#it’s been like 2 years or something since i’ve drawn foolish so i gave him a design update god bless

[codgod-moved]

nobody asked for chayanne it just felt weird to have his parents and tallulah there but no Him. so there he is

also um. bobby died between me starting this and me finishing it so let’s just pretend he’s still alive and everyone (except charlie) is happy 😃👍

[iwillhaveamoonbase]

The Long Game ch. 2

Rayla glared a bit at her reflection in the mirror.  How could she look just like herself and look nothing like she always did at the same time? Her horns were gone, her skin lacking the pink undertones, and she had the human pinkos.  No…pinkies.  They were called ‘pinkies.’  Her hair had yellow in it now and her lavender eyes were now a piercing blue.  She hated it.  Even her voice had lost it’s Silvergrove accent.  She had spent the whole six months trying to get rid of it only for the powerful illusion to take care of it for her.  Rayla quirked a lip as she remembered how she had reacted to that back at Lujanne’s.  Lujanne had taken the whole thing as a learning process, that she was capable of losing her accent, but Rayla had been frustrated with the situation.  

Rayla put a hand under her bare eye.  She was sorely missing the dye normally under her eyes.  She felt naked without it. The dye…she hadn’t been able to bring any with her and the design she chose….it had been a variant of the one her parents had put on her.  

Rayla wasn’t foolish. She knew why the Assassins Guild had approved Runaan’s plan so easily and why no one but Ethari had opposed the idea. It didn’t matter if she died in the process; she was here to make up for her parents’ disgrace.  “You two just had to run away…”

Rayla turned her head to look around the lavish room.  She had hoped that King Harrow would take her in and give her a place among the palace staff. Easy to hide, easy to maneuver. That’s not what was happening, apparently.  The room was right next to Prince Callum’s if she had heard correctly because she had asked for a view of the moon.  Rayla walked around the room.  It was too big, the balcony too ostentatious.  She needed the moonlight to continue to charge the talisman, but she didn’t need all this.  The dark purple stone had been created by all the mages of Silvergrove and crafted by Ethari. Lunjanne had added her own illusion magic and the power of the Moon Nexus had made it even stronger.  It had to be perfect.  She had to be perfect.

The moon was slowly rising, signaling the end of the day.  Dinner had been awkward to say the least.  They had done introductions and Viren had glared at her the whole time.  His son, Soren, had stared at her for most of the time.  Rayla was used to people staring at her, but this was different.  All she knew was she didn’t like it.  One of the princes, Callum, had also stared at her most of the night.  But, his look had been different than Viren’s suspicious one and Soren’s….whatever that was. Callum looked at her with pure confusion.  Did he see through the illusion?  Lujanne had warned her that incredibly magically sensitive beings would be able to see through it, but that shouldn’t count a human, right?  Right?  

As she stepped onto the balcony, she sighed at the cool breeze that came over her.  She heard a scritch-scatching to her right and turned her head to see Callum drawing the half moon.  The moonlight was hitting the planes of his face and his green eyes almost looked like they were glowing.  When he looked up again, she saw the emergence of a sharp jawline; something that would come as he grew older.  He was a lot more handsome than her initial perusal had indicated.  “Drawing the night sky, Your Highness?”

He yelped, startled out of his thoughts.  “Oh! Rayla, right?”

She quirked a brow.  “Yep.”

“Sorry.  I just…get into a groove, I guess.”

“Don’t let me keep you from your ‘groove.’”

Callum gave her a soft smile, before turning back to his sketchbook.  They sat in silence for a bit, Rayla perfectly content to stare at the stars.  After some time, Callum nervously coughed.  “Do you want to see?”

“Sure.”  Before Callum could hand the sketchbook over to her, Rayla got on the ledge of her balcony and jumped onto his.  He looked shocked for a moment, unsure.  “Everything OK?”

“Yeah.  I’ve just never done that before.  I don’t think I’d have the confidence to not fall to my death.”

Rayla shrugged.  “You need good control and balance.  It’s not that tricky once you get those two things.” Callum had a look of disbelief on his face, but showed her the sketchbook.  Rayla’s eyes went wide as she stared at the picture.  Callum had indeed drawn the moon, craters and all, but he had also drawn her.  There was a peaceful expression on her face.  “I didn’t realize you were drawing me.”

“Sorry.  I should have asked first.”

“No, it’s fine.  I’m amazed you would pick me to draw.”

“It was hard not to.  I have a feeling you don’t often feel as at peace as you did right then.”

“What makes you say that?”

Callum shrugged.  “Just a feeling.  Maybe I’m projecting.  I don’t feel at peace very often myself.”

“Really?”

Callum nodded.  “The king is my step-father and he’s been great, but our relationship isn’t really the parent-child one I want.”

“And your biological father?”

“Dead.  Has been since I was about a year old.  And my mom died about ten years ago.”

Rayla was quiet for a few moments.  “I don’t know where my parents are.  I was raised by their friends.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  It’s for the best.”

Callum looked away for a bit.  “You said your village is gone?”

“Yeah.”

“And it was elves?”

Rayla shrugged her shoulders.  “Maybe. I don’t really know.  Everything’s a little fuzzy.”  Callum let it drop, but he turned his eyes back to her.  There was that look again.  “What?”

“What?”

“You’re looking at me like you’re confused.”

Callum flushed a bit. “Sorry.”  He apologized too easily, Rayla decided.  He tried to make himself small and unnoticed.  Why?  Weren’t humans supposed to be arrogant?  “I don’t know how to explain it, but when I look at you, something’s…off.”

“‘Off?’”

“I don’t know.  I asked Soren and Claudia and they both said you’re just really pretty and I’m not used to it.”

Rayla blinked twice.  “What do you think?”

The light flush on his cheeks became a dark red.  “I mean, you are quite pretty, but I don’t think that’s it.”

“What do you think it is, then?”

Callum stood up, so he was almost at her height.  He was about an inch shorter than her, their eyes almost meeting directly.  His lips were a lot fuller than she had thought.  He tilted his head, an intense look directed right at her.  “Do you dye your hair?  Claudia does.”

“No.”  Rayla gulped.  He was too close.  Could he hear her heart beating loudly?  Why was it beating so fast?  What was happening?  She had to get out of here!  “Sorry, but it’s late.  I think I’ll head to bed.”

“Of course.  Good night.”  Rayla quickly turned and got on the railing to jump back onto her balcony. She turned her head to see Callum still looking at her with that same intense look.  She gave him a quick wave and closed the balcony doors.  Rayla leaned against the door, putting a hand to her chest. Why was her heart threatening to beat out of her chest?  Was she almost caught?  No….That hadn’t been it.  Prince Callum was dangerous to her mission.  That she knew.

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

“Harrow!  We can’t trust her!”

Harrow pinched the bridge of his nose as Viren continued to denounce his commitment to Rayla.  “We must care for all of our citizens.”

“Prove to me she’s one of our citizens!  There has been nothing about what she claims!  No villages have been attacked.  NOTHING!”

“Viren, there could be a million reasons why her story isn’t adding up.  What if she hit her head and this is the story her mind’s put together? We’ll help her find her home.  If there is no home, I’ll give her one until she’s ready to leave.”

“This is a mistake.  We can’t just take anyone in!  Do we want a repeat of Duren?  You don’t think things through enough when you’re trying to be compassionate.”

Harrow grit his teeth. “Let’s make something clear.  I take full responsibility for what we had to do in Xadia.  I lost my wife because I didn’t think ahead enough.  My sons have to grow up without their mother!  But I will not leave someone in need.  I am trying to build a world that will accept the love and compassion that is so strong in Ezran.”

“Ezran?”

“His heart is far purer than mine ever was.  He forgives easily and is incredibly understanding.  He’ll be a better king than I am.  But, I have to show compassion and understanding as well.”

“Harrow, listen to me-”

“The subject of Rayla is closed.  She stays unless she proves she cannot be trusted.”

Viren growled low in his throat, quickly leaving the room.  Harrow sighed as he leaned against his chair.  Pip began to sing, the melody almost cheerful.

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

The next morning, Rayla followed Callum and Soren as they went to do their lessons.  Callum looked completely unenthused while Soren kept sending smirks her way.  What was with this blonde idiot?  She watched Soren basically not teach Callum much of anything, except to expect to fall down.  Which, would have been fine if he was also teaching Callum how to get up quickly.  “Can I interject?”

Soren gave her a cocky grin. “No offense, but what does someone from a farming village know about swords?”

Rayla wracked her brain for the excuse Lujanne and her had come up with.  “I’ve seen the military practice often enough.  Besides, you don’t think children pretend to play with swords?”

Soren shrugged, handing her his sword.  Rayla shook her head, taking Callum’s from the ground.  “You’re not teaching him right.”

“With all due respect, I’m teaching him fine.”

“You’re teaching him to expect to fail but not how to get back up.  In other words, you’re screwing with his confidence.  That’s not teaching.”  Rayla lunged forward, Soren barely able to block it.  “His mother used a lance.  Train him on that.”  Soren pushed back, shock on his face as Rayla spun and used his own force against him so that he leaned forward, almost losing his balance.  “Not everyone is made for the same thing.”  Soren spun to face her.  They traded blows, but it was obvious to all that Rayla was the superior swordsman.  She was too light on her feet and knew when to add the right amount of power.  She also knew when to back off, which was ultimately Soren’s downfall as she finally swept his legs out from under him, landing him on his back.

“You-You SWEPT THE LEG!” Callum exclaimed.  Rayla smirked over at him.   She wanted his attention on her, she realized.  She wanted his praise.

“That’s not a thing in sword fighting!”  Soren groaned from the ground.

“Apparently it is.”  Everyone looked up to see Harrow, Viren, and Opeli at the entrance to the courtyard.  “Rayla, you have a lot of talent in sword fighting.”

“I played a lot as a kid with fake weapons.”  Viren raised a brow as Opeli looked her up and down.

“Perhaps, you would be better suited to training Callum.”

More time with Callum? BAD IDEA.  He wasn’t suspicious of her, but he saw through the illusion, in some way he knew it was there.  Rayla turned to see Callum looking at her.  There was hope in his gaze instead of confusion.  How could she refuse him when he looked at her like that?  “I would be honored, Your Majesty.”  She briefly curtseyed, sighing when the adults moved on.  ‘I’m in trouble.’   “Alright, Prince Callum.  No more swords. You’re going to be learning how to use a battle lance.”

“Let’s do it!”  He looked so excited, his toothy smile and shining eyes hit her heart way too hard.  

As they moved through practice, every little touch sent lightning coursing through her body.  His laugh was infectious and his questions were actually incredibly insightful.  The hours passed so quickly, she had barely noticed when dinner time came and judging by his expression, he hadn’t either.  

As Rayla lay in bed that night, her heart still hadn’t slowed down.  Every time she closed her eyes, a pair of green ones haunted her. Was this a crush?  No, it was too intense for that.  Either way, she had to pack these feelings deep into the corners of her heart and forget about that.  There was no room for error.  She couldn’t…she couldn’t fall in love with someone she was going to leave without a family.  ‘Oh, gods…I’m falling for him….’      

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

Callum went through his sketchbook.  It’d been several months since Rayla had come and his notebook was becoming filled to the brim with pictures of her.  The last time he had drawn Claudia had been the day Rayla had come.  That itch in the back of his mind was still strong, but he felt drawn to Rayla in a way he didn’t know was possible.  Every move she made had his immediate attention.  Her laugh was infectious and her snark and sarcasm showed an intelligent mind that was screaming for knowledge and also an eye for loopholes. She had taken to lessons with him and Ezran, devouring knowledge almost as soon as it was presented to her, though she preferred to be outside and moving about.  It was hard to keep her attention for long when the sun was shining and there were things to do outside.  

“Hey.”  Callum looked up to see the object of his thoughts smiling at him from her balcony.

“Hey.”

“The moon’s full.” Callum nodded, wondering where this was going.  “Back home, we sing and celebrate the passing of each cycle.  I haven’t been able to do it much since coming here.  Do you mind if I sing a bit?”

“Not at all.”  Callum had not expected the haunting voice that Rayla had when she sang.  He felt the gooseflesh on his skin as she vocalized for a bit.

There's an old familiar silence

When I'm lost inside my heart

I can't hear the voice inside me

So I look up to the stars

Oh

There is darkness ever waiting

I can feel it in the air

So I call upon my angels

Are you still there?

When the wind bends the branch to softly touch me

When the band plays your song

I feel strong enough to keep dreaming

Even when I'm all alone our love goes on and on

Oh

When the wind bends the branch to softly touch me

When the band plays your song

I feel strong enough to keep dreaming

Even when I'm all alone our love goes on and on

When she finished, she turned to him.  Callum was struck speechless.  The softness on her features as she sang compared with just how deep her song reached his soul…In the back of his mind, Callum remembered a conversation his mother and Viren’s ex-wife had once had when he was little.  That, sometimes, souls called out for each other in ways no one could run away from.  The light of the full moon hit her gaze and Callum wondered if that’s what was happening. Was his soul drawn to Rayla’s?  It felt like it.  “Thank you for sharing that,” he whispered.  Whatever spell had taken over the both of them, he didn’t want to break it.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered back.  When they parted for the night, Callum stared at her balcony for a few moments longer. He wasn’t quite sure when he had stopped liking Claudia, but he knew that what he was feeling for Rayla was far stronger and, most likely, not nearly as easy to let go of.

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

The song is Love Goes On and On by Lindsey Stirling and Amy Lee. If you have not seen the Older Rayllum AU content that is Lindsey Stirling's Between Twilight, go to YouTube and watch it!

[fleckcmscott]

Watch What Happens - Chapter 14

Chapter links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

Summary: Arthur, an aspiring comedian, has struggled to find normalcy and compassion his entire life. Y/N, a hard-working paralegal and transplant to Gotham, has just been put on a case for the Wayne Foundation. When they meet, unexpected sparks fly.

Chapter warning: Swearing

Words: 2,673

After breakfast and some passionate necking in the doorway, Arthur had left. As he’d disappeared into the elevator, he gave a playful but modest wave and smiled. Coincidentally, the next door neighbor had popped out to get her paper. When Y/N had greeted her, the woman had kept her eyes averted, muttered a quick, "Morning," then hurriedly went back inside.

At first Y/N had found it odd, but then it’d dawned on her. Maybe she needed to learn to keep her voice down.

Chuckling, she’d gone back into the apartment and the bedroom, considering changing the sheets. But, blushing happily, she’d left them alone. He would be over again that night; she’d been sure they'd wind up between them. Then she’d checked the sofa. She hated trying to launder upholstery and wasn't particularly good at it. Luckily, she hadn't seen anything that would have given away their activities - her robe had been in the way.

From the moment he was gone, she knew she was head over heels. Her eighty-seven percent certainty had increased to ninety-six over the course of their morning. He hadn't said much after they'd gotten up, but his actions touched her. After a little prompting, he'd poured coffee for them, then asked how she liked hers. He'd made it with one sugar and a shot of milk. (Seemingly nervous that he'd make it too white, he'd kept asking, "Is that enough?") Then he'd hovered next to her while she cooked. It'd already felt like he belonged there.

The speed with which the comfort of routine had developed between them was startling. In her past relationships, she'd taken things slowly. Jeff, her ex-husband, was someone she'd met as a sophomore in high school. He'd been a college freshman, studying pre-law. It had taken five months before they started dating. He was a good man - they exchanged Christmas cards every year, letting each other know they were  still alive. But they'd gotten married only a month after she'd graduated, before she’d had a chance to develop her own identity.

Y/N decided the biggest distinction between then and the present was that she'd grown-up. Taking care of her father had forced her to mature quickly. She hadn't had time for other people's bullshit and had to figure out how to clearly say yes and no, something she'd struggled with until her late-twenties. She'd had to learn what she did and did not want.

Arthur, even the Arthur who'd been trembling and biting his nails on the couch with his Gotham Department of Health notebook, was what she wanted. It was surprisingly easy to like and love him, not only because he was handsome, kind, and most of what she’d experienced of him had been great. But also because she now knew herself.

Picturing him, while sitting at her desk and trying to work, made the corners of her lips turn up. Nervous excitement and plain happiness caused her to laugh quietly. She felt foolish. She hadn’t giggled like that since she’d been a teenager, lip-syncing badly to the radio with her sister.

She truly was trying to act professionally that morning. But at their usual mid-week meeting with Matt, Patricia passed her a note with the words, “You can’t stop smiling!” written on it. Y/N gave it back, feeling like a girl trying not to get caught by the teacher, with a heart, followed by two questions marks and an exclamation point.

Once the meeting ended, Patricia arched a brow at her. Y/N put her palm to her face, groaning. The note had been terribly out of character. “I just wanted to know what it was like to be girly. Once.” Her embarrassment had quickly faded, though, and she said, “I promise I’ll tell you everything tonight.”

The rest of work went by uneventfully, with her back to preparing the firm's family cases. They were a gallery of dysfunction. There had been a rise in children being taken from their parents due to substance abuse disorder after budget cuts had stopped their treatment. And there was a stack of protection from abuse orders, including pictures of bruises and other injuries. The occasional petty divorce filings were a nice break. She would sometimes reread the best complaints when she needed a chuckle. Though the work wasn’t difficult, by early afternoon she was exhausted and trying not to nod off at her desk.

She left early, then, and made her way to the Gotham Bureau of Corporations to try to find more information on Renew Corp. It turned out it had been registered as a limited liability corporation. As a result, their annual reports and registered agents were openly available. The photocopies she made cost her $2.35 at five cents a page. Sitting on the floor at her coffee table, she reviewed the reports. Most of them were about profits and projects, which didn't interest her. She already knew the addresses they were after. The list of registered agents intrigued her, though. She'd have to go over her plan with Patricia.

