Jefferson!! This isn't- It's not what it--!"

"Don't try and lie to me, Alexander. I know that look in your eyes. You know."

The atmosphere in the room was so thick Alexander probably could have cut it with a knife. Jefferson's expression had contorted into a glare that was now directed down at him, and it made pure fear fill his chest and run through his veins.

"So that's why you've been so nice..." He then whispers, though Jefferson still seems to hear. His fear flickered, a sense of betrayal swelling his chest before he was enveloped with a feeling of pure fury.

"Alexander, what--?"

"NO! Don't you 'Alexander' me, I know what you're up to now! I know why you took me in, why you bathed me, fed me, clothed me; you were luring me in so you could use me- So you could eat me!!"

Jefferson's expression changed, confusion flashing across his eyes before he opened his mouth to speak and reached out for Alexander, but he jumped back and started shouting again before the Count could say another word.

"I'm not going to let it happen, I'm not going to become your next meal, I'm not going to die here!"

"Alexander, listen--!"

Jefferson tried to call out, but his guest had already taken off, dashing out of the library and back into the labyrinth of the manor.

He could hear the Count calling out to him, trying to get him to listen, but he just kept running. He had to get out of this place, and he had to get out now. He was lucky that he had a trail of open doors to follow that eventually led him back to the living and then the front entryway.

Alexander spared a glance over his shoulder as he took hold of the handle, gasping as he saw Jefferson only walking but quickly catching up.

"You have to let me explain, please--!"

"NO!! Get away from me!"

"Alexander!" Jefferson called again, but Alexander had already yanked open the door and took off into the rain.

The storm had only gotten worse over the time he spent in the library. Within moments he was drenched and if it wasn't for the incessant pounding of his heart in his ears he would've heard the rumblings of thunder overhead. He didn't know where he was going, but he didn't care as long as it was away from the manor on the hill.

He was still running as he entered the forest, gasping as he tried to catch his breath and keep himself from losing his footing in the mud. He didn't know if Jefferson was still pursuing him or if he had given up once he'd gotten out of the manor, but he didn't dare look back or slow his pace.

Suddenly there was an incredible flash and a boom that rang with so much force it knocked Alexander to the ground. He screamed as he fell, but it didn't sound like his own voice anymore. The ringing in his ears turned to the screams of others, people crying out in pain, calling out for their friends and family as whipping winds and torrential rain attacked from all around.

Drowning in his memories and in the panic filling his lungs Alexander didn't notice the smouldering trunk that was beginning to fall or the Count racing towards him through the trees.

"Alexander!!" He called, scooping the human into his arms out of harm's way just as the trunk came crashing down into the mud beside them, "Alexander, are you okay?"

Jefferson held Alexander close to his undead heart as he watched him cling to his coat, eyes screwed shut as he sobbed.

"I don't want to die, I don't want to drown...! Please, don't let me die, I don't want to go yet, please... I don't want to die, I don't want to die...!"

The Count just hushed him quietly, petting his hair and allowing him to cling onto his clothes and cry into his shoulder as long as he needed.

"It's alright, just calm down now, you're safe with me. Come on, let's get you back home..."

________________________________________________________________

Alexander was still crying as he was carried back to the manor, and he only started to really calm down once he was sat down in front of the fire and a blanket draped over his shoulders. He was still snivelling and shivering a little bit, but at least he had managed to wipe away his tears and quieted down his sobs.

Jefferson had knelt down a few feet away from him, stoking the fire and adding the occasional log in an attempt to keep his guest warm and dry him off before he caught a cold.

"... Did you mean it?" Alexander then asks his voice barely above a whisper as his gaze shifts from the warm glow of the flames to his host.

"Pardon?" Jefferson murmured, keeping his voice low as not to startle his guest as he set down the iron rod he had been poking the coals with and turned to face him.

"What you said earlier, you said I was safe with you... Did you really mean it?"

The Count could tell Alexander was still afraid, but now he saw a glimmer of hope within his tired eyes.

"Yes, I did," He replied simply, turning back to the fire and picking up the iron rod again before tossing on another log, "And I still mean it. You are safe here, Alexander."

He watched his guest shift from the corner of his eye, hesitating before he next spoke.

"But you're a... You're a--"

"Vampire? Yes, that is also true." He supplied, and the room fell silent except for the crackling of the fire.

Alexander's brow had furrowed in his thought, lifting an arm to rub his eyes before pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Jefferson sighed, nodding to himself as he stood and moved to kneel down next to his guest.

"I suppose it's only right if I explain myself," The Count begins, pausing as Alexander looked up at him with a small nod before he continues, "I've been alone in this house now for a very long time, and I've been alive for even longer. Once us vampires had a society of our own, carefully weaved in and around the lives humans lead yet hidden just out of view all at the same time. Some lived alone as I do now; and others lived in groups called covens. During our golden age, we thrived, hunting as we pleased with little risk to ourselves or our secret. Then times began to change, and we had to change with the times or risk exposing our secret. All over covens shrank or disappeared entirely as vampires moved into solitary hiding; I made that same decision many years ago."

The room went quiet again as the Count finished, his gaze fixed on the fire as a sad smile graced his features. Alexander watched him carefully, trying to decipher what was going on behind his eyes as he let the information sink in.

"So what does this have to do with me?"

Jefferson smiled a little more at the question, a small laugh escaping him as he turns to meet his guest's gaze.

"As I'm sure you can imagine I've been leading a very lonely life hidden away up here in my manor. I decided not all that long ago I wanted to take on a fledgling, and then you came along." The Count continues, causing Alexander to tilt his head in confusion.

"A fledgling...?"

"Yes, a fledgling; a new vampire," Jefferson repeats with a nod, clearing his throat before he continues, "Now I wasn't going to turn just anyone that came knocking at my door, eternity is an awfully long time and I wasn't about to spend it with someone I'd despise. But you, Alexander? You have this flame of passion and intelligence behind your eyes, I knew you were the one from the moment I saw you."

Alexander didn't know what to say, he was shocked into a rare silence. He just stared up at his host, occasionally opening his mouth to try and say something before he'd close it again as he went back to searching for the right words.

"It's a lot to take in, I understand. It's why I wished to have more time with you before I made my offer," Jefferson filled in with a small nod and a sigh, "I won't make you decide right now, Alexander, all I ask of you is that you stay here while you figure it out. Oh, and please call me Thomas from now on, it's only fair."

Alexander was still quiet as he watched Jefferson's expression for a few moments more before he smiled and gave a small nod in response.

"It's a deal then, Thomas..."

[siribear]

with the paint job finished and dried, all that’s left is to prepare for the trip. the sun creeps overhead as minutemen continue to bustle about the castle. her people strap the minigun she took from the museum of freedom to the back of her new power armor; others load in enough ammo to take down another deathclaw. 

meanwhile, whisper and deacon sit underneath a canopy, double, triple checking their usual weapons of choice.

‘you’re sure this old thing will protect you out there?’ whisper rolls the fabric of the hazmat suit between her fingers. the material has thinned and worn over the past couple centuries, and even now her hands come away with dust.

‘no rips or tears,’ deacon says confidently. ‘des and carrington looked it over.’

this time, she switches to the helmet. the surface is scuffed and dirty, but intact. ‘the respirator? all the valves work? does it - ‘

‘yes.’ he sets aside his rifle and snatches the helmet from her hands. ‘it’s not as sturdy as your walking death machine over there, but it’ll do.’

whisper frowns. ‘i’m just trying to make sure you’ll be safe, deacon.’

‘then keep you and that minigun between me and any glowing sea creatures.’

another minuteman drops by with a bag of supplies: more stimpaks than she can count, a few bottles of rad-x, a handful of radaway. they’ve already packed away their rations and ammo. now they’re down to basic necessities and however many rolls of duct tape whisper can find. just in case.

the longer they sit, the more anxious she gets. every step brings her closer to shaun, but she has to take those steps. ‘i’m sure no one would notice if we just snuck out now.’

‘with the power armor?’

‘sure. i’ll distract them.’ he stands and points in a random direct. ‘everyone, look over there!’

they share a laugh when a few minutemen do stop and look, only to stare at them when nothing appears. though whisper has to wave them off in apology, she feels her nerves abate, if only a little.

-

an hour later, she’s back in her quarters, slipping into a spare suit of underarmor danse found for her. the muted black bodysuit offers little protection itself, but danse had said it would make walking around in the armor feel a little less awkward. pulling on the gloves, she finds they fit well enough just over her wedding ring. a break between the wrist guards and gloves gives her enough room to reattach her pipboy. the needle stings more than usual going under her skin, thanks to the mottled black and blue bruise around her wrist.

somewhere, back at home, is a picture of nate wearing a similar suit under a set of combat armor. 

all dressed, she returns to the courtyard. there stands deacon, just outside and away from the crowd, ready in his bulky hazmat suit. ‘well,’ he says when he sees her, ‘you look good.’

she adjusts her collar. ‘not as good as you, partner. are we ready?’

deacon nods his head toward the others, gathered around her new navy blue power armor. ‘they’re ready for you. careful you don’t get caught up in a parade.’

preston, sturges, ronnie shaw, and alan, who runs radio freedom, do look like they’re gathered with purpose. organized. preston better not have made this into an old minuteman ceremony she doesn’t know about. when she approaches, she asks preston the same question.

‘would have killed them to give ya a new suit of armor, huh?’ sturges puts a hand on the arm of the suit. ‘but she shouldn’t give you any trouble out there. she’s even an even better model than the one you picked up at the museum, and that survived a deathclaw, too.’

‘she gets the sturges seal of approval?’ she says with a hint of a grin. ‘maybe the brotherhood doesn’t hate me so much.’

‘but don’t take any unnecessary risks,’ preston argues.

‘can’t have the minutemen fall apart again so soon,’ ronnie chimes in. ‘not when you’re doing some actual good, here.’

whisper shakes her head. ‘if anything happens to me, preston becomes - ’

‘nothing’s going to happen,’ her second-in-command interrupts, shaken. ‘you,’ he says to deacon, approaching, ‘you’ll keep her safe.’ his tone brooks no argument.

‘of course,’ deacon replies easily, too easily, in preston’s opinion, because he frowns.

‘well then!’ sturges claps his hands. ‘let’s get you in this thing, boss.’

at the press of a switch, the back of the armor opens. arm and leg plates unfold, and she steps into it, fitting herself once more into the frame. the thin material does help, as danse noted, and the metal joints barely dig in with the protective padding the underarmor provides. sturges hands her the helmet and, because she has to try it once, she tosses it in the air and flips it like she’s seen danse do before. she catches it and clicks it into place, hiding the giddy grin she’s now sporting.

the heads up display boots up immediately, picking up information from her pipboy and feeding it into the edges of her vision momentarily. she checks the fuel levels, and it’s at - ‘uh, sturges? this is reading me at half fuel right now.’

‘ah, right. we took your old fusion core from the other set of armor. figured it’d give you a little more oomf to get you out there.’

‘everything else good in there, partner?’

‘one thing,’ she says, almost to herself. there was one modification she specifically asked sturges to handle, other than the new paint job. she flips on her headlamp and aims at the ground.

‘little early for the floodlights, isn’t it?’ deacon asks, looking at her. but when she directs him to look down, at the picture that will be lost when the light is cast into the distance, he smiles. in the center of the light, in a shadowed grey, is the silhouette of the railroad lantern. she turns off the headlamp, pleased.

‘everything looks good in here, then. time to head out.’

their escort takes them to the edge of the castle’s new neighborhood. minutemen fall in line behind preston and the others walking behind her and deacon. it is a parade, in its own right, but the entourage breaks off before travis can start a rumor about the minutemen marching through the commonwealth.

and then it’s just her, deacon, and the sound of metal footsteps on broken pavement.

-

whisper leads the way west across south boston, sticking to the flat roads. anything to conserve fuel. december hits the commonwealth differently than she’s used to. by her birthday she’d normally be bundled thicker clothes. long sleeves, jackets. but now that it’s passed, she’s content in the underarmor, and deacon hardly looks cold in his suit.

beside her, he stretches his hands upward. ‘you’re carrying me there if i get tired, right?’

she holds her arms out in front of her. ‘feel free to hop on whenever, as long as you return the favor.’

‘sure thing, partner. as long as i get to take that armor for a test drive.’

‘what? no. after all i went through for this, you’re carrying me and the armor.’

he takes a deep breath. ‘did i ever tell you about the time i carried a whole suit of power armor on my back?’

deacon proceeds to tell her a story of how he once saved a brotherhood soldier in the capital wasteland. ‘couldn’t get that hatch to open,’ he says, pointing toward the back of her armor. ‘so i had to carry him all the way back to the doctor in rivet city. mind you, that took hours.’

she doesn’t try to keep her indulgent hum even remotely convinced. he continues anyway.

‘dropped him off at the entrance to the city, where he finally woke up. didn’t know where he was, just remembered almost getting gunned down by super mutants. so, i told him that i,’ and he flexes, ‘brought him all the way to the city.’

‘let me guess, the city threw you a party for being a hero?’

he shrugs. ‘nah. he accused me of being a synth and held me at gunpoint until the guards stepped in.’

‘i see. there’s a lesson in there somewhere, isn’t there?’

his gaze catches somewhere to their left. the landscape is different. even from the road, she can see the metal fences and structures obviously erected long after the war. even the coast looks too close, with buildings half swallowed by the sea. massachusetts bay university. whisper remembers a few friends that went there. along with the poisoning incident that appeared in the news.

‘what’s over there?’ she asks when deacon steers them further away.

‘institute took over university point a few years ago,’ he says, gravely. ‘get too close, we might run into the stragglers.’

there’s something more to it, she figures. he’s too tense for fear. but she doesn’t fight him, instead finding a road outside jamaica plain to travel further west.

-

just outside milton general hospital, whisper picks up a faint distress signal. deacon stops his patrol of the area as she plays it through her speakers.

‘if anyone is out there, please... help.’ deacon sits next to her, face illuminated by her pipboy light. ‘what’s going on out there? i felt the ground shake, and nothing since. it’s been... four days, i think?’

‘this is... pre-war,’ she says. felt the ground shake. they’re still a few days away from the impact sight, but even from sanctuary hills, she remembers the sound of it. loud above even the grind of the elevator. a crack of thunder, then the shockwave coming over them like a wave only seconds later.

‘i’m so thirsty. please... somebody, hurry.’ the message ends with the woman crying, and the jarring monotone voice notifying them that the message will repeat. and it does. trapped in the jewelry safe - please help.

‘hey, shut it off.’ deacon reaches for the dial himself when she doesn’t move. ‘it’s been hundreds of years. you can’t do anything for her now.’

she snaps out of it. ‘i know. i know, but - ‘ four days. longer? no water, no one to save her. trapped in that small hole in the wall, like - like her neighbors in the vault. suffocating in their pods. and she just - slept. ‘i know.’ travis comes over the radio and flips to a new song. she lets it play through the night.

-

days later, they finally approach the edge of the glowing sea. blown apart trees and scattered car frames cover the area. the air grows thick with yellow-tinged fog. her geiger counter clicks slowly in her ears.

deacon snaps his helmet into place, the respirator hissing as it begins to recycle the irradiated air. ‘shit. never really thought i’d have to come out here.’

‘you can still turn back.’

he rolls his shoulders. ‘the walk back to hq would be boring without you. come on. sooner we get in, sooner we get out. maybe des will finally approve my vacation request after this one.’

stepping into the glowing sea is like diving head first underwater. whisper leads the way, branches crunching underfoot. with every step, the ground looks more cracked. ‘if not, you could always be a full-time minuteman.’ she pushes aside the shell of a car so they can pass. ‘i’ll approve your vacation myself.’

‘well, then.’ he gives her a salute. ‘yeehaw, sugar.’

through the fog, the entire landscape looks the same: stretches of fallen highway, buried underneath irradiated dirt; pools of orange water, feral ghouls wading through the sludge. one group notices them, and though whisper tears through them with the minigun, her geiger counter becomes a stream of noise instead of a steady click. deacon raises a hand in a thumbs up, unscathed.

they hardly speak, for fear of attracting unwanted attention. neither of them can tell what’s over the next hill, or the next. is that the sound of her steps or something else? did she breathe too loudly in her helmet? even though there’s nothing around them, whisper feels surrounded. even deacon is silent as he scouts ahead. quieter than her, he presses forward, keeping them away from roaming deathclaws.

though he can scout over hills, she has the advantage when the land becomes flat. a scanner built into her power armor picks out enemies in the distance, too far for him to see without a scope. when the yellow fog camouflages another pool of feral ghouls, she leads them out of the way.

as night descends upon the sea, it becomes almost untraversable. whisper keeps them at a slow pace with her night vision, but deacon is forced to stick close. a church steeple becomes her beacon in the night as she aims for a place for them to stay. though it’s half-buried, when she looks through the hole in the roof, she can see the sanctuary is still safe. mostly. she picks off the few feral ghouls she can see through the holes.

‘we can climb in through the steeple,’ she tells deacon, crouched at her hip. ‘clear out the last ghouls and we’ll be safe for the night.’

‘and how are you getting in there? you step out of that suit, you’ll die.’

he’s right. though the power armor has kept her safe from most of the radiation, her rads are still ticking upward every second. she won’t last an hour without it.

‘i jump through the roof, obviously.’ she turns on her headlamp, illuminating the broken roof for deacon to see. it’s definitely large enough for her to fit through, and with the armor she won’t even feel the impact. ‘the steeple is big enough for me to climb back out in the morning. it’ll be fine.’

they aren’t left with very many options. the area is dangerous enough during the day, but at night? and with deacon unable to see, they have to stay somewhere. there’s nowhere else nearby that she can see, either.

deacon laughs, shakily. ‘you first.’

-

they find a room underneath the stairs for shelter. a priest’s room, it looks like, with a now-broken desk and filing cabinets full of faded sheet music and sermons. a wooden cross still hangs stubbornly above the desk.

‘feel at home?’ whisper asks, taking up the space near the door. if anything gets curious about the gunshots, they’ll have to go through her solid power armor first.

‘ha-ha,’ he intones. ‘haven’t heard that one before. you’re as bad as glory.’

‘don’t compare me to her. you’ll hurt her feelings.’

deacon settles himself in a corner, helmet hitting the back wall with a dull thunk. whisper remains standing, fearing if she sits she’ll never get back up. ‘we’re in a church, sugar. i’m a deacon. anything you want to confess?’

‘bless me, father, for i have sinned,’ she begins, and deacon leans forward to listen. ‘i made fun of a brotherhood paladin, once, for sleeping in his power armor. and now i find myself in such a situation.’

‘i see.’ deacon sighs heavily, playing the part. ‘your penance will be to step in his shoes. rest in your armor for the night and pray we don’t have to do this again,’ he finishes, breaking character near the end. she laughs.

‘amen.’

-

her alarm wakes them just before dawn. deacon climbs the steeple first, stairs creaking beneath his feet. he calls to her when he’s outside, and then it’s her turn to mount the stairs. she climbs quickly, each one threatening to give with every step. but it’s only when she ducks under the steeple roof to jump to the ground that it gives. the tower leans, wood cracking beneath the power armor’s weight. she jumps, landing hard on her knees. the wood snaps, tower crashing to the ground.

‘uh,’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘that’s not blasphemous, is it?’

deacon raises a hand, makes the sign of the cross. ‘you’re forgiven. but let’s get out of here before something comes and smites us.’

they head west, toward a building barely visible on the satellite view of her pipboy. given that they have little information to go on, checking any potentially sealed building sounds like their best bet. there’s nowhere for him to survive anywhere else out here.

keeping up their previous strategy, they make quick work across the sea. any heavy footfalls that don’t belong to her drive them slightly off course but they continue to follow her map west. they’re almost upon it when deacon holds out his hand to stop her.

