#jaw open slightly just staring barely sparing me a have my God half keeping secrets

[whereisthedamndaddymanual]

I still get tripped out when I look in a pack of cigarettes and the label is some kind of elongated license plate telling me some fucked up story sometimes.

[helliontherapscallion]

(Y/n) and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week: Wednesday

Monday     Tuesday     Thursday (Part 1)     Thursday (Part 2)     Friday     Saturday     Sunday

Spotify Playlist (collaborative)

Warnings: panic attacks, swearing, getting outed, f slur and d slur, homophobia, puking, toxic friends

Word count: 5,160

(A/N): woah, thank you all so much for all the positive feedback, that really makes my day! 

The room was quiet with the exception of the clacking of the keyboard and the soft chirping of crickets outside your open window. The stars twinkled in the sky as the night droned on and on. There was a loud rustling outside your window, but your sleep deprived mind didn’t think anything of it. It wasn’t important at the moment, the only important thing right now was finishing your work. 

Throughout the night, you worked endlessly on your friend’s work. The essays were relatively easy because Adrian and Annie had luckily chosen topics that you’re somewhat interested in, so at least finding the sources was enjoyable. You had gotten your essay completely written and proofread, Annie’s outline finished, and Adrian’s sources analyzed. You would start on Sammy’s presentation after you finished Adrian’s outline. Hours upon hours passed by you as you worked, yet you didn’t notice the time once. You worked uninterrupted with no breaks. Well, one break to talk to your dad about how you weren’t hungry, but you got back to work right after he left your room. You couldn’t waste any more time than you already have.

Your eyes felt heavy as you typed on your keyboard, working on putting Adrian’s sources together cohesively so that the writing would flow seamlessly. You paused your typing to rub at your tired eyes so you could keep working, you couldn’t afford to fall asleep. You had to get these done as soon as possible if you wanted their forgiveness. 

The blaring of your alarm startled you out of your focus, making you fall backwards out of your chair with a yelp. Landing painfully on your back, you laid on the floor trying to calm your racing heartbeat. You looked out your window. Hints of pinks and yellows were starting to make a gradient with the lightening dawn sky. Shit, you were so focused on getting your work done that you didn’t take account of the time. You just knew today was gonna be long. At least after school volleyball practice was shortened because of finals tomorrow. 

You groaned as you pulled your tired form off from the ground. You made your way downstairs and plopped yourself down at your usual place at the table, burying your face into the crook of your arm. You felt yourself drift off into a blissful sleep, the wood of the table suddenly seemed very comfortable at the moment. Not long after, you were jolted out of your peaceful sleep by a loud crash. Jumping up and looking around with wide eyes, you saw Tubbo looking at you apologetically. There was broken glass in front of his feet on the floor. 

“Sorry, (y/n).”

You just stared at him blankly as you slowly blinked. Philza didn’t spare you a glance as he whisked the short boy away from the glass. “(Y/n), can you please go get the broom and sweep this up?”

You nodded, hauling yourself to your feet and walked over to the storage closet, pulling out the broom and dust pan. You mindlessly sweeped up the glass, your limbs feeling heavy. After throwing the glass away, you rummaged in the cupboard and pulled out a mug. The bitter smell beckoned you welcomingly, working its way through your nostrils and digging itself deep into your brain. Just as you were about to pour yourself a cup, a hand snatched the coffee pot away from you. 

“You shouldn’t be drinking this.”

“You let Techno and Wil drink it, so why can’t I?”

“(Y/n), you’re a full year younger than them and you haven’t eaten anything since breakfast yesterday.”

You felt your eye twitch, “I’m only a year younger than them! There’s literally no-”

“(Y/n),” his warning tone cut you off, putting the pot back into the coffee maker, “you aren’t going to drink this. That’s final. Get a glass of water.”

You huffed and pushed past him to the sink to fill your coffee mug with water. You’ve been drinking coffee for a while behind his back, so you were used to its effects on your body. You supposed that you’d just beg Wilbur to take you to the cafe so you could get your sustenance. He always relented for you. 

