#it's perfectly fine to allow some spaces to be just about rest and recovery

[cazimagines]

Perfectly Exasperating - Chapter 3

Synopsis: While you have been unknowingly kidnapped Zemo is determined to make the time he spends with you the best that he can

Word count: 5.4k

Author’s note: Hey all! This is sorta a one-month celebration of my account and for all the love you guys have shown this series and my other series 'A Freudian Slip' I can't thank you enough! My editing program decided to screw me over though so if you can see a difference grammatically in the first half and the second half that's why

Masterlist

(Please check out my master list to see what I will be writing next and if requests are open or closed)

Cross-posted to ao3 under the same username

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

Your eyes slowly flutter open as the warmth from the sun shining through the curtains touching your skin waking you up. Yawning and stretching, feeling the soft duvet move on top of you, you sighed in content, closing your eyes again as you embraced the happiness which had been foreign to you for so long. You reach out to seize the end of the duvet and gradually slide out of the bed; you feel the slight chill of the morning breeze brush against your exposed legs. Crossing over to the wardrobe your hand reaches out to flick through the many dresses, shirts, trousers that hung in there, all belonging to shops such as Gucci, Prada, Valentino. There were clothes appropriate for any event, but today you choose comfortably as you pull out a maroon knitted sweater and dark blue jeans. Though appearing to be rather cheap clothes, you knew Zemo would never have spent less than $100 on them.

When Zemo said he would take care of you, he meant it in every aspect. It was a culture shock going from the relatively poor life you lived, surviving off the small amount of money they paid you for being an Avenger to being treated like royalty by Zemo. Not that you were complaining. It was a guilty pleasure of yours enjoying this luxury, a part of you hoping it would never end. If you had told yourself just a few weeks ago, you would have enjoyed living with Zemo you would have laughed in your face but that man had certainly turned on the charm and you couldn’t help but feel the slightest big thankful for him for everything he has done for you.

You finally leave the confines of your room, something you had only been allowed to do a few times until today. You convinced Zemo yesterday that you weren’t concussed from when John had hit you with the shield and that you would be fine getting up and walking around. He was still hesitant but knew he couldn’t keep you confined in your bed forever.

You close your eyes as you inhale the sweet smell of cooking pancakes, making your stomach grumble greedily. Following the scent, you work your way down through the interior design living room into the lavish kitchen where Zemo currently had his back turned to you as he attempted to flip the pancake he had in the frying pan. His purple turtleneck sleeves were pulled up, exposing his forearms as they tensed, trying to get the timing right to flip the pancake. He does so with perfect accuracy, the golden brownness of the pancake soaring up into the air and landing back down in the frying pan, sizzling.

Zemo giggles to himself, celebrating his minor achievement as he waves the frying pan, his body swaying along slightly with it.

“That smells heavenly,”

Zemo whips around at hearing your voice pierce the air. “Ah y/n! Please, take a seat while I make breakfast,”

His eyes follow you as you take a seat down at the table he had prepared for this morning, then focus back on the breakfast at hand. You pour out some orange juice Zemo had left on the table, then your gaze flickers back to him as he finishes cooking. He stacks the pancakes onto two plates and grabs some sugar, maple syrup, and lemons out of the shelves, giving you a choice of toppings.

You scoff as he turns around, seeing on the apron he had tied around himself the words ‘kiss the chef’ on it.

“Really?” you ask, raising the glass to your lips as you watch him glance down to his apron and then back up to you offended.

“You don’t like?”

“It’s embarrassing to look at!” you exclaim as he places the plates down on the table and sits down opposite you.

Zemo’s eyebrows twitch as he scoffs back at you, “I think it suits me, plus a kiss is expected after I worked so hard on breakfast” he says, tapping his cheek with his finger.

You raise an eyebrow, letting a breath out as you laugh, “Yeah, in your dreams,”

You two settle into a comfortable silence as you readily eat the breakfast he made. The pancakes were soft but delicious, sickeningly sweet but you have always had a sweet tooth and so it seems, does Zemo.

“I thought you would have one of your staff make breakfast, you never struck me as the person to do something yourself when you can make others do it,” you say breaking the silence as you finish the last of your pancakes.

Zemo glances up to you, tilting his head, “Why do you think that? Because I grew up rich?”

You nod, not attempting to make yourself sound nicer, “Yes. It’s common knowledge the rich are always spoilt”

His lips twitch up into a smile at your bluntness. He sighs, leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs as he addresses you.

“You’re right. Even though Sokovia was a rather small country, I grew up with more riches than most people could dream of. But at least I acknowledge my privilege. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

“Depending on what you use your privilege for. Blowing up the UN isn’t exactly putting it to good use now stop avoiding my original question,”

Zemo bites the inside of his mouth as you see through his attempts at trying to dodge the question. His admiration for you however outweighed any annoyance he might have felt at being called out for it. Leaning forward again to rest his arms on the table he says,

“It’s only me, you and my Butler who occasionally comes in. After I was arrested, there was no work for my staff so they all left and I can’t exactly hire anyone else,”

You nod, satisfied, then dab the napkin that Zemo has set out beside you, on your lips to get rid of any leftover sugar. You place your hands on the table and push yourself up from it.

“Well, thank you for breakfast, and thank you for looking after me this last week… that was nice of you, but I better be going. Do you know where my phone is?”

Zemo’s eyes furrow and he immediately stands up as you walk away from the table. He rushes past you, stepping in front of you to stop you from walking.

“You can’t leave y/n,”

Your head jilts back in confusion, “Why not?”

“We ruined Karli’s plans, so she is trying to find us. That’s why Sam and James are out hiding and why we must remain here,”

“I can handle Karli,” you tell Zemo, trying to step past him, but his hand reaches out and grasps your arm firmly.

“Not a super-soldier y/n. It’s too dangerous, especially after your recovery. James and Sam will reach out to me once it is clear to leave, but for now, we stay.”

You huff in frustration, shaking Zemo’s hand off your arm as you cross them. “Well, at least get me a phone so I can keep in contact with them too,”

“I’m afraid I can’t get you a phone currently, but you are welcomed to use mine. Alas, James and Sam have my number but I don’t have theirs’s so unless you remember their numbers we have to wait till they message first to reach out to them,”

You let out a melodramatic sigh, rolling your head looking to the side of the room then back to Zemo.

“So what the hell am I to do to keep occupied?”

Zemo tilts his head, his eyes flicker to the side in thought as he opens his mouth wordlessly and his eyes move back to yours, his eyebrows raising as he frowns thinking over the idea that has just entered his head.

-

With his fingers, Zemo, gazing at you eagerly, beckoned you down the corridor, towards a giant door that was at the end.

“I’m not a dog Zemo” you complain as you follow him

“Have you ever heard of dramatic effect?”

Zemo had taken off his apron and replaced it with that coat he loved to wear so much. You firmly believed it gave him a power complex. He strutted to the end of the hallway and placed his hands on the door. His face turns to you smirking, enjoying this dramatic pause as you roll your eyes at him. He pushes the door open and stands to the side, sweeping his arm across the space to let you in.

You walk past him and your eyes widen in amazement as you walk into the most magnificent library you had ever seen. The room itself stretched out almost further than you could see, seeming to go on and on. The shelves looked like they reached up to the sky, each one stacked with thousands of beautiful hardback books. The design of it looked like you had just stepped into heaven, with white and gold being the main colour scheme. On the ceiling was a painted sky with the gods on, looking down at you. On the pillars separating the shelves were little cherubs, their bows positioned to pierce your heart. Everything about this library was beautiful. It felt like a library that should belong to a museum not kept in this private mansion.

“You see why the dramatic effect was necessary?” Zemo says stepping up beside you, looking out at the shelves before you.

“Zemo this is… this is beautiful,”

His eyes flicker to you then back to the library, a smile appearing on his lips, “Yes, I suppose it is. When I was younger, I had always taken things like this for granted, but after my time in prison I believe it’s made me more humble,”

You walk over to the nearest bookshelf, letting your fingers brush over the colourful hardbacks. You pull one book out, stroking the golden platted side. “You must have every practically every book in existence here”

“I have more books than I could ever get round to reading. You can find anything you want to read here,”

After ten minutes you had gathered a rather sizable book pile you were determined to read, full of fictional and non-fictional books, some of your favorites and some you had never read before.

Zemo chuckled as you tried to hold all of them in your grasp. As you picked one up, the book on the very top of your pile slipped and fell to the floor. Panic surged in you, worried you would damage something so expensive, but Zemo’s hand appears and catches it before it could hit the ground.

Straightening up, he gave you an amused smile, “Maybe you should let me help carry them”

Accepting his help, he takes half the book pile off you and guides you over to a place deep in the library where you two could read. There were two light green armchairs facing each other, with a fireplace just behind them. To the side of the chairs were small tables which contained bookmarks, a goblet, and an ashtray, and to the side of one chair was a globe which could be opened, and inside it held a decanter full of whiskey.

Zemo places the books in his arms on the table then walks over to one shelf, browsing till he finally finds the book he was looking for. He returns to find you getting comfortable in your chair, opening the first book.

“Whisky?” he asks, opening up the globe beside him.

A few days ago you would have said ‘no, no way,’ but today you smile and nod your head, reaching out with the glass beside you to gracefully accept the drink.

-

The next couple of days were spent similarly with you and Zemo spending much of your time reading in the library together. Occasionally you two would even read to each other as he had first done with you when you had woken up here. Though you would never admit it to him, his smokey voice made you very comfortable. If he tried, he could lull you to sleep with that accent of his.

You couldn’t help but try to separate the Zemo you know now as the one you used to hate. Yes, he had torn apart your family, but he had all the reason for what happened to Sokovia, what happened to his family. Plus, this Zemo seemed to try hard to make it up to you. Almost too hard. He was trying everything to keep you entertained while you were stuck here, make your life as comfortable as he could. It was nice.

You strolled into the kitchen hearing the quiet buzz of the radio playing the latest top hits and the sound of someone humming along to the music. In there you find Zemo by the counter, fixated on the bowl he held in his arm and the spoon in his hand as he delicately tries to put the mixture into the cupcake trays before him. You had offered to make food, feeling like he always did too much for you but every day he insisted he would, even on days where it Butler would come around.

“Need help?” you ask, walking over to stand beside him.

He glances at you, then back to the tray he has laid out before him. “I’ve got a handle on this,” he replies just as he spills some mixtures onto the counter, making him swear under his breath.

“Uh-huh, sure,” you say, looking down at the spilled mixture. You turn to face him, letting out a chuff as you place a hand on his arm, “Zemo stop being so prideful and let me help”

As soon as your hand comes in contact with his arm, he freezes. He glances down at the ground, swallowing then his eyes flicker to yours and he smiles gently, his usual arrogance disappearing. “Okay,”

You grab a spoon from the draw and help Zemo scrap off what he puts into his spoon into the cake tray with accuracy. You two stand together, your shoulders brushing up against each other till you finish and put it into the oven.

“We have 30 minutes until we need to get them out. Why don’t you read for a bit while I clean up,”

“I can help clean up,” You tell him already going over to the sink to turn the water on, “You’re not my servant Zemo,”

“Helmut” he suddenly says

You turn back to look at him, confused at the seriousness of his face, “Please y/n, call me Helmut,”

Your mouth moves wordlessly for a moment, then you say, “Helmut,” trying the name out on your tongue. You were so used to calling him Zemo, you had forgotten that that wasn’t his first name.

“Thank you” he whispers, glancing away from you bashfully.

He takes a towel off the side of the rail and dries up everything you washed as you two settled into a peculiar silence.

Attempting to liven the atmosphere again, you put a cup just at the right angle of the running tap that the water splashed into Zemo’s coat. He steps back shocked, glancing down at his coat then back to you. He lets out a laugh, his mouth open in surprise that you would do that. “Oh, if that is how it is”

Zemo quickly grabs a mug, running it under the following water. Realizing what he was going to do you let out a squeal and rush for the door but you don’t get far enough till you feel the water hit your back, soaking your t-shirt.

“Helmut!” you gasp as he chuckles at you. You run forward to grab the nearest thing in front of you to chuck it at him, a piece of bread in this case but he ducks as it flies over him. He fills the cup up again and runs towards you but you get to the table and hide on the other side till you were both poised opposite each other waiting for one of you to make the first move.

“This isn’t fair!” you whine, feeling the coldness of your t-shirt cling to your back. “Who said anything about fairness!” Zemo shouted back, grinning at you.

Eventually, you two called a truce when the oven chimes letting you two know the cupcakes were finished baking. After that day, Zemo always asked if you wanted to help him make meals.

-

“Is the popcorn ready?” you shout as you jump up from the floor where you were placing the DVD into the DVD player.

“Almost done” Zemo calls out.

While waiting, you settle yourself down on the middle of the red sofa, twisting your back to get that perfect spot as you stared up at the giant screen in front of you.

Zemo emerges from the kitchen holding the popcorn and places the bowl onto the table in front of you. He settles down beside you, instantly positioning his arms on the top of the sofa, resting behind your head.

He leans forward to pick up some of the popcorn, tossing it in his mouth as he asks you what you have chosen to watch tonight.

“Beauty and the Beast,” you say excitingly and Zemo coughs, leaning forward as he accidentally inhaled the popcorn in his mouth.

He wipes the tear from his eye as he leans back and you give him a confused look, “Do you not like the film?”

“No-no, it’s not that. W-why do you want to watch the film?”

“It’s my favorite Disney film,”

He nods his head slightly looking down at the popcorn, “I see…” he then glances back to you, looking you in the eyes, “Why is it your favorite Disney film?”

You lean back sighing as you think the movie over, “Well, I’ve loved it since I was a kid. I always wanted to be like Bell and I found the beast so sweet and gentle”

“Even though he imprisoned her?”

“He let her go in the end, and she came back to him”

Zemo opened his mouth wanting to say more, but you sushed him as the movie started, wanting to concentrate only on it.

Zemo turned down the lights to make the experience feel as cinematic as he could of you. Grabbing the bowel he offered you some of the popcorn and you smiled at him in thanks. He tried to enjoy the movie, but his eyes kept wandering back to you, watching your expressions as you watched the movie. His heart skipped a beat every time you laughed at it when that gorgeous smile would grace your face, even in the sad moments where it looked like you were about to cry. He loved seeing how you reacted to everything. There were so many things he had taken for granted, and it felt like he was discovering them all over again with you. It fascinated him to find out the beauty and the beast was your favorite film. It was almost ironic given your current situation, one of which you remained painfully unaware of. He knew he couldn’t keep you in the dark forever. Sam and James were bound to discover where you two were eventually, which is why he wanted to enjoy every moment he had with you to the fullest before it was over.

As the movie went on, Zemo could feel your body moving closer and closer to him. The heat that radiated from your body made him want to wrap his arms around you, but he didn’t know if that would go too far. Roughly by the end of the movie, your head rested against his chest, moving slightly up and down as he breathed. He could tell by your shallow breathing you had entered the realm of dreams.

Looking down at you, he couldn’t help but admire how peaceful you looked. When on the mission with Sam and James you had always appeared tense, prepared to fight your way out of a situation as soon as possible, but at this moment you were relaxed and it made his heart flutter. He could look at you forever like this and never tire of it.

He had found himself in the past comparing you to his wife. He felt conflicted feeling this way about another woman, but how he felt about you differed from how he felt about his wife. It was new, exciting, addicting. Slowly raising his hand, he brushes a piece of hair that had fallen over your face while you slept. Your skin was smooth against his fingers and so soft. His fingers lingered on your skin before finally, he let his arm rest around your body, holding you close as you slept against his chest.

-

Your arms were raised, feeling the walls on either side of you as you tried to figure out if you were going and if you were about to bump into anything while Zemo’s hands were clasped around your eyes tightly.

“Don’t you trust me y/n” he whispers in your year, snickering.

“Do you want a pleasant lie or the harsh truth?” you ask, turning your head slightly but Zemo tuts and moves your head back with his hands

“Not long now, just a few more steps,”

“Till what!” you whine

“Be patient y/n!”

Zemo lifts one hand of your eyes telling you to keep them close and you hear the creak of a door open ahead of you. His hand returns to your face and with slightly pushing his body against yours, he urges you forward into this new room.

“Can I finally look now?”

Zemo removes his hands and steps back from you, “Okay y/n, open your eyes”

Opening them you gasped in shock seeing what was before you. On a stand was a replica of Belle’s dress in Beauty and the Beast. Its honey yellow colour shone out, the top of it tightly clung to the mannequin it was on while the bottom poofed out, it hung with no shoulder straps and came with yellow gloves. Everything about it was perfect.

“Helmut I- I’m, stunned,”

“You like it?” he asks anxiously

You turn to him grinning, “Of course I do!”

You hug him tightly, ecstatic, then rushed over to the dress, brushing your fingers along it. “It’s beautiful” you whisper.

“I think I got the sizes right,” Zemo says coming up beside you, a pink tinge to his cheeks, “There’s only one way to know for you,” he adds on, turning to you giving you a gentle smile

He helps you take the dress off and chuckles as he watches you rush off with it to get changed, then leaves to get changed himself.

The dress fitted perfectly on you. Everything from the bust down to the waist. Even the gloves fitted perfectly. When you entered the bathroom, you found Zemo had even found some make-up in case you wanted to use any. He thought of everything.

Finally looking at yourself in the mirror, you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face. You truly felt like a Disney princess. Slowly you walked back down the stairs and enter the room Zemo had to lead you in, to begin with. As you walked in, let out a merry laugh as you saw Zemo, dressed up in a blue jacket, embroidered with yellow roses on the sleeves, just like the beast. He was standing by a record player, putting a disk in as you walked in. He turns to look at you, his mouth opening in wonder.

“Y/n… you look glorious,”

His sincere comment makes your cheeks heat up and you hold your arms out to him, squeezing your hands letting him know you want to hold his hands.

He turns the record on and your favorite song from Beauty and the Beast floats out, making your cells light up with excitement.

“Helmut” you start to say as he walks over to you, holding his hand out, “Why are you doing this?”

He gently takes your gloved hand, bending over to kiss it. “I know it isn’t easy being stuck in here all the time and you said you loved ‘Beauty and the Beast’ so I thought it would make a pleasant treat,”

His arms hesitantly touch your waist as he looks into your eyes as if asking it was okay. You nod and step closer to him, taking his hand in yours holding it up. Getting into the waltz position you two start to move along the dance floor, swaying to the music.

You two slide along the ballroom floor, picking up speed. As you look up to him, he breathes out smiling back down at you happily. His hand on his waist spins your around as your dress flutters out. You squeal in delight as you grasp back onto his hand as you felt dizzy.

You two turn around the floor looking each other deep in the eyes. You could feel his breath on your face as you two were barely inches apart from each other. Zemo pulls you in even closer as your arm goes around his neck, your body pulled into his. He dips you as you cling to him tightly for dear life as the music fades.

He holds you into that position, panting as he looks at you, his eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips. You could feel that pull towards him, your eyes starting to flutter shut. He leans towards you but suddenly you feel your fingers slip and you almost let go of him. His other hand quickly wraps around making sure you don’t fall to the floor.

He helps you back on your feet and you two steps apart. You look away feeling your cheeks burn up again.

“Helmut, thank you. Thank you so much” you tell him earnestly

He looks deep into your eyes, smiling in bliss, “Anything for you y/n”

-

“Y/n, are you awake?”

You groan as you hear Zemo whisper beside you, waking you from your sleep.

“Ugh, Helmut what time is it,” you moan turning over with your eyes are closed.

“It’s 8, time to wake up”

“Nooooo” you whine screwing up your eyelids.

You hear him chuckle and then you feel something push against your lips. You open your eyes confused to see Zemo beside you, holding a strawberry to your lips.

You smile and take a bite out of it, moaning in delight as you taste its sweetness as you sit up. He sits up beside you and holds out some melted chocolate for you to dip the strawberry in.

“Helmut, you spoil me”

“Not enough,” he whispers back as he puts the chocolate-covered strawberry to your lips letting you take another bite.

“I’m not even surprised anymore to see you in my bed when I wake up,” you tell him

“Technically this is my bed”

“You know what I mean!”

He chuckles as he pushes his head back into the headboard, “I thought it would be a nice way for you to wake up,”

“Consider me impressed,” you tell him, looking over at him smiling. He glances back to you, his lips twitching up. You lean into his side, not caring at the moment you were in a simple nightdress. You close your eyes inhaling his cologne and picking up a strawberry to feed to him.

“I could get used to this,” you whisper to him

-

You scan the piano music book before looking back down to the notes before you. It had been a while since you had last played so you thought you might as well pick it up while you were stuck in Zemo’s mansion.

You press the notes but every time you tried to play one of the chords you always missed one. You were trying to play your favorite song 'Comptine d'un autre été' but to no avail.

“You need to flow with the music and not worry about hitting the right notes”

You turn around and smile as you see Zemo approach you from behind. “Isn’t the whole point of music to play the right notes?” you say sarcastically

Zemo lets out a huff chuckling, “Well yes but you’ll hit the notes when you stop trying so hard. Now try again”

You turn back around and attempt the music again but hit the wrong notes making you slam the piano in annoyance.

“Don’t damage the piano”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, “I should give up,”

“No don’t do that” Zemo says, brushing his fingers over your waist, “Here let me help you”

He puts his hands on top of yours guiding them, “Let’s try again,”

You look to the music then back down to your hands which had Zemo’s resting on and attempt to start playing again. His hands moved in time with yours as they guided along with the piano, pressing down on your fingers when you needed to. You got every note. Well, Zemo got every note.

“See, easy,” he says as he pulls back from you. “Now try again”

You attempt to play again but feeling his eyes stare into your back you couldn’t concentrate and messed up the notes again.

“We just went through this!”

“It’s hard to concentrate with you staring at me!” you exclaim turning around to him. Your eyes widen as what you just said as he tilts his head, a smug smile appearing on his lips.

“Oh, I make it hard for you to concentrate do I?”

You groan at his cockiness, looking away from him so he doesn’t see your glistening red cheeks.

He walks up behind you again, his fingers grazing your jawline, stopping at your chin as he raises your head to look up at him. Seeing him look down at you made a knot in your stomach tighten.

“You are awfully red y/n”

“Shut up”

He chuckles and leans down, placing a kiss on your forehead, “I like it when you blush”

The breath gets caught in your lungs as you feel his lips on your forehead, their softness cooling your burning skin.

For the first time in your life, you were rendered speechless, by Helmut Zemo no less.

His teeth flash in his smile as he looks down at you, “Come let’s practice this again” he says, leaning over as his back pressed into yours, putting his hands back on top of yours.

-

“Zemo do you mind if I borrow your phone briefly to see if that new video has been released?” you call out picking up Zemo’s phone that he had left on your seat.

“Go ahead! Just don’t check anything else on there” he yells back

“Worried I will find your nudes?” you call out as you unlock the phone. Pressing onto the youtube app you sigh in annoyance seeing no new video and so you were about to put the phone back down when a message appeared from a contact simply labeled ‘S’

It read, ‘S: Look just tell us where you have taken her. Whatever you are doing with her it isn’t worth it”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion at what the hell could that message mean. You click onto the message stream just to see a ton of messages from this ‘S’ contact but with no reply from Zemo.

You hesitate for a moment, knowing Zemo wouldn’t want you to do what you were about to do, but your curiosity got the best of you and you pressed the call button.

It rang for a few seconds and then the line picked up.

“Zemo” Sam’s voice rang out through the phone

“Sam?” you ask back

“W-what, YN/!? Are you okay? Where are you?”

“Woah Woah Sam, calm down, I’m fine! I’m with Helmut-Sam what is going on?”

“What has he done to you?”

“What do you mean he's done nothing, Sam I thought me and Helmut were hiding out here till Karli was done with her plan?”

You hear a sigh down the phone and then the muffled voices of what you could make out as Bucky and Sharon down the line.

Sam picked the phone back up and spoke directly, “Y/n you need to get out of there now. Zemo, he's kidnapped you”

The phone slips from your hand and lands on the floor with a loud crash.

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[hongism]

mists of celeste ➻ 33.5

➻ pairing for this interim: seonghwa x hongjoong ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, fluff ➻ word count: 4.0k ➻ rating: M ➻ warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

✧✧✧  act four ➻ part 8.5

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“You need rest too, Seonghwa.”

Said lieutenant lets his eyes flutter open at the sound of the voice, and he shifts to glance back at the person who just entered the room. It’s Jongho rather than Yunho for once; the damn healer won’t quit popping in to chastise Seonghwa for his less than stellar sleeping habits, but the lieutenant could not care less to be frank. If it’s for his captain, he would do whatever it takes no matter the sacrifice.

“Did you just come back from visiting Yeosang?” Seonghwa inquires instead of addressing the issue at hand. He pulls back a bit from Hongjoong’s bedside, knees scraping hard on the floor in a way that should burn, but his legs have long since gone somewhat numb. It’s a pointless pursuit really because Jongho already saw him pressed so close to Hongjoong’s side with both hands clasped over one of his captain’s clammy and cold ones. Still, it offers at least a bit of peace of mind to turn away and look at someone who is both conscious and responsive.

“I did, yeah.”

“And? How is he today?”

Jongho sways his head from side to side for a moment. Seonghwa doesn’t need to be a genius to understand what that means, but it does help in deciphering the lingering emotion behind Jongho’s red eyes.

“That bad?”

“I wish I could say he was better today but… nightmares.” Jongho inhales sharply. Perhaps Seonghwa should be the one tending to Yeosang’s mental state, but there is a bit of hesitance there because he feels quite a bit of failure himself when he looks at the Elitist. Once upon a time, he had sworn on pain of death that he would take care of Wooyoung and help keep him safe. He failed beautifully at doing even that simple task. Just as he failed you in his promises to keep you safe. As well as the endless promises he gave to Hongjoong about protecting him from harm.

Maybe that is the one thing Seonghwa is doomed to fail at time and time again without cease.

Still, this burden is a lot to put on Jongho’s shoulders, especially as a Berserker and especially since he lost someone himself.

“And you? Are you having nightmares as well?”

“Bold of you to assume that I’m even sleeping,” Jongho quips in response without a drop of hesitation. It stabs a deep gash into Seonghwa’s heart, one the emanates off his shoulders in waves. No doubt Jongho can feel that pain, but he doesn’t let his features shift in the slightest. “But no, I’m not having nightmares. Mingi is… I trust him. I know what he’s capable of and how much he’s willing to fight not only for himself but also for the crew. He is stronger than he knows, and his protective instincts are stronger than the bloodthirsty ones. He will keep them safe, and he’ll keep himself safe in the process. I’ve been sleeping on the couch in Yeosang’s room to help when he wakes up from the nightmares. Hard to sleep when he can barely go ten minutes without having bad dreams.”

“Ah,” Seonghwa exhales, and he needs no further explanation than that.

It is something Jongho used to do for San as well: stay in the young man’s room not long after the mutiny happened because the trauma and horrifying memories that the event resurfaced for San were nearly too much to bear. Jongho stayed in there for several months just to keep the man sane through the night. Seonghwa has never been on the receiving end of Jongho’s comfort, but he has seen the impact of it. Allowing someone to come so close to your heart and trauma is a special thing already, but having someone feel everything you feel while going through those traumatic memories is far more intimate. Despite his all too keen ability to help the crew through moments of emotional turmoil, Jongho rarely remembers to look after himself as well. He still absorbs those negative and overwhelming feelings, but he conceals the pains that he is left with as not to worry anyone. Seonghwa has watched the boy grow up — he knows him well enough to pick the pieces of his cracked shell away and see what’s underneath.

“You ought to sleep here tonight.” It isn’t an offer or something to be considered. Seonghwa might phrase it as one, but the command is in his tone and on his lips. “I’ll sleep in Yeosang’s room in case he wakes up from nightmares.”

“Seonghwa—”

“It is not up for discussion, Jongho.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” the Berserker argues, leveling Seonghwa with a pointed glare. “I’ll ask Yunho to sleep in there tonight, if that’s what will make you feel better. But Hongjoong… Captain could wake up at any minute, and if your face isn’t the first he sees—”

“That’s enough, Jongho.” Seonghwa doesn’t quite like the implication behind that comment. There are too many emotions tied to it, too many past memories that should stay buried in that, and Seonghwa has to swallow to push the growing lump in his throat down. “That will work fine, as long as you give yourself a night off to actually rest.”

“We didn’t leave these empty cots in here for no reason,” Jongho tries again. “At least try to sleep some tonight, if nothing else. We need everyone at high alert for whatever is to come out of this shady ass Spectre and the recovery mission.”

“Okay… okay, I’ll rest too,” Seonghwa relents. Jongho has a point, but the Berserker has always been both quick with his wits and on his feet. Perhaps if Hongjoong doesn’t awaken then —

That thought comes out of the blue, intrudes on his mind, and leaves him choked. Seonghwa clasps a shaky hand over his mouth as a gasp slips out. There is no hiding the sudden wave of emotions that washes over him, not with Jongho in the room, and the Berserker rushes forward to meet Seonghwa on the floor. His knees hit the wood so roughly that it hurts Seonghwa’s ears.

The easiest thing to do would be to get rid of the weak link and ascend to power.

Seonghwa can’t help but slam the heel of his hand down roughly on his temple. It is enough to drive that maddening voice in his head away for now, although moderately concerning to the man kneeling across from him. These thoughts come too easily these days; without Hongjoong there to keep him grounded with constant reminders, Seonghwa finds his hold on the thin thread losing strength with each passing second. Maybe that’s why he can’t truly rest, because he is in the same boat as Yeosang in terms of nightmares.

“Seonghwa…” Jongho’s voice holds warning in it, but the older man pushes that concern to the side and fixes his gaze on the young Berserker.

“I’m okay.”

“You know you can’t lie to me.”

“Yes, but I also know that there is nothing you can do for me, Jongho,” Seonghwa murmurs the words through a smile, and Jongho’s gaze turns almost melancholic.

“I could take it away,” he says, daring to look the lieutenant in the eye.

“Hongjoong gave you orders not to do that.”

“I’ve done it for San in the past. I… did it for Y/N once without her knowing too.”

“That was different, Jongho.” Seonghwa pushes a new resolution into his stare, hoping that it will be enough to dissuade the man. “The emotional and mental pain it would cause you is not something we need right now. Do not think to do it to me now, and certainly do not think to do it to Yeosang either.”

