#is thin like me but like in a slightly bony and not-eating-properly way

[haro-draws]

[bookstantrash]

A/N: Here we are folks. The chapter y’all have been waiting for. I’m hoping it reaches your expectations because I was dying to write it.

Huge shoutout for the gc — specially @thewayshedreamed for her mind blowing theory, although I tried to make it less angst lol — for all their hype and ideais for this chapter 💜

In which she makes a friend, Part Eleven

Cassian woke up late. He was sure of that because of two factors:

One, the birds were chirping louder than when he usually woke up, the sun high in the sky given the sunlight entering the bedroom through the curtains.

And two, Nesta was fast asleep in his arms, her vanilla and lavender scent all around him.

He took his time watching her, as he did not know when he would have another opportunity.

Nesta looked younger like that, her face relaxed for once, mouth partially open as she slowly breathed. Their legs were intertwined, his free arm somehow having ended up in her hair, holding her close, as if during the night he had gotten afraid she would disappear.

Cassian had nightmares of that. Of waking up and finding her gone, snatched out of her bed once again in the middle of the night by his enemies and killed. He would wake up panting and reaching for a dagger he kept in his bedside table, his blood roaring at him to kill whoever had touched her, to find and protect Nesta.

It usually ended up with him pacing in front of her room for a few minutes, her steady heart beat easing his worries after a while. He would then return to his room and go over some reports from Rhysand and Azriel or look over some camp matters until the sun was rising.

Last night had to be the best night of sleep Cassian had had in the last two years. Maybe in all five hundred years of his life.

He signed, willing his thoughts to not go down that path. To not wonder too deeply about the reason why Nesta Archeron affected him like she did, since the first time he saw her at her father’s house when she was still human.

Willed them to not think how she seemed to fit so perfectly against his body, as if they had been made for each other.

To stop thinking how her bare skin would feel against his, her soft lips kissing his own.

To stop thinking of her running her hands over his body, pulling his hair.

The sounds she would make when he kissed her, properly this time, without death hovering above them.

If she was a screamer or a beggar or a talker and how it did not matter anyway because he would make sure to pleasure her until she was screaming his name, until she was begging him for more, until she was saying how good he felt and how none of those other males back in Velaris had given her a speck of what he was giving her.

How he would take care of her afterwards, how he would kiss her lazily and sweetly, and how he would not let her go for a long long time, satisfied to just stay holding her.

“That is nothing but a distant and impossible dream” he murmured, daring to gently run his fingers in her silky hair “I have to be grateful for what I have and do not desire for more.”

Cassian felt Nesta stirring in his arms, mentally cursing himself for waking her.

“Javy ju” she mumbled, her voice heavy with sleep, slowly blinking at him.

“Javy ju, anahí” he answered a little breathless, being hit straight in his stomach by the fact that she had remembered the Illyrian greeting.

Nesta was about to say something when Cassian felt her whole body froze, blue eyes widening as she looked at how close they were.

And that is when he felt it. His morning wood.

Cauldron that was embarrassing. If Nesta did not think lowly of him before — he knew all those times she had called him a pervert or a bastard had been nothing but empty words —  now she surely did.

He quickly withdrew his wings, Nesta squinting at him momentarily due to the sudden brightness.

But before Cassian could get up and put more distance between themselves, hoping to save some face, Nesta placed a hand firmly on his shoulder, keeping him still.

And she smirked.

“Wound a bit tight these days? she said, throwing his words from yesterday back at him.

“You can not blame my body for reacting at you” he tried to sound as if he was teasing her,  but his words came out softer and truer than he would like “Have you looked at yourself?”

“You mean my too thin and bony body?” she snorted, dismissing his words “You must be really desperate.”

If Nesta had said that to him months ago, he would have been inclined to agree with her statement —  not that that would have stopped him from thinking her beautiful. His feelings towards the strong minded female were not purely physical attraction. It went beyond that.

“You can not be blind to not see how your body has changed since you started training and eating more regularly” he said “I still wish you would eat more, but you can not deny that you have gained muscles and some weight back”

“Are you calling me fat?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Cassian laughed at that. Nesta had a sense of humour that sometimes reminded him of Azriel.

“You fill your leathers much more now” he answered, the hand in her hair sliding along her arms “You have gained muscles here”

His hand travelled down her front slowly, making sure to avoid her breasts, although all he wanted was to finally know how they would feel beneath his touch.

“And here” he gently squeezed her waist.

“Cassian…”

“And here too” he added, fingers dancing along her leg where her nightgown had exposed some skin.

Nesta took a sharp intake of breath, her pupils dilatating

He was walking on thin ice, he knew that. His words at Nesta were nothing but desire and longing veiled by teasing he knew Nesta believed in.

Cassian had no one but himself to blame for that.

“So I am desirable because of my body?” her voice had a bitter tone, and Cassian quickly corrected her.

“You are desirable because of this, ” he touched her temple, moving then to lay his hand over her heart “and this”

“Lying will not get you anywhere bat” she turned her face and made to get up.

“I’m beyond lies right now, Nesta” he said, pulling her flush against him, gently grabbing her chin and tilting her face up.

Her gray-blue eyes seemed incredibly bright, looking straight at Cassian, as if she could see his very soul.

He did not hide from it. He met her stare head on, not daring even to blink.

“Why do you run from me?” his voice so low it was almost a whisper “Why do you hide yourself?”

“Why do you run from me?” and her voice carried so much hurt, so much feeling and rawness that Cassian knew she had let one of her iron walls fall “Why did you drop my hand that time? Why look for me only when I’m alone?”

Her words pierced his heart. He had not know. Had not known how much she was hurting, what she may have thought his actions appeared to be.

“Why do you bother so much when not even my own family cares for me?” she snapped, and for a split second Cassian thought Nesta was going to cry.

“Your sisters love you, Nesta” he said softly.

“I believe you made it abundantly clear last solstice I was unlovable”

“Your sisters love you. I can’t for the life of me understand why, but they do.”

He flinched, cursing himself for his past actions.

“I have never regretted something as much as the moment those words left my mouth. I was rude and insensible,” he brushed her cheek with his thumb tentatively “ and none of those things I said were true. I hope someday you will forgive me.”

“I said some rude things to you too,” she whispered “Would you be able to forgive me?”

“I never took them to heart” Cassian gave her a watery smile “I knew it was a way for you to push me away and that you did not mean them sweetheart”

A lonely silent tear fell from Nesta. Cassian gathered her closer, and she buried her face in his neck.

“Hush now xe nhia. Aan arevanque”

They stayed like that, with Cassian running his hands through her hair and talking with her in Illyrian. She hadn't cried more than that single tear, but she trembled slightly sometimes.

“Nes...I have been meaning to tell you something”

“What is it?” she asked, looking up at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“You don’t have to answer me or say anything at all, I just—”

“Cassian, out with it” she said, anxiousness lacing her every word.

“Since I met you I—”

But whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the sound of dishes falling and a curse coming from the kitchen.

“Kaelin,” Nesta said sighing “I better go see what he is doing when he should have been resting”

Cassian agreed with her, and a part of him was glad they had been interrupted. He still had much to make up to Nesta, his feelings would have to wait a little longer.

“What were you going to tell me?” 

“It was nothing” he gave her a reassuring smile “Go see Kaelin. I can tell you another time”

Nesta hesitated, but his kind eyes were enough to make her trust his words.

“Thank you” and with a quick kiss on his cheek she was gone.

Cassian was so stunned he had to pinch himself to make sure he had not fallen asleep again, staying in bed for a few minutes more until he could put himself together.

~•~

The clock’s ticking was the only sound in the room, neither Cassian or Kaelin talking.

Nesta had left after breakfast, saying Esmée had lifted her resting order to help the healer collect a rare flower that only blossomed every sixty years.

After reassuring her that he knew which medicine to give Kaelin in case the kid felt pain and that he would make sure he rested, Nesta left them promising to return as soon as possible.

Kaelin was a bit awkward around Cassian at first, probably embarrassed about crying in front of him. It bothered the General to the point that he lent his copy of ‘King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table’ to the young illyrian.

“This book is very precious to me,” he had told Kaelin “as it was the first I managed to finish once I learnt how to read”

Kaelin had taken the old book with the utmost care, and Cassian almost laughed when he saw how slowly the boy was turning the pages, almost afraid of damaging it. And with his attention fully on the book, Cassian could work on Kaelin’s solstice present without fearing it would be seen.

Because Cassian was working on expanding the old storage room near the birch.

He was designing a room for Kaelin to sleep. If the kid was to live with him and Nesta definitely — or at least as long as he wanted to —  Cassian could not let him keep on sleeping on the sofa.

He had been working in secret to refashion the space. Had worked until dawn on it two nights ago when he had rescued Kaelin from the bullies. Maybe two weeks more only and it would be ready on time for the Winter Solstice.

Thinking about the birch made Cassian realise how sore he was, both from the training, working on the bedroom and the time spent hunched over the piece of paper drawing the room. A trip to the birch would help relax, which gave him an idea.

“Hey kid,” he called, catching Kaelin’s attention “I don’t know if Nesta told you, but we have a birch here. How about we go? It would help relax you”

It was a tradition for male Illyrians to go birching — be it with family or friends —  as a form of bonding.

And Cassian did want to get closer to Kaelin. He saw a lot of himself in the orphaned kid.

The young one, however, did not seem to find the ideia appealing at all.

“I— it would be an honour sir, I mean, Cassian, but I—” Kaelin blushed deeply while trying to politely refuse Cassian’s invitation, stammering and tripping over his words.

“You know what? Why don’t I go first and you get there after I’m done?” Cassian shrugged, seeing Kaelin sigh in relief.

It was a step too far it seemed. Maybe Kaelin was uncomfortable because they were not closer — although the objective was for them to get closer — maybe he is shy or maybe embarrassed because he is not as muscled as the other boys his age. Cauldron knew how much extra practice Cassian himself had done when he was younger, wanting to get as strong and muscled as Enalius, their warrior god.

He would have to work a little harder if he wanted to make Kaelin feel as comfortable with him as he was with Nesta. They were both males, so it should be easier for them to bond despite meeting the kid after Nesta.

“You can bond in other ways” he muttered to himself as he got dressed in his room, drying his hair.

It was then that he realised he had forgotten to leave Kaelin a second towel, in case his got too damp because of the heat in the birch.

Grabbing a towel he goes to the birch and opens it.

“Kaelin, I forgot to give—”  he stops himself when he sees that Kaelin is naked, head thrown back against the wall, completely relaxed for once.

Yet all that easiness goes away once he hears Cassian’s voice.

“I’m sorry. Here’s your towel” stammering, he quickly leaves the white towel on the bench and closes the door, internally beating himself for forgetting to knock.

Kaelin had wanted to go alone and Cassian invaded the kid’s personal space and now he would hate him and—

Cassian stops in front of his room, thoughts finally catching up with his brain.

He remembers the ugly bruises along Kaelin’s ribs, their purple and green colour already fading to yellow and has to reboot his memory for a second.

He’s almost sure he saw boobs.

But boys don’t have boobs. He knows that.

And he could not possibly be confused because of the heat or the smoke inside the birch—

But he recalls how Nesta is so protective of Kaelin. How she almost seemed afraid for him to meet Azriel, how Kaelin had cried and said nobody could know he had activated his killing powers because they’d look too much into him.

And suddenly it clicked.

Kaelin was a girl.

~•~

Cassian was very close to having a mental breakdown.

Kaelin was a girl. A girl. As in boobs, periods and weird hormones.

And he had seen him — her, naked.

Cauldron, he was knee deep in shit.

After walking in on Kaelin, Cassian had been unable to leave his room. He was sure she would want some time alone to process what had happened and that he now knew her secret.

Because Kaelin was a girl.

“Gods, where is Nesta when I need her?” he grumbled, running his hands on his hair.

Nesta knew it all along and was helping Kaelin hide it. It was a noble thing to do, but also so reckless. If the wrong person discovered it they could be killed. He would not put it past the Illyrians to do that.

He had to talk with Kaelin. He had left her alone for long enough. If he did not talk with her now he would have to wait for when Nesta arrived, and that was a talk Kaelin did not have to be present.

It was a little past the time for lunch, so he had the perfect excuse to knock in Nesta’s bedroom and ask Kaelin to come out.

Except when he did that nobody answered.

Kaelin was not there.

“Fucking hell, not again” Cassian swore, quickly going out and getting airborne.

Kaelin was still hurt so she would not be able to fly. He had a chance to catch up with her given that she was walking.

And to his luck he found her not far from his cabin.

But she was not alone.

“Are you sure you are a boy? Look how skinny you are”

“I am a late bloomer” she answered an older Illryan, making him and the other one beside him laugh.