But first she had to figure out how to explain what she thought was happening in a way that didn't make her sound crazy. Who would believe that Gotham's largest philanthropic organization was responsible for a third-party harassing poor people instead of helping them? She'd find it hard to believe herself if she hadn't taken a closer look. But she was at a loss as to what other conclusion could be drawn.

~~~~~

When Y/N told Patricia her general theory, she'd been skeptical. But once the shoe boxes of letters tenants were getting were pulled out, Patricia's eyes widened. "You coming over here with the file was a risk," Y/N told her, putting the folder on the table. "It means a lot. I don't want you to do anything else that could get you in trouble."

Patricia shook her head. "I've been there forever. Matt won't ask questions. The only reason you got caught was your big mouth and bad luck."

Taking out a plate for the scones she’d picked up, Y/N smirked in response.

Patricia grabbed one of the pastries and took a bite. "Before we start work, I need to know what on earth is going on with you and this guy you're dating." Despite the exasperation in her voice, she looked amused. "You're glowing."

After putting on the kettle, Y/N boosted herself up on the counter next to the stove. She crossed her ankles. "His name's Arthur Fleck. He's a performer - he's sometimes a clown at the children's hospital. He’s an aspiring stand-up. I think he's a little older than me. Early to mid-forties?"

"This is the-" Patricia made air quotes "'-good looking pie guy,' right?" she asked. "How did you meet?"

Grinning, Y/N went into how they'd kept meeting serendipitously. That he was gentle with her, something she hadn't experienced much in her life. (Given her assertive personality, most people appeared to think she never wanted or needed it.) She flushed at the memories. "I think he's the last gentleman in Gotham. He holds the door open for me. He helps me with my coat." She wished he was there, right now, with his arm slung about her waist, hearing all the compliments she was giving him.

"We talk on the phone every night," Y/N continued, "and I look forward to those few minutes the whole day. He tells me jokes. Even when they're terrible, I love them." Shaking her head, she said, "He sometimes misunderstands what I say and doesn't know how to respond.” Her eyes fluttered shut as she breathed the rest. “He seems a little left footed with the world. But I’ve fallen in love with him, anyways."

It took a few seconds before Patricia spoke. "Already?"

Y/N folded her arms over her chest. "How long did it take before you knew you loved Robert?"

"I knew Robert and I were going to get married after our first date thirty years ago." Patricia stood and stretched her arms. "But sometimes I regret accepting his second invitation."

That prompted a snort from Y/N. "On our second date, I got wine-drunk and had a mini-breakdown on the sofa. Arthur didn't try to take advantage or leave. He just listened and tried to make me feel better."

The tea kettle started whistling, interrupting her train of thought. She hopped off the counter and started filling their cups. "I think the biggest thing we have in common is taking care of ailing parents - he cares for his mother." After sitting at the table, she dunked the teabag a few times. "It's rare to find someone who understands how hard that can be." A smile appeared on her face. "He gets it. He gets me. And I think I get him."

"Tell me three negative things about him," Patricia said.

Y/N cocked her head. "He smokes like a chimney - I don't know how he hasn't gotten cancer already. He's too unsure of himself." She scrunched up her face, remembering how he'd told her to leave after his mother had wounded him. "And he's too self-reliant. He thinks I don't notice, but I do."

Before asking her next question, Patricia took a long sip. "Have you slept with him?"

"Last night,” Y/N answered without hesitation. “This morning," She smirked. "I’m bone-tired, but hopefully tonight."

Patricia stared at her, then burst out laughing. "Jesus, Y/N."

Y/N cracked-up at her reaction, playfully smacking her arm. "Hey, I'm turning forty in April. If I see something I want, I'm going to grab it." She pointed at Patricia to emphasize what she said next. "And I can tell you, in his own words, he did not mind."

"Does he know how you feel?"

Y/N put down her teacup. "It's hard for me to open myself up. I'd shut that off for so long.” A sigh left her as she leaned back against the chair. “I know it doesn't make sense, but going to bed with him is easier than saying anything."

"He sounds like a decent man," Patricia said. "There aren't many in Gotham."

"There aren't many anywhere." After some silence, Y/N furrowed her brow. "He’s wonderful. But I can tell he has difficulties. Or at least he has in the past."

Patricia's eyebrows knit together. "Legal trouble?"

"No, nothing like that." Y/N adjusted her legs. How much information could she share without crossing a line? Maybe disclosing his affliction would be all right - he did have laminated cards he handed out. "He has a neurological condition that makes him laugh. It doesn't happen often, but I've seen it when he's nervous. It's been hard for him." She studied her tea, thinking of his notebook and all his medication.

And she felt shame, remembering how she'd shut him down like a coward when it'd seemed he was going to tell her everything.

"Do you want me to do a background check on him?" Patricia spoke quietly, her concern obvious.

Y/N waved the idea away. "No. There’s no reason.” Then she blushed. “I don’t even know why I told you. But," she smiled, "I appreciate you caring enough to ask." Pointing at the nearby folder, she said, “Now let’s get this over with so I can call him.”

They started on the file, then, sorting through the motions, writing down the day each one was filed with the court. Opening all the letters was a pain in the ass - Y/N was relieved she only got a couple of paper cuts. The dates on those were analyzed, too, and put onto a parallel list next to those of the filings. When they were finished, an hour or so later, they were able to confirm the motions and letters had started during the same time period.

Patricia sipped her tea, shrugging. "It could be a coincidence."

"Of course it could. That's why I got the list of registered agents with Renew Corp." Y/N got up and grabbed the reports she'd copied from the counter next to the stove. "I'm supposed to have the Wayne Foundation tax returns on Friday. I'll see if Renew Corp. is listed anywhere on there."

"Actually, I have a better idea." Patricia crossed her legs and indicated the reports with her pen. "The tax filings will have all the Wayne Foundation employees listed on one of the schedules. You can see if any of the names match the agents on the Renew reports."

Y/N leaned back against the counter. "I can't believe I didn't think of that." Frowning, she mentally went over the dates they’d written. “Did I see that a new motion was filed on Monday? Do you have it?”

“Yeah, we got our copy today. Why?” Patricia dug through the file until finding it, then handed it to her.

“When I looked through the file, nothing indicated a new motion was needed.” She started to scan it. It was a motion to amend the original filing, which meant addresses could either be added or taken off. This one added a few in order to, according to the summary, allow the building of an additional medical clinic wing. She didn’t recognize most of them: a residential building on Cortelyou Road, an empty lot on Sutter Avenue, a commercial area on Rockaway Boulevard. An apartment complex at 225a Anderson Avenue.

Her breath halted. 225a Anderson Avenue.

It made sense. Despite the heaviness forming in her stomach, and her inability to take in any air, it was perfectly logical. Ms. McPhee’s building was on the same block as Arthur’s, on a perpendicular street. Y/N closed her eyes, reaching back to grasp the counter.

“Y/N, what’s wrong?”

Heat rose from Y/N’s shoulders, through her neck, to her face. “Arthur… Arthur’s address is included.” She held out the paper to Patricia. “How am I supposed to tell him?”

Standing, Patricia put her hands on Y/N’s shoulders. “This is going to take months and months. And you’re trying to stop it.”

“I know, but-” Y/N started.

“Does he know the details of what you’re working on?” After Y/N shook her head, Patricia continued. “It’s not going to do any good to say anything.”

“I just told you I love him. How can I-”

The blaring sound of the phone interrupted her. After another couple rings, she went to grab the beige receiver from the wall next to the kitchen entrance. "Hello?"

"Hi. It's Arthur."

Y/N checked the clock - it was after seven. He'd probably expected her to call by now. Pointing at the receiver, she turned around and looked at Patricia. "Arthur, I'm sorry I haven't called yet. I was just talking about you." She took a breath, trying to keep her voice from reflecting the anger simmering inside her. "Why don't you come over now? You can meet Patricia before she-"

His voice was strained when he interrupted her. "No. I can't. Is there anyway you can come to the hospital?"

That was unexpected. She felt worry cross her face. "Are you all right?"

"It's my mother. We just got here. I don't know what's wrong. There was an ambulance when I got home from..." His tone lowered, sounding a little embarrassed. "Can you please come? I don't understand all the paperwork." A pause, then. “I don’t mean to bother you.”

"You’re never a bother. I'll be right there. Which hospital?" Y/N watched as Patricia rose from her chair and started packing up the file she'd brought.

"Gotham General. In the emergency room," he answered.

"I'm on my way." She grabbed her coat and purse as she hung up. "Arthur's mother's in the ER. I gotta grab a cab."

Patricia took her jacket. "I brought my car. I'll take you."

Y/N gave Patricia a good, long hug, something she rarely did. "I owe you. Thank you for helping me."

"Anytime. Arthur's not the only one who's too self-reliant."

Y/N rolled her eyes at Patricia and squeezed her arm as she lead them both into the hallway, then locked the door.

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @clowndaddyfleck​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @invisiblewispofwhimsey @let-the-stars-fall-in-the-abyss​

[eskalations]

Smoke and Gunpowder, Chapter 3

A/N: This has been my favorite chapter to write so far!

Summary:

Even now, in the privacy of her room and away from the prying eyes of their government, he stiffened at her proximity. The careful lines drawn between the two of them seemed to blur at times like these when they were alone and out of uniform. In the dim light of her room, it was easy to imagine that they were just a quiet country boy and bold city girl again.

(ROYAI GENDERBEND AU)

AO3 | FFN

Tumblr: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

Chapter Summary: Ray Hawkeye and Raina Mustang travel to Resembool to investigate rumors regarding two alchemists.

Resembool, East Area – Summer of 1910

To say she had given him quite a scare was an understatement.

After coming back to the small inn they were staying at for the night, Hawkeye had hoped for some quiet time to reflect. It wasn't every day that you came across a failed human transmutation and just the thought of it sent a wave of sickness through him. He needed to lie down, or read, or clean his guns – or something just to keep his mind off the terrifying scene.

It hadn't occurred to him that his superior officer was thinking the same. However - her methods of distraction tended to be a bit more dramatic than his.

By the time the clock struck midnight - he had read, in its entirety, the book he had brought for his journey on new age weaponry and had also cleaned and reassembled two of his firearms. Stretching his arms back behind his head, he had almost decided to turn in when the strangest feeling drove him to his feet.

Something was wrong.

Much like how his eyes were similar those of his namesake, his instincts were reliable as well. Such acute senses had made him an excellent candidate for sniper as well as an excellent candidate for bodyguard of one Miss Raina Mustang, the notorious Flame Alchemist.

It was a strangely vivid image of her – injured and bleeding – that had him tapping as calmly as possible on their shared door. Though he knew their reservations would cause some brows to raise, as the one who was tasked with her safety, he insisted that on the road he have access to her at all times.

On the other side of the door, he could hear something fall to the ground followed by a muttered curse. After a moment of shuffling, there was the sound of heavy footsteps before the door was pulled open to reveal his commanding officer.

Her appearance told him everything he needed to know about what she had been up to before he knocked.

Ray Hawkeye had seen Raina Mustang in many forms. He had been acquainted with the young, bright-eyed Miss Mustang for years before joining the military and had known her throughout the time that she was hailed as the Hero of Ishval. But another darker version he had become acquainted with was the one that was staring back at him right now.

This was the trauma-stricken, guilt-ridden Raina Mustang that he had become privy to after experiencing the horrors of war. The one that he would sometimes find passed out on the floor of her apartment from overindulgence when the pain got to be too much. The one who he had found more than once with a gun stuck in her mouth and eyes wide with fear, her finger trembling over the trigger. The one who had told him that if she could do it all over again, she would have left Ishval in a body bag.

The Lieutenant Colonel looked more like a guilty child now than a supposed war hero. She was out of uniform –jacket and pants thrown haphazardly across the bed, her boots thrown to the far side of the room – and her hair was tied up in a frizzy ponytail. The red silk pajama top she wore had a damp spot running down the center that also stained the leg of her matching pajama pants. An abandoned whiskey bottle, now staining the carpet of the inn's floor, seemed to be the culprit behind her frazzled appearance.

Hawkeye had trouble meeting her eyes when she was like this – when she was so vulnerable. Never had he imagined he would see the day when the spunky little city girl that his father had taken in would appear so broken. It was heartbreaking, really.

Raina opened her mouth - as if to plead her innocence – but closed it quickly. It was no use; he knew her far too well to fall for any of her charades.

The silence between them was heavy, neither knowing what to say.

What could you say?

Without attempting any type of scolding, the Second Lieutenant shouldered his way past her – leaving a surprised (and dizzy) young woman in his wake. Immediately, he went to take care of the discarded bottle that was leaking out on to the floor. Crouching down, he rubbed a finger over the now ruined carpet.

"They're going to make you pay for this."

At his dry words, the girl let out a humorless laugh. She stumbled her way over to the small couch in the corner of the room and unceremoniously sank into it. While she was doing this, he took the liberty of discarding the bottle and throwing it into the trash.

"That's the least of my worries." She remarked, her voice husky from the many drinks she had indulged in. There was a bit of self-loathing in her tone and a touch of shame in the way she raised her wrist to cover her dark eyes. "I've just tried to recruit an 11-year-old boy into the Amestrian Military - and you want to know the worst part?"

Hawkeye didn't have time to form an answer.

"He'll probably take me up on my offer!" There was a crazed edge to the slurred words, her glossy eyes meeting his as she released a puff of air that he imagined was supposed to be a laugh. "He'll probably take me up on it because of the false sense of hope I gave him."

Ray knew that he should let her rant, if simply to lessen the hurt she buried so deep within her heart. This was how these nights always ended up – her going off on drunken tangents while he calmly listened and waited for her to pass out from the alcohol. Her next words though had his blood running cold.

"This is just like what I did to you – this is why you followed me to Ishval."

At that, he couldn't remain silent.

"Sir," His voice brooked no room for argument, his careful steps leading him over to the side table where a pitcher of water sat. He didn't want her to see the pain clearly written across his features at her biting words. "I assure you that the decision to join the military and take part in Ishval – was mine and mine alone. Don't flatter yourself into thinking that you were the only reason I chose to go."

"I wasn't the only reason, but I was one of the reasons – right, Lieutenant?"

He could have cursed himself for his slip of words, but instead he chose to remain silent. In her state of drunkenness, she wouldn't even remember this encounter come early morning.

"I did not wake up today thinking I would be met with such horrors."

Hawkeye couldn't hide the grim look that appeared on his face at his commanding officer's words. His hand nearly shook as he poured the young woman a glass of water. He hated seeing her like this. Silence enveloped them as he brought the glass over to where she was seated on the couch. Her head was tossed back and eyes were closed – but it didn't matter, she sensed him. She accepted the offered glass with a sigh

It wasn't until he was sat on the chair across from her that he allowed the ironic response to escape his lips.

"That's quite a statement for a soldier." Raina gave him a withering look from over the rim of her glass. The young man shrugged, "You and I both know that as a soldier, anything can happen once we enter the battlefield."

"I wasn't expecting a battlefield." She reminded him, setting her drink down on the wooden coffee table between them. "I was expecting a middle-aged set of alchemists – not children playing God."

The Lieutenant tilted his head to the side, regarding her with a curious look.

For what it was worth, Raina Mustang was typically a logical person. He would never go so far to call her calm or collect – for she was not – in fact, she was quite impulsive. However, for all the rash decisions he had seen her make on the battlefield, holding a child up by the collar and demanding an explanation out of him was not an action he had really come to expect of her.

~

"Where are they?! Where are the Elric Brothers? I want them found!"

Her voice shook with anger, eyes wide in disbelief at the scene in front of her. She knew what this was. She was no fool. She had studied alchemy for a long time. She knew what these boys had tried to do – and it caused such a blind rage to build up within her that she felt as though she might explode.

How could a pair of children be so foolish?

At such a clear order - Hawkeye immediately about faced, leaving the house to gather more information. Which was easy, since everyone in town seemed to know the only other place the Elrics would be besides home.

The Lieutenant Colonel had busted through the door, shouldering past a surprised old woman. She would worry about manners later, all that was on her mind right now were these kids who apparently believed they had the right to tamper with fate.

Nothing could have prepared her for the sight that she was greeted by in the small automail workshop.

A young boy sat in a wheelchair, blonde hair unkempt and eyes haunted with grief, missing both an arm and leg. By his side stood a tall suit of armor. Before she could even register that her legs were moving, she was standing over the trembling boy.

Grabbing a hold of his collar, the woman hauled him up so that they were eye to eye. Somewhere in the background, she could hear the disgruntled words of the elderly woman as well as a dog barking in warning. She didn't care. She needed answers.

"We went to your house and we saw the floor! What was that?! What did you do?!"

The boy's golden eyes stared pointedly at the ground – the shame radiating off of him near palpable. Before Raina could say anything else, a cold metal hand made contact with her arm.

"We're sorry…We didn't mean it." The voice sounded like that of a young child's, distorted by a hollow echoing that seemed to originate within the suit. "We're sorry…we're sorry….we're sorry."

The suit of armor began to shake, bringing forth another revelation.

"Wait are you - ?"

She didn't even have to finish her question. All she knew was that her information had been clear – there were two Elric brothers. That could only mean one thing.

She was looking at them.

~

"I was mad."

Her quiet voice brought him back from his reverie. In the dim light of the room, he could see the pain she held in those dark eyes. Staring up at the ceiling, she let out another short, humorless laugh.

"I could hardly believe two children could hold that much power." She revealed, turning her face towards him. Though her words were slurred, the thoughts she shared were strangely sober. "That much power at such a young age – it can destroy someone."

Hawkeye felt his back burn at her words. She was speaking from experience.

"That's why you want to give them the opportunity to repent." Raina's eyes widened in surprise. How did he always seem to know exactly what she was thinking? No matter how much emotional distance they put between themselves, it was like their minds were on one shared wavelength. "You don't want them to end up like us. You want them to be freed of their sins early on so that they have the chance to live."

She huffed. Of course, he had been able to read her so easily.

Looking at him now, it was hard to remember the quiet country boy she had come to know in her youth. He sat with his back straight – so professional even if he need not be – and still in uniform though he had already retired for the night. Even his hair now – once frizzy and bleached from the sun – was combed over to better fit the persona of a well put together soldier.

The only glimpse she could find of that once young, country-bred man was in his eyes – hard but honest. Just as they had always been.

That was Hawkeye – steady and true. So unlike her.

It was at times like these, when she found herself deep in the whiskey, that she remembered the reason why he no longer looked like that innocent man who had found her on his doorstep all those years ago.

It was because of her.

The guilt that engulfed her at that moment, almost had her reaching for the bottle again. If only he hadn't thrown it out when he invaded her room.

"Where did you get the whiskey?" He asked after watching her eyes drift to the trash bin beside the table. He knew better than to think she would pack some in her luggage for a day trip, especially when their job was supposed to be easy. Besides - with her luggage packed full of extra uniforms, extra gloves, and a wide array of unnecessary beauty products – he couldn't imagine that there was much room left for anything more.

Raina had the sense to look guilty at this.

"I may have given the innkeeper a few thousand cenz to procure it for me."

"Sir!"

"What?" She threw her hands up in mock defense. "I just wanted something to take the edge off! I didn't mean for it to get this bad."

Ray looked at her dubiously. She had never been one to casually drink – it was all or nothing for her. It was a bad habit she had picked up from his father. So desperate was she to impress the old man that she would often indulge right along with him to prove she was no delicate girl.

It was just another part of their lives his father had ruined.

"You don't want rumors going around that the youngest Lieutenant Colonel serving in the military is a good for nothing drunk."

"They say much worse." She insisted, crossing her arms over her chest. "With what they say about my bedroom activities – I would be honored if they demoted me to simple drunk."

He could hear the hurt in her voice as she said it. When sober, she tried to cover her distaste for the way people talked about her behind her back. It was only when she got deep in the bottle that she allowed herself to be completely honest.

She had dreams – dreams too big for a person her age that could only come true if she continued to rise in the ranks. The only way to do so was to go along with whatever persona people foisted on her. A flirty young girl was much less threatening than an ambitious one and she assumed within a few years, the words and assumptions wouldn't bother her so much. However, at just twenty-one years of age, she still had a lot to learn before she could become completely okay with the act she had decided to play.

Hawkeye's eyes held sympathy, though his voice was hard as he spoke.

"There would probably be less rumors if I stopped showing up at your apartment and hotel rooms in the middle of the night." Raina pouted at his words. The light on the table flickered in the tense air of the room.

"We don't have to be strangers." She muttered sadly, knowing that this argument never got her anywhere. Whether it was the events of the day or the booze, she pressed on further. "Friends go and check on friends. The fraternization laws say nothing about friendship."

Hawkeye gave her an exasperated look, his amber eyes smoldering in the dim light of the room.

"Friends don't end up in bed with their friends." He reasoned bluntly, standing from his chair. This conversation had gotten too personal – lines were being crossed. He shouldn't be here. "You know that what happened once, can't happen again. You and I have goals to fulfill – sins to repent for. If anyone ever finds out about what happened, it would be over for the both of us."

Raina knew what he said was true – still, it didn't make it hurt any less.

"Strangers it is then."

Those were the last words she said to him before he took his leave. Pausing at the door, he turned to regard her one last time.

"No more asking innkeepers for alcohol."

Then he was gone.

That night, as Ray Hawkeye lay in bed – he thought back to his conversation with the young Rockbell girl earlier that day.

~

"Lieutenant Hawkeye?" Her voice was quiet, unsure. "Have you ever had to shoot anyone?"

The man turned to regard her. She was a tiny little thing – though he supposed she was probably tall for her age. There was a distant look on her pretty features, her clear blue eyes staring at the floor as if she was afraid of knowing the answer.

He wouldn't sugarcoat it for her. He knew better than to hide the truth from a child. If they ever wanted this endless ring of violence to stop, they needed to start with the younger generation. The only way they could learn from the mistakes of their elders – was to be told of them first hand.

"Yes...I have," He answered her gently. He could see the young girl's pale hand grip her tray just a bit tighter.

"I hate what you soldiers do." Hawkeye was surprised by the venom in the seemingly sweet child's voice. "Soldiers like you are the reason my mom and dad left for the war and soldiers are the reason they're dead. And now you…now you're here to take Ed and Al away too."

'Ah,' he thought to himself. 'She's afraid of losing them in the same way she lost her parents.'

"If they go, that decision will be theirs and theirs alone." He began slowly, amber eyes gazing at the wall. He could see himself, years ago, fighting internally over the decision to join the military. "Yes. It's entirely up to them now."

He could remember how helpless he felt knowing that Raina had been shipped off to war – fresh out of the academy. How disgusted with himself he had felt when he found out what they had used her for – a human weapon.

"Whether to move forward or stay still…" All the hopes he had possessed to become an engineer and go off to school after the death of his father flew out the window the second Raina decided to join the military. He was faced with a decision then – to either watch from the sidelines or watch her back. He had chosen the second option.

"It's their choice, they choose their own path." Just like he did, the Elrics would have to make this decision themselves.

He heard a sigh come from the young Rockbell beside him. He had been so caught up in his own thoughts that he had almost forgotten she was there. Instead of the look of dejection she had given him earlier, her face was now morphed into an expression of genuine curiosity.

"Mr. Hawkeye," The name sent chills down his spine. It reminded him far too much of his father. Despite his distaste for the address, he tilted his head in her direction to signal that he was listening to what she had to say. "Why did you become a soldier?"

He supposed with the way he had been talking earlier, he shouldn't be surprised by her innocent question. She was harmless enough, so he felt like he could be honest with her.

"Because," His voice was quiet, just in case someone was listening. "There's someone I have to protect."

The answering look in the girl's eyes told him everything he needed to know.

She understood.

~

He turned over, listening for any sounds that may have signaled his traveling companion was still awake. They had an early train to catch in the morning and he knew that if she did not go to bed soon, he would have to practically knock down the door to get her up in the morning.

Thankfully, he heard nothing.

[tacitwhisky]

Sansa Stone, pt 2

Jon x Sansa - AU where Sansa is born the bastard of Littlefinger and raised in Kingslanding. When she travels to Winterfell with king Robert’s procession she meets the Stark bastard: long faced and grey eyed Jon Snow who she finds herself strangely drawn to / AO3 Link

Photo Credit: Sophie Starke

---

After years spent in the Red Keep Winterfell is not so large as Sansa might have once thought as a child when all she knew of the world was her father’s dreary keep on the Fingers.

Still it takes her half the morning to find Jon.

Not that she told anyone she was seeking him. As she made her way through the castle in the crisp morning chill she’d stopped here and there to speak with castle servants and stray squires, to hear the gossip they thought nothing of sharing with a bastard girl, smile and laugh and when one of the serving girls from the night before bemoaned that she couldn’t watch golden haired prince Joffrey practice in the yard with the Stark sons, Sansa had known where to look.

She finds Jon sitting on the sill of a covered bridge that spans Winterfell’s armory and Great Keep, one leg drawn languidly up to his chin as he looks down at the training yard below. Her skirts swish over the wood boards as she crosses the bridge, but it is only when Ghost pricks up his ears and pads over to greet her does Jon seem to notice her presence. His cheeks flush faintly when he does, eyes flicking over her before glancing quickly back down at the yard. “How do you find Winterfell, my lady?”

“It’s lovely.” Sansa stoops to scratch Ghost behind the ears. For a moment she considers teasing him about the night before, but the red of his cheeks makes her discard the idea. Were you any less foolish the first time you drank more than you should? “I didn’t think to find you here,” she says instead.

“Ser Rodrik gave me the day free.” Jon smiles, faint and bitter, down at the yard. “It’s uncouth to let a bastard bruise a prince, it seems.”

Sansa gathers her skirts and perches on the sill beside him. She’s taken care in dressing this morning; a simple cut green gown of lambswool sewn with dancing autumn leaves at the sleeves and bodice in gold thread. “And how does our prince fare this morn?”

“The little one or the ass?” In the yard below two heavily padded figures totter back and forth whacking each other with wooden swords. Sansa recognizes prince Tommen’s cap of gold curls, and the other padded figure of one of the younger Stark sons. My cousin, she reminds herself, though the thought is more strange than else.

Jon nods his head to where Joffrey lounges under the shade of Winterfell’s high stone wall ignoring his brother and idly laughing with his sworn swords and landed knights. “Joffrey has yet to grace us with his swordwork.”

The first time Sansa had seen Joffrey was only a week after she arrived in Kingslanding, the city still new and shining and like something from a song. The golden prince of a hundred songs Joffrey had seemed too, and more gallant and noble than all of them put together. That first time she saw him he’d smiled at her, and for days afterwards Sansa had giggled and flushed every time she thought of it, turned it over and over again in her mind when she curled in her bed at night, secretly dreamed that when he was king he’d lift the bastard taint from her name and take her as his queen.

It was only later that the golden sheen had rusted and tarnished and peeled away. Joffrey was gallant and generous with other lords and ladies, but when none were watching that golden face blistered and slipped away and he sneered and laughed at servants and his lessers. Perhaps if she was a highborn lady Sansa would never have seen it, could have put it from her mind, but as a bastard it was hard to forget. Fool, fool girl. Life is not a song.

Joffrey laughs at something one of the sworn swords says. “Gossiping seems to suit him more than swordplay,” Sansa observes.

Jon grins, glancing at her for the first time since she sat. “Joffrey is lucky you aren’t in the yard this morning. Your tongue would bruise him more than my sword.”

Sansa laughs, high and warm. My tongue doesn’t always bruise, she wishes she could tease. There is something in Winterfell’s chill morning air that makes her feel young and free and bold, something that makes her want to smile and laugh and tease in a way she hasn’t since she first came to Kingslanding, makes her want to forget all her courtesies.

A cool breeze plays with the strays of her hair, and she brushes them back and smiles at Jon. “It’s good to see you improved from last night.”

Jon’s cheeks flush a shade of scarlet Sansa finds herself oddly pleased by. “I drank too much. I’m sorry if you- if I gave you insult.”

“Only a little.” She gives Jon a teasing smile as he glances at her. What are you doing? A voice in her wonders idly. What do you hope to accomplish with this bastard boy? “I had to finish the feast alone, you know.”

Jon flushes brighter and ducks his head. He looks back down at the yard. “Perhaps my uncle has the right of it and I am too young for the Wall.”