Jongho shakes his head a bit.

“Yeosang will be okay. I trust that. As awful as the nightmares are, it eases a bit to see Wooyoung even for a few seconds in his dreams. You on the other hand…”

Is he weak in Jongho’s eyes? Is that it? Seonghwa lets his gaze drop to the floor, then quickly pushes himself up to his full height. His legs are a bit wobbly at first thanks to how long he had been kneeling before Hongjoong’s cot, but he manages not to make a fool of himself and fall over on the spot.

“I’m perfectly okay, and I will be even better when Hongjoong wakes up. Now please go get some rest.” Jongho exhales a deep sigh but doesn’t fight the lieutenant’s words. Just as he is turning on his heel to leave the room though, a new thought flashes across Seonghwa’s mind, and he calls out after Jongho to stop him. “Also, Jongho — if you could please check in with Y/N, just to see how she is? I think… I think the combination of seeing a person from her past and the stress of the others being gone is weighing on her more than she claims.”

“Of course. I was going to head over there regardless.”

If the relief shows on Seonghwa’s features, Jongho decides not to comment on it and leaves without any further ado. Seonghwa doesn’t turn back to look at Hongjoong’s reclining body until the door snaps shut behind Jongho. The silence that returns is thick and palpable, almost choking the lieutenant with its strength. He weaves around the side of the empty cot beside Hongjoong’s and nudges it carefully forward until the bed lies directly beside where his captain lies. Yunho will surely make his rounds again later, but Seonghwa cannot find it in him to care, even if his actions are grossly pathetic and pitiful on many levels. He doesn’t want to think about how sad it must look to see the renowned Lieutenant of Death stooping so low as to lie beside his captain simply because he cannot handle this prolonged unconsciousness. He isn’t sure there has ever been a period of time like this before where Hongjoong was absent in such a way, not since before Seonghwa met him at least.

Seonghwa slips onto the cold and empty cot, tugging the blanket atop back so he can situate himself underneath, and once he’s fully reclined, he dares to let himself look over Hongjoong’s features.

Relaxed and calm for once. Too often does he see the man with brows knit together in concern and worry. This is a welcome change, even if it comes with having to see scratches and bruises on Hongjoong’s otherwise flawless visage.

Seonghwa twists onto his side and faces the man before stretching a hesitant hand out to comb Hongjoong’s unkempt hair down.

Get rid of the weak link.

There goes that nagging voice again. Seonghwa has to remind himself that it isn’t him necessarily; rather it is the result of amassing rumors and things people have made him out to be over the years.

Hongjoong is many things, but weak is not and could never be one of them.

People call Seonghwa the Lieutenant of Death for a reason, and sometimes he lets himself be consumed by their words and beliefs. According to Hongjoong, that is what caused that little voice to rise and gain power in Seonghwa’s mind. The lieutenant has found himself thinking about the initial conversation that happened well over a year ago more and more these past few days. It is that same memory that comes over him and lives in his dreams when his eyelids finally droop. Seonghwa falls asleep with his hand falling to rest over the steady rise and fall of Hongjoong’s chest, right over where his heart beats on and on beneath the confines of his body.

…

“Do you… do you ever get that voice in your head? The inhumane one who can only be cruel?” Seonghwa asks, tone shaky and unsteady as he presents the question to Hongjoong. The young captain stands across the room with hands trailing over his shelves in search of one book in particular, but Seonghwa’s question stops him in his tracks.

“Yes. Always. More often than not, I listen to it. Kim Hongjoong is not the Scourge of the Black Sea. They are two separate entities — one is merely a captain trying to do what he can for his crew. The other is a monster, cold and heartless who does not know the meaning of mercy or kindness. He kills for sport because it’s fun, easy, ruthless. It’s what he is good at. He works towards a revenge that can never be achieved.”

“That’s not true, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa insists through a slight sigh. He lets his weight fall onto the edge of Hongjoong’s desk, arms coming up to cross over his chest in a way that is meant to chastise his captain, but the other man barely spares him a glance.

“No, but it is what people believe me to be. And if I cave in to their desires and believe them for even a second, then that nasty voice in my head wins. I will be all those things and more. But most of all, I will lose everything I have worked towards all these years. I will lose all the care I have for this crew, the passion and determination I have for my goal, the sheer will to keep on living. The Scourge of the Black Sea has no need for anything of those things, but Kim Hongjoong does. I have to remind myself of that every single day to keep from losing my mind.”

“That’s all it takes?” Seonghwa’s tone holds a certain suspension of disbelief to it.

“Are you Park Seonghwa or are you my Lieutenant of Death?”

“I am yours. Whatever that entails.”

That catches Hongjoong a bit off-guard, and the man actually sputters and fumbles with his next words upon hearing Seonghwa’s quick-spoken statement. He recovers just as quickly though, not leaving any further cracks in his composure, and steps closer to where Seonghwa leans against the desk.

“Allow me to rephrase that question then.” Hongjoong keeps moving forward until there is minimal space left between their bodies, and Seonghwa tries not to be haughty in the way he has to look down to meet his captain’s gaze. “Are you merely what others make you out to be? Or is the Seonghwa who stands in front of me now more than that? More than a bloodthirsty and heartless grunt who cannot think for himself. A failed soldier who is only good at following orders. Someone so cruel that even death itself would turn his back in shame because of the destruction you leave in your wake. Is that the Seonghwa I know?”

“Never,” Seonghwa whispers into the space between them. Hongjoong squints a little and presses ever closer. The elder of the two can feel the other’s breath panting hard against his own lips, and the sensation sends chills down his spine and leaves goosebumps to trail over his arms.

“Never,” Hongjoong echoes through a small smile. “Because my Park Seonghwa is one who is kind and compassionate. A person who loves without fail or error, forgives with too much ease, cares for others more than he cares for himself. Cherishes the loyal and spurns the betrayers. Looks for the good in others yet is quickest to judge himself in times of distress. My Park Seonghwa gives… and gives without even thinking to stop something for himself, and should he ever do what is necessary for his own good, he calls it selfish desire. So no, you are not my Lieutenant of Death. And as long as you remember that, remember why you are not and can never be that entity — that monster who resides deep in your heart and soul — that voice will never win. It will never take over. You will never be what they make you out to be.”

“I cannot remember that without you, Joong,” Seonghwa murmurs. Perhaps he lets too much emotion slip into his tone or he is overstepping his boundaries in their little hierarchy. Hongjoong doesn’t chastise him or ridicule him for the words, though.

“And luckily for you, we spend nearly every minute together. I will — I’ll remind you of it however often you need me to.” Hongjoong draws his lower lip between his teeth and chews at the skin a few times. “I trust you to remind me that I am more than my failures, as you have done so every day since the mutiny.”

The mutiny. They don’t discuss that event. It is too raw, too emotional, too sensitive for Hongjoong. How long has it been now? Three months? Two? Most definitely two, maybe less. It isn’t that Seonghwa doesn’t understand why it is a touchy subject — he merely learned early on not to grow too attached to people in his life. He supposes he is making a mockery of that lesson as he looks deep into Hongjoong’s dark eyes and regards the man with so much care and affection.

Hongjoong begins to drop his chin, but Seonghwa is quicker, hands stretching out to cup the man’s face just under his jaw. He isn’t sure why exactly he does that; something comes over him and causes him to reach out. Hongjoong blinks back at him with wide eyes. The lights in the room reflect off those dark orbs and make Seonghwa see stars in them.

Seonghwa doesn’t realize that his jaw is hanging open until his mouth goes dry, and he chokes on a parched throat as he tries to swallow around nothing. Hongjoong pushes the flat of his hand to Seonghwa’s chest. For a moment, the older man thinks he is trying to push him away and he starts to withdraw his hands, but the Hongjoong pushes ever closer until his knees push between Seonghwa’s.

“You were the first to trust me. The first to join me. The only one who didn’t look down on me. You didn’t treat me like a slave, didn’t amount me to being a former slave, nor did you judge me when you learned of my true class. You, Park Seonghwa, who had nothing in life but a will to live, gave me everything. I may not be able to give you the same in return, but I don’t take that sacrifice lightly.” Seonghwa’s jaw stutters as he tries to come up with the right words to say. All his mind can do is repeat ‘I’m not him, I never will be, I cannot be what he was, I cannot replace him’.

“I’m not Jin,” he says without thinking, and that causes Hongjoong to draw back all of a sudden. Seonghwa’s hands slip away from his face. He draws back so much that the space between their bodies is suddenly infinite, and Seonghwa regrets speaking so fucking much that the sensation nearly cripples him. “Hongjoong, that’s not — I didn’t mean—”

“Perhaps I have done something wrong along the way if you truly believe that is all I would amount you to,” Hongjoong bites out, cutting off the apology on Seonghwa’s lips. “I do not think you to be a replacement of any kind. Yes, Jin and I had a special relationship, we were close, I trusted him. But you, Seonghwa, you have always been more. I told you that when I asked you to be my Lieutenant. You asked why I chose you over him and maybe it is just as simple as the fact that I trust you.”

Hongjoong heaves a deep breath and shifts to blink at the ceiling. Seonghwa gnaws on the inside of his cheek with shame burning his neck and face. When Hongjoong speaks again, he draws closer to Seonghwa once more, this time with more haste and force. He grips Seonghwa’s chin harshly between his fingers, squeezing the skin so hard that it stings a bit. Seonghwa doesn’t dare to move under the captain’s touch though; he lets Hongjoong yank him down to be eye level and stares back without blinking.

“You are treasure, Seonghwa. You have always been a treasure to me, since long before I ever learned that you’re a Siren. Before you, I had nothing to live for or protect except a desperate need for revenge.” Hongjoong’s eyes glisten now. Seonghwa can’t recall even a single instance where he saw the man cry, not even in the aftermath of the mutiny, and that shatters his resolve more than anything else. “I came to want to protect you. And as the crew grew, you taught me to care for them as well, to protect them and cherish them. Jin never taught me that, you did. My Park Seonghwa, my lieutenant, my treasure.”

Seonghwa can’t help himself. He brushes the pads of his fingers over Hongjoong’s cheek as though to merely confirm that the man is real and standing before him. Before he can blink, Hongjoong twists his neck and presses a soft kiss to those lingering fingers. Seonghwa finds himself stunned into a frozen state. The man before him keeps kissing along the length of his fingers, his free hand pulling up to interlock their fingers when he reaches the bend of Seonghwa’s wrist. It is certainly not their first kiss — they shared many fumbling and awkward and meaningless attempts at kisses in their early years along with several small drunken pecks that were given merely as comfort and nothing more. They never had much emotion tied to them, not any romantic ones in the very least. Some went just like this, some were ghosting touches on the head or nose or cheek or even on the lips, few and far between but they certainly added up over the years.

Hongjoong pulls Seonghwa down the rest of the way. When their lips collide, the taste is salty and wet on Seonghwa’s tongue, but he doesn’t stop to think about that. Instead, he throws his arms about Hongjoong’s waist and pulls him to his chest as though to kiss the tears away just like this. Seonghwa hates to say that this one feels different because it could just be something meant to comfort each other now. It could only be different because Hongjoong cries against him now, hands dropping to fumble and grasp at Seonghwa’s shoulders and back as he tries to lessen the already minimal space between their bodies.

They have to pull apart because Hongjoong sobs into Seonghwa’s mouth, and the latter detaches their lips so they can catch their breath. Rather than hiding his face, Hongjoong blinks furiously against the tears and stares Seonghwa directly in the eye without shame or insecurity.

“You once swore to stay by my side for eternity. I never answered you then but I will now, and I won’t ask you to stay or demand that you do that. Whether I live or die, however this journey ends, whether we succeed or fail, I will do it with you no matter what. We do this together or not at all. Whatever together means — should it be as simple as you being on the crew and not caring for me in the slightest, or with you at my side like this.”

God, that hurts so much. It burns Seonghwa’s chest and leaves him with a deep gash that festers and boils over. He can’t bring himself to say anything in response. He knows his own tears are ready to spill down the balls of his cheeks, so rather than making them fall faster by trying to speak, he merely tugs Hongjoong back to him and seals their lips together once more.

✧✧✧ a/n: hi :3 surprise :3 guess who :3 seongjoong time :3 insight time :3 hints and bread crumb trail throughout :3 im playing but fr there are hints there are insights there are emotions and lots of serious talk and i’ve been wanting to write another piece on seongjoong for the longest time so i’m glad this idea came to me and i am even MORE glad that it turned out the way it did! fr this hiatus has been too good to me, i’ve never been more proud of my work than i am now!

taglist: @faeriewoobin​​ @sugarrimajins​​ @atinyinwonderland​​ @2504-life @lil7bluedragon​ @sparklychangbin​​ @jeong-uwu​​ @jeonartemis​​ @anothershorthuman​​ @xxbluestrifexx​​​ @haotheheckk​​ @noonawriter​​ @lostscenarios​​ @nlost21​​ @mirror-juliet​​ @okokokok123-45​ @purple-aeon​ @theoinkypiglet​ @toothlessshiber​ @atinyarmyx1​ @simpforhyunjin​ @hwangwoosan​ @vampire-jimin​ @softyubi​ @drumboydowoon​ @chatsgotmytongue​ @just-a-starfruit​ @babydolljo​ @scintillating-souls​ @khjssss​ @felixity​ @rawrrainn​ @hewwo-from-the-other-side​ @icekdy​

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

[fairycosmos]

hey, i have a sister who struggles with addiction. she moved out from our parents to my place when she turned 18, so that she could have some space and that her highs and lows wouldnt affect our younger siblings that much. but shes been going through a hard time for quite long now, which causes her to treat us around her like complete shit. her behaviour led into a pretty bad argument, which led to me driving her to our parents in the middle of the night cause i couldnt mentally or physically handle the shit she was giving me anymore. after that night, she never returned to mine and told our parents to pick her stuff and move it into a new apartment that she got for herself (which locates in the same building as her friends who she uses substances with). she hasnt reached out to me at all, even though we have been around each other and i cant bare to approach her either, cause im still upset and hurt. my mom said that shes already prepared to lose her. i heard from her friends that shes told them that if she goes unconscious, theyre not allowed to call the ambulance or try to help her. i am worried sick to my stomach everytime i think about her and i feel so powerless. my parents just say that theres nothing more we can do, she goes to psychotherapy and shes under the social services but still i feel like we should do something more to help her or to stop her from destroying herself. im so sorry if this message makes you feel uncomfortable, but since ive followed you for quite awhile and i know your experiences with these things, i would appreciate if you could help me with this situation or at least try to give me some advice, how to cope with these feelings that come from loving your sister that struggles. i dont want to lose her.

hey, i am so sorry to hear this. there's a lot i could say and a lot i want to say but can't really articulate. i don't think there's any one size fits all advice for such a complex and heartbreaking situation. i guess i'll begin with what i'm sure of, and that is that your boundaries and feelings are justified. addiction literally rewires your brain and perception of the world beyond recognition, to the point where the only thing the person cares about is their vice. it's just total tunnel vision, selfishness denial and violence on top of selfishness denial and violence. being around ppl like that, especially a loved one, is beyond exhausting, it's its own special kind of hell. like screaming at a brick wall. it's totally understandable that you had to take a step back after falling victim to her erratic, manipulative and abusive behaviour. the drug use explains it but it absolutely does not excuse it. you're really brave for putting your foot down and prioritizing your own mental stability when it all got to be too much. know you never have to regret that. having said that, it's possible for two conflicting feelings to coexist and for them both to be (for lack of a better word) valid. she's your sister - of course you're worried, of course you're terrified for her. of course you love her even while feeling like you hate her, at times. it's alright to let your emotions be illogical, to just weather the storm and let them pass through you. write it down, talk to your loved ones, maybe consider speaking to a therapist or hotline over it. it's perfectly normal to need that support and talking through your circumstances may be illuminating/lead to some personal revelations regarding how you want to approach this. ultimately, you're angry because you care. after a while i was like that too, with my sister. although i tried to let her know that i was more worried than frustrated during our conversations, sometimes i still couldn't help the internal rage. all because i wanted her to wake up to reality and for her to be okay - i didn't get her thought process at all, didn't get her version of the world. and i felt so fucking powerless because she just strayed so quickly from her path, despite what she was telling me, despite her being relatively fine mere months prior. despite us being best friends and on good terms. it's a headfuck, and you don't have to know what to do, you don't have to have anything figured out. just try to focus on what you need, today.

the hardest thing to accept is the fundamental truth of the situation, and that is that you can't fix this for her. can't love her out of it, can't enable her out of it, can't fight her out of it. all you can do is be there for her emotionally while still maintaining the appropriate boundaries necessary to preserve ur own mental wellbeing. it's completely okay if you need more time - i know you said you cant bear to reach out to her at the moment, which makes total sense. but since you sent this message and i can still see that you're beyond concerned and it's only getting worse, maybe you could consider calling her or sending her a text or meeting her for coffee when you're ready. just to let her know you haven't stopped thinking of her. and that you care about her so much, that when/if she's ready to get help you will be with her every step of the way. even if shes battling addiction for the rest of her life. if she screams at you, if she breaks down, if she ignores you for what you say - fine. but at least she'll know on some level that she is not alone, and at least you'll know you did what you could with what was in your control. also about her being under social services - is there any way you could get in touch with them, maybe explain that youre still worried about her and that you think she needs a higher level of care, maybe ask them if theres anything proactive you can do in collaboration with them to maximize the help shes getting? i dont know how it works where you are, that might be a no go, but i just thought i'd mention it. i'm sorry, i know it's a disappointing answer, but i really don't realistically think there's any other. there's only so much of this that is in your hands and so far it sounds like you've done and are doing everything possible to stay sane while looking out for her. i really really hope something clicks for her and that she starts to listen to you and her loved ones soon, that she begins to approach recovery out of the genuine need to get better. but it really does have to come from within her, all you can do is encourage it. im sending you both so much love. i know more than anyone how fucking stressful it is to have to wake up to this every day, and i'm so sorry. if you need someone to talk to, my inbox will always be open. you deserve peace in your own life, too. take care x

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[freaoscanlin]

In the Arms of an Aila

Fandom: High Rollers Aerois Campaign

Notes: Rated PG, 4438 words, trigger warnings for minor blood mentions. This is a Uni AU wherein the Storm Chasers are a group of students sharing a house on Stormchaser Avenue after their dormitory burns down. Shout out to @obishenshenobi for being amazing and co-writing this series with me!

Summary: Four times Aila carries the party, and one time they return the favor.

Read it on AO3

“Hey, Aila?” Nova said.

“What?”

“Just...thanks.”

“Very welcome. Just do your part and hold on. Sentry will get mad if I drop you.”

Nova

The blister set in somewhere between mile two and mile four. Since it was supposed to be a five mile hike, and a torrential downpour hit at the end of mile two, soaking them to the bone within minutes, a blister was the last thing Nova needed.

Of course, who really needed a blister? Rubbing an actual sore onto the skin as the first step on the way to a callus was an absolute stupid function of humanity, and human feet should not be designed this way. In fact, all humans were composed of stupid engineering. Her thighs burned, her lower back ached, she was muddy and cross and cold, and the pain rubbing along the back of her heel made her actually want to cry.

“We’ll get to the end soon.” Sentry kept a cheerful look in place. This whole hike had been her idea in the first place, and she’d led the pack all the way out to the waterfall. Which, admittedly, had been very pretty. On a sunny day it might have even been gorgeous. But Nova could feel her teeth chattering, and she must have looked miserable because Sentry had been making remarks like that for the past twenty minutes. “And then we’ll be in a nice warm car. And we’ll get some hot chocolate.”

“Coffee,” Nova managed to say through her chattering teeth.

“Or coffee. Sure. Coffee’s fine.”

Lucius, following behind Sentry without too much trouble, should have looked bedraggled and miserable. But he’d packed a fancy purple camping jacket for the adventure. Quill, trudging behind him, kept flicking a hand through his sopping hair and sending water droplets everywhere.

Aila, after the first time Nova had landed on her ass, had taken the rear. Every so often, she reached out to grab Nova and keep her from careening off the edge of the path.

“Let’s take a hike,” Nova muttered under her breath as she limped along. “It’s beautiful, Nova. You’ll love it, Nova. Just think of the pretty views, Nova. This is great. Just great.”

She stepped down and hissed in pain as her boot moved against the blister. Instantly, the three people ahead of her turned to look. “Are you okay?” Sentry asked, her brow furrowed.

“Fi—I’m fine. It’s just a blister. I’ll be fine.”

It took a great deal of reassurance that she would be fine in order for the others to believe her. They had less than a mile to go, soon they’d be in the car, she could grit her teeth through it. After a day of holding the group back to her pace—it wasn’t her fault she lived with a bunch of jocks who preferred the gym to the library—the idea of stopping just because her foot hurt made her burn with shame. So she waved away their protests and gamely set off.

For a couple hundred meters, at least. At that point she began to whimper.

Something rustled behind her, followed by a sigh. Aila grabbed her arm to stop her. “What? Was I about to fall?” Nova asked, looking down at the steep incline beside the little trail.

“Hop on.” Aila turned to face away from her, bending her knees just a little.

“What?”

“I’ll give you a piggy-back ride.”

“But it’s so far still.”

“You weigh less than a sack of potatoes. I’ll be fine. Hop on.”

The others, having missed all of this, continued on their way up the path. Nova glanced back toward them, wondering if she should just suck it up and run to catch up. The thought alone made her want to cry.

Red-faced and embarrassed, she climbed onto Aila’s back and wrapped her arms around Aila’s neck. The relief of being off her feet came instantly.

“Comfortable?” Aila asked.

“If I get too heavy—”

Aila snorted at that. “Please. This isn’t even a workout. Hey, Sentry, wait up!”

In no time at all, she caught up to the group, trotting along as though she wasn’t even burdened by Nova’s weight. Nova decided she’d feel embarrassed later, when she wasn’t so wrecked. Aila was big and sturdy and warm, and it was the first reprieve from misery she’d had in over an hour. Quill gave her a small smile of commiseration, letting out a “hey” when she tiredly reached out to muss his hair.

“Hey, Aila?” Nova said.

“What?”

“Just...thanks.”

“Very welcome. Just do your part and hold on. Sentry will get mad if I drop you.”

Nova rested her cheek against the back of Aila’s shoulder, watching the landscape go by around them, and obeyed.

Sentry

“And just what do you think you’re doing?”

Sentry, about to reach for the pantry door in the darkness, froze. A split-second after Aila’s voice rang out through the kitchen, the lights flooded on. Sentry didn’t need a highly active imagination to fully see the picture it painted: Aila by the switch in an ancient pair of joggers and one of the hundreds of tacky free T-shirts they handed out during orientation week. A massive gulf of space between the pantry and Sentry’s bedroom. And Sentry herself in her Tom Servo sleep tank and shorts, balanced on one foot to stay off of her bad knee, right by the pantry—with her crutches nowhere nearby.

“Ah, um, ah,” Sentry said, looking about for an excuse. Her shoulders sagged. “I just wanted a snack?”

“And you decided, ‘oh, I’ll just hop to it, then, will I?’”

Sentry spread her hands wide, sheepishly. “Yes?”

Aila’s expression could melt steel. “Even though you’ve got a perfectly good pair of crutches by your bed.”

She hated the crutches, yes, but in that moment Sentry decided she hated disappointing Aila more. Still, she pushed her shoulders back. “I’m allowed to put a little weight on it—”

“In two weeks! You’re supposed to stay off it for now, or you’ll make it worse.”

“I’m only getting a snack. That’s not that strenuous.”

“For somebody who mothers the rest of us when we’ve so much as got the sniffles, you’re a bad patient yourself.” Aila strode across the kitchen and before Sentry quite knew what was happening, scooped her up. Just as quickly—though a little more gently—Sentry was deposited into one of the kitchen chairs. “You could have called one of us to get you a snack if you hate the crutches so much.”

“You were all asleep, and you need your rest.”

“We need our Sentry in one piece more than we need rest.”

Aila stomped into the pantry. A bag of crisps sailed through the air, landing in front of Sentry on the table. Grumbling under her breath the whole time, Aila emerged and stormed about the kitchen, collecting a midnight snack for herself. Sentry angled a chair over to prop her recovering leg up, trusting that Aila would work through this head of steam eventually. At long last, Aila sat down across from her with a glass of water for each of them. She dug viciously into a yogurt.

“Feel better now that you’ve bitched me out?” Sentry asked, digging into the chips.

Aila considered. “A little, actually. Now I see why Nova does it all the time.”

Sentry saluted her with a crisp. “Glad to help. Thanks for getting these for me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You don’t need to keep me company if all you were coming down for was a glass of water or something, though. I don’t want to keep you up.”

“Sentry,” Aila said in a measured voice. “If I leave you there, you’ll just hop right back to bed. So I’m going to stay here until you’re finished and I’m going to eat my yogurt and then I’ll carry you back to bed, and we’ll not tell the others any of this ever happened because they’ll scold you.”

“That might be the most I’ve ever heard you speak,” Sentry said.

“Yeah, I’m a real chatty Cathy at this hour, apparently.” Aila nudged one of the glasses toward her. “Drink your water. It’s good for recovery.”

“Yes, Mom,” Sentry teased, and Aila rolled her eyes at her.

Lucius

Lucius saw the blood, had a brief eternity to think whoopsy, there I go, and when time returned to its normal course of business, fainted. Well, he went woozy, at any rate. He felt his knees buckle, but from afar like they weren’t his knees anymore, and his vision squeezed into one narrow point of blankness, and he staggered.

He slammed into something very solid, but warm like a person. “Oh, no, you don’t,” said a familiar voice in his ear.

“S-so much blood,” Lucius said, his voice sounding as far away as his knees.

The entire world seemed to tilt and a feeling of warmth suffused him, reminding him of the earliest days with Nanny Nophir. That changed abruptly, though, when he realized that instead of being cradled like a small child, somebody had slung him over a shoulder like a bag of cement. Not just anybody, he realized in a muddled storm of thought. Aila had him over one shoulder, bracing him with an arm behind his knees.

Muzzily, he twisted his head to see Sentry hurrying out of the kitchen and into the shared living room. “What’s happened?” she asked.

“Nova’s got a nosebleed,” Aila said. “His majesty still faints at the sight of blood, apparently.”

“Hey,” Lucius said feebly, as the dig felt a little unfair. He let his body hang limp, too wrung out to really protest beyond that. There had been so much blood...

“I’m so sorry,” Nova said, her voice muffled by either a towel or her hand. “Lucius, I’m so sorry, I forgot you don’t like blood. It’s just so dry—”

“Let’s just get you cleaned up,” Sentry said kindly, resting a hand on Lucius’s back as she passed. “Maybe put him on the couch?”

The last must have been directed at Aila, for she moved over and Lucius found himself being lowered onto the divan. They really should have gotten a proper fainting couch for the living room, even though it clashed with the rest of the furniture he’d hand-selected. Though the ultimate irony remained: if Aila hadn’t caught him, he wouldn’t have made it to said fainting couch anyway.

Lucius, feeling queasy, glanced over. He spotted the bloody towel that Nova had instinctively put over her face to staunch the blood, and his eyes rolled back into his head.

“Hey—hey!” Something snapped loudly in front of his face and Lucius opened his eyes. Aila snapped her fingers a few more times. “None of that now. Turn that way.”

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Lucius said, automatically obeying. “Good heavens. I could have cracked my head open on the coffee table if you hadn’t caught me.”

“Doubt it.” Aila snorted. “Hard as your head is, you’d have cracked the coffee table in half.”

“Oh really, do you think?” Lucius couldn’t help but be a little pleased at the thought. Having somebody like Aila think any part of him was tough—she’d certainly made enough jokes about lacrosse in their first days together—was quite exhilarating. He studiously kept his gaze focused on the back of the couch, deliberately not looking as Aila took the bloody towel out of the room and returned with bleach wipes. “Oh, I do hope she didn’t stain the carpet.”

“Eh,” Aila said. “I’ve gotten blood out of worse. Though I’ll let Nova clean up her textbook on her own. I’m nice but not that nice. It should be safe for you to look now.”

Lucius swallowed hard and sat up, rubbing his head. He’d come in to inquire of Nova, seated at the coffee table with a textbook and a soap opera on in the background for noise, if she wanted to perhaps grab a quick dinner with him before their evening class. And she’d turned to him in horror, blood leaking and...

Well, he’d prefer not to remember beyond that point. Instead, he resolutely turned his thoughts to more pressing matters (after all, Sentry was taking care of Nova, which meant she would be just fine). He cleared his throat. “Aila, I do have a question for you.”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Do you think we should get a fainting couch in here? For the aesthetic?”

Aila stared at him for a long time, then turned on a heel and left without saying a word or even making a face at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Lucius said, and began to set his mussed clothing to rights.

Quill

No matter how they jeered and teased, there was no getting Sentry into the water. Even the triple dog dare, which would have worked on Quill without fail, held no effect. She merely gazed at them serenely from her lakeside lounger, told them they were all very clever, and closed her eyes once more, returning to sunbathing.

“Boo,” Quill called, cupping his hand around his mouth. He tried to splash water in her direction, but Sentry had wisely set her chair out of range.

“Oh, quit bugging her,” Nova said from deeper in the lake where she was treading water in her cute old-fashioned swim suit. Even in the water, she hadn’t taken off the elbow-length glove she wore to cover the scars from her lab accident. “Let the woman get some sun away from our shenanigans.”

“I refuse to let my best friend be too much of a coward,” and Quill raised his voice over his shoulder as he swam toward Nova, “to swim in the lake!”

“Love you too, Quill,” Sentry called back without opening her eyes.

The sun did feel nice, admittedly. Their first day at the cabin—one of Lucius’s family’s many, many vacation properties—had been gray and cold and unpromising, but today the skies were clear and the air was warm. Donning a pair of swim trunks and cannon-balling off of the private dock was the only logical choice to be made, in Quill’s opinion. And the others had followed not far behind: Nova in her one-piece, Lucius in speedos that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and Aila in what Quill suspected just to be her underwear, as she hadn’t gone shopping for their vacation, even at Sentry and Nova’s urging. Sentry herself had donned a tankini but was staying far, far away from the water, having made it clear just how much she found the thought of parasites and other lakely dangers distressing.