“Late bloomer? That is girl talk, ain’t I right Bjerke?” 

“Take off your shirt, boy. Show us those muscles” the male, Bjerke, said.

“Thank you, but no. I have to go” Kaelin tried to go past them, but was held back by Bjerke.

“Here Falk, hold this thing while I help our friend”

As Cassian got closer, he realised Kaelin was holding his book, which was teared from her grasp by Bjerke, who started trying to undress her.

Blood roaring in his ears, Cassian dropped in front of them, his siphons flashing.

“Let. Go. Of. Him” he gritted out, and the males froze.

In front of them stood the General Commander of the Illyrian armies.

The Lord of Bloodshed.

And he was not happy.

“We were just talking to him” Falk said, his voice hinting at his fear.

“He said no” Cassian growled, seeing Kaelin’s clothes messed up.

All Cassian could see was Kaelin's scared face and remember when Nesta had hinted about being attacked when she was human.

He still wanted to know who that piece of shit was.

Would take his sweet time making him suffer for what he did.

“I think it’s best that you go” he snapped, and Bjerke let go of Kaelin, taking a step back “If I hear you were bothering someone else again — be it male or female — you will want to have never been born. Are we understood?”

Both males assured Cassian it would not happen again, and were airborne within minutes.

Kaelin straightened her clothes, grabbing the fallen book and dusting off its cover.

She still refused to look at Cassian.

“What am I going to do with you kid?” he sighed “Nesta will kill me once she discovers I let you out of my sight.”

That caught the young girl’s attention. She finally glanced his way, searching Cassian’s face for something, anything that would give away that he was angry with her or that he was going to expose her secret to someone.

She found nothing.

“I… I am sorry I lost lunch” she mumbled.

“Good thing I have not eaten yet” giving her a reassuring smile, he ruffled her short hair “Let’s go home and eat before Nesta arrives and kill us both.”

“Yeah. Let’s go home” Kaelin answered, and it seemed a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

•

Tags: @sayosdreams @thewayshedreamed @sjm-things @perseusannabeth @arinbelle @caotica-e-quieta @vidalinav @swankii-art-teacher @ireallyshouldsleeprn @duskandstarlight @greerlunna @thegoddessaltenia @dayanna-hatter @verypaleninja @awesomelena555 @courtofjurdan @valkyriewarriors @moe8 @illyrianwitchling13 @silvernesta @bri-loves-sunflowers @queenestarcheron @imwritingthesewords @vasudharaghavan @rainbowcheetah512 @darkshadowqueensrule @letstakethedawn @starlightorstarfire @city-of-fae @thalia-2-rose @nestaarcher0n @rowaelinismyotp @julemmaes @dontgetsalmonella @alinaleksanders @lysandra-tiara9 @inardour @hikari274 @fatimafares123 @angelina-figjam

[imnotwolverine]

The Wolves Return - Part 3

< Part 2 | Part 4 > 

Summary: Who’s more annoying: the goat or the girl? 

Word count: 2.131 (7,5 minutes) 

Disclaimer: 16+ - Mentions of injury, Geralt being sour old sock

--

‘There’s my girl! My sweet little girl!’ 

Eskel’s voice sounded at the other side of the dormitory, where Geralt lay tucked into one of the beds. With a soft grumble the bed-ridden Witcher cracked open an eye. What had happened? Why was he here? Swiping a tired hand over his face he watched the closed door from which some footsteps were heard. What was Eskel on about? 

‘Ha! You are silly, you know that. Much like your father.’ Eskel chimed. 

Geralt frowned. Who was he talking to? 

‘Do not tell me she’s still here..’ Geralt whispered with a low growl, as he pushed his aching body away from the mattress. He felt like he had been thrown in a mangler and it took all his willpower to not let out a cry. 

Back in the day he would have recuperated easily from his wounds. But age at last, though not quite visible, seemed to have caught up with him. And the less visible scars - those deep within, were there to always remind him that his young years were long gone now. 

Eskel had gone quiet and a moment later the door opened. With powerful strides he came in, looking dangerous with his facial scars and gigantuous physique. Eskel was however tender as a butterfly, and it showed in the way he kept his favourite goat safely in his arms. Gertie. The black-and-white flecked cause of plenty of mayhem when her adoring human ‘father’ wasn’t around. 

‘And she’s right!’ Eskel laughed, kissing Gertie atop her bony head. The goat blankly stared at Geralt. 

Geralt silently rolled his eyes. ‘Eskel.’ 

‘Hi there old man.’ Eskel grinned. His weight made the floorboards of the dormitory crunch. And the light, hmm.. It must not be late in the day. Morning probably. 

‘No older than I am.’ Geralt complained as he pushed his legs over the edge of the mattress. His legs were bandaged. Properly this time. Another good note was the lack of buzzing of his head. He did not know what kind of potion the woman had given him, but it had been a bad one. Even now he could feel a faint tingle in the far ends of his fingertips. 

‘Couldn’t quit the hunt, huh?’ Eskel plopped down on the bed beside Geralt, who warily watched the goat. Gertie already air-chewed in that testy little way only she could unnerve him. After some minor incidents, Geralt had locked most of the rooms in the keep, so he wouldn’t have to chase down this darn goat as she’d sneak around eating everything and anything. 

‘She’s a little on the thin side.’ Eskel said, scratching the goat beneath her chin. The goat continued to stare at Geralt. 

Geralt shot an unamused look back at Eskel. ‘Gertie? Well..It’s her own fault. She escaped again.’ 

‘Ah, well they all come back in the end, don’t they?’ Eskel winked at Geralt, who grunted softly. Why was Eskel always so upbeat? 

‘Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that --’

‘HI!’ Another pair of feet entered the dormitory. The woman. Geralt’s face fell into an ever deeper grimace.

‘Ah f--’ 

 ‘I thought I’d bring some food!’ She said, raising a small plate with some dried meats and fruits. Eskel whooped. 

‘A woman to my heart!’ 

The woman smiled and walked towards the men. 

‘Interesting taste in women you have.’ Geralt whispered beneath his breath. 

‘Well I--’ Eskel looked up as the woman stepped in before the two Witchers. ‘Hi.’ He smiled and looked at the plate of food in her hands. ‘Great! Shall I eh…’ He eyed Geralt who looked at him with widening eyes. ‘Leave you two..?’ 

Geralt started shaking his head. 

‘No?’ 

The woman giggled. ‘Don’t worry Geralt. I don’t bite as hard as Gertie does.’ 

Before Geralt could utter a complaint Eskel and Gertie had left and Geralt was left alone with the woman. Bouncing from one foot to the other she looked around the dormitory. She was wearing some old clothes Ciri had left behind, and though the clothes didn’t look too bad, it was clear they weren’t fitting quite as they should. A little too tight in some places, a little too loose in others. 

‘Oh and the food.’ She quickly placed the plate of food next to Geralt. With long lashes she looked away as he pulled away the last of the sheets from his body. He was wearing no more but some knee length breeches and it was clear from the hot blush on her cheeks that she was very aware of how close to nudity he was. 

‘Never seen a man before?’ Geralt quirked an eyebrow. With a swift move he landed a cut of dried sausage in his mouth. Sausage. The woman’s cornflower blue eyes looked at him with slight puzzlement. 

‘You have no idea who I am, huh?’ She said, shoulders drooping. 

Geralt blinked, chewing on the sausage. ‘I’ve recovered from my amnesia well enough to..remember..’ He frowned. Thoughts bubbled faster and faster up from the dusty corners of his mind. After years of close to no adventures, it felt truly like a lifetime ago last he traveled The Trail. Corn..flower..blue. 

I’m going to be a father, Geralt. 

‘Jaskier.’ Geralt whispered, ‘Son of a..’

‘His daughter Isabella, yes.’ The woman interrupted, offering a hand in greeting. 

Geralt looked up at her hand and hesitated. Shake? Kiss on knuckles? Swat away? He studied the deep blue of her eyes that he could have recognised anywhere. She definitely had her father’s eyes. Hopefully, for her good, that was were the resemblance ended. She smiled. 

‘Goat got your tongue, Witcher?’ 

Nope. She definitely inherited more. 

‘Look I don’t know why you are here, but--’ 

‘Oh please!’ She sat down and plopped a dried piece of apple in her mouth. ‘If I wanted to hear stories about my father I’d just go to the local whorehouse. Sure enough the two of you left plenty a --’

‘Isabella.’ Her name tasted strange in his mouth. It sounded too regal for a woman who sat here dressed in something close to rags. 

‘Yes.. Geralt of Rivia?’ 

Geralt contemplated his question for a moment. With a guarded gaze he watched her look around the dusty room. 

‘Why ARE you here?’ 

‘Oh that.’ She looked back at him and smiled. ‘I eh.. Guess I need a Witcher?’

‘I don’t go out on The Trail any longer. Ask Eskel.’ 

‘Yea yea I know. And I also learned you gentlemen don’t work during the winter, so there’s that for timing. Besides, the weather truly has gone atrocious in moments. I do not know who else you expect to arrive, but they’ll surely freeze over before --’

Too much talking. Geralt growled softly and turned his head away, eyes squinting closed. ‘Woman!’ He inhaled sharply. ‘I mean..I-Isa-bella.’

She bit her lip. ‘Sorry.’ 

Geralt grunted and swiped a tired hand over his face. Why couldn’t all women be like Roach? ‘No, no I’m sorry. Argh.’ 

Isabella watched Geralt as he started chewing on a piece of cheese. His square jaw was dusted with a speckle of grey that would soon grow out in a beard. It’d probably look good on him. 

‘Are you mad at me?’ 

Geralt’s chest rumbled softly, but he did shake his head no. ‘Let’s just say you take after your father.’ He looked up and shook his head in bemusement. 

Isabella smiled. ‘Horny old bastard he was.’

‘I didn’t mean that you --’ 

‘OH!’ She gasped in shock at her own words. ‘Apologies! I didn’t mean.. I mean.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I am..neither a bastard nor am I..’ Her gaze involuntarily flew over Geralts chest. ‘horny.’ 

Geralt knew women well enough that he best keep quiet to prevent any further embarrassment on her end. She sure as hell took after her father with that mouth of hers. 

With a slightly uncomfortable tug he pulled the sheets back over his abdomen. 

‘Alright. We’ll eh..talk later.’ Isabella said, before hurrying off with a long string of near silent curse words on her lips -- something that unfortunately for her, Geralt’s Witcher senses picked up quite perfectly. 

--

Kaer Morhen smelled differently. It was not only because of the stew that was cooking, or Gertie who had been bound to a ring to keep away from the furniture she had started eating earlier this afternoon. No. There was something strangely familiar about the scent of a woman. 

As Geralt sat perched on a comfortable chair near the hearth, his fingers absentmindedly carved away on a piece of soft wood. It was a new pass-time of his and he had gotten quite skilled at it by now. Without so much as looking he could carve out small horses, goats, swords.. and if he felt adventurous: women. 

Right now the little piece of wood in his hand was only becoming slimmer. No shape there to be defined. Geralt had a difficulty to keep his mind keen now his nose continued to drift off towards the herbal sweet smell of this strange new guest in his keep. 

On the other far end of the keep’s main room sat Eskel, who was reading. Though brutish in appearance, Eskel had always been one of the more refined of the School of the Wolf. Much to Vesemir’s amusement, the late keep-holder of Kaer Morhen. Yes, those darn books. Geralt had despised them. And so father, so daughter: Ciri had taken on any chance to go out and train come rain and come shine in the courtyard. 

‘What are you up to?’ Geralt finally said, focussing his eyes on the woman that sat huddled over a table with an avalanche of books folded open. 

‘Reading.’ 

‘Hmm.’ Geralt sighed and turned a little more towards the woman. In the far back he could see Eskel look up in mild curiosity. 

Scratching her arm, the woman kept her focus on the sheets of paper before her. She seemed not just curious. She seemed nervous. That is, what Geralt had been smelling. Her sweat. A thin aromatic layer of sweat that basked this whole room in her presence. 

‘Is it exciting?’ Geralt pushed himself up with a teeth-gritted grunt and walked over.The potion the woman had given him had thankfully worn off, so he was back to the same old aches he had to live with in cold and humid weather. 

Making his way to the table, he noted she was not really reading-reading. Before her lay maps. Charts. Prints of the surrounding grounds of the keep. 

‘Planning for an escape already?’ 

Isabella finally looked up. ‘Gotta keep my options open, no?’

Geralt looked down at the map. Her finger was resting dangerously close to one of the secret paths. Paths that he thought not even Jaskier had known about. 

Isabella continued. ‘I think I came this way. The local hunter a few villages north told me far too good a tale for it to be all lies, so I set out and--’

‘What tale?’ 