Sansa’s tongue plays between her lips. She could comfort him, reassure him, or… or she could plant a seed of doubt that the Night’s Watch was a fool’s errand, the Wall cold and lonely, that he would be wasted taking the black. You would be doing the boy a kindness, she hears her father whisper again. And how long have we worked to wash the bastard taint from your name?

“Jon?”

Sansa glances over to see a small, pale girl with dark hair and a long face looking back and forth between Sansa and Jon with a frown. Beside her a grey direwolf pads forward to nuzzle Ghost.

Jon raises a quizzical eyebrow at the girl. “Shouldn’t you be with Septa Mordane and the princess, little sister?”

The girl makes a face. “I hate sewing. I wanted to see the boys fight instead.” 

“You must be the lady Arya.” Sansa slips from her perch on the sill and dips in a curtesy. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“I’m not a lady. Not yet.” Arya scrunches her nose, but seems to suddenly remember her own courtesies, and gives a grudging curtesy back. She eyes Sansa curiously. “Why don’t you have to do needlework?”

Sansa shrugs and smiles lightly to cover the pang in her chest. Because bastard girls don’t sew with princesses. Bastard girls don’t sew with anyone.

“Here,” Jon says, motioning for Arya to sit next to him, and only as his eyes move to his half sister does Sansa realize how carefully he’d been watching her. “It may not prove as exciting as needlework, though.”

“It can’t be more boring,” Arya shoots back and clambers onto the spot Sansa vacated. She swings her legs over the edge and peers down at the yard where the padded figures of the young boys still circle each other. “I could do as good as Bran,” she announces. “He’s only ten. I’m twelve.”

Jon raises a skeptical eyebrow. “A skinny thing like you? Can you even lift a sword, little sister?”

“Of course I can,” Arya snaps with a glare, but Jon only grins in answer and musses her hair, a fond and familiar movement that sends a flush though Arya’s cheeks. A pang fills Sansa’s chest as the two of them look back to the yard as Joffrey and the oldest Stark boy raise their voices in argument. She’d had no brothers or sisters as a child, just an old brown hound and half deaf septa in a cold grey keep. What would it have been like to have a sister like Arya or a brother like Jon? Someone to run through the halls of her father’s hall with or whisper secrets to giggle over at night.

The argument below turns to shouting, the Stark boy cursing Joffrey as the prince smirks and sweeps away. Jon shakes his head and leans over to scratch Ghost behind the ears. “You’d best get back to your needlework, little sister. If you don’t, Septa Mordane will have you sewing all through winter and we’ll find you come the thaw with a needle frozen between your fingers.”

Arya scowls and jumps down from the sill. She looks up at Sansa, chewing her lip. “You could come back with me,” she offers uncertainly, “if you want. Though I don’t know why you would. I hate sewing.”

Sansa smiles and shakes her head. “You’re kind my lady, but Jon’s offered to show me more of Winterfell. I might help you with your stitches another time if you like, though.”

Arya frowns as she looks back and forth between Sansa and Jon, clearly misliking the idea. Nonetheless she calls her wolf to her, the grey shape of it padding beside her as she turns reluctantly and leaves the bridge.

Sansa stands watching as she disappears behind a corner. “I don’t think she likes me,” she says to Jon, and finds herself strangely sad at the thought. It would be different if we hadn’t been raised apart.

Jon shrugs. His knee is still drawn languidly to his chest, head tilted to the side, grey eyes watching her calm and half lidded. A faint smile plays at his lips. “I don’t remember offering-”

“No?” Sansa cuts in innocently. There is something in Jon’s grin, in Winterfell’s chill morning air, that makes her feel young and bold and reckless. “Should I find someone else to guide me then…?”

Jon laughs and stands, whistling Ghost to him. “No, I’ll show you.”

---

That day, and the ones that follow, pass swiftly. Though Winterfell is not near as large as the Red Keep or Kingslanding, there is still plenty for Jon to show her. Each day they meet in the morning, each day his face turns sheepish as Sansa takes him firmly by the arm, and each day he shows her a different part of Winterfell: it’s high grey towers, the solemn silence of its Godswood, the town clustered close beneath its walls.

The other Stark sons she meets: little Rickon who is barely seven, Bran who smiles shyly up at her, Robb who from his grin and the flush of Jon’s cheeks she knows must’ve teased him mercilessly about her. In them Sansa glimpses a different side of the slim serious boy she met at that first feast: the easy banter he shares with Robb, the fond smile when he musses Arya’s hair, the soft and encouraging note in his voice as he shows Bran how to better pull a bow, the grin that splits his face when he grabs Rickon and swings him around until the little boy is helpless with laughter.

A strange pang fills Sansa’s chest as she watches him with them, her cousins, the same pang that had filled her above the yard when Jon mussed Arya’s hair, the feeling welling from some hollow deep inside her. What would it have been like to be raised beside them, cousins in truth and not just by blood? All she’s ever had is Petyr. Petyr who’s one visit a year as a child she’d desperately awaited but felt strange and uncomfortable beside when he did come. Petyr who strokes her cheek. Petyr who’s breath tickles her ear when he whispers that he will always love her better than anyone else in the world.

She finds herself forgetting him sometimes though as she spends her days with Jon, forgetting Kinsglanding and the Red Keep and court, forgetting why she came north in the first place. It all feels very far away compared to the warm of Winterfell’s walls, the crisp of fresh fallen snow, the shy of Jon’s grin.

She shouldn’t, not without a Septa or other woman present, but when Jon asks Sansa if she wants to go riding one morning she accepts. The horse he fetches from the Winterfell stables for her is a pretty grey filly that snuffles at her face, and Sansa cannot keep from laughing as she wards her away. Ghost is a white shadow as she and Jon ride out into the hills beyond Winterfell, the wind streaming through Sansa’s hair making her feel more alive than she has in years, cold filling her throat and lungs, crisp and clean.

They slow a mile from Winterfell, and Sansa leans forward to pat the neck of her filly, breathless and flushed. “I never knew the north was so beautiful.”

Jon grins at her, just as breathless and flushed. “I’ve never heard it called that before.”

“Isn’t it though?” Sansa grins back and combs back her hair from a gust of wind, looks out at the rolling and empty hills around them. There is a bleak beauty to them and the blue-grey sky and chill wind, and despite how different it is from Kingslanding Sansa feels a desperate yearning inside her to never leave, feels as though she could spend all her life here and be happy. “Beautiful.”

“You’ll say different come winter.” Jon shakes his head in mock despair. “Those southern dresses of yours will never do against a proper northern frost.”

“I can sew new ones.” Sansa sticks out her tongue at him, trying not to laugh and spoil the effect. “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

Jon bursts into laughter, easy and warm, and Sansa has the sudden and reckless urge to lean across the gap between their horses and taste it, press her lips to his and find out if it’s as warm and free as it sounds. Squire after squire, knight after knight, lord after lord of the Red Keep has flirted and courted and wanted her. Comely and ugly, fair and dark, bold and shy, laughing and serious: all had wanted her and none had ever made her feel like this, flushed and breathless and skin tingling with each brush of the wind.

The feeling is strange, uncomfortable, and Sansa looks out to the hills around them, longing for something she doesn’t understand blooming painfully beneath her breastbone. “When will you leave for the Wall?” She finds herself asking.

“When my uncle leaves.” In the corner of her eye she sees Jon shift on his horse. “Lady Stark… once my father goes south I won’t have a place at Winterfell any more.”

“Is that why you mean to take the Black?” A half formed hope fills Sansa, but Jon is shaking his head before it has a chance to touch the light. “No. I meant to take the black before I knew my father would go south. There’s honor in the Night’s Watch. Even for a bastard.”

Enough to scour the shame away? It’s a question Sansa’s picked at a thousand times in the dark of her chambers until its edge is threadbare as a well worn tapestry: if she curtsies and sews and smiles sweetly enough will it somehow prove wrong her birth? The thought draws her throat tight, and Sansa looks out to the hills around them. “You’re lucky to have been born here.”

Jon nudges his horse beside hers. “Where were you born?”

“The Riverlands somewhere. I was raised on the Fingers though, in my father’s keep.” Sansa smiles faintly. “The Drearyfort he used to call it when he visited. It was, too; dreary and dark and damp always. I used to curl up at night and dream of somewhere warm and green, with fields and forests and blue skies. Those are always where songs happen, where knights save maidens and fight for them in tourneys and crown them queens of love and beauty. I used to dream of that.” She clears her throat and forces a light laugh through it. “Foolish, I know.”

“It isn’t.” Jon is looking at her Sansa realizes, gaze at some point having turned from the hills when she was speaking, eyes quiet and calm and piercing, and Sansa suddenly feels very naked, as though Jon can see under her dresses and courtesies to the lonely bastard girl who’d curled into a ball in the dark of a strange city and wept for all the things she could never be.

It makes her want to run, to shrink away, to hide her nakedness, but Sansa shivers and swallows, forcing herself to push down the light and meaningless courtesy welling on her tongue to keep the feeling at bay. She latches onto Jon’s gaze, clings to the piercing grey of his eyes. “What did you dream of as a child, Jon?”

“Winterfell.” The word is sad and hopeful and longing all in one, and something in it clouds Jon’s eyes. He looks down at the reins in his hand. “I dreamed of my father naming me his heir and giving me Winterfell, of becoming it’s lord.” He shakes his head, voice touched with an old and bitter shame. “I would never betray Robb like that. Never. But still I couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like if it was mine. If only we’d born opposite. I know I shouldn’t, that it’s a bastard’s curse to be envious and faithless-”

“It isn’t.” Sansa reaches over and touches Jon’s arm, voice hot. “It isn’t, Jon. We- there’s nothing wrong with wanting. Not for us. We cannot help what we want.”

A muscle plays in Jon’s jaw, and he nods sharply, looking down to her hand on his arm, but making no move to push it away. For a long moment they sit like that: close and apart, silent but for the wind whispering over the hills, still but for the idle shift of their horses beneath them.

Sansa’s filly eventually huffs and shakes its mane, and Jon clears his throat and rearranges his reins as she slips her hand back. “The Wolfswood is only a few minutes from here. Would you… do you want to see it?”

He glances up at that last, eyes hesitant, and Sansa combs back the strays of her hair and smiles softly in answer. “I’d like that very much.”

---

Come nightfall they return to Winterfell, cold air nipping at Sansa’s cheeks as they ride. They dismount once in the walls, and she walks with Jon as he guides their horses back to the stable, leaves him there with a smile and nod and promise to meet the next day.

Fool, fool girl, a voice in her whispers as she makes her way back to her tent, unable to stop the thudding of her heart beneath her breastbone. What do you hope to accomplish? He will go to the Wall and you to Kingslanding. But the voice is faint and Sansa pushes it away as she dresses for bed and braids her hair. She snuffs out the light and, in the dark of her tent where no one can see her, smiles into her pillow: smiles at the warm of Jon’s laugh, the quirk of his lips, the murmur of wind over the hills around them.

Let me dream, she whispers to the voice, just for tonight.

And somehow, just for that night, the voice does.

---

The next day Bran falls. And everything changes.

[5eokjin]

tell us your seokjin story.

my seokjin story is really really long and extremely heavy and i understand people may not want to read that so i’ll keep my response under a read more. word of warning though (please consider it carefully and seriously), i talk about a lot of the negative emotions and thoughts i experienced so if you think reading about it may affect your own mental health please don’t!

i was into kpop since 2009/2010 and when bts debuted i fell in love with their music and mvs and the message they were putting out. because i was preoccupied with other groups back then, though, i never fully got into them as a “stan”, just supported their works from the sidelines. even then i was really drawn by jin’s energy and i knew he was my bias but like i said, i didn’t love them the way i do now. what really sealed the deal for me was when awake was released. i was going through a really hard time and honestly it was a really dark period in my life. i was depressed. everyday felt hollow and i lived each day waiting for it to end so i could go to bed and pretend i didn’t exist. i went to sleep wishing i never woke up to another day again, i hated my existence. i was so tired all the time for no reason. i would sleep so much, waste ¾ of each day just sleeping but i just could never stop feeling tired. i couldn’t find the energy to care about anything at all and obviously my grades slipped really dramatically. still, i couldn’t bring myself to care and a part of me was actually really glad. it’s hard to explain but at the time i wanted to sabotage myself and my future, i wanted to self-destruct just because i hated my life so much i wanted to destroy the future i was headed. this is such a vivid memory for me but i was lying on the bed after school one day just feeling numb and spacing out and i had music playing on my phone and awake came on. and even when i didn’t understand the lyrics i felt the emotions in jin’s voice weighing down on me and something in me just broke. i started bawling my eyes out and honestly, i needed it. i hadn’t felt anything for a long time and my body felt so heavy and suffocated yet empty at the same time and when i finally cried it felt like i was letting it all out. even when i didn’t understand what the song was about i heard the pain and desperation and sadness behind it and it resonated with me so much. but it was the hope that really got to me. obviously music is up to personal interpretation but even as the song was so sad i heard so much foolish hopefulness clinging onto jin’s voice and i really needed that you know? needed to be reminded i could still cling onto the hope everything will get better in time even when i hated where my life was, that i was still allowed to believe in myself even when i was a mess. i know this sounds really dramatic like how can a song you didn’t understand trigger so much reflection and such a big emotional response? i can’t explain it to you because i don’t understand it either and you don’t have to believe me but it’s still my story. anyways after that i clung onto the temporary feeling of being understood and comforted that only jin managed to give and ended up watching a bunch of his videos. note! 2016 was also the year bh’s stupid act cold because you’re handsome bullshit stopped and jin could finally be himself more. so i watched so many videos of jin laughing his dorky windshield wiper laugh, cracking dad jokes and not caring about other people’s reaction as long as it made him happy, eating so happily and stuffing his hamster cheeks so full because he loved food and those moments would be the only part of my days when i could smile and be happy even for just a while. it was like watching him be happy for me? that sounds weird but i was so numb to everything back then and watching jin find so much unadulterated joy in the smallest and simplest things felt like he was enjoying life for me while i couldn’t. so i pretty much lived vicariously through him. watching him laugh himself silly over dumb things also gave me the hope that i can get better and one day i could be that happy too. he was basically my coping mechanism. he preached so much about the importance of happiness and he was constantly wishing for armys’ happiness and each time he did, it gave me even more drive to work towards that. he was my safe haven. i remember the first day of my alevels (the exam you take to go into uni) and by then i was already doing a lot better mentally but i had been self-destructing for the past 2 years so there was no chance of me coming out of the exam okay. and i just knew i was walking into a hopeless situation, into inevitable failure and it was hard for me to digest that especially because i’d consistently been a top-performing student ever since i was a kid but i knew this time there were consequences and setbacks to my future waiting ahead. i remember crying in the backseat of my dad’s car on the way to school to take the exam and i listened to awake one more time and it helped calm me a lot, enough for me to rationalise i couldn’t change the inevitable, but this doesn’t mean it’s the end of me and i was still capable of working towards my goals after the deed is done, even if it meant i was behind my peers. of course, in no way am i saying jin was my miracle cure. helping myself into a healthier mental state was, still is, a long journey. it took a lot of work and i still struggle with it occasionally. i had so many days when i wanted to just give up, fuck the tiniest glimmer of hope jin gave me to hell and just let myself be miserable, days when i feel so useless and stupid, incomplete and not enough but i know how to deal with those emotions better now. i’ve had a lot of internal battles and i know it was my own efforts that saved me, but i am still eternally grateful to jin for being a source of strength, inspiration, motivation, encouragement, a haven and a reprieve that made the journey easier. which is why i love him so much, he’s a person with so much love and kindness in his heart, so much happiness and hope he wants to share with the world and i’m truly indebted to him. i will always remember his voice and his heart as gifts that transformed my life, and even when we grow old and my affections for him eventually fade and i don’t get to see or hear of him anymore, nothing will, or can ever change that. and because nothing can, i'll always love jin in my own way. 

[victorianoir]

The Detective and the ManFatale, Part 2

Here’s the second part to the ManFatale arc. If you’re new to The Detective and the Tech Guy, check out this tumblr MASTERPOST where you can read all of it! If you’d like to read this chapter on fanfiction.net, I’ve got it for ya HERE.

Read on, goils, boys, and the rest of you who are neither!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Almost three years ago, Sarah had been on her way up to a single man's condo just as she was now. She remembered having a boat load of expectations about what she'd find there. Foolish modern art sculptures in the middle of the floor, heinously expensive furniture that still looked like it had been bought at IKEA in spite of the price tag, with no cushions or other things for comfort to speak of, and maybe lights with dimmers for seducing people he brought into his bachelor pad.

And every single one of her assumptions had been dashed the moment she'd stepped inside. Everything had looked so comfortable, the couch so inviting and frequently used. No garish, expensive art. Instead, she'd found science fiction posters from the nineteen-fifties that looked like he'd framed them himself when he was sixteen. He'd been put together and neat, but it was early enough in the morning and she'd surprised him enough that he'd been a little frazzled. And then he'd made her breakfast, which had made her think of morning-afters she'd never had but sometimes thought about. That romantic comedy trope of sleeping with a man and waking up the next morning to him having prepped an entire breakfast for you… It had just been a flash in the pan thought that occurred to her that morning as she ate the food he made, and it had made her put at least a bit of distance there. Because he'd surprised her by how real and human and warm he was, by how quickly she'd found herself daydreaming about him in ways she really shouldn't be thinking about her client. Even if it was harmless…at first.

It had been years since that morning…

She was twenty-eight now and things had changed. So much had changed. But mostly, she'd changed.

And this man she was meeting was not the man she'd visited that morning. Far from it. Even though there were some interesting moments this last week she'd been working for him…moments where he had the same understated confidence that a life of success gave a person, and the self-deprecating humor and self-awareness that had drawn her to Chuck. She wasn't drawn to Robbie Cartwright, but the intrigue was still there. She was…missing something, she thought. Some important piece he wasn't giving her, perhaps. Or something he was hiding. Maybe he was just throwing her off by being not at all what she expected—when he said something that knocked her back on her heels the way Chuck used to, the way Chuck still did sometimes.

Yes, there were some similarities there.

But at the same time, Robbie Cartwright was a foil to Chuck Bartowski. Chuck was so warm and kind, and there was a sincerity in the way he said and did things that had effectively made her a perpetual puddle around him, especially in the beginning when she was supposed to be protecting him and finding a murderer. And while she knew Chuck had been with women before—maybe even a lot of women considering how charming and generally marketable he was—he was the furthest thing from a "womanizer". The one time in the last week that she'd visited Cartwright at his office, he'd had a young, long-legged woman in his lap. She'd had to step outside and wait for the woman to leave, and then she'd had to apologize to her client for not knocking first. He hadn't seemed ashamed in the slightest. Which was almost refreshing because it wasn't what she expected…and yet kind of seedy at the same time.

He owned his lifestyle, he owned his opinions, the way he did things… and she supposed she could appreciate that. But having any kind of relationship with him, even just friendship, would grow old quick.

There was also the way he did business. In just that hour she spent at his office, it was almost as though none of the employees even knew he was there. They'd just waved her through to his office, strange looks on their faces when she'd asked to see him.

Granted, it was just a small office, one floor of a large corporate building, and she'd learned through doing some digging that he'd established it upon returning to Los Angeles from a boating trip he'd gone on around Cape Town, six months earlier.

He'd told her most of his work was done remotely, over the phone.

But then when she'd asked a marketing employee in his office when she caught him at a bar one night to ask him some questions, the drinks he'd had made him pretty chatty and she'd discovered that Cartwright didn't do a good deal of his work remotely.

Cartwright had also told her he knew Stephen Bartowski well enough to have given him the green light money on one of B.E.C.'s projects a few years ago, something that was easily cleared up by calling Chuck's dad and asking him if he knew who Robert Cartwright was. She'd gotten a confused pause before he'd said, "Uh…no, never heard of 'im. Should I know him?"

And of course there was the hotel he'd met some big name pro boxer in, in St. Louis apparently. But when she'd eavesdropped on him while he bragged to an employee, the boxer had another name, and the city was Topeka.

His employees seemed not to care either way, whether he walked around telling them lies or stuck to himself in his office. They got their paychecks.

Yes, he was Chuck's foil in a lot of ways. Because Chuck knew as many of his employees as he could. He was involved in the business, neck deep in it, and he'd single-handedly created an atmosphere that his employees enjoyed being in. He'd made it so they loved their work, loved B.E.C. as an employer.

Granted, sometimes he did have a young leggy blonde sitting on his lap in his office, but she was his girlfriend of almost two years, so Sarah felt like that was perfectly acceptable.

She smirked as she got off of the elevator and headed for the door to Cartwright's LA home. She'd done more digging on him and found out he'd purchased it with cash when he'd arrived from South Africa. So far, she'd been unable to find any other properties in LA that the playboy owned. She'd sought the realtor out but the firm had fired him for malpractice or something like that and he'd moved to Canada. And when she called the firm, they had no record of Robert Cartwright anywhere in their system.

It was giving her a good deal of pause.

While she didn't entirely feel comfortable meeting Cartwright in his home, she agreed when he asked her to. It was his day off, he'd said. And he didn't want to go all the way into the office. So she consented. She could take care of herself, but she didn't think she had to worry about him. Seducing her didn't seem to be his goal. Charming her? Absolutely. He hadn't succeeded in that, but it suited her purpose for him to think he was starting to, at least enough for her to lull him into a sense of comfort, as though she was charmed enough that she wouldn't question what he said to her, or what he was about.

She was prepared to sift through whatever lies he tossed at her. And store them away to dissect later.

Not only that, but she needed to see his home. Maybe she could start to put a few pieces together about him, maybe she'd find that missing something here, amongst his things, in his safe space.

He opened the door before she could knock and her first thought was that he needed to button one more button on that shirt he was wearing. "Oh. There you are. Sorry, I'm a bit of a mess. My, uh, morning was hectic—running all over the place—and I just got out of the shower," he breathed, opening the door wider for her to walk through. She knew for a fact he hadn't left his place all day. She'd sat outside his building nearly all day, waiting and watching.

"Perfectly all right."

"This is it," he announced, shutting the door behind her. The furniture didn't look comfortable. But at least it wasn't a bunch of weirdly colored boxes with no padding, she supposed. The walls had meaningless art she didn't recognize. The windows were massive, though, letting beautiful streams of light into the main room. "Want a tour?"

"No, thank you. If we could just get straight to business, I've got a tight schedule today."

He tsked, but then chuckled and nodded. "You're right. Let's do that. Here, have a seat on the couch. I'll make you a drink. What do you drink?"

"I don't. Not when I'm working. And certainly not at…" She looked at her watch. "Eleven in the morning."

That was a lie. She and Chuck woke up and had martinis up on his roof at nine in the morning last weekend. It had gone really well with their fruit bowls, so sue them. It had eased her grumpiness at him after he'd woken her up accidentally by dropping his phone on the bedroom floor.

"Well, I'm making you a dry martini since that's what I'm having and if you don't want it, you can just waste it," he said with another chuckle, rushing around to the bar. Sarah just shrugged in response. "So have you found something on my friend, Mr. Brown?" he asked as she heard the sloshing of liquid behind her.

Sarah paused for a moment. Was he hoping she would, she wondered?

This wasn't the first time he'd made her wonder that, either. But this was the first time he'd phrased his question in that way.

"Nothing damning yet," she said, and then she turned to glance at him over her shoulder. "If that's what you're looking for."

His profile got a bit of a look to it, and then he laughed. It wasn't forced, per se. But it sounded almost put on. "Yes, absolutely," he teased, sending her a furrowed brow and faux serious frown. "I'm always looking to find dirt on business associates."

He laughed again and came over with the drinks. "This is a Cartwright special," he said. "Dirty and dry. At least try it, Miss Walker."

"Robbie, I really shouldn't drink."

"A sip!"

She gave him a put upon sigh, then chuckled and took the drink, taking a sip. It was pretty good, but all it did was make her want to go back to Chuck's condo where he and Morgan had been playing video games when she'd left, their plates from the pancakes Morgan had made them all stacked and abandoned in Chuck's sink. She wanted Chuck to mix a few martinis for them and she could curl up on the end of the couch and watch the two doofuses argue and shove each other over who was sniping who from whatever rooftop. Because apparently that was cheating…or something. Chuck had yelled at Morgan about…stream sniping? Whatever that meant. She'd left soon after.

Sarah shook herself a bit and came back to the present. She had a job to do, and things were getting more and more interesting here.

"But you haven't found anything…?"

"Nothing yet, no."

"You bring the file you've built on him so far?"

"I did, yes." She pulled her briefcase up from the floor where she'd set it and unzipped it, pulling the file she'd been building about Jerald Brown out, handing it to him. "Everything so far is in there."

"Good, good," he muttered distractedly as he flipped through it, turning the pictures to glance at them. "No affairs, even?"

"Not yet. He goes to meetings, has dinner with associates and friends, but most of those, his wife also attends."

"You're sure it's his wife and not his… 'wife'?" he asked, making air quotes with one hand.

"It's her. I checked wedding records. And her Facebook account has pictures from when they renewed their vows."

"Cracking into their social media, huh? Good work."

"It's not like she made it private. It's all just…open. Almost like they have nothing to hide at all," she added slowly, making sure she sounded nonchalant as she said it, even as she secretly eyed him.

Something in his strong jaw twitched and he bit his lip.

"Huh. Well, I want to be sure. Absolutely sure. So please, keep digging."

She had every intention of continuing to dig.

She just had to make sure he had no idea he was where she was digging.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

He felt something smack into the side of his head as he stared out over the Los Angeles skyline. Blinking, he turned and looked at his best friend who sat about a yard away in his own chair, his feet propped up on a third chair.

"What'd you just throw your trash at me for?" he asked, thrusting a hand out, palm up.

"Dude, you aren't listening to me."

He shook his head. "Sorry." Then he sighed and sat up a bit straighter, looking Morgan in the face. "I'm sorry, buddy. I've got this…thing on my mind with Sarah. And I keep going back to it."

"A thing with Sarah?" Morgan lowered his feet to the ground and sat up. "Everything okay with you two? Please tell me—"

"No, no. Not with Sarah herself. We're good. We're great. It's not about our relationship. She just has this case…and she's been giving me little snippets of it, ya know? Not a lot. But she's been really working hard on it, to the point where I've been seeing her less—that's neither here nor there—and I'm afraid she's…" He huffed.

"What? She's what? Overworking herself? Because pot calling the kettle black, best pal."

Chuck sent Morgan a look, then shook his head. "No, I'm worried that Sarah's…I dunno, on the wrong side."

Morgan's beard twitched a bit and then he pursed his lips. "On the wrong side? Like, she's working for the mafia?"

"No. What?! No! My girlfriend isn't working for the mafia. I just mean, with this particular case, I think the bad guy employed her and is making her scrounge up dirt on a good guy. I don't think she knows it." He sighed and pushed his hand through his curls. "And I feel like a patronizing asshole just saying that out loud. She's the smartest person I know. And she isn't one to be fooled easily. This guy is just…he seems like he could be her ManFatale."

Morgan's eyes widened. "Dude. Trademark that."

"Morgs, I'm serious."

"Right, right. Sorry. Why you think he's a ManFatale?"

Chuck felt a bit of a cloud settle over his head. "Well, first of all, she mentioned offhand that he looks like Alain Delon, and I Googled that name and dear God, I'd turn in my straight card for that man if it were biologically possible. I'm only a little bit kidding." He saw Morgan had already fished his phone out of his pocket and was probably also Googling.

"Holy shit. I don't even know if I can find my straight card now. This guy was spicy." Morgan put his phone back away, and realization came over him. "Oh. Ohhhh. Her client looks like this guy?"

"I mean, not exactly. He has similar features. And the eyes."

"Oh, the eyes. Wow. Uh oh."

"What do you mean uh oh?"

"No uh oh. Nothing. Just…ya know, uh oh."

Chuck glared. "My point is that this guy is good looking, charming, he was flirting at her when I walked into her office while she was discussing the payment plan with him. Obviously, she wasn't flirting back. But I dunno, if he's charming enough, what if she just does what he's paying her for and leaves it at that? You know what I mean? Not that he's charming her outright, but that she just kind of takes what he says and doesn't use her usual…gumshoe brain. You know, picking out the suspicious stuff that she usually does. What if she just…does what he says and that's it?"

Morgan shrugged. "Isn't that kind of her job as a P.I.? The dude pays her to get dirt on another guy, she gets the dirt, she goes home with a big fat paycheck. Badda-bing, badda-boom."

