#internally howling must settle for wheezing

[i-am-l-ananas]

I think I deserve an award for keeping it together on the quiet floor of the library after receiving a text from my mum letting me know that my dad is learning what a gay bear is

[youngster-monster]

The City v. Ahamkara

Prologue - Bloody and Raw

The way back is a blur. Cayde can’t tell if he’s moving through a dream or reality, if he’s moving or sitting still with the world flowing around him. It comes to him in disjointed snapshots, brief bursts of movement before everything freezes again like an old laggy monitor. Fire from the wreckage of the Prison; a gunshot; Petra’s voice, concerned, and his own, distant to his own ears, pantomiming humor even though he has no idea what words are leaving his mouth.

Through all of it the only tangible constant is a hand wrapped around his wrist. Razel, his brain supplies, insistent even as a part of him argues back, not quite. He thinks he can feel claws scratch lightly against the painted surface of his arm. It’s false, of course. He can’t feel input that sensitive usually and certainly not now, with half of his receptors shot to hell. Maybe his processor is making up for lost feedback with imagined ones. Not reality as much as what he expects reality to be like — new, and absurd, and scratchy like a bird perched on his arm and poking its tiny little bird-claws into the joint of his wrist to keep its balance.

Perhaps the pinprick of not-quite-pain is impossible but what isn’t, today?

He’s walking on his own two feet, although there’s a great deal more stumbling than walking involved: that’s one. He won’t call it a miracle but it’s a struggle to find a word that fits the impossible-made-possible just as well.

Sundance is dead. He forces himself to think the whole sentence, even though it hurts like a bitch in a deep part of himself he’d rather not look at. Better to have it hurt now than fester in the dark and poison him. He’s seen what that kind of grief does to guardians. There’s a good reason so few of them survive the initial loss of their Ghost. He never thought he would, himself: anything good enough to kill Sundance would surely get him, too.

But it didn’t. That’s another for the Impossible tally he’s keeping for himself.

Razel’s grip tightens slightly, protectively, as if he caught the tail-end of that thought. Here it is. The last item on the Impossible list, the one Cayde is even less keen to linger on. Sundance’s death is not an immediate, pressing matter. It’s done; there’s nothing else he can do but withstand it now. Whatever’s up with Razel is an ongoing issue and there’s nothing he wants more than to avoid thinking about it.

He’s unlikely to get any luck with that but a man can hope, yeah?

It takes an eternity to reach their ship, falling forward rather than walking until they’re in reach of a transmat and then wincing his way through the touch of an unfamiliar-familiar Ghost as Cubix transports them to the Queen of Hearts. The impact of his feet on the metal flooring makes a heavy, echoing sound. Razel doesn’t make one at all. He’s like a ghost himself, suddenly, taking twice as much space as usual with none of the flailing that should come with it.

That’s when it catches up to him in earnest — no more of that shell shocked avoidance shit. It must be something in the air, he muses, that settles too heavily on his mind until he buckles under it. Something about the quiet of his own ship, the distant sound of howling and crashing and chaos replaced with the gentle hum of an idle engine; something about the stars blinking cold and distant through the cockpit; something about the persistent rattling in his chest, where the universe twisted itself to fulfill Razel’s desire and still didn’t manage to fix the minutiae of his internal machinery. As if water-cooling is a concept beyond even paracausal miracles.

It’s all, suddenly, too much.

Cayde collapses into the pilot’s seat, clunking and creaking, all the air wheezing out of him like a sorry bagpipe. He feels his entire weight suddenly, every pound of metal and wires, in a way he can’t blame on the difference between the Coast and the artificial gravity aboard the ship. He feels his entire age, each and every single endless year of it, remembered or not. Fuck, but he’s too old for this.

And Razel still won’t stop touching him. Hasn’t ever since— ever since. Even now he has a hand on Cayde’s shoulder, fingertips tucked under the collar of his cloak to lay on the bare metal of his neck underneath.

It’s a comfort. It’s a threat. It makes Cayde’s skin crawl. He wants to jerk away from it. He wants to lean into it. He doesn’t know what he wants, or what he feels beyond confusion, exhaustion, and a bitter kind of relief — the exhausting feeling of having held a snake in your hands and trading the fear of being bitten for the venom.

He’s not used to feeling like that near Razel — one of his closest friends, someone he trusts.

“You okay?”

Stupidly, he expected Razel’s voice to sound different. It’s the same as always: a little higher-pitched than you’d expect, with that slight Awoken flanging to it. At least he’s always pinned the sound of it on Razel being an Awoken and, as such, a little bit weird, as is expected. Now he’s not so sure.

“I’m alive,” Cayde replies grimly. “Sundance is dead and my best friend—” he stumbles there, but what good is a Hunter who balks at a challenge? “Is a wish-granting space dragon in disguise, but I’m alive. Silver lining, right?”

Razel curls into himself, looking small and hurt. It’s hard to see the monster in him just then — even harder than before. He just looks like Razel, and Cayde hates seeing Razel like that — like he just got hit over the head and doesn’t know what to do about it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice winding into a white at the end.

All the fight goes out of Cayde at once. It’s not guilt; not quite. He’s too drained for guilt. But it’s a little bit close to it.

He lifts a hand and lets it fall heavily on Razel’s head, ruffling his hair. “You did what you could, buddy.”

The frown he gets in return is fierce, but no fiercer than seems normal for Razel. He’s quick to anger and even quicker to forget about it, and as dramatic as his moods may be they’re rarely destructive. At least not for the right people. Cabal are all out of luck on that front. Still there’s something in his eyes — a wild, unnatural sharpness to the familiar orange-gold glow that makes a previously unknown animal instinct in Cayde raise its hackles. Whatever happened in the Prison, whatever bolt broke open to release the creature hidden under his features, there’s no locking it back up.

It suits him, though. Perhaps it’s always been there, lurking under the surface, showing glimpses of itself through Razel’s weirdest habits. Perhaps Razel isn’t that different now from a day ago; there’s comfort in that.