Swimming wasn’t as easy as it had been before his accident, but Quill made it out to Nova and began to tread water beside her. She closed her eyes and tipped her face to the sun. “This feels so nice. I didn’t realize how much I needed a break. I had more than four hours of sleep last night, Quill. It felt like a miracle.”

“I may never go back,” Quill agreed. “Do you think Lucius would mind if we, like, just moved in permanently? There’s a bidet. Have you ever stayed in a place that had a bidet?”

“Can’t say that I have.” Nova turned. “Aila! Have you ever stayed in a place with a bidet?”

“When would I have done that?” came the reply. Aila didn’t even lift her head up from where she was floating on her back, eyes closed.

Lucius swam up, popped underwater, and emerged so that his hair flowed back in perfect waves. The sunlight caught very faint freckles on his shoulders. “I’ve been meaning to bring that up. It’s rather a travesty that we don’t have one at home. We could have one installed quite easily.”

“Eh,” Aila said, eyes still closed. “Feels bougie.”

“How dare you,” Lucius said.

Aila merely opened one eye a slit and smirked at him. Lucius, after a moment of grumpiness, smiled back.

“Did we bring a football or anything?” Nova twirled herself around in the water like a spinning top. “Or some kind of water game we could play? Not that I don’t love swimming.”

“We could play Chicken,” Quill said. When the other three merely gave him varying glances of confusion or interest (or disinterest on Aila’s part), he tilted his head. “Did none of you ever play Chicken as kids?”

“The thing where you dart out in front of cars and stay there until they almost hit you?” Nova asked.

“No, the bit where one person gets up on somebody’s shoulders and tries to knock another person—on somebody else’s shoulders—over into the water. Here, here, I’ll show you. It’s fun.” Quill glanced between the three of them and did some quick calculus that he would never, ever tell anybody else about. “Here, Aila, let me up on your shoulders.”

Aila kept floating for a few seconds more before she seemed to shrug to herself. “Eh. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Left to his own devices, Quill was positive that he would have made it awkward to clamber up on Aila’s shoulders. But he’d forgotten just how strong rugby made Aila, and how often she went swimming. As they approached the shallower depths, she disappeared under the water. Quill felt something almost hit him from behind, and then he was launched toward the sky. He yelped and clung on for dear life as Aila straightened to her full height, the water coming up to her shoulders.

“Ooh! Ooh! I want to try. Lucius, let me up.” Nova scrambled over to Lucius and climbed up on his shoulders, kicking her feet excitedly (Lucius winced a little). She held her arms up like an old timey boxer. “You’re going into the water, bird-boy.”

“Hey, now,” Aila said. “Let’s make this fair. One hand behind your back.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, Quill.”

“I don’t need two hands to beat you,” Quill said, though he nearly disproved his entire point by overbalancing and almost falling off of Aila’s shoulders.

She merely locked her hands around his knees. Nova put her scarred hand behind her and waggled the fingers of her remaining hand at Quill.

“Oi!” A voice from the shore made all of them turn to look at Sentry, who’d sat up and set her book aside. “What are you doing? That looks dangerous!”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Lucius called back. “Aila and I have it all in hand.”

Sentry hovered on the edge of the lounger like she wasn’t entirely sure she believed that. “Well, just—just be careful.”

Quill used the distraction to lean over, scoop up a handful of water, and fling it in Nova’s direction.

“Hey!”

And just like that, the battle commenced. Aila charged forward with Quill holding on, Lucius did the same with Nova, and a wrestling match for the ages followed. Nobody would ever come up with a consensus on who actually hit the water first, though. Lucius swore it was Quill, Nova agreed, Quill argued vehemently that it was of course Nova, and Aila remained the neutral party, content to be the base for many, many games of Chicken afterward.

And Sentry remained on the shore, pretending she wasn’t keeping a close eye on them for injury and doing a horrible job at hiding it.

All in all, a pretty perfect summer morning, if you asked Quill.

+ 1 Time They Carried Her

“Sign up for survivalist camp, she says. It’ll be fun, she says. We’ll learn cool new techniques to surviving in the wild. Great bonding time!”

“To be fair,” Nova said from behind Aila’s head, where Aila couldn’t really see her without craning her neck, “we were having a great time bonding until, you know, all of this.”

Because Aila couldn’t see her, and moving to do so would only get her scolded, she had to imagine Nova waving her free hand in aggravation.

“I for one am having a perfectly lovely time,” Lucius said.

Aila could never tell when he was being sarcastic, and she didn’t see that changing any time soon. She suspected in this case he might be genuine, though. The course instructor had complimented him on his very fancy camping vest (“It has so many pockets,” Lucius had said) and nobody had yet found the heart to tell Lucius that had been sarcasm. So all through this hike he’d been in a particularly good mood. That made him the only one, probably.

Things had been going rather well during the whole course, up until this morning: the morning of their final day in the course, when they would be tested “randomly” and, using little but their wits, a compass, and a map, navigate themselves back to the parking lot. Camping with her friends had been fun, even if it meant being squished into a two-person tent with Sentry and Nova (the latter of whom had very bony elbows) at night. Aila liked the outdoors. She liked the feeling of self-sufficiency that this course had brought with it. She imagined herself as something of a pioneer. In the olden times, she would’ve kicked ass at all of this.

Unfortunately, it was nigh on impossible to kick ass with a “broken leg.”

And she wasn’t hiking out of the woods. She was being carried. On a stretcher. This sucked. The instructor had folded his arms over his chest in a rather smug fashion as he gave them their final assignment. His eyes had lingered between Sentry and Aila, easily the tallest members of the group. And he’d narrowed in on her, which was why she was being lifted by her friends on a tarp stretcher that they’d improvised.

“This sucks.”

“Yes,” Quill said, grimacing. “So you’ve said multiple times. We’re not having the best go of it either right now.”

Aila closed her eyes and leaned her head back. She’d already had to fold her arms close into her chest like a sleeping vampire to avoid being bumped and jostled about. The tarp they’d fashioned into a stretcher smelled bad. She felt like she’d been stuffed into a tiny little space, not great when she suspected she was a little claustrophobic anyway. “I’m bored.”

“I’ve got several books you could read,” Nova said, completely earnest.

That would only make this day worse, having to read. Fortunately Sentry, who was planted on the right side above Aila’s head and therefore easy to see, laughed. “I don’t think a book will help.”

“I was up late reading all about the local fauna in case there was a pop quiz,” Nova said. “I could tell you about some of them?”

“I’d rather read the book,” Aila said.

Nova tilted her head, considering. “You know what? Fair.”

“It’s not long to the parking lot,” Lucius said in a cheerful voice, though he was a bit out of breath.

“Feels like miles,” Quill grumbled.

“That’s probably because it is. I was lying,” Lucius said, tittering nervously.

Aila had pointed out that the course instructors couldn’t see them, so she could just get up and walk for a bit until they were nearing the end and all of her friends could be spared, but Nova had looked so abjectly horrified at the thought of cheating on a test that Aila had backpedaled and felt a little actual shame. Just a tiny bit, though. Not enough to fully penetrate the thick barrier of indifference she liked to carry about.

“Fine,” she said now, with a sigh. “Tell me all about these fascinating plants of yours, Nova. Not like I can do much else right now.”

Nova squeaked in excitement, reaching down to grab Aila’s leg.

“Ow,” Aila deadpanned. “That one’s broken.”

“I thought it was the other one?”

“It’s not real,” Quill said. “She’s messing with you.”

“Right. Right! Okay, so to start with, these are deciduous trees—”

Aila tuned her out in record time. Since there wasn’t anything to do but lay stiffly with her arms in a stupid position and the stretcher swaying nauseatingly below her, Aila let the patter of Nova’s excited overexplaining wash over her. She closed her eyes to stave off the nausea of watching the canopy overhead.

Sleep didn’t come right away, though it drifted near enough that she dozed a few times. Finally, she heard Nova whisper, “Did I do it? Is she out?”

“Think so, yeah,” Sentry replied.

“Oh, thank H’esper.”

“Quill!”

“We’re the ones marching miles carrying her and she’s whining?” Quill whispered back. “Have a care for my legs. I can’t feel them anymore.”

“Me either,” Lucius said.

“Meanwhile, all she has to do is lay there and be carried!”

“Which for Aila is torture and you know it,” Nova hissed.

“I do suppose she’d whine less with an actual broken leg,” Lucius said, thoughtfully, and Aila nearly gave up the game by grinning. “She does have that stoicism thing going for her. I rather admire it at times. Daddy always said that I should be stron—ow, splinter!”

“You okay? We can take a break if need be,” Sentry said.

“I’ll endeavor to carry on,” Lucius said, but he sounded tearful.

Aila almost opened her eyes again, but joining this conversation would require more mental energy than she was willing to expend. Maybe if she did actually fall asleep, this nightmare of a hike would be over sooner.

“She does look kind of peaceful,” Nova said. “In a very Angry Aila way. Nobody tell her I said that. Either of those things.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Sentry promised.

There was a long silence. The stretcher continued to sway, though not in a soothing or repeatable pattern that promoted sleep, and her friends were quiet apart from the sound of heavy breathing as they tromped through the woods. Not a bad day for a hike, overall. She really wished she could just get up and walk alongside them, but if she had to be carried, so be it. At least she had them around her.

Aila nearly opened her mouth to tell them so (and ruin the illusion that she’d been napping this entire time) when Quill cleared his throat. “We are agreed, yes, that she’ll be driving the whole way home since she’s been napping this entire time anyway?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Duh.”

“Why, obviously. I’ll be completely knackered by that point.”

Aila’s smile probably betrayed her, but she elected not to care about that. She merely let the group travel on, carrying her to their final destination in their survival course. There were worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon, even if it meant being the one to drive them home afterward.

[michaelmyersmalewife]

the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat 1/?

- sephiroth/reader

- sfw

“The hell, man?”

With a sharp jerk of your wrists, you flipped the headset above your eyes, roughly shoving your hair up at the crown that gave you the vague appearance of a hastily arranged bird’s nest. Seconds ago, you were cutting down Shinra grunts on the Midgar highway like they were nothing but flowers. And now you were standing in a dome, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins. As the sim around you dissolved in a shower of 1’s and 0’s, the source of the interruption blotted out the light from the training room’s exit. Standing across from you - draped in black and wearing a grave face that would’ve made a skeleton shiver - was your mentor.

Sephiroth was an obelisk of a man, tall and lean and not unlike one of the statues you’d see guarding the churches in Sector 5’s slums.

“Least you could do is give me a warning before you pull me out like that.” you whined as you rolled your shoulders with a satisfying pop. “I was doing just fine before you rudely interrupted.”

“‘Just fine’ won’t cut it when you’re face-to-face with Wutai soldiers.” he said, crossing his arms. “You can do better. I’ve seen you do better.”

Sephiroth always spoke in a calm manner (as if he wasn’t already a pain in the ass to read), but since taking you under his wing you had come to recognize the many different flavors in which that calm manifested itself. And this was specially reserved for when he was very, very tired.

Feeling your palms prickle, you shoved your pair of shortswords back in their scabbards.

“Right.” you nodded curtly, setting the headset back in its charging port and already meaning to leave before he could cite some vaguely-worded and slightly cryptic advice. “There’s always tomorrow, right?”

Sidestepping in front of you in one fluid motion, Sephiroth peered down at you with an icy gaze. Craning your neck upward at an uncomfortable angle so that you weren’t eye-to-chest, you ground your foot into the floor.

“So we’re good tomorrow?”

He was as rigid as a glacier, and just as vocal. You sighed.

“Permission to return to quarters, sir?” you grumbled.

“Denied.”

You wheezed out a bitter laugh. Sometimes you wondered if he got off on bossing you around, but the notion of Sephiroth getting off to anything was enough to send you reeling.

“I thought you wanted to make 1st.”

A pithy breeze flashed in front of you, and it took you a second too long to realize there was a sword directed at your sternum. You stumbled backward, only barely finding your balance.

“What-“

“Don’t worry, this won’t be a fight.” he said, slowly inching Masamune forward until you had no choice but to walk backwards. “Think of it as a dialogue.”

You steadied the heavy thump of your heart as you straightened yourself, lifting your chin maybe just a little too high in a feeble attempt at hiding your nerves. The only time you had ever faced your mentor in a fight was the day he chose to train you out of a flock of other SOLDIERs. It was a punishing session, and in the end he had disarmed you in three moves. You had heard later from the other recruits that that was the longest anyone had lasted.

“Isn’t that the opposite of what you should be teaching me?”

“A SOLDIER isn’t just their kill count.”

Unsheathing your swords, you let slip a snort. “Easy for you to say.”

“I mean it.” he said, fortifying his stance as the room melted back into the sim.

“You’re getting sloppy. Good form, but no tact. When you accept those as parts of you,” he said, nodding toward your swords. “And not just a tool, everything else becomes an afterthought.”

He was awfully serious today - and he had practically cornered the market on being serious - but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you just a little nervous. You were used to aloof Sephiroth - succinct nods of approval and pointed glares of disapproval, both marked by a signature silence that could fill a room. Talking someone’s ear off wasn’t something Sephiroth was known for (or particularly good at, if you were being honest), but when he did, man was it weird.

In that time, you were back in the sim, now finding yourself standing outside a Shinra facility - a mako refinery, if the acrid odor drifting beneath the thick, briny scent of seawater gave you any indication. The two of you were standing on just one of the massive metal-plated pipes that fed into the factory. Jutting out the side of a cliff like a blossoming giant, a mess of pipes and valves, it faced a sea.

The environment around the facility was in a perpetual state of dusk, the sun sitting just above the water’s horizon, with clouds in shades of pink and gold that hovered wistfully in the sky. The last of the day’s blue disappearing into a day that would never come. The sea itself was dark, lazily churning against the face of the cliff, the sun’s light refracting into thousands of tiny gems on its surface.

Sephiroth took no time to admire the sim’s flawlessly randomized recreation - raising the hilt of his sword up to his eye level while keeping his right hand close to his body, shifting his weight on one foot while the other stayed back, ready to spring him forward at a moment’s notice. Taking his cue, you balanced yourself, holding your swords out in front of you in an x-shape.

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a tiny, self assured smirk (though, to the untrained eye, resembled more an involuntary twitch of muscle than anything), blinking long and slow. Your teeth worried at the inside of your cheek. Had he made you wait any longer and you think you would’ve broken skin.

But before you could worry a hole through your cheek, 7 feet of sinewy muscle charged at you like a bullet shot from a gun. His sword clashed against yours with an ear-splitting clang, the ringing of metal running down the tips of your fingers. Grunting at the force pushing back at you, you slid one sword out from under Masamune, slashing the air between you and effectively getting him to step the fuck off.

He bounced back, landing gracefully on the tips of his toes like a dancer coming down from a leap. His eyes narrowed, but there was a twinkling in his pupils. Normally, a beaming Sephiroth would’ve been a sight to commemorate, preferably behind a neat little frame set on a desk somewhere. But it only gave you one thought: Shit.

In a very short space of time, you were standing face to face with your superior once again, his sword slamming into the broad, flat side of your right hand’s blade. You had barely raised it in time, and he had only given you a moment to prepare yourself against a barrage of attacks, somehow managing to parry each one.

“You block too much. You’re a sword, not a shield.” he said, almost sounding bored.

You would’ve responded with any number of pieces of crude backchat that you’d accumulated since training under him, but the man hardly gave you time to breathe let alone think.

Each twitch of his sword was a masterpiece of technique. He fought like a well-oiled machine, inevitable, bloodless, with absolute awareness of the power he held. It was beautiful, or, it would be if you weren’t on the receiving end of his advances. He was fast, inhumanly, unfairly fast. And with his equally unfair reach, it was a miracle if you ever came close to landing a hit on him. The man had some cruel agreement with gravity.

After your nth parry and a last minute pass back, you held Masamune in place, running your left blade down its length. His eyebrows briefly twitched upward before flicking his sword up, sending your blades down and away. But in a flash, you lunged forward, cutting just beneath his chin and hacking away thin slivers of his bangs. You were about to allow yourself a smirk, maybe even a ‘hmph’ born from pride and amusement.

What happened instead was something so irritating it didn’t register with you until you were slammed to the floor. Pivoting away from an overhead slash, he - very gently - tucked his blade underneath yours, sending another bone-ringing clang through you like a bell. And (incredibly obnoxiously) he used your weight against you, forcing you backward. But, in a last-ditch effort to not look like a fool, you stuck one leg out - effectively killing any chance of recovery but by Gaia were you gonna take him down with you.

You staggered backward like a flimsy piece of rubber, hitting the ground with a thump as your swords clattered on either side of you. Of course, Sephiroth landed with grace - hardly falling at all so much as shifting himself in tune with your otherwise graceless tumble. And yet - despite being perfectly fine, actually - he wore an uncharacteristically poleaxed expression, his lips hanging slightly open like a man caught mid-practical joke.

The sim had already disappeared, the panel next to your head flickering off and on before completely shuttering off a few seconds behind the rest.

That was when the sound of cracks splitting across the floor met your ears. His sword had pierced the tile mere centimeters away from where your forehead was, drowning out the sound of blood rushing to your ears. Sephiroth stood hunched over you like a gargoyle, one knee drawn up to his abdomen while the other pressed hard into the floor, effectively caging you in black leather and silver hair. Tucked between cold tile and an even colder man, you couldn’t get back up if you wanted to.

“Was that good enough for you?” you wheezed, feeling like a pair of bricks had been shoved in your rib cage.

He studied you with close scrutiny and a blank expression, hardly winded but breathing quietly, evenly. You could never tell what he was thinking, even this close. You had resigned yourself with the thought that you never will.

“Dismissed.” he ordered, finally.

Pulling himself up, he tugged Masamune out from where it had wedged itself, stepping over you without so much as a look back.

You tried to sit up, only managing to lift your head before a singular phlegm-raddled cough sent you thudding back to the floor, dazed and hot - uncomfortably so, like you had been tossed in a furnace. Feeling the muscles in your arms and legs cry for mercy, you decided to lay there. Just for a few minutes more.

[summahsunlight]

All For You, Part 13

Rating: T

Word Count: 1.9k+

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Pilot!Reader

Summary: Your life in the Resistance was not easy, being married to Commander Poe Dameron and a skilled pilot yourself. When you unexpectedly get pregnant, your life is forever changed. Raising a child on base is hard, but never having parents of your own as a child, you are determined to love your little girl and give her the best life. Poe is equally as devoted to you and your daughter, vowing to keep you both safe from the impending threat of the First Order.

Taglist: @thescarletknight2014​, @elmoakepoke​, @xxidontwikeitxx​, @liadamerondjarin​, @marvelofwitch​, @blushingwueen​, @april-14-blog​, @agents-assemble​, @paintballkid711​, @softly-sad​, @badbitxhbuckybarnes​, @kesskirata​

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Poe wasn’t being allowed to see you. This made him furious, which made Emmy upset when he shouted at the medics to let him in to see you. He was too distracted by his anger to even notice that the more he shouted, the louder his daughter cried.

Leia was drawn to the commotion by the noise--and by the baby’s obvious distress through the Force. “Commander.”

Jaw clenched, tight, Poe turned to face her. “General, they won’t let me in to see my own wife! She was hurt on that mission and they’re keeping me from seeing her!” he shouted, angrily.  Emmy, in response, balled her little fists up and sobbed, face read, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Poe,” Leia said, gesturing towards the upset baby. “You need to calm yourself, you’re making her upset.”

“What?” Poe snapped, then gazed at Emmy. Seeing her crying instantly mollified him. He wiped the baby’s tears and softly kissed her cheek, whispering,” Oh, princess, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s okay, it’s okay now, I’ll stop yelling--I promise.”

“Commander, come with me; let the medics do their job.”

“But...General...”

Leia glared at him; Poe adverted his eyes and followed behind her, still quieting the baby and feeling terribly guilty he had been the reason to cause her such distress. Emmy continued to whimper until Poe sat down inside Leia’s office and settled her in his lap; she snuggled against his chest and stuck her thumb in her mouth. 

Reaching out, Leia wiped the remaining tears away from the baby’s cheeks. “I know you’re worried about Y/N, but Poe, you need to let the medics do their job.  When you’re allowed to see her, they’ll let you know.”

Poe sighed, heavily, shifting Emmy around in his arms. “It should have been me, not her. I should have led that mission. I shouldn’t have let her go--it’s too dangerous. Emmy needs her mother.”

“She needs her father, too,” Leia calmly pointed out to him.

“So I should just let Y/N go, without protection?” Poe said, jaw tight.

“It’s her job.”

“Yeah, well, she needs a new one.”

“Commander. You and I both know we’ll never keep her grounded.”

“I just want her safe.”

Leia felt for him, she did. It had to be incredibly difficult attempting to raise a family with a galactic conflict looming. She knew she probably shouldn’t bring up the idea of sending Emmy, and maybe you, away to stay with Kes--not now anyways with how angry Poe was. “Your wife is perfectly capable of taking care of herself--she was the one that guided the rest of her squadron home, safely.”

Poe took a deep breath, glancing down at Emmy curled up in his arms. He knew what it was like growing up without a mother--he didn’t want his daughter to experience that. But he also didn’t want her to grow up without him. “I don’t want Emmy to lose either one of us, General, but...this is so hard...the Resistance needs both of us.”

Emmy whimpered, rubbing her small cheek against Poe’s chest. Automatically, the commander pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. Leia wished she had some words of wisdom or even comfort for Poe, but she didn’t. “Maybe Emmy and Captain Dameron can go visit Kes--hear it’s been a while since you even spoke with your dad, Poe.”

“Guilty,” Poe confessed. “I’ve been so busy--just didn’t have time.”

“Kes would love time with his granddaughter,” Leia pointed out.

“I see what you’re doing, General.”

“Is it working?”

Poe smiled, softly. “Yeah. I’ll make arrangements for Y/N and Emmy to go see my dad for a few weeks. How does that sound, princess?” He addressed the baby, “Grandpa will love to have you home.”

Leia returned his smile with a soft one of her own. “Your wife is going to need some recovery time; going to Yavin maybe just what the doctor ordered.”

Emmy cooed softly, turning her big, brown eyes up towards her father. Poe stroked her cheek with his thumb. He would miss his little princess, but if sending her away, along with you--that meant it kept you both safe--it was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

-----

Eventually, Poe and Emmy were allowed to see you. While it had been a close call, thankfully all of your injuries had been treatable and the medical team believed you would make a full recovery.

If you didn’t fly for at least three weeks. That was when Poe suggested you go visit Kes.

It turned out that the doctor wasn’t thrilled you’d be traveling so soon after being injured. When you didn’t show any indication that you were going to argue against Poe’s suggestion--Kalonia had relented. Maybe it would be good for you after all to get away for a few weeks. 

You weren’t leaving right away; your x-wing was still damaged and being repaired and the next transport off planet wasn’t scheduled for a few days. Both you and Poe were anxious about Emmy’s first space travel. It was a lot warmer on D’Qar than it was in space and you were worried that she would be uncomfortable. 

Poe had packed every blanket she owned into a bag for you, along with a little hat that he had picked up for Emmy while on a mission--you also made sure she had her favorite stuffy.  

Tucking the fluffy woolamander into the bag, you caught Poe frowning at you. “What?”

He continued to frown. “Wish my dad hadn’t give her that silly thing; I hate woolamanders.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have taunted them into chasing you.”

“I didn’t taunt them! I was playing under the tree!”

“It was their home.”

“Now you sound like my dad.”

Softly laughing, you closed the bag up and went to lay down on the bed. You were still recovering and very tired.  As you attempted to settle yourself in, Poe got up from his spot across the room to help you. He lifted your legs onto the bed and pulled the blanket over your body. 

Leaning down, Poe placed a soft kiss on the top of your head. He’d instructed his dad to make sure you got plenty of sleep--Kes seemed thrilled to be able to spend all that time taking care of and spending time with Emmy. “I wish I was going with you.”

You opened your eyes and glanced up at him. Gently your fingers caressed arm. “I know, but you’re needed here. Besides, I’m not going to be that long--just a few weeks until I’m feeling better.”

Poe nodded, sighing, softly. He wanted you to stay longer--at least until he had figured out who was leaking information to the First Order. He also knew that bringing up a longer stay on Yavin with his father would result in a fight--and Emmy was finally sleeping--he didn’t want to take the chance of waking her up.

“Are you okay?” you asked him, noticing the visual distress on his face.

“Honestly--no,” he replied, rubbing his hands over his face.

Sliding over, you made space for him on the bed and pat the mattress next to you. “Come talk to me then. What’s bothering you?”

Poe flopped down onto the bed with you, reaching you and pulling you flush against his solid chest. “Everything.”

“Darling, you’re gonna have to elaborate more on that.”

“I feel helpless.”

“Why?”

“Because--I can’t guarantee your safety.”

You brushed a few stray curls away from his forehead. “Poe, you could never really guarantee that.” 

His shoulders slumped, slightly. “I know--but I can’t even protect you from the people here--and that makes me sick to my stomach. Someone we’ve trusted is betraying the Resistance--betraying us.”

Emmy sighed in her sleep, your eyes flickered towards her crib. You didn’t care so much about your own safety--clearly, because you had barely made it back from your last mission because you refused to jump to light speed until your entire squadron was on their way home.  But your daughter’s--you were terrified about what it meant that the First Order knew about her. “Once we’re on Yavin, you’ll be able to focus more--we won’t be here to distract you.”

Poe’s arms tightened around you. He hated to think of you or Emmy as distractions; you were far from that--you were his entire galaxy. “You don’t distract me,” he said, then hummed low in his throat when your hand rubbed up his chest from his belly. “Okay, sometimes, you distract me--guess we wouldn’t have a baby otherwise.”

“That's probably true,” you chuckled.

“I’m glad you distracted me,” he whispered. 

“She is pretty adorable.”

“Like her mama.”

“I dunno, Poe, I think she looks more like her daddy.”

“Still pretty adorable then.”

You shook your head and rolled your eyes just before yawning. Poe rubbed your back and urged you to go to sleep--you had a busy day of traveling ahead of you in the morning and he wanted you well rested. 

------

“Do you have everything?” Poe asked, anxiously.

“Yes, for the one-thousandth time,” you answered, smiling.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pacing, “I just want this to go smoothly for you.”

“Hey,” you said, putting your free hand on his arm, “we’ll be fine.”

Poe looked at Emmy, one of your arms wrapped around her waist, holding her tightly to your hip. He knew that everything was probably going to be fine--and this was not the first time you’d been separated from each other. So why was he so worried? Running his hand over his face, he sighed, and nodded. “I know.”

You moved in closer to him and brushed a soft kiss across his lips. If he had his way, he’d be flying you to Yavin himself, but already the General had a mission for Black Squadron and Poe was due to leave as soon as he saw you and Emmy off. “Be careful on that mission, Commander.”

His eyes shifted between you and the baby, and he did manage a weak smile. Returning your kiss, he whispered, “I’ll try my best, Captain, but remember, reckless is my middle name.”

“Captain Dameron,” the transport pilot called, “everything is on board.”

“Guess that’s my signal to go,” you said, feeling tears burn your eyes. “I’ll send a message to BeeBee once we get there.”

Instead of saying anything Poe pulled you and Emmy into his arms, kissing the top of both your heads. “I love you,” he whispered, pulling away from you, letting you go, and running his hand over Emmy’s soft curls. “Be good for mama, okay? I’ll see you soon, princess.”

Emmy smiled at her father, but then whimpered when she quickly realized she was getting on the ship and her daddy was staying behind.  Wiggling in your arms, she turned to look at Poe, standing at the end of the ramp, waving at her until the airlock door had hissed shut. 

Holding your daughter tightly, you pressed your tear soaked cheek to her head while she cried. You knew that leaving Poe behind was going to be hard but you didn’t think it would be this hard. 

Strapping into a safety harness, with Emmy, you hushed her, trying to ease her obvious fears of being on a starship for the first time. As the ship took off, you realized that you had fears as well--but they were much different than hers.

[theawkwardterrier]

and the last age should show your heart

Summary: In which a recovered Kate is ready to settle into normal married life; her husband makes things difficult; and challenging each other does not stop with the wedding.

Read on AO3

Although he could clearly see the progress of her recovery himself, Anthony insisted on having her examined several times over by the most reputable medical men in London in order to ascertain that she was truly through with her convalescence. Kate bore this first with amusement, then with impatience, and finally with distinct ill humor.

“I do it only out of concern for you,” he emphasized the afternoon he informed her that he had made another appointment (the fifth) for tomorrow. “It’s clear that your leg can bear weight well enough, but always best to be thorough. Were we to have an incomplete understanding of the healing process and thus allow further injury, I should never forgive myself.”

Once, some version of herself would have softened at such an expression of attentiveness from him. An even earlier one than that would have been astonished that anyone except Mary or Edwina would ever have so concerned themself with her at all. Those versions, however, had been allowed the freedom not only of all the floors of the house but of the glorious outdoors as well without an overly bothersome husband admonishing at every turn to take care.

This Kate, a veteran now after months of marriage - too much of that time spent indoors if not in bed - said testily, “Then it sounds as if your concern is truly for yourself, although it is I who has found herself most inconvenienced. In fact, as you have barely believed me able to leave this bed, it strikes me that these last few months have been startlingly advantageous when it comes to indulging your more wicked tendencies - and you have little anxiety over my injured state then.”

She did not gesture to the rumpled sheets among which she sat, but he took her meaning well enough, fingers stilling on the cravat he had been retying after their (not quite) brief midday interlude together. “That is unfair, Kate,” he said, ironclad voice masking what she suspected to be actual hurt, although she did not know whether it stemmed from the insinuation that he preferred her without independence, kept captive to his whims, or that he cared little for her comfort or enjoyment when in their bed.

Neither was true, so she allowed herself only another moment of stewing before she forced her eyes to his and said, “I know. I apologize.”

“Excellent.” He finished the knot and turned to check it in the glass, face smoothed cheerful once again. “Then Mr. Josephs and I shall see you tomorrow at half three.”

She cut her growl short, merely seething as he placed a kiss on her forehead and took his leave. (Even as she fumed, she could appreciate that he held back the urge to whistle as he did so. Just as she could appreciate that whichever tailor had cut his breeches was most certainly not paid handsomely enough for it.)