‘do you hear that?’

whisper holds her breath. her scanner doesn’t pick anything up on the horizon, but she does hear... something. a slight rumble, then - rain. light patters turns to a downpour in moments. she relaxes, thinking it’s just the storm, until something shifts in her peripheral. she only has time to turn before a giant creature bursts out of the ground.

she sidesteps an oversized stinger before drawing her minigun. the thing steps back, large, black claws held high and threatening. it looks like a scorpion, but its size easily dwarfs a car. its body is covered in a hard, black carapace, broken up only by its exposed joints, glowing a faint green. the thing screeches, high and piercing, and whisper brings the minigun to life, firing directly into its face. green blood splatters across the ground, but it doesn’t stop the thing from charging.

deacon fires, hitting the stinger hard enough to send it plunging into the ground instead of her face. whisper continues to spray into its head, bullets flying wildly. the scorpion squeals again, and a roar answers to her right.

a deathclaw stares the trio down with pale red eyes.

‘the building!’ deacon yells, and she spins without a second thought. stinger still stuck fast in the ground, the scorpion doesn’t follow immediately, but the thundering footsteps that follow tells her they aren’t the only ones running.

she looks behind her to see the deathclaw tear into the scorpion. its massive jaw closes around the tail, snapping it off with ease. though it tries to fight back, the damage it sustained from the minigun keeps it from lasting very long. another roar, victorious, the albino deathclaw turns its attention toward the fleeing humans.

deacon turns the corner on the building’s second floor, easily accessed from a nearby hill and a hole in the wall. she hears two gunshots before she’s upon him, two feral ghouls dead on the ground. the footsteps grow closer. he runs toward an elevator at the end of the hall, and she pries open the doors to - an empty shaft.

rifle held ready, he turns back toward the hall and the albino deathclaw, slowly turning the corner. no need to chase prey it knows is cornered, apparently. but whisper has other thoughts. she grabs deacon without warning, scooping him into her arms, and jumps. they land on top of the elevator cart, the crash echoing through the shaft. above them, the deathclaw roars, thundering down the hall. it tries to fit through the elevator door. head first, then shoulders, then -

‘down!’ deacon yells, lifting the elevator hatch at her feet. this time he jumps and she follows, down into the basement. the deathclaw roars long and low, but never follows.

-

they head deeper into the building’s basement, clearing any feral ghouls in their way. ground zero, she thinks with each one they kill. each feral wears the tatters of office suits and dresses, likely still working before the bombs fell. too late, before anyone saw it coming.

she doesn’t know when, but her geiger counter stops clicking at the constant presence of radiation. she double checks it, just to make sure it’s working, but her screen still shows her status. and if those numbers are correct, then likely she and deacon need to stop regardless - their rads are at the edge of ‘healthy’ levels.

stepping out of her power armor in a back room, she breathes a sigh of relief. she unzips the top of her underarmor and peels herself out of the sleeves. the cooler air of the basement chills the sweat on her skin. after a moment, she returns to the main room they’ve made their shelter with a bundle of food and radaway. deacon sits, legs outstretched, in front of a fire he’s built out of old papers. whisper rests her legs atop his as she prepares to hook up their bags of radaway.

deacon flinches when she pulls away from inserting his IV. ‘what happened to you, hero?’ he reaches out toward her neck, fingers brushing against her throat, down her arm, to her wrist. she follows the trail he leaves, and sees what he means. illuminated by the firelight, her bruises stand in stark contrast to the orange glow against her skin. ‘maybe i should have gone with you, if this is what going with the brotherhood gets you.’

‘danse stopped it from being worse,’ she says, leaning back to set up her own radaway.

‘is this the lead up to, you should have seen the other guy?’

her stomach churns from the radaway. ‘considering the supermutants are dead now?’

‘i should have gone with you. the brotherhood - ‘

‘i know! look, i don’t like the brotherhood either, but danse and his team - ‘ well, haylen, if anyone. ‘ - they’re not bad people. if i hadn’t found preston first, i could have been in the brotherhood.’

‘you wouldn’t have lasted.’

‘how do you know?’

when he shifts, his knees brush against hers. she refuses to move. ‘i know what kind of person it takes to be in the brotherhood,’ he says as she stares him down.

‘deacon - ‘

he sighs, and turns the basement of the abandoned offices into his confessional. ‘you’ve put up with enough of my bullshit. if there’s one person i should come clean to, it’s my friend, right?’

whisper swallows, throat as dry as her bag of radaway. she removes her needle as he does the same. ‘i’m a liar. everyone knows it. i don’t try to hide it, because the truth is: i’m a fraud. to my core.

‘when i was young,’ he tilts his head. his eyebrows rise just above his sunglasses. ‘a hell of a long time ago, i was... scum.’ his voice cracks on the word, voice rough. she wants to tell him to stop. it’s okay if she doesn’t know if it hurts him too much, but she finds that she can’t.

she wants to know.

‘i was a bigot, like the ones in the brotherhood.’ he tosses his empty bag into the darkness. ‘a very violent bigot.’

‘like the brotherhood?’

‘worse. i ran with a gang in university point.’ he pauses, lets the pieces fall into place. that’s why he was looking at the old university. running away from his past, not the synths. ‘we called ourselves the UP deathclaws. for kicks, we’d terrorize anyone that we thought was a synth.

‘we kept egging each other on. started with some property damage. broken windows, broken fences. graduated to some beat downs in back alleys. then, inevitably,’ he swallows, ‘a lynching. the claw’s leader was convinced we’d finally found and killed a synth. looking back, i’m not so sure.’

she blinks. doesn’t say a word. nods when he continues to stare. she isn’t running away, not from him.

he hangs his head and continues. ‘i broke all contact with my brothers, after that. time passed, i became a farmer, if you can believe that.’ he laughs, smiles, wistful. then, ‘one day, i found someone.’ he removes his sunglasses and looks to the dark ceiling, blue eyes bright. watery. ‘she saw something in me i didn’t know - didn’t think - was there.’

‘what was she like?’ she asks, curling her legs against her chest, resting her head on her knees.

‘barbara,’ he sighs her name, ‘she was... she just was.’ he looks to her. ‘when she smiled, it was like those old magazine covers. her eyes - ‘ with a hand on his face, palm pressed against the bridge of his nose, he laughs softly. ‘ - we were trying for kids.’

she sits up straight, at that. a family. he wanted -

‘then one day, it turns out, my barbara? she was a synth. she didn’t know that. i certainly didn’t. i don’t know how the deathclaws found out, but... there was blood.

‘they killed her,’ she says, knowing. blood - nate’s vault jumpsuit turning red with it.

when he croaks out a, ‘yes,’ she slides in next to him. barely touching. ‘i don’t remember much clearly after that. i know i killed most of the claws.’ he laughs again, this one broken. ‘i must have made a big impression because the railroad contacted me. figured i’d be sympathetic, seeing that i lost my wife. and, well, what i did afterwards.’

‘you know i know what that’s like.’

‘yeah. you against kellogg? that was - i should have said something sooner. i’m sorry. i don’t even know why i lie anymore, but i can’t tell the truth. everyone - tom, des, you, even carrington - they deserve to be in the railroad.

‘i don’t. i’m everything wrong with this whole fucking commonwealth. but you’re the only friend i got. i don’t deserve you being okay with this, and i’m not asking for forgiveness. i just... figured you should know who you’ve been traveling with.’

‘i know who i’ve been traveling with,’ she says quickly. takes her own sunglasses off, just to prove it. ‘you’re deacon. the one friend i’ve got in this place. all that you’re doing with the railroad, everything you’ve been helping me with - you’re trying to make up for your past. that’s admirable. i’m on your side, you know?’

deacon shifts back against the wall. ‘well, i’m not really the hugging type so. good talk, partner.’

and yet, he doesn’t move away when she shifts that extra inch closer to lean her head against his shoulder. nor does he move to put his sunglasses back on. instead, he rests his head against hers. ‘john,’ he mumbles, eventually. ‘my name’s john. feel free to forget that in the morning.’

together, they watch the fire burn down to embers before bedding down, back to back in the shadowed corner of the basement.

[relialin]

TRICKSTER AGE vol. 32, 2016/10/15 Toshiya’s Creativity VOL.01 -The Five Senses-

Translated by DIR EN GREY - Italia

Please DO NOT repost or use any parts of the translation without permission.

Toshiya, bassist of DIR EN GREY, the rock band that achieves an overwhelming support all around the world and, of course, in Japan. He currently conducts the production of the apparel brand he launched by himself, “DIRT 100% Natural Dirty / DIRT 100% Dissolutive Dirty” and he started a series in this magazine. This time, as a kickoff memento, we must look for his interests and preferences, as he’s doing well in both music and apparel, so we did an interview having the five senses as theme; sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch.

SIGHT

What are the things Toshiya has been seeing until now? The things that left an impression on him were many during his boyhood, as he’s curious about many different hobbies. That influence still goes on now…

“Sight”

Movies, Gundam, manga: childhood memories.

I haven’t watched any movie recently, but if I have to tell a movie that left an impression on me, that’s “E.T.”. It’s the very first movie I watched in a theatre since I was born. That time, since we were expecting my brother or sister to be born, I went to the theatre with my father, just the two of us, for the first time to watch that movie. Even if I was a child, I remember being greatly impressed by it. I said “Won’t he [E.T.] come to our house?” (laughs). I wanted to become his friend, I wanted to play the famous scene when they put their index fingers together.

I’ve been telling this since before, but I started liking Gundam when I was at the elementary school. The one that had an impact on me was “Mobile Suit Z Gundam”. The contents were clear, in the end the protagonist turns into a vegetative state and while watching those inappropriate things for a children I was like “what the hell is that?” (laughs). It was very different from the things about robots and heroes I’ve been knowing since that moment. I didn’t even understand the plot properly at that time, but to some extent, ever since I can remember, when I watched it I thought that it was a surprisingly deep story. I think it’s a story not suitable for children in which the good are rewarded and the bad are punished, in which there are opinions on both sides and each side fights for the things they must protect. I guess I liked it also because of that. Even if I started watching it in real time starting from “Z”, my favourite mobile suit was Qubeley. The robots I knew had an angular shape but, since Qubeley had a round shape, that streamlined feature was innovative.

I also went buying the gunpla with the pocked money I received. The first one I bought was a Char’s Zaku and, just in half of his body, you could expose the mechanics it had inside. Then there were supposed to be some kind of miniature bulb you had to insert where its eyes were so they could shine properly. That’s why I felt like it was more a thing to display instead of a thing to play with. But it was too difficult and I couldn’t build it well, so I remember asking my father to build it for me. Last year I went to the “Gunpla Expo Worldtour Japan” and there was a modeler named NAOKI who I became acquainted with, but that person is amazing. Recently, when I made a temporary store for my fashion brand, I was given a Qubeley gunpla as a present and I was so happy about that.

The mangaka I like is Morohoshi Daijiro. When I was in elementary school or so I went to play at one of my relatives’ place and at that time he had the Weekly Shonen Jump volume in which “Ankoku Shinwa” was serialized. I started to like the atmosphere of the pictures and the contents a lot since I read it. As for the plot, its basis were ethnology and archaeology and it also had quite a SF atmosphere… Besides, having the mystery factor, it was a worthwhile reading. Also, the unique design was good too. In addition to this, I also liked sports manga, a little bit of everything, I read pretty much everything.

HEARING

“Hearing”: something you can’t miss being an artist. According to Toshiya, it’s a valuable sensation that shakes many different emotions and also makes childhood memories come back alive.

“Hearing”

A sound in which one feels comfort, and then music.

I guess a sound in which I feel comfort is the sound of public baths. I hear it when I use the baths, the voices and the sound of daily existence echoing make me feel good. But this good feeling I get by using the baths may be just a bit deceiving. Talking about public baths, lately [the number of] stylish health centers has increased, isn’t it? Somehow health centers have a mechanical image. Like, they are way too beautiful… Getting into the bath and then eat one thing after another, it seems like a task that just leads to mere sleep. I feel like that’s completely different from public baths, they have an heart-warming aspect, I feel like they’re somehow close to onsen. Well, it doesn’t necessarily means that I hate health centers because I said so. When I go to other regions because of the lives, I go [to health centers] with the staff. There I get my body scrubbed. But, to my surprise, it happened I got it done by young girls and therefore I was a bit in panic (bitter smile).

The sound I hate is the noise of road construction in the middle of the night. When to that sound when I’m just about to fall asleep while lying down willing to sleep, I end up waking up bothered by it. Because of that my drowsiness disappears and I can’t sleep at all even if I’m willing to. I really want it to stop once for all.

I’m totally fine with high frequency sounds that are often labeled as detestable like the one you get when you scratch on a blackboard. Everyone around me was just like “Argh!” and seemed they hated it, but I was fine.

I was born in a rural area in Nagano and, since the mountains were close to where I was, I prefer the sound of nature instead of the peacefulness of the town. Even the sound of the frogs in the summertime could calm me down (laughs). As there were rice fields all around, you could hear them croaking the whole time. That reminds me that in the past I have a feeling there were some kind of Notostraca in the fields, but lately I can’t really see them. Even if it’s something that I recalled by chance. It’s not like I look in the fields all the time (laughs). I look at them when I stare out of the shinkansen windows while travelling to another region or when I go back home to my family. Then, I can’t see fireflies anymore. When I was a child, they often used to come to rest on the window screen and shine. I strayed a bit from the topic, but when I think about sounds, memories of a long time ago come back to my mind like this. I guess it’s because the things I felt from my childhood still remain just like this.

Talking about music, I can listen to everything. Or, in a better way, I listen to a wide range [of genres]. I listen to pop music and enka as well. When I was a child, my mother liked Sawada Kenji and Anzen Chitai and their music was often playing in the house. Then there was Yamaguchi Momoe, I think. I remember listening to her along with the others. That’s why, instead of pop being a recent thing, it’s more a thing of long ago… I tend to feel like listening to nostalgic things. Talking about really old song, I think I can know their melody too.

SMELL

“Smell” and “scent”. The one that impacts Toshiya the most is the former one. He says he hasn’t a very sensitive sense of smell. He doesn’t even have a good nose.

“Smell”

Food and places… smells that linger together with memories.

[The smell] I like… well, I think that probably you’ll understand me if you’re Japanese, but isn’t it the smell of the curry you have on Saturdays? (laughs) Like, when I came home from school and walked down the street, I could sense that peculiar smell of people preparing dinner coming from every house around. I really liked it.

Then, I also like the smell of rain a lot. I can’t compare it well with anything, but I like that wet smell that I can’t even express. Or rather the peculiar smell of soil and asphalt. I feel like my heart calms down. Besides I think that the smell of historical buildings feel somehow familiar to me. When we travel to different regions while on tour, I occasionally go to visit castles and so on, but I can sense a familiar smell when I go to my grandma’s place in the countryside. It rather feels quite humid. When I recall that scent, which was a smell to me during my childhood, all the time anywhere I am I’d connect it to my memories. Then, even the scent of museums and libraries is soothing, even though it’s not like I always go there. I like the characteristic scent and the silence. Lately I also enjoy entering cafés etc. and relaxing in there. I have a luxurious time [in there].

Among the smells I hate, the very first one to come to my mind is the one of stinky tofu. It’s eaten all over Asia and it’s made by fermented tofu and it’s a food similar to Japanese natto or kusaya, popular among foreigners. Again, its smell is just way too strong. I think we were probably touring somewhere around Shanghai or Taiwan and, as I wandered around the streets with all the members, there was a smell far from being the one of udon. It was so bad to that point of saying “I guess people’s dying somewhere because of this?!” (laughs) Actually I don’t know if that smell killed people. But its smell is so strong to the extent you pinch your nose. Since I was feeling uneasy about it, I asked the local people “What smell is it?” and they answered me “It’s the smell of food”. I thought “It can’t be true!” but people say that, even if it smelled so bad, once you eat it, you get into it. It’s horrible if you just take a smell of it, but I heard it’s delicious if you can manage to put it in your mouth. Even if I was told those things, it was absolutely impossible for me. I can’t eat it. Or perhaps I should say I can’t take it to my mouth (laughs).

I wasn’t really joking when I told that I pinch my nose. Either speaking of it, I think I’m an insensitive person. Sometimes there’s people who perceive something like “It doesn’t feel good” and who have a fine ability for sensing things. But I feel like women are definitely more sensitive about that.

TASTE

Toshiya, the one who isn’t picky about food, so far. As he said “I’m not that sensitive to taste, but I end up overreacting to hot and spicy food”.

“Taste”

He’s not really picky, but in fact he has a sweet tooth.

When we travel to different regions while touring, I look forward to eating those regions specialties. Even if I say so, I’m not even the type who’s a picky eater. It may sound unexpected, but I like sweet things. I like both japanese-style sweets and western-style sweets. I buy pretty much sweets of the konbini. After having breakfast, I drop in at the konbini and while thinking “Mhh…” I’m already reaching out for them (laughs). It’s hard to say what’s my favourite sweet thing. It fairly depends on the mood I’m in that very day. Mh, maybe it’s the moon cake (laughs). When I see it, I often feel like grabbing it. Some drinks to accompany it are hot green tea, soy milk or cow milk. The chemistry between those three and the moon cake is the best. I also like alcohol, so I drink it too while eating sweet things. Even moon cake and sake are absolutely perfect!

I don’t think there are things I can’t eat, but I don’t like spicy foods. Red things like chili are definitely out of discussion, and I don’t really like pepper as well. But for some reason, I’m fine only with wasabi. Since I’ve never eaten anything that stimulated me since I was young, I guess I haven’t that much immunity against hot food. Even the curry at my parents’ home wasn’t hot. In the past, when I used to go to play to at my friends’ home, I usually had curry. I remember being astounded after eating by its excessive hotness. Like “Is curry this hot?!”.

Then, I thing I still can eat but I don’t really like is coriander. I guess I prefer not to eat it. The ones who like it seems to appreciate it very much, but I can’t believe it. Lately on TV I saw many shops specializing in coriander, many all-you-can-eat coriander restaurants and so on and I thought that isn’t a thing I would eat like that. I heard there are many women who likes coriander, although I think that sweet things are suitable for women, but I can’t understand coriander.

There’s one more thing I hate. When we were on tour overseas, I really hate the pizza we used to have on the bus. It was more a matter of quantity than a metter of taste. It didn’t feel like japanese delivery pizza, a single slice was already too huge. We ate it all together, but it was… (bitter smile). I can’t like it. The pizza we ate in Italy was delicious, so it’s not like I hate pizza. That catering pizza we had overseas was awful.

Speaking of food, I used to cook often before. But lately I don’t do it that much. I used to make hamburger and cabbage rolls. When I cook, I may pay particular attention to it. Before I tried to cook thinking that if I cooked using incredibly expensive ingredients, it would have been super delicious, but it wasn’t really like that (bitter smile). I guess I didn’t like it because I wasn’t raised in a bourgeois family.

TOUCH

It feels that “touching” leads to many different sensations and behaviuor. It’s also something that’s connected to one’s interests and likings and that becomes an important factor to determine one’s appearance. How’s Toshiya’s touch being surrounded?

“Touch”

Painting, developing, building up.

It’s not really a hobby, but from long ago, around the time I went to Art school, I liked drawing. When I was a child, since in my neighbourhood there were more girls than boys, I often played with girls. But I started hating being rallied for playing house and from that time on I started drawing at home by myself. Since crayons stained, I draw a lot using pencils. Speaking of what I used to draw… I feel that I used to draw a lot of robots, as expected. I also draw the character of a picture book I liked called “Memementama” all the time. Like, it was this kind of cute ghost with just one red eye and a black body, a bit round. This mementama liked red things, so it would eat all red things. The story is a bit grotesque because the point of it is that when it finds out its own eye is red, it ends up eating it.