After all, he broke open reality to save Cayde. That must mean something, right?

“I didn’t,” Razel says mulishly. “There has to be something more I could have done. I mean—”

He never finishes that sentence. Not that Cayde needs him to. He’s seen what Razel did do. There’s still blood flaking on his fingertips from when he wiped it off Razel’s face; there’s still a dent in his chest where a hit that crumpled his chest like a soda can should have killed him and didn’t. What else might an Ahamkara do if given the chance?

There, he said it. The damning word. It’s not as if there’s a point pussy-footing around it anymore.

“You did what you could,” Cayde repeats, giving Razel another headache-inducing pat from his half-numb arm. “And a damn sight better than what anybody else could have done for me in that situation, lemme tell you. You’re not a miracle worker.”

“Aren’t I?”

“Well— okay, maybe you are. But you’re about as qualified as I am to grant wishes, so no one’s about to blame you for botching it somewhat.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and he catches Razel’s wince in the corner of his eyes, but that goes ignored as another matter occurs to Cayde.

They might not blame Razel for the botched resurrection — knowing what they do of the limit of Ahamkara abilities, and that’s very little, it’s hard to tell whether or not he could have done more. But they will blame him for everything else. Not the near death experience, no. But being an Ahamkara? Hiding it from the City, the Vanguard, even unknowingly? It would be a crime, if any of them had known it was possible enough to make a law punishing it. It will be a crime once they catch wind of it.

And Cayde is thoroughly weirded out by the whole thing, but he’s not about to let his best friend get locked up for having saved his life.

“I have a few questions,” he says, although he’s not sure he truly wants them answered. Unfortunately there won’t be another time for it. “But once we’re home— not a word of it. Capische?”

Razel nods hard enough to dislocate a vertebrae.

Satisfied, Cayde punches in the code for manual piloting and sets the ship on course for the City. They’ve got this.

-

It occurs to Cayde that they have not got this when Ikora comes knocking at their door two days later at five a.m.

At any other hour it would be nothing out of the usual. He likes to think they’re friends, the two of them, and although it’s usually Vanguard business that brings her to their front step she’s always welcome to drop by unnanounced. He’s been expecting her, anyway.

When Razel and him crawled back to the Tower, dirty and exhausted and shell shocked, she was there to greet them. She was the first one to see Cayde’s sorry state, to ask — in a reassuringly familiar kind but straight to the point manner — what had happened. She’s the one who told him to take a leave, before Zavala even got there to order him the same. It was only a matter of days before she came by to see how he’s doing and kick him out of any self-pitying hole he might have dug for himself in the meantime.

But that’s a visit one makes during the day, or in the evening when she manages to claw back some free time from her mercilessly tight schedule. Nothing good ever comes from a five a.m visit.

Cayde opens the door in his pjs, bare feet against the cold floorboard, to Ikora and a Guardian in full armor he doesn’t recognize. They’re holding a rifle against their chest, in that kind of parade rest that Titans naturally adopt when they’ve been told they won’t have to use it and they don’t entirely believe it.

He fell asleep not two hours ago, but any bleariness remaining from his dramatically shortened night disappears at that sight.

“Mornin’,” he says, hand clenching around the door. He could slam it in their face, but the grim set of Ikora’s mouth tells him they’re far beyond that point. He shouldn’t even have opened it.

Her voice, when she speaks up, is that of the Warlock Vanguard — all business.

“Holliday sent me your records.”

Blinking, Cayde tries to connect that information to the current situation. Holliday, the shipwright. Holliday who’s been working on fixing the Queen of Hearts with a fervor that suggests it’s the only thing she knows how to fix in this damned situation. Holliday—

Who would have had to access the ship’s records to know exactly what to fix. The kind of records that include any and all audio captured aboard in the last few days.

“Fuck,” he says plainly.

She gives him a compassionate look that only makes him feel bad, until it darts up — towards the rest of the apartment — and then he feels worse. The Titan’s grip tightens on their rifle. The faint creaking of their gloves is the only sound for a good long while.

Slowly so as to not startle them into action, Cayde turns his head to look behind his shoulder. Razel has frozen in place next to the couch, holding Admiral in his arms. The cat jumps out of his grasp and pads towards Cayde, rubbing against his legs. Razel just stands there, licking his lips as if wondering if he still has time to bolt back inside their room.

“Is everything okay?” He asks eventually. He looks directly at Ikora when he says it — always does, when he’s not sure what’s going on. She’s his Vanguard; his lighthouse.

“Razel,” she says. It’s not a greeting. It’s the beginning of a longer sentence — of something worse. “You stand accused of treason, perjury, and crimes against the City at large. You will be put into Vanguard custody and judged in a court of law. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court—”

The rest turns into senseless muttering as electrical buzzing overtakes Cayde’s ears — the sound of some Light-forsaken processor going into overdrive in an effort to keep him from hyperventilating. The Titan shoulders their way past him, marches to a still immobile Razel and snaps a set of handcuffs around his wrists. There’s a burst of light as they close; Cubix materializes next to him, the first Cayde has seen of him since they left the Shattered Coast. He’s been keeping his distance to make it easier on him, Cayde thinks dumbly, that small, idiotic kindness the only thing he can focus on at the moment.

Cubix’s voice has gone shrill with worry. “You can’t do this! Ikora—”

She shakes her head, her face set in a stern expression to cover any deeper feeling she may harbor. She’s a professional; Cayde doesn’t have it in himself to admire that, right now. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Cubix, I’ll have to ask you to come with me. Alone.”

Reluctantly, he does, flying up to her. The Titan pulls Razel aside as he floats past, and they put themselves between him and Cayde when they march him past. As if they’re afraid allowing him to touch either of them would make him explode out of his restraints somehow. As it is, he remains meek as anything as he shuffles after them. It’s an incredible sight: Razel with his hair down and messy like a bird’s nest from an uneasy sleep, dressed in nothing more than a shirt — Cayde’s — his underwear — pink — and a single sock — it has a hole at the big toe — being led away in handcuffs by a Titan twice as large as he is who keeps a tight grip on his arm as if he’s liable to eat them.