They had a perfectly civil meal together that evening, and a night which one would not precisely call civil but which was certainly enjoyable all the same, and when they laughed together over breakfast, Kate felt them thawing back to their particular normalcy. However, when Mr. Josephs failed to impress as he allowed himself to be forced to stay a mere hour before declaring Kate fully healed and Anthony tried to insist on a sixth visit, she put her foot down, literally and hard and atop his. He was quite lucky that she no longer had need of a walking stick or he would have had that to contend with as well.

“No!” The word came out nearly as a snarl. “I am sorry, but regardless of your misplaced concerns, regardless of your overprotective nature, regardless of whether I fall down a dozen times in the doing of it, tomorrow I am going to put on a dress and style my hair and take tea with your mother.”

“You could—”

“At her home,” she said, and this time, even spacing and perfectly bitten off enunciation and all, it was most definitely a snarl.

All of the Bridgertons had been excellent company during her recuperation - despite his considerable efforts, Anthony could not keep her confined entirely to bed, and she was able to venture downstairs to host various pairs and groups of them over the past months even when she was not receiving most callers. Their frequent visits provided significant entertainment and what Kate only half jestingly referred to as “dispatches from the outside world.” As such, she was comfortable in the drawing room at Bridgerton House even as tea with her mother-in-law expanded to include all three of her older sisters-in-law and Daphne’s infant daughter Amelia.

In fact, she was feeling more than comfortable, she was feeling rather splendid, having the chance to be out somewhere, stretching her limbs and speaking with people, even in such a small and familiar setting. While she was aware that one day this would be her home rather than Violet’s, an idea which still intimidated her, right now it was simply somewhere different from the house where she had been trapped for months and wonderful for it.

A good quarter hour had been spent admiring each facet of Amelia as she slept in her mother’s arms, and even that was wonderful. Kate could not keep her eyes from the baby’s fingers. How tiny they were! She could hardly understand how Daphne could sit so serenely when they looked delicate enough to break at a touch. It struck her that sometime soon she might have her own child with infinitely breakable fingers for whom she would have to care; even with her injury, she and Anthony had not been doing very much to prevent such an occurrence. One might say the opposite, in fact…

She drew her mind quickly from thoughts of her husband before a blush could overcome her face, and listened instead to Violet recounting the latest trials through which Hyacinth was putting her governess. The dowager viscountess sighed at the appropriate places and her tone was all motherly despair, but Kate detected a slight smile at the corners of her mouth. Kate herself was attempting to cover a laugh by holding her cup to her mouth, hoping that none of the others would notice that she had allegedly been sipping tea for nearly a full minute.

“Would you like some more, Kate? Or perhaps a biscuit to accompany? You seem to have quite the craving for tea today.” Eloise was unfortunately too astute for either her own good or Kate’s.

“Oh, I really—”

“I would quite enjoy tea and biscuits. Thank you for offering.”

Kate’s cup came down hard onto her saucer, mirth transformed into confused suspicion. “Anthony? I had thought you were spending the day on some business with Lord Ellsworth.”

“Ah yes,” he said, literally waving a hand through the air as he walked further into the room toward them all, his brother Benedict following behind. “We concluded earlier than expected, but he mentioned something which put me in mind of some papers which I realized are in the desk in my study here.”

“Where they remain even now, despite how imperative it was that we come find them at once,” Benedict murmured. Kate had noticed that while he did not quite have Anthony’s ready control of a room or Colin’s easy charm, he was still as witty as the rest of his family, simply a bit less loud about it, particularly in company. Although not, she thought, quiet enough, based on the glare his older brother cut his way; Benedict ignored it easily, placing both hands on his mother’s shoulders from behind and bending to kiss her cheek.

Anthony, meanwhile, gave up on his brother and moved onto pestering his sister. Well, not pestering, precisely. He merely hovered implacably over the place where Francesca sat beside Kate, and his patience was rewarded when she sighed and stood so he could take her seat.

“Don’t let him bully you so,” cried Eloise.

Francesca shrugged her slim shoulders as she moved to sit at the pianoforte instead. “I don’t mind. He wants to sit beside his wife. I think it’s quite sweet, actually. Very romantic.”

“See, I’m romantic,” Anthony said, leaning over to speak softly to Kate, although he barely needed to move to do so. By her measurement, if he intended to sit this close, Francesca could well have stayed put.

“Romantic is not precisely how I would put it.”

“How would you prefer to phrase it? Charming? Besotted? A steadfast and wonderful husband?”

“Trying,” she offered through gritted teeth. “Difficult. Unnecessarily meddlesome.” She considered moving into the bit of empty space remaining on her other side, but she knew that he would only move closer, and besides, it was actually quite comfortable to feel him pressed warmly against her. Still, she gathered her irritation as she added, “I truly don’t know what you expected us to be doing in your mother’s drawing room in the middle of the afternoon which would necessitate you coming to inspect—Anthony, are you listening to me?”

“Are you certain you would not like a footstool?” he asked, ignoring her entirely in favor of frowning down at her leg, covered as it was by the fabric of her dress. “No one would object if you needed to prop your leg. It’s only family after all, and everyone wishes you to be comfortable.”

Despite it all she felt herself softening at that. “My leg is fine,” she said, tone easing like a kite when the wind slows. “But thank you for being so considerate.” And then, because she truly could not resist, she added, “In fact, it seems that all the recommendations regarding moderate activity and returning to a regular routine are doing me a world of good.”

And likely because he could not resist either, he responded, “What seems good today might turn regrettable tomorrow. Only remember then that there is no shame in admitting that you have overexerted yourself and will be more comfortable at home.” A look of nobility which undoubtedly hid a smirk came across his face. “I shall certainly not preen about it should I turn out to be right.”

She spluttered, then glared, forgetting that they were visiting, that they were surrounded by other people. Anthony had always been able to vex her into forgetting herself. “You will not be right, but for taking that tone, I am going to have Cook prepare tripe and boiled turnips every day for the next week.”

“She was my cook first,” Anthony protested, likely turned a bit childish by the thought of such fare. Kate didn’t disagree; she would need to have an alternative menu prepared for herself if she indeed made good on her threat.

“Yes, well, she likes me better.”

“She does n—”

“Your tea, Anthony.”

Violet’s pointed voice startled Kate back to awareness. Judging from the looks the rest of the Bridgertons were giving them, ranging from Benedict’s vague amusement to Eloise’s relish to Francesca’s sympathy, Kate guessed that it was not the first time her mother-in-law had attempted to draw her husband’s attention to the cup she was extending to him. Anthony, clearly better practiced at glossing over such moments, merely took his tea and sipped at it politely.

“Delicious as always, Mother,” he said, all correctness. “I’m so very glad we were both able to join you this afternoon.”

Kate narrowed her eyes, and she would have kicked him would it not have been too obvious. As it was, she simply said, “Oh, yes, it has been absolutely lovely,” and decided that she would take him further to task when they returned home.

“Well, marriage does seem to have some practicalities to recommend it if nothing else,” Penelope commented as she and Kate walked down the street to the subscription library of which they were both members. The weather had shifted from a damp gloom to an unseasonable brightness, and Kate took in the air, refreshingly cool but not chill, with relish. “Had we needed to wait for my mama or one of the maids, busy as they were assisting my sisters, we might have been forced to postpone our outing for another week at least.”

It did still surprise Kate that she was now considered a suitable chaperone - at this time last year, she would have expected herself quite a bit more likely to reach such a position simply due to age rather than via marriage. However, she knew well the desire to make one’s unwedded state a casual fact so as not to cause awkwardness for others, and she suspected that Penelope was attempting the same now.

Studiously not thinking of her argument and subsequent reconciliation with Anthony the previous night, Kate said lightly, “Yes, not needing to be accompanied everywhere is one aspect which I have found to be worthwhile,” but did not dwell further on the topic.

Nevertheless, it was clear that her marriage was on the minds of others. As Kate and Penelope entered the library, several of the other ladies inside glanced at them and then immediately began whispering to their companions. Kate was not conceited, but she had little hope that anything other than her arrival had caused the reaction: Penelope, already sliding away to examine the shelves, had managed to leave the house in a day dress of pretty pale blue muslin rather than one of her mother’s more noteworthy choices, and the tongues had scarcely ceased wagging over Kate’s hasty wedding to the very eligible Viscount Bridgerton before she had quite publicly broken her leg and all but disappeared for months.

She had some friends, and her family of course, but never having been among the fashionable set nor a particular standout in any way other than her plainness and relationship to Edwina, she was not exactly a known quantity among the ton. In a strange way, her unremarkableness had made her even more an object of fascination.

I am going to have to entertain sometime soon, she thought with dismay. Else I will never have anyone used to me.

But that would come sometime later. For now, she could simply browse the shelves in the hope of finding something new and diverting. She had already devoured Miss Austen’s latest, of course, and Mrs. Gorley’s work was not precisely to her tastes, but she did think she spied a copy of Walter Scott’s Waverley just there - it had been published months ago, but had been so popular that she hadn’t a chance to read it before now.

Elevating slightly up onto her toes, Kate reached for it, fingers grasping the spine and just beginning to pull the volume down when an altogether too familiar voice said, “Ah, I thought that was you, Kate. Here, allow me.”

Her husband’s hand, warm and broad, brushed beside hers and removed the book, bringing it down to a more comfortable height with a bow. She accepted the volume with a brief “Thank you,” glancing sharply around at everyone watching before she ground out in low tones, “You just happened to be passing, I assume?”

“Of course.” He was all innocence. “Quite the lucky coincidence, I would say.”

“Quite.” Her teeth were going to crumble in her mouth at this rate. She forced her jaw to relax and painted on a cheerful expression. “Well, thank you for the assistance. I shall see you this evening.”

“You are most welcome.” Tilting his head with the smile she was certain had charmed altogether too many women, he added, “But must I truly wait until this evening? Surely I could accompany you for the rest of your afternoon - I am already here after all, and have little else to occupy myself.”

Hitching up her own smile even as she knew that it would do nothing to deter the gossip she could fairly see floating around the two of them, she said, “I am afraid that I am already accompanied. See, Miss Featherington and I were so enjoying our time together.”

Penelope had been standing silently beside the adjoining bookshelf, clearly relying on the wisdom of animals and small children that if you stayed entirely still and quiet perhaps you would not be noticed. Her eyes widened fractionally as she realized that it had not worked and that she was in fact going to need to step over and be polite, but she did it anyway, curtsying to Anthony and greeting him. (Kate had noticed that for all of Penelope’s wallflower ways, that manner in which she, by preference or fate, tended to fade into the background, she had little trouble speaking with Anthony, intimidating as he was.)

“Wonderful to see you, Miss Featherington, as always,” he said, bowing in return. “How fortunate my wife is to have your company. I wonder if you would not mind allowing me to share in that pleasure as well?”

Had the situation been different, perhaps Kate would have sympathized with the way Penelope glanced hastily between the two of them, trying to conceal the vague panic on her face. She might have even found it amusing. As it was, she tried to communicate without words precisely how much she had been looking forward to some time without the presence of her intrusive husband.

“Well, this is meant to be the ladies’ library,” Penelope finally ventured and Kate fairly beamed.

Too soon, however. Anthony waved a hand. “Ah, do not concern yourself. I shall step out as you finish your browsing, and then we can all ride together in the park. After all, being in the barouche might offer a respite for my wife, given her injury. What a splendid idea, Miss Featherington.”

“Oh, but I—”

Penelope’s words seemed to dissolve in the air as Anthony gave another one of his charming smiles, bowed, and left, the door clicking quietly closed behind him.

“It is no matter,” Kate said before Penelope could add any sort of apology. “You did wonderfully - it is no fault of yours that he is so persistent.” She sighed. “The park will be lovely, I am sure. And I did manage to find a book before he arrived.” Turning her back on the onlookers still gawking at them, she added even more quietly, “Next time I shall simply neglect to share with him my plans for the day. He will not find me so easily then.”

Beginning to look just the slightest bit mischievous, Penelope asked, “Oh, but will he not simply begin to have you followed?”

Kate set her shoulders. “Then I shall at least lead him on a merry chase about London, and see how he enjoys that.”

“It was lovely of you to accompany me today, but may I say, Kate, how unkind you are to allow your sister to learn of your recent exploits only through Lady Whistledown.”

Edwina turned slowly on the spot to face Kate as the modiste pinned expertly at her hem. Her expression, once fully revealed, was far more playful than her disapproving tone had indicated. Kate wrinkled her nose at her, but her sister only laughed.

“The latest issue had much to say regarding the ongoing tension between yourself and your husband. The two of you are apparently engaged in ‘a battle of wits and wills.’”

“Wills and whims is perhaps more accurate.”

“Regardless, she seemed to find the affair most entertaining. Her description of the way you tried to ensure that he had an engagement for fencing with his brother while you paid calls, only to have him bring two brothers along to join you - the whole thing was quite amusing.” It truly was unfair how Edwina only looked lovelier when she put on that impish smile to tease Kate. “Considering how sharp her pen can be, it is remarkable how affectionate she remains toward the pair of you. I believe she is quite taken with you!”

“Yes, her devotion to the idea of our love match is quite remarkable.” Kate turned away to examine some ribbons, although she knew that it would not dissuade Edwina from continuing the conversation.

And indeed: “The idea of your love match?” She could practically hear the appearance of the frown. “Perhaps it was not immediate, but now...Kate, the two of you are quite mad for each other and I know you too well to be convinced otherwise.”

Kate thought of Anthony offering a dowry for Edwina, the comfort of his voice, his reliable presence during storms, the way he always made certain that his family and duties were entirely taken care of. She thought of him with his hair rumpled and boyish in the privacy of their home, how with a few words, a simple stroke of the hand, he could make her feel utterly beautiful, actually cherished in a way she never could have imagined for herself. She thought of all the times over the months of their marriage when they simply sat together, talking of events both large and inconsequential, how he listened to her opinions and how she liked to listen to his (even when they were quite clearly flawed), how she appreciated making him laugh such that the burden of his responsibilities weighed less if only for a short while. She pictured the glint in his eye as he tried to verbally best her and the one when he had decided that there had been enough words between them for the evening and he would prefer instead to rob her of the ability to speak.

She sighed. “You are not incorrect,” she said, twisting the end of a white satin ribbon so that it curled around the tip of her finger. “It is only that—I have found it surprisingly simple to be married to him, but there has been little chance for me to truly learn how to act in this new time of my life. I am a viscountess now, a wife, and I can scarcely settle into either role when I am constantly wondering when he will arrive to try to distract me from my tasks.”

“One might think that it would be easiest to learn how to be a wife when your husband is constantly beside you,” Edwina noted, although her voice was kind if not entirely filled with understanding. “However, of a more pressing nature: it seems that you need not wonder long today.”

Puzzled, Kate turned, the question of precisely what her sister was talking about already on her lips, but found that she did not need to give it voice. Through the large window in the front of the shop, it was easy to spot Anthony striding up the street, eyes fixed and grin wide.

“Allow me to guess,” Kate said as the door to the shop opened to admit him. She placed one hand on her hip, tapping her chin with the other in mock thought. “You bribed my maid into telling you where we had gone and then simply happened to be in the area?”

“Your mother told me where you were with no bribery involved,” he said cheerfully. “And it did in fact so happen that I too had business only on the next street. Now—” He glanced around at the modiste’s assistant, who had remained ducked into a curtsy at the sight of him. “Please fetch the viscountess a seat.”

“I have no need of a seat,” Kate protested.

“As we shall be going soon,” he nodded. “Very sensible of you. Once Edwina has finished, there is a new cake shop I am eager to try. I believe that they have a confection made with lemon syrup which will be much to your liking, Kate.”

His outward manner was one of simple, practiced courteousness. In reality, she knew that he was attempting once more to win his way, but she also saw the smile, which was honest and directed only at her.

“I suppose we may add such a venture to our plans,” she agreed with a sigh. If nothing else, she would at least get some cake from the arrangement.

“Not to credit myself exceedingly,” Colin said as he and Kate walked together from the drawing room at Bridgerton House. “But I daresay none of my siblings would have made quite so good a partner, so it really was a good showing on my part to introduce you to Anthony and facilitate your joining the family.” The two of them had been paired together during charades following supper, and it was no boast to say that they had absolutely trounced the others.

“Not to credit yourself exceedingly, of course,” Kate said dryly. “Particularly as that introduction was made more in the spirit of your own entertainment than it was in hopes of our future together.”

“Ah, Kate, what a blow.” He pressed a hand to his chest.

Her mouth twitched uncontrollably into a smile. “You do not deny it. I judge my aim to be true.”

“Well, I shall take the acclaim for your wedded bliss, regardless of my original intentions.”

“Yes,” she said. “Our bliss.” But her smile faded a bit and she knew that she saw.

“My brother continues to exasperate, I gather.”

“He would certainly say the same of you,” Kate said, trying to tease. It was true, but she also found that she did not particularly care for others speaking against her husband, even if they might be correct.

“Oh, he has called me much worse than exasperating. Indeed, I recall—”

“You recall what?”

Kate turned just in time to see Violet fall into step with them, smiling briefly at her daughter-in-law before she turned to her son and said keenly, “Well, what is it that you were speaking of?”

“Only the tendency of your eldest son to irritate those around him,” Colin replied smoothly. “Tell us, Mother, did his nature show while he was still in his swaddling clothes, or did it only reveal itself once he began speaking?”

“Oh, hush. He was perfect, as all my children were, you know that.” She swatted lightly at his arm, before dropping her voice and adding, “Although there are perhaps some stories I could tell…”

“I for one would enjoy hearing them,” Kate said.

“Of course you would.” Violet’s light tone shifted just the slightest bit as she added, “You know, I can certainly have a word with him if he truly is causing you trouble. A reminder of one of those stories might serve well as a warning.”

Kate glanced over her shoulder at where Anthony was coming down the hall behind them, listening intently to something that Gregory was saying even as Hyacinth bobbed at his elbow and tried to interrupt. He really would make a wonderful father someday; in certain ways, he had already been playing the part for years now. She sighed, her heart softening a bit once again, and turned back to her companions.

“Please, do not worry yourself. Truly, all is well between the two of us, and I can certainly manage the situation if need be.” She linked her arm through Violet’s, a devilish little smile touching at her lips. “However, knowing one or two of these famous stories of yours might not go amiss. They sound ever so fascinating, after all.”

“How kind of you to allow me the pleasure of a dance,” Anthony said as they waltzed together a week later at Lady Vincent’s. “I have noticed you are less than satisfied to see me of late.”

“I would be perfectly happy to see you if only you did not force me to do so quite as constantly,” Kate reminded him. “And if you continue chasing me down and making a nuisance of yourself, perhaps in future I shall dance with your brother instead. If he is not much more accomplished than you in that area, these days he at least strikes me as less vexatious.”

“Who, Benedict?” He snorted, looking to the edge of the floor where his brother was sipping extremely slowly from a glass of punch, likely to avoid his mother’s latest attempts at matchmaking. “You are misled.”

“A pity. Luckily, I was referring to Gregory.”

“I had not realized they allowed waltzing in the schoolroom.”

“Ah, well, I suppose I shall have to make do with you. Only pray remember even as I grant you that, it makes you not a jot less maddening.”

Her coiffeur for the evening involved cascading curls; they fluttered with his breath as he bent toward her and said very softly against her ear, “After this insufferable affair has come to its end and I have taken you home, I shall remind you precisely how I can madden you, and how very much you can enjoy it.”

The flush which crept from cheeks to throat to collarbone and down along her décolletage felt apparent even to her, and she could tell from the gleam in his eye that he well enjoyed watching it spread. That look of superiority could not stand, so she mastered herself, leaning in to give a whisper of her own. “Perhaps I shall deny you such an opportunity and madden you in my stead. Turnabout being fair play, after all.”

“I should like to see you try,” he said, voice still low. “It has not escaped my notice that I am not the only one in our marriage with...robust appetites.”

The music was coming to a close; there was only a moment more for them to speak this way. She had the chance for the last word, and she seized it.

“Ah, Lord Bridgerton. You should have known better than to challenge me.”

Kate surveyed herself one final time with a surprising degree of satisfaction. Although Lady Bridgerton had insisted on expanding her wardrobe considerably before the wedding, there had been little opportunity to show off the modiste’s fine work; sitting in bed or around the house with her leg thrust awkwardly forward called more often for clothing in the category of old and comfortable rather than fashionable. Although Kate had never cared overmuch about how she dressed, wearing something new which suited her was a bit of a treat.

She was taking her enjoyment where she could these days. Anthony had become, if anything, more persistent in his intentions to find her wherever she went, leading her to make good on her threat not to allow him to pay her interest in a more private setting.

(Although she had obeyed only the letter rather than the spirit of his condition of faithfulness so long as she did not bar him from the bed, she had no worries on that score. He loved her, she knew that, and besides, between his usual responsibilities and his determination to chase her down at every opportunity during the day, and his attempts to seduce her all night, where would he find the time to stray?)

While her prohibition clearly seemed to have an effect on him, given the time he was investing in attempting to convince her to give over to him and the snappish manner he had taken on over the last several days when she had not, she was not finding the situation precisely easy either. As Anthony had pointed out, since their marriage, she had become accustomed to having certain needs met, and now that she was aware of those needs, it was most displeasing to have them remain unsatisfied.

“Excellent.” She jumped a bit at hearing Anthony’s voice in the doorway of their bedchamber, pretending to herself that it was merely because she had expected to have a bit more time to depart considering the appointments she knew he had scheduled today. It had nothing to do, of course, with the fact of him here in the flesh after she had been recalling that flesh so vividly to mind. “Are we going out, then?”

She ignored him, picking up the lead from the side table as she called Newton’s name sharply. Unfortunately, he simply continued to doze on the floor beside the bed. Holding back a sigh, she went over and attached him to it, which did manage to wake him. Instead of stretching and standing with any degree of dignity, however, he immediately leaped up, panting, and attempted to pull her from the room. It was only her preemptively planted feet which kept her from being towed gracelessly behind.

Although she had purposefully avoided eye contact with him, Anthony, still lounging in the doorway, said blithely, “I had been hoping to have an opportunity to take some air. A walk with the creature will be perfect.”

And that, for some reason, was it. Perhaps because it had been going on so long, or perhaps because she had spent the past several nights lying inches away but not touching him even as her fingers fairly itched to do so, or perhaps it was because Newton was behaving ridiculously, or because Anthony was insisting on joining them only to spite her (he did not even like her dog enough to use his name), or some combination of all of those factors and more, but her voice went quite deadly, coldly dignified, as she said, “My apologies, but you shall not be joining us, my lord. You shall stay here, and I will speak to you upon my return. Now, if you will excuse me.”

Luckily, his spine had gone straight with shock at hearing her tone, entirely devoid of teasing or requisite argument or begrudging capitulation; she did not think he would have moved over on his own enough for her to pass. As it was, even as she and Newton descended the stairs and departed the house, she nearly expected to be followed.

She did not expect the small pang which struck her when she realized she had not been. After all this time, she had managed to push him away and she was unsure what it might cost her.

Newton’s energy had flagged after less than an hour - the consequences of short legs, she supposed, and perhaps the interrupted nap - but she forced the two of them to stay out for a respectable interval. It had been hard-won, after all.

When she finally returned, she removed her bonnet, saw Newton settled and lapping noisily at a bowl of water, and spoke briefly to the butler and the housekeeper before she asked where her husband was and braced her feet toward his study.

She was somewhat surprised that he was still in the house, although it was entirely expected that he would withdraw from their bedroom rather than remaining there at her order like a caught child. The way he moved his pen across the page, all tightly wound fury, his choice not to look up although he surely heard her tread or her light knock - all just as she predicted. Even the way he spoke when he finally chose to wipe his pen, set his papers aside, and look at her, the ringing command of, “I will not be addressed in such a way, Kate,” was the voice of the viscount, precisely as she had known that it would be.

But she had not known she could respond similarly until she did. “Then do not require it of me, Anthony,” she said: the voice of the viscountess, although she had never before heard it from her own mouth.

He looked for a moment just as taken aback as she felt, the mask dropping briefly. It was enough to soften her, making her sigh and walk in toward him, closing the door behind herself. She leaned on the corner of his desk nearest him, hands clasped and resting against her skirts.

“Anthony,” she said, gazing down at him. “Anthony, this is becoming absurd. Will you please tell me what on earth you have been thinking of?”

He said nothing, mouth pressed mulishly inward, but he turned just the slightest bit toward her, angled his legs so that they were nearer hers, and she recognized the space he was opening. She reached down to take his hand, pressing it to her lips.

“Please.” Her words were becoming ever softer. “Please, I must know what is going through your mind. Will you tell me?”

Although she had heard him speak clearly mere moments before, when he finally began to talk, his voice was hoarse enough that he had to clear his throat once, twice, before he was finally able to be understood.

“It was your injury at first. Needing to stay close to you to reassure myself that you truly were well and would not be overcome, yes, but…” He inhaled slowly and deeply before he continued. “I am certain that no matter how long my life, I shall never forget the sight of you beneath that carriage, so still and silent.” His gaze met hers, and she saw the shine of tears there. “If such an accident could happen once, it could happen again, and I would—I could not have borne it had anything else occurred, but more than that, I could not take the chance that I might be away from you when it did. What if you needed me and I was off looking at accounts, or taking care of some foolish errand, or sitting about playing cards, or doing anything but all that I could to help you? So I made certain that I would be near you as often as I could.”

“Anthony—” she started, but now that he had begun speaking he could not seem to stop himself.

“I know the extreme unlikeliness of you breaking another limb while trying on gloves or sitting taking tea or what have you, but I could not take the chance. And beyond that...I know you have doubts regarding my foreshortened life. Nevertheless, your advice was to ensure that whenever my time comes, I would be without regret. And aside from neglecting the continued well-being of my family and tenants, the thing I would regret the most is not spending enough time with you.”

His hand, which lay so naturally in hers that she had nearly forgotten she was holding it, tightened as he faced her. “It took me too long to understand that I loved you, and longer still to realize that you have become my favorite person to spend time with. Having you at home for all of those months made it terribly easy for me to become accustomed to being around you for hours or days at a time, and even that might not have satisfied me. Truly, I am not certain that ninety years beside you would be enough.”

Emotion seemed, for a moment, to eclipse her ability to speak. She had the feeling that anyone might have reacted thus to such a declaration of love, but she was only just finding out what it was to be loved, that it was possible for her to be desired. She had spent her life up until the last months believing that if she did not remain a spinster altogether, her prospects were limited to those desperate for any sort of wife. Hearing these words from someone who loved her truly and especially was quite overwhelming.

Even knowing that it would not be truly comfortable for either of them, she could not help herself: she relinquished his hand and settled herself in his lap, pressing her forehead into the space between his jaw and throat as they both breathed together. He did not seem to mind the discomfort, holding her tightly.

When she had finally mastered herself, she said, still a bit shakily but making the best of it, “I must say that I don’t know that spending every moment of the next ninety years together is truly practical.”

She seemed to be able to nearly feel his answering smile. “Perhaps not, but one cannot make such a statement before making the attempt.” And then the smile was gone again from his voice, although she hoped not far. “I know that my mother wishes often that my father could be there to experience life beside her. For the larger moments, of course - when Hyacinth was born, and seeing my brothers off to school and to university, and for all the courtships and marriages and births to come - but for all the little in-betweens as well. I never—” He cleared his throat once again. “I do not want to reach the end of my life, whenever that may be, without knowing that I experienced you smiling at me, or handing me cups of tea just the way I like them, or telling me about whatever you have read lately absolutely as many times as I could.”

“What about hearing me play the flute as many times as you could?” she asked, holding back a sniffle. He really was quite sweet sometimes - as sweet as he was irritating, which meant abominably so.

Close as she was, she felt the wince even as he checked it a second later. “And hearing you play the flute, of course.”

“Then I shall be certain to play for you this very evening.” He did not respond but she resisted prodding him into agreement, choosing instead to say gently, “You know, I’m quite honored that you took my advice with such seriousness, but I wonder if you have forgotten the other part of it. Spending all this time worrying over regrets rather than settling into the wonder of each day...We are trying to build a life, and I want you to have a chance to revel in the array of it rather than attempting to hoard memories by volume."

“You think perhaps that I shall miss the forest for the trees? That in turning greedy for as many tiny moments as I can have, I shall forget to enjoy our life together as a whole?”

“Just so,” she said, relaxing further against him. "Not to mention the practicality of it all. Even if you were with me all day long from the time that you awoke - and I fear I would turn murderess in such a circumstance - but even so, there would be some second that your back was turned, some word or gesture that you missed. And besides, one day there might be more than us two in our family and I should hope that you would want to collect some fatherly experiences as well. Considering how much time you have spent only trying to follow me about…”

“How I should manage with a child or more I cannot think." Resting his cheek on the crown of her head, he sighed against her. "Must you be so impossibly sensible all the time?"

"Yes, I absolutely must," she said solemnly, although she was quite glad to hear his own good sense finally reasserting itself. "However, indulgent wife that I am, I shall make you a bargain: you might not be able to see me all the time, but we may arrange some—" She held up a finger for emphasis before he could get any ideas. "Some outings together during the day, and perhaps find some mutual activity to partake in. And we shall spend every evening that we are able together."

"I still will not have my fill of you."

"Perhaps. And perhaps I never would of you. But whether ten years or thirty or ninety together, we can make each day have been enough."

He groaned, leaning back as much as he was able. The chair at his desk truly was not intended to hold two fully grown adults. "Some healthy debate is one thing, but I dislike truly arguing with you: today was more than enough."

"Really?" She had begun tracing the buttons of his waistcoat, just lightly. "It is only afternoon. I can think of certain activities to occupy us for some time yet."

Before she truly registered the motion, she had been lifted into the air, his stride easy and purposeful as he carried her across the room.

"Have I told you lately how much I appreciate your mind? You really do have some marvelous ideas."

"And what if I had meant we should spend the rest of the day playing chess? Or visiting your mother?" she said, although she knew he could hear the joy in her voice.

"I could convince you otherwise," he said. "Believe me."

She did. Not that it would do to tell him, but she would not have taken very much convincing at all.