You heard him chuckle, “you’ll thank me when you’re older.”

“Mhm.”

You plopped down next to Tubbo nursing your mug of water, trying to make small talk with him. One by one, your brothers made their way to the table. Tommy was talking and gesturing wildly to Tubbo like he normally did, Wilbur looked as dead inside as you felt, and Techno made it a point to ignore you. When someone pissed him off, he can hold a grudge better than he could hold onto his knowledge of Greek mythology, and that’s saying something. Man is obsessed with Greek mythology. 

Breakfast went by in a daze with you struggling to keep your eyes open. At one point, you almost fell asleep sitting up, only to be woken up by Tubbo shaking your shoulder to get your attention. When breakfast was almost done, you had only eaten about half your breakfast. 

Drifting off again, you were startled awake by the screeching of the chairs against the wooden floor and loud shouts coming from your brothers. You didn’t have the energy to race them to the bathroom like you usually did, you’d just freshen up after they were done. You tried to stand up to go to your room to get dressed, but you were stopped by a hand on your shoulder forcing you to sit back down. Looking up, you were met with the concerned, yet stern eyes of your father. 

“You’re not leaving this table until you’ve eaten at least a few more bites and tell me why you’re so tired.”

“I just stayed up later than I normally do finishing up some homework, it won’t happen again.”

“It better not or else I will make you stay home next time. When’d you go to bed last night?”

You avoided his eyes, “around one thirty or two.” You couldn’t tell him that you didn’t actually go to sleep last night, he’d flip. 

“You know, you’re a terrible liar.” Shit.

Looking him in the eye, you spoke more confidently. “Three in the morning.”

“(Y/n)-”

You felt a sudden rage start to twist inside you as he started to lecture you about taking better care of yourself. He was treating you like a child and you were not having it. 

“-young kids like you need to- are you even listening?”

You set your jaw and willed yourself not to explode at him. “Dad, I’m not a child. I know how to take care of myself.”

You saw him narrow his eyes and purse his lips in frustration, “well, obviously you don’t if you’re not eating or sleeping well,” his eyes softened. “I’m starting to worry about you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t because I’m fine,” you snapped at him. “I’m going to get ready.”

You stalked out of the room and stomped upstairs. Passing a shocked Tommy and Tubbo, you made your way into the bathroom to get ready. The person that stared back at you in the mirror looked pale and had dark eye bags accentuating her tired eyes. She had red pimples dotting her face more than she usually did. She was ugly, revolting. The girl you remembered her being was confident in her appearance and walked with an air of importance. Now, she was a decrepit thing that was run down and scared of her own shadow. You couldn’t recognize the girl that stared back at you anymore. You should’ve been able to;  after all, she was you and you were her.

You rushed through your morning routine in the bathroom avoiding looking at yourself in the mirror. You opened the bathroom door only to be met with Wilbur’s chest, his hand poised in the air in a closed fist ready to knock on the door. He stepped back.

“We’re gonna be late if you don’t hurry up.”

You glanced at the clock on the wall. “Wil, we still have twenty minutes before school starts. We don’t have to leave for another ten minutes.”

He gave you a smirk, “well, you want coffee, don’t you? You look dead.”

“Oh thank god. I feel dead, I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

“When’d you go to bed?”

“I didn’t.”

“Christ, (y/n) I knew you were a dumbass, but not that much of a dumbass.”

You rolled your eyes, walking around him and into your room. You felt a stab of hurt in your heart. “Fuck you.”

Before you could close the door, he shouted out a cheeky “love ya too (y/n)!”

You took off all your clothes slowly and stood in front of your open closet deciding on what you should wear today. You figured that since you felt like absolute shit, you should probably put a little bit more effort into your appearance. Picking out your favorite flannel shirt and favorite pair of pants. Smiling at yourself in the mirror in your room, you felt slightly more confident in your appearance. You felt like you could walk around the hallways at school without as many peering eyes trying to figure out your every secret. But maybe that was just the sleep deprivation talking. You tend to be more impulsive and emotional when you’re sleep deprived.