But he doesn’t, and the door closes on them with a soft click and one last apologetic look from Ikora. Cayde is left behind, in a dark apartment, empty save for himself and the loud meowing of his cat in the kitchen and the gnawing impression that none of this would have happened if he wasn’t such a gigantic idiot.

Somewhere, the sun rises.

He doesn’t see it.

[Read ch. 2 on AO3]

[runningwolf62]

Part 6! Thanks @wardencommanderrodimiss for beta reading this! 

Larry is convinced he’s dreaming, or dying, but Edgeworth continues to stand there, watching him struggle not to choke to death on his noodles.

“I’m guessing Wright didn’t tell you-“

“Yeah no shit,” Larry wheezes and the anger in it is lessened only by the fact he’s struggling to breath, Nick had known? Nick had known and not told him?

He forces back that bitterness, he’s been distracted with rescuing Maya, Nick doesn’t have time to send him a text that their childhood friends is you know, alive. And in Nick’s defense, Edgeworth sure hasn’t texted him either. And one of them was responsible for this mess and it wasn’t Nick.

“You better buy me more noodles and explain everything,” Larry wipes the tears from his eyes, “because Nick is terrible at texting me when there isn’t a crisis.”

Edgeworth smiles faintly at that, “he must text you often then.”

“Nick’s not always in a crisis!” Larry defends him, but he’s fighting a smile, “we take turns.”

That pulls a smile out from Miles, who waits for Larry to recover from almost choking to good naturedly ask his order. Larry hadn’t actually expected him to do so, it wasn’t like he’d spat out that much of his food when Miles had startled him, so he accepts it to go.

Well assuming eating this much salt in one week won’t actually kill him then he’s set for a while. Which means he can now focus on Edgeworth.

“Alright so you gotta spill because Nick ran off with Maya so good luck getting anything out of him for a while.”

Edgeworth looks enlightened and Larry nods, “yeah that’s where he’s hiding, so man, what happened?”

“Why don’t we find somewhere out of the cold and we’ll talk,” Edgeworth promises, and Larry follows.

A café nearby offers them shelter from the wind and only frowns a little when Larry enters with food from somewhere else, frowns that disappear when Edgeworth orders them both something to drink and puts what Larry suspects to be a fifty percent tip in the tip jar.

They settle out of the way and Edgeworth explains his time in Europe, his time questioning what it meant to be a prosecutor, and self-discovery and why he’s finally come back. Larry makes sure to slurp his noodles loudly when Edgeworth says something that he thinks is dumb like ‘needed time to understand myself’.

“Alright look man, I get having a crisis at this age,” Larry sits back, his carton of noodles empty and he’s grateful for the drink Edgeworth got him because his mouth is now drier than Edgeworth’s wit, next time he should just like a salt lick dry, and he slurps some of the smoothie down washing down the salty noodle taste with strawberry, “but like, you couldn’t have called and been like ‘sorry for scaring you all, I need to discover myself’ or ‘I was being dramatic and meant death of the self, I’m not actually dead’ because…” he trails off at the look on Edgeworth’s face, his gut clenching. He’d been afraid of that.

“It wasn’t just dramatics at first was it?” Larry asks softly, a rhetorical question, but as damning as the evidence Phoenix pulls from nowhere to win his cases.

Edgeworth doesn’t answer and he doesn’t have to, Larry decides to do what he does best and fill the silence with rambling.

“Anyway, you’ve missed a lot, thanks for the explanation of who Von Karma was by the way because she was something.” Larry lifts his brows, “maybe I could meet her, though I think I’m technically honor bound to fight her for whipping Phoenix unconscious-”

“She what?”

“Oh yeah it was back over the summer, he just walked it off!” Larry looks at him exasperated, “well you know what I’ll take her being shot as my revenge for Phoenix. They’re both fine so it’s all good.”

“That’s not how it works but I think she’d whip you unconscious as well,” Edgeworth observes with one of those little pleased smirks. Larry frowns at him.

“We’re not in court, don’t look at me like that,” he settles back in his seat to take in Edgeworth, “I’m glad you’re back though, dealing with Nick’s bullshit on my own was exhausting.”

“I can only imagine,” Edgeworth says and there’s a strange edge to his voice, Larry grumbles into his smoothie.

“I only recently got Maya’s number so I had no one to talk to about the stunts he pulls you know, like who else has a best friend that gets into half the trouble Nick gets into?” Larry shakes his head, “Maya called me worried about him, and I was halfway out the door ready to go to the hospital before I figured out she meant emotionally.”

That makes Edgeworth smile and Larry grins at him, the grin one gives when you’ve found someone who understands, the way he smiles when he talks to WolfDragon.

“He does get himself into trouble doesn’t he?”

Larry shakes his head and mutters under his breath, “more than you know man.” He sips on the smoothie, “I used to wonder what his parents were thinking naming him that but now I think they were psychic or something.”

“There are no such things as psychics,” Edgeworth says flatly, Larry looks over at him and frowns, sipping on his drink.

“Dude, don’t say that where Nick and Maya can hear you.”

Edgeworth goes to open his mouth and Larry shakes his head, “look, you have your issues man and I can see why, ‘cause like you’re a lawyer science guy I get it but like, Maya’s life revolves around being a psychic and Nick adores her so just saying.”

Edgeworth gets a weird look and Larry realizes he might’ve just caused a misunderstanding, “you know since Mia died he’s looked after her, like she’s his little sister or something.” He sips his smoothie, “so no dating her, he’d break my kneecaps.”

Edgeworth arches a single eyebrow in an elegant motion, “not mine?”

“Have you ever been into girls?”