No one was overly surprised when Kate delivered a baby midway through the next year. In fact, if she heard Simon correctly as she passed his study at Hastings House before they announced her condition, there had been some playful questioning over whether Anthony understood the precise mechanics of things.

“Considering the amount of time you spend together, one would think the newest Bridgerton would have appeared already,” her brother-in-law had laughed.

If it had been one of his own brothers speaking, Kate suspected that the remark would have earned a swift smack upside the head, but as it was, her husband only replied, his voice like a hand on the hilt of a sword, “Remember that is my wife you are speaking of. And I’ll have you know that I could easily spend quite a bit more time with her, new Bridgerton or no.”

“Well.” Kate could not see past the cracked door into the room proper, but there was enough surprise in his voice to picture the Duke of Hastings with his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. “Apparently that is your wife we are speaking of.”

And despite the foolish masculinity of their conversation, it had made her smile.

She smiled quite a lot these days. Not so much when Edmund was being born, painful as it was, but in the months afterward, even with the baby so very small and fretful, she could not help herself as they settled into being a family.

In the past, she had considered the idea of waking with a smile to be the stuff of daydreams and silly novels, but no longer, and as she typically greeted the day wrapped in her husband’s embrace, she felt that she could be forgiven for the sentimentality. They always managed to have at least a few moments speaking together in the mornings before Anthony had to be up for some appointment or Kate needed to be off to meet her mother or sister, or her mother- or sisters-in-law. (Sometimes it was more than a few moments filled not precisely with speaking, which Kate found to be a rather delightful way to start a day.)

Afternoons found them often apart, although not as often as most married couples: few wives had promises of the favor of their company for a midday walk solicited so frequently, and most husbands avoided tea with the ladies like the plague rather than arranging to be welcomed to it. Seeing him appear in the doorway was always cause for a smile - although she did admit that it turned devious on the occasions that he realized too late that she was entertaining certain members of the ton who he typically preferred to avoid. It always suited her to have an ally, and as he was the one insisting on being present, he would have to take the bad along with the good.

In the evenings, so long as they had no other engagements, they would sit together after eating and share tales of what they had seen and done while apart during the day. He was well known for a most impertinent and absolutely entertaining impersonation of Lord Liverpool, but refused to allow her to show off to his family her impressions of the ladies of society - apparently it would give Eloise and Hyacinth ideas.

As if those two could not come up with ideas perfectly well on their own, and would regardless of any influence, but she let him have his fantasies.

Eloise herself took a seat between Anthony and Kate one morning as some of the family sat together in the drawing room at Violet’s new home. Kate, although she was now capably assuming the role of viscountess in true, had been a bit relieved that when her mother-in-law left Bridgerton House, the center of the family had shifted with her; she did love them all, but she was fairly unaccustomed to people turning up and going in and out at all hours. Violet was not even currently at home - she had gone calling and left her children with the run of the place. Not, in Kate’s opinion, a completely sound decision, considering the particular children involved.

Eloise, for example, had not actually sat between her brother and sister-in-law, but had more accurately placed herself practically atop the two of them: had Anthony not begrudgingly shifted over, Kate might have had to balance a grown woman in her lap along with her baby son. Leaning over, Eloise cooed at Edmund, who only smacked his lips together and yawned before dozing off again.

“How lucky you are, Kate, that he is still so small and sweet.”

Kate recalled how three nights past he had kept the house up until the wee hours and nearly had the nurse in tears. “Oh, I believe he is on his company behavior for you.”

“There will come a time where he has no company behavior,” Eloise predicted, nodding sagely. “He will forget all of your good instruction and simply stomp about. Or perhaps mope. He might take after Benedict - he was a mopey sort.”

At the sound of his name, the brother in question looked over from where he had been gazing absently through the window and pulled a face at his sister, although he ended up grinning a bit when she gave one right back to him. Kate was glad to see it; he had been unusually quiet over the past month or two.

“Luckily,” Eloise continued, “he will be at school by then, for the most part, and scolding him will be someone else’s concern.” Turning toward Anthony, she asked, “I wonder, however, how you plan to keep yourself occupied for the foreseeable future.”

“I beg your pardon?” Anthony said, in that familiar ‘your mind is completely confounding, Eloise’ voice.

“Well, Kate will be spending the next years child-rearing, and running Bridgerton House and Aubrey Hall, and playing hostess, and—” She waved a hand. “Viscountessing. So will you be taking up a hobby to occupy yourself until your children are grown? Fishing, perhaps, or gambling on horse races? Oh, I have it: you shall write poetry.”

Kate suppressed a snort while Anthony visibly gathered himself. “If you will recall,” he started with stiff patience, “I have my own responsibilities as well. And there is no reason for Kate to raise the children by herself - Mother and Father were partners in that as in everything, and we shall be as well.”

They had spoken of this before, but Kate could not help but bend her face toward the baby and pretend to adjust his cap. Each time she had heard him mention this, the delight of the thought nearly overwhelmed her.

When she looked up, Anthony was staring past Eloise and right at her. “And besides,” he said, barely for anyone but Kate. “I believe my time will be quite consumed otherwise, and well spent for it.”

“I would tend to concur,” she said, knowing that he was not referring to the music lessons he had recently begun, or even activities of a more personal sort. But before he could crow the victory for having gained her agreement, she smiled at him and waited, knowing that he would be unable to keep himself from smiling back.

[sparrowwritings]

Final Fantasy 14 Writing Challenge Day Ten: “The day I met you was the luckiest day of my life.”

Day Nine - Masterpost - Day Eleven

“I’m thinking you should have a rest.”

The Crystal Exarch blinked up from his work. His room, covered as it already was in books and papers, was in even more disarray then usual. This was due to him actively researching how to transport the Scions of the Seventh Dawn (and himself, if luck would have him) back into the Source. There was only so much time before their bodies would no longer be able to support the lack of aether that their souls would give them, so he absolutely needed to keep working.

That didn’t seem to be the opinion of Beq Lugg, the brilliant Nu Mou expert on souls. They prodded at the flesh of the Exarch’s non-crystalized arm until he flinched away from the desk he had been working on. “You have been staring at the same several pages for an age. You should rest if you’re stuck.” 

“Begging your pardon, Beq Lugg, but there’s much to do and no way of knowing exactly how much time we have to do it,” The Exarch protested. “My merging with the Crystal Tower has given me the boon of a body that has no need for rest. I can keep at the work.” He flinched again with a startled “Ow!” when the Nu Mou prodded even harder at his arm. 

“I didn’t mean a physical rest but a mental one you young fool.” They snorted. He was too astonished at being called “young” to interrupt. “You have poured blood, sweat and tears into saving the lives of your friends in the most literal of senses. Time is of the essence, but the only result of your inner workings slipping from their proper settings will be mistakes you can ill afford. Go and see to your Crystarium and allow your mind to work at the problem from a different angle.”

Having recovered, the Exarch implored, “But what about your end, Beq Lugg? You have been working for nearly as long with just as little rest!”

They snorted again, this time with something that sounded like amusement. “You need not worry about myself. I can handle the research and testing for the time it will take you to walk your city. Go.” 

“But--” Feeling more and more like a child, his plea fell on deliberately deaf ears.

“Keeper of this tower you may be, but I will not allow you to assist me further unless and until you have been away for at least a half hour.” Beq Lugg made a gesture and one of their familiars was summoned to the room. It hugged itself around the Exarch’s torso and bodily carried him to the main entrance to the tower where it let him go suddenly. 

He was already out the door and several steps down in his shock when he turned back. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was about to do, but the magic seal on the inner side of the door was proof enough that Beq Lugg was as good as their word. In the space of a thought, the Exarch could use the power at his command to break the seal and enter the tower regardless of the orders given to him.

Except, something stopped him. A nudge of a memory so old that it had almost completely faded from his mind. A sense of...familiarity about the situation came to him. Even though he had never once in the hundred years of being the tower’s master been locked out of it.

With a heavy sigh and a quick word to the Crystarium guard who saw to those who entered and left the tower, the Exarch stepped the rest of the way down the stairs. If he was being told to have a break, he might as well spend it seeing how the city fared. Much like he did in the hundred years past, he stood for a moment on the cobblestones and stared around at the courtyard. His ears twitched from their place on top of his head, following the sounds of his people as he tried to gauge the mood. 

Many were in small groups, scattered about and whispering of the visions recently forced upon them by Elidibus. The people affected wouldn’t describe the phenomenon with those words, seeing as they now were declaring themselves Warriors of Light and starting journeys similar to that of the heroes of old. The ones that sacrificed their very lives to prevent the Flood of Light from engulfing the entirety of the First. One of whom’s body was now possessed by Elidibus in some scheme that involved the creation of new heroes. 

The Exarch sighed inwardly. Half a wonder that Beq Lugg demanded he take a mental break. There was far too much for a single mind to worry itself with on top of the complex workings it would take to transport five souls (and his own) back to the Source unscathed. A walk was just what he needed. 

He decided to circle the city in a somewhat widdershins fashion. First he saw to the Spagyrics, listening to the concerns about supplies and wishing a full and quick recovery to those still being treated. Then he went past the Ballistics upstairs to the Amaro Launch to check in on incoming and outbound flights. As he journeyed through the city, passing through or by places such as the Crystalline Mean, the Cabinet of Curiosity and the Rookery, the Exarch allowed himself to spare a word or two to anyone that wished it of him. Raised as they were to trust in him and not question, none of the people had a word to say about his newly unhooded self nor of his race, known in this world as Mystel. All they cared about was his well being and, by extension, that of his friends.

“Seems they keep scattering off to find things these days!” Darlfort laughed. His tavern was one of the last stops on the Exarch’s patrol around the Crystarium. It was well past the half hour away from work that Beq Lugg had demanded of him, but he indulged in conversation in case there was to be any room for doubt in the Nu Mou’s mind. Not that he minded chatting with his people in the first place, of course. “Barely any time to come for a drink, much less a chat!”

The Exarch smiled, perfectly picturing the Scions in miniature while running willy nilly around the city. “Indeed. I feel I must apologize for your lack of patronage, as some of what they have been doing has been on my behalf.”

“Pah, well worth the lack of coin then.” Darlfort grinned as he cleaned a glass. “Although...come to think of it I saw the Warriors of Darkness heading towards the Pendants not so long before you came strolling up to my bar, Exarch.”

He thought back to what Lara and Roger were supposed to be doing in their quest to return the Scions back to the Source. He hadn’t heard that they had completed their mission yet. It was odd that the two of them had returned to the Crystarium so early and with nary a word. He felt his ears flatten a little with concern. “Strange. You’re the first to inform me of their arrival. I’ll have to visit them before I return to the tower.”

Darlfort raised a hand in farewell. “Be seeing you, then.” 

“And I, you.” The Exarch nodded before taking his leave. 

He’d been expecting to need to go to the apartment that the Warriors of Darkness shared. Instead, he discovered Roger laying on his back in one of the patches of grass just outside of the building. He was staring up at (or perhaps through) the glass ceiling that once helped shield the more residential part of the city from the harshness of the Light that pervaded the world until very recently. The weather had been kind, giving way for a clear blue sky with dottings of friendly white clouds. Through the tinted glass, one could even pick out shapes in those clouds. From the way he was lazily using an extended pointer finger to draw in the air, that appeared to be what Roger was doing.

“Well met, Roger!” The Exarch called out as he approached the young man. “How goes the sky watching?” 

Roger blinked several times before sitting up and looking in the Exarch’s direction. It took him a moment or two longer to process the question. “Oh! It’s fine. Sky looks...clear, here.” He scratched at the back of his head. “Just don’t ask me about other parts of Norvrandt. I dunno how the watchers manage to know…”

“‘Tis a trade secret I also have yet to glean.” The Exarch stopped walking when he came within comfortable hearing range, but did not make to stand or sit next to Roger. He refused to do so unless invited, particularly after...well, the reveal of his true identity.

“Oof, then I guess it’s gonna have to stay a mystery.” 

The two lapsed into silence. Despite being the one who was standing, the Exarch felt as if he were small under the scrutinizing gaze of one of the Warriors of Darkness. Or, well, Light as he once knew them. He briefly wondered if the two would adopt the new moniker on the Source when the thought was broken by a sigh from Roger. 

“You’re allowed to sit down next to me, G’raha. We’re still friends, you know.”

The Exarch’s ears perked up at the use of his true name. Even after having it known to the Scions, the use of it, particularly by either Lara or Roger had yet to fade in significance. That he was being reassured of friendship in the same statement also contributed to his upward mood shift. He took the invitation and sat himself down so that he was looking directly at Roger.

“I’m...glad to hear it. You have my thanks and yet another apology for my deception.” There would never be enough apologies for the well intentioned but failed plan of his to save his friends. Nor would there be enough apologies for the series of events that took place because of his actions. It was the best he could do while working on his actual apology gift of sending the Scions back to the Source. 

Roger rolled his eyes, which surprised the Exarch. “You really don’t need to keep apologizing. Sure I wish you would’ve told us who you were earlier, and it’s not like Lara and I were thrilled about finding that out on top of...everything else that was going on at the time…” He gained a faraway look as he trailed off.

Responding to his emotions far faster than his face ever did (one of the main reasons why the hood he wore over most of his face was necessary to his initial plan), the Exarch’s ears flattened against his head in shame. He also looked away from the younger man’s gaze.

Roger shook himself out of his state and continued, “Your plan was stupidly suicidal for how long you had to refine it, but you promised to do everything you can to live from now on and we both forgave you already.” He paused a moment before grinning awkwardly and scratching at the side of his face. “It’d be kinda stupid if we held a grudge about that anyway. Lara and I do a ton of stupidly suicidal things. Some of them we even plan out in advance.” He gave his final sentence a dramatic gravitas and the Exarch could feel himself smiling a half second after his ears had returned to their more neutral state.

“A cautionary tale against such plans indeed. I’ll endeavor to keep it to heart.” He looked around the lawn before settling his gaze back on Roger. “Speaking of your sister, where is she? I’d heard that you both had returned to the Crystarium but I only see you.”

The good cheer that Roger had been showing deflated at the question. “Lara’s...we did the mission and usually violence against things trying to kill us helps her feel better, but she’s still very upset about the Elidibus thing. She needed some time to herself, so I let her have the room for a bit.”

The Exarch nodded. “She and Ardbert were quite close, from what you’ve said. I can’t imagine what she must be going through right now.” 

Roger put a hand to his chest as he nodded in kind. “Close is a way of describing it, yeah. She really wants to tear Elidibus apart for just that. I’m...” He hesitated. 

“Conflicted?” The Exarch filled in.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m angry too. Just because I didn’t ever get to see or hear him doesn’t mean I didn’t get to know him so it hurt when we figured out it wasn’t really Ardbert. But. I’m also kind of...sad for Elidibus? Like, I feel like I might do something big and mean to the people that killed all of my friends, y’know?” 

The two were quiet for a moment.

“I think I do understand.” The Exarch said after a moment. “You’re trying to empathize with him.”

Roger shrugged and looked away. “I guess? It sounds stupid, though. We haven’t gotten anyone on the Ascians’ side to listen to us once.”

In the melancholy lull that was left by the Warrior of Darkness, the Exarch couldn’t help but chuff. “Another addition to your list of bad plans, I see.” 

The younger man blinked at him for a moment before snorting. “Yeah, it is!”

The two chuckled together until the laughter died down again. Instead of letting silence take over, the Exarch took initiative to say, “I actually had a couple of motives other than a need to apologise again.”

“Oh?”

“I wished to thank you and Lara for everything you’ve done.” The Exarch gave a gentle smile to Roger. “I’ve truly been blessed since the day I met you two.”

“What, even after everything??” Roger got to his knees in order to lean closer to the Exarch. “Doga and Unei, the long sleep, the time travel, the sin eaters, Emet-Selch...really?”

“Yes, really.” The Exarch put his living hand on Roger’s shoulder, as much reassurance for his friend as it was for himself. “While I have indeed made many mistakes in the process, I am still quite glad that I was able to save you and Lara both. I was able to discover my destiny, and in turn was able to save you. Whatever the future holds for any of us on the Source, I will be thrilled to join you two in what’s to come.”

Roger’s expression was far more serious than it normally was when he put his own hand on the Exarch’s shoulder. “You better make that a promise. You will live to see the Source again, G’raha Tia, and you will go on adventures with us.” 

Tears started to form in the corners of G’raha Tia’s eyes as he fiercely nodded. “This I swear by all that I am.”

“I’m gonna hold you to it.” Roger’s expression then softened a little. “What was the other motive for coming here?”

“Oh, er,” He sniffed and scrubbed at his eyes with the palm of his living hand. “Beq Lugg insisted I leave the tower for a mental break, so I took a walk around the Crystarium.”

There was barely a second’s pause before Roger snorted into a laugh.

“I know, it’s ridiculous…” 

“Not just that!” The hand that had been on G’raha’s shoulder came to Roger’s mouth, as if to try to contain the mirth spilling out of it. “They made you take a break like Rammbroes did when you hit that wall in your research!”

The familiar feeling from earlier in the day came back in full force as the memory unfolded before him. He’d almost forgotten that moment in his first adventure with Lara and Roger. “And...Lara made candies for the camp, to keep up our spirits. Honey drops she called them, or something similar.”

“Yeah, that’s it! I should ask if she can make more sometime, or teach me how.”

With that memory also came a memory of what had happened when Roger had consumed too many of the candies. “You’d never sleep again if she taught you.”

“It would be worth it! Honey’s the best!” 

“While I don’t deny that, too many candies will…”

The two had chatted a little longer before G’raha finally made his way back towards the tower. He felt more invigorated than he had been in ages. It was a moment that he planned to cherish forever. A moment that would have been denied to him had he gone through with his initial plan. Bolstered by the idea of fostering more moments like the one he just experienced, he stepped into the Crystal Tower with his head held high.

An idea had finally started to take root in his mind. With any luck, it would be the key to everything.

[deamstellarus]

In Viata Asta (3)

Pairing: Stucky x Reader Word Count: 6k Warnings: Uhm…none? Maybe injuries and language?

A/N: Sorry this update is so late! My work schedule was shit last week so I was behind on editing and posting. So! I thought posting a little early would help make up for it, and it’s the longest so far? Also yes I know, this gif doesn’t have that much to do with this update but I love how it looks.

Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

You woke up to murmured voices and mechanical beeps. You were in a bed in a very white room. You could only assume it was the infirmary of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Several IVs were attached to your arm. A woman with long dark hair in a bun and a white lab coat jotted something down on a clipboard beside you, then took her leave silently. Something was making your brain feel hazy. Your bets were on the strong antiseptics in the air, but it was more likely whatever pain meds they were feeding you. Your hand was bandaged now, your back probably was too for how tight it felt. You started to sit up in bed.

“You don’t want to do that, zvezdochka. With your luck, you’d probably pull all your stitches.” Natasha sat next to your bed in an uncomfortable chair, staring intensely at the screen of her tablet. She set it down on the small side table next to you, and pushed a button on a remote. Your bed shifted you into a seated position. She held a white cup with a straw to your lips. You drank greedily, the cool water soothing your dry throat. 

“How long...?” You croaked. 

“Only twenty-four hours. You lost a decent amount of blood but we got you back soon enough.”

Then why did it feel like you were laying on fire?

“Your back was practically shredded from the rocks.” Had you said that out loud? “You needed a few stitches but you’ll be fine. The boys should be back in a few minutes with snacks, if you’re hungry.”

You nodded. Or tried to; your neck was stiff. Natasha went back to her tablet, so you closed your eyes for a few more minutes before Steve and Sam’s voices echoed through the otherwise quiet space.

“Look who’s up. Miss Rough and Tumble.” Sam’s toothy grin lit up the room.

“How are you feeling, Blue?” Steve’s ocean eyes were filled with concern. He looked perfectly okay. As if he hadn’t almost drowned in an evil river. Stupid super soldier serum.

“Just peachy, Cap.”

“I thought we had a deal.”

“Sorry… Steve.” You smirked. Your stomach grumbled. Loudly. He chuckled and plopped the white paper bag he held on your lap. You opened it, smiling to yourself when you found a couple buttery croissants and one of those twisted glazed doughnuts. Natasha was giving away all of your secrets it seems. You chose a croissant, biting into the warm, flaky pastry. It was glorious.

“I see you still can't go very long without getting yourself into some kind of trouble," a familiar voice said. 

"Sorry, sir,  I—" Steve started before you cut him off.

"To be fair, I was doing fine on my own until these hooligans showed up." You muttered, mouth full, lazily gesturing to Steve, Natasha, and Sam, who stared at you indignantly.

"Don't be like that, Baby Blue!"

Fury looked unimpressed. "Excuses are—"

“...just lies we tell ourselves to justify doing something poorly." You finished his phrase, then swallowed. "It's nice to see you too, Nick."

"Nick?" Sam gasped.

"What, did you think his name was just Fury?"

"He doesn't exactly like when anyone calls him that," Sam grumbled.

"Aww, Nick! I knew you were going soft on me." 

Fury grunted, but eventually relented and came over to pat your shoulder until you flinched at his touch.

"Heal up, Agent. We’ll talk about the incident when you’re standing on your own two feet again," he said as he walked to the door.

"Not an agent," you called after him.

"We'll see about that." He threw out.

You pouted. You knew it was unbecoming of you, but this is what you'd been dreading. You didn't want to come back to S.H.I.E.L.D. That time of your life turned out to be so traumatic you ended up in a cabin by yourself for two years. But the reality is, you knew he'd get his way in the end. He always did.

__________

As far as doctors went, Dr. Alexandra Marks was patient and kind, and clearly had years of experience dealing with agents that tended to make reappearances in her infirmary. She was thorough with her diagnostics and made sure to emphasize what you could, but more importantly could not, do while you were in the recovery phase. Stitches, a heavy dose of fluids, and an advanced topical solution to help “speed up cell production”, and you were patched together the best you could be. Supposedly, they had a machine that was designed to generate skin, called the Cradle. It could have prevented the scarring, but it was out of commission due to an update or something. To be honest, it sounded too much like a cross between a crazy science experiment and a magic trick. Just the thought made you wary.  

“While you’re still lucid, I need you to give me a report of what happened,” Natasha said after Dr. Marks and the boys left. She attached a keyboard to her tablet, pulling the kickstand out so the whole thing could rest on the bed tray. “It’s just better to do this while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

“Yeah, I know.” You frowned at the screen. Blips of the incident flashed through your mind. “Honestly, I’m not too sure what I actually remember. It feels like it’s all a blur.”

“Any little detail helps,” she pushed. “Anything at all.” 

Weren’t those guys just Hydra goons though? But if that were the case, then why did it feel like there’s something more to this?

“What aren’t you telling me?” 

Her face went through a series of micro-expressions that you would have missed had you not known to look for them.

“Is it not Hydra that came after us?”

“We don’t know. But… it doesn’t look like it at this point.” She sighed. “Just write the report for now.”

“Okay.”

So you did. Any little thing you could remember from the men to the river, you included in your retelling. For the most part, you didn’t remember the men standing out in any way more than they seemed out of place in the general store. The majority of the normal clientele wore flannels, sweatshirts, or thick hunting jackets. The sleek black jackets and black caps they’d been wearing made them stand out. That being said, everything was nondescript, no labels, no logos. Pretty generic bad guys if you were being honest. The only thing you could think of was the small tattoo on the side of one of their necks, but you hadn’t been close enough to see the actual design. 

Maybe that was just you being paranoid and projecting. The tattoo was probably just a tattoo. 

A couple hours later, Dr. Marks released you, with a promise that you wouldn’t do “anything unnecessary like your troublemaker friends.” You snickered at that.  

Natasha gave you a tour of what you now learned was the Avengers Compound in upstate New York. Apparently, S.H.I.E.L.D. has been running part of the agency out of the side buildings that were part of the campus since they re-established, while there was still a segment in D.C. She pointed out the different buildings and rooms during the brief tour, but you were distracted, rightfully so, by the sheer amount of agents that gave you judgemental stares the entire way to the main Avengers building. You steeled your nerves; you wouldn’t give them anything more before you could physically defend yourself.

You stepped into an elevator after Natasha, the smooth doors sliding silently shut behind you. You allowed your shoulders a break from the stiff, upright posture you’d taken.

“You alright?” Natasha asked.

“Yup.”

“Ignore them. The most fun the majority of them have is over rumors and gossip.” Natasha said. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., third floor please.”

“Of course, Agent Romanoff,” a voice responded from above.

“A.I.?” you questioned. Natasha nodded. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. is one of Tony’s creations. She’ll help you with anything you need.”

“Huh, well thanks in advance then, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

“It’s my pleasure… I cannot find your identification in any system, miss. What shall I call you?”

“Oh, you can call me Blue?”

“Very well. Enjoy your stay, Blue.”

The doors opened, revealing a hallway that lead to the left and right of the elevator and seemingly wrapped around the perimeter of the building. In the center, you were able to look down over a common area of sorts, with a variety of couches, tables, an oversized TV, and a kitchen off to the side. Natasha turned to the right, passing several doors before she stopped.

“This is your room.”

The door in front of you was a glossy white with a biometric scanner to the side. 

“Put your hand to the scanner,” she said. You did. A blue light shone through your hand, then with a soft click, the door slid open. The room was bigger than you thought it’d be, but knowing who owned the building, you didn’t expect anything less. There was a plush bed on one side of the room, a desk with a swivel chair on the opposite wall. Tall windows allowed natural light in the space. A fluffy rug and long drapes helped make the room less cold and clinical. But that wasn’t what drew your attention the most. 

Draped across the bed was the plush purple blanket Clint had bought you when you were first brought back to headquarters. It was so, so soft. On top of that was your green duffle bag. It was the one thing you took with you everywhere. It stayed stocked and ready for if you needed to leave at short notice.

“Thank you, Natasha.” 

“Of course,” she nodded.

"No chance of me going back to the cabin, huh?" You asked. Because as lonely as it had been there, it was yours, for the most part, and had become your safe place.

She shook her head. "Sorry, Blue. It wasn't discovered yet, but now they've seen your face, they know you're in the area. We can't take that chance."

You knew that, of course. She only confirmed it.

“There’s an ensuite bathroom behind that door, and a walk-in closet next to it,” Natasha pointed out. “It’s not the cabin, but it’s a good place to stay. You’ll like it here,” You nodded. 

She pulled you into her arms, her hands holding you like she didn't want to let go. 

"You scared me, zvezdochka," she whispered into your hair. 

"I know. I’m sorry.” It was rare for her to show so much emotion. As long as you’d known her, Natasha had always kept her feelings hidden.

A cough at the door disrupted the mood. 

“What does a guy have to do to get the famous Widow to hold him like that?” The man leaned against the door frame, dressed in jeans and a vintage band t-shirt. It seemed far too casual for such a well-known billionaire.

Beside you, Natasha pulled away and rolled her eyes. Like a switch, her blasé facade was back in full force.

“Tony, this is Blue. Blue, Tony Stark,” she introduced.

“What kind of name is Blue?” 

“It’s a nickname,” you said.

“Uh huh.” He squinted at you. “And your real name would be?”

“Leave it alone, Stark,” Natasha growled.

“I just find it strange that not only is there no record of her in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s database, but I can’t find her anywhere. Not a name, a city, a school, medical record. Nothing.”

Natasha bristled. Her eyes were narrowed slits. “I said leave it alone, Stark. She’s a personal friend of mine and Barton’s. Leave it alone.”

Tony glared at Natasha for a moment before yielding. 

“Fine, but we’re talking about this later.” To you, he said, “Welcome to the compound, kid.”

He took his leave, and Natasha shook her head. 

“He doesn’t like when he doesn’t know everything about something or someone. Unfortunately, he will get his way eventually. He’s pushy, but it comes from a good place.”

“Don’t worry about me, Tasha. I can handle him. Besides, I am living under his roof for now, he has a right to know what he wants to know.” 

“Only if you want to.” She puts a hand to your shoulder, before she walks to the door. But his inquiry did make you wonder…

“Why isn’t there a SHIELD file for me, or at least Agent M?”

“It may have gotten...lost when I released the files to the public.” 

“You deleted mine instead of yours?” You remember she had a list of aliases, most from before she joined “the good guys.”

She shrugged. “It was time for a new chapter anyway.” She waved it off as if it meant nothing, but she risked her own neck so you could remain nameless.

“Thank you, sestrenka.” She was always looking out for you.

“Dinner is at six. You’ll meet most of the rest of the team then. Take a nap, you look like you need it.” She winked.

“Tell me the truth, how bad does it look?” You tilted your head, indicating your back.

“Eh, it’s just a few stitches.” With that, she left, copper curls bouncing behind her. And really you had no choice but to take a nap like she said. Especially when the bed looked that comfortable. __________

Natasha lied. That was your only thought as you looked at your body in the mirror of your bathroom. It was not just a few stitches. Forty-seven in total. You cringed as you read off the report FRIDAY supplied. Hearing it from Dr. Marks, and reading it off the report, hadn’t quite prepared you visually for the reality of your injuries. From what you could tell, your back was covered in black zig-zags, reminiscent of Frankenstein's monster. At least as much as you could see that peeked out from underneath the white bandages and gauze. Plum-colored splotches covered your body. In addition to your back, your right hand also received six stitches, and your sprained ankle was now wrapped. And there were bags under your eyes. You looked awful and felt like a walking bruise. 

“The meeting will be starting in fifteen minutes, Blue,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice startled you.

“Thanks.” You’d have to get used to never quite being alone alone. 

Dinner passed by pretty well the night before, by your standards at least. Tony had apologized for his aggressive questioning, with a nudge from Pepper Potts, however wary of you he may still be. That was alright for now. Steve and Sam had taken the initiative to make you feel included in the conversations, though you were more content to observe the people around you. You were introduced to Col. James Rhodes, who had a dry sense of humor and held himself like a military man, and Dr. Bruce Banner, whose alter ego was a stark contrast to the mild-tempered man that had sat beside you. By far, the most fascinating member you’d met was Vision, an android with an English accent who reminded you vaguely of a curious child. 

Now you were heading to a meeting Fury requested you attend. A loose-fitted tee and a pair of sweatpants and you were on your way out the door, wishing you’d had the forethought to have packed makeup in your duffle bag. While you never needed it on the mountain, it would have helped make you look marginally more presentable and less dead. Especially on the walk through the interconnected buildings to the conference room where you stuck out like a sore thumb. Maybe Natasha could take you out to pick some things up soon.