"No badda-bing, badda-boom. Sarah's not that kind of private investigator. She made a point of it when she first started. She doesn't want to be paid to do the wrong thing. And I'm afraid that's exactly what is happening here and she might not know it."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because she's investigating Jerald Brown. I've done my own sleuthing, just surface level, obviously, and the guy isn't just a good dude, he's involved with Gridiron Technology and it's really only survived because of his business acumen—all of it legal and above boards. He isn't even one of those loophole businessmen. He is on the up and up."

"Do you know him personally?"

"No. I don't. Never met him even. But I generally tend to get to know who isn't trustworthy in this industry. I get around. I need to know who not to do business with. I've never heard a wrong word about Brown. Not one bad thing, even gossipy whisperings. And Dad's met him and had nothing but good things to say about him when I asked." He shrugged. "Meanwhile, who the hell is this Cartwright guy? There's barely anything on him."

"And he's…what, some kind of businessman?"

"Yeah. Sarah said he seems like a playboy who just uses the businessman title. You know, one of those guys who persuade idiots to 'invest' money in something fake, he makes a big ol' profit, and swindles the shit outta the idiots. Then he gets away with it. She didn't say all that, I'm kinda just…assuming he's that type of guy."

"Ohhh, boy, a playboy, huh? Your girl is working for a guy like that, I can see why you're suspicious of him."

Chuck just glared again. "It's not like that, Morgan. I mean, I admit, it's hard not to be a little…jealous. That whole rakish good looks and charm thing is hard to compete with. But that has nothing to do with Sarah or our relationship. I don't have to worry about that with her, and she knows she doesn't have to worry about that with me. The big thing is that I just have this bad gut feeling. Something feels…off. About him, about this situation." He groaned, and pushed his hands through his hair. "I really don't like the idea of her getting caught up in something that will make her agency, her work, look bad. Not when she's only really been at it for a few months, you know? I don't want that for her. A messed up reputation for the agency."

"Well, you know she doesn't like it when you get all…SuperChuck on her."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"All protective and shit. And I get it. But she knows what she's doing. She was a Pinkerton detective, for fuck's sake. I'm sure she knows how to watch her own back."

"Of course! Of course she does."

"And I don't think blue eyes are gonna distract her from the truest and purest course." Chuck gave Morgan a flat look for that. "What?! I'm serious! Vickie Vale always does the right thing. Sarah Walker always does the right thing. She isn't gonna let some smooth-talker fool her. C'mon, man. She's your girl, you should know this without my having to tell you."

"I do know it," he snapped, giving Morgan a snotty face. "It's just that she only talks about her progress with Brown's file. She hasn't told me anything about funny feelings, or-or anything she is getting with Cartwright."

Morgan blinked. "If he's giving her funny feelings, I'm not sure you wanna know."

"You ass, I'm not talking about that kind of funny feeling. Like…when you meet someone and something just seems…I dunno, off about 'em. Like how he gave me that feeling when I met him."

"Sure that didn't have something to do with the fact that he was flirting with your girlfriend?"

"At. He was flirting at her, okay? She was not flirting back. Thank you. And yes, I am sure it didn't have to do with that. I can't describe it."

"I can. Jealousy."

"Morgan. Seriously. I'll admit, there is some jealousy there, I'm only human. But I genuinely mean it. He gives me the creeps, man. You don't know 'cause you haven't met him or seen him talk. But he sounds…weird."

"What, does he got an accent or something?"

"Well, yeah. South African. But it's not just that he has an accent. Have you ever met anyone who says words a certain way that makes you think they're, like…really trying hard to sound a certain way?"

Morgan thought for a moment. "Like when Ben Logan went to London for a week with his parents during the summer between seventh and eighth grade and he came back to school with a random British accent?"

Chuck gave him a look. Then he checked himself and hummed. "I mean, yeah kinda. I don't think his accent is fake, per se, but he just thinks really hard about every word he says, how he says it. Like he needs to control the way he presents himself. Like he has a story to sell."

"How so?"

He tried to mimic Cartwright's way of speaking. "He pronounces every word, and makes sure you hear every last sound of every last consonant. Very calculated with the way he speaks. With his charming attitude." He dropped the affectation. "It's really unsettling. It landed just fine at the time and I thought maybe I was just being jealous, but the more I thought about that meeting, the more that stuff stuck out to me. Dude, seriously, he almost talks like a psychopath."

"Ew, Norman Bates vibes?"

"Yeah! But more rakish conman than awkward mommy issues murder boy."

That made Morgan laugh a little.

Chuck shook his head and leaned in closer to his best friend. "And get this. Yesterday when she left to meet him, when you and I were gaming…You didn't hear because you were clearing out the fort on that stupid level we sucked at getting past, but I asked her how things were going with the case, and she said…" He paused dramatically. "Fine."

Morgan stared at him, as if expecting more. And when he realized that was it, he made a face. "That's it? What's so bad about that?"

"It's different from what usually happens when I ask."

"What usually happens?"

"She tells me things?" he explained with a shrug. "Like, 'oh I found out Brown is sleeping with his masseuse.' For example. But she just said, 'fine'. It's different from what I'm used to when she has a case. She'll give me little snippets or ask me what I think about something. Or she uses me as a sounding board. She hasn't this time which kind of worries me. She usually does a super thorough job vetting everything about a case, even sometimes the people who hired her. And I'm afraid she hasn't done it with this guy. Because he's so…"

"Alain Delon?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I might be totally unfair with how I'm approaching this, not giving her the credit she deserves. And maybe that makes me a bad boyfriend, but I seriously have a lot of misgivings about this guy Robbie Cartwright."

Morgan nodded slowly. "Okay, dude. Well, why don't you sit her down and talk to her about it?"

"Oh God no. She'd be so pissed off."

"Why? You're just helping her out."

"She'd be so pissed. About me putting myself in potential danger, you know, in case this guy's actually dangerous. About me butting in on her cases. She'd do what you did, assume it's 'cause I'm jealous…"

"So…don't do it?" Morgan winced. "Or at least, if you do it, lemme play, too."

"Oh. Morgs. Buddy. I need a co-sleuth. You know I do."

Morgan's eyes widened in excitement as he leapt to his feet, arms out. "Forget everything I said. Let's build this hot shady mother fucker a bad guy dossier."

Chuck jumped to his feet as well and high-fived his best friend. "Yes!"

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

They stood on opposite sides of a table, pouring over the papers and pictures they'd laid out. Two days of sleuthing work lay in front of them. On Morgan's kitchen table. Because Chuck didn't want to risk doing it at his own place, in case Sarah came over unannounced and found them like this. God, she'd be pissed.

"Okay, so tell me this. Why is this guy—Robbie Cartwright—Robert in South Africa? That'd be like if I was Charles in LA, then went and established a B.E.C. chapter over in Bangkok and went by Chuck there. Why? Also, he seemed like a total recluse in South Africa, right?" Chuck asked.

"That's what my man Mujahid told me," Morgan said with a shrug. He'd called his friend in South Africa to ask him about Robert Cartwright and Mujahid had sent him whatever he could find on him. "He's got his name on a lot of things but wouldn't ever make appearances, would just send money in his place. Seemed like a legitimate agoraphobe in a lot of ways, or maybe afraid of people? I dunno. Like he was paranoid. But he took this big boat trip with a friend I guess, then after that trip he came here to Los Angeles alone. And suddenly, he's an outgoing, grinny guy with a woman on each arm. It's…weird. It just don't make sense."

"He ain't a recluse anymore, that's for sure. Sarah told me that she'd walked in on him with a woman in his place of work and it was super awkward."

"Oh, damn!"

"Right? Also, look at this. His purchases he made are all so extravagant. You look at what he did back in South Africa, he didn't seem to like jewelry or tailored suits or…any of this crap."

"You know what it could be?" Morgan said, shaking his finger, his other hand on his hip. "Los Angeles is probably pretty different from Cape Town. Maybe he just lets his hair down when he gets to other cities. You know? No one really knows him here. He can go wild. No repercussions. His business is thousands of miles away on the other side of the world. A little hot birdie…finally let out of its cage…"

Chuck frowned. "You might be right about that. It's just…"

"No, it's bizarre. It is."

"I asked around a bit myself, just some cursory questions to make it look like I'm considering bringing in another donor for that conference. He told Jack Reynard at an event that he cared for his dying mother when he was a teenager. Reynard felt bad for him, said 'the kid's really pulled himself up by his bootstraps'. Right, but then when I asked Louise Barnard, you know, Walt's daughter—" Morgan gave him a look and he blushed a little. "Sorry, right. I'm talking to you like I talk to my parents, of course you don't know. Uh, ahem. Louise said that Cartwright was pretty flirtatious but harmless, and she mentioned how many nice things he said about his mother. When I said, 'Oh, sad the way she passed away when he was just a teenager', she paused. And I was like 'What?' And she goes, 'He told me his mom told him he should take the business to LA.' As in, she's still alive. The guy is lying about his mom's death."

"Oh, dude, creeeepyyyyy!" Morgan said, making a face. "So is his mom dead or alive?"

"Fuck if I know. Can't find much on the Cartwrights."

"What. Is. Going. On. With. This. Guy?"

"I think we need to maybe tail him a bit closer. I'm gonna skip out on the office tomorrow. Next day, you think you can let your employees run your restaurant?"

"Oh hell yeah, man. I've got the perfect disguise, too."

"Yesssss! Awesome. Okay, y—" He was interrupted by his phone. Pulling it out of his pocket, he saw Sarah had texted him. He pulled it up.

"What's my tech guy up to?" it read.

"It's Sarah. What do I do?" he asked Morgan, eyes wide. "She's asking me what I'm up to. Shit. She knows. She knows. She's too brilliant not to know. Oh my God, she's gonna break up with me if she finds out we're circumventing her investigation. It's not worth it, man!"

Morgan scratched the back of his head, a bit of panic in his face. And then he scoffed and chuckled, shaking his head. "Dude, it's Sarah. Your girlfriend. My friend. We need to chill out. She's just texting you 'cause you're her other half."

"Oh. Hah. Yeah. Wow." He shook his head, too. "She's just, you know, a super sleuth. Part of me thought she'd found out about this. But she couldn't, right? That'd be crazy."

"Right!" He gestured to the phone. "Just answer her. Uh, in a way that leaves out the truth."

Chuck nodded and texted back, "I'm hanging out with The Beard", adding the Trademark sign to the end of 'The Beard'.

"Nice. I've had enough tailing Brown today and I'm tired. Was thinking I'd head over if you're home," she replied a minute later as he and Morgan went back to trying to piece things together.

He responded: "I'm at Morgan's right now."

"That's weird," she texted back, "You never go to Morgan's apartment."

"I did today!" he typed with a smiley emoji.

"Well, I won't interrupt your Chorgan time then. But if you want to come over later, I'll just be around." Chuck stared at her text for a bit, smirking to himself. He saw she was typing something else, and then a winky face popped up. Oh.

"What? What'd she say?" Morgan asked.

The taller man jumped at the sound of his voice and gave his friend a look. "I'm not telling you."

"Ooooh ho ho hooo one of those texts, huh? Did your girl just booty-text you?"

Another winky face popped up then. And then another. Along with her texting, "Are you getting what I'm throwing down here?"

God, she was so dorky and so hot all at the same time and he was so in love.

"Shut up. She's not booty-texting me. I don't even know what that means." Meanwhile, he typed back, "We prefer Muck, actually. And we're pretty much done hanging out. Why don't I meet you at yours?"

"Hey, help me gather this stuff up," he said to his friend then, grabbing the papers and starting to put them together in a more orderly fashion.

"Oh, it's totally the text I thought it was, for the record. Go get some, dude." Morgan put his hand up for a high five.

"I'm not fiving that, you creeper."

"Maaaannn!"

He thanked The Beard, told him he'd keep him updated about tomorrow, stuffed their file on Robbie Cartwright inside of his jacket, and rushed down to his car. He hurried home to stash the file in a safe spot in his condo before he went straight to Sarah's.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

"Chuck, my nose is coming off!"

The tech guy rolled his eyes and brought his watch up to his mouth. "I told you to put more glue on it."

"No! Dude, I've seen people not be able to get things like this off because they use too much glue to put 'em on! I don't want this weird nose forever! How will I ever smell agai—"

Chuck pressed the mute button on his earpiece and sighed, keeping his eyes on the Alain Delon wannabe as he walked into the downtown high rise where he lived. "Morgan, keep watch on the back door," he said quietly into his watch.

Odd, Morgan wasn't responding to him, not even with a Ten-Four or a Blue-Forty-Two, both things he'd already said in the last two hours they'd spent tailing Robbie Cartwright.

"Morgan. You hear me?" And then he remembered he'd muted him. "Oh." He un-muted him immediately.

"—wrong with the comms, Leader One? Can you hear me? I repeat…Can…you…hear me?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"Oh. What happened to the comms?"

I muted you for being annoying, that's what happened to the comms.

"Um. Nothing. Probably a glitch."

"Bruh, we paid a shit ton of money for these. They better not glitch."

Chuck rolled his eyes again. "We?"

"Fine. You did."

"Are you going to the back or what?"

"I'm already at the back! Jesus! You get a whiff of commandership and you're suddenly a big ol' jerk."

"You're the jerk!" But then something caught his eye. "Wait. Hold that thought. Wait, wait. How tall did we say Codename: Namor the Sub-Mariner is?"

"Six feet exactly."

"Shoulder width?"

"Huh? Dude, I dunno the width of his fuckin' shoulders!"

"I told you to…ugh… forget it. It doesn't matter. Someone just walked out who looks a hell of a lot like Namor the Sub-Mariner but with a full beard and a different suit that fits him, er…differently." The suit was tailored differently, not as tight fitting, and he was wearing sunglasses, but he could swear it was him.

"Differently?"

"Doesn't matter. The point is, Namor the Sub-Mariner just came out of his place in a disguise. I'm following him." He snapped a few photos of the man as he waited at the crosswalk, sticking a toothpick between his teeth because it made him look cool, probably, Chuck assumed. Instead he just looked like a jack-ass.

Then he pulled his phone out, a phone that didn't look anything like the Galaxy he and Morgan took record of when they first began to build their dossier on Robbie Cartwright. "He's got a new phone, I see."

Morgan gasped. "A burn phone?"

"Yep! Sure looks like it to me!"

"This is so cool!"

"I know, right?" he said giddily, snapping a few more pictures, some zoomed in, others zoomed out, before he lowered the camera again and hid it in his coat, leaning against the wall and turning his face to the side as Cartwright walked right past him. Letting him get far enough away, he pushed off from the wall and followed, sliding a hand over his slicked-back hair and sliding his sunglasses on.

"You got eyes on him? I tried to run around the building to see if I could get after 'im but I don't see 'im," Morgan said.

"I'm on him," Chuck said, pulling up his hand to scratch his ear so that it wasn't as obvious he was talking into his watch.

"Good—Gah! This fuckin' nose! I'm taking it off. I can't stand it."

Chuck just shook his head and kept following his mark. He followed him for a few blocks, Morgan rattling off things in his ear, and he wondered if Morgan was just holding the watch up to his mouth the whole time or if he'd accidentally set it so that Chuck heard it even when it was at his hip.

He willed himself to ignore it and instead followed Codename: Namor the Sub-Mariner aka Robbie Cartwright into the park, down the paths, back out of the park, and into a shopping mall. He watched Cartwright walk into a high-end store and decided to take a seat on the bench outside of it to wait.

Chuck shirked his coat, replaced his sunglasses with a pair of reading glasses, and grabbed the rolled up LA Times someone had left on the planter wall nearby. He didn't move his eyes from the store, pretending to read the paper as he held it up conspicuously, in spite of assuming he was being incredibly inconspicuous.

"Chuck. Man, where the hell are you?" Morgan asked.

"At the mall," he murmured into his watch.

"What?! I know you get your Cinnabon urges, Chuck, but you had to do it right now in the middle of a mission?"

"I'm not eating a Cinnabon!" he hissed. "Namor the Sub-Mariner is buying clothes or something. I dunno what the hell he's—oh shit, he's out. Hold on."

The tech guy watched as the suspicious, disguise-wearing businessman slash playboy strolled out of the shop with a briefcase he must have just bought in hand. He made a beeline for Chuck, scaring him out of his skin practically, but then he set his new briefcase down on the other end of the bench, snapped the tag off of it, letting the tag fall onto the ground under the bench without seeming to care even a bit. Then he went into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, tugged some papers that had been folded in half out, and flattened them as best he could, before slipping them inside of the pristine leather briefcase.

He was caught glancing at the scene out of the corner of his eye apparently, because Cartwright cleared his throat and zipped the case back up again. "Gotta look impressive for the job interview, huh, fella?" he asked.

"Mhm!" Chuck squeaked, looking back at his paper and staring at the words hard.

First thing he realized as the man rushed off again was that there had been no South African accent. He was American. Not South African. Because if he was the South African Robert Cartwright, what reason would he have for affecting an American accent with a random man on a bench? There'd be no point.

This person, whether he was really Robbie Cartwright or not, was not South African. Chuck knew that much now.

He got up and started to follow him, but then he stopped, growled, and went back to pick up Cartwright's trash. "Fucking litterer," he grumbled as he tossed it in the trash he swept past and continued following the good-looking, newly bearded bastard.

"Chuck…Chuck…Chuck, you there? What's going on, Chuck? Why aren't you keeping me posted, Chuck? Chuck, I feel left out! Dude!"

Chuck ignored Morgan as he followed non-South African Cartwright back out of the mall, and cursed as he saw the man hail a taxi. "Shit!"

He scrambled to the sidewalk and leapt into the back of a taxi that wasn't currently on duty.

"I'm not on duty," the woman snarked over her shoulder, finishing a gyro.

"If you change your mind, I'll give you a thousand bucks to follow that blue cab that's pulling away from the curb right there."

"You fuckin' with me?" the woman asked, eyes wide.

"No. I have a girlfriend."

"Oh, shit! I'll finish this gyro later!" She tossed the styrofoam box into the passenger seat, licked her fingers, and turned on her car, bursting out into the traffic, ignoring the blaring horns behind her, and following the cab. "I've been waitin' my whole career to do this shit! You a cop?"

"Um."

"Nevermind. You give me a grand and I don't give a fuck what you are, friend. You could be a space alien. I don't care."

She sped up and slid her taxi in behind the one carrying Cartwright and he felt the adrenaline of this whole thing starting to get to him. He pulled his watch up to his mouth and finally spoke into it.

"Morgan, I'm on Namor the Sub-Mariner's tail right now—"

"Namor the Sub-Mariner? What the hell's that?" the taxi driver asked.

"He's a comic book character. Depending on who you ask, he's either good or bad. Like an anti-hero—" He shook his head as he realized that was all beside the point, and brought his watch up again. "He just bought a briefcase at Gucci—"

"Gucci? That shit's expensive!" the taxi driver exclaimed.

"Right? So unnecessary," he said back.

"Seriously, you know that fool is up to no good, buying a Gucci briefcase."

"That's what I am saying." He cleared his throat and went back to the watch just as he saw the blue taxi pulling up next to a nondescript business building. "Morgan, he's stopping. Hold on."

Chuck unbuckled his seatbelt and scooted up to get closer to the driver, taking his second watch off and thrusting it at her. "See this? It's a Rolex. Brand new. Worth quite a bit of money, as I'm sure you know."

"Yessir."

He looked at her driver's ID. "Rhonda. If you wait here for me until I come back, after I see what the hell this asshat is up to, I will give you two grand instead of one. And I'll leave this Rolex with you so you know I mean what I say. As collateral. Deal?"

"Damn. You got a deal. But only if you tell me what that Gucci gutter jerk is up to when you get back."

"Deal! Enjoy your gyro!"

She took the watch and he staggered out of the taxi, putting his coat back on and following Cartwright around the side of the building to where there was an outdoor café and seating area alongside a small, urban garden.

Cartwright met a much shorter, slightly older man at one of the tables but Chuck was too far away to hear what they were going to say to one another, so he looked around almost desperately. He hadn't obtained any listening devices, damn it. He silently cursed himself. And so… he would have to improvise.

When he saw the man standing in the corner of the garden with pruning shears, an idea struck.

Not five minutes later, he was wearing a jacket that said MAINTENANCE on the back of it and he was casually pruning the hedges near the table where Cartwright and his acquaintance had settled.

"It's a deal, Mr. Newman. Or can I call you Mark?"

"Fifty cents on the dollar is a deal, Mr. Lawson—"

"Paul," Cartwright said cheerfully.

"Er, yes…Paul. The only problem is that the boat Mr. Cartwright wants to sell me is all the way in South Africa. And he's requiring me to meet him there to get it myself."

Chuck's eyes widened and he turned a bit so that his back was more to them so that they couldn't see his face in case they looked. What in the hell was going on here, he wondered? Mr. Cartwright was going by the name Paul Lawson…He was Cartwright, though, wasn't he? That was what he was telling Sarah Walker, the private investigator he hired to look into someone else.

All this time, he was the one she should've been looking into.

Holy hell…

"Well, of course, Mark," the poser said. "Robert Cartwright doesn't sell his precious Lola 2 for fifty cents on the dollar if he also has to hire someone to sail it all the way to Long Beach for ya." There was a long pause. "Nobody is going to blame you if you want to pull out, Mark. Honestly. There are plenty of guys on this list but I wanted to get to you first, 'cause I like you. I trust you. The guy, uh…he's hard to get access to." He chuckled.

"So I've heard."

Chuck kept the shears moving, pruning the hedges rather poorly, probably, and he thought maybe he shouldn't totally ruin these things since that poor old guy who was actually supposed to do this would get blamed for it. Granted, Chuck's wallet was two hundred bucks lighter now…

"Listen, er…Paul. I can't pass this up. My Trudy wants a sailing trip this summer and I told her we would…May I ask, would Mr. Cartwright permit me to rename the boat?"

"You buy her, you can call her whatever you please, Mark!"

"Good. You can tell Mr. Cartwright it's a deal. Money up front?"

"Yessir. And I've got this contract here, written up, signed by the boss himself just so you know this is on the up and up."

Chuck casually strolled away from the meeting, approaching the old gardener around the corner and giving him back his jacket and shears. And then he rushed the long ways around the building, took out his camera, and took a few pictures of "Paul Lawson" and Mark Newman for good measure.

And as he went back to the taxi, still waiting for him because Rhonda was the absolute best, Chuck Bartowski decided he and Morgan weren't done yet. They weren't even close to done yet.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

She was already yawning when she let herself into Chuck's condo, swinging the door open and frowning a bit at how dark it was. He wasn't home, the jerk.

The downside of falling in love with a workaholic.

Sarah imagined he was in his office still, going over some program with one of his employees talking in his ear, going over fixes, edits…

But it was after ten at night and she was too tired to go back to her own home now, so she supposed this condo that had been her home for a few months when she first moved to California would do. She'd be here, sleeping most likely, when he got home. And hopefully it'd be a pleasant surprise for him to find her in his bed.

She flicked on the living room light, flooding that corner of the lower level of his condo, then she went into the kitchen and flicked on the light there, getting a glass of water for herself and guzzling it down. She went into his fridge and saw a bowl of sliced watermelon. Greedily, she grabbed it, pulled off the saran wrap, and casually popped a piece into her mouth, munching.

Sarah missed her tech guy.

He'd been really busy the last few days, apparently, not even able to meet for lunch because of meetings with "people, important people". And she'd been out nights meeting contacts, working on this case, and observing Robbie Cartwright's nighttime activities.

Sometimes it included women. She'd watch him from the shadows across the street as he brought a woman up into his high rise building, and she'd leave after that, knowing she had no reason to continue observing that situation. But other times, he'd climbed behind the wheel of his car with tinted windows and drive off. She'd followed it once, not wanting to chance he recognized her or her car, especially if he was as observant as she thought he most likely was. He'd surely know if the same car followed him late at night more times than just the one.

He'd gone into a warehouse near the docks that night, and the light in the second floor office had flicked on before the blinds were slowly shut.

Tonight, she'd broken into that office. It was just a simple lock on the door, easy for her to pick, and when she got inside, she'd used a flashlight to dig around in the desk. There were contracts that he'd signed, deposit slips, bank statements… Rather than steal them to be able to look at them more thoroughly, she took as many pictures as she could. Because Cartwright was selling things like pieces of property in Morocco, tourist hotels in Sudan, one of his yachts, a boat named Lola 2, antique museum-worthy pieces of furniture that were in his South Africa home, art work… And she wondered why. Why was this sketchy playboy selling all of his own things suddenly?

Was he going through some sort of midlife crisis in his mid-thirties?

Perhaps that around-the-world boating trip Cartwright took had completely changed his view of the world, Chuck had surmised when she'd talked to him over the phone the other day. She still hadn't told him she was investigating the man who hired her more than the man he'd hired her to investigate. But she did hint this whole change in Cartwright felt strange and sudden.

Chuck was wrong, though. Something rotten was going on with Robbie Cartwright, and the more she gathered on his actions, the more she thought the rotten thing was Robbie Cartwright himself.

In fact, she had every reason to believe Robert Cartwright was a conman. The South African lying businessman and playboy, fooling everyone back home and moving to Los Angeles to fool people in a different town.

And maybe, just maybe, the gig was up. Maybe someone was after him.

There were many reasons why he might start selling things. Perhaps he planned to flee afterwards and he'd make up another persona in some other part of the world.

He was a con artist, though. And she wasn't about to let herself be conned. The money he'd been shoveling at her had been real. She'd checked before depositing it. But why was he looking to bust Jerald Brown? Why had he hired her specifically for this job?

Did Brown have something on him? Maybe he knew the truth. Maybe Jerald Brown had found out that Robert Cartwright was a con artist. Or perhaps he was simply suspicious. If Sarah found something on Brown, Cartwright could turn the tables on his "potential business partner" and destroy his reputation and credibility before the man could accuse him of pulling a massive, cross-continent con.

Yawning again, she thought about how successful she'd been today during her meeting with "Robbie" of seeming like she was fully in his pocket, doing everything he asked her to do, not suspicious of him at all. And she'd even started to built a legitimate dossier on Jerald Brown, even finding a few discrepancies in his finances that could lead to something big. She still played like she was simply protecting Cartwright's investment, not purposely digging up dirt. She was pretending to play right into Cartwright's hands, and all the while he was playing into hers.

Hopefully.

Once she got enough incriminating evidence on Cartwright, she could take it all to Casey. But first and foremost, she had to reel the con artist in, once and for all. She had to make him bite the bait, latch onto it, make him think she was actually doing the job she was asked, and succeeding at it, too. He wouldn't wait for her forever.

This was a dangerous man. A practiced con artist.

And she had to step lightly.

Sarah went up to Chuck's bedroom after turning off all of the lights on the lower floor and pushed into his bedroom, turning on the light, kicking her heels off into the corner like she always did when she spent the night, and going over to his dresser.

She pulled out some clean boxers, the green and blue plaid she liked so much that fit him a little snug and her a lot, well, not-snug, and then she changed into them, having to roll the waistband a few times as always. She then grabbed one of his T-shirts out of another drawer and tugged that on over her bare torso, shivering a bit at how cool he kept his condo. Or maybe it wasn't something he could control. Maybe this was just such a wide-open condo that it was naturally chilly.

Either way, she headed straight for his bed, her phone in hand. She climbed into the bed on the side where she always slept and she leaned over to turn the lamp next to the bed on, giggling quietly at the Batwoman graphic novel sitting on the nightstand. He'd been trying to get her to at least try to read it for weeks, but she'd resisted. Maybe she'd finally give it a look this time.

And he'd tease her for doing it now on purpose, when he wasn't here to gush or provide commentary.

But then she thought she'd much rather he be here with her than read a comic book. Even if the character did look cool. She was tired, a little nervous about this Cartwright situation if she was being honest, and she wanted that safe, contented feeling of having a particular rich tech heir wrapped up in her arms.

So she picked up her phone from where it laid beside her on the bed and she sent him a text: "Hey, workaholic, guess where I am right now…"

He responded almost immediately. "In the North American tundra?"

Sarah giggled and shook her head. "Good guess. Somewhere much cozier, though."

"Hey, wait. You callin me a workaholic but how you know I'm at work? For all you know I'm at home snuggled up in bed!"

She smirked and bit her lip. "You couldn't possibly be at home snuggled up in bed, otherwise you'd be right next to me. And you're definitely not." She snapped a quick picture of his empty side of the bed and sent it.

He sent a shocked emoji, and then she watched as the dots appeared while he typed. They disappeared, appeared again…as he changed his mind about what he was going to respond with, no doubt. It was stupidly cute.

"Don't move. Don't go anywhere. I'm on my way out of the office now. Your cuddle monster is ON HIS WAY."

Sarah laughed and decided to press the matter a bit by sending him a selfie with her all tucked away in bed. His response made her laugh harder. In all caps, "I'M COMIN, WOMAN. GEEZ."

Suddenly missing him even more, despite the fact that he was literally on his way to her at that very moment, Sarah scooted over on the bed, onto his side, and grabbed his pillow, rolling over and taking comfort from his scent…

Wait…

Her eyes blinked open and she frowned, her brow furrowed.

Something was…

She moved around a bit, uncomfortable no matter how she shifted. It was…lumpy or something.

Pushing herself up on her elbow and glaring down at the offending mattress, she realized it looked almost lifted at the edge, like it was higher than the rest of the mattress. That wasn't normal. She put her hand on the raised bit and pushed on it. It was hard…

Was there something stuck under his bed? Was his bed broken, perhaps?

It wouldn't be the first time they'd literally broken a bed with how they tended to lose themselves a bit in the throes of passion, and she smirked as she remembered Paris, almost two years earlier. God, that had been so damn good.

And it had only gotten better since then.

But then she shook her head, getting herself out of the clouds, and she climbed out of the bed, rising to her full height as she peered down at the thing. She let out a thoughtful, "Hm", and then grabbed the mattress, lifting it up.