Edgeworth starts to reply and closes his mouth, “when did you-”

Larry doesn’t want to admit that he figured it out writing Warrior Cats fic and shrugs, “look, I’m the disaster heterosexual, you’re the elegant homosexual, Nick’s the functional bi.” He’s seen the alignment charts, he’s figured this out. “He leans into disaster but he’s got a job and pays his bills and things, he’s functional.”

Edgeworth looks at him like he’s speaking a foreign language and to be fair memes probably a foreign language to him. Larry accepts this.

“So are you going to be prosecuting again?” Larry changes the topic gracefully, or as gracefully as he can, and Edgeworth looks relieved to move to a more neutral and understandable line of conversation.

They chat about Edgeworth’s plans and catch up a bit for a while longer before Edgeworth has to go and Larry agrees he’s also got things to do.

He makes sure to get Edgeworth’s number though. If he has to get a plan with international calls it’ll be worth it to not go through a year like this again.

-

Orangestripe caught himself next to Firebirdstorm, sides heaving as he looked over the battlefield, “of course she gets caught by remnants of Spark’s group,” he pants, “couldn’t have just gotten lost-”

Firebirdstorm lashes out at the nearest rogue with a vicious strike that sends the tom howling as he races away, “I don’t care if I have to fight Spark himself, we’re getting her back.”

“If you have to fight Spark I’ve got questions since he’s supposed to be dead.” Orangestripe had caught his breath though and lunged forward with a yowl, rolling over a she-cat, they tussled over the ground, he’d lost Firebirdstorm in the fight, blood splattered over the grass as he swiped at her.

She was larger than him though and pinned him down, he grunted as she slammed him against the ground.

“Gonna teach you a lesson Clanner,” she breathed and Orangestripe tried to kick her off desperately, she was going to play with him before she was done and he wasn’t going to take that laying down. He hissed up at her, as she swatted his face.

“Maybe I’ll-” whatever she was considering doing to him she never got to tell him as she cut off with a yowl as she was lifted off him and flung across the fight, crashing into the rogue Spiritstar was fighting with a badger-length away.

Orangestripe turned, he expected to see Firebirdstorm but standing over him, muzzle twisted into a snarl was Wolf.

“W-what?” Orangestripe scrambled to his paws, “what are you doing here?”

Wolf looked at him, eyes bright, “I brought back up.”

With a yowl cats poured into the battlefield, falling on the rogues, some of them Orangestripe recognized from the battle against Spark, he spotted Timber and Bird working together to twist and dart around a pair of rogues until they ran. Viper herself was here, throwing herself onto the leader of the group with a wild cry. They rolled away spitting and yowling furiously, until he sprang loose, leaving her with a bleeding wound on her shoulder, sprinting from the battle. Orangestripe went to go after him, he saw Firebirdstorm leap forward and Spiritstar start after him, but the tom’s escape was cut off by…

“No,” he breathed, he couldn’t believe, not again, not twice, but standing there, eyes blazing was Demon. He snarled and the tom twisted around, only to find himself face to face with Viper, who stood tall despite the wound in her shoulder, Orangestripe could hear and feel the battle easing, the tom, what was his name, stood trapped between Viper and Demon as his forces fled.

“Brutus,” Viper addressed him, answering one of the many questions Orangestripe had, “I think you can see that you will not be the one to inherit my father’s legacy.”

The tom pinned his ears back but after a moment his shoulders sank and he bowed his head, “I was outplayed. Well done you two.” He dipped his head, and looked to Firebirdstorm and Spiritstar, “have them release me and I will return your Clanmate to you safely. I have lost.”

Spiritstar snapped her gaze to Demon, “can we believe him?”

Demon snorted once, “he’s a cat of his word, as little as that means. He’ll give Cherrywing back though, he knows he’s beaten.”

“Quite,” Brutus flicked his tail coyly, “I shall neither take your territory and it seems I am not cut out to take over where Spark left of either.”

Viper growled at him, Orangestripe stepped forward, he felt a tail over his shoulder as Wolf stepped up to stand beside him.

“They’ve got this,” he assured him softly, “they had the plan, I just arrived in time to guide them to the right spot.”

Orangestripe’s legs shook, “I didn’t think,” he looked to Wolf who simply twitched his whiskers at him, “thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” the large tom assured him, and looked to where Demon stood, “I’m just glad I could finally help you find him.”

Had it not be so serious Orangestripe would’ve laughed and he looked to him, “I, we could offer you a place in our Clan, something, anything.” He’d given them Demon and Cherrywing back, like a miracle. StarClan themselves couldn’t object to him joining the Clan.

Wolf shook his head though, “I think I’m happy as a rogue for now, though…” he looked to where Demon and Viper stood, talking to Spiritstar, her deputy Darkleaf, and Firebirdstorm. He hesitated a moment, “come on, we better see what’s going on.”

They trot up in time to hear a flat “What” from Firebirdstorm.

“Oh what did we miss now,” Orangestripe asked, Wolf sat down behind him, Firebirdstorm’s eyes grew wide when he spotted the rogue.

“Wolf?”

“Hey Firebirdstorm,” he flicked his tail, “told you I’d keep my eye out for your friend.”

Spiritstar looked between the two of them and then to Darkleaf who shrugged.

“We met him while looking for Sharppaw,” Orangestripe explained and had to dodge a blow from Viper.

“My brother’s name is Demon.”

“Full offense that’s a terrible name,” Orangestripe darted further back as pale gray she-cat hissed furiously at him.

Demon snorted though, “I doubt it was given to me with any emotional attachment and do stop trying to kill him Viper, he may be a mouse-brain but he’s a friend.”

Viper sent one last glare at him, “very well. But as soon as this Cherrywing returns we’re done here, and will be leaving. That was what this spiky orange fool here was confused by.”

“You can’t just take Sharppaw and leave.” Firebirdstorm looked to him, and Orangestripe could see the anger was still there but there was also the relief, that somehow they’d gotten both him and Cherrywing back, “he belongs in SpiritClan, with us.”