Then lately I’m interested in Rolex. In the past I used to think that Rolex were somehow too royal, but since I had the chance to hold in my hand one that was made in the same year I was born, I changed my mind and thought that good things are fine. From that time, whenever I tried to look for many different things about them, it was more interesting than expected. The Rolex company itself became a sort of secret society and the whole thing didn’t become evident. Maybe that’s because the brand image is firmly encircled. Because of that, nearly every information coming from Rolex comes like something that an employee leaked. Now I know things like that model was made around that time, but that’s a leaked information as well. Even that model and the newest one will change and I’ll seem like not knowing it anymore, but surely in a few years won’t anybody leak anything once again? That kind of hidden side is also intriguing.

Speaking of touch, I’m also interested in how a body is made. Meaning that I like to touch my body by myself. I’m turning training into an habit. When I say training, no matter how effort I put in doing it, but when I lost my concentration even for a bit, it loses all its meaning. That’s why I have to keep doing it every day. When I first started doing it it was fun, but the fatigue piles up little by little and doing it every day is tiresome. There are also times in which I’m too tired to do it. However, when neglecting it like that, my muscles disappear immediately. When I do it, I gain them on the part I trained, but when I don’t, they will degenerate two times faster… I think that kind of simple cycle became interesting. From that I learned again that I have to keep on doing anything.

“In conclusion”

About his current interests, roots and serialization.

This time, as a commemoration of the very first column of the series, we had to investigate Toshiya’s interests and likings by interviewing him about the five senses and, lastly, we tried to ask him about the things he’s interested in right now.

“Let me think… maybe it’s the long drama called “Maguromaru” (laughs). It’s the most interesting among these days’ dramas. Until now it was “Aibou”.”

In the entry of Smell the word “castle” popped up too, and it seems like he likes historical things very much.

“When I was a child, during Tango no Sekku [the festival that later became Kodomo no Hi, children’s day] I used to wear a paper helmet and an armour and, instead of having my name written on them, they had like “1Xth generation”. After having asked to my grandmother many things about that, somehow it felt like my family was a line of warriors. In my hometown Nagano once ruled the Takeda family, but there were the twenty-four generals of Takeda Shinken and it feels like my family was a descendant of one of them. That’s why, considering that, I may somehow feel fascinated.”

Toshiya is active in many fields like being a musician and making apparels but, does he assimilate various data from daily things in order to create anything?

“As far as the things I’m interested in are concerned, I think I’ll try to look into it them some extent, but I’m a lazy person (bitter smile). Because of that I guess it’s a fifty-fifty. I think it’s okay not to know in particular those things that I may be interested in, but I’m also fine not knowing. So, I’m the type who don’t really think he will create something from himself. But I cherish the connection with this.

It seems that the attitude of reaching out as much as possible for things he’s interested in didn’t change since he was a child.

“In fact I’m spoiled. I’m the type who gets anything he wants, but as I grew old I realised that there are also things I can’t get. So I learned that maybe I have to reach a good compromise with myself (laughs). But if there’s any chance, I tend to reach out for it. That’s because otherwise I won’t be able to grasp it.”

In this time serialization, we’re planning on having his creative part as a feature. As the one in charge of editing says, it seems that there are already a many different projects, but perhaps even showing his other aspect, the one that’s different from the usual one of him playing the bass on stage, would be great.

“I wonder how will it be. As far as personal things are concerned, I guess I’ll refrain a bit from telling them because I want to keep them for myself. That’s why I’m a bit afraid of telling the truth (laughs).”

This series, which will dig into Toshiya from various points of view, will start for real in the next issue. Don’t miss it!

[katsens-writing]

Meeting the Agent

Summary: Bucky goes to the Smithsonian to reminisce and ends up remembering more than he thought he would.

Word Count: 3.2k

Content: Fluff, flashbacks, maybe a little angst? Let me know if I need to add anything!

A/N: This was all supposed to be just a simple, short and sweet meet-cute type of thing. Three stories and three weeks later, I’m done. This is the second story. This and Meeting the Team are parallel running stories but I would recommend reading Meeting the Team first. The third story, Meeting the Sergeant, should be read last or before Meeting the Team. Let me know what you think! I might make more from it...

~

     As he walked up to the museum, Bucky hoped that Riley would be there. He was the only one to have ever recognized Bucky at the museum, at least that he knew of. He climbed the steps and looked around casually but didn’t see him. Bucky sighed and headed for the main entrance. Things had changed a lot for him since he had first been to the museum. The fact that he wasn’t a fugitive this time made things better of course, but aside from that, he had been doing so well lately. He was doing better in crowds and his nightmares about the war were fewer and farther between. Still, it would’ve been nice to have Riley walk him in so he could avoid the inevitable awkwardness at the metal detector. Last time he came to the museum and Riley hadn’t been there, the line had been so long and the crowd so big that he gave serious consideration to taking his arm off and putting it on the conveyor belt just to get through it quicker, but the whole point of Riley walking him into the museum was so he wouldn’t draw attention to himself.

     When Bucky got to the front of the line, he began emptying his pockets into a tub. He closed his eyes and silently cursed when his fingertips rested on the knife in his right pocket. Riley never asked if he had any knives or anything on him when he came to visit. Bucky glanced over at the officer checking visitors who couldn’t go through the metal detector with a handheld one.

     “So,” he straightened and looked around casually. “Is Officer Riley in today?” Certain no one was looking, he turned away from the officer so his left side was facing him, just like he and Riley had agreed he would if he ever wasn’t there. He slowly slid his left hand out of his pocket, partially revealing his metal wrist.

     The officer’s brow furrowed, his response gruff. “No, he’s on vacation.” Bucky blinked at the officer. His eyes flicked down to his hand then, back to the officer. Following his gaze, the officer’s eyes widened a fraction. His lips parted as if he was going to say something, but he was interrupted.

     “I’ve got this, Carl.” A different officer spoke, quickly stepping in. She turned and looked at Bucky. “If you’ll come with me, Sergeant.” Carl gaped at the two as they walked away but didn’t say anything.

     As soon as they were out of earshot, the woman turned to Bucky without breaking pace. “My apologies, Sergeant Barnes, if I had known you were coming, I would’ve swapped stations with Carl.”

     Bucky nodded. “Yeah, sorry about that...” he mumbled, confused by what had just happened. He was surprised by how fast the woman was, given her height. He had to use his full stride to keep up with her as they went along. “So, Riley is on vacation?” he asked.

     “That’s what he told everybody, but between you and me, I think he’s considering re-enlisting.” The woman stopped and turned to him. “I’m Sergeant Tessa Williams, but you can call me Tess.” The woman extended her hand and Bucky shook it. “Riley told me about your guys’ arrangement shortly after you started coming, just in case you ever came by on his day off. If you ever need anything while you’re here, just let me know.”

     Bucky nodded again, his mind reeling as he processed all this information. “Did you know Riley before you worked here?” he managed to ask.

     Tess smiled, the light catching on her dark red glossed lips. “He and I were in boot camp together, then we were stationed at the same base overseas. Next time you see him you should ask him about the missing care packages.” She smirked

     “Uh, I will,” Bucky replied uncertainly with a small smile, raising a curious eyebrow before laughing with Tess.

     “It was nice to meet you, Sergeant Barnes.” Tess nodded with a more formal tone. Her smile had faded but her medium brown eyes still glinted in the light. Bucky smiled with a soft grunt after she turned and walked away. Bucky pulled his grey baseball cap back down and made sure his sleeve didn’t get pushed up when he put his hand back in his pocket. He turned toward the exhibit they had been walking to and sighed. The Howling Commandos exhibit had grown since he first saw it. Over the years, more relatives came forward and more military documents were released, and with each one came more information and more items to display.

     Bucky’s eyes skimmed over the memorabilia exhibit to see if there was anything new. He didn’t see any new items, but he recognized an old canteen that had belonged to Dum Dum Dugan, and Falsworth’s beret, mounted on either side just above the peg that Morita’s dog tags hung from. When Bucky drew closer to the main part of the Howling Commando’s exhibit, the group in front of it thinned as a young family walked away. Bucky smiled as the little girl in the family walked by, holding a small teddy bear dressed like Captain America. When he turned back to the exhibit, his attention was drawn to a black baseball cap in the crowd.

     No one wears baseball hats indoors, he thought to himself. Unless...

     As he drew closer, a group of college students walked between him and the exhibit, and when they passed, he was able to see the baseball cap belonged to a woman. In addition to the hat, she wore an army green jacket and black pants. If it hadn’t been for the notebook and pencil she was holding, Bucky might not have noticed her- if he had been anyone else. His own personal experience led to him noticing things such as baseball caps in public places, especially indoor places.

     Curious, Bucky held back and watched the woman with interest as she scribbled something down in her notebook before she moved farther down the line of panels. She seemed completely lost in thought, totally unaware of the company she had lingering a few yards behind her. A small smile formed on Bucky’s lips when the woman let out a little amused snort when she read the section on Dugan.

     Dum Dum would love the fact that he still has that effect on women, Bucky thought with a smirk. When the woman moved to the next panel, she tilted her head a bit to the left. Bucky’s eyes narrowed as her hair fell back, allowing him a slightly better look at her face. Her face looked so vaguely familiar. The newfound suspicion that he knew her from somewhere was already so profound, yet any reason for it was just as hazy and undefined.

     Suddenly, the woman’s posture stiffened. Bucky’s muscles immediately tensed and he quickly took a step back, looking around. After a second, he lightly rolled his eyes and chastised himself inwardly. What was he doing? For the first time in a long time, he didn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder, yet here he was. He had to admit though, it was rather odd that the woman’s reaction to whatever it was would affect him like that. She was a complete stranger to him, yet something in him already trusted her instincts enough to immediately raise his own defense. He looked at the woman again, his eyes narrowing as she moved on to the next panel.

     Who is she? And what was she looking at? Bucky’s attention drifted back to the panel in front of him, covered in articles, headlines, and official looking reports. As he drew closer, his brow creased uneasily.

     ‘Director Down’, ‘SHIELD Falls’, ‘The Return of Hydra?’ Bucky barely noticed headlines and article titles, his gaze focused on only one. ‘The Winter Soldier: Hydra’s ghost assassin or espionage myth?’ Accompanying the headline and article was a blurry picture, but even with the poor quality, one thing could be made out clear as day- a metal arm with a red star on the shoulder. Bucky shifted his arm, suddenly uncomfortably aware of it. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a headline that, without context, appeared almost too mundane to be in the exhibit: ‘Crash in the Potomac’.

     Bucky’s eyes flicked to the clear picture right below the headline: a huge wreckage in the Potomac River. Bucky’s heart raced and his eyes widened, images flashing through his head. The river... he was in the sky over the river in a plane- no, not a plane, a... helicarrier? When had he been in a helicarrier? He hadn’t been- but the Winter Soldier had.

     Someone was trying to crash the helicarrier. No, they were trying to stop it. But from what? He didn’t know, he just had his orders to stop them. He dropped down on the walkway to the control panel. The person ran to the walkway and stopped. It was Captain America. He said something, looking pained, but the Winter Soldier didn’t hear. He just waited. Then they fought. He quickly shot Captain America three times in the abdomen, but it didn’t stop him. Captain America didn’t stop when they fell from the walkway to a balance weight below and he didn’t stop when he stabbed him. Instead, Captain America snapped the soldier’s elbow, trying to get back a disk he needed to put in the control panel. The Winter Soldier shot him in the leg, but he didn’t stop, so he shot him again in the shoulder. The captain still didn’t stop. He staggered out onto the glass and shot him again, but Captain America still managed to put the disk in the control panel before he collapsed. Soon explosions broke out across the helicarrier and a loud, metallic groan echoed throughout it as the frame began to give. Even as everything around them was falling apart, Captain America still wouldn’t stop.

     “You know me,” the captain managed between gasps as he tried to stand.

     “No I don’t!” the soldier roared, swinging at the captain. The captain kept insisting the soldier knew him, but he refused to listen. Then Captain America did something that the Winter Soldier would have never expected-- he stopped.

     “I’m not going to fight you,” Captain America spoke, dropping his shield and letting it fall through the gap in the panels to the river below. “You’re my friend.”

     The Winter Soldier roared and lunged into Captain America. “You’re my mission,” he growled, punching Captain America. He punched him again and again and again, over and over until his muscles ached and he began to tire. He drew his fist back to punch him again but froze when the captain spoke.

     “Then finish it,” Captain America managed between weak, ragged breaths. “‘Cause I’m with you to the end of the line.”

     The Winter Soldier was stunned by Captain America’s words. No, not Captain America- Steve. Bucky’s eyes widened in terrifying realization as he finally recognized his childhood friend. His raised fist began to ease, his arm faltering when the main support column crashed down beside them and the floor beneath them gave out. Bucky caught himself on the metal frame and watched in horror as his friend fell amongst the scattered debris. Steve seemed to just hang there forever in mid-air among the sparkling shattered glass and fiery, warped metal.

     Bucky blinked his eyes and shook his head, coming back to reality. As he refocused, he realized the woman in the baseball cap had already moved down two panels. His eyes drifted to the panel right next to him, a continuation of the one in front of him. He casually slid over to it and pretended to be reading. It was the panel about his time as Hydra’s prisoner in the Swiss Alps; he had no need to read that. He had relived it often enough already, almost every night since his memories started coming back. He stole a glance to his left at the woman in the baseball cap, standing a few feet away from him at the next panel with her back to him. Something had caught her attention and for some reason, Bucky felt drawn in. He wasn’t sure if it was the woman or the exhibit, but he just couldn’t resist getting closer. As he drew nearer, Bucky saw an array of photos of the Howling Commandos in different places throughout Europe. His gaze flicked to the photo that had caught the woman’s attention and, immediately recognizing it, he shut his eyes. Not that one, he groaned inwardly.

     The picture was of him and Steve at a British camp somewhere in Germany. It was shortly after the Howling Commandos had formed. They had all decided to accompany Falsworth when he went back to report to his superiors before joining them, and they had ended up staying the night. Steve and Bucky were standing side by side just outside of their tent. They were both grinning, but Bucky had looked better. He was still recovering a bit from everything he had gone through at Zola’s hands, but honestly that morning he was recovering more from far too much celebrating the night before. When Falsworth’s whole unit was killed, everyone assumed he had died too. When he showed up at the camp alive, everyone went nuts.

     Bucky looked at himself in the picture and winced. His hair was all messed up and he looked like he had slept with his head pressed into a wall, face first. He hung his head with a sigh.

     “Of all the pictures they had...” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. The woman in the baseball cap gave a little start and whipped around. “They just had to pick that one,” Bucky finished, lifting his head with a sheepish grin. He silently cursed himself. He had been so focused on the picture he didn’t realize how close he had gotten.

     “Bucky!” The woman’s soft gasp interrupted his thoughts. His gaze fell on the woman’s face and he froze, his breath caught in his chest. Memories began flashing through his mind again, more vivid and complete than before. He was falling. He remembered the shocking cold that had enveloped him as he broke through the river’s surface just minutes after Steve, though it had felt like an eternity. He swam as hard as he could to reach him, his arm stretched out as far as it would go. He struggled and fought against the rising current, dodging debris from the helicarrier, getting closer and closer until Steve was just millimeters away from his grasp. With one more kick, he propelled himself downward and grabbed Steve’s arm. He quickly turned around and didn’t stop until he breached the water’s surface.

     He slowly, painfully trudged back to shore, dragging Steve behind him. As soon as he got to shore, he let go of Steve. He stood over Steve for a moment, waiting, every muscle in his body burning. After a few seconds, Steve coughed. Certain that his friend was breathing, Bucky turned and walked away. As soon as he got through the bushes, something made him stop in his tracks. What was he doing? What could he do? He really didn’t know what was going on in his head, but something inside him just wouldn’t let him leave. Not yet. He turned around and waited silently, crouching down in the bushes and keeping an eye on Steve. After a few moments, he heard a rustling and saw the leaves on the bushes a few yards away from Steve shake. The branches parted and a woman stepped out, a radio in her hand.

     “Oh my God,” she gasped, the second her eyes fell on Steve’s motionless form. She quickly ran to his side. “Captain Rogers. Captain Rogers!” Dropping to her knees, she grabbed his shoulder and shook it, panic creeping into her voice.

     “Steve!” She cried desperately. She quickly checked to see if he was breathing before turning his head to feel for a pulse. The second she turned his head, Steve gave a sputtering cough. Bucky could see the woman trembling as relief overtook her. She grabbed Steve by the shoulders and pulled him up, propping him up with her own shoulder. She grabbed her radio from the ground beside her and called for help.

     “I need a medical team and a chopper sent to the south quadrant sector three now,” the woman shouted. Her eyes fell in breathless disbelief on Steve’s still form lying in her arms. “I found him.”

     The woman put the radio down and held Steve’s face in her hand, gently lifting his chin up to keep his airway open, speaking to him softly, urgently. Squinting, she glanced up at the sky filled with heavy, grey clouds. As she did, Bucky looked into the woman’s eyes. Even though it was overcast, they were so bright and clear--

     Bucky was snapped back to the present by the sound of flustered apologies, something about drawing attention to him. Bucky looked at the woman in the black baseball cap and shook his head, grinning.

     “No, it’s ok, really,” he assured her, thinking quickly. “People just don’t usually recognize me.” It wasn’t really a lie; he usually didn’t go anywhere that he could be recognized if he could avoid it. He looked away, a little embarrassed himself. How long had he been zoned out? His eyes fell on the notebook the woman was holding. Curious, he tilted his head.

     “It’s just some research I’m doing for work,” the woman quickly spoke, pulling the notebook closer to herself.

     Bucky’s brow furrowed in thought. Why would she need to know about me? His eyes widened as realization set in. “You must be the new SHIELD agent assigned to the compound.”

     The woman’s shoulders eased a bit. “Yeah, I am.”

     Bucky eyed the woman curiously. “I thought you weren’t due in until next week?”

     The woman shrugged a little and explained that she had liked to learn what she could about the people she would be working with before she met them. Bucky was only paying half attention. Some of his thoughts were still lingering on the memories he just had. There’s no way, he thought. It’s impossible.

     “That makes sense,” Bucky nodded thoughtfully, refocusing. SHIELD was just now beginning to reform after it had fallen. The fact that she was a member of it so soon meant that she must have been one of the loyal members that survived the attacks when it fell. The people she had worked with every day and had trusted would have turned on her and tried to kill her.

     Bucky shook his head lightly, clearing his thoughts. He looked at the woman and held out his hand. “I’m James Buchanan Barnes. Or Bucky,” he grinned.

     The woman lifted her eyes to meet Bucky’s and his heart stopped, his breath catching. Even in the lighting of the exhibit, her eyes were so bright and clear... The second Bucky looked in them, there was no more doubt- it was her. This was the woman who had saved Steve. His mind began racing, his thoughts going a mile a minute.

     The woman took Bucky’s hand and shook it, pulling him back from his daze, and introduced herself. “Y/N. Agent Y/N Y/L/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

     “Y/N,” Bucky repeated, still a little stunned. A smile began to grow on his face as his revelation sunk in. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

[helplesslyinlovewithcharacters]

Museum Dates - Derek Hale x Reader

Summary: Who knew the museum was such a great place to meet people?

Pairing: Derek Hale x Female Reader

As always, thanks to @agirlwithpointlessideas

Derek Hale Masterlist

Derek glared at Lydia when she smacked his arm and in turn disrupted his daydream. “What?”