Isabella looked up. ‘About a dangerous troll, who lives up here.’ She sniffled as she saw Geralt’s face sour. 

‘You know we can’t let you live if you know the path to and from the keep.’ He sat down with a pained grunt. ‘For hundreds of years only a select group of Witchers and friends have known these tracks, and we very well like to keep it so.’ With a quick swipe he retrieved the maps and started to fold them away. 

Isabella sat back and sighed. ‘Shouldn’t have shown my dad then.’ 

Geralt looked up. ‘He told you?’ 

Isabella sniffed. ‘Have you met my father? If there’s one thing he was truly blessed at, it was talking.’ She looked at Eskel who quickly reverted his eyes to his book.

‘I remember that unfortunately too vividly.’ Geralt stacked the papers together and eyed Eskel. The other Witcher made a statement of not returning his gaze. Urgh, he needed Eskel in this right now. What did he have to do with this woman?! 

‘Geralt I --’ Isabella started when she noted with a gasp that something had gone terribly wrong at the other side of the room. Geralt turned his attention to that corner of the room as well, only to note what it was; Gertie. Gertie was gone. 

Before he could say it, Eskel had already jumped up from his seat and the three of them set out to look behind the crates, open doors and where not. 

She couldn’t have gone far, right? 

Geralt slowly hopped on behind Isabella. Again, like when he met her, he felt a strange feeling come over him. And his medallion.. He reached up and noted that Isabella started turning around with a sheetpale face. 

‘Geralt..?’ 

His medallion started humming.

--

Part 4 >

--

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[i-am-snowils-admiral]

Slip Away

Someone in a discord told me to do Izuku angst with a bit of vigilantism so have some.

This is just blatant dadzawa-adopts-kids-off-the-street-at-random have fun with it.

1960 words, also on Ao3

---

He’s been chasing the kid for a few months now.

If he’d been taking it seriously, he’d be in custody by now. The kid was young, inexperienced, and nowhere near as difficult to capture as most villains. For a vigilante, he wasn’t terrible, taking out small crime here and there, seemingly with nothing more than his wits and a crowbar, but there was something about him that made it obvious he had no idea what he was doing.

That was the problem, though. He was skittish, distrustful. Shouta had only ever seen him on the street, and he constantly looked underfed and dirty. He probably lived in one of these alleyways. There was a part of him that wanted to just grab the kid by surprise and drag him back to the station, where Naomasa could either find his parents or shuffle him into the foster system, but he’d done that before and it hadn’t gone well. There was a look in the kid’s eyes that was too familiar.

Hitoshi had run away from three different homes before he figured out what that look meant. Trust wasn’t something that came naturally, and the kid would just end up in the streets again if he didn’t do this slowly.

He’d complained to Hizashi about the situation extensively, ranting over the phone (as much as it could be considered ranting) about how the kid just kept slipping away from him every time he thought he was getting somewhere. Hizashi had taken to calling him Slip in response, and as a person who was terrible at naming things, Shouta couldn’t help but feel it was accurate. To both his slippery nature and his small size.

Slip wasn’t strong. He stuck to resolving the smaller, more common crimes, and didn’t like drawn-out fights. If he didn’t knock out his target within the first few minutes, he pulled back and contacted the police.

Unlike Shouta’s students, he seemed to have some knowledge of his limits.

He had learned, though, with Shouta’s help. Shouta had met the young vigilante about six months ago, arriving at the scene of a crime just in time to see him disappear deeper into the alleyway, and the kid just kept showing up. He didn’t talk to him at first. As they encountered each other more often, he started staying on-site after the take-downs, but it wasn’t until Shouta had to re-locate his shoulder after a particularly brutal fight with a mugger that he had finally received a quiet “thanks.”

It was unclear how old he was. His figure and voice suggested that he was young, but in this quirked society, those aspects didn’t mean as much as they would have otherwise. The way that he spoke and acted definitely pointed towards early to mid teens, though. Shouta had alerted Naomasa of the situation, and politely asked for permission to handle it on his own time.

He couldn’t make that mistake again. The cost had almost been too high.

Their first actual interaction had been about the punching. Slip used his crowbar almost exclusively, relying on the strength of the weapon to make up for his lack of muscle mass, but on one particular fight, it had been knocked out of his hands. Instead of pulling back as he usually would, he darted forwards, fist thrusting forwards in a continued effort to bring down the low-level criminal he was facing.

He would have broken all of his fingers had Shouta not intervened. Had this kid never thrown a punch before? He’s certainly watched plenty of punches. How could he possibly not know that you couldn’t tuck your thumb underneath all your other fingers?

Shouta had ended the fight in an instant, leaving the criminal unconscious on the ground as he rounded on the smaller figure.

Slip had left that fight knowing how to throw a proper punch. And how to stand properly. And how to break out of a few holds.

Shouta had had to knock the criminal out a couple extra times. It was a long lesson.

After that, things snowballed. Slip was tiny. While fixing his stance, Shouta had been able to feel every rib through his sweatshirt. His wrists were bony and pale. So the next time they ran into each other, Shouta shoved a protein bar and some juice packs into his arms. It was all he had on him at the time. The time after that, he had a proper meal. They sat on the sidewalk while Slip ate, Shouta turned slightly away so he could keep his face hidden without the medical mask he normally wore. They talked a little bit, about fighting and life. Shouta plied the kid for information about where he was living, what his name was, and whether he was safe, but got little in return.

That was ok, though. Shouta wasn’t trying to find him out. He just had to gain his trust. Food would gain his trust. Bandaging his wounds would gain his trust. Listening to him would gain his trust.

Slip liked to ramble. About anything and everything. Mostly heroes, but occasionally about criminal groups he’d run into and subsequently fled from. He always had some new tip for Shouta, some new fact that he’d picked up in his wanderings.

“Mr. Eraser,” he’d say, green eyes serious and intense. “Did you know that the Yakuza has been recruiting lately?”

Shouta had known that, but he hadn’t known that the new recruits were all highschoolers, or that most of them had expressed an interest in studying biology.

Slip seemed to be simultaneously terrified of him and desperate for his attention. After a few months, it became clear that he was seeking Shouta out, though he didn’t stick around very long. He’d flit in and out of Shouta’s reach, sometimes refusing to come closer than the nearest rooftop, and other times sneaking in close to hang off of his sleeve. One time, he simply walked up to Shouta and hugged him, burying his face in Shouta’s side and standing there, trembling slightly. For a moment, Shouta thought that that was the end of it, that he could finally take the kid off the streets, but when he’d reached out to reciprocate the gesture, Slip had run off once again.

He couldn’t be hasty, though. It couldn’t happen again. He knew where Slip was, at least. He was keeping track of him, knew what villain groups were in the area.

Hitoshi had been in another city when it happened. A place he was unfamiliar with. He’d run away again, and run into the wrong people.

It took Shouta nearly three days to find him after that.

He hadn’t seen Slip in a few days when he finally ran into him. For once, he’d found the kid instead of the other way around, and he wasn’t facing a mugger or a thief. He was slumped against the wall of an alley, sweatshirt seemingly still damp from yesterday’s rain. His shoulders trembled.

Shouta slid down the wall to sit next to him, leaving some space between them. Slip’s breaths were labored, the trembling looking more violent and uncontrolled closer-up.

“Hey, Mr. Eraser,” came the quiet greeting. The words were grating, and ended in a fit of nasty-sounding coughs.

“Hey,” Shouta responded, leaning forward to make sure Slip knew he was studying him. What little of his face he could see was flushed, eyes glassy and unfocused.

Slip sniffed, looking away.

“I’m tired,” he said, curling into himself, digging thin fingers into his arms in an attempt to stop the shaking. “I’m tired, Mr. Eraser.”

Shouta reached out slowly, laying his fingers on the kid’s forehead. It was damp and hot. “You should rest, then. Do you have somewhere you can rest? I can get you medicine.”

Slip just hummed a little in response, and they sat in silence.

“Hey,” Slip said, sniffing again through some heavy congestion. “It’s my birthday today.”

“Yeah? I should get you some birthday cake too, then.”

Slip laughed a little. “I don’t think I could eat it.”

“Maybe when you’re better, then. How old are you turning?”

Slip hesitated a bit, and buried his face in his knees. “Thirteen.”

That…was younger than Shouta had expected. He’d expected the teenage part, but he’d thought that he’d be fifteen at the youngest.

He’s been chasing a twelve-year-old for six months.

Slip coughs again, and Shouta’s heart stutters in his chest. It sounds bad. Really bad. The coughs last a long time, and Shouta has to rub his back before they taper off. The kid slumps a little more, breathing hard.

He can’t leave him out here. He’ll die if he spends more time outside.

“I have a son around your age,” he says slowly.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Hitoshi had been younger than this. Shouta had chased him down time and time again, because he was the only one who could find him and bring him in after he’d run away again.

That last time, Hitoshi refused to come with him. He huddled deep into an old draining pipe, staring out at him with terrified, unfocused eyes.

Hitoshi had tried to fight off the villain group with his quirk, and they’d taken a liking to it. He’d escaped, but not before they’d locked a muzzle around his jaw, locking his mouth shut.

He was half-dead with dehydration by the time Shouta found him. He’d crouched outside that pipe for four hours, coaxing the kid out. It wasn’t until he promised that he wouldn’t have to go to another foster home, that he could stay with him, that Hitoshi had dragged himself out of the pipe, collapsing into Shouta’s arms.

Hitoshi had been eight at the time. Five years later, and he hadn’t run away once.

Being a single parent and an underground hero at the same time was hard, but Shouta doesn’t know how he’d lived without him before.

Beside him, Slip starts to cry. He’d been too careful this time. Twelve was too young to be on the streets for that long. What had happened to Hitoshi had made him paranoid, unwilling to force the issue, but he should have moved faster. Should have gotten this kid safe sooner. The sobs are broken, interrupted with coughing.

“I’m tired, Mr. Eraser,” the kid says again. “I want to go home.”

“I can take you home.”

Slip shakes his head. “There’s nothing there anymore.”

“You can come home with me.”

It’s not the first time he’s offered, but it’s the first time Slip doesn’t shrug it off. Instead, he sniffs loudly and says, “really?”

Shouta reaches out again and brushes the damp hair from Slip’s forehead, hesitating before pushing the hood of his hoodie down off his head.

Slip’s hair is dirty, and matted, and wet, but he thinks it might be green. “Really.”

The kid slumps against him, burying his head in Shouta’s shoulder. The fever burns through the fabric of his hero costume.

“Okay.”

It’s quiet, but it’s permission. Shouta moves slowly, but sweeps the kid up into his arms bridal style, keeping his head rested on his shoulder. Slip’s head lolls, and the kid stares up at him with clouded eyes.

He’s sick and vulnerable and young and he trusts Shouta so much, he should have done this weeks ago.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Izuku.”

“Well, Izuku, when you feel better, we can get some birthday cake.”

Shouta walks towards his apartment. It’s not far, and Hitoshi will be home from school soon. Shouta had told him weeks ago that he may have to start sharing his room. Izuku hums, smiling slightly at the mention of birthday cake.

By the time they reach the apartment, the kid is already asleep.

[maliwarm]

MERRY BIRTHMAS @neyzilla

I hope I’m not too late and apologies in advance for the lucklustre ending. I forgot where I was going with it. :,,,L

-

Shayne was terrified of heights. Terrified of the thought of pitching over the edge of some looming platform and tumbling head over heels with her breath lodged in her throat and the wind roaring, deafening and merciless, in her ears. Terrified of the thought of falling with no end in sight and equally terrified of the fall's end and becoming a red smear on the pavement somewhere. So when a picnic basket-carrying Orendi had dragged her along to Ekkunar, pointed at the stupidly largest tree she could possibly find and told Shayne they were going to climb it, she'd balked. A lot of heated back and forth had ensued, with enough no's on Shayne's part to fill the sky with stars again threefold. Yet Orendi was vehemently insistent that they climb this particular tree – this freakishly large tree that was so tall they couldn't see its top from where they stood on the ground – and absolutely wouldn't settle for any other, less insanely-proportioned, tree.

When Shayne had finally snapped out a why, the answer had been an extremely unhelpful and cryptic, "It just has to be this one!"

The argument had continued for quite some time, becoming more and more heated as their tempers and voices had flared higher and higher and louder and louder. Boomerangs and magik were thrown, though not at each other (but it was a close thing), and all wildlife in the immediate area had long since up and left because of the noise and violence. Eventually, Orendi had won by blindsiding Shayne with a very soft please and a touch of her patented puppy eyes that she could never ever resist. It was really dirty of her – completely and utterly unfair – and Shayne made sure the witch knew it. And continued to make sure she knew it when she was riding piggyback on Orendi, arms wrapped in a crushing grip around her neck; the only thing between Shayne and a splattery death on the jungle floor. For Orendi's part, there wasn't a single complaint about the tightness of Shayne's deathgrip the entire heart-stopping climb up the tree. And she nodded along to every grievance and apologised (in her usual roundabout Orendi way), but said it was going to be worth it.