You cracked the door open. Eight and a half pairs of eyes followed you to the empty seat next to Sam. You were the last one there. Of course. Fury stood at the head of the table, Maria Hill next to him, arms behind her back. She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at you. Steve, Natasha, Tony, and three agents in uniform filled out the rest of the table. A projection screen behind Fury exhibited pictures of several men you didn’t recognize. 

“Now that we’re all here, let’s begin,” Fury said. He pointed between two of the five pictures on the screen. “These two men matched the facial recognition we were able to get off the cameras at the general store where the Captain and Agent M were first shot at, amongst civilians. There were no casualties in the store.”

You squinted. The men looked familiar now, especially without the hats to obstruct their faces. In the right image was the man you’d known to have the tattoo. Now that you could see it, on the left side of his neck, the small symbol looked like three triangles overlapping.

“They were found dead in their vehicle on the side of the road, SUV wrapped around a tree. This is confirmed with the reports Captain Rogers and Agent M gave upon arrival.” He pointed to the next two images. “These two were killed on sight by the extraction team in search of the Captain and Agent M.” He pointed to the last of the five head shots. “This last man was interrogated briefly by Agent Romanoff before he was terminated.”

“So were they Hydra agents from the mountain base?” Steve asked, confusion clear on his face.

“Not exactly,” Fury said.

“He wasn’t Hydra,” Natasha said. “He said Hydra was a group run by hot-headed leaders with imperfect ideals. He said what they were was bigger and better than Hydra could ever hope to be.”

“And who are ‘they’?” Steve pressed.

Natasha shrugged. “He didn’t say, just that there were more of them and now that they had a ‘confirmation,’” she made quotes with her fingers, “they’d have all they needed soon enough to execute the program. He didn’t elaborate on what the program was or what exactly they’d confirmed. But before I could really press him for more, he killed himself. Cyanide tooth capsule.”

“Long story short, we’re led to believe these were not Hydra agents that tracked the two of you down. There were no markings on the body that would express allegiance to the group, nor did any declare their motto.”

“So what are you saying?” Sam questioned.

“I’m saying there is another organization who has at least one of the two of you as their target of interest and until we know who they are, you need to watch your backs.”

“No offense, sir,” one of the agents began. “But what would terrorist organization want with her?” She was pretty, blonde, and had an intense look about her. She wasn’t outright rude, she had a point at least; you’ve basically been in isolation for two years. Besides, she had to be more than capable to be in this room to begin with; that didn’t mean her comment didn’t irk you. You pushed down the urge to get defensive, and schooled your face into a neutral mask.

Simultaneously, all eyes were on you.

“At the moment we’re not quite sure,” Fury admitted. “Agent M’s official history within S.H.I.E.L.D. is otherwise non-existent as far as the database is concerned. However, that doesn’t mean no one would recognize her if they worked under S.H.I.E.L.D. before the disbanding.”

“You think this group is a bunch of ex-S.H.I.E.L.D., ex-Hydra rogue agents?” Steve interjected.

“Anything is possible,” Fury said. “For now, it’s best to assume Rogers was the target and Agent M was just an additional person of interest by proxy.”  

“Keep your eyes and ears open for anything that could be related to this organization.” Maria advised. “If there really is another large-scale terrorist group among us, it’d be best to nip it in the bud as soon as possible.”

After the briefing, Fury held you back, as most of the others left the room. Maria relaxed by his side, her shoulders not quite as taut.

“You’re reinstated as an active agent, effective immediately, Agent M.” Fury held your gaze with his good eye. 

“I never said I wanted to come back to S.H.I.E.L.D.. In fact, I distinctly remember telling you I never wanted to be put in that situation again.” You glared back. The fingers on your left hand dug into your palm.

“We all have to do things we don’t want to do.” His large hand cupped your shoulder. “Just because you run away from something, doesn’t mean it goes away. You are good at what you do, and I refuse to let you waste your skills anymore.”

“But I—” He cut you off. 

“You’re not the only one who’s lost someone, Blue.”

He rarely called you by your nickname. It was always ‘Agent.’ You sighed. As difficult as Fury has always been, he’d never given you bad advice. He was the one who fought for you to stay and train to be a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in the first place all those years ago. 

And yeah, maybe he was a tad softer on you than on the others. You’d seen him as a father figure of sorts. If he thought you should be reinstated and otherwise get your head out of your ass, then you really couldn’t argue.

“Fine.”

“I knew you’d see it my way.” Fury smirked, patting your shoulder twice heading towards the door. “As soon as you’re cleared for it, you’ll start training. Rest up. This little incident tells me you’ve lost your touch.”

__________

You sat on a couch in the common room a week later, skimming through the data, searching for anything you could connect to an unknown terrorist group. Without a name, it was hard to even associate what little frays you did find, and you were led to dead end after dead end. You set the laptop on the seat beside you and pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes. You looked to your Stark-issued phone for the time. It was well past midnight. This wasn’t the first time you’d been unable to sleep this week due to your mind racing about the implications of an unknown group trying to bring devastation for whatever reason they’ve deemed justifiable. The bad feeling in your gut only intensified the more frustrated you got at the lack of information. You really wanted to punch something, but you weren’t cleared to do more than brisk walking, lest you pull a stitch and elongate your recovery period.

You went to the kitchen and poured yourself some water. The cool liquid did nothing to soothe your restlessness. So instead, you paced the halls, a habit you picked up since you arrived. You passed the entryway to the lab. More specifically, Tony and Bruce’s lab. The other common occurrence you’d noticed every night were the lights in the lab always being on this late in the night. It seemed like Bruce usually went to bed early in the evening, preferring to start his day earlier than most. Which left Tony as the only possible night owl. 

You hesitated by the door before pulling it open and wandering through the cool-toned lights in the lab. Classic rock played softly through the speakers. Tony stood at table at the far end of the room, back hunched over. He was poking at something that caused small sparks to shoot from the device. His masked face was probably still too close to the object. 

You pulled out a stool from a neighboring table smoothly, just enough to make some noise, not enough to startle him. The masked tilted up, then focused once again on the task at hand.

“Not asleep, Agent M?” He said with an ever-so-slight sneer.

“You can call me Blue, you know.” Tony hadn’t warmed up to you like you’d hoped in the past week. He’d been distant, always in the lab. Natasha assured you that was normal for him though, so you took her word for it. 

“Do I know that?” He snipped. He worked in silence for a few moments, then he put down his tools and flipped up his mask. His eyes were rimmed in red, most likely from exhaustion. “You know, I just find it odd that everything was all fine and dandy until Rogers and Co took a trip to Washington State. Now there’s a new terrorist organization we have to look out for, and you show up with no official identity in any database on the planet, and one word from Fury and we’re supposed to just be okay with that? I’m not exactly a big believer of coincidences.”

“Just ask what you want to know, Stark. I don’t want to always feel like I’m tip-toeing around you.” Because it was annoying. 

“What’s your history with S.H.I.E.L.D.?” 

“Natasha and Clint were on a mission, found me as a teen in an abandoned warehouse. Brought me back to S.H.I.E.L.D.. I was an agent for three years.”

“What made you leave?” His gaze shifted elsewhere.

“Bad mission. I lost people I cared about.” His eyes found yours. “And with Hydra discovered inside the agency and S.H.I.E.L.D. dissolving, I just got out while I could.”

He was quiet for a long time. Absently, you twirled a random screw between your fingers.

“Tell me about the mission.”

You squeezed your eyes closed, sighing deeply. You recalled your worst nightmare like it was yesterday. You opened your mouth to begin when he put a hand up.

“Sorry. You don’t need to tell me.” He waved you away. “I can be insensitive when I’m tired.”

“It’s alright, I understand. Long story short, it went really, really wrong, and I couldn’t handle it anymore. I was young-”

“You’re still young, kid,” he quipped.

“-and I already couldn’t remember my past. Losing people, people I was especially close to, was too much.” Your breath shuddered. “I didn’t want to have to go through that again, so I left. Fury kept tabs on me, same with Natasha and Clint. But I swore I wasn’t going to be an agent anymore.”

“And now, here you are.”

“Here I am.”

Tony nodded. He got up unexpectedly, shuffling over to a hidden cupboard that housed a coffee maker. He came back with two mugs, steam spirals swirled in the air. You took a sip. Minty.

“It’s a peppermint blend. Some candy cane Christmas bullshit I got in a ‘thank you’ basket over the holiday. It’s barely coffee, not even caffeinated, but it tastes nice. Supposed to help clear the mind or something.”

You shrugged. Because it was good.

“So… you don’t remember your past?”

“I don’t even remember my name.”

“That must be tough.”

“Mhm,” you agreed.

“Listen, I’m sorry for the rough start. Genuinely. I spend so much of my time trying to do the best to defend against the bad, that I sometimes jump to conclusions and can be…”

“Overly suspicious?” You supplied.

“Yeah.”

“No worries, Stark…”

“Tony.”

“Tony,” you smiled. “I would have thought the same thing. I mean hell, I almost embedded a knife in Captain America’s head when I first met him.”

“I want to do that sometimes and I’ve known him for years.” He chuckled into his mug.

“So we’re good?” You didn’t want to just assume. A heart to heart doesn’t always form a friendship, but at least maybe you’d be on good terms now.

“We’re good, kid.” He smiled, a genuine grin on his lips. “Come on, you can help me test this new version of my gauntlets.”

Huh. Maybe you were wrong. __________

Another week passed before you were cleared for active duty. The scarring was… definitely there. Harsh, red lines spider-webbed around your back. Apparently, it healed faster than Dr. Marks anticipated, especially without the cradle. She seemed convinced the shorter recovery time meant there was a high chance the scarring would fade quickly as well. You weren’t exactly a vain person, but it didn’t look pretty as of now. At least you could cover it up easily. 

You were placed into a random group of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, Group C apparently, and were given a schedule that listed off times for hand-to-hand combat training, weight training, endurance training, and shooting practice. You were convinced Steve loved to see you and the other recruits suffer as he pushed you all to run the laps of the course around the compound. The first day, you were dead after three miles, collapsing on the ground when the muscles in your legs gave up and lying on gravel sounded like a better idea. Steve only ordered you to get up and run again. You might have grumbled something about seeing if you’d ever save his life again.

Now you were able to keep up with the group. You found it a necessity, as you’d overheard in the locker room how they didn’t like you because you were “definitely sleeping with the Captain” or why else would you be there. You’d caught a stink eye more than once, and decided you had to push harder and tune them out. The chatter was useless. You knew the truth, so their opinions didn’t matter, but you didn’t want Steve to be accused of favoritism. He didn’t deserve any unnecessary backlash. 

By far, Natasha was thrilled to have you in training again. 

“You’re having too much fun with this Natasha,” you groaned from the mat. 

You were constantly being thrown by her, taunted that you’d lost your reflexes from being out of practice. You always ended up sore and bruised after a session. The snickers of the other agents really pissed you off, but you couldn’t exactly bite their heads off. Plus, even when you were in your best shape, you weren’t always able to out-Natasha Natasha; you’d only done it a few times. You knew first hand the rest of the agents in the room couldn’t do that. And you’d out-fought enough of them to know that.

“You’re making it easy on me,” she pulled you to your feet. “Maybe you should practice with someone with a little less agility for now?” She tilted her head to Sam, who’d over heard as he sauntered in and pulled a bitch face at her.

“Oh that’s low, girl. Real low.” But he joined you on the mat anyway.

Sam’s strikes were powerful and quick, like a boxer. He shuffled his feet, throwing punches at varying intervals. You dodged and blocked what you could. He got in a few hits before you picked up his pattern. That was the problem with most people in hand-to-hand. The body naturally wants to move in a rhythm, just like in running, but it’s too predictable in fighting, which is one of the reasons it was so hard to fight Natasha. She was slippery as a snake and it was hard to anticipate her next moves at the speed she moved.

You swung your arm out, your fist clipping him in his unprotected ribs, jumping out of range after. He stumbled back. You took the opportunity to rush him, diving low last minute to the space beneath his legs. You half-turned in your crouch and kicked your leg out, knocking him off balance and crashing into the mat. Finally.

“Adequate,” Natasha complimented. “But I’ve seen you do better. That was sloppy.”

You nodded, panting. She was right, but you’d take then win. It would take you a while to get back to what your skills had been, but even you had to admit. The ache of your abused muscles was actually rather nostalgic. __________

It was well after dinner when a knock at your door had you sitting up, causing the ice packs to tumble off your body. You sighed.

“Come in!”

Natasha stepped in, eyeing the ice packs. 

“Have we been too rough on you?” She teased. You didn’t take the bait.

“Nah. Just not used to it yet.”

Natasha nodded. “Just wanted to let you know Clint and the others are almost here. The quinjet should be landing in five, if you want to join us.”

“Of course.” You stumbled off the bed, and slipped your shoes on as you followed her to the hangar.

The hangar was cleaner than you would have thought. Relatively spotless and spacious. You and Natasha joined Steve, Sam, and Vision by the marker number 1 just as the rumble of an engine made the quinjet known. The noise echoed loudly in the space as the jet landed smoothly in its spot. The engines cut off, and with the high-pitched whir of the propellers winding down. The door opened down into a ramp. At first, no one came down, then there was a stumbling, mummy racing down the ramp toward you. Clint scooped you up into his arms, twirling you around, rambling a mile a minute.

“I thought Tasha was messing with me when she said you were here!” He was shouting in your ear, but you couldn’t get a word in edgewise. “When did you get here? How long are you staying? Wait! Are you back for real?”

“Barton, I’m pretty sure she can’t breathe.” Natasha’s voice cut through his excitement.

“Oh, right.” He plopped you down. You staggered before you caught yourself.

“It’s good to see you too, Robin Hood.” 

His eyes flitted over you, not overlooking the bruises from training this week.

“Geeze, you look awful. What happened?” 

“What is with the two of you?” You looked between him and Natasha. “You can’t just tell people they look awful when they’ve been beaten up. Besides, you’re one to talk,” you sassed. Clint was covered in butterfly bandages and deep purple bruises. “Can’t you go on one mission without coming back like you belong under a pyramid?”

“‘S not my fault.” Clint scratched the back of his neck. You stared at him pointedly. “Well, not all my fault.”

“Some things never change.” You grinned.

“Blue, this is Wanda Maximoff.” Natasha held her hand out to a girl around your age, with long auburn hair and sparkling green eyes. She looked at you hesitantly.

“Hi, I’m Blue.” You did a little wave, then immediately regretted it for how dumb you probably looked. 

“It’s nice to meet you.” She enveloped you in strong arms. She had an accent you couldn’t place, but it wasn’t so thick you couldn’t understand her. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you from Natasha and Clint. It’s nice to match the face with the name.”

You smiled, because she seemed very sweet. You could already see yourself being friends with her. You noticed Vision hovering just behind her, and when she pulled away, her hand reached back to find his. That was cute. You also now had questions, but that was for another time. You certainly weren’t close enough to just ask anyway.

Behind you, Steve was embracing a man with shoulder-length brown hair. He looked just as built and strong as Steve, maybe an inch shorter in height. Steve’s eyes were closed, his lips were moving, speaking too low for you to hear. The intimacy of their moment had you assuming they were more than friends. Definitely together. You wondered if the public had that knowledge, but it was more than likely not. The media would probably have a field day with that info.

Steve opened his eyes, meeting yours with a smile before he stepped back and called out to you.

“Hey Blue! Come over here and meet Bucky!”

His companion turned around and the breath caught in your throat. You did a double take. After all these years, you never thought you’d see him again. Maybe you’d dreamed you’d find your long lost friend, hoping that you both hadn’t changed too much to pass each other on the street someday without realizing. But you would recognize those eyes anywhere. 

Before you could open your mouth, he spoke. 

“Ingeras?” _________

A/N: Just now realized I haven’t given any translations for words so far, but I will from now on!

zvezdochka (Russian) - little star sestrenka (Russian) - sister, sis ingeras (Romanian) - angel

_________

In Viata Asta Taglist:  @rvgrsbrns​ @artsyspacebee​ @thelovelydreamer17​

[glorious-blackout]

Summary of Junior Doctor Life - Part Nine:

Got a call at 3am from the Advanced Nurse Practitioners who do rounds of the hospital at night. They basically wanted to make sure I wasn’t snowed under, which was lovely of them. So lovely in fact, that I didn’t have the heart to tell them that the reason they’d missed me during their rounds was because I was holed up in the Doctors’ Room watching ‘Derry Girls’. 

Good news can feel like an anomaly on some days and miraculous recoveries are as rare as you’d expect, but they can happen. By the end of my first night-shift I had two patients who were very unwell and had shown no improvement despite being given appropriate treatment. One of them had gone to ICU in the hope that he might ultimately pull through, but my registrar received a call at 7am informing him that nothing more could be done. The other patient was a lady who was only appropriate for ward-level care (anything more would likely be futile), and we ultimately had to start her on morphine via a syringe-driver to provide comfort because she was so breathless. I left work that morning feeling rather deflated and expecting both patients to die during the day. The man sadly did pass away in ICU, however I arrived at work to find that the woman had remained relatively stable. Two nights later I was taking her off her syringe-driver because she frankly didn’t need it, and two weeks later we’re now thinking of getting her home. Not the most common outcome for someone who at one point was knocking on death’s door, but certainly a welcome one!

During a rather busy night, I got a call twenty minutes into my break asking me to come back to the ward immediately. When I tried to get some information, the nurse barely managed five words before resorting to “Just come to the ward!” Turns out one of the patients had managed to disconnect the attachment to his cannula, meaning there was nothing stopping his blood from leaving the vein and escaping into the outside world. By the time this was discovered, his bedsheets were almost completely red and his blood pressure was in his boots, to the point where we needed to pour a litre of IV fluids into him as quickly as the machines would allow. 

He was ultimately fine and cracking jokes before we’d even got one bag of fluids into him (including, but not limited to, “I thought I’d had a wet dream!”). What made him more problematic, however, was that he’d been admitted in the first place with chronic anaemia, which blood loss obviously doesn’t help. It wasn’t long before we were arranging a blood transfusion on top of the IV fluids we’d already given him. 

Got called to prescribe some IV fluids on my last day of nights, at the tail-end of what had been a rather hectic shift. In the hopes of grabbing a break, I asked if there was anything else needing done that I could quickly power through, only for the nurse to say she didn’t know. I must have looked about as rotten as I felt, because her friend immediately came to my rescue and said “Well go and check, the poor girl wants to sleep!”

We’ve had a couple of patients recently with horrendous kidney failure leading to fluid overload because they can’t produce urine, so now several nurses are acutely concerned with how often patients are peeing. It’s not an unfounded concern, but the patients they make you aware of tend to have perfectly normal kidney function on their blood results and very little urine in their bladder on an ultrasound scan (we might worry about urinary retention if they were holding over 600mls). The kicker is that on particularly busy shifts, those same patients are often managing to pee far more regularly than we are.

Confirming a death tends to be more of a box-ticking exercise than anything else. Often the nurse will do a quick check themselves beforehand and they may even leave it a while before contacting a doctor to give the family space to say goodbye. Ultimately, by the time we enter the patient’s room it tends to be obvious that they’re gone before you even check for a pulse, and thankfully none of us have had a Monty Python-esque “I’m not dead yet!” moment so far. 

One of my colleagues came close though. After being asked to confirm an expected death of a palliative patient, he walked into the room only for said patient to turn his head when he announced himself. Apparently he managed to recover from his mini heart-attack just in time to blurt out “Just wanted to see how you were doing sir!” and perform an impromptu review, despite wondering what the hell was going on and why he’d been asked to confirm the death of a very much alive man. He got his answer upon leaving the room, when the nurse rolled her eyes and said, “The next room, you pillock!”  

I spent my night-shifts with a genuinely lovely registrar who was always available if I needed to page him and managed to put me at ease even when we were dealing with really sick or dying patients. He was such a reassuring presence that the two hectic nights (out of four) didn’t necessarily feel like bad nights. In contrast, the girl who did her night-shift after me got a registrar who was sick (and therefore made her examine every patient on his behalf), complained very loudly about the fact that he was at work, looked rather pissed off at me when I dared to go home (despite the fact that my back-shift should have ended half an hour earlier), and proceeded to spend eight hours of a twelve-hour shift sleeping on the mattress in our Doctors’ room so my colleague had nowhere to go to rest. It’s luck of the draw which registrar you end up with, but if our positions were swapped I probably would have spent my night-shifts craving the sweet release of death.

My registrar’s quirk is that he has a weird love of taking blood from the femoral artery (accessed via the groin) in patients with horrendous venous access. To be fair, there is a certain logic to this - it’s far less painful than taking arterial blood from the wrist and if you can get into the femoral artery, you’re more likely to collect a large sample so you can run more tests. It’s just always amusing to witness an enthusiastic Spanish man declare, “Let’s go for the groin!” when he finds out we’re struggling to take blood from a patient.

We’ve finally found out what jobs we’re getting next year! My FY2 is going to be spent between Geriatrics, Neonates and Obstetrics/Gynaecology so there’ll be a whooole lotta babies 😊 Still not too keen on Geriatrics, but I’m delighted about the Neonates job and Obstetrics is the only surgical specialty I actually like so I’m pretty thrilled overall. Though I imagine my poor sister - who happens to be a neonatal nurse - is going to be subjected to a lot of texts which basically boil down to ‘Help!!!’

[kaelinaloveslomaris]

Whumptober 21: Laced Drink

Okay, we’re real late. But I am determined to finish these, even if I have to go into November to do it.

I rushed the ending a bit here, but it’s done, so I’m posting it.

—

Noctis hated social functions. He especially hated social functions he was forced to attend in an official capacity, because it meant he had to be visible and couldn’t slip off halfway through the party. Prompto was never allowed in to alleviate his boredom, and when Ignis and Gladio were in attendance, they were always far too focused on making sure no one tried anything with him to be good company.

He wandered away from the crowds, Gladio at his heels like an oversized shadow, and found himself a spot on the upper tier of the Caelum Via roof by the aquarium. It was a massive, multi-storied cylinder, the centerpiece of the top few levels of the hotel, and Noctis was far more interested in watching the fish than interacting with any of the politicians at the party.

They swam in lazy circles, almost hypnotic in their movements, and better choreographed than most dancers Noctis had ever seen. Each school of different species moved fluidly as one, somehow never bumping into any of the others, and small leviathans twisted elegantly around the coral structures. Noctis wondered if they were as bored as he was.

“Don’t wander too far off, Noct,” Gladio murmured to him. Noctis glanced up at him, tearing his eyes away from the fish.

“I’m not. I’m still fully in view if somebody wants to come talk to me that badly, but at least if I’m up here, people have to go out of their way to get to me. I’m just trying to make it as inconvenient for them as it is for me.” He grinned wolfishly, and Gladio rolled his eyes.

Noctis returned to leaning against the railing, his back to the party. The low hum of conversation was already becoming annoying, and he had several hours yet to endure.

He stole a glance at Gladio. He was standing just to Noctis’s left at parade rest, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He pulled off the finely tailored black suit better than Noctis ever could, even if he was sure his Shield was just as uncomfortable as he was. His eyes roamed the crowd, probably scanning for any potential threats, and Noctis sighed. How Gladio’s stress levels weren’t off the charts, he’d never understand.

“Do you ever relax?”

Gladio frowned. “I’m here to make sure you stay safe,” he said, as if that was answer enough. It was Noctis’s turn to roll his eyes.

“I’ll let you know if anyone tries to push me off the balcony.”

“Not funny.”

Noctis turned around, searching through the crowd until he found his dad. He was talking animatedly with one of his council members, his Shield nearby but also engaged in a conversation. Noctis gestured towards them. “See, Clarus is enjoying himself.”

“His Majesty can take care of himself. And my dad is paying him closer attention than it seems.”

“I can take care of myself!” Noctis protested. The look Gladio shot him said he disagreed. Noctis pouted.

“Maybe if you didn’t wander so far away from the proceedings, I would have something to do other than stand next to you.”

“You always just hover regardless of where I’m standing. And I’m making your job easier. No one can sneak up on us here,” Noctis pointed out. Gladio huffed.

Noctis watched his father laugh at something his council member said. It was a real laugh, one that had his head tilting back and his eyes half closed. Noctis smiled. His dad didn’t laugh enough these days, so it was good to see. And there was a fond smile on Clarus’s face that Noctis was pretty sure was directed at Regis.

Noctis noticed, not for the first time but more obviously now that Gladio had pointed it out, how Clarus reoriented himself every time the king shifted, always making sure his charge was in view but that his presence wasn’t stifling. There was a natural, easy flow to their dance, and Noctis wondered if he and Gladio would ever reach that sort of equilibrium.

He had never seen his dad argue with his Shield the way Noctis and Gladio did. They were completely comfortable around each other, with none of the strained tension present between their sons, and Regis never seemed to be annoyed at Clarus’s constant presence.

Of course, Noctis and Gladio had gotten off to a rough start, and he was sure they weren’t the only prince and Shield in their families’ history to not be perfectly matched, but Noctis couldn’t help the occasional sting of jealousy for what his dad and Clarus had.

“You alright?” Gladio asked, a note of concern in his voice, and Noctis shook away the thoughts. Gladio did care about him, in his own pushy, overbearing way.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He turned around again, not wanting to watch his dad anymore, and focused his attention back on the aquarium.

Noctis looked up as a waiter approached him with a single glass of champagne on his tray. He offered it to Noctis, and he took it absentmindedly, more out of polite habit than any true interest in the drink.

Noctis swirled the pale liquid around in the delicate glass. He didn’t care much for alcohol, didn’t like having his senses dulled or impaired in any way. But a few sips of champagne was hardly going to affect him, and it might help him to not look completely bored, which was something Ignis had said he should avoid at all costs. And Noctis knew from experience that looking bored at a party was an invitation for bootlicking politicians to invade his personal space and start inane conversations.

He took a sip of the champagne. It was some of the better stuff he’d ever tasted. Unsurprisingly, considering they were the ones who had supplied it, but it still wasn’t something Noctis would seek out.

The fish continued their synchronized swimming as Noctis slowly sipped at his champagne. He was pleased that his isolating stunt appeared to be working. No one had approached him yet, and even though it wouldn’t take too long for the aquarium to get boring to stare at, it was better than having to engage in conversation.

Pain suddenly stabbed through Noctis’s head. He gasped, squeezing his eyes shut and instinctively reaching up to clutch at his head. The glass slipped from his hand, the shatter loud against the backdrop of distant conversations, and Gladio’s hands were instantly on his shoulders, steadying him.

“Noct! Are you okay?”

Noctis groaned in response, the throbbing in his head intensifying. He grabbed at Gladio’s jacket, fighting against sudden nausea as he stumbled into his Shield’s chest. Gladio caught him and guided him a few steps over to a bench, sitting him down on it. Noctis immediately hunched over, one hand pressed to his head, the other still clutching at Gladio’s lapel.

Gladio dropped to his knees in front of Noctis and grabbed his chin, forcing Noctis’s head up.

“Noct, look at me.” Noctis opened his eyes to meet Gladio’s frightened gaze, wincing at the lance of pain the dim lighting sent through his head. “Six, Noct, your pupils are huge!”

Gladio’s eyes strayed to the spilled champagne and his face paled.

“Oh no…”

Sudden fear gripped Noctis as he realized the same thing Gladio had. A wave of dizziness crashed over him, and he slumped off the bench into Gladio’s surprised arms. It was too much effort to remain upright anyways. He just wanted to curl up until the pain in his head stopped.

It was a tearing pain, sharp stabs that were nearly enough to drown out the nausea in his stomach. It was far worse than any migraine he had ever experienced and he just wanted it to stop.

Dimly, Noctis was aware of Gladio talking into his earpiece, something about poison and medical attention. Then Gladio’s hands were back on him, brushing his hair back, loosening his tie, nudging him onto his side.

“I need you to stay awake, Noct. Talk to me. How are you feeling?”

“Like crap,” Noctis managed. Even talking hurt. Moving his jaw was like someone pounding a nail into his skull.

Another brush against his face. “You’re burning up.”

Footsteps, accompanied by the distinctive tap of his dad’s cane, made Noctis curl up tighter. He didn’t want his dad to see him like this.

There was a murmur of quiet voices, then Gladio’s hands left him. Noctis whimpered at the loss of the comforting touch, but there was the scrape of his dad’s brace against the floor, and new hands replaced Gladio’s on his shoulder and face.

“Noctis?” The familiar voice sent a wash of comfort through him, even as he hated knowing how worried his dad must be. He reached out and Regis grasped his hand. Noctis took strength from it, as he had a decade ago when his dad had sat at his bedside all through his recovery. His dad meant safety, meant all would be well no matter how bad things seemed.

“Help is coming. Stay awake, son.”

He wanted to scream as his body was jostled, but even that would take too much effort, and the following comfort of being cradled in his dad’s arms helped in some small way to ward off the edge of the pain. Gentle fingers combed through his hair, magic in his touch that had nothing to do with the crystal, and Noctis found the strength to stay awake until medical help arrived.

[fucking-zawa-sensei]

Kiss It

Title: Kiss It

Pairing: erasermic

WC:3k+

Rating: Teen

Notes: I was tagged in the “Favorite fic” game where everyone gets to vote on which of my fics I should write a continuation of and Ice It was the winner! If you haven’t already read that fic, you’re going to need to in order to get the full story. Please go check it out here. This was a lot of fun. Thank you for choosing Ice It!

Read it on ao3 here

Kiss It

The doctor's visit goes about as well as Shouta expected it to, getting Hizashi there, on the other hand, went much differently than he ever thought it would.

Every other time Hizashi had turned up hurt after patrol, he'd given the other man his bed and slept on the couch, needing to put forth no more effort than dodging some half-hearted teasing from the voice hero. After their shared confession in the bathroom that evening, though, Shouta hadn't thought twice about offering to share his bed. If anything, it had made him wonder just how sincere all those other mumbled, exhausted requests from the blond had been.

Could he have had this sooner? Months ago? Years ago?