Demon took a deep breath and Orangestripe sank his claws into the ground.

“Firebirdstorm,” the tom began gently, “I’m flattered that you still consider me a Clanmate, and more that you consider me a friend.”

Orangestripe would ask where he’d been the past few moons but to Demon’s credit, he hadn’t been with the Clan so he hadn’t see how Firebirdstorm had pinned for him. Still he sent him a look, Demon glanced at him as he continued speaking, “both of you have gone beyond anything I could ask for from friends. But this is out of your paws. That would be Spiritstar’s decision.” He took a deep breath, “and my own.”

“You can’t want to…” Firebirdstorm had eyes for no one other than Demon, Orangestripe leaned into Wolf for what support he could have which the rogue willingly gave, “what are you saying.”

“I’m not Sharppaw anymore Firebirdstorm,” he blinked at him and stepped back, “I can’t go back to the Clan.” Viper looked smug until he added, “not yet.”

Her head snapped to look at him, and he swallowed, “I may not be Spark’s son by birth, but I was raised by him. I cannot abandoned the responsibility of these cats.”

Viper’s tail lashed, “so you would go back to these fools with their talk of cats in the stars and names like Firebirdstorm-”

“In our defense his name is weird even by our standards,” Orangestripe remarked which earned him a glare from both Viper and Firebirdstorm.

“-names like Firebirdstorm, with fools like these to keep you company?” she huffed, “you are more a fool than I thought.”

-

Did she actually say fool that much or had Nick exaggerated? Larry figures it’s an exaggeration but one he’ll allow. He might need to edit it to mouse-brain though. No that didn’t feel right, he’d work out something for her to say. He wasn’t sure how to write Miles’s next bit of dialogue either because he needed to show that he was letting go of his legacy as Demon as well and finding out who he was if he was neither Sharppaw or Demon but someone in between.

But there’s a scene he absolutely has to write so he’ll just come back to it later.

-

“Hey!” A familiar voice called and Orangestripe had only a moment to scramble to his paws before Firebirdstorm was bowled over by a familiar cream she-cat, “good to see you in one piece Firebirdstorm. I was worried you’d die of an infection without me around!”

Firebirdstorm simply purred and pressed his muzzle to her cheek, “if I died who would save you then?”

“My sister of course!” she replied, swinging her gaze to Spiritstar, who bounded forward to cover her sister in licks, practically shaking as she purred.

Orangestripe shifted his weight and turned to Demon and Viper, who both looked uncomfortable at the display of emotion, StarClan what had Spark done to the pair of them? “Do you, or your cats, need any treatment before you go?” he asked, with a quick glance to Darkleaf, the only cat with authority nearby who wasn’t busy.

The deputy nodded to him, “yes, Orangestripe’s right, if you need something let us know. That shoulder wound-”

“Will heal,” Viper lifted her head, “heal better with herbs though, so yes, if you can spare the time and treatment, I would appreciate it.”

-

He decides the best person to ask, is of course, WolfDragon. His friend doesn’t get back to him for a bit, so Larry goofs off on YouTube, wondering if he should learn how to animate so he can join those Warrior Cats AMVs. Maybe he’ll make the still image ones instead. It could be a great way to advertise his fic. His near autobiographic Warrior Cats fanfiction.

He checks Fanfiction.net to see WolfDragon’s gotten back to him.

Yeah I can see how calling everyone mouse-brain would get exhausting, have you tried using thistle-headed?

Oh shit I like that.

Glad I could help! I can’t wait to see this character.

You’re gonna lose your mind when you realize who talks like this.

Larry goes back and starts editing fool into “thistle-heads” which makes him snicker but it works. This chapter is lighter anyway.

Sure enough WolfDragon is hollering at him in his review, as are several people. Larry has to laugh at the fact that his readers figured out Edgeworth wasn’t dead before he and Nick did.

Someone reviews with a comment that “Wolf saving Orangestripe like that was kinda gay. :3 Ishipit.”

Larry buries his head in his hands and laughs hysterically, because he’s the token straight in his friend circle, and he has no idea how WolfDragon identifies, but regardless they’re just friends.

So someone ships your insert with my self-insert.

Why?

I guess ‘cause Wolf saved Orangestripe. And we all know in Warriors that means we’re automatically dating.

To be fair that’s Silverstream/Graystripe, Crowfeather/Leafpool, and technically Sandstorm/Firestar.

So am I supposed to fall head over heels for you now? You big strong rogue you.

;3 I mean you are missing a forbidden romance.

That’s Demon and Firebirdstorm.

Yeah but that’s such a slow burn!

You have no idea. I want them to get together but they just won’t.

Yeah characters can be like that.

Larry has to take a moment to compose himself before responding to WolfDragon.

It’s like the have minds of their own.

He could never tell Nick and Edgey this, that they have to get together for their fans, his fans, also possibly for his sanity. But Edgey being back meant things should be getting better. Even if he was planning on going back to Europe, he and Nick would talk, and with any luck work things out.

-

Larry rides Nick ass for the next few months about making sure he talks to Edgey. He is not letting them both be miserable because Nick’s too stubborn for his own damn good.

The fic makes progress as Demon and Viper slowly shape the group into a something new. Wolf and Orangestripe’s snarky banter earns them a few additional shipper but it seems most are enjoying the slow burn of Demon and Firebirdstorm.

Someone declares Viper a lesbian icon and Larry doesn’t even bother to address that.

He works more odd jobs and saves money and tries to figure out what to do with himself. He watches Nick climb higher and higher.

He manages to get and lose yet another girlfriend. This is why he never puts them in the fanfic anymore. He’s starting to think maybe it was time to take a break from dating. Focus on his job, save up, write fanfic, do some art for commission, and figure out what to do with himself.

And then he goes and fucks the entire thing right up. He’s been relaxing at his job since his boss is on vacation, and all his brain cells bail on him.