The trip had been a surprisingly fast one. Orendi proved exceptionally adept at tree climbing, even with the extra weight of Shayne and the picnic basket on her thin back. All four of her clawed hands were in a constant, dizzying, state of motion the entire climb. It was equal parts mesmerising and nauseating to watch, so Shayne ended up hiding her face in the crook of Orendi's neck, breathing in her scent – campfire and sugary sweetness and a hint of something spicy and vaguely earthy and wild – in an attempt to keep calm. It worked. Mostly. At least enough to keep her from thinking exclusively of falling to her death for extended periods of time.

Now, with the climb long since behind them and shadowfire-reheated pizza and a bunch of candy in their stomachs, the pair sat huddled together closely on one of the thickest and uppermost branches of the tree, fingers intertwined. Orendi's head lay on Shayne's shoulder, her mismatched eyes slit contentedly as they both gazed at the slowly darkening skyline. Shayne's thumb rubbed slow circles across the witch's bony knuckles. The darker parts of her skin were textured differently than the lighter parts; they were slightly harder and kind of rough, almost scaly, like Pendles. If Pendles had a hundred billion itty bitty scales, anyways. In any case, the action soothed Shayne; helped her focus more on this nice moment they were sharing rather than her fear of heights. And, okay, she had to admit that it was a pretty sweet spot that Orendi had picked out. The way the sunset backlit the trees as Solus slowly sunk beneath the horizon? Stunning.

Sighing contentedly, Shayne allowed her head to rest atop Orendi's. Hat Trick had been set aside, likely in case this happened, so Shayne's cheek was met with an unruly jungle of wiry dark hair. It was kinda springy, making it a pretty good pillow, with the added bonus of smelling nice. She must've washed it, Shayne surmised with with surprise. She almost never did so of her own volition, usually forcing Shayne herself or Reyna to wrestle the witch into a bath when she was beginning to smell particularly funky. Shayne couldn't stop the small grin that sprang up; Orendi sure had pulled out all the stops for this little outing.

"See?" Orendi said into her shoulder, the touch of smugness not lost on Shayne. "I told you this was a good idea. Fresh air, pizza, and the sun's bleeding heart soaking us in its love rays. What more could you want?"

Shayne's fingers paused in their slow circling. "To not be this high up," she said flatly. "Other than that, okay, yeah. This is a pretty sweet setup. Dinner and a show with pretty company?" She pulled away enough to flash the witch a crooked grin. "Literally no complaints with those bits."

Orendi returned the grin, sharp and bright white. Beautiful and dangerous. "Such a charmer! Pretty words from pretty lips, making the sweetest music in my ears."

A flush alighted on Shayne's cheeks. "'M not pretty," she mumbled, embarrassed. She was a mess of crooked, too-big teeth, a body on the gangly side, stark burn scars, and she all over just screamed tomboy to the max. It'd never really bothered her – she was who she was, and she was relatively comfortable in her own skin; semi-crispiness and all – but she still couldn't help but be aware of the fact that she very clearly didn't fit most people's definition of pretty.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Orendi exclaimed, grabbing Shayne's face with her spare set of arms and giving it a mostly gentle shake. The witch could easily tear her head from her shoulders if she wanted to, and her nails – claws, really – could just as easily stab out her eyes or claw off her face. Instead, they cupped Shayne's face in the tenderest way, long fingers splayed across her cheeks, the nails resting feather-lightly ticklish against her skin. She gave the punk another shake, wearing a pout and furrowed brows. "Shayne... Sugar-daffodil-buttercup-cookie-with-sprinkles-on-top-" that made her snort, and Orendi grinned briefly before pouting again, though she struggled to maintain it now, "-no. You. Are. Pretty."

"No, I-"

The claws pressed into her skin a little in warning and the next forced shake of her head was even less gentle. "AH PUH PUH PUH!" Orendi interrupted loudly. "Lemme finish!" When Shayne didn't speak up again, instead arching a brow, the witch continued, "You're pretty." She made sure to add extra emphasis to pretty, giving Shayne a look that said I dare you to argue. "Your smile's pretty, your hair's pretty, and the way you shank Varelsi? A work of art. And you're strong! Not Whisk-a-lisk strong, of course; he's cray-cray amounts of strong. But! You. Are. Still. Strong! There are a million, bajillion, things about you that are great, in-cah-loooood-ing! How pretty you are, huggabutt. Do not argue with me about this or I will EAT your FACE."

Shayne nodded slowly, and Orendi began to remove her hands, thinking they'd reached an agreement. "Ok. But-"

Orendi's hands immediately clapped back into place, stinging Shayne's cheeks. "I told you not to argue with me, Shayne. I toLD YOU! Now I gotta eat your pretty face!"

Before she could even process all that properly, Orendi's face came incredibly close to hers... And Shayne was graced with a long, slobbery lick down one cheek. She yelped. Very loudly and very shrilly. Mostly at the unexpectedness of it, but also because wow... That was a LOT of saliva she could feel dripping down her cheek. "Orendi! Oh man, yuck!"

"Mmmm. Tastes preee~eeetty!" Orendi cackled, highly amused by both her own antics and Shayne's reaction. Her laughter abruptly petered off into a squeal of delight, however, when a grinning Shayne lunged forward to leave a matching slobbery trail on her cheek. Though with marginally less actual slobber. Because she, at least, knew restraint.

Shayne pulled away. Her grin had grown visibly larger. "I dunno, 'Rendi. I think you taste much prettier."

There was an obvious note of challenge glinting in the varimorph's eyes. "Oh ho HOOOOO, it is ON, gurl!" Her spindly body began to coil in on itself, legs creeping up onto the branch and clawed nails digging deep into the bark to keep her rooted in place, getting ready to literally pounce. She even wiggled like a cat in preparation.

"Nononono!" Shayne halted her with a hastily thrown up palm. Nooooo lunging. I don't wanna fall."

A disappointed Orendi slowly uncoiled. Her bare feet dangled back over the branch and kicked at the empty air sullenly. "I wouldn't let you fall," she pointed out, sulky at the apparent lack of trust.

"I know you wouldn't," Shayne sighed, fingers coaxing one thin hand away from its vice grip on the bark so she could hold it. She rubbed slow circles over Orendi's knuckles, just as she had before, to soothe the both of them. "I'm just... scared." Terrified, really, but whatever. "Scared" made her sound like much less of a weenie.

"NnnnnneeeeRRRRGH," Orendi growled. Shayne could hear the nails of her free hands digging furious trenches into the branch's bark. "I’ll eat your fear. With hot sauce and viscera.”

The corner of Shayne’s lips quirked up. The attempt at comfort was an odd one, but one she appreciated all the same. “Heh. Make sure you chew it extra good.”

[lookuponmyworksyemighty]

There’s A Time For Beauty

Sal was pretty.

His prosthetic probably hid something he never wanted the world around him to see, but he kept his hair pulled back into pigtails and he was built thin. His hands were delicate and his eyes, from what Larry could see, were the most intense blue.

He had tried mixing paints to look like them a couple of times, to match the blue.

So far, it hadn’t worked, but he still kept trying.

Larry erased a line in his sketchbook, trying to get the shape of Sal’s prosthetic just right, nudging it into the right place. The other boy was sitting across the room from him, curled up on the mini-couch across the room. His fingers were wrapped around the toe of one of his shoes, picking at the edge absently. Sal looked deep in thought as only he could, his entire body strained against something that was probably eating him up inside.

It strangely took minimal prodding to get the other boy to speak and it was about kissing.

It was about kissing him.

Sal, pretty as he was, wanted to kiss Larry. Sal, with his sarcasm and a good sense of humor and everything about him that made Larry want to tell him every day how much he liked him, wanted to kiss him.

His heart was pounding in his chest as the smaller boy settled on the floor next to him, holding as still as he could.

One wrong move and Sal might run away, that was how scared he seemed to be.

Creating a friendship with him had required a new way of figuring out emotions. Sal’s face wasn’t on display for him to see. Larry couldn’t see the curl of a smile on his mouth, couldn’t watch his cheeks turn red when they embarrassed each other, wasn’t able to see what Sal’s face looked like when he was thinking. He’d learned to read the boy’s body instead, figuring out what each jerk of his head and movement of his shoulders meant.

If anyone asked, he’d say he’d become fluent in Sally Face.

Larry wanted to smile, pull Sal close and just focus on the moment with him. Sal was the only person he’d ever wanted to kiss since a crush he’d had in fourth grade. Instead, he held still until he figured out that Sal was trying not to freak him out. His hand was cold over Larry’s eyes and true to his word, Larry wasn’t peeking.

When he turned his head, it was like a single electric spark shot down his spine.

Sal pressed closer into him and the warmth between them grew, like sitting in front of a fire in the winter. Curled in blankets and with mugs of hot chocolate and saying nothing but feeling excited and happy, with snow outside. Kissing Sal was the best thing he’d ever felt in his life.

His knee was a little clammy under Larry’s hand but it was good.

Sal had the courage to bring this up.

One day, Larry would have the courage to tell him exactly what it meant to him. His elbows were bony and pressing awkwardly into the beanbag, causing the whole thing to tilt sideways but it was the best thing.

~

There was a time for courage and there was a time for quiet and there was a time for saying things.

Larry was on the mini-couch, curled sideways a little, his feet on the floor to accommodate Sal’s head on his hip. The smaller boy had come out of his final class of the day at school and looked exhausted. Larry had guided him home and immediately took him downstairs to lay on the couch.

The music was playing as it always was when they were in his room.

He could feel Sal’s fingers curled tightly in the fabric of his pants, where they were a little looser at the knee. What was worse was that he could still feel Sal shaking, his entire body trembling as he continued to deal with the bad alone. Whatever was going on in his head, it was obviously hurting him still, had been since before they’d made it home.

With just a bit of hesitation, Larry reached out and put a hand on Sal’s head, scratching gently at his scalp. “Dude,” he said quietly. “I can hear everything bouncing around in there. What’s up?”

“I shouldn’t…” Sal started his sentence, then groaned and rolled so that the forehead of his prosthetic was pressing into Larry’s thigh. “It was just something stupid, someone said it at school, I don’t…” his hand clutched tighter at Larry’s jeans, the trembling even worse now. “It shouldn’t matter that much.”

“Obviously it does,” Larry sat up a little, bracing himself with his free arm. “Want to talk about it?”

“…Yeah.”

“Okay,” he adjusted Sal’s head onto his lap, scratching gently at the base of his pigtails. “Where do you want to start?”

He could feel it when Sal relaxed just slightly, his shoulders slumping from the tense position they’d been in. “Probably at the beginning,” Sal muttered, tracing a thread in his jeans with one finger. “There were some girls at school today and they just…Said…Stuff.”

Oh.

Larry wanted to pull Sal entirely into his lap and hug him, make himself into as much of a shield as he could be for the other boy. “About?”

“…My prosthetic.”

“Yeah, okay,” Larry felt a bit of anger in his chest. “Then they’re stupid, if they were making fun of it.”

Silence, no answer, Sal’s entire body stiff and still and a soft whimpering noise.

Hit the nail on the head.

“Dude, it’s fucking cool. It’s a part of you and who you are and it just means that you’ve gone through some shit and you’re still alive today.”

“…Larry?”

Sal twitched and Larry pulled his hands away, letting him sit up. “What?”

“…Can I show you?”

For a moment his heart stops and he wants to kiss Sal again. They’ve gotten pretty good at it, even with Larry not being able to see what he’s doing. He knows the curve of Sal’s back, the way he kneels into Larry’s lap and the weight of him. The warmth of him when they’re holding close to each other. He could go off into poetry about the way Sal leans into him, the way his hair falls and creates a curtain around him.

When they kiss, it’s a lot of hair, especially when Sal pulls his down from his pigtails.

“Yeah,” Larry said quietly. Sal was still tensed up, like he almost wanted to run but his feet hadn’t gotten the message yet. He relaxed a little when Larry spoke next. “You can show me. Do you want to?”

A shaky sigh and Sal nodded. “Yeah.”

“Alright.”

He kept his hands to himself, looking at Sal in what he hoped was a reassuring way. The other boy took a deep breath and pulled off the prosthetic slowly. His hands were shaking and he immediately looked down at his own lap, hiding what was revealed.

Larry waited, letting him go at his own pace.