The redhead rolled her eyes before pointing towards where his daughter, Grace and her son, Nate, sat in front of a museum display as the guide explained the food chain of the African plains to the children perched by her feet. “Pay attention”

Now it was Derek’s turn to roll his eyes. “It’s for the kids”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean you should be checking out the guide” A blush spread up Derek’s cheeks as he tried and failed not to react to Lydia’s words. He hadn’t meant to be so obvious but he’d been single for a long time and she was just so beautiful. Her eyes lit up whenever one of the children raised their hands to ask a question and her smile did funny things to Derek’s chest. Lydia snickered under her breath as he struggled to think of a response. Derek ran his hands through his hair, sighing heavily before trailing after Lydia and the children as they moved into the next room.

He tried to look everywhere but at the guide, reading the signs around the room instead. But Derek couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting back to her, watching as she tucked her hair behind her ear or laughed at one of the children’s bizarre questions. Lydia looped her arm through his, leaning into his side.

“You should ask her out” Derek let out an incoherent grumble while shaking his head. Lydia was always trying to set him up and it never ended well. Ever. She rubbed his arm comfortingly before smiling up at him. “Why not? You’re a catch”

Derek raised his eyebrows, unimpressed by Lydia’s reasoning as he watched Grace stare at the display in amazement. She was his priority, and he didn’t want to disrupt the life they had by introducing her to another woman. It had taken her so long to adjust to Braeden not being around and he wasn’t about to make her go through it again. Lydia seemed to sense his concern, letting it drop as they listened to the end of the tour.

Grace and Nate ran over, drawings they’d made clutched in their hands. Derek bent down, scooping Grace into his arms and nuzzling into her curly brown hair. “What did you draw princess?”

The four-year-old held out her picture, excitedly pointing out the different animals and artefacts she’d draw on the way around the museum. The proportions were off and Derek was certain he’d never seen a pink elephant before, not even in the supernatural world, but that didn’t stop pride warming his chest as he envisioned placing the picture in what little empty space remained on his fridge door. Grace squirmed to get down, chasing after Nate as he made his way into the gift shop. A smile pulled at Derek’s cheeks as he folded the drawing and slid it into his back pocket. When he’d first found out about Grace, he’d been terrified, never having expected a one night stand to end with becoming a father. He had worried that she would hate being with him, he wasn’t exactly the chirpiest of people, but with the pack, he’d raised her and she was growing up alongside a family, a real, loving family that would protect her with their lives if necessary.

Lydia looped her arm through his again and they braced themselves for the chaos of the gift shop. Nate and Grace were standing in front of a wall of cuddly toys and Derek knew they wouldn’t be leaving until he’d bought at least two. Smiling wearily at Lydia, he ruffled his daughter’s hair and knelt down beside her. She had a toy wolf in her hands, her fingers running through its fur as she smiled at it.

“Miss (y/n) said that wolves eat moose, is that true?” Derek’s heart swelled as Grace stared up at him curiously. He brushed her hair behind her ear before nodding.

“Yeah, Miss (y/n)’s right,” The little girl thought for a moment before whispering quietly.

“Do you eat moose?” Derek couldn’t stop a laugh from bubbling in his chest as he shook his head.

“No sweetheart” He caught Lydia’s eye, smiling as she grumbled about the size of the stuffed elephant Nate wanted to buy. “Do you want to get the wolf?”

She thought for a moment as she continued to fiddle with the toy in her hands. “What colour is your fur daddy?”

“Black” Derek’s brow furrowed as he watched Grace place the grey wolf back on the shelf before picking out a black one instead. If he didn’t know better, Derek would swear his daughter was going to kill him with her sweetness. “Do you want another one, or are you sticking with the wolf?”

A wide smile grew on Grace’s face as she searched the toys for another one she wanted, finally picking a bright green stegosaurus. Shaking his head at her somewhat odd combination, Derek walked over to the counter to pay when Grace ran out of the shop. He stared at the cashier in bewilderment before apologising and racing after his daughter.

“Grace!” His eyes swept across the room, his breathing coming in panicked pants as he searched for his daughter. He eventually spotted her on the other side of the room, all but running towards her before kneeling in front of her. “What were you doing? You can’t just run off like that, especially when I haven’t paid”

Grace’s bottom lip quivered as she stared at the floor. “I wanted to show Miss (y/n) my toys”

Her voice was quite as Derek looked up in shock, only just noticing that (y/n) was stood next to them. The guide smiled at him sympathetically before kneeling down next to him. “How about you let your dad pay for the toys and then you come back and show me? I’ll wait here”

(Y/n) smiled softly at Grace, watching as the little girl nodded shyly. Guilt pooled in Derek’s stomach as he tried to smile at (y/n) in thanks but it was really more of a grimace. He took Grace by the hand, leading her back to the queue. They were quiet for a minute before Derek bent down and pulled her into a hug.

“I’m sorry Gracie, but you need to tell me if you want to go somewhere else, okay?” He leant back on his feet, brushing away a stray tear with the pad of his thumb.

“Sorry Daddy” Derek squeezed her hand, smiling at her softly.

“It’s alright sweetheart” Relief flooded through his body when she smiled back.

“You’re such a softie” A growl rumbled in Derek’s chest as Lydia teased him, a bag of cuddly toys tucked under her arm as she held Nate with the other. He slotted his credit card into the machine before turning to her.

“Like Stiles in any different” Lydia paused for a moment before nodding reluctantly. With the toys now paid for, Derek handed them to Grace.

“Do you want to go and show Miss (y/n)?” The little girl nodded excitedly, rushing over to the guide before holding the toys up to her. Derek’s heart fluttered in his chest as (y/n) smiled at his daughter’s antics. He swallowed thickly, waving when Grace pointed to him from where he leant against the wall.

“Y’know that would have been the perfect moment to go over and talk to her” Derek rolled his eyes, taking Nate from Lydia’s arms so she could rest.

“I can’t ask someone on a date in front of my daughter”

“No, but you could have at least spoken to her now that you’re not in panicked dad mode” Derek ran his free hand down his face, being careful not to disturb the sleeping three-year-old in his arms.

“I swear I’m always in panicked dad mode” Lydia snickered softly, bumping her shoulders with Derek.

“It gets easier, apparently” Derek’s response was cut short when Grace ran over to him, one cuddly toy under each arm. Lydia ruffled her hair as they made their way out of the museum and towards Derek’s jeep.

After getting both kids strapped into their car seats, they started to make their way home. Grace was playing with her toys when she called out for her dad.

“What is it, princess?”

“Can we go back next weekend?” Derek paused for a moment, avoiding looking at Lydia as he responded.

“Of course”

Scott sighed as they walked into the museum, his daughter Eva strapped to his chest as he rubbed his eyes. Derek patted his back sympathetically, remembering all the nights Grace had kept him up.

“I can’t believe you dragged me here, I haven’t been since I came on a school trip in the fifth grade”

“Grace wanted to come” Derek kept his face neutral as he made his way over to the ticket desk, deciding not to add that he’d been thinking about (y/n) all week despite never having spoken to her. He signed Grace up for the tour, finding a bench for them to sit on as they waited for it to start. Grace sat in his lap, excitedly explaining the tour to Scott, who nodded along sleepily as he tried to keep his eyes open.

Five minutes later, (y/n) walked into the room, calling all the children over to start the tour. Derek sat up straight, the air leaving his lungs as he watched the way (y/n) interacted with the children and got them excited to see the rest of the museum.

“Oh, now I get why we’re here” Scott smiled at Derek smugly, wiggling his eyebrows as he willed himself to stand up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” Scott clapped Derek on the back as they trailed after the group of children.

“Sure you don’t”

 The tour went by far too quickly and before Derek knew it, he was stood in the queue of the gift shop wondering who else he could convince to come to the museum with him next week. Grace smiled up at him, clutching two toy wolves to her chest as Derek handed the cashier his money.

(Y/n) was waiting for them outside the gift shop, a grin lighting up her face when she spotted Grace.

“Who did you get this time?” Grace held out the wolves, petting them affectionately. “More wolves?”

“I’m building up a pack, you said lone wolves were lonely” She looked up at her dad, making Scott choke on his drink as Derek fought off a blush. Grace only giggled as (y/n) bit her lip to keep from smiling.  

“That’s right sweetness. Well done” The four-year-old cuddled around (y/n)’s legs as a way of saying goodbye, making (y/n) swoon as she tried to ignore the way Derek was staring at her. Grace waved goodbye before moving to stand with Scott, showing off her toys and asking which one was more like Auntie Malia.

“I’m so sorry” (Y/n) smiled at Derek, her heart jumping as she tried to determine what shade of green his eyes were.

“It’s okay, really. She’s very sweet. Talks about you a lot” Derek smiled at the ground, loving swelling in his chest as his eyes moved to follow Grace around the room.

“Thank you” Someone called (y/n) over, making her curse under her breath as she checked her watch, she had to do another tour in five minutes.

“I’ve got to go, see you next week?” The words left (y/n)’s mouth before she could stop them. They stared at each other, wide-eyed before Derek spoke.

“Yeah, of course,” He scratched the back of his neck, a surprised laugh escaping his lips as he watched her walk away. Turning around, he was met with the sight of Scott smirking while Grace smiled excitedly. Taking his daughter’s hand in his, Derek started to walk out of the museum, glaring at Scott when he opened his mouth to speak.

“Not a word” Scott snorted, whispering so quietly Derek could only just catch it.

“You’re whipped” Derek might have rebutted him if it wasn’t true.

[sage-nebula]

VLD - Days Unlike Any Other

Notes: This morning I had a fic idea for Keith’s birthday, and so---since today is the day, and I didn’t want inspiration to leave me---I went ahead and wrote it up real quick. This spans from pre-canon all the way through to the present, so be warned that there are spoilers for season four in the last two sections. 

As an additional note, Ryuuga is what I named Keith’s father, and Mezri is what I named his mother. That will probably be obvious, but I figure it’d help to get it out of the way upfront. Additionally, I do headcanon Keith and Shiro as seven years apart (as per the guidebook), so Shiro is about 20/21 in that little friendsheith section.

Anyway, that’s enough of that. Here’s this.

(AO3 link.)

The problem with forging a birth certificate was you had to know what date to write down for the birthday.

Well, Ryuuga thought wearily, that probably wasn’t the only problem with forging a birth certificate. He pressed his palms into his eyes and tried to rub the sleep out of them so that the text on the (stolen) laptop screen on the motel table in front of him would look less blurry. When he blinked at it again and found that the light emanating from it was as harsh as it was before, he yanked the AC adaptor free from the port, and let the cord fall on the floor.

Keith’s bassinet was on the other side of the room, but his head turned at the sound. God, his hearing was sharp.

The problem, Ryuuga thought, was that he didn’t know exactly how old Keith was. He knew Keith was a baby. That was obvious enough---anyone could tell he was an infant. But how long had they spent in space after Keith was born? He remembered all the units for time he’d heard while they were up there---vargas this, and quintents that---but he didn’t know what they meant. He hadn’t ever figured out the conversion. Even when he and Mezri had tried to puzzle it out---

God. Mezri.

Ryuuga put his face in his hands again. He was so tired. It was only 9:30 at night, and he was so tired. He guessed there was a reason why there was a stereotype that new parents were always exhausted, but the truth was Keith didn’t cry that much. He cried sometimes---all babies did---but Keith was pretty quiet, at least as far as babies went. At least, Ryuuga thought he was. He’d never spent that much time around babies before, so he couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought that as easy as it was to look after Keith in some ways, it would’ve been easier if Mezri was around to help.

Ryuuga scrubbed his hands down his face, and turned his eyes to the ceiling. The stucco on the motel’s ceiling was patchy, and the paint was yellowed. He couldn’t see the stars, but Mezri probably could, wherever she was, provided she hadn’t gotten herself killed yet.

He heaved a sigh. After a moment, he pushed himself up from his chair to go to Keith’s bassinet, and with ease that came only from however-long of practice, he gently lifted his son into his arms, and took him back over to the little table with the laptop and chair.

“How old are you, boy?” Ryuuga asked. Keith, naturally, didn’t answer. Instead, his head supported by the crook of Ryuuga’s arm, Keith stared at Ryuuga with grey-purple eyes that looked far more piercing than any infant’s had a right to. Keith had inherited those eyes from Mezri, and Ryuuga held him a little bit closer.

No matter how close or how long Ryuuga held Keith, though, that wouldn’t solve the birth certificate problem. There was no telling exactly how old Keith was just by looking at him, much less how the day he was born in space translated to the Earth calendar. Ryuuga sighed again, and lightly touched Keith’s nose with one finger. Keith blinked the moment Ryuuga’s fingertip connected, yet just as swiftly swung one tiny hand up to grasp Ryuuga’s finger in a little fist. Ryuuga smiled.

“Can’t get one by you, can I?” he asked. “You’re a quick little guy. Gonna be sharp as a whip as you get older. God save me when you start walkin’.” Although, depending on when Keith reached his toddler years, maybe that would help Ryuuga figure out a more exact age for him.

Keith considered Ryuuga for a moment, and then he smiled back.

Ryuuga looked at the date displayed at the bottom right corner of the laptop screen. It was November 27th---few days past Thanksgiving. Ryuuga wasn’t sorry about missing Thanksgiving---it wasn’t like he had any relatives anymore to spend it with (besides Keith, anyhow, and Keith was too young to care)---but . . .

He glanced back down at his son, and then looked back at the birth certificate he was forging.

Keith was a few weeks old, at least. Maybe a month. He could pass as a month old, couldn’t he? It wasn’t that big of a difference. Didn’t need to be that exact. Aside from his and Ryuuga’s names, practically everything else on the birth certificate was a lie, anyway. Even if his birthday was just an educated guess, well . . . at least it was educated. It was better than what the government or any foster agency would give him, if they ever got a hold of him. (Which they wouldn’t. Over Ryuuga’s dead body, maybe, and if he had his way, not even then.)

Ryuuga shifted Keith in his arms to make it a little easier to use the laptop with his free hand. And then, after consulting the calendar built into the laptop’s time and date system, he typed October 23 on the birth certificate.

It was as good a date as any.

It didn’t rain on Keith’s tenth birthday.

It should have, he thought. It would have been more fitting. It would have been more fitting had it rained, had it stormed---if a hurricane somehow reached the Midwest and devastated the entire city, so he could make his escape while everyone was distracted with the relief efforts. But it didn’t rain; instead, it was unseasonably warm and sunny. Despite being so late in October, the only clouds in the sky were cirrus, and all Keith needed was a light jacket over his t-shirt to keep warm.

He hated it.

He shouldn’t have hated it. If anything, he hated that he hated it. His birthday had always been one of the best days of the year. There hadn’t been many bad days in the past nine years---weird days, sure, like the time he woke up to find an opossum sitting at the foot of his bed, staring at him, or the day when he and his dad’s truck broke down, and the only guy they could find to help them was an old man who was convinced they were his son and grandson and had returned home to help run the family’s pie business---but even so, his birthday had always stood out as one of the best.

When he had been really small, like around five or six or so, his dad used to start off every day by scooping Keith up onto his shoulders and spinning him around in a birthday helicopter ride. Once that was over (and even in years where that didn’t take place), Keith’s birthday breakfast was always a stack of chocolate chip pancakes nearly as big as him. After that, they would do whatever. His dad never made him go to school on his birthday. Instead, they’d usually go somewhere cool. Some years his dad took him to whatever local attraction happened to be in the area. Weird museums dedicated to the paranormal (but that were really filled with hoax things like “authentic photographs” of Bigfoot and Mothman), or supposedly haunted mansions. Other years they went to the movies, or to a dirt bike racing park, and it wasn’t like they never did these things on normal days---they did---but there was always something special about doing it on his birthday. On his birthday, they could do whatever Keith wanted, and his dad never said no. Keith’s birthday was his day, his dad always said. It was a day to celebrate the fact that Keith was there, alive on Earth. So whatever Keith wanted, he got, just on that day. If he wanted the world’s biggest sundae for dinner that night, he got it (and trust in the fact that Keith had cake and ice cream for dinner on his birthday every single year).

Keith topped off the candles of the tiny birthday cake he was doodling in the upper corner of his math notebook with little flames, and then scowled as he harshly scribbled over it.

This year was different.

It had been three months since his dad disappeared---three months since Keith waited, and waited, only for his dad to never come back to the motel room. And he was going to come back---Keith knew he was. He said he would be back, and Keith believed him. His dad had never let him down before. But no one had listened. The motel manager hadn’t listened when Keith told her that his dad would be back soon. The police hadn’t listened when they had dragged Keith out of there. They hadn’t listened when working with child protective services to set him up with a stupid foster family, and the foster adults (Keith refused to call them his parents) hadn’t listened when he told them he already had a dad, and they needed to send him back, or at least help him find out where his dad was. It was worse than just not listening; the foster woman had actually gotten angry with him for saying they weren’t his parents, and had said that they were his parents for as long as he lived in their house, so he needed to respect them.

Keith glared at his notebook, and dug his pencil deeper into the paper.

He’d respect them when they earned it.

That morning, he woke up to nothing aside from the sound of one of the other foster boys whining about having a stomachache so they wouldn’t send him to school. There wasn’t anything for breakfast aside from toast, but Keith didn’t want it anyway. He never ate breakfast anymore. No one said anything to him aside from the foster woman snapping at him that he needed to get in the car to go to school, like he didn’t already know that. He went to school every damn day, it wasn’t like he skipped. Not that he’d be missing much even if he did---not that missing one day of school was bad---but---

He pressed his pencil so hard into his notebook that the tip snapped, the lead skittering off the page and over the edge of his desk. He looked up, but his teacher was still droning on with her lesson, explaining how fractions worked with long division. No one else noticed, either. Keith stuffed his broken pencil into his desk (it wasn’t mechanical and he didn’t have a personal sharpener) and grabbed another from his backpack.

No one knew it was his birthday. Maybe the foster adults knew, he didn’t know, but it had been three months and they weren’t any fonder of him than he was of them. Even if they did know, probably they weren’t going to say anything. And that was fine. He’d rather they didn’t. He didn’t want to celebrate his birthday with them. He didn’t want to celebrate his birthday with anyone but his dad, and his dad wasn’t there, and probably he wouldn’t be there even when Keith got out of school. There would be no one waiting for Keith after school but the jerks from Ms. Patterson’s class (egged on by the same foster boy from Keith’s home who had broken Keith’s toy lightsaber) and the foster woman.

Keith rubbed the palm of his hand into his eye, swallowed hard, and drew the head of a T-rex before he scribbled that out, too.

It didn’t matter. It was stupid. It was just a stupid, normal day, like any other. It wasn’t anything special.

One of the foremost lessons at the Galaxy Garrison was emergency preparedness. Space explorers---and commanding officers in particular---needed to be able to think swiftly and accurately on their feet. Panic would help no one in the case of an oncoming comet, or an alien abduction. Keeping a level head and laser sharp focus was paramount. As the youngest captain the Garrison had ever produced (promoted straight out of graduation, previously unheard of), Shiro prided himself on his reflexes. He knew his focus was his gift. He was always 100% prepared for any situation life could possibly throw at him. He absolutely knew what he was doing, 100% of the time.

This was why, when Keith opened Shiro’s front door five minutes before he was scheduled to arrive, Shiro whipped toward the front door (and away from the banner he had just finished pinning to the wall) and yelled, “BIRTH!”

Most people would freeze upon having someone shout at them the second they walked in the door, but in the seven or so months Shiro had gotten to know Keith through the Garrison’s prospective cadets program, he had learned that Keith was not “most people.” Case in point, Shiro hadn’t even finished speaking before Keith took a step back, his weight on the ball of his right foot, both of his hands raised in a self-defense gesture. How a thirteen---fourteen, Shiro corrected himself---year-old had gotten so vigilant Shiro wasn’t sure, but it was one of the things that made the other officers at the Garrison so excited and especially determined to recruit Keith into preliminary training as quickly as they had.

As vigilant as Keith was, it also made him sharp. It took him only a second to realize that there was no threat, and as he lowered his hands and stood up straight again, he said, “What?”