He’s using the time to write at work in his notebook, or doodle, honestly he uses this unexpected time to do some commissions.

So maybe he shouldn’t have let his guard down, and maybe he shouldn’t have been goaded into a fight with his ex’s boyfriend. The bruise forming on his jaw sure suggested that. The fact that while he’d been gone both a murder and a robbery also suggested that. He was gone fifteen minutes, how did things like this happen to him? He was cursed for sure.

So he figures what happened as best he can, pulls himself together and goes to visit Desirée DeLite. Not just because she’s a beautiful woman because yeah she is, but also because like, she’s probably distraught! And could use a friend!

Little does he expect to encounter friends there.

“Sorry Nicky boy I’ve got another guest,” his host says and he steps in to see Nick himself, and Maya. He grins at them.

“Nick! Maya! Long time no see!” He counts that as a minor blessing because it means none of them have been kidnapped, accused of murder or hurt. Last time he talked to Nick had been a month ago, he’d babbled about his now ex and fished for information on Nick and Edgey. He’d been hoping to surprise Nick by inviting him to a dinner, his treat. He doubts he’s going to be able to do that when this is all said and done.

Maya and Nick share a look but Maya looks glad to see him. Nick looks stunned. It occurs to Larry he may not have known he’d gotten a new job.

“What’s this,” Desiré looks between the three of them, “do you all know each other?”

“Yeah, Nick and I-“ Larry cuts off and turns to Nick with a shit eating grin, “or should I say Nicky Boy.”

“Larry,” Nick is apparently not in the mood to goof around, and Larry grimaces slightly. Of all the times for Nick to re-enter his life it’s immediately after he’s fucked up the job he had going for him. Great. Hello mister hot shot rising attorney, it’s me your regretful friend from elementary school, fresh from most recent break up and fuck up with a bruise to show for it.

No one is rude enough to comment on it but he sees Maya and Nick both notice it. He knows they’ll ask later. He should probably tell them but the idea of admitting he wasn’t doing his job because he was getting his ass handed to him stills his tongue, especially when Nick already looks serious.

He tries to hide his nervousness but falls on old habits and hits on Maya because this wasn’t already the week from hell.

The words have barely left his mouth and his last two brain cells fire simultaneously. One is a comment from WolfDragon about how nice it is that Orangestripe and Cherrywing are friends rather than some convoluted forbidden romance. The other is Nick looking at Larry like he’s going to be the next murder victim. Larry shuts his mouth after that. He has two friends and he just disappointed both of them. Typically Larry move honestly.

He does murmur an apology to Maya later for what he said, and she looks a bit relieved to have that.

He looks to Nick, who is watching him, studying the uniform, the bruise, the Larry that stands before him.

“I’m thinking of taking a break from dating,” he remarks to Nick, shoving his hands in his pockets, nothing to see here, just typical Larry who talks only about girls, doesn’t worry that his best friend hates his guts for a moment of sheer stupidity, “maybe work on myself a bit.”

Nick lifts an eyebrow, “that so?”

“Yeah, come by the security office if you need any evidence I can probably help you get what you need rather than skim through the past week or whatever,” Larry hopes he seems helpful and competent, “if this job works out I might be a new man.” He grins and hooks a thumb at himself.

Nick looks doubtful but Larry grins at him all the same.

He pretends he doesn’t hear the snort and Maya scolding Nick as he leaves.

-

Of course it doesn’t take long for all his failings to be revealed, Nick just looks at him and it’s like can see that Larry’s lied or something, he swears he feels the chains of justice rattle when Nick looks at him or something spooky like that. He doesn’t know the hell does it but Nick works the truth out of him like it’s a simple puzzle.

He really understands why he sticks to writing Warriors Fanfic these days, he’s starting to really think it’s the only thing he’s good at.

He can’t even say he’s pleased to finally meet Pearl when she gets to see him at peak Butz Shenanigans. The nine year old with undoubtedly the worst mom of all four of them has her life together better than Larry does. Nick has his life together than Larry does and what happened to the college days of eating pizza in their pajamas trying to ignore rapidly approaching due dates. Larry misses those days. A lot. He’s really starting to wonder if he ever left them behind.

-

“Who is this useless-looking young man?” the judge asks and Larry sinks into his seat in the gallery in the hopes he won’t be spotted. He’s been useful! Not just in this case in previous ones! Sure there was that time he got accused of murder but like he cleared Edgeworth’s name!

“Just looking at his picture makes bile rise in my throat,” the judge declares and Larry can’t even look at Nick’s side of the courtroom. He thinks he can hear the bailiff typing, the way his own fingers fly over the keyboard, but instead of being Orangestripe, instead of being someone cool, the judge’s disgust at him is recorded for the court record.

He barely remembers the rest of the day in court so he knows he probably fucked up something else to while testifying. God knows he always does.

Salt in the wound comes later, when Nick tosses out a comment likely not meant to spite Larry, he’s probably forgotten his friend is sitting behind him in the gallery but to hear Nick call him a loser stings more than the judge. And once more it’s typed out for the court to forever have recorded.

The one interesting thing about the case is Godot. Larry tries to distract himself from what feels like a quickly approaching life crisis by studying the prosecutor. He seems like he’s trying to overdose on caffeine and Larry wonders how he isn’t dead.

He starts trying to count how many cups of coffee the guy drinks and whether or not he surpasses seventeen.

After the tenth cup, Larry decides he’s happier not knowing that the prosecution will likely drop dead of caffeine poisoning. Maybe he actually did come from hell if he was that immune to the scalding hot coffee he pulled from nowhere.

The case gets closed, Nick gets his man and Larry gets his pink slip. He’s not surprised, nor can he blame them. Hell he’s probably lucky he wasn’t charged with something to be entirely honest.

But it’s been possibly the third shittiest week of his life, (Edgeworth has personally ensured which ones will be first and second) and all he wants to do is go home, curl up in his blankets and reread the Warrior Cats series and forget there’s a world outside his apartment.