Sal pulled his hair down, letting it form a curtain around his head and he sighs. “Just…Don’t panic, alright?”

He sounded scared.

“Would I?”

That got a laugh from Sal and Larry can feel when some of his anxiety spills out and away from him. “No, probably not.”

With a deep breath, Sal looked up, his shoulders coming up to his chin. It makes him seem even smaller than he is and Larry wants to hold him and keep him safe. There were several dimpled scars across his left cheek and a sunken-in portion on his right, leading up to the right eye. Without the mask, Larry could see that his right eye wasn’t real, it looked too glassy and reflective. Some of the scarring looked like teeth.

“Woah,” he reached forward slowly, then pauses. “Can I?”

Sal’s eyes were opened wide and he looked stunned. “Yeah. I mean,” shrugging again. “If you really want to.”

“It’s not going to hurt anything?” Larry put his hands on Sal’s chin and cheeks, feeling his warmth and the shape of his jaw. “This looks sick, dude. Properly metal, y’know?”

Sal burst into laughter and Larry joined in, watching his face crinkle into a smile for the first time.

This must be what his mother felt when she looked at his father, he thinks. He wants to try mixing paint to match Sal’s eyes again, wants to write poetry to him, about him, to tell the world about him. He’s beautiful, scars and all, and he is everything Larry wants in his life when it comes to romance and happiness.

Sal was pretty.

Even if his prettiness came from something no one else would think about. It came from the way he tilted his shoulders, the way he laughed and it was muffled behind his prosthetic. His sort of pretty was in spite of everyone who called him anything else. He was scarred and a little scared and bitter and angry, but Larry loved him.

Oh, Larry thought as he kept laughing, leaning in to press his forehead gently against Sal’s. Oh.

Can also be found on AO3 HERE

[percyinpanties]

Two weeks is not a long time, but for Jason it drags on.

 He learns his way around the property, learns the routes to every important room and all the shortcuts and he starts learning the names of the rest of the staff.

They are kind to him, but he can tell they are wary too. The praetor hadn’t wanted him here, had only taken him in because he hardly had a choice in the matter and Jason thinks that may be the reason for the others animosity. They don’t say it, and they never treat him unfairly, but he recognises the resentment in the way they look at him.

He is not welcome here, and he has yet to earn his place. Jason keeps his distance, and does his best to be polite and helpful where he can. He is lucky to have Will by his side, who everybody seems to love dearly, and Jason can see why they do.

 Will is warm, and he has a kind heart, and Jason doubts that a bad word has ever passed over his lips. It doesn’t make him weak, in contrast, Jason feels like it makes the other stronger. His journey to this place has not been much different from Jason’s own, but Will has managed to make it a home.

Jason can only hope he will be able to do that too.

 By the end of the first week, Jason and Will have settled into the routine. They get up with the rise of the sun, or rather Will does and Jason allows himself to be dragged along. Jason has stopped questioning how Will manages to be up and awake at the first hint of sunlight, but it is hard to resist a smile when one is awoken by a figurative ball of sunshine each morning.

They go to eat on the patio, where they watch the sun rise fully over the sea. Will tells Jason about the praetor, little stories from the last two years Will has spent here. Sometimes, he shares some gossip he heard from Hazel or the other girls, about new soldiers, or Luke, the praetor’s lieutenant, and sometimes, he just tells Jason about a book he’s read. It’s comfortable and it makes the mornings pass easy even after the roughest and most sleepless nights.

 After breakfast, they usually go sit by the arena. Jason hasn’t worked up the courage to ask if he might join the training sometimes yet, but it hasn’t escaped Jason that the lieutenant has noticed him and Will watch – or maybe just Jason having joined Will in watching.

Most of the time, they don’t stay for long. In the beginning, they would explore after – Will showing Jason every nook and cranny of the property that he’d have to know in the future. In more recent days, they’ve gone to the town that the praetor’s home resided over, or walked the cliffs and orchards and garden surrounding the property on all sides.

 Afternoons are not as relaxed. Will takes Jason to the library then, most of the time, learning to read and write, and about music. Jason is clumsy with the lyre, and he has no more luck with the pipes, and unlike Will, hardly any talent for singing. He is better with the cithara, maybe because the instrument is much less fragile in his hands than the others.

Jason learns how to spell out his names, but he still struggles making any of the letters into sounds even with Will’s patient and careful teaching. Jason feels stupid for never having learnt, he was sure his sister knew how to read… or he believed she would.

 Their newly found routine helps Jason keep his emotions at bay. In quiet moments, he still feels a sadness creep up on him that he does not know how to handle. He dreads stagnation, dreads being alone with his thoughts and memories, and even with Will by his side, they haunt him at night. There are a lot of things Jason is afraid of, and a lot of things he does not understand, but Will makes them easier to bear.

He fills the empty space inside Jason’s chest with a warmth and affection Jason has never come to know before, a kindness that has grown to be unfamiliar. Jason cannot remember ever having felt like this before.

 It’s been three weeks since the praetor left and despite all of Jason’s doubts and worries, he is beginning to feel at home. He is still plagued by nightmares, and he still doesn’t understand what Will is doing to his emotions, and the staff still are a little suspicious – but Jason can tell he is growing stronger again, and that it all becomes a little easier to bear.

He hadn’t been starved on the pirate ship, but the scraps he’d been fed had to be earned, and even then they were hardly enough to fill his stomach. Before that, when he lived as an orphan in the village that used to be his home, he couldn’t say that he’d had it much better then.

Now though, he starts filling out. His ribs are almost hidden again, his arms don’t look as bony and his skin doesn’t feel paper thin.  Jason is becoming healthier, and he knows he has to be grateful for that. Whatever may become of him once the praetor returns, he has never been cared for as well as these past three weeks under Will’s care.

 It’s the first morning off the fourth week when Will wakes Jason before the sun has even risen on the horizon. The room is only lit by one of the torches when Will shakes Jason out of his sleep, and at first he panics, thinking something must be amiss if Will is waking him during the night.

 “Hush.” Will whispers. There is a grin on his face that does strange things to Jason’s stomach. “I don’t want to wake anyone. I’ve left some clothes by the dresser, get changed while I’m gone, will you?”

 Jason blinks slowly, then finds himself nodding. He can’t claim to be properly awake yet, but evidently Will doesn’t need him to be. As the other boy disappears from Jason’s line of sight, he sits up properly and rubs both hands over his face. He muffles a yawn into his palms, stretches his arms above his head and yawns again. His sleep hasn’t been too bad the night before, but that makes Jason only grumpier that he’d had to let it go so early.

 Nevertheless, Jason gets up. He runs his fingers through his dishevelled hair, but doesn’t bother seeking out the mirror to smooth it down into a more acceptable state. He finds the clothes Will has picked for him easily: a pale blue shirt and trousers made of soft leather, nothing like what Jason would have worn before he came here. There is a belt too, for keeping everything in its place. The buckle has a strange insignia that Jason suspects is the praetor’s.

 It takes Jason some time getting dressed, but not because he is reluctant. The more he wakes, the more is curiosity is peaked and he wonders what Will has planned for the day ahead. Even though he’d probably prefer still being hidden in the sheets, preferably with Will by his side who provides a constant comforting warmth, Jason wants to know what Will has in store today.

He is moving a little sluggish, so by the time Will comes back, Jason is still struggling with the belt around his waist in a way that will actually keep his clothes where they are meant to be. Will huffs when he sees Jason’s hopeless attempt and sets down the pack he’s brought on the bed.

 “Here.” Will says as he slips right into Jason’s space. “Let me.”

 Will pats Jason’s chest once everything is secured in its designated place and smiles up at the other boy. He seems excited, and Jason can’t help but return the smile too. Will’s mood, as most days, is too infectious.

 “I wanna take you somewhere, but it takes a little while to get there.” Will informs Jason, then gestures for him to follow. “Gonna be a long day, so I hope you slept wel.��

 Will bounces with every step he takes, despite the obvious weight of the pack he is carrying. Even though Jason is still tired, and the crips morning air makes him shiver slightly, he can still feel a tingle of anticipation settling in his own stomach.

 No one crosses their path as Will leads Jason through the hallways, down a shortcut that takes them outside near the patio. The sun hasn’t yet risen, everything is eerily dark, and Jason begins to wonder how Will even managed to wake this early. Will must be tired too, he isn’t talking as much or as agitated as Jason is used to, instead, Will is humming a soft melody under his breath for most of their walk.

 It’s only when they reach the stables that Jason begins to understand what Will has planned.

 “We’re going for a ride?” Jason asks, unable to hide the excitement from his voice. His smile is a little hesitant still, he doesn’t want to get his hopes up for nothing.

Will turns around to him with a laugh bubbling up in his chest.

 “Yeah! I promised, and I always try to keep my promises.”

 Jason’s first instinct is to scoop Will up in a hug, but he stops just short of the other boy and squeezes his shoulder instead.

 “Thank you.” He says quietly, earnestly, and Will nods in reply.

 “We’re taking Tempest.” Will tells Jason as he pulls away from him, stopping by one of the units. Inside is the same stormy grey stallion that Jason had noticed the very first time Will has shown him the stables. “He’s a bit of a temperament one, but I think he likes you, so we’ll be fine.”

 Jason steps closer, offering his palm up to the horse. The stallion comes closer and to Jason, he doesn’t look at all like he’d be difficult to handle at all. Once he is sure he won’t startle the horse, Jason reaches out and runs his fingers over the animal’s neck, feeling coarse fur under his fingertips. The stallion puffs, nuzzles against the touch, and Jason falls a little in love.

Will watches the scene with an amused smile and fond gaze, but Will is hardly paying him any attention.

 “Let’s get him saddled up.”

 Before his village burned down, Jason worked for the only farmer. He had a few horses, they were always Jason’s favourite, so this wasn’t the first time he got a stallion ready for a ride.

Will tells Jason, as they get Tempest ready, that taking care of the horses had been one of the first things he’d been taught. There’s a wistful smile on his face as he says it, apparently the praetor is very fond of the horses himself, spends loads of time on rides or in the stable. Jason suspects there is more to the story than Will is telling him now, but he isn’t sure whether he should ask or not.

 Before Jason gets a chance to make up his mind, Will has already mounted the horse. He pats the space behind him, and Jason follows onto Tempest’s back after only a moment of hesitation.

 “You can ride, right?” Will asks as he leans back against Jason’s chest and offers him the reigns. Jason feels his heart beat a little too fast at the closeness, but it isn’t an entirely unpleasant feeling that spreads through him now.

 Instead of answering, Jason only nods and takes the reigns. His feet slide more securely into the stirrups and leads the horse into a slow walk out of the stable and property. Will quietly gives directions, making Jason follow a narrow path around the borders of the town. Apart from pointing out a few landmarks they pass, Will is very quiet on the ride. Jason cannot say he minds, the more time passes, the more comfortable he grows both with their proximity and the silence.

 Jason knows the land they are riding through belongs to the praetor as well, his property as much as his obligation. It seems like a flourishing little province, the main town isn’t very large but wealthy and as they ride further into the countryside now, they pass villas, large farms and a few villages that don’t look anything like the poor place Jason has come from.

“Where are we?” Jason asks quietly, and he isn’t sure how he has never thought to ask this before. How far away from his old home has he been taken?

 “What do you mean?” Will murmurs in return, sounding sleepy. Jason feels a little bad for disturbing their soft and calm silence.

 “What province are we in?” He rephrases this time and Will hums in understanding.

 “Achaia.”  Will says. Jason feels his heart drop. “Pretty much the southern edge of it.”

 They’re in Greece. No wonder their accent had sounded different from Jason’s own. He was so far away from home, he could hardly comprehend. If there had ever been any hope of making his way back, of seeing his sister again, it was lost now.

 Jason doesn’t realise he has fallen deathly quiet, or that he stopped the horse, until Will turns around to him with a worried little frown on his face.

“I think it’s time for a break.” Will says softly and gives Jason a small smile.

 He slides off the horse, not waiting for Jason to follow before he grabs the reigns from him and leads Tempest a little further along the path. There is a creek up ahead, surrounded by large stones and a few trees, one of which Will ties Tempest’s reins to now.

Jason gets off the horse then, watching somewhat unsure as Will grabs the package he’d packed this morning. Will walks over to the large stones by the creek, doused in the first light of the day, and waves Jason over to follow.

 “Breakfast?” Will asks, rather than trying to find out what has Jason’s mood so suddenly dropping. Jason sighs, but takes the seat next to Will on one of the stones. Tempest grazes just off the path, wading through the creek and picking the greenest grass from either side.

 “Can I ask where we’re going?” Jason says as Will hands him some bread and fruit. Will smirks in reply, but shakes his head.