“Happy birthday,” Shiro said, and he smiled as Keith’s eyes swept over the decorations in the living room (not that there were much, given that Shiro hadn’t had that much time to prepare, but there was at least a banner over the entryway leading into the dining area). “I know it’s a few days late, but I wanted to throw a little something together for you anyway.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know,” Keith said. He finally stepped over the threshold and into the house, and without turning back he knocked the door shut behind him. That was a first, Shiro noted with a little smile; usually Keith always checked over his shoulder, as if cautious about being followed, before he shut and locked the door. “And you didn’t have to do anything at all.”

“I know,” Shiro said, “but I wanted to. Now come over here; I got you something.”

“What?” Keith said. The initial shock that had struck him when he had first encountered Shiro’s sudden greeting and had caught sight of the decorations had faded, but instead of following Shiro’s instruction to walk to the kitchen to get his birthday gift, he remained rooted to the spot, his eyes wide.

Shiro couldn’t help but smile; in honesty, it was almost hard not to laugh. “Come on,” he said, and he gestured for Keith to walk over to him. “I have something for you in the kitchen. You can leave your backpack by the couch.”

That seemed to enough to kick Keith’s head into gear. As instructed (and as always) he dropped his backpack on the floor by the couch on his way to the kitchen. The moment Shiro saw Keith was going to listen, he turned to cross the threshold into the kitchen himself, and picked up the neatly wrapped gift (courtesy of the woman at the bookstore---Shiro was no good when it came to wrapping presents himself, and never had been) he had waiting on the table. He turned back to see that Keith had already walked up to him, and with another smile, he held the box out for Keith to take.

“Here you go,” Shiro said. “Happy birthday.”

Keith’s brow knitted together over his eyes, a little frown tugging at his lips. By now, Shiro was pretty sure that expression on Keith’s face was one of confusion rather than displeasure. True to form, Keith gently took the present from Shiro’s hands, but he stared at it for a long moment instead of unwrapping it. Finally, he mumbled, “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“I know,” Shiro repeated, “but I wanted to. Everyone deserves to get something for their birthday.”

Keith looked up at him, still frowning, and then asked, “When’s your birthday?”

“February. 29th. Leap Year, technically, but I celebrate on the 28th on off-years.” Shiro grinned. “Of course, if that doesn’t count, I guess it gives a whole new meaning to calling me the youngest captain the Garrison has ever seen, huh?”

Keith rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lips twitched. “Yeah. I’m sure you’re the first toddler they’ve ever had pass their flight simulator.”

“And proud of it,” Shiro said. Keith huffed a little laugh, definitely smiling now, and Shiro nodded toward him. “But go on, open it.”

Keith’s smile faded, but he nonetheless slipped his finger under one of the flaps on the wrapping paper. Any illusion that he was going to tear it neatly was gone in the next second as he used the opening he created to rip the paper off, and as it fell to the floor and he revealed the DVD box set collection within, his eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open.

“You like Star Wars, don’t you?” Shiro asked, and Keith tore his eyes away from the front of the box set to stare up at Shiro instead. “You made a reference during training a few weeks ago, when Iverson had the high ground over that cadet.”

“I . . . yeah,” Keith said, and he looked back down at the box set, turning it over in his hands so he could see all six DVD cases lined up neatly inside, before he looked back up at Shiro. “I do, but---Shiro, how much did this cost? It had to be expensive---”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a birthday present,” Shiro said, thankful now that he had the foresight to remove the price tag before he had the saleswoman wrap it. The last thing he wanted Keith to worry about on his birthday was money. “I know that the prospective cadet dorms don’t have TVs or DVD players, so you can keep it here to watch whenever you want. Actually, I figured we could have a marathon this weekend, starting now, if you wanted.”

The look on Keith’s face suggested that was exactly what he wanted to do, but also that he felt he shouldn’t. The conflict in him seemed to win out as he said, “I’m supposed to be studying---”

“We can study later. Your homework and training materials will still be there when we’re done,” Shiro said. “It’s your birthday---or at least, it was. You deserve to have a little break. As your mentor, I’ve decided and am saying that you’ve earned it.”

It took a second, but finally, Keith smiled again. “Thanks, Shiro.”

Shiro smiled back, and clapped Keith on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it. Go put Episode I in the DVD player, and I’ll grab us some snacks.” For it was still too early for dinner, and the birthday cake, Shiro felt, was another surprise best saved for later.

Keith nodded, and turned to head back into the living room, but he took no more than two steps before he paused and said, “Hey---”

“What is it?”

Keith turned back, frowning once again as he asked, “Did you shout ‘birth’ at me when I first walked in the house?”

A hot flush spread across the back of Shiro’s neck, and he rubbed at it in an effort to make it go away. “Ah, uh---yeah. That was supposed to be ‘surprise’. You caught me off-guard.”

Keith stared at him for a second, as if unable to make sense of what Shiro had just said, before he asked, “How do you get ‘birth’ out of ‘surprise’?”

“I was thinking about your birthday and it just came out,” Shiro said. There was something about Keith’s expression, which looked somehow both deadpan and baffled, that made Shiro feel more than a little judged, as if Keith was suddenly second-guessing whether Shiro was a qualified mentor or not. Shiro huffed, and said, “Just go get the movie started, okay? Do you want a soda or Capri Sun?”

Keith shook his head, and started in toward the living room again, but as he did he called over his shoulder, “What flavors have you got?”

“Dr. Pepper and root beer for soda, and strawberry-kiwi for Capri Sun.”

“I’ll take a Dr. Pepper.”

As Keith prepared their movie in the living room, Shiro grabbed a can of Dr. Pepper from the fridge for Keith, and a strawberry-kiwi Capri Sun pouch for himself. He still didn’t know what they were going to do for dinner---pizza, maybe, because pizza was always a safe bet---but as he gathered a selection of snacks from his kitchen cabinets, he figured that was all right. He had the cake, and Keith liked bingeing on snacks as much as Shiro himself did. Belated or not, as far as celebrating Keith’s birthday went, Shiro thought they were doing all right.

“. . . aaaand done!”

Pidge punctuated her words by punching one of the keys on her workstation. The moment she did, her screen was filled with raining numbers and words that scrolled too quickly for Allura to easily catch. It was an impressive enough sight, but even as Allura gathered around Pidge’s workstation with the others, she wasn’t entirely sure why they (or at the very least, Lance, Hunk, and Matt) all seemed so excited.

“In just a few seconds, the conversion process will be complete,” Pidge said. She sat back in her seat, her arms folded, a proud smile on her face. “Of course, I would have never been able to figure it out if it wasn’t for Matt supplying the algorithm---”

“Are you kidding? You’re the one who designed the code that allows the program to run in the first place,” Matt said. He leaned against the back of Pidge’s chair, but as he spoke, he reached over it to ruffle her hair. “My little sister, the genius.”

“Yeah, yeah, we all know Pidge is the smartest girl in the known universe,” Lance said, and he waved one hand in the air. “But can we just---”

“Wow, thanks, Lance,” Pidge said, and it might have been Allura’s imagination, but she thought Pidge’s cheeks looked a little pink. Her nose crinkled when she smiled. “You really think that?”

“Think it? Uh, no. I know it. It’s pretty obvious by now. Everyone would agree with me,” Lance said. If anything, that only caused Pidge’s cheeks to darken, and Allura didn’t miss the way Matt’s eyes narrowed at Lance. “But that’s not the point right now. The point is I want to know what the date is.” Lance thumped his fists against the back of Pidge’s chair. “Tell us the date!”

“If it’s the date you want to know, why didn’t you just ask?” Coran said, and as all eyes turned to him, he threw his shoulders back and stroked his mustache. “Today’s date in this quadrant of our present galaxy is---”

“No, no, no! That’s not what we’re after,” Lance said, and he held up his hands in a clear ‘stop’ gesture.

“Yeah, uh, sorry, Coran, but the date in this part of the universe is not what we’re curious about,” Hunk said, smiling sheepishly.

“It isn’t?” Allura asked, and when Lance, Hunk, and Pidge all shook their heads, she asked, “Then what is?”

“Earth,” Pidge said simply. Her program gave a soft ding, and as one every person gathered around her workstation turned to look at the holographic screen. Pidge continued speaking, even as her eyes scanned the data. “We know how long we’ve been gone by Altean time, but that doesn’t give us a frame of reference for how much time has passed on Earth since we’ve been gone. So with Matt’s help, I created a conversion program that allows us to input the current date in this quadrant of the galaxy, and convert it to whatever date it is on Earth right now. It might not be exact, but it’ll be close enough.”

“I see,” Allura said slowly. “But I’m afraid I don’t . . .”

“What?” Matt asked.

“I’m unsure of how useful this information will be,” Allura said, and as Matt, Lance, Hunk, Shiro, Coran, and Pidge all turned to look at her, she smiled apologetically. “I’m sure it is very interesting, and you’ve certainly done a marvelous job creating this program. But our current battles are very far away from Earth. Even if we know what day it is there, I’m unsure how that will help us combat Zarkon’s forces.”

“This isn’t about Zarkon,” Pidge said. There was a tone in her voice Allura couldn’t easily identify; her expression was caught somewhere between a smile and a frown, so faint it was hard to tell which one it was. “It’s about our families.”

“Your families?”

“We’ve been gone a long time . . . we think,” Hunk said, and he cast his eyes to the floor. “And we left kinda suddenly, you know? We didn’t even get a chance to tell anyone goodbye.”

“Didn’t so much as give the Garrison a leave of absence demand, much less request,” Lance said. “And if we didn’t tell them that we were flying off into space in a giant, beautiful, amazing Blue Lion to fight in an intergalactic space war against the Galra Empire, there’s no way they could tell our families that’s what we did.”

“So we’re just kind of wondering how much time we’re going to have to apologize for,” Hunk said. “Because my mom? Is not going to be cool about this. Not even a little.”

“And my mom already thought Matt and my dad were dead,” Pidge said. “All this will have done is make her think she lost her daughter, too.”

“Mom’s tough, Pidge,” Matt said gently, and he placed his hand on Pidge’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “She’ll understand---”

“When we come home, she will,” Pidge said, and she looked back at the data on her screen. Allura wasn’t sure if she truly saw it or not. “But until then, she doesn’t have any idea of what happened.”

“I see,” Allura said. She swallowed, then cleared her throat to try and get past the obstruction suddenly lodged in it. She had known that her---that her fellow Paladins had left lives on their own planet behind in order to defend the universe. She had known that, but somehow it hadn’t truly hit her before that moment just how much they must have left behind to help fight this war. She had always been grateful for their presences in her Castle and life, but in that moment she was suddenly struck by just how fortunate she was that they were the ones there when she woke from cryo-sleep. “Well then, by all means, please continue. What day is it on Earth?”

“Let’s see . . .” Pidge scrolled through the data, scrolling too quickly for anyone save her to keep up with, and finally settled on one piece, glowing green. “Looks like it’s October 23rd.”

“Is there a year?” Hunk asked, trepidation in his voice.

“And what month did we leave again? Was it May?” Lance asked, and then his eyes widened. “Wait, have I had a birthday?!”

“It’s Keith’s now,” Shiro said.

Just as they had before when Pidge’s program announced that it had finished its conversions, everyone present turned to look at Shiro, Pidge twisting around in her seat so she could look up at him properly. Shiro blinked, as if just now realizing that everyone had turned to him, but when he offered no further explanation, Coran said, “Sorry, Shiro, but could you repeat that, please?”

“It’s Keith’s birthday.” Shiro nodded back toward Pidge’s workstation, where the words October 23rdwere still present on the screen. “October 23rd. It’s his birthday.”

“Well, that’s . . . that’s wonderful!” Allura said, and she clapped her hands together. “We’ll have to do something to celebrate! We could have a party---something small, at least---”

“I could bake a cake,” Hunk said. “Hey, Shiro, do you know what kind of cake Keith likes? Does he like chocolate? Wait, does he even like cake?”

“Who doesn’t like cake?” Lance said, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Everyone likes cake. Even that mullethead has to like cake.”

“Some people don’t,” Hunk said. “My grandma refused to touch it.”

“Get out of here!”

“It’s true! She wouldn’t eat any dessert but cobbler. Said everything else tasted like soggy shoes. I tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t have it.”

“What the heck, who compares cake to soggy shoes?!”

“My grandma!”

“I think Keith liked chocolate cake,” Shiro said, and he raised his voice a little to be heard as Lance opened his mouth to offer a rebuttal.

“Okay, good,” Hunk said. “Now, if I can just figure out where to get some chocolate . . .”

“Uh, guys?” Pidge said, and when she saw she had everyone’s attention, continued, “Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourselves? Keith’s not here right now. He moved out. He’s with the Blade of Marmora now, remember?”

“Oh . . .” Allura’s shoulders slumped, and took her heart right along with them. “That’s right, he did. I . . . I got a little carried away. I apologize.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Shiro said. “It can be easy to forget, especially when things crop up like this. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Allura tried to smile, but she didn’t have to see herself to know how weak it felt. No one was looking at each other now; Pidge had gone back to looking at her workstation, though she wasn’t scrolling through the data, and Matt was similarly pretending to examine the information on the screen. Hunk was awkwardly staring at his feet, and Lance was casting his eyes around the main room, as if trying to find something else to catch his attention. Shiro was looking across the room, out through the main observation window, and Coran was watching her.

And Keith . . .

Well, it was as Pidge had said. Keith wasn’t there.

But nothing would be accomplished by standing around, feeling despondent and awkward. Allura had always been averse to inaction; wallowing in her feelings had never changed anything, nor had it allowed them to lessen. She took a deep breath, forced her brightest smile, and said, “Well, even if he can’t attend a party, that doesn’t stop us from giving him birthday wishes, does it? Coran, could you please establish contact with the Blade of Marmora? If nothing else, I’m sure Keith would like to know he’s another decapheeb older.”

“Certainly, Princess! Just a tick,” Coran said, and he spun on the ball of his foot before he darted over to the communications control panel.

As Coran set about getting in contact with the Blade of Marmora (and as Hunk, Matt, Pidge, and Lance all relocated to standing in front of the primary communications screen), Shiro turned to Allura with a frown. “I’m not sure we should be contacting the Blades for something like this.”

“I agree that social calls aren’t generally what we want to use these communication lines for, but this is a special occasion,” Allura said. “I’m sure they’ll understand, particularly if we keep it brief. Besides, I . . .”

“What is it?”

Allura smiled, and shook her head. “Never mind. Let’s go join the others. Coran will make contact with the Blade of Marmora any tick now.”

The look Shiro gave her suggested that he wanted to press the issue. Ever since his return, he had seemed more reluctant to let things go. But Allura turned away before he had the chance, and strode over to join the others in front of the primary communications screen.

It wasn’t a big deal, really. If Shiro or anyone else really wanted to know, Allura would tell them. But it felt a little awkward to do so, as if she was sharing information that wasn’t hers to share. And she wasn’t---that wasn’t the case at all---but . . .

She laced her fingers together over her stomach as it gave an anxious little tumble.

If she closed her eyes now, she could remember clearly how taken aback Keith had looked in their travel pod when Allura told him that without him, they couldn’t form Voltron. If she closed her eyes now, she could remember clearly the downcast, dubious expression on Keith’s face when she told him that they could not go on without him, even though the Blade of Marmora could. If she closed her eyes now, she could remember clearly how Keith wouldn’t meet her eyes if she asked him if he was pulling away from them because he felt Shiro could take his place---could remember how his voice had cracked as he told them about the mission he had to leave on.

All things considered, Allura felt that it was . . . important that they wished Keith a happy birthday, that they told him they were thinking of him. It was the least they could do for now.

The communications screen flared to life, and while they were greeted by a dark hood and glowing mask at first, the hood was lowered and the mask fizzled out to reveal a dark purple face and glowing golden eyes. Allura’s heart, as it always did when she found herself staring into eyes like those, picked up its pace. She twisted her fingers more tightly together and did her best to ignore it.

“Paladins of Voltron,” the Marmorite on-screen said. His voice was neutral, as the Marmorites’ voices usually were. By now Allura could at least pick up distinctions in Kolivan’s tone, but the rest . . . she wished Kolivan had answered the call instead. “We weren’t expecting a communication today. Is something amiss?”

“No,” Allura said, and she took a step forward, forcing a little smile as she addressed him, “and we apologize for anything we may have interrupted. We were wondering---is Keith available?”

“I’m afraid not,” the Marmorite answered, and for the second time in less than half a varga, Allura’s heart sank. “He’s on a mission with Kolivan and a few others. We have no way of reaching him.”

“I see,” Allura said. She did her best to keep her voice as level as the Marmorite’s. “Do you know when he will be back?”

“Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing that now,” the Marmorite said.

Allura blinked. There was something about the way he said that---

“What do you mean, you have no way of knowing that now?” Shiro asked.

The Marmorite hesitated, but only for a tick. Then he said, “They were supposed to return two quintents ago. They haven’t, and signal interference around the mission site has blocked all forms of communication and contact. We have no way of knowing when---or if---they will return.”

Something akin to a flood of icy water rushed through Allura, and froze her to the spot.

“Wait---wait, wait, wait, hold on,” Hunk said, and he raised both hands in a gesture that would have looked placating were it not for the worried knit of his brow. “You’re not saying that---are you saying that---that they’re . . . that Keith is---that he could be---”

“Captured?” Pidge asked. Her tone suggested it wasn’t the first word that had come to mind.

The Marmorite’s expression did not change. His tone was perfectly even as he answered, “We have already begun preparations for the worst-case scenario. Rest assured that our contribution to the war will not be---”

“Where was the mission?” Allura demanded. Only now did the Marmorite blink, as if truly taken aback by her sudden interruption. “Send us their coordinates. We will take our Lions and assist them with Voltron---”

“No,” the Marmorite said.

Allura curled her fingers into fists by her sides. “Excuse me?”

“As secure as our communication channels may be, they are not foolproof,” the Marmorite said. “We have reason to believe that certain communication channels we use throughout the coalition may be compromised. We cannot risk relaying information that sensitive over these communication channels.”

“This is the first we’ve heard about potentially compromised communication channels,” Shiro said, his voice hard. “When were you going to share this information with us?”

“When it came up, as it has now,” the Marmorite said, his voice equally as hard.

“More importantly, what are you doing to ensure the safety of Keith, Kolivan, and the others?” Allura said. “You claim that you are unable to trust us with their coordinates---”

“That is not what I---”

“---yet you don’t seem to be doing anything to assist them with their mission. If something has gone wrong, then they need help. We will gladly provide that assistance if you will not.”

“It is not a matter of will, but a matter of practicality,” the Marmorite said. He was glaring at her now, and Allura returned his glare in kind. “The mission comes before the individual. Right now, the most important task we have is to carry on with the mission, and take the necessary measures to ensure the mission’s continued success even in the event Kolivan does not return.”

“And Keith?” Hunk asked. “What about him?”

The Marmorite turned his eyes to Hunk. “Keith was one of our youngest, rather than our leader, but the same holds true for him.”

“No,” Allura said. “Keith may have temporarily joined the Blade of Marmora, but he is still a Paladin of Voltron. He will always be one of us.”

“Yeah!” Lance said. “You can’t just stand there and expect us to accept that one of our guys is stranded off on some mission somewhere, captured or maybe even . . . even . . .” He swallowed and flailed a hand, delivering his point without saying a word.

But whether the Marmorite they were speaking with understood Lance’s point or not, he didn’t seem impressed. “Keith is one of ours. As a member of the Blade of Marmora, he understood the risks he was taking when he agreed to this mission. He understood that the mission comes before the individual. He understood that there are things worth dying for. He would not want us---any of us---to jeopardize the universe’s freedom on a rescue mission for him which may be in vain from the start.”