Sleeping together was nice, comfortable and warm in ways his bed had never felt before. He'd drifted off thinking he could get used to this, that he never wanted to go back to anything before this. He’d felt satisfied with each breath he took, laced with the light scent of his green tea shampoo mixed with the lingering lavender and vanilla that always seemed to envelope Hizashi’s body. He’d even enjoyed the little creaks his bed frame made when the other man moved, a reminder that he wasn’t alone, that impossibly, that night had really happened.

Waking up had been a different story. The bags of ice he’d placed on Hizashi’s bruised leg had melted, leaving a cold, damp spot on the sheets. The heating pad beneath the voice hero’s aching back had turned off automatically, thankfully, but the cord was twined around Shouta’s hand and wrist. To top it off, somehow, the injured man had wrapped himself around Shouta in his sleep, and by Shouta's own arms and legs tangled in among the blond’s in return, he wasn't the only guilty party.

This had led to a rather painful extraction for both of them, Shouta's ears ringing for a good half hour afterward and Hizashi rubbing tenderly at his chest the entire ride to the hospital.

After a lengthy series of x-rays, and a bashful grin from Hizashi that almost looked like he was proud of the 4 broken ribs the doctor pointed to on the light up screen, they'd been sent back with some painkillers, bandages, a cast and crutches, and a rather forceful recommendation for bed rest. The doctor had said Hizashi was lucky, that the modifications to his body’s internal structure, namely, the extra cartilage that allowed his chest to expand beyond normal when he pulled in air for those powerful shouts, had likely saved him from organ damage.

Shouta had been concerned, making a note to drag Hizashi to a doctor immediately next time this happened, no more playing nurse with an overused and under stocked first aid kit in each other’s bathrooms.

Hizashi had scratched at the baby blue cat Band-Aid over his nose and asked about replacing it for stitches, hardly even paying the idea of a punctured lung any mind, despite it being a rather vital part of his job.

They thanked the doctor and headed out. They'd make a trip to Recovery Girl on Monday to see about setting up a healing schedule to shorten Hizashi’s forced bed rest by a few weeks, but for now, Hizashi seemed happy to spend a few days doing nothing, a nice change of pace for the overwhelmingly busy hero. Shouta had to admit he was a little happy himself. He might have put up a stink about playing Hizashi’s caretaker in the past, but he’d never truly minded it. It usually meant taking some time off himself, and being able to be close to the other man in ways he couldn’t when they were still keeping up their facade of just friends.

After last night, they hadn’t even discussed if Hizashi would be crashing at Shouta’s place until he healed. There was a silent understanding when Shouta helped the other man into the car and opened up a water bottle from the case he kept in his trunk, handing over one of what would probably be many painkillers over the next few days. Hizashi thanked him and leant his head against the window, watching without question as Shouta turned right, rather than left, out of the parking lot.

The blond had yammered on about plans to decorate his crutches and pointed to where he wanted Shouta to sign his cast while it was still being plastered onto his leg. It seemed a bit pointless to Shouta, knowing full well that the cast wasn’t going to be on for the full month the doctor had recommended, but if doodling on the plaster made Hizashi happy, well, then who could blame Shouta for running into a store on the drive home to buy some markers?

When they pull into the parking lot of his apartment complex, he helps Hizashi stand up and makes sure he has a firm grasp on the crutches before shutting the door and trying not to hover too much as he slows his gate to match Hizashi’s speed. They make it to the front door without incident, though Hizashi’s playful smile he’d been wearing all day at the hospital has dropped off completely by the time they’re indoors. A few drops of sweat are gathering along his hairline and Shouta is glad he offered this morning to pull the long strands into a ponytail for the other man.

Hizashi leans heavily against the entranceway wall while Shouta helps slip off his one shoe. When he straightens up, Hizashi’s eyes are closed and he looks exhausted, eyebrows pulled together, breathing through his mouth in short little gasps, probably trying not to aggravate his ribs too much.

“It’ll take a little bit for the pills to kick in,” Shouta says, pulling his sleeve over his hand and using it to dab at Hizashi’s temple. The blond opens one eye and nods slightly.

They’d both been heroes long enough to know plenty well that painkillers never worked as fast as you wanted them to.

“Come on, let’s get you on the couch,” he says, taking the crutches from Hizashi and propping them on the wall, pulling the other man into his side like he’d done the night before, and half-carrying him over to the living room. This seemed to be a bit easier on Hizashi’s chest.

Shouta lays Hizashi down across the cushions and wishes suddenly that he’d listened all those times the self-proclaimed “design expert” had said he needed some throw pillows.

“I’m going to grab some pillows from the bedroom, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay…”

Shouta gives him a small smile and Hizashi’s eyes are barely open at this point, but they curve up into little crescents to match the tired stretch of his lips anyway. Hizashi’s hand moves into a thumbs up before his fingers flatten out across his stomach like the movement had taken the last bit of energy he’d had to spare.

Apparently that high he’d been riding from last night had run out.

That’s fine, Shouta thinks. He would be perfectly happy just letting Hizashi rest.

By the time he comes back out in the living room with his arms stuffed full of pillows, the heating pad, and the fluffy blanket Hizashi had bought him for Christmas last year, the other man is already passed out. His jaw is slack, a small damp spot forming on his shirt where his chin is tucked awkwardly against his shoulder. Shouta snorts and sets everything down on the floor as quietly as possible, and then channels all those years of stealth training to carefully slip a pillow beneath Hizashi’s head without disturbing him. The sleepy man lets out a little hum as he settles into the plush material and Shouta smiles, brushing some of his long hair away from his face.

He’s not really willing to risk sliding the heating pad under Hizashi’s back, knowing that’s bound to rouse him, so he flips the switch on the cord and lays it over his upper chest instead, along where he remembers the click of the doctor’s pen as it tapped against the x-ray display. He pulls the blanket overtop and stands back up, happy with his work.

Shouta eyes the space by Hizashi’s feet. He really wanted to try and squish in next to him, snuggling into all that warmth, far better than his sleeping bag, but this would have to do. If the way neither of them had said anything about Hizashi going back to his place was any indication, he’d have plenty of time to get close to the other man later tonight.

For now, well…

For now, placing Hizashi’s legs overtop his own, and leaning his head along the back of the couch was suitable.

It doesn’t take long for Shouta to drift off too.

---

“Shouta...Shouta...Shhhouuuutaaaa…”

He blinks awake to the sound of someone calling his name, the dim overhead lights in his popcorn ceiling slowly coming into focus as the words get clearer.

“Mmm?” Shouta grumbles.

He feels a light tapping against his lower stomach and looks down to see Hizashi’s good leg poking at him where they’re both still settled on his lap. He turns to see the blond pouting, hair mussed from sleep, with strands of it pulled out of his ponytail, and eyes a little squinty, as if he too just woke up, despite his pleading tone that says he’d been waiting for quite some time.

“What?”

“I’m hungry,” Hizashi whines. “And my everything hurts.”

Shouta looks at the small digital clock on his bookshelf. They’d napped for a number of hours, and he’d passed out before he’d had the chance to set a reminder to give the injured man his next dose of the painkillers the doctor prescribed.

“Sorry,” Shouta says, running a hand through his hair as guilt seeps in. “I should have woken you up to give you more meds.”

“What happened to ‘sleep is the perfect medicine’?”

Shouta quirks his eyebrow, says, “Does it feel perfect right now?”

“No, it feels like I need to brush my teeth and I’m starving, Shouta.”

“Doubtful,” he retorts, but leans over Hizashi’s legs, careful of the cast, to grab his cell phone from where he’d left it on the coffee table. “Takeout?”

“Delivery.”

Shouta snorts, saying, “Are you paying that fee?”

“I can’t be left alone, Sho, I’m injured. What if I had to go to the bathroom and fell on the way and you were out getting food while I was suffocating on the carpet, unable to push myself up?”

“You could turn your head.”

“I broke my neck on the way down.”

“I’m not sure you deserve to live if that’s how you die.”

“Shouta!”

They both burst into a fit of laughter, Hizashi holding his sides and groaning as he tries to stop his giggles from affecting his broken ribs. Shouta wants to stop laughing, stop egging him on, but trying to stifle himself just makes tears gather in the corners of his eyes. He tries to turn his face away and cover his mouth as Hizashi yells, “stop! S-stop! Shouta! Pfff Sh-Shouta” through his laughter.

By the time they’ve both calmed down, their faces are flushed pink and Shouta’s smile is nearly as big as Hizashi’s.

“Okay, delivery.”

They make it about halfway through dinner before Hizashi’s painkillers kick in and he quietly tilts over from where Shouta had positioned him to sit up to eat, and rests his head on Shouta’s shoulder. Hizashi looks up at him, big green eyes still shining under droopy lids, and blinks slowly, each one seeming to take just a little more energy than the last.

“Ready for bed?” Shouta asks.

“I could stay up longer…”

“I’ll lay down with you,” Shouta says, and he’s surprised how easy this all is, how seamlessly their friendship is transitioning into something more, as if this was the way it was always supposed to be. As he slips his arm around Hizashi to rub soothing at his lower back, further lulling the other man into slumber, he still can’t believe it.

“I’ll read or something...or knowing me...I’ll probably just fall asleep too,” he admits, shrugging.

Hizashi smiles against his shirt and nods. His hand moves up off the couch to fall onto Shouta’s thigh. Two little pats, and then, Hizashi says, “Sounds perfect to me.”

---

Hizashi does a remarkable job keeping his exuberant voice hero personality dialed up to 10 while also sporting a full cast, crutches, and several bandages on his face. He shoots every single staring student a staggering smile, and impressively manages to keep his pain to nothing more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth and a little extra grip around his crutches. Shouta stays beside him, giving each kid a glare after Hizashi’s grin to encourage them to move along faster.

He didn’t like the way Hizashi’s right shoulder was starting to shake beneath all that leather.

They finish off a conversation with a 3rd year boy who somehow doesn’t get the hint even with Shouta’s harsh stare, just a few feet away from Recovery Girl’s office, and Shouta has never been so relieved to slide open those doors and get that instant waft of sterile cleaning chemicals.

Hizashi limps in behind him and he closes the door, the blond letting out a heavy sigh as he makes his way to the closest bed and gingerly lowers himself down.

“I was expecting you’d be here a little earlier than this,” Recovery Girl says, twisting around in her chair before hopping down and grabbing her cane. She makes her way slowly over to them, giving Shouta a sweeping full body glance he doesn’t deserve on her way by. He hadn’t done anything reckless lately, but he can’t blame her, he was by often enough that it was likely a habbit at this point.

She stops in front of Hizashi and clicks her tongue, lightly tapping his cast with her cane.

“So what’s first, then, hmm?” she asks. “I looked at the x-rays your doctor sent over. I think we should start with the ribs, but if the leg is giving you more discom-”

“My face, please,” Hizashi interrupts.

Shouta has to do a double take.

He and Recovery Girl say, “What?” simultaneously.

“I want you to heal my face first, if that’s alright with you?” he asks again, taking off his glasses.

Recovery Girl raises an eyebrow and Shouta frowns.

“Hizashi, a few stitches aren’t a big deal. You should have her heal your ribs, you can’t make it down the hall without breaking into a sweat,” Shouta says.

Hizashi just smiles at him, soft and tired. His eyes are half-lidded in a way that makes Shouta’s chest tighten.

This was dangerous.

They’d only been romantically involved for maybe 72 hours and he was willing to give Hizashi whatever he wanted.

Shit, gotta remember not to spoil him.

Recovery Girl sighs and reaches out for Hizashi’s collar, tugging him down a little rougher than necessary, probably just to get the wince she knew would be there from his jostled chest to prove her point. He leans down and she pushes up on her tippy-toes, kissing his forehead, and Shouta watches the purple bruises around Hizashi’s lip and nose and eye all start to fade away.

It was a stupid request, but she’d done it anyway, snipping off his stitches and wiping away the adhesive from the bandage on his nose. When Hizashi swayed a little too much in response to the quirk-enhanced healing, she told him to come back in two days to start chipping away at the rest of his injuries.

“No more vanity-healing, you hear?” she’d said, giving his cheek a pat with her hand.

They’d thanked her, Shouta promising to drag Hizashi back, and headed back down the long hall. Hizashi was almost entirely silent, his movements a bit slower, but a little smile stayed fastened to his lips the whole walk through U.A, and into the parking lot.

It’s not until Hizashi is situated in his seat and Shouta shuts the car door that the voice hero comes to life, immediately turning toward him, cheeks dimpled by his large grin, smile lines forming around the corner of his eyes. Shouta narrows his own eyes, looking at him suspiciously, and reaches out with the intention of gently pushing the other man back against his seat, concerned that the way Hizashi is turned toward him would be uncomfortable for an uninjured person, let alone someone still nursing broken ribs. He doesn’t make it that far, though, as Hizashi’s hand wraps around his wrist to stop him, guiding Shouta’s arm down to the middle console between them. He maneuvers their hands and Shouta is a little surprise how easy it is for his fingers to find the gaps between Hizashi’s. It’s been maybe 5 seconds since they’d entered the car and now they’re holding hands.

It’s hard to believe it has only been a few days since Hizashi came stumbling into his apartment and knocked over every expectation, and every semblance of reality Shouta had built up in his life.

Wasn’t it that same morning that he’d stared a little too long at Hizashi’s lips when the other man said his daily “see you later, Eraser” as they waved goodbye after classes had ended for the day? Wasn’t it that same drive home, in this same car, when he’d paused at a stop sign for a bit too long, thinking about calling Hizashi and seeing if he wanted to hang out that weekend, wanted to sit on his couch with a good foot of buffer space between them that Hizashi would inevitably invade, just to drive Shouta and his crush a little bit more insane?

Hadn’t he written this off the same day that Hizashi made it all happen?

Now he’s holding hands with his best friend and somehow feeling like he’s the breathless one.

“Hiz-”

“Kiss me.”

Shouta’s eyes widen, his mouth still open, and Hizashi’s name fallen off his lips and somewhere into the space between them.

“W-what?”

“You promised,” Hizashi says, and his fingers press into the back of Shouta’s hand as his grip tightens. “You said when my lip was healed, you’d kiss me.”

Hizashi’s other hand moves up to his mouth, where he peels off the butterfly bandages that had been holding his split lip together, the ones they’d traded the cartoon cat one for when they’d gone to the doctor. Shouta watches as his skin is revealed again, a light pink hue of a freshly healed wound, but no more blood, no scratches, no scabs.

Hizashi makes a kissy face, his mustache twitching above his upper lip.

Shouta laughs.

Hizashi’s perfect, freshly healed lips start forming a pout, but Shouta’s not about to have that, not now, not when everything is new and warm and his heart feels full in a way it never has before. So he let’s go of Hizashi’s hand and he moves it to the blond’s face instead, cupping his cheek, letting his thumb run over that soft, smooth skin, and watching Hizashi’s green eyes glisten in the sunlight streaming in over Shouta’s shoulder through the car’s window. He leans in and his lips find Hizashi’s, fitting together so seamlessly, like this was where they were always meant to be. He closes his eyes and moves his hand around to the back of Hizashi’s head, pulling him in closer, tilting him back a bit as he deepens the kiss.

Hizashi lets out a happy hum and Shouta feels one of the other man’s hands grip the hem of his shirt, as the other lands on his thigh.

It must only be a few seconds, but Shouta swears the whole day passes in that moment.

When they pull back, Hizashi’s grin has returned in full force, and if Shouta was a man of more words he might tell him that he looks perfect, stunning even, because both of those things are true.

Instead, he smiles back at Hizashi, stroking his thumb along the blond’s cheek one more time, and says, “Promise kept.”

[demethinkstoomuch]

Learning to Read, Pt 1: A is for Ambiguity

Read on AO3!

I. A is for Ambiguity 

Dedue’s eyes, stony and cool as pale jade, cut through the haze like a beacon. Dimitri, forced to move as if through a dust-storm, couldn’t quite pull his gaze away. The days had ground on into weeks, the weeks approaching a moon now -- and so, time’s wheels had crushed into dust the mad, magical thought that Dimitri would turn the corner and everyone would be alive. The hallways of the castle were thick with the fine powder that, hovering in the air, dispersed the light into a million little motes. The hope still crept back in at times, crueler than ever, but mostly it had died, leaving him hungry for another thought, another hope, another way to pull himself forward after the tragedy. But because he could see the eyes of the boy he’d saved that day in Duscur -- after the attack, before anything but the monstrous vengeance of soldiers, during blood and fire still burning under Dimitri’s scarred skin -- that was at least something to watch over. And he needed to.

How like a mountain, those squared-off features! A cliffside, stony and impassive, looming up somewhere well beyond Dimitri’s head. Dedue had feelings, whatever that placid face he wore now proclaimed -- these few weeks had been too intense. They’d shown glimpses of a heart holding itself desperately together. Dedue had cried with him and apart from him. Dedue had reached for him like a lifeline, with eyes full of fear. Dedue’s shoulders had softened with relief when Dimitri suggested that Dedue might be able to secure a place with him by entering his service -- informally agreed to, a few days out from all the ritual that would make it legal, indisputable fact.

But when those moments passed, Dedue’s thoughts became locked behind that face. Now, as they walked down the hallway in one of the castle’s upper floors, it might as well have been a sculpture in brown marble. There wasn’t an absence, Dimitri was sure of it: his eyes stared with a pain Dimitri understood too well. They had both lost everything. No, Dedue had lost far more. But what Dedue wanted in repayment for that, really wanted, Dimitri couldn’t see. If he had anxiety or trepidation of what they were planning, DImitri couldn’t see. If Dedue was really only here out of some false obligation or survival instinct, some basic need for a place to live and food on his table that would have taken anything, Dimitri couldn’t see.

Dedue cleared his throat. He’d come to a stop behind the lagging, shaking steps of the prince. Dimitri’s efforts to guide him to a particular set of rooms had run afoul of Dimitri’s peering, his searching, up at the gangly young boy behind him.

“Are you tired?” He leaned down slightly, bringing the face Dimitri had been staring at for the last two corridors close enough that Dimitri could spot its dark shadows and see in Dedue’s eyes his own reflection.

It didn’t look much like him anymore, Dimitri thought. The weeks following the tragedy had drawn his skin more snugly to his bones, burning away some of his childhood softness. It didn’t belong to a man, not by a long shot -- but nor was it the face of a sweet young maiden, as someone had once called him. It was too hollow, too sunken, too shadowed. I’m a corpse now. Maybe I didn’t survive after all. The thought bobbled around, unbidden and tinged with regret that soothed and relief that pricked his heart in a delirious blur of feelings.

“...I must be,” Dimitri said hopefully. Recovery was frustratingly slow going; It was true that he wasn’t always sure his legs would hold him and his head hurt from bad sleep. His injuries -- from a mix of fire and blades and being knocked around the center of violent chaos where coaches had been knocked onto their sides and horses had gone wild -- had been so severe that for some time he was mostly bound to his bed (time had come unspooled. His sleep was shallow, fitful, occasionally medically-induced; poor punctuation on his days and nights that only served to muddle moments into paste). He’d gotten out for his father’s funeral, but that had been about it until the last few days, where he’d been allowed to walk around some. He couldn’t nearly call himself fully healed. He shifted the sling that carried his broken left arm in its splint and wax plaster, causing spots in his vision to rise up with the fresh pain. Bad. OK. Bad. His knees agreed, quavering under him as he took a step -- or tried; the step somehow didn’t align, his foot hitting the ground far later, far further ahead, far more shallowly than expected. He didn’t fall, but slipped and sank, shaky as a baby deer. Dedue’s arms reached out for him, but he’d leant against the wall first. 

“We can stop. It is not important,” Dedue decided after watching the wobbly prince. 

“Dedue, you cannot be serious. It’s important that you have a room; you cannot just keep sleeping in whatever space is available.” Dimitri was really hoping that Dedue’s expression would show a hint, just a trace, of humor. He actually had no idea what humor looked like on him. But he wouldn’t be learning now. If anything -- maybe concern, in the little furrow of Dedue’s silver-white brows? His mouth hadn’t changed at all, his eyes perfectly grave. 

Dedue had come back with him from Duscur -- which, now, nearly a whole moon later, made Dimitri feel guilty. He hadn’t been thinking straight -- all that had been in mind was that if Dedue vanished from his sight, he had failed; Dedue was dead; he was alone. He’d clung to Dedue, the idea of Dedue, as tightly as he could. And Dedue had seemed to do the same, seemed to share that fraction of understanding of what had happened to them both, seemed to want to go with him and out of the madness and bloodshed that had been his home. So it hadn’t even occurred to Dimitri to think it selfish at the time. How shameful; while he was bedbound, with his uncle in charge, with -- with things being as they seemed to be now, there’d been so little he could do to provide for the boy he’d dragged across a country. Dimitri could ensure he was allowed to stay, but not keep a watchful eye on where he stayed, or how people treated him. He’d heard snippets, seen traces in bruises and exhaustion. He didn’t like them.

But! Things were different now! Surely, right? They had to be.

“The room is still ready. I can wait to see it.” 

Dimitri righted himself, letting out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d held in him.

“I can rest later, after I’ve shown you there. Really. It won’t be too hard,” Dimitri insisted. Dedue’s brow tightened, and he stooped down close again. Dedue was cruelly a tall for only being a year older, a figure of shoulders and elbows and great stretches of long bone, held up on a large, unfilled frame. He was taller than most grown men Dimitri knew -- taller than Gustave, taller than Rodrigue, taller than his father. Dimitri was still called cute and doll-like by people, and it just wasn’t fair. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t change that. It was as if no amount of strength or skill would make people stop calling him cute until he grew taller.  ...But then, what did it really matter anymore? Even that indignation rattled around in his chest without hitting any real feeling. Dedue offered the prince his arm.

“Then please, let me help.” It wasn’t until Dimitri accepted the arm, leaning against Dedue’s left side, that Dedue’s brow unfurrowed, and Dimitri himself felt a little wave of relief. They set back off again, coming before one finely-carved oak door in particular. It wouldn’t have been distinguishable from any other in the wing, save in its exact location.

“Ah, I’m sorry… “ Dimitri bit down the waves of apologies that crowded on his tongue. There was so much he ought to say, and could never say. Not to the living. “You’ve followed where we are right now, right? In relation to other places in the castle, I mean.”

“Hmmm…” Dedue closed his eyes and considered it. They were two turns from the staircase that ran through the wings of the castle’s personal quarters, where the windows shed beams of bright afternoon light from the west into the rooms. The first floor was for more common servants that kept the castle running, near to their work. The third, where they were, was for slightly more rarified staff -- the chief butler, the head maid, the Sensechal, and key members of the king’s personal guard -- it was an incredibly dizzying experience, Dimitri had found, walking through these halls and finding them so empty. Many residents of this floor had been ground away into nothing, too burnt to even bury. But the second, directly below… “...It is similar to the way to your rooms from the same stairs.” Dimitri nodded. 

“Excellent. This room is directly above mine. It’s meant for my chief retainer.” Dimitri had asked a few maids to clean it up the day before, after Dedue had agreed that he would enter Dimitri’s service-- and thus, earned a right to this room. It had belonged to Dimitri’s nurse, when he was younger, and most people would have assumed its next occupant would be Felix. But now, that would never happen, not for the future Duke Fraldarius (even Glenn had had a separate suite of rooms that fit his station even when acting as a knight). And so it was free for Dedue. A mixed feeling rose up in Dimitri’s heart as he removed his hand from Dedue’s arm to retrieve a roll of blue velvet from his belt-pouch.

“I can’t accept this.” Dedue’s eyes widened as they flicked across the velvet roll, Dimitri, the door. He didn’t sound mad, but when he settled on Dimitri, he wound tense, shoulders squaring so tightly they tugged at Dimitri’s heart.

“Oh.” Oh. Oh . His thoughts skipped briefly. This was Dedue working up the nerve, wasn’t it? He really wasn’t comfortable. Maybe he’d rather be somewhere else -- he almost certainly wanted to be doing something else. He needed something else.  Of course he did. Oh. Dimitri’s cheeks went first pink, then flushed so red the color reached his ears. How embarrassing.

“Ah. I see. I… I apologize, Dedue. Of course, I understand. I don’t want to force you to do something you weren’t comfortable with only out of need or some whim of mine,” Dimitri’s mouth went on more or less without him.. He was disappointed. He was mortified. And in a way deeper than his wobbly steps, his aching back, his sleepless headache -- a hollow exhaustion rang through him like he was a bell being struck. “I won’t be mad about having to change plans; I’m sure we can think of, well, something for you, please, don’t worry.”

“...Dimitri…” Dedue’s face went momentarily into a state slightly too neutral for Dimitri to grasp, not while Dimitri was trying to hold on in spite of the blow. “...Did I do something so wrong?”

“Huh?” 

The face resolved itself into worried brows, an anxious tightness to his eyes. A hurt.

“I am...unfamiliar with such things. But if there is something for you to be mad about...” 

What? Huh? What? Dimitri’s brain sputtered out against the seemingly mutual confusion. He had to stop himself from squeezing the roll of velvet, or its contents would be useless. Instead he leaned against Dedue, body going slack.

“...Dedue, what do you mean?” “Please, could you explain?” They asked each other in near-unison. Dimitri’s head drooped forward as he sighed.

“...I think. I may have gotten -- well, a little carried away.” That stung to say “What I mean to ask is, what are you refusing? No, is this truly what you wish to do with your future? To serve me and stay here in that way? It might be hard, you know. I don’t want to limit you, but I don’t know if I am, and I know that there’s... a lot of convenience in simply going along with what I say. But I want to ensure you that you don’t have to. I’ll do whatever I can for you, regardless.” 

Dedue nearly took a step back, but caught himself before he could pull Dimitri along. Instead, he reared higher a little, the motion hanging incomplete and silent in the air while he eyed Dimitri.

“If you tell me this is how I might freely stand by your side and be of use to you, protect you as you protected me, then it is enough.” Dedue’s answer contained such certainty that it might have slathered itself over Dimitri’s injuries like a balm. “That is what I have to do… What I want to do. I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise.” 

“...I’m glad,” Dimitri sheepishly admitted. He couldn’t put words to the relief that he felt, the sense of spinning whirlpools suddenly smoothing out into calm waters. He could keep knowing Dedue was alive. He didn’t have to keep falling. “I apologize for the confusion… But what’s wrong with this room, if that’s what you’re refusing?”

Dedue averted his eyes. Was that a tinge of color on his cheeks, or a trick of the lamplight? 

“I am... “ He paused, trying to parse the sentiment. “Not the person for such an honor.” 

“How so?”

“To be called chief among your men is…” Dedue couldn’t quite finish, only moved a hand vaguely, as if the gesture could sweep up all the things that made it beyond him. There was only air there.

“It’s what you will be, Dedue.” Dimitri’s surprise melted before he could speak -- and when his voice trembled with the change of mood, in its awkward, half-changed state, it cracked a little. Because -- no matter how you looked at it -- “You’re the only one left.” 

It burnt in his throat; the words smashed the world into fragments. But he had to. Everything was just a cloud of dust, a rolling fog. If he shut his eyes, it was gone. His breath caught itself higher and higher in his throat, jumping up it bit by bit like it was escaping him. 

“Dimitri...” Dedue’s voice was very low and rumbling. A hand hovered, its warmth radiant, over his shoulder. Then, a butterfly’s lightness -- it rested there.

“It’s nothing.” Dimitri blinked until he could see properly again.”I’m fine. What I mean is… It is the right room. It would be very nice to have you here, besides, and you deserve good quarters, you know.”

Dedue removed the hand from Dimitri’s shoulder quickly, and instead holding it out to accept the item in Dimitri’s hand. 

“Thank you. I am sorry to have upset you,” Dedue said, earnestly.  Dimitri unrolled the velvet onto Dedue’s outsized hands, covering calluses with a deep blue field. And at the heart of that roll were two keys on an iron ring, one slightly larger than the other, carefully polished.

“The larger one is the key to the rooms; the smaller is for the passageway.” Dimitri pushed on without acknowledging that apology -- Dedue had nothing to apologize for, so keeping that topic alive would only make it hurt more.

“Passageway?” Dedue took the larger key as instructed and turned it in the lock at Dimitri’s nod. 

“Yes. Well, I suppose it would be easier to show you.” 

On the other side of the threshold was a large room, its walls panelled in a rich spruce wood and green plaster over the stone walls, which showed their true shapes around the curtained-off windows. Someone had lit a few oil lamps on the walls, and so they didn’t step into the darkness, but into puddles of lamplight that only lacked the glow of the fireplace’s fire. A broad green and brown rug covered the floor between the doorway and the 4-poster bed, keeping one away from the cold stone below. 

Dedue stepped warily into the center of the room. He gently touched the chest at the foot of the bed, running his hands over deer and bears carved into the wood. He turned to spot the fireplace, the end tables, the shelves on the walls, the tall and heavy wardrobe.

As he circled, Dimitri lowered himself into one of the chairs by the fireplace, resting as he’d promised, and focused himself on Dedue’s expression. Eyes wide. Mouth tense, but as it tended to be. The suspense of that expression seemed unbearable until Dimitri cleared his throat. 

“It’s a little bare, I suppose. Though it wouldn’t be difficult to fill it up to make it more comfortable…” Dimitri paused, trying to figure out what Dedue might want in a room. While this wasn’t lacking in any basic furnishings, it had nothing like personal effects. Dedue hadn’t been able to bring anything besides what he was wearing, and much of that was so burnt or damaged that it would be unlikely he could wear them again in anything like their original form. Dimitri didn’t know what had happened to them, only that he’d asked Gustave to please help, and Dedue had been wearing other borrowed clothes since. All that remained dangled from one ear, swaying as Dedue’s head moved. And Dimitri had no idea what could even hope to (not replace Dedue’s home, he wouldn’t insult either of them that way) help. Dedue had turned to look at him, and so -- “Weapons, perhaps?”

Wait, not everyone was interested in collecting weapons, even though they were so obviously interesting. It was important to respect other people’s preferences, after all. And Dimitri had always had more fun doing things than owning things outside of beautiful and interesting weapons, so now he wasn’t entirely sure what would suit.

“That...Please, do not worry about that.” Dedue came to stand by Dimitri’s chair. His mouth relaxed just a fraction, at last. “This is a wonderful room. I do not need much.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to think of something,” Whether he’d wanted it or not, he’d felt something in him untense at that answer. He could have melted into the chair, he was so tired. “A few books, perhaps? They’d go on the shelves nicely, and, well, the castle has a wonderful library!”