 “What’s the fun in that?” He asks and pops a red berry into his mouth with a hum.

 Jason doesn’t mean to follow the motion with his eyes, but he does. The berry breaks in Will’s mouth and some of the juice stains his lips a sultry red. Quickly, which only makes his staring before less subtle, Jason snaps his gaze away. He hears Will chuckle and his cheeks are turning the same shade of red as Will’s berry stained lips.

 When they continue their ride, Jason’s thoughts have moved on from the dark path they had strayed down earlier. Will had picked the perfect moment for a break, Jason had needed the downtime to calm himself again.

He hadn’t seen his sister since he was a child, he couldn’t know if she was even still alive. Even so, if she ever made her way back to the village they grew up in, she’d find nothing in its place. That is what really makes Jason ache inside. There is no home for him to return to, and even though Will shows that this place may be a home if Jason allows it to become one, he doesn’t know if he can do that yet.

 This time, Jason is the first to mount the horse. Will still insists on sitting in the front, claiming their size difference makes them fit better this way. Jason isn’t sure that this is really Will’s motive, given that he really isn’t that much taller than Will, but he doesn’t argue.

Jason suspects Will likes the excuse to be close, to lean his back against Jason’s chest and drop his head against Jason’s shoulder as they trot along. Jason can’t say he minds as much anymore, Will’s warmth seeping into his own body is pleasant, intimate – completely unlike any of the hands that had forced their way onto his skin during his journey here.

Jason shakes off the thought of the pirates and concentrates on the path ahead. His hands rest on Will’s lap, arms around Will’s waist, as he is still the one with the reigns. Will keeps his hands away though, mindful of Jason’s boundaries. Jason knows that Will is waiting for him to seek the touch out himself, but Jason can’t claim he is ready for that just yet.

 Lost in thought, Jason doesn’t pay much attention to the passing of time or the road ahead. Tempest is a well-trained horse – he stays on the path with little input from Jason (or maybe Will has been pulling the reins somewhat more than Jason has noticed.

They go from a barren path through a forest, a winding path through trees and bushes. Before the sun reaches its highest point, however, Will makes them stop.

They must have reached their destination, but Jason can’t see anything special around. The forest is thick around them, but even so Jason doesn’t quite feel as awed as Will’s excitement had made him hope to be.

 “Come on, don’t look so disappointed.” Will says and demounts. “We just can’t take the horse any further.”

 As soon as Jason’s own feet hit the ground, Will playfully pokes his side before taking the reins and leading Tempest a little further down the path. It’s more narrow now, and Jason sees what Will has meant: The horse will have more control without them on his back.

Not even half a minute later, the tree line parts for a small, gated meadow just off the path. Will hands Jason the reigns while he goes to unlock the gate, then they both work together on unsaddling the horse for it to roam free within the fence while they are gone.

 Will shoulders their bag of supplies, then motions for Jason to follow again.

 “It’s right around the corner, I promise.” He says and offers his hand to Jason.

For a moment, Jason hesitates, and Will is already pulling his hand back when Jason makes up his mind and pulls Will’s hand into his own after all. The smile it brings to Will’s face is worth the way Jason’s heart races for the next two minutes.

 Will hadn’t exaggerated. It doesn’t take them long, winding through the trees from their original starting point, until the last of the trees are behind them and they have a clear view of the sea.

Similarly to the patio back at the praetor’s home, their path leads to a cliff. It doesn’t stop there though: a steep set of wooden stairs is set into the sandy stone, winding down along the rock in front of them.

A thrill goes through Jason as Will eagerly pulls him along.

 From this distance, Jason can hear the waves crashing on the shore. The wind has picked up as well now, ruffling Jason’s hair in every direction. As they climb down the stairs, Jason doesn’t feel any fear. Contrary, this place fills him with a strange feeling of peace and freedom, as if he’s coming home for the first time in months.

He remembers his mother and his sister, the only time they ever travelled and took Jason to a beach. The memory is dull and faded, nothing compared to the beauty that stretches out in front of Jason’s eyes.

 “It’s one of the few places where you can go down to the water.” Will says and grins at Jason. When they reach the ground, the sand is almost white and surprisingly soft under Jason’s bare feet.

“It’s the chalk from the cliffs.” Will says when he spots Jason’s wonder. “They are white too, look.”

 Will lets go of Jason’s hand then and he turns around and indeed: the cliffs stretching out on either side of them are white and pale as ivory, only occasionally disrupted by a spot of red or brown stone, or a patch of green where a tree or bushed grow on the slope. Behind Jason, the water is bright blue, shimmering green further out into the sea. The waves are gentle today, even though the wind is not.

Jason is too stunned by everything around him to notice Will watching him from a few feet away.

 “Swim with me.” The other boy’s soft voice shakes Jason out of his fascination.

He turns his head to meet Will’s eyes and for a second, Jason is taken aback. When he first saw Will, he had realised the other boy was beautiful. Until now, Jason has never really paid it another thought though… Will’s eyes are a brighter blue in this light, almost the same shade as the clear sky above them and his hair reflects the sunshine brilliantly.

Jason’s cheeks turn pink, but this time, he manages to snap out of it before his staring becomes too obvious. Will grins like he has noticed anyway, and much to Jason’s surprise, begins pulling the thin cotton shirt he has been wearing all day over his head.

Jason watches it fall to the ground and refuses to look at Will instead.

 “Come on Jason, swim with me.” This time, it comes out with a giggle, and when Jason doesn’t react, Will steps into his space.

 Before Jason has any chance to protest, Will’s hands are on him, undoing the belt that Will had only closed around Jason’s waist this morning. Jason’s reaction is completely instinctual, he stiffens, then flinches away from the touch.

Memories of larger, rougher hands force themselves to the front of Jason’s mind, memories of painful and demanding touches and Jason can’t.

 Hurt flashes through Will’s eyes, raw and undiluted, before it turns into a more understanding expression. Will drops his hands from Jason’s skin, then raises them as if he is surrendering, showing he means no harm. The belt falls to the sand with a thud.

 “I’m sorry.” Will says and Jason can tell despite the waver in his voice that he means it.

 Will is already backing away but Jason follows and shakes his head. Will hadn’t meant to overstep, Jason knows that, and he cannot stand seeing Will this hurt and rejected when he was in such a playful mood seconds ago. And Will doesn’t know. As much as he’s respected Jason’s space until now, Jason has never told him why, never given him a reason not to touch. What had been completely innocent for Will had brought trauma right back to Jason’s present, and Jason knows that’s not what Will had meant to do.

 “No. I know you won’t harm me.” Jason starts, head bowed. He remembers all the things he hasn’t said the first night he had come here, all the things he cannot expect Will to know.

“Those…pirates.” Jason swallows thickly. He has to force out every word as he continues: “When I… while I… they…”

 As much as Jason wants to open up, wants to give Will an explanation, he cannot get out the words. His throat closes up, a lump forms that he can barely breathe around. It feels like he’s tearing scabs off wounds that should have already been healed, but that he has been bleeding from the entire time.

 As it turns out, Jason doesn’t have to say it aloud. Tentativevly, like Will is afraid Jason might run if he moves too fast, Will steps forward and wraps his arms around Jason. The grip is loose, hesitant and gentle, Jason knows he could easily break away if he had to. Will’s arms wind around Jason’s waist, his hands settle on Jason’s back where his fingers trace little circles around Jason’s spine. The touch is strangely soothing and Jason finds he begins to breathe a little easier again.

 “I know.” The words come quiet, and much too late to be in reply to Jason’s earlier attempts at explaining himself. “I have met the men who brought you here. They are the same ones that brought me.”

 Will rests his head on Jason’s shoulder and his hold tightens marginally. The next words are laced with pain, and so quiet that Jason can hardly understand them at all. “I have felt myself what they have done to you.”

 After that, Will falls silent. He doesn’t have to say anything more, Jason knows what he means. The same men, the same hands and the same bruises where their skin should have been left untouched. Jason can only imagine how much worse Will must have suffered, given he was not spared to be a gift.

 “I’m sorry.” Jason manages finally. His voice is thick with emotion he cannot put into words. He leans forward into Will’s embrace, closes his eyes and holds the other boy tightly against his chest.

Will is warm and his skin is soft under Jason’s hands and that is comfort enough that Jason starts breathing again.

 Neither of them speaks for a long time, but eventually Will pulls away. He wipes his cheeks, smearing the tracks of the few tears that had escaped his eyes. His smile is a little shaky now, but it is as warm as ever, and Jason finds himself returning it.

 “Would you still like to swim with me?” Jason asks and his voice betrays him, catching on the last word and betraying how weak and vulnerable he truly feels.

 Will knows now, despite all unsaid words between them, and as much as Jason is relieved that he has shared his pain with someone, he feels ashamed too. Unlike Will, he used to be a fighter. Someone trained and tall and muscular who should have been able to defend himself from the invaders that had burned his village to the ground. Instead, he has hidden within his own body, praying to the gods for this torture to be over soon. Jason has made himself easy prey, and he despises himself for that.

Especially over the past few days, Jason has grown to like Will much more than he anticipated… and Jason doesn’t want the other boy to be disgusted in light of what had been done to Jason – regardless of the things Will had experienced himself.

 “Yes. Yes, of course.” Will replies finally and reaches out, stroking his fingertips over Jason’s cheek in a fleeting, gentle caress. “That’s what I brought you here for, after all.”

 Will turns around then, picking up Jason’s belt and his shirt to leave them with the rest of their belongings. He doesn’t face Jason when his hands reach around to his own loose trousers, probably for better, and Jason turns his eyes quickly away before any more skin is revealed.

They would not be able to ride home in wet clothes, their skin would chafe and it would be uncomfortable for the horse too, but even so, Jason feels a little shy about undressing.

 Taking a deep breath, Jason grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head before he can change his mind again. The second his skin is exposed, he can feel the warm rays of the sun almost like a caress, but Jason suspects it’s more his imagination than anything else.

 When Jason hears an excited yelp to his left, he turns his head to find Will up to his knees in the water already, waves splashing against his thighs, spraying water all the way up his back and chest. Jason cannot help it, his eyes linger on the curve of Will’s back for a moment, trace over the muscle of Will’s shoulder and down to the tip of his spine. There is a dusting of freckles all over Will’s tanned skin that seem to glow in the sunlight, and Will’s bright hair shines like a halo around his head.

Another squeak when the next wave breaks against Will’s skin, but this time it is followed by a laugh, and the sound is even more inviting than the sight.

 Jason forces his eyes away before Will can catch him staring again, and busies himself undoing his pants instead. His cheeks are burning bright red when he pushes the clothing down his thighs, and by the time he is stepping out of the legs he is sure the blush has spread all the way down to his chest.

Will hasn’t turned around though, and Jason takes his chance to follow into the water before the situation can turn awkward in one way or another.

 The water is cool when the first wave rolls over Jason’s feet and he is tempted to gasp, but presses his lips into a thin line to supress any sound escaping. It’s a nice relief from the warm air around, even if it raises goosebumps on Jason’s heated skin.

His sister used to run all the way into the waves, plunging herself in before Jason managed to even get as far as his knees. The memory is bittersweet, happy but tainted by loss.

Jason shakes his head, shakes off the thoughts before they can taint his mood too.

 Jason has almost caught up to Will when a particularly tall wave catches him by surprise and drenches him up to his navel. He sucks in a sharp breath at the sudden shock of cold, making Will turn around. The other boy grins like a child on the morning of its birthday, then reaches out to grab one of Jason’s hands with his own.

Will’s fingers wrap around Jason’s wrist and he catches the mischievous glint in Will’s eyes too late: With one strong pull, Will makes Jason stumble forward and lose his balance. Jason can’t save himself from falling, but as he goes down, he turns his wrist to take a hold of Will’s arm before the other boy can wind away: If Jason is going down, Will is going to come right along with him.

 Just before the waves engulf Jason’s head in the water, he hears Will’s laughter as he is falling too. Jason remembers at the last second to close his eyes and hold his breath before their combined momentum brings them down to the ground under the water. Having Will almost on top of him makes it harder to come up again, but even so, by the time they burst through the surface again, Jason finds himself grinning like a maniac.

Will’s move has brought them further out, deep enough that when Will regains his footing, the water reaches all the way to his chest now. He is holding on to Jason’s arm, laughing hard even as he struggles to regain his breath.

 “That didn’t go to plan.” Will giggles out eventually and pushes the wet hair out of his face. He grins up at Jason, but for the moment doesn’t seem to plot another attack.

 “You think?” Jason quips, which makes Will shove his chest playfully before he starts shaking his head, sending all the water flying that had soaked into his curls. It sprays Jason’s face, but since he is still dripping anyway, the additional water hardly bothers him. Judging by Will’s grin, he’d hoped for the opposite.