No writing his fic, no checking his emails, no nothing. Just him, some definitely not depression meals, and Fireheart. If he writes anything, he swears to himself it’ll be canon characters only. But honestly he doesn’t feel creative. He feels like shit. He finishes his last commission, which will help the bills until he gets his next job, and bundles himself under as many blankets as he owns, and reads Into the Wild until he passed out face first into the well-worn pages.

[stickballl]

Sunshine after Moonlight Pt 6

read on ao3

The night had gone by as a blur, event after indistinguishable event, culminating in an indecipherable mess that Jean would never be able to figure out.  The last clear thing he could remember was standing by the goal when the Master stepped up to the court, face ashen but otherwise completely composed, and walked over to Riko.  Whatever he said lit a fire in Riko Jean had never seen. The grip of his racquet had almost splintered under his fierce grip as he shouted for everyone to get off the court. The weight of his stare on Jean made sure he knew to stay put.  It was only seconds after the last Raven was out of sight that Riko rushed forward and attacked.

Now, he was lying on the court, helmet thrown carelessly off to the side what felt like hours ago, at the full mercy of Riko’s racquet.  Jean could no longer discern whether or not it was tears or blood running down his face.  It was a safe guess to assume both.  His voice had given out and now all that escaped were strangled whimpers.  He could barely see from his swollen eyes, thundering painfully with each breath.  His forearms were bruised beyond imagining from misguided attempts at protecting himself.  His knee was engulfed in white hot pain and he could barely feel his foot.  He was limp on the court floor, completely vulnerable to whatever Riko had planned.

He barely registered Riko’s racquet before he felt the impact spanning his left ear down to his cheek bone.  He howled in pain, a resounding buzz filling his head as he felt repeated blows up and down his body.  A high-pitched keel filled his ears and he could just make out Riko’s voice above the overwhelming sound.

Riko grabbed a handful of Jean’s hair, pulling him to his knees with one painful tug. His racquet fell to the ground as Riko’s other hand wrapped around Jean’s jaw.  A knife appeared from thin air and pressed just below the inside corner of Jean’s eye.  Riko shouted something, his voice muffled by the pain, before he sliced Jean’s cheek open, crisscrossing with the scar he’d received years ago, and continued a painful pattern down Jean’s chest.  He saw Riko off to his left, lips moving in aggravated shouts.  The constant ringing in his ears drowned out any attempts at getting Jean’s attention.  In his frustration, Riko yanked at his hair, pulling patch after patch out, each time stopping to yell something new at Jean.  Despite the crushing need he felt to close his eyes and slip away, the tugging fear of what Riko would do kept him alert enough to stay conscious.  He faintly registered Riko shouting a slur of Japanese to someone out of Jean’s line of sight before he was shoved back to the ground, head bouncing off the wood.

His vision went black and the next thing he could remember was being dragged back to his room by his arms.  The odd mix of a dull pain and numbness in his shoulder must have meant that while being carried, his handler pulled a little too hard and dislocated it.  He wasn’t sure if he was moving his fingers, but he prayed with any ounce of faith left in him that there wasn’t any permanent nerve damage.

They tossed him in his room, not bothering to help him into bed, and slammed the door shut behind them.  The darkness overtook him and Jean felt it choking whatever life he still had.  His body moved on its own, filtering through his drawers until he finally realized what was happening when he heard a soft voice whisper his name.

“Jean?” Renee murmured, voice dragged by sleep.  A phone was pressed to his right ear, knuckles white at his grip.  A feeling of relief crashed over him, pushing out a painful sob at the concern in her voice.  It took him a couple tries before he was able to push the words out.

“I need help,” he whispered, and even then, his voice was barely enough to be heard. He heard some rustling on the other end and Renee’s breath quickened.

“What happened?”

“Kengo is dead,” he said, laughter bursting out unbidden from his lips.  It was more of a wheeze than anything, but it warranted a sharp breath from Renee.  When he calmed down enough to find his voice again, he said, “At least I think he is.  Riko didn’t say much before…”

His voice trailed away, leaving the rest unsaid.  He knew Renee would understand.  She was well aware of what went on in the Nest, especially to property like Jean.  He heard her breathing hitch on the other end, then a soft exhale.  She was steadying herself, he realized, focusing every unwanted emotion into a line and executing them swiftly.  He’d done it every day with Riko.

“I’m coming.  Don’t move, Jean,” she ordered.  Jean barked out another laugh.

“I don’t have much of a choice,” he remarked before the line went dead.  Jean sighed and laid his unharmed cheek on the floor.  He still clutched the phone in his hand, holding it above his heart.  The aching in his bones and throbbing in his head seemed to dull a little bit as his eyes fluttered open and closed.  He fought as hard as he could to retain consciousness, but ultimately, he gave up the fight and embraced the blissful sleep.

He woke to a devastating headache and a heavy air of nausea pressing down on him. He didn’t dare open his eyes, choosing instead to pretend to be asleep for as long as he could.  He couldn’t remember anything of what happened the night before, couldn’t remember what he’d done to warrant such a punishment from Riko.  He shifted each part of his body, bit by bit, cataloguing each injury the best he could, a sense of dread filling his chest when he could barely feel the fingers on his right hand.  His eyes flew open to an almost blinding white room.  He thrashed in the bed, suffocated by the thin blankets covering him. It took only seconds for the nausea to take him and he turned his head to the side just in time to vomit over the side of the bed.  He braced himself weakly, just able to keep himself on the bed.

He was vaguely aware of someone gently pulling him back onto the bed, their hands embodying a tenderness he’d never been handled with before.  Once he was settled, he shoved them away, knocking himself back into the wall.  Stars appeared before him, distracting him temporarily from the pain.  He blinked his vision clear to a concerned pair of warm eyes studying him.  When his breathing slowed and his sight returned to normal, the girl in front of him smiled.