“. . . That’s true,” Allura bit out, and she turned her glare to the floor. She couldn’t stand to look at the Marmorite any longer. “But---!”

“I apologize,” the Marmorite said suddenly, “but I am afraid I have other duties to return to. If Kolivan or Keith return, I will be sure to have them contact you.”

“We understand,” Shiro said, before Allura had a chance to reply. “Thank you.”

The Marmorite nodded, and then the communication screen went blank.

Silence reigned in the main room. Allura’s voice felt stuck in her throat. She thought that she should have been the one to say something---that, as before, she should have been the one to nudge the others into action. But all she could hear in her own head was the Marmorites’ voice, saying that Keith was due back to quintents ago . . . that there was no way to contact him . . . that they were already making preparations in case Kolivan didn’t return, and that if Kolivan had perished, then it was likely that Keith . . .

“We should prepare for our next patrols,” Shiro said, and Allura looked up as his voice broke through the static in her head. “Coran, can you plot a course through the east quadrant? I want to make sure the medical supply ships in that area make it to the next base.”

“I---yes, of course,” Coran said. He gave his head a little shake and looked back at the keyboard, as Matt frowned at Shiro.

“Is this really okay?” Matt asked. “Are you really okay with this?”

“Okay with what?” Shiro asked.

“With just . . . leaving things like this.” Matt gestured back up at the dark communication screen. “Keith’s . . . gone somewhere. He could be captured, or worse. Are you really okay with just . . . leaving him?”

Shiro stared at Matt for a long tick, and then he said, “I would like to go after him as much as anyone else here, but we have no coordinates and no leads. Instead of spinning our wheels searching the galaxy with nothing to go on, our time would be better spent doing what needs to be done to free the universe from Galra control. Keith would feel the same way.”

Matt pressed his lips together, yet turned away without further argument. Pidge exchanged a look with Lance that Allura couldn’t read; her eyes were narrowed, even as Lance shook his head and shrugged. Hunk walked over to Coran, and asked him in a quiet voice if he needed help.

Part of Allura wanted to agree with Shiro. As uncomfortable as the idea was, the mission did come first. In her own words, the mission was greater than any one individual, no matter how irreplaceable. They all knew that. Keith in particular had always been on the same page as Allura herself when it came to this.

But she remembered all the days and nights that Keith had spent searching for Shiro after his disappearance. She remembered how Keith ran himself ragged between searching for Shiro, and still trying to accomplish his duties as a Paladin of Voltron. She remembered how, even after he accepted that he would need to pilot the Black Lion, that he kept a radar running, searching for even the faintest ping of Shiro’s whereabouts. Even though Keith had accepted that the mission had to continue, he still hadn’t given up. He had refused to, and as said as much, because he knew that Shiro would never give up on him.

Allura watched as Shiro crossed the room to stand by Coran and Hunk, looking over the map that Coran had brought up on the screen.

Shiro’s logic was sound. There was no doubt about that. His logic was perfectly sound. But all the same, something about this . . .

Something about this didn’t feel right.

One and a half vargas after they returned from their mission, Kolivan called for Keith to meet him at the observation deck.

The mission had been a disaster. It was yet another trap---another ambush. If Kolivan had suspected that their communication channels were compromised somehow before, he was certain of it now. Somehow, they were either being fed false info, or their plans were being leaked to the Empire. Where the leak was, Kolivan was not certain; all he knew was that it had to be patched, and quickly. This past mission had cost them three more lives, and Keith’s had nearly been among them. That he had survived at all was nothing short of a miracle; Kolivan could not think of another Marmorite who would be small enough to hide in the engine compartment of an abandoned ship for two quintents, and there were few Kolivan could think of who would have the fortitude to even if they were small enough. Yet Keith had managed---his determination to survive had won out---and for that, he was able to return safely once Kolivan cleared a path to get him out. Not that Kolivan should have, per se—the war was greater than any one individual, and remaining behind for Keith had put Kolivan's own life at risk, meaning that the Blade (and resistance) could have lost them both—but much as Regris had in an earlier mission, Keith had intel on him that would have been foolish to leave behind. Trap or not, the mission hadn’t been a total failure. Kolivan made sure Keith had the intel when he was rescued. No protocol was broken when it came to getting Keith out of that engine room, and Kolivan made sure Keith knew it.

If Kolivan was honest with himself, it was not the only reason he had waited for Keith. But Keith didn’t need to know that.

When they finally made it back to their base, they did so with the sort of bone-deep exhaustion that rivaled the sheer force of a black hole. Upon arrival, Keith gruffly dismissed himself to his own quarters before Kolivan had a chance to say much of anything to him. Likewise, though Garus called out to him, Keith didn’t so much as twitch to indicate that he heard. In absence of Keith’s attention, Garus had told Kolivan instead that the Paladins of Voltron had called to speak to Keith two quintents ago, and that they wanted to speak to either Keith or Kolivan himself as soon as possible.

“Understood,” Kolivan said. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course,” Garus said, inclining his head.

“One more thing,” Kolivan said, and when Garus raised his eyebrows to show Kolivan had his attention, he said, “After Keith showers, make sure he eats and drinks something. He has gone a few days without food and water. Then ask him to meet me on the observation deck.”

Garus smiled. “Understood.”

With Garus tending to Keith (who Kolivan knew was going to protest eating and drinking instead of sleeping, but of all the Marmorites, Kolivan knew Garus to be one of the most insistent when it came to nurturing, and the news that Keith had gone for days without food and water would make him not back down from following through on Kolivan’s request), Kolivan returned to his quarters. He needed to call the Paladins of Voltron, given the message that Garus had relayed to him, and he would. The alliance the Blade had formed with Voltron was an important one, and not one that Kolivan was willing to lose. But calling the Paladins was not mission critical. They could wait, at least for another few vargas. Keith---and the photograph that Kolivan retrieved from his quarters to show Keith---came first.

That was how Kolivan came to be on the observation deck as Keith walked up to join him one and a half vargas later. In the light from the stars outside their one-way window, Keith looked more exhausted than ever. Though he had showered, and thus his hair had regained its usual fluff, there were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his face looked worn. There was a tension in his stride that came only with having gone without sleep for so long that he was putting extra effort into appearing alert. When he spoke, his voice rasped, and though the rasp was a little better now than it had been two vargas ago (no doubt due to the water Garus made Keith drink), it was still rough with exhaustion.

“You wanted to see me, Kolivan?”

“Yes.” Kolivan patted the floor next to him. “Please take a seat.”

Wordlessly, Keith followed Kolivan’s instruction, and while Kolivan thought that Keith was probably attempting to be graceful, he dropped to the deck with more heaviness than grace could sustain. Nonetheless, he crossed his legs sat down, and placed his hands in his lap. Once he was situated, Kolivan held the photograph out to him, and Keith took it from him with a surprisingly gentle grip.

Keith stared at the photograph in silence for a moment before he said, “She’s pretty. Who is she?”

“Her name was Mezri,” Kolivan said. Keith didn’t remove his eyes from the photograph. “She was a friend of mine in childhood. We knew each other for many years, and joined the Blade of Marmora together.” Kolivan let this information sink in for a tick before he said, “She was also your mother.”

Keith looked up so fast Kolivan heard his neck pop. “What?”

“She---Mezri---was your mother,” Kolivan repeated. Keith’s eyes were wide, and the hand that held the photograph was trembling now. When he looked back at the picture in his hands, all traces of fatigue were gone from his expression; his eyes (so much like Mezri’s) raked over every inch of the photograph. “You were born in the infirmary of one of our bases. Not this one; one much farther away from here.”

“I---wait.” Keith looked up again, his brow knitted together. “I wasn’t born on Earth?”

“No,” Kolivan said. “You were sent to Earth with your human father roughly thirty quintents after you were born. Mezri was concerned for your safety. She thought you would not survive the war if you remained here with her.”

Keith looked at Mezri’s photo again, staring with an intensity that suggested he was trying to burn her image into his brain. Finally, he asked, “How long have you known? Why didn’t you ever tell me?” He turned his eyes on Kolivan again; they were burning. “I asked you when we first met. I asked you how and why I had that knife, and you---”

“I wasn’t certain then,” Kolivan said, and Keith closed his mouth. “I suspected. I couldn’t think of another possible answer for why a human would have one of our knives. But suspicion alone does not warrant trust. I could only reveal the truth to you if you revealed yourself to be her son. By the end of the Trial, you did.”

“I almost died.”

“And yet, you didn’t,” Kolivan said. “Despite the impossible odds, you persisted, and you survived. You have Mezri’s tenacity. I had confidence that if you were her son, you would survive the Trials as she had. You answered my confidence proudly.”

Keith looked back at the photograph. “Her tenacity, huh,” he said. “She was tenacious . . .”

A few ticks slipped by, quiet and contemplative, before Keith looked to Kolivan again. “Then why are you telling me now?” he asked. “Even if you didn’t tell me before the Trials, you could have told me any time after. Why not?”

“There wasn’t very much opportunity,” Kolivan said. “Between the battle against Zarkon fought shortly after our alliance, as well as Shiro’s disappearance, and everything that came after while you fought as a Paladin of Voltron, no opportunity presented itself. And after you joined us . . . I felt that it would be better to wait until---until ideally a few quintents ago, but better belated than never.”

“Belated?” Keith furrowed his brow. “Why a few quintents ago?”

Kolivan smiled. “I thought that the answers to your questions about your heritage---and that a photograph of, and information about, your mother---would make for fitting birthday gifts.”

Keith’s eyes widened. “Birthday?”

“Nineteen decapheebs and about four or five quintents ago, you were born in the infirmary wing of one of our bases,” Kolivan said. Keith was staring at him, his eyes the size of wormholes, and just as bright. “You were small enough so that I could hold you with one hand, and completely pink. Your mother thought you were the most beautiful sight she had ever laid eyes on.”

“What . . . was she like?” Keith asked. His voice still had a rasp, but it was different now. No longer exhausted, but . . . awestruck. “What was my mom like?”

“Tenacious, as I said, though stubborn to a fault may be a better way to put it. Obstinate. Bull-headed. Passionate about her beliefs and willing to argue herself hoarse with anyone who disagreed. Rather,” he said, affecting a stern tone as he inclined his head to look severely at Keith, “like a certain someone else I know.”

Keith’s lips twitched, but he fought a smile Kolivan knew was there as he ducked his head and said, too casually to be believable, “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Kolivan smiled. “She was brave. Valiant. Curious, too, also to a fault. It was a combination of all those things that landed her on Earth in the first place . . .”

(Ko-Fi)

[kithalstead]

June 6, 2017: “A Stranger”

*Prompt provided by @rainyari-shoelessdante: “ Meeting that one relative your mom swears you’ve met but you have no memory of”*

Kaylee hadn’t even wanted to go this dinner. It was the first day of her spring break and she had plans to clean out her closet and donate all her old clothes. She wanted to finish painting the mural she’d started during winter break. She also wanted to fall into a small coma, just long enough to relax. Her senior year was going hellishly, to say the least. She hadn’t gotten a full night of sleep in months, staying up too late and waking up too early. She was never in her room except for late at night. She never saw her friends anymore, her weekends filled with papers and research. She had a permanent spot saved at the library in the quietest, sunniest spot in the tower, somewhere between the commerce and finance sections, a small desk set in the corner between two large windows, her books and papers spread across the whole top, inviting absolutely no one to sit with her.

She’d been so stressed recently that when she got home, she’d hoped for just one little sigh of relief.

Her mother, however, thought otherwise.

She drove home, the fresh April air blowing cool through her car, the sunshine streaming through her windshield and nearly blinding her. It was a two-hour drive that she loved making, her windows down, her music up, just her and her thoughts along for the ride. Sometimes, she would bring classmates home on her way through, but not this time. This time, it was just her and the quiet thump of her music rumbling through her body.

Her house looked the same every time she pulled up the long, twisting driveway. Except that it looked smaller with each return, the paint weathering extraordinarily quickly, the porch sagging under the weight of her expectations. Her mother waited on the porch steps, a cigarette dangling lit between her fingers. Kaylee could see the resemblances between them from her car, her mother’s amber hair reflected in her rearview, grey-green eyes staring at her from the mirror and from the porch. Kaylee parked, and stared up at the house instead.

It was a two-story home, painted a sunshine yellow, the shutters a deep brown they were almost black. Windows looked into a house full of clutter, memories filling shelves and cupboards alongside the overflowing books and knick-knacks. Kaylee wondered if the washer still made the whirring noise like dial-up internet, if her mother had fixed the window on the second floor near the staircase that let the seasonal breeze gust through into the hallway.

Kaylee unfolded herself from the car, leaning back in to grab her purse and her duffle.

“Hey Mom,” she called out. She crossed the grass, green fighting among a sea of a crinkling yellow. “Put that cigarette out right now.”

“Kaylee, please,” her mother pleaded, her lips turning down around her last drag. “Your grandma expects both of us at her house in the next fifteen minutes. Do not make me go there without a cigarette.”

“Mother.”

Her mother, Marie, stubbed the cigarette out on the stone path in front of the porch. She rose and tossed the butt into the tin can by the steps. She gestured her daughter forward and when she was in reach, pulled her into the tightest hug possible. Her mother’s hug was a campfire in the cool spring air. Kaylee tucked her head into Marie’s neck, Marie just a hair taller than her daughter.

“What is this thing, anyway?” Kaylee asked as she drew away. She led them both across the porch, heading into the house to drop off her belongings. “I thought Grandma hated family gatherings.”

“She does. This reeks of Gillian.”

Her aunt, Gillian, did have a way of engineering outcomes to her own gain.

“Okay, well, we’re going to be late because I need to change. I’m still wearing my midterm sweatpants.”

“Don’t make me later than we need to be, Kaylee Marie.”

“Okay then, Marie Kaylee.”

Marie laughed as Kaylee dropped her purse and duffle by the door, and headed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, towards her bedroom. Her mother called out hurriedly, repeatedly, prompting Kaylee to change faster, child, what are you even changing into, a full corset gown. Kaylee took her time changing out of her midterm sweatpants, searching through her drawers for something fresh and family-friendly. She decided on a light scoop neck sweater and a pair of dark, form fitting jeans, simple and not flashy but comfortable. Her family was traditional in some ways, insisting that girls be covered and modest at all times and that they must be virgins until their wedding night. Kaylee had other ideas, but kept them mostly to herself because of how wrong she thought they were about most things.

When she met Marie at the bottom of the stairs, she displayed her outfit.

“Perfect, let’s go.” Marie ushered her out of the house and into the car.

“You know, I’m not above slashing my own tires to avoid this family gathering.”

Marie rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be so dramatic, c’mon. Let’s go. Move it along.”

The drive to Kara’s house wasn’t far, less than five minutes of a drive, but it always felt longer and shorter at the same time, especially with Marie’s nerves infecting Kaylee’s. She didn’t mind her family, honestly. They were loud, and opinionated. If they knew what Kaylee got up to at college, they certainly wouldn’t let her hear the end of it, but that was why she kept her college life at college.

She thought of the girl she kissed that morning on her way out of the dorm, the golden hair she’d run her hands through as they stood in each other’s space, the taste of her sticky lip gloss that clung to her own now. She smiled. She’d like to bring that girl home someday, but she wasn’t hopeful of her family’s reactions. She would keep her secret for now, but it weighed too heavy inside her chest to keep forever. She wondered if she would feel lighter, if she would float away afterwards. She wondered. She didn’t know if she hoped. Maybe she did.

The driveway at her grandma’s house was full, fuller than Kaylee had ever seen it before. The house was usually cramped, but with the weather warming, the party had seemingly spilled into the yard. The smell of barbeque meant that Uncle Toby had arrived and started manning her grandfather’s grill. Kaylee could see the older women, her aunts and great-aunts sitting in the shade of a large red umbrella while small children, her cousins, ran through the tall grass that no one had gotten around to mowing yet.

She also guaranteed that it would be her mother, Marie, who would end up mowing the lawn.

“Let’s run away,” Marie offered.

“Let’s just get it over with.”

Kaylee unfolded herself from the car before Marie could change her mind. Marie followed.

“Kaylee, my favorite baby!” her grandmother, Kara called from the table with the rest of the ladies. “Come, my baby!”

Kaylee picked her way across the lawn and slid into the seat beside her grandmother. Kara wrapped herself around Kaylee in her warmest hug. Kaylee had been born to Marie before Marie had even finished high school, so the first years of her life were spent in Kara’s lap while Marie finished school, and then a bachelor’s degree in business. As the only, and oldest, child to the youngest of Kara’s children, Kaylee had always been favored, and it was obvious.

“Hello Grandma,” she murmured into Kara’s neck. “Missed you.”

“Oh, I missed you too, baby girl.”

Marie found a seat between her sister, Gillian, and a man that Kaylee had never seen before. He talked with Marie and Great Aunt Tina, who sat on his other side, as if they were old friends. Kaylee couldn’t find Kara’s face in his, nor her late grandfather, Tobias’ face. She knew every member of her family, especially Kara’s siblings who had doted equally on her as a child.

She had never seen this man in her entire life.

She didn’t ask to be introduced, instead choosing to answer Kara’s questions about school about her studies, her job, her internship, her thesis. Kara asked about her roommate, a girl who was never home as she was either studying or partying, and if Kaylee had snagged a boyfriend yet.

“No, I’m too busy for boys,” she laughed, unwilling to fully lie to Kara.

“Good, you have plenty of time for them after you get your degree.”

“Business, like your mother?” the unnamed man asked, pulling the conversation’s attention towards him. Kaylee met his eyes and felt cold. They were steel, almost unkind in their solid, unwavering gaze.

“No,” she answered. “I’m studying art, and art history.”

“And what are you planning on doing with that?”

“Well, first step after I graduate is more school; I’m going to graduate school to get a master’s in museum studies, and after that, I’m hoping to work at the Museum of Modern Art someday, maybe even be the curator.”

“Sounds promising,” he said. His voice made her heart skip beats, the way he paused between words sounding like a threat. She couldn’t imagine why Kara had invited him. “Well, I hope your excellent management skills get you exactly that, got those from your mother no doubt.”

Her eyes narrowed. Marie at his side blushed. Marie was a lot of things, but Kaylee never knew her to be shy or a blusher. She didn’t take compliments well. She was self-confident, and knew her own worth well enough that some man saying she had management skills wasn’t something that would make her blush.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name,” Kaylee said.

“Kaylee, you know him,” Marie said, almost taken aback. “This is my old friend, Thomas.”

“Are you sure?” she replied. “I honestly don’t know this man.”

Marie stood up and circled around the table to grab Kaylee’s arm. She shuffled her daughter away from the table and gently towards the house.

“Why are you acting like this?” Marie hissed.

“What do you mean? All I did was ask him his name.”

“He’s a family friend that you’ve known since you were a baby.”

“Literally never seen this man in my life.”

She dropped Kaylee’s arm with a surprising force, almost throwing it away from herself.

“Don’t embarrass me like this, not in front of him. I know he’s not your father, but-”

“Oh my god, this isn’t about Dad!” Kaylee snapped. Her father was absent, an artist who travelled from festival to festival to sell his paintings, and had been for most of her life. He dropped in every year around her birthday, and on Christmas if she were lucky. She loved him, but it was easy to love someone who wasn’t around that often. “This is about that stranger thinking he knows me.”

The stranger, Thomas, sauntered over with a small limp to his gait, a smile unnervingly wide on his angular face. Kaylee would call him handsome if there wasn’t something off about him. She couldn’t figure it out, couldn’t place exactly what it was that made her skin itch.

“Hey, I’m sorry if I said something wro-”

“This doesn’t involve you,” Kaylee cut him off, looking straight into his unending, steel eyes. He stared back at her. “This is between me and my mother.”

“Kaylee,” Marie started.