 “Don’t think I’m letting you get away with this.” Will threatens jokingly and winks at Jason.

 He pushes off the ground then, gliding back through the water away from Jason with more grace than Jason thinks he’ll ever possess himself. Will’s cheeks are flushed from laughed, and the water clinging to his lashes catches in the sunlight, making him look even more radiant than usual.

 “Catch me.” Will taunts and makes a come hither motion with his finger, just before he turns over with the next wave and starts swimming away from Jason. “If you can.”

 Jason has never been a good swimmer, if one would even call his strange attempts at moving forward swimming, but even so he is giving it his best. He huffs a laugh, only watches Will for a second longer before he surges after him, trying his best to follow.

Several times, he comes close to catching Will, but Jason is fairly sure that’s only because Will lets him since every time, Will ducks away at the last second and laughs as he brings more distance between them again.

They splash each other, swim so far out that Jason’s feet can’t touch the water any longer, before Will leads their chase back into shallow water.

 It’s due to nothing but luck when Jason catches Will after all. Will tries another of his escapes at the last second, when he slips on the ground. The sand doesn’t provide quite as much purchase as Will had needed, but Jason manages to catch him at the very last second before he is swallowed by the waves.

Before Will can get away, Jason pulls him lose, winding both arms around Will’s waist to trap him.

 Jason wants to say something witty, but his quip dies on the tip of his tongue. Will is laughing with both hands flat against Jason’s chest, like he is thinking about pushing Jason off but not yet ready to ruin the moment.

Jason smiles shyly, the proximity makes his heart beat fast, but not quite in the same anxious way as before. Will must be able to feel it under his palms, and the thought makes Jason blush again.

 “You caught me.” Will purrs, the tone of his voice new to Jason. It’s different than the warm and playful way Will usually talks to him with, and if Jason is quite honest, he doesn’t know what to make of this change at all.

 Jason’s breath hitches when Will strokes his hands up his chest and over his shoulders, arms loosely looping around Jason’s neck.

“I think you earned a reward.”

 Jason swallows. He is painfully aware of all the places their skin is touching with not a single barrier between them. He can feel Will’s warmth even with the cooler water around him, can feel the heat against his chest, can feel Will’s legs brushing his thighs, can feel Will’s fingers playing with his short hair.

 Will’s grin turns into a shyer smile when he shifts closer. His thumb circles on the side of Jason’s neck and Will goes up onto the tips of his toes. They are nose to nose, and Jason knows exactly where this is going. He hadn’t expected anything like this, not this soon and not from Will, but nevertheless, Jason cannot stop his eyes from fluttering closed.

Will’s breath tickles his lips and Jason leans forward by the slightest amount. That must been the invitation Will has been waiting for, because the next thing Jason feels is Will’s lips brushing over his own. It’s like Will’s allowing Jason a last chance to pull away, but Jason is frozen in place.

When he doesn’t move, Will settles his hand at the back of Jason’s neck and pulls him into the kiss.

[ruffsficstuffplace]

The Keeper of the Grove (Part 20)

Warning: As mentioned in previous chapters, Ruby and the others are going to fake Weiss death. There's going to be fake blood and a faked execution, and believe me, things WILL get very dark and intense soon.

--

Your heart pounding so fast, liable to stop dead at any moment from sheer terror. Icy claws wrapping themselves around your chest, piercing your lungs, making it impossible to breath. Every muscle in your body paralyzed, your eyes affixed to that nightmarish face, feeling those red orbs plunge into your very being, killing you little by little from the inside.

Weiss clutched Eluna in a death-grip, cold sweat pouring down every inch of her skin, her mind screaming at her to look away, away from the face of her impending doom, her body unable to do anything but stare.

“Weiss...?” Ruby asked. <Oh crap--!>

She grabbed the mask on Qrow’s face, pulled it off, and shoved it underneath her cloak and out of sight.

Then, just as suddenly as the most vicious, visceral panic attack Weiss had ever experienced started, it stooped.

She gasped for breath, still shaking. “W-What was that?!” she whispered, her eyes throbbing, a piercing, awful pain slowly spreading in her head.

“That would be the Mask of the Keeper,” Qrow replied. “Specially carved, designed, and improved over the centuries to induce screaming, paralyzing terror, and sudden bowel evacuation in 9 out of 10 humans.”

“How…?” Weiss muttered.

“Magic,” Ruby said as she was lowered back onto the floor. “Don’t know how it works, but it works! Anyway... Weiss: this is my Uncle Qrow!” she said, gesturing to him.

Qrow waved. “Sup. Qrow Branwen, but just call me Qrow,” he said as he walked over and offered his hand—or talon, as the case may have been, as his human shaped hand was covered with a rough and bony layer on both sides, and his “fingers” ended in black claws.

Weiss very carefully took it and got a good look at him as they shook.

What she assumed to be messy, spiky black hair was actually a head of sharp feathers sweeping back from his forehead. His eyes were aquiline, and the skin around his nose and mouth was covered in the same material as his hands, like a beak. Where ears would have been on a human, he only had two holes on the side of his head, covered over by more of his feathers and some fluffy down.

“You’re here to record your ransom video, right?” Qrow asked as he took his talon back. “Studio’s all set, even got a script all written up for you.” He smirked.

Weiss scowled. “There better not be what I think you put in there!”

“What do you think is in there, Weiss?” Ruby asked innocently.

“It’s not important,” Qrow said, still smirking. “Come on, this way,” he said, beckoning with his arm.

Weiss stayed put. “Does you have to be with us?”

“Yes,” Qrow replied. “It’s part of my duties as a senior Watcher, Chronicler, and part-time Keeper for all the Keeper-stuff Ruby can’t do.”

“Keeper-stuff?”

Earlier, in the underground jails of the Bastion.

Qrow was dressed up in a larger version of Ruby’s cloak, the mask on his face, and a pair of fake reindeer antlers on his head. In front of him and backed up against the wall were the survivors of the ill-fated third and fourth expeditions into the Valley.

“WHAT DID I TELL YOU DUMB FUCKS ABOUT GOING INTO THE VALLEY?!” Qrow yelled.

“AAHHHH! NOOOOO...!”

“PLEASE!  I’LL DO ANYTHING! JUST LET ME GO...!”

“MOMMY! MOMMY! MOOOMMMMYYY-YYY-YYY...!”

Underneath the mask, Qrow cringed as his nose was assaulted with a fresh wave of the unmistakable scent of fear and repeatedly soiled underwear.

“Ah,” Weiss replied.

“It’s hard to believe a story where the Keeper is barely 5 feet tall without antlers,” Qrow replied.

“Hey!” Ruby cried. “I’m still growing!”

“Just keep on drinking your milk, and eating vegetables instead of cookies every once in a while, and you’ll be fine in a couple of years,” Qrow replied.

Ruby grumbled under her breath in Actaeon.

“So how many Keepers are there?” Weiss asked.

“Not including part-timers like me?” Qrow replied. “One.”

Weiss blinked, then looked at Ruby. “I thought you said there were other Keepers!”

“Yeah!” Ruby replied. “There was my mom, and her mom, and her mom—stretching all the way back to my great-great-great...” she continued on for about a minute or two “… great-grandma, Gabija!”

Weiss glared at Ruby.

“What...?” Ruby asked.

Weiss groaned. “Nevermind...” she muttered.

Ruby looked at the others, they shrugged, smirked, or showed that they couldn’t really have cared, and the group finally went on their way to the studio.

Weiss supposed she shouldn’t have been too surprised to see that it was just like any other set; the building materials and equipment may have been made out of enchanted rock, wood, or a specially-grown plant, and instead of AV drones it was birds and other small animals, but everything looked the same, from the cameras and the lighting, the sound equipment, and even what she assumed to be a green screen.

In the center of it all, directing everything through a mix of barking orders and moving things around with magic was who Weiss assumed to be Elder Glynda Goodwitch.

She was dressed differently from the other Fae, wearing especially vibrant robes with intricate designs, the patterns of vines, roses, and animals pulsing with bright magic, sometimes even moving by themselves. But even without the outfit, the aura of confidence, authority, and power she exuded would have told you she was the one in charge.

… However, Weiss found herself incredibly distracted by her animal features: a pair of large, floppy bunny ears, and a poofy, cotton-ball tail poking out from the back of her robes.

Glynda turned around, her mouth a hard line, her eyes narrowed just slightly enough to be the right mix of intimidating and cool. “You’re late,” she said, her tone level, but with an edge that warned you not to annoy her ever again.

<Our sincerest apologies, Elder Goodwitch,> Blake said cutting through between them. <We had a delay back at the hospital.>

Glynda raised her eyebrows, silently asking them to explain.

“Just a normal case of miscommunication, Elder Goodwitch!” Penny explained. “Ruby accidentally told Weiss we were going to kill her, not fake her death.”

Glynda’s expression remained neutral, but you could just feel how hard she was resisting the urge to put her palm to her face.

“And I assume this has been cleared up?” she asked.

“Yes,” Weiss said as she stepped up, “alongside the fact that I’ll be writing the script to my ransom video.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Qrow cried. “Can’t we just use mine? I worked hard on that—legitimately this time!”

Glynda ignored him. “Give me one good reason to let you do this.”

“I know my father better than any of you, and know just what to say to press his buttons,” Weiss replied.

Glynda smiled. “Good reason,” she said, before she turned around to the crews and animals awaiting filming, and shouted something in Actaeon. They soon abandoned their posts and went to a buffet table on the side or formed their own little groups to the side.

She turned back to Weiss. “Can you do it in an hour? I would like these attacks to stop before your father can mobilize another expedition.”

“Deal.”

Little under an hour later, the studio crew was back to work, getting the lighting and sound calibrated, meticulously putting make-up on Weiss to make her look the part of “poor, innocent hostage scared out of her wits,” and double-checking that her new script had been transcribed properly in the teleprompter.

They were only getting one chance to do this, since Jacques had unintentionally given them the perfect opportunity: a press conference in one of Candela’s largest auditoriums, broadcasting through all of Avalon on unsecured channels that the Fae could easily hack into.

Ruby was wearing a mask identical to the original, only without the nightmare-inducing magic. “It tends to mess up cameras of any kind,” she explained, her voice talking on a deep, ominous tone from the modulator inside.

She still looked unnerving to look with the still glowing red eyes, but at least she wasn’t inciting panic attacks from a mere glance like Qrow had earlier.

“Got the bleeder bandages and your fake scythe!” Penny said as she came up with container with green strips of plant matter and a scythe that looked almost identical to real thing.

“’Bleeder bandages’?” Weiss asked.

“An extremely common prop in both live and recorded productions!” Penny explained. “It simulates grievous wounds and other types of injuries while leaving the wearer completely unharmed. It’s filled with fake blood, you see, and the membrane is thin and sensitive; even with a dull prop like this, just a little bit of pressure is enough to break it.”

Weiss looked at the strips dubiously. “I doubt these are going to trick anyone...”

“That’s because you haven’t put them on, silly!” Ruby said as she took one of the strips and put it on her arm. Weiss watched with a mixture of interest and unease as the bleeder bandage instantly, perfectly mimicked the colour of her skin. “See?” she said, holding it up.

If she hadn’t seen it come on, she wouldn’t have had the slightest clue where it was.

The small crew manning the jury-rigged and salvaged communications tech from the expedition gave Glynda the thumbs up. “We’re ready to broadcast on your command—make it soon, that press conference isn’t going to last all day.”

“I know how long the average Avalonian’s attention span is, don’t worry,” Weiss said as she put a bleeder strip around the front of her neck. “Just one more thing—Ruby! Penny!”

“Yeah Weiss?” Ruby asked as the two of them came over.

She pointed at Ruby. “Just in case my father refuses to surrender, I want you to practice ‘slitting’ my throat.” She pointed at Penny. “You go see if she does anything that's going to make someone reviewing the footage suspicious.”

Penny nodded. “As you wish, Weiss.”

Ruby balked. “Wait, what?!”

“Wasn’t it you and Blake’s idea to fake my own death?” Weiss asked.

“Well, yeah! But like in the, in the...” Underneath the mask, Ruby's face scrunched up struggled to find the right word.

“Threatening to kill her way, but not actually going through with it?” Penny offered.

“Yes! That! Thanks, Penny.” Ruby turned back to Weiss. “Are you sure about this, Weiss...? He's your dad, he's probably--”

Weiss scowled. “Just do it,” she growled before she knelt down to the floor.

Ruby reluctantly guided her prop knife to her neck, where the bleeder strip was.

“Ruby!” Weiss yelled.

Ruby pulled away. “What?”