“How are you feeling, Jean?” she asked, voice soft and hesitant.  The smile on her lips wasn’t malicious, filled with only worry, but there was something angry in her eyes that Jean simultaneously understood and feared.

“Where am I?  What is going on?” Jean demanded.  The girl’s smile turned to a frown and she reached for something behind her back. Jean flinched back violently, raising his arm to shield his face.  His eyes stayed on the girl though, as she pulled a small black phone out.  She kept her movements slow and measured, giving him enough time to predict each action.  He let his arm drop on the blankets.

“You’re safe.  You don’t have to worry,” she said.  Her lips spread back into the small smile, causing an odd warmth to spread throughout his chest.  He was used to a hot spike of fear tearing through his stomach and the burning in his lungs after being deprived of air for too long, but the comfort he felt by just a quirk of the lips was almost disorienting.  Something tickled in the back of his mind.

“Renee,” he breathed, relief cooling the aching fire in his veins.  She smiled, covering his hand with hers.  She started to say something, but the door opening cut her off.  Renee pulled away and let the Foxes nurse take her place.  Jean scowled at her, shying away from her touch.  She sighed and let her hands fall in her lap.

“I need to help you, Jean.  I could only dress your wounds while you were unconscious and I need to make sure nothing is permanently damaged,” she pleaded, voice even and low.  Jean glanced at Renee and only received an encouraging nod.  “Renee will stay in the room and I’ll tell you what I’m about to do before I ever lay a hand on you.”

“Have some experience working with fuck ups?” Jean drawled sarcastically, shifting slowly onto his back.  His response elicited a tight smile from Abby but nothing else.  She pulled gloves on in the silence, each snap felt like a strike against him.  “My right shoulder was dislocated.  My nose is broken.  Both of my forearms have fractures and I’m assuming my cheekbone does as well. Something is torn in my knee and with my luck, it’s the unhappy triad.  How’d I do?”

“That’s my guess as well,” she whispered, the shine of tears beginning in her eyes. Jean sneered and averted his gaze, choosing the safety of her white walls instead.  Her pity would do nothing for him.  It was useless to dwell on things no one could help.  He’d pitied himself for years before the realization that nothing was going to change hit.

“Years of practice,” he muttered and Abby flinched.

“I’d still like to examine you, make sure everything is fine, starting with the cuts and bruises along your torso.  Is that alright?” Abby asked, completely still.  Jean ground his agreement out through his teeth, knowing all too well how much easier it is to just play along.  She reached for the blankets covering his chest and for the first time he noticed the dried blood on the bandages and the fabric.  Dark bruises highlighted each cut as she began pulling dirtied gauze away.  It wasn’t even close to the worst he’d had, but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. He looked away from the crosshatching of scars across his torso, both healing and long healed.  There was always a specific mix of rage and despair that shot through him whenever he added a mark to his body.  He’d learned how to control his external reaction. Jury was still out on how to deal with the internal one.

Once Abby had assessed and redressed the cuts, she poked at his shoulder and forearms, frowning deeper with each bruise.  Her fingers barely ghosted over them, yet pain radiated throughout his arms. She turned to Renee, whispering something Jean couldn’t hear, before she looked at him with wide, doughy eyes and a heartbroken smile on her face.

“The cut on your face required some stitches.  I am going to check that now, okay?” Jean nodded, keeping his gaze stuck on the ceiling.  She instructed him to turn toward her to give her a better view of his left cheek.  He painstakingly shifted, shooting a glare at Abby each time she reached out to help.  The gauze pulled at the cut as she took it out and Jean hissed through the pain. Abby muttered her apologies through a light stream of tears.  He ignored her, thinking of anything other than her meaningless attempts at making any of this better.  He settled deeper into the bed, pressing his face into his pillow.  He calculated the amount of time before he could really play again.  His grip was too weak, but that was his only concern.  The cuts he could deal with.  He’d cleaned blood out of uniforms before.

A touch on his good shoulder shocked him out of his thoughts.  He cursed and both women held their hands up in innocence.

“You weren’t answering my questions.  Is everything alright?” Abby asked.  Jean nodded and noticed the new gauze taped to his cheek.  A familiar frown appeared on her lips.  “Humor me for a second.”

She pulled a phone out from one pocket and headphones from another.  While she was configuring whatever plan was in her mind, Jean looked toward Renee for comfort or some idea of what Abby would do next. She just shrugged, that sweet smile still lighting up her face.

“Can you put this in your left ear?” Abby said, handing the earbud to him.  He glared at her, but did it anyway, wincing as he pressed against the bruising.  His gestured for her to continue.  “Do you hear any music?”

Jean shook his head.  Abby pressed something on her phone and looked at him expectantly.

“How about now?”

Jean shook his head again.  He couldn’t hear any music or any noise at all, but he felt the vibrations in his ear. Immediately, his heart seized and his stomach dropped.  He tore the headphones out, hyperventilating through clenched teeth.  He tried to sit up, restrained by his sheets and the panic clawing at his throat.  Pain blacked out his vision, trapped his breath in his chest, amplified the roaring of blood in his ears.  He struck at anything forcing him down until hands wrapped around his forearms and he let out a sharp cry.  He froze as fear threaded its way through each of his muscles, integrated itself into his core, mixed with the pain to make a toxic cocktail.

“Jean, it’s okay.  It’s just me,” Renee’s voice filtered through.  She pinned his arms to his chest, hands wrapped around his forearms. Her body covered his and left no room for him to move.  “This isn’t the end of the world.”

“What if I can’t play?” Jean asked, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. Renee’s eyes soften and she climbed off of him to sit on the edge of the mattress.  She left her hand palm up in front of her, an offering Jean was desperate for.  He gripped it like it was the only thing tethering him to his body.  “They won’t take me back if I can’t play.”

“You’ll still be able to play, but Jean,” she turned his head so he was looking right at her, “I’m never letting you step foot in Edgar Allen again.  Not as a Raven.”