Sarah thrust her hand underneath and felt the culprit. It was…She pulled it out and gaped at it. A file. A thick file, too. And it had TOP SECRET stamped poorly on the cover flap. "What the hell is this, Bartowski?" she asked quietly, mirth in her voice.

Why was he keeping a file under his mattress and what was it for? She knew she shouldn't. She really shouldn't do it. Only a bad girlfriend looked through her boyfriend's things, especially something he'd gone out of his way to label TOP SECRET. Then again, he had a peculiar sense of humor that made her think he'd stamp that on something with freaking video game codes because he thought it'd be funny.

And anyway, she'd been a Pinkerton detective, and now she was a private investigator. Nobody would really fault her if she just took a peek.

So she swung it open and looked at the top page.

It was a candid photograph of Robbie Cartwright coming out of his office building.

And Chuck was in so much trouble.

[tomnhaz]

Sleepless Nights Pt 2: T.H. x Reader

Notes: It’s here bitchez 

Warnings: i’m sorry

Word Count: 1.5k 

Summary: Y/N is having a pity party and receives an unexpected guest. 

Part 1

Tagging some mutuals to promote... @petalparker @lovelyspidey @h-osterfield @uwu-peter-parker-uwu @malumkilledme @spideymood @spideynora

You clicked play on your remote for probably the hundredth time that day. You stared at your reflection in the blackness of your television screen as the next episode of your show loaded, and concluded that you were a pathetic mess.

Your long hair was pulled up into a bun, but after a day of rolling amongst the blankets of your bed, most of it had fallen free of the elastic. You didn’t bother putting on makeup that morning and you knew that the bags under your eyes gave you a zombie-like appearance, but what did you care? You didn’t have anyone you were trying to impress anymore.

You had moved out of your shared apartment with Tom a few weeks ago. Tom had sat on the couch the entire time you loaded your stuff into your car, not saying a word nor acknowledging what was happening. When it was finally time for you to leave, he simply stood up and walked off towards his bedroom. You hadn’t heard from him since.

Luckily, you were able to find a quaint, little place a few blocks from your job that you were able to afford. You moved in shortly after leaving Tom and had been trying your best to forget him; it wasn’t working.

Currently, you were on your third week of self pity. You laid up in bed for most of the day, leaving occasionally to find food and use the bathroom. You averaged about 2 showers a week, and you were a complete mess. You hated the fact that it was Tom that made you feel this way. What gave him the right? He never even loved you like that, so then why the hell were you wasting your time?

You were about to get up and get your fourth bowl of ice cream from the kitchen when a knock sounded at your door. For a second, you convinced yourself that it was simply someone knocking on the door next door and no one could possibly be coming to see you, but then the knocking continued.

You got up off the couch, wrapping your blanket around your shoulders, your socked feet dragging along the ground. You reached the door and looked out the peephole only to be met with the only pair of blue eyes you could never forget. Harrison.

Why is Harrison at your door? You hadn’t spoken to him in weeks.

‘Y/N, I know you’re in there. Please, I need to talk to you.’ Harrison called from behind the door. You reached up to run your fingers through your hair, letting the blanket fall from your shoulders. You brushed out the wrinkles on your pajamas before turning to look at the mirror in your entryway and realizing that there was no hope for your appearance. With a sigh escaping your lips, you slowly opened the door.

‘Harrison, hi?’ you feigned surprised ‘Can I help you with something?’ Harrison didn’t answer, he simply brushed by you, strolling into your apartment. ‘Well, come on in, I guess.’

‘Wow. You um really moved on quickly didn’t you?’ Harrison questioned as he looked around critically at your apartment, his eyebrows raised and his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his blue jeans.

You eyes widened slightly taken aback by his question. What did he mean move on quickly? Move on from what, moving out with Tom? Where did he want you to live, on the street?

‘What do you mean?’ you asked, closing the door behind you and picking up the blanket off the floor again before walking back over to your sofa and sitting down.

Harrison quit exploring your apartment and turned to face you, ‘Well, it’s just that you only moved out a few weeks ago.’

A smirk replaced the frown on your lips, ‘Would you prefer me to be homeless?’

A small smile creeped on to Harrison’s face but quickly disappeared. You could tell something was bothering him.

‘Haz, what going on with you? Is everything okay?’ you shifted a little on the couch to make room for him, inviting him to sit next to you.

Harrison sighed before walking over to the couch and sitting next to you. He was stiff as a board, and you could tell he was uncomfortable.

‘I shouldn’t even be here. If he knew I was here with you right now he’d kill me.’ Harrison mumbled, running his hands through his hair like he always did when he was nervous.

‘Who? Tom?’ your eyebrows raising as you wondered why Tom would care that Harrison came to see you. You had the same right to be Harrison’s friend as he did, and it’s not like the two of you had broken up.

‘Ha, who else?’ Harrison relaxed a little, leaning slightly into the sofa before twisting slightly so he was looking at you. ‘He’s a mess Y/N. I’ve never seen him like this. He won’t take to me, he won’t talk to anyone.’, he announced, all the while shaking his head, the look on his face telling you all you needed to know. ‘What happened with you two?’

Harrison’s questions unlocked emotions that you had been trying to bury for the last 3 weeks. You felt your throat begin to burn as your mind forced into focus the images of Tom’s face as he told you he didn’t love you. Harrison must have been able to tell that something was wrong.

‘Y/N, you don’t have to tell me, I just-’

‘No. It’s fine, really, I just- we talked, a-and things were said, well admitted, and it didn’t end great.’ you felt yourself shrinking back into the couch. This was the first time you’d talked about what happened out loud and you wanted to hide. The original embarrassment you had felt, putting your heart on the line only to watch as Tom crushed it into tiny pieces, was back with a vengeance.

The look of pity on Harrison’s face didn’t help your confidence at all either, ‘What did he say?’, his body shifting so he was looking directly at you.

You chuckled at the irony, because nothing Tom had really said was the cause of your sadness, but the look of pure disappoint he had plastered on his goddamn perfect face. The face that had drawn you in and made you feel loved only to cast you out at your most vulnerable.

‘He didn’t say anything, I did.’ you took a deep breath, preparing for the worst, ‘I told him I loved him.’

You watched in horror as a giant smile formed across Harrison’s face. Bracing for the inevitable ridicule at the ridiculousness of your feelings, you closed your eyes and shrunk deeper into the sofa. The feeling of terror only grew as you heard the rumbling of Harrison’s laughter echoing through the blanket you had wrapped tightly around your head. You felt the burning in your throat return once again.

The longer Harrison laughed, the more your sadness transformed into anger. Yes you had been foolish, yes you were embarrassed beyond belief, but was your emotional turmoil really such a goddamn joke to him? Did he not understand the pain you had gone through the last 3 weeks after the man you loved left your heart in a mess on the kitchen floor?

You finally snapped and sat up abruptly, several tears sneaking their way down your cheeks that were flushed with anger, ‘What is so goddamn fucking funny to you, huh?’

Harrison immediately stopped laughing, turning to look at you with a ridiculous smirk on his face.

‘Darling-’ he started.

‘No! I want to know what about my existential emotional crisis seems like a joke to you? I want to know why you think it would be okay to mock the girl who just had her heart broken? Why would you laugh at one of your best friends who finally got the guts to admit that she was in love, only to hear that the person she loved had never even loved her at all?’, by the end of your rant you were screaming and the tears were falling freely down your face. You hadn’t realized until after you had finished that you were now standing, looking down at the blonde sitting on the couch below you with a look of shock in his eyes.

‘Wait. Tom told you he didn’t love you?’, he asked, his face screwing up in confusion.

You rolled your eyes before falling back on the couch in defeat, ‘Yes, yes he did.’

Everything was quiet after that, the both of you sitting on the couch lost in your own thoughts. You, wondering how you could have ever been foolish enough to think that a boy like Tom could ever love a girl like you. And Harrison, about why his best friend would lie about his true feelings to the girl he had been in love with for 2 years.

[mysweetserpent]

5 years away.

Request:”request for SP where SP and north sider reader were a thing in high school but she goes off to college. Reader comes back after college or on a break or something and they reconnect and SP is in charge of serpents now!”

A/N: I think I am going to make a part 2 so stay tuned! Enjoy!

You never imagined leaving Riverdale, but when it happened and you got accepted to NYU, you took the chance. But it meant leaving Sweet Pea behind and to this day it was the worst mistake you have ever made. It’s been 5 years since you left. Only keeping in touch with Toni and Fangs who kept you informed on Sweet Pea. He apparently had a few flings here and there like you had but nothing that stuck. It broke your heart to hear that he wouldn’t commit to anyone.

One thing he had committed to was the Serpents but that was nothing new. When Toni had told you that he was now the head serpent you couldn’t help but smile. His dream came true. He hadn’t let anyone stand in his way and it amazed you.

When you told Toni that you were coming back to the Southside due to your dad being sick, she was so excited to finally see you. You made her promise to kept it a secret not wanting it to be a big deal or wanting Sweet Pea to hear about it.

As you were in the taxi heading back to the trailer that was so familiar, you pulled your sleeve up revealing the tattoo you had been trying to hide for the last 5 years. You traced the double headed snake. When you reached the bottom of the tattoo, your heart hurt and your eyes filled with tears. The little SP was still there right under the snake.

You watched as the Southside passed you. Watching as the places you use to spend all your free time where filled with unfamiliar faces. You were starting to realize just how much you had missed these old dangerous streets.

When you pulled up to your parents trailer, you sent Toni a text telling her that you were here and you guys would meet up later.  You collected your stuff out of the cab, tipped the driver and carried your stuff inside the trailer. “Hello. I’m home.”

You heard feet as you you put your stuff in a corner for the time being. “Y/N!” You heard your mother yell in happiness.

After spending 4 hours with your family, you decided it was time to go see Toni and surprise Fangs. You got changed and showered, then called Toni. She answered in a ring or two. “Your favorite person speaking how can I help you?”

You laughed at her craziness. “Where are you? I wanna come see you and surprise Fangs.” She sighed on the other line. “I’ve been trying to get Fangs out of Whyte Wyrm for the past 2 hours now but he refuses. He’s going on about needing practice for some match vs. SP tomorrow.”

Your smile faded as she spoke. There was no way in hell that you were going to the Whyte Wyrm where you were most likely to run in to the head serpent. “Toni you know I can’t come there.”

“I know. I know. But he isn’t even here right now. Something about meeting with FP because of a Ghoulie problem. Just come here and surprise Fangs and then we can leave. I doubt anyone here would recognize you anyway.”

“Okay. I’ll come, but if there is any sign go him there I’m out. And Fangs better be ready to ditch his practice because I’m not staying there long.” You caved in. Hoping that this meeting he had with FP would last until you were able to get in and out.

“Great! See you soon!” Toni hung up.  Walking towards the door of the trailer, you reached for your dad’s keys but your old serpent jacket caught your eye. It wasn’t just your jacket, but it was Sweet Pea’s first jacket he got after his initiation. After you were initiated, he gave it to you since he had grown out of it and plus he loved the fact that you were always wearing his jacket.

You went to reach for it and grabbed what was in the pocket of it and put the old chains around your neck. Putting the jacket back, because you didn’t want to put it on again. You grabbed your dad’s keys and jumped on his motorcycle and headed to the Whyte Wyrm.  

When you arrived, you looked around to see if Pea’s bike was there but in 5 years who knew what his bike would look like now. SO you made your way inside. The familiar smell of smoke, booze and sweat filled your nose. It was a smell that always made you feel at home as weird as that was. You looked around spotting Toni and Fangs by the same old pool table you guys went to all the time.

Pushing through the crowd of people, you received some dirty looks from the unrecognizable serpents. You knew that these looks were only because no one knew who you were and that you were a serpent. It was very rare a non serpent was allowed in this bar. Most probably wondering how you were able to get in.

Reaching Toni, you tapped her shoulder. She turned around pulling you into a hug before you could even get a chance to look at her. She started to squeeze too tight, “Alright come one. I wanna have enough oxygen to see you and talk to Fangs.”

She laughed and pulled away. Now you were able to get a good look at her. She looked the same except for her hair. It was now a little pass her shoulders those pink stripes were now blonde. “You look good.” You both said at the same time. You hit her shoulder and pointed to Fangs. She nodded understanding what you were about to do.

You turned to the wall behind you and grabbed a pool stick off the wall. Toni had told the guy Fangs was playing to take a hike. “Yo dude where are you going? I gotta get my practice in.”

You laughed at his foolishness. Keeping you head down an away from him. You took a shot on the table and made one in. “He thought you could use a better partner.” You said knowing you had given yourself away by talking, you looked at him.

His mouth dropped open. “Close your mouth Fangs or your gonna catch flies.” Toni told him before patting his shoulder.

“Y/N! I can’t believe you are actually here! Wait why are you here? Well I don’t really care right now. Toni, Y/N is here! Y/N is really here!” You and Toni both laughed at his response. But quickly you realized that you needed to shut him up before attention was drawn to the three of you but it was too late. A certain figure was in the shadows watching you three but you hadn’t seen.

“I think we should get out of here. Let’s go to Pop’s or something.” You suggested while looking around hoping not to spot a certain face. “Why we gotta find SP and tell him your here?!” Fangs questioned.

You shook your head no quickly, “No Fangs that isn’t what we want. Let’s go.” You turned around and headed to the door when you tripped over someone’s foot and arms caught you. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. Thank you for catching me. That would’ve been an ugly fall.” You stood out of the strangers arms, fixing your hair and outfit before you had looked up.

“It’s okay Princess. But you can get out of my bar now. You wanna avoid a certain someone right?” That voice made you head snap up and your eyes met that beautiful; face you had missed for the last 5 years.

“Pea..” He rolled his eyes and fixed his jacket. “I don’t wanna hear it Y/N but you need to leave.” You shivered at his coldness. It’s not like you didn’t expect it but you had never been on the receiving end of his coldness. But the saw a break in that coldness when his dog tags stuck off of your flannel. That break didn’t last long though.

You grew a little angry at his attitude and got the courage to fight against him. “Why? This is still a serpent bar right? Even though I’ve been gone 5 years I am still a serpent.”

He snorted at your comments, “I bet you don’t even have that tattoo anymore which wouldn’t make you one.” He grabbed your arm, rolled your sleeve up and to his surprise it was still there and so were his initials. Those cold eyes of his softened again for a split second before returning back. “Surprise Surprise you haven’t gotten rid of everything from your time as a serpent but you are defiantly an inactive member so again you can leave.”

Not wanting to fight with him anymore, you pulled your arm out of his harsh grip. Pushing passed him, you quickly exited the bar. You made your way to yours dad motorcycle and sat on it getting ready to take off when Toni and Fangs appeared in front of you.

“I’m so sorry Y/N. He wasn’t suppose to be here.” You rolled your eyes. “Sure he wasn’t but guess what he was. But at least I know just how much he hates me.”

“I don’t think he could ever hate you. He’s extremely angry with you but hate you? No he could never.” Fangs explained to you.

Not wanting to hear anymore you sped off. You weren’t here for drama. Now you were going to avoid everyone on this trip.

Part two

[simplylove101]

Margaret & Owen

“With your kind permission, ma'am, I’m here to ensure the safety of your home for Mr. McGarrigle’s visit this evening.”“We’re not much given to threatening our guests.”“You do have the hammer…” - Ourselves Alone, 2x02

1) when they first intrigued me

I’m not gonna lie, the second Margaret opened that door and we saw Owen Sleater for the first time, I was like who is this cutie??? lol (Thank you show for introducing me to the lovely Charlie Cox lol) But yeah I noticed right away that these two had a banter that interestingly took Margaret by surprise (which kinda fascinated me) He kinda made some assumptions that he definitely shouldn’t have that gave them a rough start but honestly, if I was her & the guy was smiling like he does here at me, he’d have me weak in the knees. He was meant to be cheeky in the beginning. XD Also, I weirdly like the little moment later in the ep when they’re eating dinner & he’s just kinda in the background reacting to stuff. There’s a moment where Margaret is uncomfortable with the dinner talk & declares she knows where she’s from & then we get a shot of Owen smiling at her in a knowing way. It’s like he’s proud of her but also just shows he’s clearly aware of her too. Idk. It just seems like a small nice touch. 

Margaret Meets Owen

“Always happy to be of service, Mrs. Schroeder.” - The Art of Reason, 2x06

2) when I started to ‘ship’ them (sometimes this is different if you think about it)

I had to think about the exact moment I chose to ship them. It’s not like I was shipping her & Nucky. lol But then I hadn’t been actually shipping on this show before these two so yeah. In 2x06, Owen & Margaret have a moment of sexual tension all thanks to a broom. lol I think that & her admitting in her confession that she was attracted to him was what convinced me. Because at first we assume she’s talking about Nucky and then she mentions ‘the man’ works for her & it’s like “Ohhhh!”. I could tell they were at least going to eventually take them happening at least a little seriously from that admission. So I was open to shipping it.

“You’re the cool one, missus.”“No, I’m not. I’m not how you see me at all.” - Peg of Old, 2x07

3) when I knew they were OTP status (as in there was literally no other ship for them I would want)

The thing about 2x07 is that besides it being the episode that they finally happen, it’s also one where the two characters have their own separate storylines that manage to parallel enough, with them both feeling like complete outsiders in America, that when they come together in the last scene of the episode, Owen’s little monologue makes sense. When I first watched the episode, I didn’t expect Margaret to give into temptation yet but the longer the scene kept going I started to prepare myself for it a little. (It is interesting to point out that while these two are having sex, Nucky just got shot & betrayed by people. Oops?? lol) But honestly, that scene was steamy tbh. Lol Margaret biting his ear tho. XD

Margaret & Owen Have Sex

4) Favorite quote

Margaret: “There is a man, Father, in my life. And he’s bad. I know he is in my heart, but still, I’m drawn to him somehow.” - The Art of Reason, 2x06

Owen: I’m at your mercy, missus.” - A Man, a Plan, 3x10

The Confession

“You can do as you choose. Say what you want, as long as it’s the truth.”“The truth? I’d like it to be a boy.” - A Man, a Plan, 3x10

5) Favorite scene

This scene is sad now tbh because it’s their last scene where he’s alive and it’s such a hopeful one because she’s told him that she’s pregnant with his child & he’s overjoyed. Margaret is also feeling scared about running away & this reaction is what convinces her that she’s making the right choice. I do appreciate Owen trying to use actions over words, in reference to 2 eps before when she says “They’re just words & they don’t mean anything anymore”. Nice touch show bringing that back.

6) Scene that made me cry

This scene!!!! I feel like I knew going into 3x10 that something bad was going to happen to Owen by the end of it or at least the season. I felt the same way when it came to Jimmy in S2 (even though that death was way more inevitable) It’s just kinda sad cuz I hoped Owen taking Jimmy’s old job wouldn’t automatically mean he was deadmeat eventually. Anyway, about the exact scene, my heart actually breaks for her here. I know there’s plenty of people who think of Margaret as a bitch. She wasn’t always a favorite of mine either but some people seem to forget that Nucky was definitely cheating on her with Billie in this season. And we saw how much that death affected him. So I do kinda like that brief “HAHA” moment when he realizes that there was more to the nature of Margaret & Owen’s relationship. Yes, Margaret was hypocritical but neither of them were innocent. And I do really think she loved Owen. She was so affected by the sight of his dead body. This scene still scars me tbh. lol But like, bawl!!

The Box Scene

7) Scene that pissed me off

I think it goes without saying then The Box scene pissed me off. lol What a lame way to kill Owen off because we didn’t even see it. (Which yeah, I’m thankful we didn’t have to either) The last time we see Owen he’s on his way to kill Masseria & you just knew he was probably doomed. But the way they did this, while effective, just made me so mad. lol

“Already New Year’s back home.”“Give my best to Katy.” - Resolution, 3x01

“Is that what you want? If it is, say it. Say it, and we’ll go.” - The Milkmaid’s Lot, 3x09

8) Favorite underrated moment(s)

The first moment I chose is their brief one in 3x01 simply because after Margaret got married to Nucky in the S2 finale, I kinda gave up on this being anything more. But then something about this scene (the look of it & their quite obvious attraction for each other still present) made me ship it all over again. That eyesex!!! It also helped that we saw that Nucky was sleeping around with Billie so why anyone can blame Margaret for going there again with Owen confuses me. I also chose the 3x09 scene where they decide to run away together. I still couldn’t believe Owen proposed that they do it. It was bold & kinda foolish but gah, my heart. :’) They’ve got quite a few lowkey moments that are lovely that I could have chosen tbh.

9) Song that makes me think of them

Um… well both songs I vidded them to were instrumentals so Idk really. Anything about forbidden romance tbh. Probably something pretty sad too since he was killed. :(

10) Favorite video of them

The editing for this one is amazing!!

I’ve actually made 2 videos for them, one being about their journey. If you haven’t seen it already heh: 

[secretlystephaniebrown]

Letters to No One: 2/6

Summary: Lucretia writes letters that she can never send over the years.

Previous

Also on Ao3

She writes a thousand confessions to Merle, about what she’s planning on doing. She destroys them all, and then keeps working on her edits. She needs to make sure that this is all perfect. She can’t afford to be sloppy here.

She’s out of practice with editing. She’s had no need to; the others go through her journals, writing things in the margins, correcting them. It makes re-reading them agonizing, now that she’s trying to put a coherent narrative together.

She pauses on Cycle 21, and smiles, her fingers tracing lightly over the sketch she’d drawn of Merle, surrounded by shells.

Merle,

I tried to make sure that the beach you’re on is as close to the other one as I could. I hope you love it.

-L

Lucretia loses the following things in Wonderland:

Sixty hit points

Her physical strength

Twenty years of her life

A handful of magical items that she’d accumulated over a century

Several very powerful spells from her spellbook

She thinks she gave up memories, but a careful scan of her journals reveals nothing.

Lucretia has no idea what it is that she gave up, but she thinks it was important.

Merle,

I don’t… gods, I’ve made a mistake.

Wonderland is… I don’t even know how to describe it. I need help, Merle, I clearly need so much more help than just my handful of allies. I sacrificed so much—everything hurts, Merle. I’m curled up in the Felicity Wilds now and I just—I’d give anything for you to be here right now. You can’t heal in Wonderland, and we were in there for… I’m not even sure how long we were in there for. Weeks, I think, but honestly it might have been hours, or even years.

I gave up twenty years of my life. I feel it, too. But that might be the blood loss talking.

I left Cam behind. He begged me not to. He said that I’d die out here, in the Felicity Wilds. But I can do this. I know I can.

I just wish I had you here with me, by my side. I know I can’t, I know it’s impossible, but I wish I could have it anyways.

-L

Lucretia, against all odds, survives the Felicity Wilds, with the help of a fighter named Killian. Killian finds her, injured as she is, and offers her a healing potion and a helping hand out of the Wilds.

She pays Killian very well for the service, and then she looks her up and down.

“How would you like a job?” She asks.

Merle,

I’ve decided that maybe a part of what went wrong in Wonderland is that Cam and I were both magic users. I need to find balance. Not just wizards and clerics, but more people like Magnus. Warriors and rogues, maybe druids, paladins, bards. The seven of us were always heavy on magic—which is bad in a fight. After the high-level spell slots are used up, what are we left with? Magnus hitting things, and the rest of us resorting to using our wands as bludgeons. Or a staff, in my case.

Maureen isn’t a magic user, but she’s also no warrior. On my way out of the Felicity Wilds, I met an Orcish woman named Killian. She’s a fighter, and she helped me get out of there. I think she’s the start. I can build from this.

I will find balance.

-L

When she gets back from Neverland, she scries all of them. Or, well, not all of them—Barry is hidden from her, Davenport is the next room over so she doesn’t need to, and she still can’t find any trace of Lup.

She can’t tell much from the spell, but it’s a comfort to see their faces again. To know that they’re still alright.

She wishes they were here with her, reacting loudly to her hair. She can imagine Merle telling her that she’s still not old, not really, and she smiles to herself, for the first time since Wonderland.

Merle,

I’ve got a source that says you’re getting married. Don’t look at me like that, I’ve got one of your distant cousins in the Bureau, and she requested time off for the wedding. I must admit I’m shocked—you never really struck me as the marrying type. But then again, I’ve never known you in a world without the Hunger, have I? Maybe that’s what you were waiting for. A chance to rest.

Congratulations, Merle. I’ll try to find a way to send you a proper wedding present, besides giving your cousin the time off.

-L

For Merle’s wedding, she quietly slips down to the beach by the house he and his new wife Heccuba are living in. Hecuba has a daughter named Maevis. Lucretia casts invisibility on herself, and scatters rare shells all over the beach front, hoping that Merle will gather them, and create something wonderful for his daughter.

Merle,

Your cousin has reported to me in passing that you have a son now. A son. You’re a father! I… holy shit.

I know Taako and Lup used to call you “Dad”, but I didn’t expect you to go out of your way to prove them right so soon!

-L

Lucretia dreams about how it would have gone, if this had happened while the others were around.

She can imagine the confusion, the laughter, the shock, the swearing. She imagines Magnus carving a cradle for Mookie, baby blankets knitted by Davenport, Taako and Lup making increasingly ridiculous jokes as they all angle for the role of favorite aunt/uncle.

She sketches out on a piece of paper, the sky of their homeworld, which she likes to think she would have painted above Mookie’s bed, so he could grow up knowing his home.

She tucks that in with the rest of her letters.

Merle,

Your cousin passed away three weeks ago on a mission, so I’m out of the Highchurch/Rockseeker gossip loop. But I did manage to hear a rumor about a wandering cleric of Pan. Didn’t take long to get a confirmation that it was you.

I don’t know what happened, but I’m sorry things didn’t work out. This isn’t what I wanted for you—wandering from town to town like this, a travelling preacher. I had really hoped that you’d settle down and enjoy that happy ending.

But maybe that’s not what you wanted to be happy—like I said, you never really expressed interest in marriage, back on the Starblaster. But I just assumed…

Was that foolish of me? To assume that you’d all be alright if I just gave you what you wanted? A home by the beach, a place in a small town, a cooking show? Was this naïve, believing things would be okay?

Ordinary, every day occurrences seem so… small, compared to the lives that we lived. Food poisoning, divorce, and random acts of violence, completely separated from grand wars over magical artifacts… they strike whenever and wherever they please, not taking happy endings into account.

I guess I am a fool, thinking I could force the world into giving you the joy and peace you deserve. You’d think it would cooperate more, after we saved it.  

-L

Lucretia starts an official Bureau of Balance file on Merle Highchurch, to justify using resources to keep an eye on him.

“Is he important?” Brian asks her idly, picking up the file at random from her desk. He has a very interesting report about rumors about a place called Wave Echo Cave, which she’s going over now.  

“No,” Lucretia says absently. Lying has gotten all too easy, lately. She grabs her map of the glass circles, and starts measuring the distance between the closest one and the cave. “But I’m always on the lookout for talent, and Highchurch’s cousin spoke well of him.”

“He sounds like a fool,” Brian says.

Lucretia bristles, but she doesn’t allow Brian to see it. “If you say so,” she says. “Thank you for that report, Brian, I’ll pass this along to the Reclaimers.”

Merle,

I’m glad you’re with Magnus and Taako again. I feel better, knowing that you have each other’s backs.

-L

Lucretia goes to visit Fisher. “They’ll be here soon,” she promises.

Fisher lets out an irritated noise at her. They still haven’t forgiven her for taking their child.

“I’m sorry,” she promises, pressing a hand against the tank. “It will all be over soon.”

Merle,

You’re here, and I want to cry, because none of you recognize me at all.

-L

Merle lost his arm.

Magnus looks older, but Merle and Taako still look like they had on the Starblaster. If she had cast silence on them so she couldn’t hear what they were saying, she could have pretended that she was home once again.

Merle still tangles flowers in his bear, still laughs the same, but even before the arm, there had been something different.

His new arm is made of soulwood, and it is permanent. It will not heal at the end of the year, just like Lup will not suddenly return.

She feels so, so old, looking at them. She touches her face, thirty years older, twenty of which she didn’t even get to live, and misses her family, even though they’re standing right in front of her.

Merle,

You invited me to a spa. I… I must admit that this was unexpected. We’ll see how it goes.

-L

Lucretia should say no when Merle invites her to the spa, but Johann pushes her into going. “Boss, you like, really need a break. It’s harshing everybody’s vibe.”

And she’s missed Merle, so, so much, so she lets herself be pampered.

She asks Merle about faith. This is not the first time she’s asked him this question over their century of friendshsip. But she wants to know how his faith has changed, in this world with one sun.

She confesses more to Merle than she should, but of course, the static prevents him from knowing what she’s really saying.

“It’s faith in you,” Merle says.

She takes a deep breath and drinks her wine.

Merle is right. She has faith in herself.

She will finish what she’s started.

Merle,

How do you always know exactly what to say, even when you don’t know even half of what’s going on? Despite everything, sometimes I think you’re the wisest man I know.

-L

Merle brings his kids to the moon. Lucretia has no idea how to handle them---they’re not like Angus, who is most of Lucretia’s experience with children.

“Yeah, Hecuba and I have decided on split custody,” he tells her, chest puffed up. “Being a big hero and all.”

Lucretia smiles. “Even though she now knows you negotiate shirtless?”

“Well, with abs like these, who can blame me?” Merle says. He’s wearing a Hawaiian print shirt that gives absolutely no indication of musculature, and Lucretia laughs.