“Your hands are shaking!” Weiss cried. “Who's going to believe you've actually killed me if it looks like you've got stage-fright?”

Ruby whined. “This is really messed up, Weiss! Your dad can’t possibly think that we’re not serious, right?”

Weiss didn’t reply.

“Right…?”

“How about Weiss pretends to grab the handle, hold her steady whilst pretending that she’s trying to stop her?” Penny suggested.

“Let’s try it,” Weiss said.

Ruby frowned. “Weiss--”

Weiss stood up, and looked Ruby in the eyes. “Ruby?” she asked calmly.

“Yeah...?”

“You want these expeditions in the Valley to stop, right? You don’t want any more people to get hurt or killed? Or for anyone else to come sending another expedition for a good, long time?”

Ruby nodded meekly.

“Then I need you to act as cold, bloodthirsty, and cruel as you possibly can—leave absolutely no doubt in my father’s mind that you’re serious, that you’ll kill me if he doesn’t agree to a complete surrender. Can you do this for me…?”

Ruby looked down.

Weiss expression softened as tilted her head back up, gently removed her mask and looked her in the eyes. “Ruby: can you do this for me? Please?”

Ruby sighed. “… If I have to ‘kill’ you, can you do all the work? I don’t think I can get my hands to stop shaking.”

Weiss nodded.

“We're running out of time here!” Glynda called out.

“Coming!” Ruby called out. She turned back to Weiss. “Are you sure you can’t get my Uncle Qrow to do it instead?”

Weiss shook her head. “It’s going to be very suspicious if the female Keeper of the Grove suddenly sounds like a man.” She paused, casting a glare at Qrow standing in the corner. “Plus, I have this sneaking suspicion he'll probably make a stupid joke that’ll ruin everything...”

“Sorry, Ruby!” Qrow called out. “She’s definitely right on that one!”

Ruby sighed. “Okay...” She put the mask back on. “Let’s do this.”

[rilenerocks]

LABOR DAY PARADE – September, 2015 – an annual parade that goes right down our block every year. Our family unit of  four, enjoying the festivities in front of our daughter’s house which is across the street and slightly south of ours. 

A dictionary definition of remission is “a diminution of the seriousness or intensity of disease or pain; a temporary recovery.” This is where we were in September, 2015. What we also knew was this fact: There’s no current cure for stage 4 cancer. Still, it can be treated and managed. Most people with stage 4 cancer live with alternating periods of stable disease and disease progression. … For most, stage 4 cancer is likely to return, even if a person enters remission. Living within the bounds of these concepts was our task. The truth is, Michael’s initial diagnosis in 2012 placed him at stage 3A cancer which definitely left us with hope for a possible cure. Until November of 2013, while his cancer was following its insidious silent path through his bones, he was asymptomatic. Early that month, he had his first scan in a year – follow-up scans after a clear one subsequent to treatment were not in the protocols for his stage of disease. The shocking discovery of widespread bony metastatic disease and the stunning prognosis of 2-3 months survival, absent further treatment that we received on that fall day was shattering. We managed to pull ourselves together to push through the months of a powerful chemo cocktail, his only option, which again, as with his  30 rounds of head and neck radiation, was not as dreadful as what we’d anticipated. Except for fatigue, Michael was surprisingly robust. He was rapidly  hairless, but never nauseous, actually gaining 26 pounds. That may have been due to a supportive steroid supplement. After those 18 treatments, from May of 2014 to August 2014, life mostly went back to normal. Even after the cancer reappeared on his August scan, we got all the way to February, 2015 before the terrifying downward spiral of Merkel cell really began. In the previous chapter of this book, I described the rapid devolution of Michael’s fitness from February to June, when we felt certain that he was just this side of death. Then along came the last ditch treatment, Keytruda one of the new immunological drugs, given off-trial, outside the bounds of established protocols. Although experiencing profound fatigue as his immune system was freed by the drug and ramped up to attack his cancer, Michael’s conditioning came roaring back. Dr. Zhang was stunned by the recovery, referring to Michael as an exceptional responder. When he was scanned in June, his body was riddled with cancer. When he was scanned in September following only 4 treatments, 80% of his disease load had disappeared. The plan was to move ahead with treatments every three weeks. In the interim we needed to figure out how to live.

Michael was still struggling with poor appetite and sleep issues but trying hard to improve. All of us in our family are trying to appreciate the remarkable gift of time and trying to find balance. We wonder about what an average good day will be like. A day when Michael will wake up and just be ok. Do a chore, ride his bike, whatever. Maybe take a little trip. It’s hard to go there mentally. We are all living hour by hour. I sign up for a creative writing class to get into the world again and do something besides caregiving. I also find myself a therapist. I’m trying to attend to some of the emotional erosion of my internal core over the past few years. I can’t believe all the deaths, threats of death and personal losses of family members and friends in such a compressed time. I find myself worrying about my own health almost as much as Michael’s. I’m aware of what happens to people like me and decide to take advantage of this little respite space to work on improving myself. I’m keenly aware of the fine line I’m walking between hope and terror. Living from blood test to blood test, scan to scan, minute to minute. A headache, a sneeze, a random pain and insomnia for both of us is no picnic. Even sex and massage don’t relieve the stress. Any little thing portends disaster when you have an incurable disease in your body. We both try not to think about it every second. But it’s hard to avoid.

October brings a sudden resurgence of Michael’s appetite and more recovery of strength. We decide to take a short trip to Turkey Run in Indiana which isn’t too far from home. Getting away is a good thing. The weather is beautiful as are the fall colors. Neither of us is in shape to do intense hiking but we manage enough to feel accomplished. All the natural beauty has this edgy brightness to it as we are so keenly aware of how precious and amazing it is to still be anywhere together. If Michael’s health stays stable, we decide to plan more trips between treatment infusions and scans. I worry a lot about going broke but in the end, I believe that I won’t ever regret anything we do in this unexpected space, no matter what the economic consequences may be.Michael’s energy has returned enough so that he can ride his bike again. An unexpected gift. Right now that really resonates as we’ve just lost a friend to brain cancer. Her journey was considerably shorter than Michael’s which is still endlessly surprising. Only 11% of Stage 4 Merkel cell patients are still alive two years from diagnosis. We try to stay positive, but privately I remain on edge. My journal entries remind me of the fear.

November 4th, 2015

Right now I’m very worried about Michael’s cough. It isn’t all day and night but his lungs are a weak spot and pneumonitis at Grade 2 disqualifies him from Keytruda and requires steroids. If it doesn’t improve, treatment ends. Next week is another infusion. I guess there will be xrays then. The model we have to choose is that Merkel cell will kill Michael. No matter what the scan shows, the cancer is still there and will come back. The question is how long can we hold it off? What will come next if Keytruda stops? Endless anxiety.

  We took a quick trip to Chicago before the next scheduled infusion. Michael really wanted to go to Lincoln Park Zoo, a place he always loved. We realized it was where we had our first real date, after months of friendship that ultimately transitioned to lovers and life partners. Going there felt very sweet. We went to the Shedd Aquarium and ate Michael’s favorite Uno’s Pizza and at a deli which we’d always loved. So many exquisitely sharp memories, always accompanied by the unspoken question of whether or not we’d ever experience a time like this again. November 14th, 2015 was Michael’s 8th Keytruda infusion. Dr. Zhang was brimming with optimism that Michael would get a few years out of this treatment. I let myself enjoy that thought for awhile before swiftly moving back to neutral. I’m worrying because Michael’s had two toothaches in two months. Dental interventions are tough during cancer treatments. Anything invasive carries the threat of infection. I don’t like so many antibiotics in such a short time. I worry that they’ll wipe out his gut and I’ve read that immunological drugs need the right gut microbes to work properly. Of course I really know nothing but too much information feeds my anxiety.

Suddenly it seems, our third Thanksgiving since the diagnosis from hell is upon us. As I prepare all the family favorites, I find myself wondering who will eat the turkey legs. My mom always loved those best and started eating before everyone else as she usually took her insulin too early. It’s my first Thanksgiving without her. I decide that even though it’s Michael’s favorite holiday, I don’t want to host it again. It’s too much and I feel sad as the crowds get thinner.

November 29th, 2015

This Thanksgiving was very hard for me and is the last one I intend to do, whether Michael is alive or dead. It’s too much work and too sad as the crowd thins out.  I had a really hard time keeping it together. No mom, only one sibling left and Michael, swinging in the breeze. I can feel the loneliness of the years ahead. I’d rather be gone. Now he has gout. What will the scans show?The December scan is on the first of the month. The next day we meet with Dr. Zhang for results and the decision about whether to proceed with treatment number 9. Zhang is practically euphoric. The scan is clear with no evidence of disease except a spot which appears to be Michael’s aching tooth.  We’ve seen this before for the three months following chemo in 2014. That remission lasted a little over three months. But the infusion will happen. Dr. Zhang said his plan was to keep Michael on Keytruda for two years or until disease progression, whichever came first. So kind of stunned, we trotted off to the infusion suite, feeling basically elated. Michael got his IV and was soon sound asleep. I went out to the reception area to schedule the next appointments and to get copies of Michael’s labs which I’d been saving and comparing to each other since the beginning of his systemic treatments. When I got them I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. All three of his liver enzymes were extremely elevated to the point where treatment should have been withheld and steroids started. The Keytruda was already dripping into his arm. I quickly went to the nurse’s station and showed them the numbers. Within minutes, Zhang and his nurse cane running into the room – Zhang said he was upset and scared. He was so excited about the scan that he forgot to check the labs. He said we’d need to return the next day to rerun the liver enzyme test. I was hoping that perhaps all the Extra Strength Tylenol Michael was taking for his tooth pain was the culprit for the abnormal test results. Years earlier, while being treated for a herniated disk with lots of acetaminophen-based drugs, Michael’s liver enzymes had skyrocketed. His body didn’t like that drug. If the Keytruda turned out to be the issue, treatment would be halted, at least for awhile. From elation to the bottom of the tank again. We just can’t seem to get a break. Michael looked so well and his physical state was immeasurably improved. But you gotta have a liver. The next day, he was re-tested and the enzymes went down. The Tylenol was the problem. Technically we now believe Michael is truly in remission. We don’t know how long we get it but we’re so grateful.The rest of the month we swing on the pendulum of life. Michael sneaks out to jog which makes me crazy because of what his bones have been through this year. The doctors aren’t thrilled with this new exercise regimen and caution him to go slowly and for only a short distance. I am nagging him about this and his fluid consumption as his kidney function is a little off. I’m trying hard to remember that he is thrilled to be able to resume what he loves and that he’s always been less cautious than me. Also not as deep into the science as I am. I try keeping my thoughts to myself some of the time, never an easy task. Meanwhile we attend our grandkids’ end of the school year celebrations and prepare for our annual trek to Starved Rock. The woods and the canyons, the bald eagles and the rustic inn, topped off by a big indoor pool and a hot tub are balm for our exhausted selves.

When we return from that respite, December 23rd arrives – time for Keytruda infusion 10. At this appointment Dr. Zhang informs us that he’s leaving our health care facility in February. That means we’ll have had 3 oncologists in ten months. An unnerving situation, to say the least. I am still in contact with our very first second opinion doctor at the University of Michigan, Chris Bichakjian. I keep him updated on Michael’s situation and he is a steady resource for the latest developments in Merkel cell treatment. It’s still scary to go through so many local changes. Dr. Zhang suggests his friend, Dr. Zhou as our new oncologist. The thread of trust between Dr. Luyun and Dr. Zhang is now stretching even thinner and I’m prepared to keep doing my own research to help keep Michael alive. I know Dr. Zhou has never treated a Merkel cell patient. I have no idea how long we have in this remission space so the time to be working is now. On it goes. On Christmas we see the new Star Wars film with family in our usual tradition and go out for Chinese food afterwards. I am worrying incessantly about Michael’s tooth which he’s coping with, but we both know trouble is looming. He surprises me with a Roger Federer hat as my holiday gift.    I’m busy dreaming of making more memories by traveling. We got Chicago, Turkey Run and Starved Rock when we’d thought Michael would already have been dead and gone. Hardly the stuff of fantasy but so much more than we thought we’d have. I’m hoping we can slip in one more trip before things go south. I doubt we’ll ever get our dream of traveling to Greece, but I’d settle for one more chance to dip our toes into our beloved Gulf of Mexico. We spend New Year’s Eve with our family and friends at our usual Italian restaurant. What a kaleidoscopic year. One I’ll never forget. Heading into year 4 since our life was changed by one phone call. What’s next? 

The Realities of Remission – Part 1 – Chapter 11 – Be 278 LABOR DAY PARADE - September, 2015 - an annual parade that goes right down our block every year.