“No, no, it’s okay. College is stressful. She probably just needs a good night’s rest. Why don’t you go get something cold to drink, Marie, and I’ll talk to her.”

Marie stepped away, and before Kaylee could protest her leaving, headed towards the cooler.

“Now, now, Kaylee, I know-”

“You don’t know shit,” Kaylee spat, taking her own step from him. He merely smiled. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, or how you convinced my entire family that you’re their friend, but I know better. I don’t know you.”

He stepped back into her space and ducked down, a whole head taller than her. He caught her chin in a spindly hand, and opened his eyes as wide as they could go. Kaylee could swear they glimmered, a spark in the endless grey that couldn’t be attributed to the sunshine above.

“Don’t you remember?”

She stuttered for a moment, her world faltering. She shut her eyes tight, trying to concentrate. Trying to remember the summers with her mother and Kara when she was young, riding a bike down the drive and back up, smiling wide at Marie at one end and Kara at the other, the smell of the freshly baled hay blowing around them from the fields nearby. Trying to remember her father stopping every autumn with a new art technique he’d picked up, trying to remember the way he flirted with her mother every year, hoping that she might take him back. Trying to hold onto the feeling of golden hair tickling her face, falling around them both like a curtain, big green eyes stared down at her from above late at night when Kaylee’s reservations were weakest.

Trying to hold on.

Trying to hold.

Trying to.

Trying.

She opened her eyes and looked up at his face.

[kurtchristenson]

TWENTYSIX: The Kinetic Kid Blues A THRUSTisHere Short Story

"He's robbing the world of its magic!", the protester cried out one sunny morning outside the McAllister building. "Don't believe his lies!" I took a few seconds to gawk before unfolding my trusty spiral notebook from my back pocket. I jotted down, 'There's never a dull moment in this city of improbable possibilities', before zipping on down Forty-Second Street in a blur. I hit my last few deliveries and blew by the main office. I needed some cash and the bossman owed me big time. I looked over the cover story on the Post as I sat patiently for my pay to be scrounged together. The headline read: 'MILLIONAIRE MASTER OF MACHINES' and showed the slick image of Jordan McAllister unveiling his newest gizmo. Some useless wad of tech that could do everything from capturing audio and video to doing your taxes. Sure, it'd be nice to store every song I've ever heard into the same device that I make my monthly phone call to my mom with, but there should be some limit to these things. I was interrupted mid-ponder by the slapping of bills into my palm. "This should make us square kid. By the way, nice rush job on that McAllister drop off this afternoon. Not sure how you did forty blocks in fifteen minutes, but I admire that hustle Chuck." Joe Medley was the kind of boss people would follow into battle. A square jawed hombre hardened by a lifetime in the delivery business. If he would just shave that ridiculous moustache. I step outside and the thunder begins to pound on the grey skies above. An ominous smearing of the day's blue enormity. I slid on my glasses, retied my bandana and adjusted my cap before leaping off into the swirlling cityscape. A gentle flip off of a ledge and a swift pounce from a nearby flagpole and I was sent gliding along the metro-magnetic pulse. My mind caught hold as I soared through the streets, surfing the city's invisible veins faster than any pedestrian's eyes could follow. But not faster than hers. Helena, or Ms. Mercury as she refers to herself these days, came floating by as if I were swimming in slo-motion. Her faux innocence seeped from her sly stare. "Hey Charles." That damn slight curling up at the corner of her mouth. "Hey Helena." "Did you forget about tonight?" "Not yet. I'd remember open bar." "We have to see the exhibit this time. And try not to throw up on the V train again." "I'm not making any promises...are they going to have the little sandwiches this time?" "I'm not sure sweetie. Gotta run. See you at 7!" and with that, in a blink of an eye, she kisses my cheek and dissappears down 23rd St. I'm not sure if it's jealousy but I liked it better when she didn't have superpowers. We met outside the museum that night at 7:10. It's hard to believe any respectable superhero can make it on time to date, let alone two of them. We walked the exhibit arm in arm, and headed out for a drink. "It's great the things you can get free.", I shouted over the music at the lush Midtown bar. Some company or another had sent her a card for two complimentary drinks. Her sliver sandals shone brilliantly in the blurred cityscape light as it danced among the flapping of her black skirt. Her earrings sparkled as we blazed across town. Afterwards we zipped over to Jersey City where my friend's band were playing at a local bar. The sound rocked our internal organs and the cheap booze made us stumbly, so we decided to hoof it home like regular folk and leave the superpowers out of it for a night. The wait for the train is usually a panic inducing, claustrophobic, nightmare of a wait for one with speedy powers such as mine. But tonight I hardly noticed the thirty-nine minutes it took to finally come. We were finally Manhattan bound, when, after a few sloppy kisses and through slurred speech, she presented me with a gift. "It's an iWorld." She smiled up at me expectantly. My confused look elicited a further explanation. "It's the cell phone, instant messenger, mp3 player with GPS and a digital camera that also records video and audio." That druken haze in her eyes didn't match the tone of her voice. Suddenly, when discussing this gadget, a company salesman had taken control of my girlfriend. "Thanks baby." Something felt off, but I accepted the gift. I hugged my appreciation as we fumbled to the side nearly falling from our seats as the train screeched to a halt. As I activated the camera function on my new toy, I turned and snapped a picture of her as we ascended the subway stairs. The LCD screen caught the dramatic lighting of the moon as we stepped outside, illuminating her hair, draped alongside an inebriated smirk. As the days passed I tinkered with my new gizmo. Seems it truly does it all, which kicked in my suspicious nature. If this thing catches on like McAllister's numerous other expensive junk, available worldwide, then everyone will be capturing everything everywhere. Recording life around them and going back to it later to confirm it. Rather than just live our lives, we'd all just be directing a slideshow of images complete with soundtrack and then emailed off to family and friends. Isolated in our heads, viewing the world instead of interacting with it. Television is only the beginning. My head started to pound and my nose began to bleed. "Whoa, I gotta remember to watch the crazy talk.", I said to myself. The following Saturday Helena and I danced through the ballroom they call New York, spinning and leaping as we soared along with the city night frozen in an instant below us. I spun her out, but as she pounced from a traffic light, I saw a misstep. She began to arc too far as she twirled about like a whirling dervish, spinning wildly towards a display window. Instincts drove my body forward, letting my mind figure out the plan for itself. Two kicks had launched me towards the light post, and pausing horizontally for just a millisecond, I supercharged my next leap. I rocketed across the street, rotated as I skimmed across the hood of a taxi, and ricocheted off a mailbox, just catching her in my arms as she swooned and fainted. My feet grinded to a halt on the pavement, and instantly time popped all around me as my sneakers exploded into shrapnel. "What's happened to you Helena?" I cradled her in my arms as we glided home across the Williamsburg Bridge. She didn't wake until she was tucked in her bed. I applied the cold compress to her forehead and smiled down at her. She smiled back but it felt sad somehow. "How you doing kiddo?" I held her hand. "I'm fine. I just need some waffles..." she hoarsely whispered. "And OJ, and toast..." I kissed her hand as she drifted to sleep. I went to look for my iWorld to see what I could do. Once I found it, I couldn't imagine who to call, who would know how to help a sick superhero. She tossed and turned the whole night and despite her wishes, I decided to bring her to the emergency room. On the run there, she looked up at me with hopeless eyes. I never felt so useless. The doctors took her from me and told me not to worry and to get some rest. I couldn't sleep so I paced around the neighborhood, then jogged around the city and eventually ran the entire state. This wasn't something I could outrun. I grabbed a coffee at a rest stop somewhere in Pennsylvania. The caffeine wore off somewhere in Ohio and I slept on a bench in the lounge for an hour or two. I popped a caffeine pill and made it to Lake Michigan as the sun rose up behind me. My mind began to decompress as the tension drained from my body. Why was I running? What had happened to Helena? Why did I feel such overwhelming guilt? I took out my iWorld and began recording. I went over the details I could remember. Seemed as if I was stuck in a high gear for the past week. Oddly enough I wasn't able to produce many memories since that delivery to the McAllister building. I began to think of Helena and scrolled through the pictures I had taken of her. Over four hundred digital images were stored on the small piece of plastic in my hands. And as I flipped through I began to notice something. She was fading away. That very first picture showed Helena for the true beauty I knew her as. In each consecutive picture she looked weaker, her skin growing more pale, and that lovely smile never extending quite as far as it did that night. Was it this device? Was it me? I sprinted back to New York City, hit the library and began searching for anything related to the iWorld or Jordan McAllister. As the newsites popped up, everything seemed straightforward. Budding inventor brings together a team of other brilliant minds to make a great leap using the technology of the times. Each year their device had evolved, from the iHear mp3 device, to the iDrive multimedia player, to the iDream cell phone/PDA. The iWorld was the most highly advertised and therefore, desired, electronic device in the history of modern society. From billboards to rap videos to coffee chain tie-ins, the presence of this gadget had surrounded us before we even had it resting in our hungry palms. I guess I just wasn't paying attention as I blew through the city each day. Probably missed the TV commercials due to having only an old 13" b&w set at home with barely functioning rabbit ears. I was just having too much fun and, well, I suppose I was a bit out of touch with reality these days. I left the library more than a little distraught. Where could I turn now? I couldn't head home. I'd just wind up feeling sorry for myself. I couldn't just burst into McAllister's office and demand that he tell me the connection between Helena's collapse and his damned toy. "Why not?" The voice came over my headphones and I spun around. I checked out the iWorld expecting to have accidentally called someone from my address book once again. But it was off. "Drop on by the office. I've been expecting you." I remembered moments like this when, as a kid I'd ride my bike around the neighborhood listening to cassette tapes. The ambient background noise would make me suspiciously glance over my shoulders every few seconds, really implanting that paranoia. Tucked into the shadows of the East Village, I questioned my sanity as the voice kept creeping out of the headphones. I ripped them out and began to hyperventilate. The random soundtrack of the city funneled into my ears and grounded my brain for the moment. But I could still hear the tinny tone of the voice as it crept from out of the tiny pieces of plastic and wires in my hands. I tossed the device into my ski cap and stuffed the whole thing deep into the pocket of my army jacket. I closed my eyes and imagined myself outside McAllister's office, smashing through the front doors, leaping through the lobby, and slamming floor by floor up to his lush penthouse suite. I imagined myself destroying his happy and rich life, starting with his art deco decor and ending with his throat in my grip, suspending him outside the center floor-to-ceiling window of his decimated office. "Do it. Kill me son." I hesitated and came to my senses. I dropped to my knees. With several long, deep, drawn breaths in I could see that my momentary wish had become a reality. The entire span of McAllister's multi-million dollar chunk of real estate, with that spectacular view, was now leveled completely. The windows were all blown out, and the remaining shards of his luxurious lifestyle spread around me in a ring as if a bomb had been detonated in the center of the room. "It's so disappointing that you're such a failure." McAllister, mere inches from a two hundred story drop, looked severely sad. He took off his blazer and tossed it out the window. Unbuttoning his cuffs, he rolls up his sleeves, before kicking me clear across the room with an Italian loafer to the chest. "I only ask that you end my life and you can't even imagine that." McAllister began to pace around the room, the splinters and shards crackling under his steps. He brushes his hand through his hair and walks towards the last of the standing walls. With his other hand, he gently waves as the wall begins to disappear, replaced with a large metal womb. "Okay Chuck, here's how it goes. I'm the villain of this piece. I know, how post modern of me to mention it straight up like this. So clever, right?" McAllister grabs the womb and drags it closer. "Fuck clever. I'm your goddamn devil, child." I had finally caught my breath and my threw myself across the room into a defensive position. My arms crossed before me in an 'X', my front foot thrust forward, and my back foot at a 90 degree angle, bracing for impact or prepared to launch. My Quasar vision dazzled around the scene absorbing all the light in the room in nothing more than an instant. "Let's finish this." I couldn't believe the cliched battlecries I heard coming from my mouth. McAllister's hand is on the womb, gently raising it's liquid metal covering. His eyes are locked onto mine, and he holds me there with his magnetic-repulsion-rays. A smile is lifting the corners of his mouth as I shake my sight free. A small mob of young men, trapped beneath the next generation iWorld, the iSoul, roar into the room. Their eyes are blank, their ears full, and their minds empty. In their hands runs the current of power emanating from the womb. The surging fractal lightning pulsed around their fists as the iZombies stomped forward, bloody screams of battle on their breaths. I strained my crossed arms against the paralyzing effect McAllister was emanating upon me, and at the very last second, mere millimeters from the wildly swung punch of an iZombie, just then did I snap out and into action. I was like a breeze between the pack, darting low beneath their grasp. The burning edges of searing raw cosmos nipped at my hair as I slid behind them. My fist rockets right and throws half the bunch down and out. I whip my right around again and fire it like a piston into the back of another, before unleashing a southpaw shot to two more. My fists pumped forward, the muscles acting almost on their own behalf, and by the time I slowed them down the room was a bloody cocoon. "Perfect. And now the for the kicker." I swung around mad-eyed and frayed, tachyon fire streaming from my mind. McAllister had raised the womb's cover and inside I saw that it was her. The quicksilver shine blinded me and forced out tears. Before my eyesight returned though I knew who it was that lie there naked and fetal. And I knew it was my fault. It was the silvery scorched body of Velocity Girl. I had stripped her of her form somehow, weakened her. I was the one that charged after her, trapped her, gave Helena her powers. Helena?! My god. Where was Helena? "You hit every cue my boy. Brilliant!" Ms. Mercury smashed into the office with the force of a thousand furies. The glass and twisted metal danced and glittered all around her as she just absolutely dazzled with that golden glow. Her furrowed brow was so cute, and she was making that angry face. My god. This is why he had loved her. The way she looks right now is everything I saw in her and everything I had ever loved about any woman ever. I'm not sure if her fist hit me or if it was the shockwave of compressed air that hairline fractured my cheekbone. I was sent sailing to the floor in a one knock out punch. I don't even know if her skin touched me. And I don't even have time to hit the ground, cause as I drift down her foot comes up under my rib cage and fires me straight through the roof of the building and high into the night sky. It's beautiful out. The air is warm and mild. Just enough wind to carry you about. And the city is out and lit up and alive. It's a stage with lights, camera, and action abound. But it's all getting further away. Ms. Mercury glides upwards past me and I gaze at her amazing figure as it caresses the edges of a moonlit Central Park. Her leg stretches straight up to her chin and down across mine. Plummeting so fast, thinking isn't possible. Until I slam into time and space expands into my mind like blood into cracks of concrete. It's beautiful inside this silence. Crackling into my psychic ear, snow like fuzz of memories brushed aside to make room for McAllister's thoughts. I try to squeeze him out of my mind. But it's no use. He has a hold and he places in his reality. "I want you to realize that you must defeat her and stop me. I'm not sure if that's clear by now. Everything I do, I do for you." I felt him crying. Then I felt like a sack of mail snatched by a speeding train. A sack of potatoes dragged from a cropduster. The parachute behind a dragracer. Then spinning in a circular spin somehow elliptically spun until I was mentally undone and then I vomited as I was pitched full speed into and through the offices of fine and hard working individuals, that actually enjoy their jobs. She caught me on the other side and my vision had now returned. Sight smacked back into me, I now saw blood streaming behind us as the city blurred away. My face felt wet and sticky and syrupy. I was groggy and attempted to turn around. My stomach lurched and I dry heaved myself into a coughing fit, nearly letting my lungs collapse. I drew into myself and coiled up in my body. Tightly wound stone charging of my internal thrust. Fired aloud, I popped free from Ms. Mercury's grip and carved myself through the undercurrents towards Wall Street. I grasped my forehead, hoping to close the gash across my third eye. I was karma blinded and without a guidance system now. And the bleeding's stopped. Bouncing across the ledges and pouncing from the empty office views of Downtown Manhattan, I was ricocheting to a safe haven, where ever that was. It was then that my senses were finally coming back to me and I saw how aura destroyed I really was. I couldn't outrun her. I couldn't outpower her. I couldn't out fight her. I was screwed. So I tried to run anyways, skipping along the tops of the West side. But she was always more familiar with this side of town. Damn! She taps me with an uppercut I don't see coming. I try to brace for impact and curl into a fetal position. A million swats dribble me down to Canal St. before she kicks me into the Holland Tunnel at a hundred miles an hour. My body is broken as it rattles against the tiled walls of the tunnel. Ms. Mercury cascades up next to me as she prepares to bounce me off the walls. I have only one thought as she unleashes her venomous Valkyrie vengeance, only one solitary things crosses my mind at that exact moment. She looks so happy. I catch glimpses of dirt, and water and metal, and garbage and smoke before finally hitting something that catches me in it's warm embrace. I can't feel anything beyond my mind. My body must be shattered, along with my spirit, but my brain hasn't died yet. But consciousness fades and before it does I see a single sentence that seems so odd, yet so familiar set before the apocalyptic background around him. 'Welcome to New Jersey.'

[dwarva]

Stardew Valley 30 Day Challenge Day 20. Cooking

He should have said no. He really really really should have said no.

But when Rae had asked if she could come over for dinner while Robin made the finishing touches to the farmhouses new kitchen, he'd nodded, spluttered a yes and then panicked later about what the hell he was going to make for her.

Soothing music ebbed from the old fashioned radio by his bed but did nothing to calm his nerves as he peered into the fridge and did a brief inventory of its contents.

A half full bag of coffee grounds, three microwave meals and a jar of pickles wasn't going to make much of a meal. Curing himself inwardly for being so damned ill prepared, he slammed the door in frustration and grabbed his coat from the hook by the door.

As he raced down the stairs, two at a time, he searched his memory for Rae mentioning her favourite foods. Or, frankly, any foods she actually liked. But he was coming up with nothing. Had they even really discussed food? He had vague memories of seeing her eat at the Saloon but the anxiety that had previously come with even seeing her face seemed to have blocked out any memories of what she's been having.

Right, so what did you actually cook last? Maybe go with something you know you can manage?

Nothing.

He swung from the door to the clinic right into Pierre's and realised he'd gone from zero options to far too many. Standing in front of a shelf of brightly coloured packets, jars and cartons then slyly looking to the fresh produce on his left, he wasn't even sure where to start with this bounty of options.

Pierre looked at him over the counter where he was silently piling some coins. "You OK there Harvey?"

"Do you happen to know what Rae's favourite food is?" Any subtlety about his intentions had gone out the window when he realised he only had two hours to find and create a meal for her. The first meal they'd share.

The first of many?

Pierre grinned and shuffled the bags of gold into a drawer behind the counter and turned the old copper key. "I do actually. But you're not going to find it here I'm afraid."

Harvey stuffed back the packets of pasta he'd grabbed in a panic and headed towards the counter.

"Why?"

Pierre chuckled and looked at Harvey over his glasses. "It's cheese cauliflower. And while I've got some cheese in the chiller cabinet there you're fresh out of luck on the cauliflower. It's spring veg - can't imagine you'll find any in town on the second day of winter I'm afraid." He offered Harvey a sympathetic look but shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the coolers. "The cheeses are in the one by the door; if you wanted to grab some in case?"

Harvey nodded crestfallen, took a selection of cheese from the cabinet and rummaged in his coat pocket for some errant coins he guessed were in there. "Uh, I seem to be a little short... Maybe I'll just take this one-" He examined the various options to see which one was best left abandoned.

"Don't worry about it Harvey. I'll get it another time..." Pierre assured him. Harvey pushed forward all the coin he'd found in his pockets and headed to the door.

"I'll get it for you tomorrow!"

"Don't worry!" Pierre shouted back after him.

No wonder he wasn't turning a profit, thought Harvey cynically. But then he too was known for helping out the villagers when funds were tight. Maybe this was karma giving him a thumbs up for once?