“I’m glad. Back to the beach?” She tries not to sound wistful.

“Oh absolutely,” he puts a cactus on her desk. “Now, this pretty lady is Antonia. She’s a hardy one, so I think she’ll be able to survive whatever even you can throw at her. But just in case, write yourself reminders to water her once a week.”

Lucretia laughs again, something warm in her chest. “Are you sure that’ll be enough?”

“Look, don’t make me regret this! I’m trusting you with Antonia!”

Lucretia smiles, and reaches out to touch the cactus gently. “I’ve got something for you.”

Her letters to Merle are wrapped with gardening twine. She’d stolen it from the greenhouses years ago in a fit of nostalgia.

He laughs when he takes them. “Only you would think that journals weren’t enough writing.” Lucretia feels her face grow warm. “You’ll be fine,” he tells her.

She smiles. “Thank you, Merle.”

A few days later, a letter shows up on her desk. A few crude drawings, primarily sketches of two young dwarves, but there are a few carefully drawn landscapes. They’re accompanied by Merle’s bold, large scrawl.

These are Maevis and Mookie. Whatever else, I wouldn’t have them without you.

-Merle

[shalliedragon]

Fur Squared 2018: Convention Report

All right. I think it's official now. Fur Squared is now my favorite furry convention. Their attention to detail, the sheer generosity of the attendees, the utter insanity of the events, the fact that it's just the right size, the fact that 40% of the attendees either sponsored or super-sponsored... all of those things make Fur Squared unlike any other convention I've been to. It is rare that I attend a convention that is pretty much non-stop happiness and excitement from beginning to end.

I say this despite the fact that the weekend was more or less one big blur of awesomeness. There weren't a whole ton of standout moments, because it was all consistently fun and enjoyable. But I will try to recount what I remember (might be easier now that it's over).

Thursday

Got everything packed into my car before work, and left work early to head on the road. It's a long drive from home to Brookfield, so I had to put the pedal down and just go. On the road I listened to the Dragget Show and Feral Attraction podcasts (sidenote: FA's "keeping yourself secure on the internet" episode was extremely disappointing, but that's a topic for another day).

I got to the con around 10:15 and checked into my room. I met my dear friend (and roommate) Jake (AKA Cobbs) in the lobby of the Sheraton. After exchanging pleasantries, he helped me carry my stuff in, and then we went over to MST3K (stylized to MiST3Ke on the schedule). Registration had closed, so I didn't have my con badge yet, but the person at the door thankfully let us in just by showing our state ID's.

The panelists were Alkali, Pandez, Xander, Draggor, Dixie Lioness, and Furry Bobs (I believe). The movie in question was... some kind of bad fantasy adventure thing, I don't remember the title, but it was bad. The panelists had to drink when a weapon was drawn, when there was a typo in the subtitles, when there was "(dramatic music)" playing, or the secret rule: anytime the panelists ended a sentence with a vowel. I didn't stick around to the end, as I was exhausted (so did Jake), but I think the panelists ended up winning.

We made our way back to the room, where we ran into our 3rd roommate, Gotherine Foxx (Gothy for short), who was putting the finishing touches (read: a pack of googly eyes) on a very large and ornately-drawn painting for the charity auction. She subsequently left with her friends, and then Jake and I went to bed.

Friday

I. Slept. Like. GARBAGE.

It took me a very long time to finally fall asleep the night before, and I don't quite know why. I think I got like 3-4 hours of sleep. It was BAD.

Thankfully, Fur Squared made it up to me with FREE BREAKFAST. This is one of my favorite features of Fur Squared. Every day of the con, they give all of the attendees vouchers for the breakfast buffet, so that everyone always gets at least one of the two meals needed for the 6-2-1 rule. I ate my fill, assuming that I wouldn't really be eating lunch that day. Jake and I sat with my friends Angel and Gabi, and we also ran into my friends Linn and Xeila.

After breakfast, I meandered around the con space with Jake, and went to get registered. Two things of note. First, they were giving out ribbons to the sponsors/super-sponsors that had character classes on them: archmage, drunken master, divine oracle, and ... one other one that I don't remember (I think it was Bard or something like that). I chose Archmage. Second, they had little stickers that you can put on your badge for your preferred pronouns. This made me REALLY happy; I always love it when cons try to be trans-inclusive.

Then we did some people-watching. There were a lot of familiar faces, and the excitement was palpable (both from the attendees, and from the many happy dogs that the charity had brought with them). I managed to snag a picture of Axikor as they walked past (it was actually the only picture I took the entire con, foolish me). Finally, it was time for opening ceremonies. It was filmed, so I won't go into detail, but long-story-short: the GOH's were Furry Bobs and Cypher (sp?), the artist of honor was Golden Druid, the con theme was "Lizards and Labyrinths 2nd Edition, Revenge of the Top Hat", the Kalerati and the Church of Adam started a charity donation war to see which one was the best, and people were silly. Good times.

Also, throughout this time, my 4th roommate, Dezzi, was nowhere to be found.

After the con was open, I made a beeline for my room and got right into my fursuit. I traveled around the con space some, posed for a few pictures, gave a few hugs, and got some professional photos taken at the photoshoot area in the headless lounge (I was due for some new photos). They had a whole collection of fantasy-themed props there, which made for some fun photos. I did a couple photos: one where I had a veil and some potions and looked like an alchemist, and one where I had a fistful of gemstones. The photos should be processed in the next few weeks.

I ran into my friend Alex while I was there; he was wearing his Azriel Dreemur fursuit (he's the one with the big Save button you see gallivanting around the cons). We chatted for a bit, and he went on his way.

I also had a goal for the weekend. Earlier in the year, I had bought a pack of "sprouts", these little clip-on plastic plants that you can affix to yourself as decoration. I was inspired by a former MFF roommate, Sven, who was giving them out to people. I wanted to continue the tradition, so that I could help #SproutTheLove on my own. I had a collection of 5 that I was going to give out by the time the weekend was over (I had already given my other 2 to my roommates).

After getting my photo taken, I sauntered downstairs to the video gaming room. They had rockband set up, so I immediately sat down at the drum kit and started getting a song set up. A couple other furries saw me banging on the drums and went "I have to get in on this." There were 3 of us playing "Somebody Told Me" by The Killers. And it was a cluster. We could barely hear the music, the instruments were all out of sync, and I was extremely rusty (and in fursuit). But it was fun, and it seemed like it made people smile, so it was worth it.

I said my goodbyes (I think we ended up attracting a small crowd), and made my way back to my room to cool off and clean up. I got a quick bite to eat at the con suite (which was decorated with candles, goblets, crystals, and even a little keg), and then made my way over to the Otherworld Stories panel. Alkali and a bunch of his Nero (LARP) friends told stories of their various experiences in LARPing, and hilarity ensued. It was a surprisingly popular event, and the individuals involved sounded pretty amazing. They also had a slideshow of old photos from Alkali's LARP days. I really wish they had Nero out where I live, because it sounded like a hell of a lot of fun.

After that I stayed put for convention horror stories. It's pretty standard for that kind of panel: old con chairs and con staffers talk about ridiculous terrible things that happened during their tenures, and hilarity ensued. I had heard many of them before, but it was still fun. It was filmed.

I got a quick bite to eat (#BeerCheeseSoup) between panels, and then went back for the 3-Headed Monster. As per usual, Alkali, Pandez, and Xander each did 15-20 minute comedy sets back to back. Xander got somewhat political, but also much darker than usual. Good balance of new and old material. Alkali ... was Alkali, and Pandez sang a song or two. It was filmed, as usual, and it is consistently one of my favorite events, so if you haven't seen it yet... see it. Seriously.

After that was QUIPFUR. This is Draggor's homebrew version of the popular video game Quiplash. Serathin was the MC (he basically just read off the answers and stuff) and the main panelists were Xander, Furry Bobs, and Huscoon. Unlike standard Quiplash (in addition to having furry-related questions), Quipfur was played where Draggor chose which two people played in a given round. He usually pitted one of the panelists against a random audience member. It was pretty hilarious, and I highly recommend it if you like fun events that you can participate in.

It was at that time that I noticed that Draggor still wasn't wearing his trademark skin-tight bodysuits. He was in a costume (broad-brimmed fantasy hat with feather, and tights), but he wasn't wearing a mask or anything. Indeed, throughout the entire convention, he only donned a bodysuit once: the fursuit parade (where he wore his Robbie Sinclair suit). Other than that, he was just his normal human self. He never said why he wasn't wearing them (to my knowledge), so I don't know what the reason was for the change of pace. I can only speculate: either a) he just wanted to change things up and do something different, or b) he was getting tired of being known as "the bulge" and wanted to be recognized for more than just his suits and his package. Maybe I'll ask him sometime...

After Quipfur, I went over to "Fox's Songs To Get Murdered By". Fox Amoore (accompanied by Flop the bass bunny) basically just played a bunch of random songs, and had Pandez, Alkali, and Boozy Badger sing along. It was definitely fun, and very silly. I think it was filmed (I hope so, because my memory for it was kind of weak).

Of note: this was one of the first panels I recall that made mention of the phrase "cripple fight." This phrase was to become a recurrent meme throughout the con.

Jake and I quickly went over to the restaurant and got some more food (I had a salad, and Jake had a salad with a brat sandwich, and also had the cocktail I got earlier that night, a variant of a sidecar). We often spent our time talking about things in the fandom and various hobbies. Jake's a soft-spoken guy, who often just responds with a "nice" or "I like that" when I tell stories. I worry that I am boring or annoying to him, but since he chooses to keep hanging out with me, I'm assuming my worries are unfounded.

After dinner part 2, we went to Whose Lion Is It Anyway (audience participation version). I've become more fond of the audience Whose Lion in recent years; people have gotten better at it, and the quality of the jokes has really increased. Further, I am SO HAPPY that Alkali specifically told people "please avoid insult humor and racist jokes" and encouraged people to get creative. That had been a problem in previous years; people had often used Whose Lion as an excuse to say terrible things to each other, in an attempt to be funny. But since they specifically quashed that this time, people actually tried different things beyond the typical "hey baby wanna do sex?" chestnut. It was great. Indeed, some some of the jokes were FANTASTIC.

Also more cripple fight. And Culver's. Culver's is apparently a thing now.

After that, we went to the bizarrely-titled "Boozy's Drunken Naptime." I honestly went into it expecting to see Boozy doing dramatic readings of children's stories or something. Instead, it was him, Huscoon, Fox Amoore, Nbowa, and Dixie Lioness just BS'ing for an hour. Weird, but still funny and interesting.

This seems to be a common theme for a lot of panels: get X people, put them on a stage, and have them tell funny stories and BS with each other, with pretty much no structure beyond that. There were at least 4 panels at Fur Squared that followed this format. It's a format I haven't really seen outside of furry conventions, and I am curious about how it came to be, and why it works so well. More research to come.

After that was the last panel of the night: Iron Alcoholic. It is competitive mixology. During each round, the competitors had to create a cocktail that met certain criteria (i.e. "must contain vodka, must be a shot"). They had a time limit to do this (2-3 minutes), and then audience members were the taste-testers for the event. Each round had a winner, based on how the audience felt. Me and Jake only stayed for 2 rounds, because the event started after midnight, and we were both exhausted. But it was pretty awesome. It was definitely filmed (thank you Silvergatomon, seriously he is a saint).

Saturday

I got up at around 8 in the morning, so that I could go to Xander's Saturday Morning Cartoons panel. I had been looking forward to this panel all year; it was a ton of fun last time. It's a great way to just relax and unwind on a Saturday morning. As usual, Xander created a "playlist" of various clips from cartoons and TV shows, and we just kind of sat and watched. It was funny, though some clips were better than others. Most of them were D&D or animal themed to an extent. Unlike last year, they didn't have cereal and milk, which was a bit disappointing. Still, a good time.

Immediately following was CHAIRity D&D. This was probably one of the best panels at the con. It was a one-shot D&D adventure, played by Alkali, Draggor, Dusty Montale, and John AKA Beardo The Magnificent, with Faelan as the DM. They were playing a variant of 5th edition, with some additional house rules to streamline things (each player had a deck of cards with spells on them). And it was BRILLIANT. The campaign was really smooth and fluid. Faelan was an EXPERT DM; he deftly made things up off the cuff, without batting an eye or checking a rulebook. All the players got really into their characters. And as usual, they were hilarious. To top it all off, the audience could donate money to the charity to both increase the difficulty of the adventure AND grant boons to the players if they so desired.

It was probably one of the best run, most entertaining D&D sessions I have ever witnessed. And it sounds like they'll be doing it again next year, so yeeeeeeee!

After the adventure, I booked it back to my room to quickly get into fursuit for the parade. While I was in the staging area, I ran into Xander (in suit) and gave him my usual hug. I also ran into my friend Angel, who was wearing her brand new wolf partial suit. It was super cute, especially because she had a big plush cookie in her mouth. After the group photo, the parade began. I was right behind Red Beagle (I think that's his name?) and I felt really bad, because I kept bumping into him as I walked. My vision isn't very good in-suit, so I had a hard time looking at the audience AND seeing where I was going. I'm going to make an effort to be aware of that going forward. Mustn't have been fun for Mr. Beagle (considering my head is made of resin and probably made for unpleasant noseboops).

On a lighter note, I do distinctly recall hearing people shout "Shallie!" as I rounded one of the corners (I think it was Leafy Greens?). This really made my day, as I rarely get recognized by name in the parade. I made an effort to get a lot of mugging and posing in, trying to do more than just wave. I think they like it when I act "fabulous", so I'm going to try and ham it up more next time.

After the parade, I rushed back to my room to get cleaned up before running back to attend Charity Whose Lion. Again, one of my favorite events. And again, more cripple fight (IIRC Boozy ended up swatting Propzilla with his cane). I highly recommend this panel; these folks are all experts at improv comedy. If you haven't seen it, watch the video when it comes out.

Following that, I went over to the dealer's room to take a look around, and collect my super-sponsor swag. This year's con swag: a Fur Squared beer mug, a t-shirt, a branded dice bag, a complete set of D&D dice, and a branded stemless wine glass for the super sponsors. As usual, sponsors got a copy of the poster, and super sponsors got to be IN the poster. I was pretty blown away by my picture: they knew somehow that I was a spellcaster, so they made me a sorceress (in a pretty dress no less). It was awesome.

After wandering around some more and snagging a bite to eat (while signing the super-sponsor poster for the charity auction and giving two sprouts away to some strangers), I went over to @FurSquared. This was a gameshow of some stripe, hosted by Iggy, where each round, people were given prompts, and were asked to come up with clever responses. For example, one of them was "what kind of fictional crossover have you always dreamed of?" The responses were pretty good, but I remember the game being a bit more... lively the previous year. Still, fun times.

Following that, I went over to another bizarrely named panel: "Monkey Knife Fights." Following a similar formula as Drunken Naptime, they put Alkali and Boozy up on a stage and had them BS for an hour. As you might imagine, it was hysterical. But that wasn't the cool part. That came after the panel.

Immediately following the event, Alkali revealed that a hypnotist had come to the convention, and was in the audience with us. I think some people donated to the charity to convince Alkali to undergo hypnosis at the hands of this gentleman. I thought "Oh this'll be funny, we'll watch Alkali do stupid things". But what actually happened was even better. The gentleman, who was named Mark, was a professional hypno-therapist, and he spoke all about how hypnosis can be used to help treat psychological disorders and mental illness. He also explained how hypnosis worked, in an effort to allay Alkali of his fears (he was visibly nervous at first).

Eventually, the ferret calmed down, and Mark began his hypnosis regimen. He told Alkali to imagine that a helium balloon was tied to his wrist, and that it was slowly filling up with gas. As it filled, Alkali was told to imagine that his arm was getting lighter as the pull of the balloon got stronger. Eventually, Alkali's arm PHYSICALLY ROSE OFF HIS LEG, and he literally could not make himself put it down. Then, Mark cut the balloon's "string", and Alkali went to sleep. Mark told Alkali to envision that one of his friends had snuck in the room and put googly eyes on Boozy's eyes (Boozy had been sitting there silently the whole time), and to think about how funny that would be.

At the end, Mark told Alkali that he wouldn't remember any of this, but that he would feel very refreshed and happy, and that he would see Boozy's "googly eyes" upon his waking. Mark commanded Alkali to wake up, and Alkali had the biggest, most placid grin I had ever seen on his face. He looked so peaceful, so content, so relaxed...

And then he turned and saw Boozy and LOST IT!

Alkali honestly believed that there were googly eyes on Boozy's face. He was all like "You look like Dr. Doom from Roger Rabbit!" and he laughed so hard that he nearly fell out of his chair. After he had calmed down, Mark asked how Alkali had felt. Alkali responded that he felt "the best I've felt all day."

I really hope that was filmed, because that was an incredible experience.

Moving on, I went to the super-sponsor dinner. More accurately, I stood in line for the super-sponsor dinner. Apparently there were so many super-sponsors that they had to bring in people in stages. I was toward the end of the line. Alkali was really apologetic, and said he would try to smooth things out for next year. But it honestly didn't matter. They had enough food for everyone.

And what a banquet it was. They had a buffet with chicken and mushrooms, roast beef, roasted vegetables, dinner rolls, salad, beer cheese soup, potatoes, cookies, brownies, and Sprecher Root Beer on tap. It was pretty delicious, especially considering how hungry I was. I sat at the table, eating with my fellow super-sponsors, thinking to myself "I'm doing this every year!" And frankly, I think I will. All the cool swag, getting to be in the poster, AND a free catered meal? Considering a Fur Squared supersponsorship is $100 less than one at MFF or AC, I think that's a pretty solid bargain.

Also, there was a proposal at the dinner. It was pretty sweet. I think Alkali cried.

After that was the DRAGGET SHOW! Super fun, like always. The panel was Xander and Alkali, Boozy, Draggor, and Pandez. I forget what all they talked about, but it was recorded, so eh. I do remember Xander mentioning the video I made for them. Context: I had been working on a remix of the JAPAN SONG for the past several weeks (go to YouTube and look up "dragget show japan song" if you want to see the original, or my remix), with my goal being to get it done before Fur Squared. I was successful. I also wanted to get Xander's attention about it (he tends to not check his phone often), so I asked him about it on his Patreon. He mentioned it, and said that he had actually retweeted the song. So yeah, that was cool.

Of note: the Dragget Show was a charity panel, so people were passing around the hat. But towards the end, there were two huge donations. One person donated $666.66. And (IIRC) Tobe donated $1,000. Alkali cried. Combined with the other money, the show raised over $2000, which made it the most generous event at the convention other than the charity auction. It was amazing. And as usual, the show ended with a charity story. It was the story of what REALLY happened on Draggor's birthday, when they all got insanely high. I won't go into detail, though; you need to attend the panel to hear the charity stories. >:D

Following that, I went over to the Foxes and Peppers after dark show. It was pretty funny, like usual. Pepper's guitar string broke mid-set, so he had to fix it WHILE performing. They auctioned off the last printing of one of Fox's CD's. And they performed "Lighthouse", in memory of the kids who were shot during the school shooting in Florida recently. Pepper put it best: "I want to forget the reason I wrote this song, but there keep being more and more reasons to perform it."

The show ran a little long, so I ended up being late to Libation Appreciation. For those who don't know, this event is all about sharing knowledge about alcohol. They talked about various different types of booze, how they like to enjoy them, and various recommendations for brands to try (apparently Nika distillery is good for Japanese whiskey). It was pretty informative. Then Fox and Pepper crashed the panel, and Pepper (who was drunk) started playing around with the giant Jenga set in the corner of the room. Still, good times. They kicked us out at 1AM and I went to bed.

Sunday

Got up at around 9 for breakfast (someone ended up taking our spots, so we had to talk to the wait staff and get new vouchers), and then Jake and I went over to main events for Keep Talking And Nobody Explodes. For those who don't know the video game: one person has a bomb in front of them, with a bunch of puzzles on it. The other person/team has a bomb manual, with instructions on how to solve the puzzles. However, neither can see each other's screens, so they have to talk and work together to defuse the bomb. It's a pretty fun, but stressful, game.

And they took it further at Fur Squared. Firr and Zen Fox were running the panel. They had one audience member at the bomb, and a team of other audience members with paper copies of the manual. While the bomb was being defused, Firr and Zen would do everything in their power to be distracting. They would scream and shout, sing, dance and stomp around, blare annoying music, and more. They even set up crazy "house rules" to make it even harder. One of the "experts" had to speak in a Russian accent. Another time, only one of them was allowed to speak. Another time, the audience had to use their phones to use the manual.

And then it was my turn. I got to be the defuser once (I lost), and it was hilarious. Firr and Zen were yelling and making the stage shake, and they were moving my microphone around. Another time, I was one of the experts, which was shortly after they had taken all of the paper manuals and threw the pages all over the place. We gathered up the papers as best we could, and were ready to start.

And then Harvard walked up to the bomb chair. Harvard is a silent fursuiter. We had to play "Keep Talking" with someone who didn't talk. To make matters worse, Firr and Zen decided to play "helping hands" with us, where they came up behind us and put their arms under ours, pretending to be "our arms." I distinctly remember receiving a nipple tweak from Firr. At any rate, we lost, even on the easiest difficulty. Harvard had the foresight to hilariously dive from her chair just as the bomb was about to explode. "She was the only one who thought to do that," said Firr.

Our next "victim" was Razzy, another fursuiter. Thankfully Razzy could talk. We still had a hard time deciphering what he was saying for some of the puzzles. This wasn't made easier by the fact that Zen Fox decided to lie down on top of all of the bomb manuals. I had to physically roll him out of the way (I thankfully didn't push him off the table). But we won!

For the last bomb, I think it was Zen in the hot seat, and Firr reading the manual. They misread one of the puzzles, but I think they ended up winning? I don't remember. Regardless, Firr does a really good job with the Keep Talking panel, so you should check it out next time you go to Fur Squared.

Following that event, Jake and I went down to the "Coming and GOHing" panel. SemJay, Zen Fox, Pandez, and Firr regaled us with stories about being the previous guests of honor at Fur Squared. They answered questions and shared their thoughts about unexpected things about being a GOH, what their proudest accomplishments were, and how they messed with Alkali's head. SemJay even took off her pants for charity (she was wearing underwear, don't worry).

This panel bled into the following panel, Firr's "Go Forth And Suck." It was a pep-talk panel, where Firr (and the other former GOH's) encouraged people to just go out there and try whatever they wanted to do. If you have an idea, just do it, and don't be ashamed of sucking. We all sucked at one point. And sucking is how you get good. It was because they all took risks and did stupid things, some of which just blew up in their faces, that they ended up where they are now. Pandez's story was particularly poignant; one of his first solo comedy sets was to a crowd of 12 people in a room made for 500. But he kept going, and he learned a lesson from his experience (tailor the room to the size of the event, and do smaller sets).

I was reminded of my panel at the previous year's Fur Squared. The one that only had 3 attendees. As of writing this, I never attempted to try again after that dismal failure (even though someone thanked me for my time). So, next con I go to, I am going to submit multiple panel ideas and see which ones I get. I will do my best, and I will have fun doing it, no matter what happens.

Sidenote: because one panel ended up bleeding into the other, the panelists decided to combine the two and call it "Coming and GOHing and Sucking." We laughed at that for a good 30 seconds.

After the panel, I went with Jake back to the room and we said our goodbyes. He unfortunately had a plane to catch. But I was happy to have been able to share so much of the con with him, whether it was sitting together at panels, or having in-depth conversations during meals. He told me he remembered fondly the time at AC when we just sat and talked for hours at the end of the con. I hope that we can do something like that again sometime.

Then I went to the charity auction. As usual, it was fun times. Lots of great stuff up for auction. I unfortunately didn't win anything. But honestly, it wasn't even about that. The Fur Squared charity auction is one of the highlights of the con, because people really get into it. Cheering, jokes, huge bids; the atmosphere was electric! There were items that went for over $1000 apiece. My roommate, Dezzi, actually ended up buying the creative rights to the Kalerati AND the Church of Adam at the auction. Alkali bought the signed super-sponsor poster, as a way to say Thank You for all the hard work done by Axikor and their team. A mask made by one of Alkali's Nero friends went for $1500. It was incredible.

Oh, and someone bought a collection of Victoria's Secret perfume and then sprayed it all over Alkali, Firr, and Pandez.

Charity auctions, the bar has been set by Fur Squared. Both in terms of money raised, and in terms of the experience.

After the auction, I quickly went back to my room to get into fursuit. I decided that this was going to be a tradition: I would always do "This Is How You Kill A Con" and closing ceremonies in-suit. So I did.

I met up with my friends Linn and Xeila at the panel, and had some snuggles (I know Linn had previously asked for fursuit snuggles, so I was making good on my promise). I gave Linn one of my sprouts. But the real fun was the panel itself. For those who haven't been: "This Is How You Kill A Con" is basically just a time-filler while the board of directors meets to go over the events of the con. As a result, they give Firr free reign to do pretty much whatever he wants. And he took full advantage of that.

Him and Zen (and I think Furry Bobs was there for a bit) just kind of did whatever for an hour and a half. We had a mini charity auction. Several things ended up being up for bid. First, a small sketch done by an artist in the audience at "Coming and GOHing and Sucking". Next, a small piece of string. I think there was something else (I hope they filmed the panel).

And then Huscoon showed up. The conversation turned to Culver's, again. Turns out, the Fur Squared Twitter account only follows one other account: Culver's. This gave Firr an idea. He would put up for auction the ability to send a single tweet from the Fur Squared Twitter account AND the ability to have the account follow any one other account (no unfollows). I think the winner tweeted out that he wanted to be the GOH for next year.

They also managed to convince Huscoon to auction off the ability for someone to post a tweet on HIS account. Yes, you read correctly. The famously conservative, controversy-starting Huscoon. The one for whom #BlameHuscoon was created. Turns out, Dixie was the one who won that tweet. I think she posted "I give my undying love to my sweetheart, Pepper Coyote" or something like that. Good times.

In the middle of the shenanigans, I made my way up to the front of the room and gave my last two sprouts to Firr and Zen. Firr clipped his to his hat (where it stayed for the rest of the con), and Zen clipped his to his beard. I was happy.

Finally (after ending the panel with a round of "Bohemian Rhapsody"), it was time for closing ceremonies. They began with a big Happy Birthday song for Draggor, and he was blown away. He was grinning from ear to ear, and he turned beet red from embarrassment. Turns out he's as big a sweetheart as Alkali is. The staff also brought up a present for him: a hoodie featuring the logo for Dragon's Milk beer.

I won't go into too much detail, as this panel was filmed. I'll just go over the highlights. Kataze had his traditional power point presentation, going over the numbers at the convention. This time he had graphs, and they were HILARIOUS. Final head count: 1101. Total sponsors and super-sponsors: 485. That's right. 45% of the convention chose to upgrade their badges. By contrast, I think AC had a similar number of upgraded badges, but had 7,500 attendees.

Someone brought in a whole cart full of Culver's custard. I didn't get any (as I was in suit) but they had enough for... a lot of people.

And then the waterworks. Alkali read off the totals for the charitable donations from each of the sources. And as he read, his became more and more misty-eyed. But it didn't stop there. I think there were at least 4 or 5 instances of people coming up and going "wait Alkali, I have more money." Including my roommate Gothy donating a LITERAL BRA AND PANTIES MADE OF MONEY, that was worth $69 on the dot. As usual, Firr went around and rounded things up.

The final charity total was $21,000. They beat their previous year's total by about $6,000. Which, as of this post, puts Fur Squared at #3 in the ranking of most generous furry conventions in the world (total donated divided by attendance).

To top it all off, Cy, one of the guests of honor, said that when she sells her house, she would donate 10% of the value of the house to the charity, which was estimated to be a donation of about $12,000.

Lastly, they announced stuff for next year. Vegas themed. Title: The Mouse Always Wins. I do hope that means that Miko is going to do something ridiculous.

They also announced the guests of honor. They doubled up on the artists of honor (I don't remember their names), but they also had a new "Gamemaster of honor" title, which they awarded to Iggy! I was ecstatic, cuz I had roomed with him the previous year, and consider him my friend. I was jumping up and down and clapping like mad. I think Iggy was pretty surprised.

After closing ceremonies wrapped up, Linn went back to my room with me, and I gave her the Christmas present that I had been meaning to get to her for the past 2 months: a board game called Pitch Deck (look it up, it's fantastic). She was so happy, because she's a huge board game nerd, and she immediately recognized the game when I pulled it out. We sat and talked for a while, catching up and talking about future convention plans. After a while, I told that I had to get cleaned up (I was still in my bodysuit), so we parted ways.

After cleaning up, I went over to the hotel restaurant for dinner. This was where things took a bit of a dip. I got to the restaurant, and sat down. I waited for the waitress to come bring me a menu, but she never did. I went over to the bar and sat down, looking over at the bartenders. They never acknowledged me. I sat there for a solid 15 minutes, and was never even noticed. It was stupid. Upset, I decided to give up and head over to the Adventure Time marathon. Thankfully they had pizza there, so I was able to eat my fill without having to spend money.