You slung the backpack onto your back with less difficulty than in the previous days. Your back was healing faster than you thought it would. Now, it barely hurt and the swelling completely went away.

You went downstairs and slunk past the kitchen where Philza was talking to Tommy and Tubbo. You didn’t want them to notice you, you felt somewhat guilty for snapping at your dad. You slipped through the front door and hopped into the passenger seat next to Wilbur. You three usually rotated seats counterclockwise and took turns driving each day. Now, you were just waiting for Techno.  

“Well, you look less homeless today.”

“Thanks Wilbur, I just felt like looking a little nicer than usual.”

“Who’re ya dressing up for? Is it Adrian?” He asked with slight disgust. He hated Adrian almost as much as he hated Annie and Sammy. He thought he was nothing more than a fuckboy looking to get into your pants. Little did he know you were secretly a raging lesbian so deep in the closet that you’re froliking with Aslan through the flowerfields of Narnia.

“Wilbur, I’m gay why would I-” you froze, cursing your sleep deprived self for lacking a filter. Your breath caught in your throat and you felt anxiety start to seep into your veins and pump around your body, filling every single nook and cranny with dread. You could feel tears welling in your eyes as you stared at your shaking hands horrified at yourself. How could you just… just out yourself like that? How could you be so careless? So stupid?

You barely felt it when Wilbur reached over to press a gentle hand on your arm. “(Y/n), are yo-”

“I-tha-that was a joke, I’m not gay, I’m straight.” Your words came out in frantic jumbles, desperately trying to fix your slip up. Oh god, you really fucked up this time.

“(Y/n), brea-”

“I swear I’m not gay, I like men, I do. I-”

“(Y/n), breathe with me.” Wilbur’s firm, yet gentle voice demanded. He placed your hand on his chest and took in a deep breath, held it, and released it slowly. You tried your best to follow him, but after about ten minutes, you were slowly but surely calming down. It was a lot faster calming down from a panic attack when you had someone helping you breathe. You’ve never gotten help with a panic attack before, it was nice. Becoming more aware of your surroundings, you took notice of the soft fabric of Wilbur’s sweater, the gentle thumping of his heart, and his worried expression. You also became aware of the extra hand rubbing small circles into your shoulder from behind your seat. It was Techno.

Taking in a shaky breath, you took your hand out of Wilbur’s grip and clasped your hands tightly in front of you, shrugging Techno’s hand off from your shoulder. 

“...Can we please leave? I don’t want Dad or Tubbo and Tommy seeing me like this.”

Wordlessly, Wilbur started up the car and pulled out of the driveway. At the intersection, he turned in the opposite direction of the school. “Wilbur, where are we going? The school’s the other way.”

“We’re going to the cafe for some coffee, my treat.”

“But school starts in five minutes, we’re gonna be late if we go to the cafe.”

“Actually,” Techno’s deep voice chimed in, “school started ten minutes ago. If we’re already late, there’s no harm in skipping first block.”

“Tech, I literally have no idea what’s going on in stats.”

“I’ll give you my notes.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to bother you.”

Wilbur pulled into the cafe’s parking lot, “don’t be stupid, (y/n). You can never bother us.”

You didn’t say anything as you left the car and headed into the cafe. You could think of plenty of ways you could bother your older brothers. You bothered everybody just by being in their presence. You just had that effect. 

Your brothers followed you into the cafe, glancing at each other worriedly. You three quickly got your orders and sat in the secluded back of the cafe. Soft jazz music drifted throughout the quiet cafe. 

“(Y/n), we need to talk about what happened. Was this your first panic attack?” Wilbur asked you gently.

“...No, I’ve had them before.” 

“Were they always this intense? You’re still shaking.”

“That one was nowhere near as intense as the ones I usually have.’

“Usually? Do you have them often?” Tecno asked.

“Yeah, usually a couple of them a week since the middle of freshman year. Nothing I can’t manage.”

“So you’ve been doing this on your own for three years? You could’ve gotten us to help you.” 