Dedue’s cool eyes flicked away, taking the turn of his head with them, dipping down. 

“...Ah. That would… Not be helpful.” Dedue shuffled awkwardly in place. “Reading is... not taught in Duscur often. I never learned.”

“Ah. I’m sorry, then.” There was a long and awkward silence that hung in the air, Dedue’s mouth moving slightly as if it were preparing a word and discarding it, Dimitri feeling like he’d stepped on something he ought to have known was there. While he’d heard the people of Duscur relied more than those of Fodlan on oral traditions and the teaching of parents, he thoughtlessly hadn’t considered what it meant . He couldn’t even say he knew how many people in Fodlan could read -- what good was he supposed to be as a king, without knowing that sort of thing? He closed his eyes and considered the situation -- there wasn’t much he could do about the mistake, but about the actual reality… He could be helpful in that. “Would you like to learn now? It might be useful.”

“I don’t wish to trouble you,” Dedue answered, feeling out his words as if he were testing the strength of a bridge. “But I would not mind.”

“It wouldn’t trouble me at all. Even if my arm or other injuries recover soon, I don’t think I’ll be able to really train or have much exercise anytime soon. Something useful to do would be nice.” Yes, that was a thing he could do, even like this; a thing to take what would otherwise be hours of trying and failing to rest and fill them with activity would surely let his feet hit the ground again.

“Then I think I would like to try.” Dedue gave a grave nod. A small smile brightened Dimitri’s face as he started to ignore the various protests that resounded through him at the prospect of leaving his seat. His back, where the flesh wounds had been the worst, yowled and flashed in fresh pain when he gripped the chair’s arm to try and push himself upright.

“Great! We’ll get started…” His vision spun again. His head bobbed with a feeling that the little movement was so much vaster than it was. But he was, in his defense, on his feet -- and would stay on them. Still...  “Tomorrow, I suppose.” 

To Dedue’s quiet, unreadable nod -- and the offer of his arm once again, which Dimitri waved off this time -- Dimitri elected to get to his final order of business.

“...I still haven’t shown you why this room, in particular, is for you.” Dimitri crossed the room, heading to a particular spot close to the wall that ought to have divided this room from the next. If you didn’t know what to look for, it looked like an ordinary wall panel. 

“There’s still something?” Dedue’s expression opened in what Dimitri hoped was the good sort of surprise -- or, perhaps, he wanted to be the good sort of surprise. 

“I mentioned a passageway, right?” Dedue nodded in response, but didn’t look like that had answered much of anything. Dimitri put his hand up on it. His hand. Hm. Yes. An experimental press informed him that, while he could feel the give it had, it wasn’t about to move how it should. That was a problem. “...I can’t open this with one hand.”

“What should I do?” Dedue hurried to stand just behind Dimitri, the heat of his body radiating onto Dimitri’s back in the slight chill of spring’s end, feeling all the more vivid against stiff joints and angry scabs. It was a strange comfort -- Dimitri had to ensure the fire was stoked in his room when he got back, if a little warmth like this was such a relief. His hand changed position and tapped a spot about an arm’s length (his arms, not Dedue’s, whose arm’s length would easily leave the panel behind) away from where his hand was, before it returned to his original position.

“And on three, you press up and back with me.” An affirming hm .  “One, two, three.” When they pushed, the panel lifted, slotting into a groove just a little further back from the wall that let them push it to the side. And behind that panel was a small hollow. A bell hung from the hollow’s ceiling, just above an old wooden door. Dedue might have to stoop to use it -- for reasons of stealth, it was not a tall door. Dimitri stepped out of the way.

“Please keep a close eye on the key to this door. It’d be… A little dangerous, if someone untrustworthy got their hands on it,” Dimitri said while Dedue picked up the smaller of his two new keys. 

“...I understand.” The click of the key in the lock, the swing of the door, the staircase down winding itself into view. The thin cord for the bell descended the staircase as well, vanishing into a quiet darkness. And at the bottom of that darkness was where the cord ended, in his room.

“I’ll ring for you, if it’s an emergency.” In case of emergencies, yes, of course. It had always been that way, or so it seemed, but looking back on it, Dimitri had called his nurse down for many trivial things. Embarrassing things, sometimes. Times he couldn’t get to sleep, or sick days, or times he’d woken up cold and lonely. It had been almost 7 years since those days, and he was 13, nearly an adult. That sort of childish coddling -- he shouldn’t want to have someone to call for that sort of thing again. 

He stared down at the worn stones, feeling the years of footsteps in a little groove marking the center of the stairs. If he said what he wanted, he didn’t want to see the moment Dedue thought of him as immature. He didn’t want to look up and guess what disappointment or pity would be written, even so faintly, on Dedue’s face. To see with perfect clarity that this wasn’t how he ought to bear this, when everyone was looking at him to be strong. As if he didn’t know.

“...But -- however, you’re free to come down, as you like.” No matter how hard he tried to keep his voice level, it didn’t wholly succeed. Instead, the quaver he carried echoed down the stairs, bouncing back up and shaking anew against each step. A flush rose on his face as much for that as anything. “The passage locks at my end as well, it’s the same key, but I… don’t intend to lock it.”

“It would be wiser to lock it.” Dedue’s voice didn’t give away that disappointment, that pity, that mockery. It didn’t give away anything, which told him everything. 

“I know that, I just...” The nights were colder and lonelier than ever -- and longer. He blinked and couldn’t see the stairs clearly, only a blurry tunnel of darkness that began at his feet. The night was still going on all around them. The world had come unravelled, and time had stopped meaning anything besides the slow pulverizing of hope. He just needed something . 

“...However, I’m happy for the trust you’ve placed in me.” Something made Dimitri look up at that -- perhaps a little trace of nerves in the voice. Beyond the film of his tears, he knew what was there -- Dedue’s eyes, catching the light beyond the darkness, bright enough to cut through the shadows of the staircase.

“...I’m just glad to know you’re near.” Dimitri found it hard to read those eyes, the soft squint around their edges, the little squeeze that accompanied Dedue’s breath. But into that ambiguity Dimitri thought -- no, Dimitri hoped -- that he was as relieved as Dimitri was, to hear that said.

[fairycosmos]

Sorry for bothering you angel but I have noone else to talk to.I really dont know what to do anymore. I'm so suicidal that I don't know how i'm still alive,how i'm able to breath it just doesn't feel right being alive.My mind keeps telling me to do something to end it all and I'm just numb.The worst thing is that even the closest person in my life doesn't know how bad it is bc i'm always the one to help them with their depression and im so drained.I'm just here to help other no matter how broken

hey love, i’m so sorry to hear you’re going through such a difficult time right now  😞 but you’re not bothering me at all, so don’t worry about that. firstly i really hope you’re currently in a safe environment and that you remain there, above all else. you were able to send this and reach out for some form of support even anonymously and that’s a really good sign. i’m proud of you for being here and for making it to this point, and i want to thank u for being so open with me because i know it’s not easy. secondly i really want to stress that you can’t believe anything your mind is telling you right now, seriously. one of the biggest illusions of mental illness is that it convinces you to think in black and white, to believe that everything negative is permanent and that there’s no way forward. but that’s never the case in reality. there is so much that can be done to change your habitual thinking patterns, your sense of self worth and just the general situation you’re in right now. in fact, change is inevitable if you stick around long enough to see it. it’s happening constantly, even when you don’t realise it. and so is healing and growth, even when you’re in pain too. it is entirely possible to recuperate, for happiness and peace to become a consistent theme in your future. yes, you. i know it’s probably impossible to believe in this moment but i hope you can still accept the sentiment anyway, because it’s true. and what’s more than that, you deserve it. you’re able to give your time and energy to others who are dealing with what you’re also dealing with, and that’s wonderful, but you are COMPLETELY worthy of receiving that same energy and love. i promise. if you need to take some time to focus on your own mental health rather than on those around you, then that’s perfectly fine and there’s no shame in that. it can be hard to internalize everyone else’s grief, and quite emotionally exhausting at times, so don’t let your mind make you feel bad for needing some space. it’s the most natural, human thing in the world. and i’m sure those that care for you want to hear what you’re going through too, i’m sure they want the chance to return the favour and to be there for you. you can give them that by opening up. no matter how hard it is to actually reach out, please please know that the option is always there and that you are never as alone as your mind wants you to believe. another tactic of depression is that it wants you to isolate yourself so you don’t feel the comfort of other people and their perspective, so the only thing you can believe is your own bad thoughts - but you CAN choose to subvert that urge, to talk to those around you about whats going on in your head. it’s okay. if not them, there are a lot of suicide/mental health hotlines available 24/7, and there’s also the option of talking to your doctor/a therapist/a support group to see if they can help you implement a treatment plan (if you haven’t done so already.) even if you have to force the words out, just tell them what you told me. it doesn’t have to make sense, you just have to let it out. sometimes mental illness is just as serious as physical illness and it needs real medical attention in order to overcome, and that’s alright. it’s something a lot of people go through, and it looks different for everyone. but just picking up the phone and making that appointment or talking to a loved one can make a massive difference. there is so much that can be done in terms of therapy - identifying the root causes of why you feel the way you do, giving you the tools to fight the episodes in a healthy way when they do arise - but at the end of it you CAN learn to live a happy and full life despite those days where you just want to give up. it’s a matter of time, finding the balance that suits you and getting through each day long enough to see the results of your progress.

i know it all feels like too much effort, and i’m not saying you have to do any of this right now. or that talking to someone will solve everything. and i’m very very familiar with that debilitating brand of numbness you’re describing - it makes everything genuinely feel beyond hopeless and so far away, it is so so heavy and i don’t blame you for being exhausted. but it’s also so possible for the feeling and the presence to return back to your life, one area at a time. i often think of it like my souls got pins and needles and i need to massage the numbness away with care and patience. you said you don’t know how you’re still alive - it’s because you’re supposed to be. it’s because some part of you, no matter how tired of all this shit you are, recognizes that there is a lot worth holding onto. even if your brain isn’t allowing you to see it in this moment. i hate to be cliche, but when it really comes down to it nothing would be the same without you. you exist and see this world through your unique perspective and love in your own specific way because you’re here. and no one else is you and that is more than good enough. there is so much waiting for you, man. recovery is possible in so many forms, and i’m not just saying that at all. i would fucking hate to think of you acting on your temporary emotions and only regretting it when it’s far too late to go back, and unfortunately i think that occurrence is very common in people who suffer through this sort of thing. as a person and as someone who has been given the chance to experience this world for a fraction of a moment in human history, i hope more than anything you can simply allow yourself to do that. and that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to have bad days, or to hate this world sometimes because i absolutely do too. it can be hellish, and we have a right to be in pain. but that doesn’t mean we’re beyond hope and help. it doesn’t mean there aren’t a million different ways to make this all feel more manageable, one step at a time. some days getting through one minute at a time counts as a great victory, and you’ve done it a million times before. so please, if you feel like you’re in danger, please just call someone. don’t listen to your mind anymore, don’t feed into it. just get yourself to safety even if you have to act on autopilot. it’s going to be so worth it so much sooner than you think, im serious. you need some rest, maybe to practice some mindfulness and to focus your brain on some low energy positive coping mechanisms, and to let someone know how you’re doing if possible - all of this will allow you to stop spiraling inwards and start focusing on whats going on around you. i’ll leave a few links that may be of some service to you. please know that i care and that so many people do, that your life is so much more than this moment/what you’ve been through so far. if you need a friend or if you want to talk about this properly, please let me know. i’m here and i understand a lot of us do. sending so much, please stay safe above all else love. that’s all you gotta focus on right now x

https://faq.whatsapp.com/general/security-and-privacy/global-suicide-hotline-resources/

https://www.getselfhelp.co.uk/suicidal.htm

https://www.healthquality.va.gov/guidelines/MH/srb/OvercomingSuicidalThoughtsandFeelingsFINAL.pdf

https://www.getselfhelp.co.uk/depression.htm

https://www.mind.org.uk/media-a/2960/suicidal-feelings-2016.pdf

[thedistantstorm]

Keep On Rising (Until The Sky Knows Your Name) 19

Found Family | Zavala is Tower Dad | Father-Daughter Relationship | Childhood Trauma and Recovery | Canon-Typical Violence | Amputation

A story about how an orphaned Amanda Holliday comes to belong in the Last Safe City and the family she finds along the way.

(Or, the story of how Commander Zavala finds himself responsible for one Amanda Holliday.)

Chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 [end]

This time: A new beginning.

-/

They are an inconspicuous combination, the Commander in slacks and a tunic, scarf over his head in accordance with city fashion, and the child in a t-shirt with matching sweatpants - something comfortable enough to move in, picked by Eva. Instead of his usual gait, Zavala walks far slower, knowing it would take three steps with her crutches to match his usual pace.

"The terrain changes ahead," He informs her in his calmest of tones. "The brick will be uneven. Let me know if you need a break."

She hums her acknowledgement, focused on getting herself to make as far as she can on foot, and Zavala, though noticing her discomfort, knows this is a lesson she’ll learn the hard way. When he sees the crutches quake he pauses, watching her wince as she continues, stubborn.

"We still have a bit to go," He tells her.

Ignoring that, he watches her take another handful of steps, stumble, and moves to save her from the pavement. If it were grass, and she were a bit more recovered, he’d have let her fall, but he does not want to take the chance with her so close to being cleared to come home. Shiori makes the child-sized crutches disappear before they hit the ground. The therapists had warned him before clearing her to go on this afternoon trip - a trial run, they called it - that she did not know her limitations, or if she did, she was purposefully ignoring them in lieu of pushing herself.

She sighs into his shirt, angry.

"You'll likely have blisters on your arms."

"Yeah," She grumbles.

"Part of recovering is learning your limits and respecting them," He advises, far more incognito with a child on his hip than walking beside her. It's clear she's frustrated with herself, though she eventually releases her tight grip on his clothes and rests her head against his shoulder. "You will learn when to push, and when to ease back. It will take time."

"'m not real patient," She admits in another exasperated huff.

He chuckles, smooth and low against her hair. "No, you're not," He agrees.

Zavala almost expects that she's fallen asleep after a few minutes of carrying her; he can feel her slight weight incrementally increase. Instead, she's simply relaxed, looking out at the Traveler looming in the distance where the sky meets the walls and the City. He turns, noticing when she starts craning her neck.

She drawls, "Can we watch the ships a while?"

Indulgently, he hums into her hair, "You are not in pain right now?"

"A li'l," She supposes. "But I'm usually sore."

 "We'll go the long way back," He decides, a compromise for them both.

"Y'don' mind?" She asks, bashful, resting her head on his shoulder once more.

"I don't get outside much," He admits. "I think we could both stand to see the sky."

It is strange to be in the Tower without being in full armor, or in charge of one small child instead of the entirety of its affairs. He feels almost like a voyeur, watching Guardians run about around the small influx of civilians who sell their wares or have a food-stand nearby.

It feels even stranger when a shadow looms over them from behind, eclipsing Zavala completely. Amanda curls into him, fight or flight senses triggered into something more like a freeze when her new guardian stops walking. He puts a hand on her crown, silently willing her to believe her that all is well before turning back toward his fellow Titan, careful to lead with the hip opposite the one he is carrying her on.

"Step back, Shaxx."

The shadow recedes. "You know word travels," He informs Zavala loudly. "Though half these miscreants wouldn't give you a second glance without the regalia."

Zavala releases Amanda's head, though he lowers his hand to her back. He can feel her heart thundering through the back of her ribcage. "That's the point," He tells the armor-wearing Crucible handler. "Is there something you need?"

"Not at all," He says. "Is this the girl?"

Said girl is clearly shy, wrapping her arms around Zavala's neck, breathing harshly against his collar. "Amanda, this is Shaxx."

She murmurs to Zavala, wary, "He's big," And Shaxx laughs, hearty and boisterous.

"He will not hurt you. He's a Guardian, too. And an old friend."

That spurs Amanda to act. The mop of blonde hair moves, the child leaning up and away from Zavala, brave but not about to let go. "Hi," She greets, looking up into an impassive helm.

Shaxx tilts his head. "Hello, Amanda," He returns, hands on his hips, loud enough that it forces a tremor through the girl. 

"Can he not hear very good? People yell when they have trouble hearing," She asks Zavala, not quite whispering herself.

Zavala laughs, carefully readjusting his hold on her. "No, Amanda, his hearing is perfectly fine. His listening skills are another thing entirely," He deadpans, quirking an eyebrow with a little dip of his eyes to the top of the child’s head. A reminder not to say anything inappropriate for little ears.

Amanda giggles at that, girlish and unbidden. It sounds like something the Matrons would say.

The one-horned Titan tilts his head to the side. "Oh, this is trouble," He says, but there's no malice in his tone, only glee. "You understand his sense of humor."

"Do people not?" Amanda's nose scrunches up in her confusion. "He's funny."

Shaxx chuckles. "Most, sadly, do not. But you are not most." He eyes the duo carefully - more enthusiastic than anything - before stepping back and waving toward the hall of Guardians. Of course, Zavala thinks. The Crucible could not go more than a match without him. “It was a pleasure meeting you, little lion,” Shaxx says to the child. “Make sure he brings you around.”

“Why a lion?” Amanda asks.

Shiori flits into the space in front of them. “That sentimental beast,” She chirps sharply, but it sounds more affectionate than anything. “A lion is-”

Zavala shakes his head. “She’ll figure it out on her own.”

-/

Just shy of two months to the day of the incident, Amanda is discharged from the hospital. She has a wealth of plans and treatments - almost as many as Zavala himself has meetings and engagements of his own. Recovery will be hard work. Supporting her in it, just as much. No matter. Zavala is committed to this. He will not shy away from his duty, both to the City and to his ward.

She refuses the wheelchair outright, intent on making it out of the hospital on crutches. Zavala appreciates her spirit and especially praises her for asking for help, a block later, when the walking becomes just a bit too much. She’s a quick learner, though he will have to watch. He does not want his every word to be law, well meaning though he is. She should learn and make her own decisions, to some extent.

"Home sweet home," Shiori calls as Zavala closes the door and lets it lock behind them. She transmats the tiny crutches back into being, propping them against the couch in a flicker of Light. 

"Yeah," The child says thickly in reply, allowing Zavala to set her down and hand them to her one at a time.

"Let's have a look around, hm?"

She nods. Zavala shows her the kitchen stocked with food - her tummy rumbles at the sight and she flushes, the little nook that was a dining area but has now become an office, the living room that houses a comfortable couch, modest screen and his knitting supplies in the corner. The washroom is next, down the hall, followed by a room he skips in lieu of showing her his own: full of deep, dark, soothing blues and yet spartan, save for a bookshelf.

Lastly, he lets her into her own room, lingering in the doorway when she carefully hobbles in.

Eva has outdone herself, it's clear by the awed expression Amanda wears, the tightness of her shoulders as she comes into the room. The once bare walls have pictures of different class ships with stylized shaders, the bed a subtle compliment with its themed sheets and comforter. Across the bottom half of the bed is her freshly laundered red blanket, ready and waiting for use.

"Do you like it?" He can't help but ask.

The girl takes a deep breath, hinging on a sob. "It's real nice," She says, overwhelmed. "Thank you."

"I would not thank me," He tells her, placing a palm between her shoulder blades to steady her. "My sense of style is a bit more minimalistic, as I'm sure you can tell. Eva had a field day designing this."

"Will she come 'n visit?” She asks, voice thick and eyes watery. “I gotta thank her, too, then."

"Don't worry. You will see her plenty. Why don't you investigate your desk and dresser? Eva guessed at much of it, but anything you need, we'll figure out together."

Together. Amanda likes the sound of that.

end.

. . .

. .

.

-/

PS: be on the look out for the sequel for this next month (Nov. 2019)! Thanks so much for reading!

[kaen-ace-of-diamonds]

Glass

[AO3 Link]

Word Count: 2200+ (oneshot)

Genre: Angst

Characters: Whitley Schnee, Willow Schnee, other Schnees (mentioned)

Summary: Whitley never intended to go looking for his mother.

Warnings for alcoholism and implied abuse.

~0~

“Someday her child would be a stranger to her, and she would be strange to him.”

- Wendy Torrance, The Shining

~0~

Whitley never intended to go looking for his mother.

Not since he could remember, at any rate. In fact, it was quite the opposite; he went out of his way to avoid the woman when she was either staggering drunk or miserably sober. So that left only a very small space of buzzed and spacy, where Willow’s edges were dulled and her pain assuaged, in which he could stand to speak to her without wanting to smash glass against the wall the second the conversation ended. As with all the other unpleasant necessities of his life, however, he could endure it in a perfectly civil fashion. This did not mean he looked forward to them, or was above looking for ways to get out of them.

But no matter what he did or thought, they always managed to find him anyway. He supposed that it was just his luck.

He could smell her before he saw her. This was not uncommon. He had heard his father before, half laughing and half bragging to his peers about the size and quality of their manor’s wine cellar, proudly naming the fine vintages that he would serve to friends, guests, and business associates. All the exquisitely varied tastes and scents. Whitley often wondered whether it was one cruel, colossal inside joke. No matter how well-aged or lovingly made it was, Whitley could not associate the acrid smell that clung to his mother’s skin and clothes with anything but ruin.

He knew, logically, that he was very close to his own room. He could take the all too tantalizing left turn coming up next to him and make it there; he had several shortcut-laden routes to it throughout the manor memorized, actually, for the sole purpose of evading people. But it never did turn out that way when it came to Willow. So for some reason that he could never quite put words to (and that he never cared to dwell on anyway), he passed it up, turned to the right instead, and was immediately faced with the consequences.

Willow was at the end of the windowless hallway, her face grayer than usual in the shadows. Whitley stopped at the opposite end to take in the familiar sight of her: trembling minutely in every inch, swaying slightly, with one hand on her no doubt fragile stomach and bracing herself against the wall with the other. Her eyes, with the dark bags beneath them, were turned down to the floor, and her labored breathing he could hear clearly from twenty feet away. He could see a bead of sweat running down her forehead.

Whitley stood there, hands reflexively folded, stone-faced and silent as the grave. As usual, she had no idea he was there. Even if she did look up and see him, there was no guarantee that she would remember his presence in the morning...or whenever she woke up later. He could still turn around, go and snarl at the first servant he saw for leaving his mother alone like this, and seek refuge in his bedroom. The afternoon was still young, after all.

He sighed, and stepped forward.

“Mother...”

Willow’s shoulders twitched, and she tried to stand still for a moment, listening to his soft footsteps on the marble floor as he reached her. She did not seem to be able to look any other way than down, and gave no sign she felt her son’s hands on her, taking her arm and draping it across his own shoulders. He was not at all as sturdy a support as the wall, being about a head and shoulders shorter than Willow, but he liked to think he was a more reliable one.

“How much have you had?”

The question, asked in a low mutter, was perfunctory. The bitter-sour scent was stronger here, filling his nose and mouth, nauseating him. She was not in any state of unresponsiveness that would require him to run for more qualified help, nor was she in deep enough depths of drunkenness to snap and lash out. But she had definitely gone plummeting past that communicable gray area. Still, she decided to answer.

“Enough.” Willow’s lips had stretched into a thin, open smile, and she looked as if she might like to laugh. Her voice was scraping glass, faint and ragged from alcohol and a constantly sliding scale of disuse and overuse. “Enough.”

Whitley huffed, and ground out through clenched teeth, “Not quite what I would call it.”

To that, he got no response at all.

Willow still retained moderate control of her limbs, so she did not need to be carried, only guided, to the next wing of the manor where the master bedroom was located. But it was a plodding, tedious walk for both of them. Every minute felt like an hour and every hall a mile long. Gods knew what was going on in Willow’s head, but Whitley was already internally rehearsing what he would hiss at anyone who dared pause and stare. Perhaps it was an unfair recitation, but it distracted him from what he was actually doing now, which was much less bitingly satisfying.

They were not in the shadows for long. Very many of the manor’s windows were wide and without curtains, letting in the impossibly bright light that bathed Atlas and making every last white and ice-blue surface shine. Absently scrolling through articles on his Scroll, the home his grandfather had built was often lauded as exemplifying beautiful architecture. Beautiful or not, he wondered with irritation whether the beauty was really worth all this sun in his eyes.

Willow, shutting her eyes and pressing her free hand to her no doubt throbbing head, seemed to be agreeing with him. “Ugh, what the hell?” she groaned. “Who’s doing that? Who’s here?”

Whitley sighed. “It’s just the sun, we’ll be out of it in a minute. No one’s here.”

“You...You’re sure?”

He looked out through the spotless glass, down to the courtyard below. It still felt strange, to not hear the muffled sounds of clashing metal and sharp instruction, and to see it devoid of either of his sisters. He had never actually explored a ruin of anywhere, but he assumed that it would evoke similar feelings.

The rest of their trek was, thankfully, uneventful. He caught the sound of footsteps approaching once or twice, but they quickly retreated when they heard him and his mother talking. Whitley didn’t know whether to be relieved or disgusted.

Help, in theory, might be nice, but he was wary of how someone who was not one of Willow’s children might treat her, what they would say afterward. There were no real friends in Atlas, and its gossip passed hands quicker and easier than money. The three of them treated her best, and even they made a sorry effort, in Whitley’s opinion. Winter tugged and dragged, mouth set in a tight, humiliated line. Weiss was not as strong or as angry, and was able to hold Willow up more easily, with her dancer’s build. But whether or not she knew better what words to say — they were always too soft for him to hear — she made her discomfort too clearly known for it to be really effective, and it either confused or pained their mother.

As for him...He was not made for heavy lifting or toil, but if there was one thing that Whitley truly excelled at, it was putting on a mask of perfect decorum and pretending the waters of their lives were still and smooth. Willow wouldn’t fall for the act sober, but with her vision clouded and mind whirling, it wasn’t a half-bad calming antidote.

Once they were both inside his parents’ bedroom, he nudged the door shut behind them with his foot before taking Willow over to the made bed. On being half laid and half dropped onto the covers, Willow’s body relaxed, but her eyes again shut tight and she ran a hand through her hair again. It slightly impeded Whitley’s hands already there, as he moved her onto her side and adjusted her arms and legs into proper recovery position.

“E’rything’s...spinning...”

“I know,” Whitley murmured. “It’s not so bad. Relax and keep your eyes closed, it’ll end soon.”

Willow made no intelligible response, but continued to make small noises of discomfort as Whitley undid her tight bun, removed her shoes, and then went to the window to close the heavy blackout curtains unique to the manor’s bedrooms. When darkness washed over the room, Willow let out a long breath of relief.

“Much better...”

Only one item left on the checklist, then. Whitley had to scrounge around the room for a minute before he found Willow’s red throw blanket, a gift from her father. There was no state where it wouldn’t comfort her, but the choking half-laugh she let out when he draped it over her still made his stomach turn.

“It’s...cool in here...This’s soft...” Willow’s eyes opened a fraction, pale and watery blue. They flicked aimlessly back and forth. “Where...Where’s Weiss?”

Whitley’s fists clenched behind his back. His voice was still pleasant, but he could not keep a small splinter of ice from it.

“She ran away. All the way off to Beacon Academy.” He snorted. “She’s probably melting in the Valerian sun as we speak.”

There was a faint touch of hurt on Willow’s face, mingled with confusion.

“Oh...Then who’s...” A spark of recognition momentarily brightened her eyes, and she nearly smiled. “Ohh...Whitley, it’s you.”

Whitley allowed her to shakily reach up and stroke his cheek with her fingertips. “That’s right. Was I fooling you somehow?”

Willow wasn’t listening to him, just staring blankly into his face. “Mm, you have...such clever eyes,” she mumbled. “Like your father...when he was young...”

The sound of bare knuckles against jawbones flashed in the back of Whitley’s head. His smirk went tight. “Is that a compliment, Mother?”

For a second, Willow’s eyes went wide, and her body still; he wasn’t certain what she’d forgotten or remembered in her stupor. Whatever it was, her hand dropped from his face, and then...Well. Try as he might, Whitley could never remember a time when he mother’s laughter hadn’t been as painfully bitter as it was now.

“It’s whatever you want it to be, my son.” Her voice was still low and slurred, but clearer than it had been all day.

Whitley gave her a brief, wondering look, and then sighed. “Sleep well, Mother.”

He turned on his heel and left the room again, opening the door only a crack and slipping through quickly, so the light would not enter again. Weiss was the only one of them who had used to hang back at the bedside even after Willow had passed out; she had stopped a few years ago after Jacques caught her in there and frightened her away. He knew it might be irresponsible, to leave her alone to sleep it off like that, and gods knew he hated to look as if he were storming out the way Winter would. But he simply could not stand to be in that conversation any longer.

His walk back to his own bedroom was equally undisturbed, and in that silent refuge he took a seat in his armchair and reached for the nearest business textbook on his shelf. Nothing in this room absorbed or entertained him, he reflected as he thumbed through it, only distracted him. And speaking of which...

On the table next to him, there were drinking glasses and two bottles, one of water and one of wine: the same setup as there was near his mother’s side of the bed. The water was his own, the wine an ill-thought gift from one of his father’s associates. Jacques had laughed a little too loud and too long when it had been presented to his son. Perhaps he had made a joke, too, but Whitley had been too busy seeing red and trying not to, to pay attention. He grimaced, picturing glass shards and scarlet blood spattered over a white suit (an image that made his heart race in what he wasn’t sure was excitement or revulsion).

He had to stay sharp, that was his primary claim to usefulness around here. And he certainly never wanted to fall into the same abyss that his mother had jumped into. But...Perhaps a bit of that gray space wouldn’t be so bad, to quiet the frantic buzzing in his head.

So he uncorked the wine and poured a small bit into a glass, just a little bit more than the last time he’d tried it. He hadn’t liked it much then, he thought as he raised it to his lips, but maybe now...Maybe it was about being in the right or wrong frame of mind —

“Ugh!”

It took real presence of mind for him to swallow the tiny sip instead of spitting it out, and to place the glass back on the table instead of slam it. His cheeks flushed and his lip curled in disgust as he tried to go back to reading, intermittently glaring at the glass as if it had personally offended him.

Sour.