I discovered that night that I don't like Adventure Time. While it has some funny jokes, it's too full of existential dark humor and body horror for me to enjoy it. Plus, there were like 5 people watching the show. So instead, I decided to take a look around and see what people were doing.

It was then that I discovered the "dead dog karaoke" happening. Firr, being a DJ, had set up a karaoke machine in the main events room. People could give him a card with their requests on it, and he would call you up when it was your turn. It started out kind of slow, but as the night went on, it became increasingly more fun. And there were some AMAZING singers. Citrine Husky in particular did an incredible cover of "Don't Stop Believin'".

People were really getting into it. I ran into Gabi and Angel again, and we hung out for a bit before they ran off onto the dance floor. There were a surprising number of folks dancing. Then Zen Fox showed up and things got a bit more rowdy.

Highlights: closing ceremonies had a big confetti cannon, so people were having confetti fights. A lady in a big white fursuit, with padded digi legs, sat down on Zen in the middle of the floor. She then proceeded to poke Zen with a big "phallic" balloon. At another point, someone had a cardboard cutout of Jesus, and they were dancing around with it. Someone did Andrew W.K.'s "Party Hard" and Firr was backing it up unenthusiastically. One guy serenaded Gothy with R. Kelly's "Bump n' Grind." They did the Time Warp.

And I sang "Your Song" by Elton John. I was kind of afraid of the high notes, so I started out singing the song and octave lower than the original. This ended up sounding bad, so I switched over to the original register and just did my best. Turns out I was able to hit most of the high notes after all. I distinctly remember doing a silly dance during one of the breaks. Firr came up next to me and sang along. And I held out the last word longer than I expected (I looked at my "watch" in an effort to be funny).

I'm not saying all that to brag. I'm trying to remember what happened, because I don't think it was filmed. See, the main reason I write these journals is so that I can re-read them later down the road, and have a solid recollection of the events of the con. My memory isn't that good, and most cons become a blur after a while, so I try to capture everything as best I can.

Anyway, the night ended with another rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody", which concluded right before the hotel staff kicked us out of the room. Apparently there were business travelers, and we needed to be quiet after midnight. I think they said they'd put the karaoke in another room next year so that it would be less disruptive.

Exhausted, I wandered back to the room with Gothy. We chatted briefly about furry stuff before heading to bed.

Monday

Got up at a reasonable hour and got breakfast with Gothy. We ran into Dezzi at the restaurant. We chatted for a bit, about his newfound "power" as the new owner of a cult and a religion. He's apparently planning on handing over the reigns at next year's charity auction if someone can match his bid.

After our breakfasts, we went back to the room and got packed. Gothy had the foresight to request a luggage cart, which made things WAY easier getting out. However, in her haste to get home, she forgot her slippers, so I had to run them out to her before she left (made it).

I packed my things, and with a little finagling, I was able to get all my stuff out to the car in one trip. After checking out, gassing up, and getting a coke, I put the pedal down and drove home, listening to #Hashtag and The Dragget Show on the way.

Overall

I love Fur Squared. It is a magical, unique, wonderful convention, a true diamond in the rough. Every year, they have new surprises. Every year, new memes, new jokes, new stories, new insanity. They keep donating more and more money, and creating bigger and grander schemes and shenanigans. Every con is special, but Fur Squared is... different. Its craziness, its generosity, its attention to detail, its loving and close-knit atmosphere, its relationship with its hotel and charity... many cons have some of these things, but it is the confluence of all of them that makes Fur Squared worthy of being called my favorite convention.

You should go.

[eyes-ore]

Summoning Vassago

just doin some reasearch on ppls experiences w ritual magic and invoking the demon vassago and found some cool forum posts, gonna collect em here just in case the sources delete!! 

Vassago summoning. May 26, 2015 For my first summoning, I think Vassago is a really good spirit and one of the frendliest one! And probably I musn't summon Paimon for the first time of summoning. He is very friendly (Vassago) and the frendliest maybe to humans demon. Anyway, I am looking for a simple way to summon him, could you please tell me one? Re: Vassago summonig. May 27, 2015 If you are working with the goetia, it is bet to stick with the sysytem as laid out until you know what you are doing, can identify the specifics and create your own system. The best rendition of the goetia out there is Stephen Skinners "The Goetia of Dr Rudd" coming in at a close second is Poke Runyon's book of Solomon's magic. I must also state if you o not have the basics of magic, and I am talking ritual magic, down you will get either no result, or pityful results. The other danger is calling up something you simply can't get rid of. You need to be able to go into trance, to be able to receive visions via scrying. Be comfortable with banishing and invocation, not merely evocation. You need a circle which is inscribed divine names important to you, or used from the goetia which you understand. You need a triangle in which the spirit can manifest. The circle should be 9ft in diameter, the triangle 3ft each side. In the triangle should be a scrying medium, prefarably a black mirror flanked by two candles and incense going over the face. But incense will be sufficient, incense produced by herbs (sacred to the spirit) and burnt on charcoal would be sufficient. There are many things you need. Another thing people never seem to realise is that you need to be invoking the help of the shem angel corresponding to the spirit. People who do not realise that are using the Mathers/Crowley translation of the goetia which is outdated and incorrect. In short, you need to research, you need to read. You need to make sure you know what you are doing. It is my opinion that you do not- and so you are not ready for evocation. It is fair enough if you wish to ask specific questions, but to ask for a whole technique shows you have not done enough research. This type of magic isn't for beginners, people need to learn to walk before they can run. Re: Vassago summonig. May 27, 2015 First off, I'm happy to know that there are people interested in Solomon Magic. Secondly, there is no EASY way, whatsoever, to summon a goetia spirit like Vassago or Paimon. You need to know the magic circles of solomon. Second, you need to know what the rank is of Vassago (i.e. his office) and then the time of day required for that office to be invoked. Thirdly, you must bring an offering or sacrifice for the specific diety as well as have his symbol drawn and an enchanted ring. Fourthly, you must have your body without impurities for up to 4 days. And I believe lastly, you must recite almost an essay long incantation, and another almost essay long incantation afterwards. If you want to message me, I can give you links for information you need to know. These are just some basic things, but ritual magic, especially involving beings like that, is something that could take months if not years and years of studying and work. It's not something you just pick up and do. Re: Vassago summonig. May 27, 2015 what i've searched until now is that goetia spirit realm are nearer to our world which makes it easier to summon them and also they are willing to help humans which is their very basic nature but it's hard to describe in little words since it'll take quite a lot of explaining . Whereas for their nature it could be known from their ranks for eg.demon ranked as an earl is always very blunt in his works(like bloodshed),it is ranked as footman that's lowest of all and whereas duke and prince ranked ones are kind and understanding and can know what your heart wants. Re: Vassago summonig. May 27, 2015 It is not in their basic nature to help humans, at least not across the board. That contradicts the system as it was created an is used. You are correct about them being closer to us, in the scheme of things, they are classed as being below us, or at least ina lower portion of the sphere we reside. As such it gives the magician 'divine authority' to evoke them if the magician performs certain invocations beforehand.

//

Vassago: An Impish Spirit? By James Donahue When evoked in a remote viewing session a few years ago, the Goetia Spirit Vassago appeared as an alien with a large eye peering from behind an invisible partition. It was as if the edge of a mirror sliced the image in half never allowing it to be seen as complete. Drawings by others who have evoked this third spirit in the list of 72 demons of the Goetia depict Vassago as a rather frightening and complex creature. There may have been good reason for its unwillingness to appear as it really looks when its portrait was being made. .... Still another description was that Vassago appears as “a blood-red dragon, extending one slithe (30) feet long.” This creature was observed as having large, red wings. It walked on four legs, had green eyes and white fangs. Thus it appears that Vassago enjoys changing form and playing games with the people who summon him. Over the years he has gained a reputation as a relatively benign or even friendly spirit who can tell of future events, find lost or hidden treasures, and reveal things of the past. Vassago has been called a Prince of Prophecy. But beware when dealing with this fellow. He also bears the title Prince of Hell and rules over 26 legions of demons. There is no telling just what mischief this entity can conjure up.

//

“Have you tried to open his sigil? A divination method should help you to comunicate with him. Vassago is very nice“ “nice? I dunno. I'd rather say quite cool (not hot/wild) he certainly ain't a teddy bear though“

//

An eye opening experience with Vassago This was done after I had awoke from a dead sleep using a spur of the moment method where I traced a circle around myself, and then a triangle that I pushed (through visualization) outside my traced circle. Using no prior invocations, calling quarters, nor lengthily conjurations, I simply chanted Vassago's name as a sort of mantra "VAH-SAH-GO" until I heard a clear as day "I am here" within my mind. Q. What of leaving things out when calling on spirits? A. "A fool omits from tradition for the sake of it" It was then that my mind was flooded with a voiceless explanation: Trying to simplify for the sake of simplification is foolish, but simplifying for the sake of accommodation is acceptable, however one should strive for quality above all else. This answer alone made me self reflect, confronting me with my own motives for trying to find "simple" evocation methods. While It's true that I certainly cannot afford the entire traditional set up or anywhere near that for that matter, many methods that I have attempted so far have been set ups where I "felt" with all my being that I could have, and should have done more, but didn't for the sake of simplicity out of laziness, rather than accommodation. I followed the question up with one asking for a method to call on other spirits that accommodated, and wasn't overly elaborate. I was shown in my minds eye a partial set up. It's clear that Vassago wasn't going to do "all" the work for me. Now the set up is going to take me some time to procure, but should be well within my budget from what I was shown (Vassago's the man ) I'll go into more detail once I have given what I was shown a go, though that may take some time if only because I don't quite trust online sellers when it comes to fragile objects due to previous experience. Also worth mentioning, Vassago never mentioned wanting anything in return for his knowledge. Perhaps he knew I'd boast about him anyway?

//

“Chances are Vassago did show up you just don't have the ability to sense him. Vassago is not a cooperative spirit to those that don't have the wits or ability to deal with him. In my first workings with Vassago he wouldn't do anything but sit there. A couple of magician friends and I called him again and though we had to coerce him, Vassago gave up information. Quite simply he likes the pomp of the traditional ritual. It proves to him that you are worthy of his time. Once you have established a relationship with Vassago (or any spirit) it is easier to call him.”

//

“When people say he is "good natured," its that he doesn't take advantage of people who try to summon him or even do it accidentally. When my friend told me his name and his channeling material I summoned him in seconds. His presence was felt immediately, its brooding and dominating in the silence. Greetings don't work. He'll stare back at you with a discouraged frown. He is very easy to release, you must simply ask him a "yes or no" type of question. He likes to share information and he generally likes humans, but he does not like his time to be wasted so do not delay your question. Do not throw a fit if the answer isn't satisfactory. He will reveal as much or as little as he likes.”

//

The entity summoned for questioning par excellence is one that has been a favourite among witches from time immemorial, and is known by the name "Vassago." He is numbered among the seventy-two demonic intelligences in that medieval grimoire, the Lemegeton, or Lesser Key of Solomon; and Wierus, Cornelius Agrippa's pupil, also mentions him in his Pseudomonarchia Demonorum.

1. The wand

2. Seeing stone within the triangle

... Vassago, a mighty prince, of the nature of Agares, who declareth things past, present and to come and discovereth that which hath been lost or hidden. He is good by nature, and governeth twenty-six legions of Spirits ... But knowledge of his existence dates back long before this, even to before earliest Babylonian times. He was one of the Nephelim, and in Eastern fable, he is accounted one of the seventy-two Lords of the Djinn.

Your experiment should be performed during clear weather, when the moon is two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, or fourteen days old, and thereby, of course, always on the increase. So great is the power of Vassago, however (he is a "prince" in the hierarchy), that he is not bound by any sidereal or solar rules of time, and therefore may be summoned at any hour of the day or night. 

He is to be called only in matters of extreme perplexity, when all lesser methods of divination have availed you naught. Although he is "good by nature," it is extremely important to remember that he is one of the seventy-two from of old, a being formed out of primordial fire eons before man evolved into his present shape, of an intelligence at this present time far superior to that of most men alive, and in the humiliating position of being susceptible to conjuration by apelike clay-formed Homo sapiens, by means of a faculty as yet mostly underdeveloped within said simian creatures. So approach his conjuration with extreme respect at all times; it is no idle operation.

Having selected your day of operation, you must choose a companion to act as a scribe or recorder of the visions. Lock yourselves in your secluded place of working, having gathered together your paraphernalia and such other close companions as are immediately concerned with the divination.

Your paraphernalia should consist of: Your altar table with its triangle sign covering, pointing east; chairs in the west, facing east across the table, should you wish to remain seated during the scrying; Your Athame, cord, thurible, cup, workbook, square of Mercury, and pen and ink of art, a supply of Mercurial incense, and a box of incense consonant with Vassago's nature (see end of this chapter, "Herbs and Incenses").

All or any of these things may be held by your assistants throughout the operation. ((continued - https://www.witchcraftmag.us/witches-warlocks/the-conjuration-of-vassago.html ))

//

[firstumcschenectady]

“Sent” based on Isaiah 6:1-8 and John 3:1-17

Rev. Sara E. BaronFirst United Methodist Church of Schenectady603 State St. Schenectady, NY 12305Pronouns: she/her/hershttp://fumcschenectady.org/When I was 7, my friend Becca was in a church that focused on “being saved.”  As far as I understood it, “being saved” involved taking a teacher from her Sunday School into the church library, proclaiming Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior, and praying a specific prayer.  This, apparently, was not to be done too early or one might not believe it with one’s whole heart, but should be done as soon as possible so as to ensure eternal salvation.

Becca was very excited that she had been saved and frequently asked me if I had been. I always answered no.  This answer always resulted in a long lecture about why I should “be saved.”  The lecture, in turn, irritated me.  One day I had a brilliant revelation… although I had never “been saved” in Becca’s definition, I believed that Jesus loved me just as I was.  I didn’t think that there were specific hoops to jump through in order for God to accept me.  So, the next time Becca asked me if I was saved I said yes!  I wasn’t saved in her world view, but I was in mine.

Becca’s understanding of being saved is a part of our Christian tradition. So was mine.  In the years since, my perspective has gained more knowledge and nuance. I now know that salvation is about God's work towards healing and wholeness in the world.  I've come to believe that God desires “salvation for all of creation” which isn't about afterlife at all, but about the kindom coming to earth.  I've also learned a lot more about how things were in Jesus' day.  Still, as a whole, I'm at a peace with my 7 year old decision to answer as I did.

In the time of Jesus, most people believed that when you died, you ceased to exist – from dust to dust in those days meant no afterlife and no eternal soul.  In the Greeco-Roman religion that was dominate in the lands that surrounded Jesus,  the gods were immortal – and people became immortal only when they were promoted to god-status because of an extraordinary life.  The Sadducees, who were the ruling party in Judaism, utterly denied the possibility of afterlife.  Neither in Jesus’ immediate community nor in his world at large was afterlife considered a real possibility.

Early Christianity was novel in that its followers believed that they could become immortal.  Or, to name it in the Greco-Roman context, the followers of Jesus all became “little gods”. They were immortal, something true only of gods and goddesses.  This was a very strong statement – people who followed Jesus became like the gods of the world that surrounded them!

Today, many people consider heaven and hell to be contrasting opposites.  At that time, the alternative to joyful eternal live was not hell.  It was “perishing.” That is, if you followed Jesus, you gained eternal life.  If you didn’t follow Jesus, you ceased to exist at the end of your life.  That’s where this passage ends… with the well known John 3:16-17.  “‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”  

Thus, the claim is made that those who believe in Jesus will gain eternal life.  My 7-year old friend Becca believed that there were specific rules to guide what constituted “belief in Jesus.” Understandings of afterlife have developed since the time of Jesus, nothing stays stagnant! Early Christianity opened the door to eternal life – instead of saying that only “gods” could live forever, there was an affirmation of common people and our value.  

While are are thinking about that, let's look more closely at the beginning of this text.   Nicodemus is named as a Pharisee, a group that gained most of its power after the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 BCE, and a group that was open to afterlife in some form or another. (Not the way people today think of it though.)  Nicodemus, as a Pharisee, being in power at the time of Jesus is exactly the kind of historically questionable stuff that reminds us to take John metaphorically..  Anyway, according to John,  this guy comes to Jesus … at night.  Why at night?  So he couldn’t be seen!  Its really kind of a funny story, even to start out… we have one of the highest ranking officials in Israel sneaking around under the cloak of darkness in order to meet with Jesus.  

He gets to Jesus and starts the conversation by complimenting him. Unfortunately for Nicodemus, he isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. He doesn’t “get it.”  He ALMOST “gets it.”  He wants to learn from Jesus, which is why he has come to Jesus.  But he is still afraid of what others will think of him or do to him, and that’s why he comes at night.  In addition, he bases his faith on “signs.” That is, he thinks Jesus is connected to God because Jesus is able to perform miracles.  Believing in Jesus because of his miracles is a BIG no-no in the Gospel of John.  The faithful are supposed to believe because they believe, not because of the powers that Jesus has to do miracles.  So Nicodemus says, “Teacher, we know that you come from God because of what you can do…”  And right there, as John tells it, Jesus knows that Nicodemus wasn’t convinced to follow him fully, yet.  

Jesus begins to teach… and he says… LISTEN CAREFULLY!…he says “No one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” And Nicodemus says, “How can anyone be born again after having grown old?”  Did you hear that?

Jesus says “born from above” and Nicodemus says “born again.”  How did he confuse that?  Well, he wasn’t that ridiculous actually… in Greek the word for “again” and “from above” is the same word.  Jesus is talking about the deep meaning of being born from above, which is “from God”1 and Nicodemus is understanding the superficial meaning – born again.  Nicodemus is being presented as foolish, or at least because he didn't have full faith he was too foolish to understand Jesus. The image of a grown man re-entering the womb is meant to be funny. It is meant to be as ridiculous as it sounds, because it is making fun of the misunderstanding.   Being born again is NOT AT ALL what Jesus is talking about.  Being born again is the MISUNDERSTANDING that Nicodemus pulls out.

Being born “from above” is having a spiritual birth.  That could be seen as something that all people have – as all people ahave spirits – or as an eye-opening event that occurs when individuals connect with God.  It would make some sense, given the rest of Jesus' teaching to think of being born “from above” as being connected to God and therefore committed to building the kindom.  Being born from above is to live as God would have a person live, to share love, to exude compassion, to see a better world.  To be born from above, then, is to live the prayer, “your kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.”

This is a Gospel reading with many opportunities for misunderstanding.  It is one I am tempted to avoid, simply to not have to deal with them. However, being informed about our scriptures and how they has been used to do harm, and what they actually mean is part of what we need to know to bring healing.  Luckily, this passage has a lot of gems as well as a history of being used badly.  Verse 8 reads, The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.  So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit. There is a double meaning here – the wind is at once the Wind and the Spirit of God.  We do not know the beginning of the wind or of God, but we are able to watch what the Spirit of God does in the world. This is one of my favorite descriptors of the Spirit.  If the Spirit is truly the Spirit of Love (I think that's fair) then it reminds us that the demands of love can take us in rather unexpected directions!Some of the ancients thought of the wind as God's breath.2 I suspect some of us moderns do too, at least in particular moments. It has times when it is a potent metaphor.  

The passage continues though, in a rather weird turn.  As another commentator puts it, “The overlap of crucifixion and exaltation conveyed by v. 14 is crucial to Johannine soteriology because the Fourth Evangelist understands Jesus’s crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension as one continuous event.”3 So, when the metaphor is drawn to “lifting up” it isn't just about Jesus' death but about the end of his life and the beginning of the life of the believers as the Body of Christ. (If you don't know the Moses reference, I promise, you don't want to.  It won't help.)  

Finally, this text turns to one of the more abused verses in the Bible.  It is actually good news, no matter how it has been used to abuse others in Bible bashing.  The good news is:  “God loves the world SO MUCH that God seeks to heal it in every way God can.” In the words of a wise commentator, “what if we are all called to “join in the creation of a community in which God's love was regarded as not being in short supply, open only to those who have seen and confessed Jesus as the Christ, but rather as poured out upon the entire world?”4

Taken in continuity with John 3:17, “Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him,” while remembering that the first meaning in the Bible of salvation is healing, we get to:  “God loves the world SO MUCH that...that God keeps moving creation to wholeness AND  God pushes and prods us in hope that we'll learn deeper love.  Nothing can separate us from the love of God... because God loves the world THAT much.”

Do you ever wonder what it means to say that “God loves the world”? It is startlingly unequivocal.  It isn't, “God loves the good people.”  Or, “God loves it when things are going right.”  It isn't even, “God loves the world, but hates the brokenness.” John 3:16 claims God loves the world.  God gives gifts to the world. God seeks healing and wholeness for the world.  And the world isn't just humanity, it is all of creation.

God LOVES the world.  

For me, that's a bit of a relief.  It reminds me that God's love isn't contingent on us getting it right, love is already a part of it all. It is a reminder that we can't mess it up.  Love is the starting point of all creation, it has a power nothing else can match.  For me, at least, gratitude for this reality is what motivates me to work with God for the building of the kindom.  But it starts with love. God loves the world.  Unlike my childhood friend, I think there is a full stop there, no conditions.

God loves the world and all the beings in it.  As.  They.  Are. Salvation is a gift God willingly  offers to us all.

Thanks be to God.  Amen

1Ernst Haenchen John 1: A Commentary on the Gospel of John, Chapters 1-6 (Hermeneia: a Critical and Historical Commentary on the Bible) (Vol 1) (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, January 1, 1988).

2  Raymond E. Brown Gospel According to John. Anchor Bible.  (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1966-70.)

3 Gail R.O’Day,   “The Gospel of John: Introduction, Comentary, and Reflections.”  In New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 9.  (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995).

4Ibid.

Rev. Sara E. Baron

First United Methodist Church of Schenectady

603 State St. Schenectady, NY 12305

Pronouns: she/her/hers

http://fumcschenectady.org/

[araneaes-order]

In the Bleak Mid-winter Ch. 9

LAST HERALD-MAGE FANFIC

Fix-it…ish. canon mm

Young Stefen, living on the streets, found out someone was looking for him and decided to lay low, avoiding the mysterious stranger in red, so he’s never taken to Haven by Bard Lynnell. It was an unfortunate decision, but in spite of it, he and Van do meet up, just later, and under less kind circumstances. Basically a redo on the ending. ~55k words Finished.

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5| Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Visit my master list

Word Count: ~7370

Rating: Mature for, sorry, lots of bad stuff, rape, sexual abuse, child abuse. Canon was pretty dark, especially what I was redoing here, so’s this.

On AO3.

Chapter Synopsis: The end.

Van panted, heavily, blinking stinging sweat from his eyes, too exhausted to reach up and wipe it away.

Beside him the Bard had retreated when he was done, and curled up, hugging the edge of the bed, with his back to Vanyel.

What had he—what? He didn’t even have the brain power to finish his own thoughts. He hurt; he felt raw, inside and out. He had a thousand little wounds,

from teeth, from nails, from having his hair pulled, his ass slapped, his—how, how had any of this led to… this?

Adrenalin had finally cleared his head but the Bard had done a damned fine job of clouding it again. He hadn’t been that—it hadn’t been like that in—

What had he done? Panic and guilt sobered him. Gods, what had he done? He’d recoiled at the maid’s touch and then? This wasn’t better: the Bard was a child, over-sexualized, sexually abused, and Van had—gods! He scrambled from the bed, most of his clothing remaining behind, in shreds, at least most of his shirt. He’d rent it himself, because the Bard had clearly wanted to but hadn’t been quite strong enough and it had made him—gods!

Barefoot, shaking, he wove on his feet in the darkened room. The fire had gone out, as had the candle on the bedside. From behind drawn curtains faint blue light seeped in around the shadows. Dawn? Dusk? Van couldn’t have said.

The Bard was an indistinct shape, huddled on the bed, looking even smaller than he should have.

“Can’t undo it now,” the boy said sleepily, a husky, satisfied timber to his voice that belied his youth.

“I’m sorry—”

“Aw, shite, don’t start that again,” the boy interrupted, annoyed now, as his silhouette sat up, distinguishing him a little from the bed.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“Seriously. I don’t. Fucking. Care. Think you’re the first to wake up and realize, all scandalized and proper, that you dipped your toe in the gutter? Spare me.”

“No,” Van fumbled, hearing the bitterness under the annoyance. Sensing the pain that undercut them both. “It’s not that.” He was doing everything wrong. Everything since he’d met the boy—since he’d come to in the brigands’ hall, at least, or maybe— “You’re just a… a child, I shouldn’t have—”

The Bard laughed, so hard he started choking and had to sit up again. “Right. That’s it. Took advantage, did you? I was the sober one. And I’d lay odds I’ve had more men than you. If one of us did take advantage it wasn’t you, if you’ll pardon me saying so, m’lord.” He finished on a sneer and left Van standing, and staring, confused.

Then the boy sighed and ruffled his hands through his hair, groaning. “Look, if guilt’s what gets you off, fair enough, but it’s cold and it’s an ungodly hour and we’re probably not long for this world, to quote the old song, and I—” His own yawn interrupted him and he slumped back down again, turning his back to Van. “Yeah, whatever. Do as you like.”

Reminded, feeling like a fool that he’d had to be, he shook away his personal guilt and the sting of the Bard’s accusation that he ‘got off on it,’ compartmentalizing, refocusing. “You said your Master Dark wanted us to kill each other?”

He felt the immediate chill from the bed. The Bard didn’t sit up, or even turn back to him, leaving his voice muffled by the covers he’d pulled up. “Don’t you think? Telling you I’d sold you to him and leaving you armed. Telling me you’d killed Warin, and warning me you thought I gave your stupid ruse away.”

“And how did he arm you?” he asked, touching the magic-blocking cuffs on his wrists. It was better than the powder, at least he could think with them on, though he was certain he’d been drugged with something else when he’d killed… Warin. A name to add to a too long list, and there were more unknowns on it than he cared to think about.

“How do you think?”

Van nodded. “You still have it?”

“Stop. Would you just stop?” The Bard sounded weary beyond his years.

“I can still—”

“What? No magic, no horse, no army, no friends here but me, more’s the pity for you. No idea where Dark is right now, unless you know more than I do. No idea what he’s doing. What can you do now?”

He paused, standing in the dark, as the Bard said, utterly alone.

After a moment there came another heavy sigh. “Well, don’t just stand there then. Come back to bed.”

He was weary enough to fall if he didn’t sit soon. He wasn’t ready to give up, but he didn’t have much left in him after coming so far, already facing the challenges he’d faced just getting here. And now he was making excuses.

He shut them down, along with the worries, the guilt, the uncertainties. He wasn’t giving up, but rest would serve him better than worry. He slid back onto the bed, on the side away from the Bard, pulling the covers up over himself. Rest. He’d learned to take it where he could, even when he didn’t want to. Like food, it wasn’t optional, no matter how hard he sometimes wanted to fight it. A catnap to refresh himself and then he’d start reconsidering his options—

Tylendel had him pinned down in a bed of green grass, under an arching canopy of green-gold leaves against a summer bright sky. One hand caught in Van’s hair, using the grip to force his head back so he could savage his neck with a burning mouth, the other was down the front of his breeches, staking his claim there too and making Van writhe helplessly.

It had been ages, absolute ages, since he’d had a dream like this and even then something about this one was different, though Lendel wasn’t letting him focus on anything else enough to figure out what.

Lendel laughed, breathless, joyful, the vibration of the sound against his skin striking chords in Van that made that other life without his love seem even further away. This was real. This was the only thing that was.

In that brief, golden time they’d had together, that fleeting season, Tylendel had always been the leader in their bed and out of it, the more experienced, the more dominant in his way, but it had never been like this.