He stood outside the store and looked around the quiet town. Where was he going to get cauliflower in winter? Across the river the hulking white building dominated the corner of the town above the museum. A chill wind of snowflakes whipped at his face as though his better conscious was giving him a slap.

Desperate times... he reminded himself and pushed through the snow flurries to the Joja Mart.

The upbeat tinkling of the doors mechanical bell as the doors slid apart did nothing to assuage the guilt in the pit of Harvey's stomach. He looked around and caught the eye of Morris whose shark tooth grin made him shudder as it appeared from behind a stack of packing crates by the door.

The tall, raven haired man emerged from behind the boxes and swept his arm around dramatically before grinning again at Harvey.  "Anything you're looking for Doctor we're sure to have. Did you have something specific in mind?" He pointed at the bundles of cheese in Harvey's hand and the edges of his mouth drew further upwards.

"I, um. I know it's out of season but do you have any cauliflower?" Harvey whispered, worried he'd be heard by other shoppers. Though the place seemed empty he knew Pam and Jodi both shopped here. Pam and Rae weren't close but seeing Harvey there would be just the sort of thing that Jodi might innocently slip into conversation the next time she saw her friend.

Morris threw his head back, thrust his hand dramatically over his chest and whooped a show laugh, exposing a mouth full of cavities filled with silver, making his oddly automaton nature even more prominent.

"Of course we do. They're frozen obviously but that's easily remedied." He gestured to the wall of identical freezers at the back of the shop. "Do help yourself. When you've found everything you need just come right back to Ida here. She'll be happy to help." Morris spun back around and busied himself amongst the crates and boxes.

Harvey looked across at Ida who stood behind the cash register with a grim expression on her ashen face. She glanced at Harvey with dull grey eyes and stayed motionless, only moving her eyes to focus what Harvey could only interpret as a death stare right into Morris now turned back. He'd never spoken to her before, she must live in the city and travel in to work, but he suddenly imagined her as a young woman, vibrant and full of life. Before Joja had its way with her.

Would that have been Rae's fate if she hadn't moved to Pelican Town to take over the farm? Would her eyes become as lifeless as Ida's; her spirit visibly broken and muted?

He shook off the worry. One frozen head of cauliflower wasn't going to change the world. She didn't even have to know where the vegetable had come from, he reassured himself as he turned the corner towards seemingly unending stark and clinical looking white shelves.

"What are you doing here Doc?" Shane looked at Harvey from under his blue hat with a mixed expression of confusion and unease.

"I needed something. For a meal for Rae..."

"No!" Shane growled, the sound echoing through the large room and drowning out the clunky electronic music that was being piped out of speakers in the ceiling. Harvey stepped back defensively as Shane moved at him. "Rae wouldn't want anything from here. I know that."

He looked Harvey up and down with narrowed eyes and the doctor stared down at his feet uncomfortably. "Well no, I know that Shane. But I need it for dinner. It's cauliflower - out of season and you can't get it anywhere - what would you have me do?"

"Make her something else." He turned, rearranged the cap on his head and started noisily stacking cans, from a box marked Cow Soup, on an already overflowing shelf. "She wouldn't want anything from here." He muttered bitterly.

The last remark almost sounded dejected instead of angry and just as Harvey went to move in and reassure Shane the man reeled around again gesturing at the promotional posters that lined the walls. "This white box is everything Rae came here to escape. Do you get that? She wouldn't want anything that came from this place with its crappy corporate agenda I can guarantee that. But if you think you know her better than I do then go ahead. You're much smarter than me Doc..." Shane lifted the box of canned beef soup and moved towards the store cupboard without waiting for a response.

Harvey smoothed his hand over his moustache and rested it on his chin, juggling the cheese in his free hand. Shane was right of course. He couldn't buy anything from Joja to give to Rae. Either she'd be hurt that he'd go against her beliefs or she'd be furious when she, inevitably, found out that's where he'd got it from. He gave himself a silent nod of confirmation and practically ran to the door, ignoring Morris' offers of coupons for his next visit.

He was just going to come up with the goods some other way...

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

The food was bubbling on the newly cleaned stove when the knock at the front door rumbled through the clinic. He looked over the makeshift dining table with its mismatched glasses, knives and forks before loping down to meet Rae.

When he opened the door and saw her standing there, the newly falling snow kissing her dark hair and her cheeks pink from the bitter gale, he froze. His mouth slacked open and despite the chilling air he felt sweat building on the small of his back. She smiled politely for a moment but once she realised he wasn't looking to do anything beyond stare at her she raised her eyebrows.

"It's a bit cold out here now the snow has started Harvey?" She pleaded with him and watched as the stunned expression left his face. He stood back and gestured for her to come in. Snow drifted off her olive coloured coat and small puddles formed onto the reception area of the clinic. The tiny white snowflakes melted into her hair and skin making her look almost dewy instead of windswept.

She shrugged off her jacket which he wrapped into his arms as she continued up the stairs to the sound of the gentle jazz drifting from the radio. He turned to see her looking round eagerly and realised she'd never been in his apartment before.

He suddenly felt nervous and apologetic. "Sorry it's not very roomy. Or tidy...."

She moved towards the display of model planes as Harvey searched for somewhere clean to lay her jacket. He dropped it onto the sofa, rushed to her and pointed to one on the upper shelf.

"Its a B-36J Peacemaker!" His expression lit up as watched her and he reached forward and lifted it from the shelf to show her in more detail. He smoothed his hand over the large green bomb that was attached to the base as Rae offered him a slightly indulgent look. He carefully placed it back on the shelf and lifted the blue plane next to it. "This is a RQ-4A Global Hawk. Its a surveillance aircraft, unmanned." He gazed at her, expecting questions, but she gave him a soft smile.

"They're really pretty?" As she reached forward, Harvey flinched back slightly. "Oh are they expensive?"

Harvey's cheeks flushed a deep red. "Sorry Rae," he mumbled. "I'm really not used to anyone being up here." He popped it back up on the shelf as a small veil of dust bounced from the wood.

Rae reached out her hand to touch Harvey's, rubbing her thumb gently over his palm. He wasn't sure if it was intended to be reassuring but his shoulders slouched and the tension that had been slowly building since he'd opened the door seemed to melt away.

She kept hold of his hand as she moved across to the kitchen; Harvey more than happy to keep his grip. He entertained a panicked thought that if he let go she might up and leave.

"Uh, are you sure it's OK to have that stove burning inside?" She looked nervously at the tiny camping stove sat upon a makeshift bar on the sink.

"Yeah I really didn't have a need for a stove until today. So I spoke to Linus about this. He said it would be OK if I put it right next to the window and kept it wide open. Let me know if you get cold. Or, uh, feel dizzy..."

Rae laughed and released his hand to dip a spoon into the bubbling green flecked liquid on the little stove.

"It smells incredible. What is it?"

Not cheese cauliflower, he reminded himself silently.

"Its artichoke cheddar soup? And I got some freshly baked bread from Robin. I know you like her bread." He paused and looked away at the simple pan of soup. "Is that OK?"

She lifted the spoon to her lips and tasted. Harvey watched her lips carefully run over the spoon and took a large gulp of breath, looking away uncomfortably. Rae smiled and her eyes rolled back in bliss.

"It's so good! Pierre's canned soup doesn't normally taste as good as this!"

"Uh, I made it..." She cocked an eyebrow at him and nudged his arm.

"Really? She placed the spoon back by the stove and moved towards him. "You really didn't have to go to all that trouble..."

If only you knew...

"It was no trouble." He lied. "I know it's not your favourite but...."

"Harvey," she began, tentatively wrapping her arms around his waist and recoiling slightly when his body stiffened, her smile vanishing. "Sorry..."

"No." He cursed himself internally at her withdrawal. "You don't have to stop. I just...I'm sorry. I just want this to all be easy and comfortable and I'm not very good at easy or comfortable. And last time we got a little carried away. I'll work on it..."

"Harvey you made me dinner. Do you know the last time someone actually cooked for me?" Her green eyes glistened at his and he shook his head. "I was nine... My parents were very much of the opinion that once you could look after yourself you were set and should just get on with it. I'm not saying I want to be coddled but this?" She nodded to the soup. "This is one of the best gifts I've been given in a really long time."

"You've never had a boyfriend cook for you?"

"Let's just say that most of my previous relationships have been with guys who think pizza and beer is the height of cuisine..." Harvey's stomach sank as he thought back to Shane's comment that he knew her better. Did he? Was Shane a better fit for Rae?

"Oh. OK." He took a wooden ladle to the soup and grabbed the basket of bread from on top of the microwave. "So is that...is that the sort of man you like?" He tried desperately to seem relaxed and casual but the mechanical way that he placed the bread on the folding table betrayed his nerves.

"No. Not now Harvey." She opened the doors of the cupboards under the sink and appeared with a couple of mismatched and chipped bowls. She offered them to Harvey who ran his calloused fingers over the rough edges of the chips. A reassuring hand on his arm made his muscles tighten further as he looked up at her through slightly steamed glasses. "I think my days of being impressed by pizza and beer types are probably over."

"Is hastily made soup and bread any better?"

Her expression hardened. "Yes. It is." She assured him. "I can see that cooking isn't something you do very often Harvey. So the fact that you've gone and got all these things to make me dinner instead of just taking me to the Saloon or whatever? Yes. This is far, far better..."

"I just want you to be happy Rae." He said quietly. She lifted her hand up to his cheek and touched her lips gently against his. It probably wouldn't even have been classed it as a kiss. It was a thank you. But his lips still ghosted with her taste after she'd gone back to take the soup from the stove.

"Are you ready to start?" She asked, ladling soup into the green bowls.

Definitely ready to start, he thought.

[charmingpplincardigans]

And here is some nonsense only @lisapizza will care about, since she asked me to write about Xiv in the pink hoodie like she knew it was all I’d been thinking about all afternoon. (She knows me quite well. Don’t tell her though, she’ll get a big head.)

It started with the tie.

Peleon was sick, which meant he was miserable. Not, as Xiv had assumed, because it reminded him of how weak the remaining human parts of his body were in the scheme of things, but because they were meant to meet with a new gallery owner called Sabine Retteck that day and there was nothing Peleon Flood loved more than art gossip. He sat on the edge of Xiv’s bed, looking ridiculous and swallowed up in Xiv’s old track sweatshirt, and watched as Xiv dressed in his new suit--the one without the bullet holes.

“That tie sure is something,” Peleon said.

Xiv almost felt bad for how hard it was to get disdain across when you couldn’t breathe out of your nose.

The tie was something. Xiv’s father had sent it to him. It arrived two days after Xiv had told Angel Anthony Louis Torres the thirteenth that he would not be returning home to take over the family business and he certainly wouldn’t be marrying Chedeline Delice and forming any synthetic skin empires or producing heirs. (Marrying Chedeline was right out, though he still cared for her a great deal she did not care for him. The children he thought may still come with time, if Peleon was amenable, but Xiv was certainly not going to hand them over to the upbringing he’d had.) He’d been concerned the small package would contain an admonishment, perhaps a copy of his father’s will with him written out. Instead it was a tie and a short handwritten note saying that every man had to make his own way and that it was best to leave a strong impression when doing so.

The tie was a deep purple and dotted with red and blue chrysanthemums. It was made of a fabric Xiv’s father had had a hand in creating, something light and silken to the touch, but that looked three-dimensional, like velvet. Electric fuzz, his father had called it. Xiv rather liked it. Peleon was deeply unimpressed. Or at least, trying to be.

“Do you like it?” Xiv asked, watching Peleon’s reflection in the mirror as he worked out his knot. “I’m sure I can have you a whole suit made of it.”

Peleon hadn’t even answered Xiv. He’d just given him the dirtiest look he could muster with his red eyes and dripping nose and left the room.

. . .

The scarf had been a whim. Some cheap copy of an old photo of a piece of street art he’d loved when he was young, printed on the thin cotton in such a way that made it look like a watercolor version of the image. It was all work he could have done in about a minute with his own computer, work he himself might have done with more consideration and love, but for reasons spurred on by a deep sense of nostalgia he couldn’t pass it by.

Xiv brought the scarf back to Ankh’s brownstone and tacked it to the ceiling above the bathroom vanity, so that the hem of the scarf, just where the image displayed the water of the river, sat lightly against the top of the mirror and cut off the reflection of his hair. He didn’t mind. He didn’t need to see his hair anyway, not nearly as much as he needed the daily reminder of the queen of flowers that had been painted on the concrete bridge support, her brown skin peeking out from between tendrils of green vine-like hair dotted in wild flowers.

“If you wanted flowers, you could just get a window box like normal people,” Peleon said.

Peleon was the much vainer of the two of them, but he could see his hair just fine, even without the top of the mirror, so Xiv didn’t know what he had to complain about.

. . .

It was another several days before Xiv realized that Peleon’s problem was not with flowers at all, but with the flaunting of them. They were going over the proposed merch for the latest exhibition of Ankh’s reclaimed work and there were sample scarves and postcards and temporary electronic transfer tags spread out over the work table in the library. Peleon’s white gloved hands hovered over the postcards before he pulled one close to him, studied it, and then drew a large black X over the image.

“What did you do that for?” Xiv asked, snatching the card away.

The image on the card was one of Ankh’s more personal, unusual pieces. Typically, when promoting Ankh’s work, the galleries or museums went for the mono- or duo-chromatic pieces. Blacks and whites and greys, images made of complicated geometrical expressions or Escher-esque puzzle pieces that changed as you studied them. They wanted to play up the otherness, the inhumanness of him. Come and see the marvelous machine that can make art that no human would. This one was different. It was a cluster of daisies set against a background of simple light blue lace, delicate and very human in its imperfect proportions.

“This one doesn’t belong to them,” Peleon said.

“All of it belongs to them,” Xiv countered. “That’s kind of the point of showing it.”

Peleon sat back and crossed his arms, thin lips drawn into a frown. “There’s a time and a place for the emotional. It has impact on the body or on the wall. It loses impact when it’s strewn about the city like knock off pearls and cheap vodka.”

“I don’t agree,” Xiv said.

He was thinking about Peleon himself. It had been months and months now that he’d been used to coexisting with both Peleon the presentation and Peleon the man. He’d forgotten they were separate entities, that one was how the other was able to exist at all. When he looked at Peleon in his sober slim cut suits and gloves he was thinking of Peleon undressed--the Peleon that was a riot of color splashed onto pale skin with neon humming in his metal and flexiglass, the Peleon that was warm, that glowed. He had forgotten that not everyone could see that, that there had been a time when he too had assumed Peleon to be rigid and cold. It was an assumption Peleon used to great effect in their work, because he could, because he worked hard to be able to.

“Of course you don’t agree,” Peleon said. “You’d paint the whole city lilac if you could. What would there be left to feel when you’d drenched everyone with artificial joy? When they got used to it?”

“Not everyone sees lilac the same, there would never be one single emotion to get used to.” Xiv leaned over the table until he could reach the card with the X on it. He slid it back to his side and studied the curve of Peleon’s mark. “The disagreements over what you were supposed to feel about it alone would cause just as much dissonance as any of these stark, structural designs. You want them to forget that what they’re looking at was once alive.”

“I want them to remember that this isn’t all that life is.”

“Can’t it be?” Xiv asked. “Just for the hour or so that they spend with it?”

Ankh came into the library then, carrying a case of ink. He paused behind Xiv and looked down at the card and then at Peleon. They shared a silent conversation over Xiv’s head. Peleon’s frown deepened. He pushed away from the table and calmly left the library.

Ankh dropped a metal hand onto Xiv’s shoulder. “Allow that one,” he said, and then he trundled away, leaving Xiv alone with unresolved art and unresolved thoughts.

. . .

Xiv was late to the gallery. He’d wanted to make an entrance, but hadn’t meant to keep Peleon waiting this long. The girl working the door recognized him from the planning meetings and waved him through.

“Nice,” she said, gesturing to his hoodie.

“Thank you,” Xiv said. “Do you know where I can find Peleon?”

“The ginger hellcat is in the back office with Sabine. They should be finished soon.”

“Thanks” Xiv said, and then pushed on through the crowd.

The door to the office was open, so he knocked and stuck his head in. Sabine looked up at him and smiled. Peleon turned to see who was interrupting and his expression went from annoyance to frustration with a small quirk of his lip.

Sabine stood and came around the desk holding her hands out. Xiv let her take his hands and kiss the air to either side of his cheeks. “Xiv, darling, I’m so glad to see that one of the robot’s boys is capable of self-expression.”

“Oh, Peleon expresses himself,” Xiv said. “He just does so very meticulously.”

“I guess that’s what makes you good at what you do,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll go out and see if any clientele needs to be wrangled. You boys let me know if you need anything.” With that she let go of Xiv’s hands and disappeared out the door.

“You are an asshole,” Peleon said.

Xiv grinned at him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Take it off.”

Xiv reached down and gripped the light pink hem of his hoodie. “This thing? I don’t think that I possibly could.”

The hoodie was something--light pink and covered with daisies printed in a mix of pastel colors. He’d purchased the hoodie itself from a cheap clothing store on the other side of the river. It had been an accident that he’d seen it, but the alterations that he’d made to it had been very purposeful. Just over his heart he’d sewn a replica of Ankh’s daisies and lace piece with Peleon’s X slashed over them. The overall effect had turned quite a few heads on his way over. Just now it was slowly turning Peleon’s ears red.

Peleon stood. “You’ve made your point, take it off.”

“Oh, alright,” Xiv said, and started to pull the hoodie over his head.

He wasn’t wearing even a tank top underneath it, which meant that Peleon had to suffer either the indignity of his misgivings or the indignity of Xiv’s body, an emotive dark canvas covered with just as much ink and color as Peleon’s own body. The only difference between them was that somewhere along the way, Peleon had learned that feeling was a liability and Xiv had learned that it was the entire point of being alive. Well, two differences, that and the prosthetics.

Peleon hissed and closed the space between them. He pulled the hoodie back down and glared up at Xiv. “Enough,” he said. “Ankh sided with you, I don’t know why you’re still taunting me.”

Xiv laughed at the absurdity of that. “You think this is about Ankh? You think this is because the teacher marked my paper higher? Oh, Pe.”

Peleon’s jaw twitched. Nicknames, like tattoos, were things best left in the dark.

Xiv leaned forward. He tugged at the lapels of Peleon’s jacket and kissed Peleon’s forhead, then he rested his own against it. “Lace, flowers, nostalgia, the color lilac: none of these things are as painful as you think they are.”

“For you,” Peleon said.

“For me, and the people around us.”

Peleon was quiet for a long moment. The sounds from the party in the gallery trickled in to them. Someone laughed, glasses clinked, harp music wound through all the rest of it. “This was meaner than you thought it was,” he said finally.

“I’m sorry,” Xiv said. He was, he hadn’t wanted to actually upset Peleon, just knock some sense into him. When he’d been thinking about their differences he’d only been thinking about how much joy his way of life brought him and wanted to share it. He hadn’t considered that Peleon might have a good reason for being the way he was.

“I’m trying,” Peleon said.

“I know you are.” Xiv kissed Peleon’s cheek and then his jaw. “Your pain doesn’t belong to everyone.”

“Your joy doesn’t belong to everyone,” Peleon said, and kissed Xiv on the lips, hungry and insistent.

Xiv went with it until the song changed. Then he pulled back and took a deep breath. “You still have to wait until we get home before I take this off.”  

Peleon stepped away and straightened his jacket and tie to rescue it from whatever miniscule dishevelment Xiv have inflicted on him. Really, loving Xiv was like loving a window. For it to function properly, one had to wipe away all traces of one’s contact. “I can suffer the dissonance of lilac for another hour, I suppose.”

“That's the spirit,” Xiv said, as he turned to leave the office.

“Really though,” Peleon replied, his voice as monotone as it could get. “That hoodie sure is something.”