He yelped as Lendel nipped his neck.

“Are you saying I didn’t please you?”

He caught his own hands in Lendel’s curls, soft as silk between his fingers, and dragged his lover’s head up so he could meet his eyes, those warm, brown eyes, that looked at him as no one else ever had or ever would. He couldn’t help the giddy smile that stretched his lips, that mirrored his lover’s. He didn’t know why a part of him had expected Tylendel to look different but he was glad he didn’t.

But Lendel’s mouth pursed in a sudden, playful pout and he cocked his head, leaning his chest and body more firmly against Van, giving him a squeeze down below that nearly had his eyes crossing and could have distracted him completely if Tylendel hadn’t spoken again. “Wouldn’t you still love me if I looked different, ashke? What if I started getting older?”

His voice had been playful but Vanyel blinked, wishing for a moment that was possible. An image, familiar and cherished, of his Tylendel: not the forever-sixteen-year-old he’d been since he’d died, but the man he would have been, growing older, year by year, at his side. He’d been a mage, Savil would have trained him to work node magic as she’d trained Vanyel, they could have gone silver-haired together.

“A possibility.” Amusement colored his words, so bright Van could see the brilliance of it in the air between them—not that there was much between them. “But what if I decided to go for a different look?”

But Vanyel didn’t care about what-ifs when his reality was finally what it always should have been: Lendel in his arms, pressed against him, warmth and weight and that smell and those eyes and that mouth—he leaned up to kiss him, to steal the mysterious words directly from his lips and with a happy groan Lendel gave in to him, even sliding his hand away from Van’s suddenly vanished pants—funny how that always seemed to happen when Lendel was around, in dreams and in their brief romance—to cup his face with both hands and deepen the kiss.

Van pulled away in alarm when he felt tears at his own fingertips and realized they were Tylendel’s, but his beloved only offered an embarrassed smile, lashes dropping to veil his teary eyes. “It’s okay, Van. I’m just glad… we finally found our way to a good dream, together.”

There was more. There were lifetimes more, and Vanyel knew it without understanding. But he did understand that the person he loved was in pain somehow, for some reason, so he wrapped his arms around him and held him close, glad if he could be some comfort, not knowing what could move a dead boy to tears.

Lendel sighed, clinging to him, not trying to hide the tears that were wetting the side of Van’s neck. “Vanyel—I—I don’t know what’s going to happen from here.”

“Shhh. It doesn’t matter,” he soothed. Meaning it. This was enough.

“It might…” But Tylendel trailed off and for a long moment silence fell around them and they just held each other and breathed. “I’ll always be with you, Van. It’s important that you know that. I haven’t forgotten my debts, to you or Valdemar—”

“There are no debts between us, Lendel,” Van said softly, chiding. What a foolish thought.

Tylendel laughed. “Ah, Van. There are, though. I was young but I—I left things undone. I left you alone.”

“It wasn’t your fault—”

“That doesn’t matter. My fault or no. I still left you alone to shoulder a burden that should at least have been ours, if not mine. But I won’t fail you again.”

Talk about guilt—wait, who had been talking about guilt?—

“I don’t blame you for any of it, Lendel. You know I don’t. And if I knew how it would end I would still do it all again, just to have the time we did.”

Tylendel inhaled deeply and shuddered, pressing his forehead to Van’s neck. Van licked his lips and sighed. Yes. For all the years of loneliness, it had been worth it. It still was. He would pay that loss a thousand times over just to have once had it to lose.

Lendel squeezed him. “Things are about to change though, Van. It’s finally time.”

“What do you mean?”

He felt that green, summer dream slipping away and he tried to hold on, but in the way of dreams the more he tried to cling to it the faster it faded.

“Lendel!”

“I’m with you, ashke. Whatever happens, trust that.”

“Lendel!” But he was saying it to a dark room in Leareth’s castle. In front of him, the Bard stirred in his sleep.

In reaching for his long-dead love, Van had tangled his hand in a lock of the Bard’s hair and he couldn’t easily free himself of the knots that had woven themselves around his fingers.

Gods, what a dream. His heart ached, a dull, physical pain he would have tried to massage away if one arm wasn’t pinned beneath him and the other wasn’t tangled up in an auburn snare.

He blinked away tears, feeling a fool. A moment before he’d been comforting Tylendel through his tears, now—

The Bard grunted and half-turned, stopping short. “For—What the hell did you do?” he demanded, disgruntled, reaching behind his own head to try to help detangle his hair from Van’s hand—and, Vanyel realized after a moment, from the magic-blocking cuffs. “Okay, stop. Just be still,” he finally muttered, carefully holding his hair against his skull, controlling the pull as he rolled towards Van to get a different angle on the hair around the cuffs.

It only took him a second to free himself once he’d moved closer, so every pull wasn’t stretching the knots out tighter, but moving closer to do it had him… too close. Van blinked even as the Bard seemed to realize it himself, and his expression turned briefly, poignantly blank, before the mask fell again, and the cool, disaffected young man was back. But he didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” Van said without thinking, and the Bard pulled a face and sighed. There was enough ambient light in the room for Vanyel to see the flash of expression and despite everything, even his tears, he laughed a little. He’d really have to try harder to hold back his apologies.

The Bard smiled at Van’s laugh, a small, wry smile and an almost shy roll of his eyes, and Van felt again that they were too close, but he didn’t want to pull away and he hoped the Bard wouldn’t. Just for a moment longer.

Neither did, instead the Bard closed the small distance between them, sliding his hand over Van’s chest, and kissed him. There was none of the frantic passion of his earlier kisses, just warmth and closeness and it reminded Van of his dream, a distraction when he should be working out a plan to stop Leareth, but as a distraction it was an embarrassingly effective one. It felt so good, right, like a strained joint snapping back into place; a little pain, but it was still right.

He pulled away with a gasp when he realized just what felt so familiar and so ‘right’ about the Bard in his arms. The young man blinked in confusion, a hint of hurt even, that left Van wanting to fall all over himself apologizing—which wouldn’t be appreciated—and immediately redress the hurt he was causing in any way he could. But he detangled himself and scooted away on the bed as though the Bard had transformed into a monster at the kiss, a fairy tale in reverse.

And he felt it. He felt the Bard’s confusion, his hurt, even his soul-shriveling acceptance, like a night blooming flower closing in the too-bright light of dawn. He couldn’t hear him, unlike Yfandes the Bard was no MindSpeaker, but he felt it all along that old, old familiar channel where a long-broken lifebond had once connected him to the other half of his soul.

He shouldn’t feel anything, Empathy and MindSpeaking blocked by the cuffs that blocked the rest of his Gifts, but magic couldn’t block the soul-deep connection of a lifebond, not entirely. The drugs might have dulled him to it, but the cuffs couldn’t.

A lifebond?

The Bard wrapped his arms around himself, shutting down, withdrawing, but he couldn’t turn away or back away, not yet. He was confused. Hurting. Even though he knew better, knew his own worth, he wanted—Van shook his head in unspoken negation.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t understand how it was even possible. Lifebonding was surpassingly rare, most people could go a lifetime without ever coming across a lifebonded pair, let alone finding themselves as part of one. Surviving the death of a lifebond as Vanyel had was unheard of, and likely only possible because of the lifebond-like Herald-Companion connection Yfandes had caught him in before he could slip away after Lendel, but being lifebonded again?

To a Bard? Little more than a child, not much older than his Tylendel had been when he’d died?

Lendel. What did this mean for Lendel? Vanyel had never wanted anyone else. There had been lovers, a few, hearthfires to warm at in the winter cold, as the Hawkbrothers had counseled him, but he’d had that memory of summer warmth, and the anticipation of a summer yet to come. How did the Bard fit in to any of this? How in the havens could he?

Across the bed he’d tucked his chin to his chest. Perhaps trying to feign sleep, there were tears seeping out under his lashes.

He didn’t have the right!

Van knew it wasn’t fair of him to be so angry, but the Bard didn’t have the right to do this, to be this—

The door slammed open, magelight left him blinking, surprise pinning him to the bed. He’d thrown his borrowed sword at the ground before he and the Bard— He wished now he’d at least left it closer to hand.

He felt the waves of terror rolling over the Bard as Leareth stalked into the room, smiling. He felt the sickness, the panic. The young man’s only, frantic hope was that the dark mage would be angry enough to kill them both quickly.

He wasn’t brave like Tylendel. He wasn’t bright, or hopeful.

Leareth tutted, smirking, eyes only on his servant as he stood at the foot of the bed like a cuckolded lover, as though the Bard had ever had the freedom to choose, his master or another. Van fought the urge to reach for him. Perhaps with Leareth distracted—

“I should have known you’d make a cock-up of even the simplest of commands, Stef.”

The Bard hated that the dark mage called him that.

“I just can’t trust you to keep from crawling into the bed of any man you meet, can I? The Herald, my guards, Rendan and his brigands, probably even that boy, once or twice, hmm?”

Despair, a black, towering wave of it, crashing down, like he was drowning, literally stealing his breath—then, up from murky depths like some strange creature of the darkest oceans, a burning, churning fury, so hot and encompassing that Vanyel had to close his mental barriers against the Bard’s emotions or risk being overcome.

And the young man thought his master couldn’t tell how much he hated him? Van’s gaze flicked between them, while he was still being ignored. The dark mage obviously reveled in the Bard’s helpless fury.

Damn it, if he’d only kept the sword, now—

As though he heard him, Leareth suddenly waggled one finger at Vanyel. “And you! Clearly no better. Every reason and opportunity to get your revenge and instead you let my servant fuck you. And I thought you Heralds were supposed to be so noble,” he sneered. He shook his head, his lips twisted in disgust, but there was a sick joy shining in his eyes that made a lie of his moralizing. “And you leave your allies to suffer for it too.”

He tossed something at the bed, between Van and the Bard and Vanyel stared at it, not recognizing the long, white and red shape at first, even in the mage light. That white though, the way it gleamed and glowed, where it wasn’t smeared red—

He would have fallen apart, should have, touching the long, silvery strands of the grisly, still bleeding trophy, but this was too important, this moment needed a clear head.

There was a thick white bone showing through red flesh at the base of the tail. But he’d know if she’d been killed, wouldn’t he? Even across a distance, even through Leareth’s shields?

Even distracted by the discovery of what the Bard was? Even through the confusion of that new connection?

Yes? Surely, despite all of it…yes?

“She actually succeeded in getting past my men, back to this side of Crookback Pass.” Leareth sounded vaguely impressed but Van couldn’t tell if it was just part of his performance. “Led them a merry chase—pointlessly. I know she already went for help. Your army is marching—they’re a scrambled mess on such short notice, but they are headed north. You’ll be even happier to know Valdemar’s Heralds are positively flying before them. In fact, my forces have been marching through the pass all night and we go to engage them even now.

“Since you brought this all together, this great battle, this grand drama, I think it’s only fair I take you to see how it ends in person. How often have you had that opportunity, hmm? A man of your stature is normally moving his little wooden soldiers around a painted map, I’d think. How often do you get to see the full fallout of your orders?”

More often than he’d like. As a mage, as one of a shrinking pool of them, he’d hardly had the luxury of standing back from battle and he’d seen more men and women die following his orders than he cared to remember, though he’d never honestly imagined it would be any easier to stand at a distance and know they were dying anyway.

He ran his fingers through the long, tangled hair of the silver tail and said nothing.

“Oh! But forgive me. Do you need a moment first? Time to mourn? To reflect? We haven’t much, I’m afraid. It will all be happening very soon. In fact, why don’t you just take that with you, while I—”

A scream ripped from Vanyel’s throat, his fingers clutching spastically at the tail. Too close! The gate opened too close! Oh gods—pain—like his skull was being ripped open, his spine collapsing in on itself. Light and darkness at once, a universe shattering explosion—

No drugged stupor this time, much as he wished it was. This was a pain he was too familiar with, like the inside of his head had been scraped out and set on fire. He couldn’t guess how long it had been since the gate had been opened, everything hurt and he reeled as someone slapped him, not for the first time.

“Finally coming back to us? Good,” Leareth crooned. “Let him go.”

The Bard had been holding him up and Van could feel the hesitation as he released him. His mental barriers all shot to hell, he could feel the young man’s worry, his guilt—gods, the boy should mock him for guilt!—like acid churning through the mental wounds. He wished he could block it, but it didn’t matter. Everything in him was screaming that now was his chance. Here, now was when he needed to strike!

He collapsed on his face, helpless as a newborn, his body curling in around his pain like a dying thing.

He shook, grunting with every breath. He felt like years had stripped away. Tylendel was a fresh loss, Van’s powers were new and raw and improbable, burning through his head along paths the backlash of Lendel’s gate energy had riven in fire. Yfandes… ’Fandes was gone, perhaps she’d finally listened and found someone better, more deserving of a love like hers—

:No!: the mind voice, bright as moonlight, cut through the confusion and pain—though it brought its own pain with it. Gods, it hurt as much the first time, a life time ago. But Yfandes…

:Leareth said his men killed you.: A thought sent out to no one. Calling at shadows.

And it left him groaning, writhing. Listening hurt, MindSpeaking hurt so much more. He hadn’t known how then and he regretted that he knew how now.

Leareth sighed, dramatically.

:I made them think they did.: Dark satisfaction, but weariness and worry under it. And pain. He was still holding her severed tail, somehow, in a locked-fist grip he didn’t think he could release if he tried. If this was real she’d paid dearly for whatever deception she’d managed.

“Up now, no more lazing about!” Leareth said, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him. Easier to give in than to fight. And far better to seem quiescent.

:Plan?: ‘Fandes sounded only worried now, and he suspected she was keeping her thoughts to a minimum because she knew how much it was hurting him to communicate at all. It was her. She was alive.

:None, but open to anything you’ve got,: he answered, still only half believing.

He hissed through gritted teeth.

Leareth braced him, leaning him against his own body, Van on his knees in front him, both facing out over a precipice and a swirling, icy hell.

Only then did Van notice the biting cold, the rushing wind. They stood at the top of one of the Ice Wall Mountains, overlooking the end of Crookback Pass. Shapes moved through the snow below them, large, impossible, dark shapes pouring from the pass itself, a small collection of distant forms lining up in much smaller numbers to the south.

They could still stop it. There was a chance they could keep most of Leareth’s army from even reaching Valdemar if they could just bring the damned pass down around them before too many got through. But how to do that, when the enemy himself, with all the power of his nodes, countless captive mages, and who knew what reserves of blood magic, was standing triumphant, overlooking the battlefield from the safety of the mountain?

:Final strike?: Subdued, spoken in defeat, and he felt it like a spear to the heart. She was alive, he’d been right before, he would have felt it if she’d died, no matter what distance or barriers had been between them. And she wouldn’t even suggest this if she still saw any other way. For Valdemar she would see him sacrifice them both.

And he would, without hesitation or regret. But it was too late.

:Cuffs.: The most he could manage, with an impression of the barrier they’d created around his magic. Not as complete as the barrier created by the powder if they could communicate through it, but strong enough to keep him from using his magic to do anything to Leareth, even with her help.

Damn it, if he thought it would do any good, he’d just try to grab the man and tumble them both off the cliff, but a powerful enough mage would have ways around even that. With Vanyel’s magic bound and all that Leareth had access to, there wasn’t anything he could do.

But there had to be! There had to be something—

“See all the players taking the field?” Leareth shook him and he swore he felt his teeth rattle. But the dark mage stroked his face, in what could have felt like apology—while also making sure Vanyel was facing the battlefield. “This was ordained, Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron. This has always been your fate. To see this—and die, knowing that you could do nothing to stop it. It’s been hunting you your whole life. I’ve been hunting you your whole life. And everything you’ve ever done to fight me, not even knowing I was there, has only led you closer to this. Your friends down there will die. Your family. Your country. Everything you love will be mine, and I will crush it all, while you watch and weep.”

:I can give you enough to break the cuffs.:

:But it wouldn’t be enough to take him down, too. Pointless.:

“I will have Valdemar, and from there, I will take everything. Everything that should always have been mine.”

But without the cuffs, maybe he’d have enough power to at least engage the mage while he pulled him off the mountain, distract him enough to kill him with the fall?

:Everything I have to give is yours,: Yfandes promised, all her magic to the dregs, to the point of death and past it, and all the magic that could be gleaned from that last sacrifice as well.

He was just afraid it still wouldn’t be enough. If everything they had together still couldn’t—but what was the alternative? Not to try anything at all?

Below them the dark shapes were still streaming from the path—so many. Mage beasts and constructs and monsters from the Pelagirs, driven before the full force of Leareth’s army towards the line of Heralds.

:It’ll have to be quick. Ready?: So much left unspoken. There was so much there was no time for.

He felt her wordless assent and more, her love. Even that burned, as raw as the gate energy always left him, but he clung to it anyway. There were pains that were worth it. He thought of Lendel. In the dream he’d promised to be with him always.

Gods, Lendel, be with me now. And gods, please let this work.

Not yet! That wasn’t ‘Fandes, and it certainly wasn’t Van, that feeling that was more the impression of intent than actual words. Who? He’d been ignoring the Bard, Leareth’s pet, Van’s lifebonded, the new, unfamiliar presence in his head. Would he have caught all that? His and ‘Fandes desperate, suicidal plan? How much would he have understood, if he had?

For a moment Van pitied him. Poor boy, caught up in something so much larger than Bards and children—

Leareth cried out and shoved Van away from him, dangerously close to the edge of the cliff, he rolled over in time to see the dark mage backhand the Bard and then send him flying with a blast of energy to the chest. That connection in his head went quiet—not broken, but silent and still.

What?

:Stabbed him?: He could feel her confusion. She didn’t send the word but he could feel her wonder: lifebonded?

Delayed, the boy’s last conscious thoughts untangled for him, the burst of memories, determination. A small dagger, for eating, or cleaning your nails, or scraping the mud and rocks from a little hill-pony’s hooves. It wouldn’t do any damage, for all the times he’d wished he’d dared shove it through one of his master’s eyes. But he’d dipped it in the powder the night before, while he’d crouched before the fire, in case he’d needed it against the Herald, and Learath had allowed him a moment to grab his pants—and belt—before he’d taken them through the gate.

:Now! Help me break the cuffs!:

Leareth pulled the small dagger out of his side, a little thread of blood briefly trailing from it as he threw it blade first into to the snow at his feet.

The magic surged along their bond, nearly blinding him with the agony of it. But where the cuffs wouldn’t let him touch his own magic they weren’t designed to keep him from using Yfandes’ through their bond and he wielded it like a sledgehammer, no time for precision, just pure force, battering at the cuffs until he felt them loosen and literally shatter, falling away from him in pieces, leaving him free, if drained and weary and in pain.

Leareth turned on him, snarling, as Van got to his feet, the drop off the mountain at his back, his enemy before him.

The wind battered them, tossing his hair, shoving at his bare chest. His toes flexed in the snow, scraping against the rock beneath it. Unlike the bard he’d had no opportunity to dress. He’d be worried about frostbite if he thought for one second he’d live through this.

Leareth smiled, a demon grinning at him from behind his own reflection. “You won’t survive,” he said, as though he’d heard Van’s thoughts. “I admire you choosing to die on your feet, but you will die just the same.”

There was a chance now though. He’d seen it when the Bard had stabbed Leareth. Obviously the powder hadn’t done to him what it had done to Vanyel at first, but he could see the dull, thin barrier around the dark mage nonetheless. He was powerful, horrifyingly powerful, and it would take him a few moments at best to break it, but at the moment he couldn’t touch the magic outside of himself: the nodes, the mages he was draining, whatever else he had feeding him from his castle. For the moment he stood alone.

Van gathered himself, all his power, all Yfandes could give, opening himself to receive the rest, what she wouldn’t be able to give until the last. Staring at the dark mage, the mad, grinning monster that wore his face, he was terrified it still wouldn’t be enough.

If he failed—

“Valdemar will be mine,” Leareth promised, triumphant.

Van had access to more than the dark mage saw yet though. Bardic magic wasn’t like the Mage Gift, any more than mere magic potential was, but through a lifebond, as he’d learned at great cost, power could be traded in ways that weren’t otherwise possible.

:Van…: She saw what Leareth didn’t, how he opened himself to the Bard as well, as gently as he dared, reaching for what had not been offered but might be all that could save them. Or not them, but perhaps at least his people.

Would he sacrifice the boy to save so many more lives?

Oh, yes. With regret, with boundless gratitude, but if he could save Valdemar by killing the three of them, he would.

He only hoped it was quick enough that the boy didn’t regain consciousness.

I’m with you.

The memory of a dream or an answer, there was no time to ponder it. He braided their power, his, Yfandes’ and the Bard’s, weaving them into something new and strange. A weapon. For his aunt and the other Herald-Mages. For children and Companions slain before their Gifts could fully mature or their bonds could be established. For the sons and daughters of Valdemar who didn’t even know the danger that had stalked them from the north. For a brigand child, who’d never known a better life but had deserved a kinder death.

Behind Leareth Yfandes came limping out of the swirling snow as if she’d materialized from it. Her head low, a deep, bloody wound in her chest that stained the fur all down her side. Pain and determination washed over him as she came to him. They would die together. Despite his nightmares, the ice wouldn’t find him alone.

With a roar he put his hands out and sent it all at Leareth, all the power they had, all that was left.

The mage laughed, throwing his arms out to take it all.

Yfandes collapsed, falling to her knees.

He hated—it killed him that he was doing this to her—it would kill him.

“It’s not enough!” Leareth shouted over the wind. “You’ll kill yourselves and I’ll still win!”

Van had never thought magic was enough. Only a fool would have.

He reached out and grabbed one of Leareth’s outstretched arms, using his distraction and surprise, and Van’s own dead weight, to swing them together to the very edge of the precipice. He’d just wanted to make sure he didn’t leave the dark mage with enough—

Their feet teetered on the edge. Van, barefoot, had better purchase, but Leareth had a death grip on his arm. It was Van who smiled, grimly, as the ground fell away below them.

:I love you!: he sent to ‘Fandes, not sure she could even still hear him, certain in a moment she wouldn’t.

Something heavy hit his legs—the edge of the mountain?—as Leareth slipped from his arms, howling. Vanyel closed his eyes and let himself go limp, finally just letting go.

But he didn’t fall, not much farther than just over the edge, just far enough to bang his head against the icy rock that was still, somehow, supporting him.

The Bard had him, by the leg. It would be comical if wasn’t so pathetic. So much for hoping he would slip away peacefully, never regaining consciousness.

He couldn’t leave him holding on like that, though, until Van’s weight pulled him over too or the cliffside crumbled under them, so he forced his arms to hold him, forced himself to keep fighting, to help pull himself back over the edge and away from it.

The Bard studied his face when they were both on solid ground, letting Van do the same. He was pale, trembling, his lips almost blue, clearly feeling the cold as Vanyel wasn’t yet. The only color to his face was in his bloodshot eyes and the red mark where Leareth had struck him.

“He’s still alive,” Van said softly, apologetically. The Bard knew what he’d been doing, the choice Vanyel had made without him.

Leareth had fallen, but not far enough. He was wounded, by magic and the fall, but Vanyel could still feel him. He was weak though. It had to be now. It had to be everything.

The Bard looked away for a moment, but nodded.

Vanyel pulled the Bard to him; he was freezing, and clung to him. He tucked the boy’s head under his, resting his chin on those fiery waves, and sighed. He wouldn’t apologize, knowing how little the Bard cared to hear it. He just cradled him closer, closed his eyes—and took.

Above the snowy battlefield, where men and monsters clashed, things that looked horses screamed, and blood had started running in earnest, a column of lightning reached down from the black sky like the finger of god.

It flared along one side of Crookback Pass, an explosion of rock and ice, a thunderous roar—and brought both sides of the pass crashing down, crumbling together, making the dark path of the rushing monsters disappear behind them, sending many into a frenzy, and, strangely, sending them fleeing.

As though they’d been freed from some compulsion, loosed from an invisible rein, many of the creatures stopped trying to fight, either attempting to break free of the crowds of their fellows and Heralds both, or simply freezing where they stood, immobile and unresisting, whether they were hacked to pieces or left to stand, shifting, confused and docile.

Some still fought, blood-maddened, joyful in it, if such terrible things were capable of that feeling, and the Heralds didn’t dare withdraw. Even the monsters that were fleeing were too dangerous to be allowed to do so, if they could be stopped, though far more than anyone liked made it free into the dark forests that stretched along the mountains.

There just weren’t enough Heralds to stop them all, though as many as could be gathered and reach the pass on such short notice had come.

There were losses. Any were too many, but still, for the fight they’d faced they weren’t nearly as numerous as they’d rightfully expected. And they’d won? It seemed, anyway. Even if some of the creatures had gotten away, most had been slain, or were being slain, and the pass had been brought down on the heads of the rest, blocking the way of the force they’d been warned was gathering in the north.

Ragnalf pulled up next to Tantras, who, along with his Companion, Delian, was staring at the sheer mountain face where Crookback Pass had been. Instead of the pass, the mountain had a new foot, a hill, of ice and rock that had spilled out along the former path.

He knew, everyone knew, that Tran was one of the Herald-Mage’s few friends.

He waited there for a moment, Liber shifting under him.

:Ask him!:

:You could ask!:

:You’re closer to Tantras than I am to Delian.:

:Just because he taught at the Collegium while I was there.:

:It’s still—:

“…Final strike?” he finally managed to get out. Nothing else made sense. He couldn’t imagine anything else that could have looked like that and caused all that damage. But even for the legend, it had been… amazing and terrible and just…

“I don’t think so,” Tran answered, dour but musing.

Ragnalf looked at him in surprise.

:Do you think he just can’t face it? What else could that have been?:

:I… I don’t know?:

:But—:

“We all should have felt it if they’d died. You too. We felt the others, didn’t we? After the mages cast that spell, everyone in the capital felt the last Herald-Mages die. Since they…” He seemed to stumble over that. All the mages were dead. Except perhaps Herald-Mage Vanyel, if Tantras wasn’t letting sentiment make him too hopeful. He sighed heavily. “You ask Liber if she thinks they’re dead.”

:…?:

:I… no, he’s right. We should feel it, and I didn’t.:

“What…what does this mean, then?”

“It means we secure the valley. And when we’re done we do our best to climb a mountain and save another Herald.” Tantras looked down at his hands and he and Delian turned together, back to help put down another of the creatures and, as he’d said, secure the valley.

Vanyel woke.

That was a surprise. A big enough surprise that he didn’t try to move, just stared up at a fabric roof, pondering the fact that he could possibly, impossibly, still be alive.

He didn’t even know how to feel about it.

His fingers twitched. One arm was hanging off the side of a cot, at the right height to let him rest his hand on Yfandes’ back as she lay beside the cot on the floor of a tent. They were both under blankets and a fire was burning in a carefully cleared firepit, the smoke venting through a small hole in the canvas.

:How is it we’re alive, dearest?: he asked her, knowing she was awake.  

She sighed and shifted. Along their link he felt the many places she still hurt: the stub of her tail and the wound in her chest being the worst, but even those weren’t as bad as they’d been last he remembered. He’d been out for a while.

:I’m not sure, but I think it was the Bardic magic. It isn’t like…magic magic. I think what you took from him didn’t work the way anyone would have expected. If anyone could have expected you to try anything as insane as that in the first place.:

:I work with what I have.:

She snorted.

:You’re a madman.: But she said it with fondness.

He smiled and scratched the part of her back that he could reach without having to move significantly, since he wasn’t sure he could. :You’ve called me much worse.:

He would have worried about the Bard, but like Fandes,’ he could feel him, though more distantly. He was alive, wherever he was. And not particularly distressed.

Discomfort from Yfandes.

:About him…:

:Hmm?:

:That Bard?:

He winced. She’d want an explanation and he didn’t have one to give. A second lifebond shouldn’t have been possible, but it had saved them all, and all of Valdemar when it came down to it, so perhaps—

:He’s gone.:

“What?” His voice was strange, rusty. How long had he been out?

:No one was sure what to do with him—they were good Van, he wasn’t mistreated. But he recovered a lot quicker than either of us and once he was up and about, no one was sure if he was really friend or foe, ally or captive.:

:And? How is he gone?:

:…And then, one night about a week ago, he was just… gone. Stole a horse that had come in with the army and disappeared. They tried to track him but a hundred feet or so into the forest the trail just vanished. There was no sign of him past that, no matter how they looked:

“How many of Leareth’s creatures made it into that forest?” he demanded, as though anyone could know that.

:He’s fine, Van.: she soothed. :You know he is. Wherever he went, you’d know if he was hurt. You were just thinking the same thing. It’s no different now.:

True. That was all true. The Bard was safe. Somewhere.

After what he’d done to him, it was no wonder he wouldn’t have stayed; he didn’t owe Vanyel or Valdemar more than he’d already given, especially when it had come so close to costing his life and he hadn’t even had a choice in it. Still, even knowing that it was probably better for both of them, for a while, for now—they’d have to face the lifebond and all it meant, someday—he couldn’t help wishing that the Bard had chosen to stay safe here.

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Continued in Angels We Have Heard. 

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