You sighed, looking down at your steaming cup. “...I couldn’t’ve. Don’t get me wrong, I know you guys could help me, but I-I just couldn’t. No one was supposed to find out.”

“Promise us that you’ll come to one of us when you have an attack. We care about you, (y/n).”

“I… I’ll think about it. Thank you.”

The table fell into a comfortable silence as you all sipped at your drinks, the comforting taste of the bitter coffee dancing across your tongue.

“Ya know, we don’t care that you’re gay. A lesbian called me ‘actually pretty funny’ once and I’m still riding the high.” 

“Yeah, you’re still you. Nothing changes the fact that you’re our little sister.” 

You smiled as you felt warm inside. You knew your brothers loved you, but you didn’t know that they loved you for being you. You didn’t think anybody loved you unconditionally like that, and that made you feel genuinely happy.

“Thank you guys, for everything. I-I can’t put into words how much that means to me, I love you guys so much!”

“We love you too,” Wilbur smiled before he dropped it into a stern frown. “But if any girl hurts you, we’ll have a stern talking to her.”

“Yeah, we can’t beat up girls. We’ll put her in her place alright.” You snorted into your coffee, almost spilling it on yourself. Quickly setting it down before you could baptize yourself with the scalding liquid (though, you did consider coffee to be holy), you wiped at your teary eyes. 

“And that’s why I love you guys.”

“We’re serious, she’ll be wishing she got beat up after we’re done scolding her.” Wilbur said seriously before he broke into a grin and started laughing. 

The conversation carried on about your sexuality, how you found out, when you found out, if you’ve told anyone yet (they were honored that they were the first people you’ve told, even if you did it accidentally mid-panic attack). Eventually you had to go back to the school before your second block started. You three split ways to your separate classrooms. 

Annie and Adrian were locked onto you as soon as you walked through the door. They looked angry at you. What’d you do this time to piss them off?

“Where the fuck were you this morning? We were looking everywhere for you,” Annie seethed.

“Yeah, you wasted so much of our time looking for your sorry ass. You ditch us again?”

Oh, that. “Look, I didn’t mean to skip out on you guys again. It was a rough morning.” 

“That’s funny because we also had rough mornings, yet we still hung out with each other. You aren’t special.” Adrian rolled his eyes at you.

“It’s gonna take more to apologize. We don’t let things like the little stunts you pull go off scott free.”

“Oh, Annie I have the best idea,” Adrian squealed, bouncing on the balls of his feet excitedly. 

“What is it Dri?” Annie’s eyes shone.

“Our little (y/n) can set you up with one of her brothers and she can go on a date with me on a double date! It’s foolproof, not even someone as dumb as (y/n) could fuck it up.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good id-”

“It’s perfect Dri! Can it be with Wilbur? He’s literally so hot! Oh, the way his fingers can work that guitar…” Ew. The thought of Wilbur and Annie together made you scrunch up your nose with disgust.

“I’m sorry, but Wilbur’s actually dating Sally Fishmin right now. They’re actually really cute together-”

“God, how could someone as hot as Wilbur go for Sally Fishmin? She’s disgusting, always smells like fish,” Annie gagged, then gasped. “Wait (y/n) do you actually think that she’s more deserving to be with him than I am?”

“No, I nev-”

“Really? Cuz you just did. Glad to see you care about me, (y/n).”

“Annie, you’re literally so beautiful. I never said that you don’t deserve him. You deserve the world. I can’t split them up, but I can do more homework for you.” She perked up immediately, “awe, thanks love! That’s what happens when you actually put effort into how you look.”

“Speaking of, did you get that shirt out of the trash? It’s really not a look.” Adrian snickered to himself. There goes what little confidence you had. You actually thought you looked decent today. You felt grateful for your friends, they always told you the truth about how you looked when everybody else lied to you. 

Before you could respond, the bell rang and everybody took their seats. Luckily, Mr. Todd assigned today as a work day for your final research essays. You had finished Annie’s and got Adrian’s thesis done before the bell rang. While you were working on their essays, they were mindlessly scrolling on their phones and texting someone. 

You, Adrian, and Annie met up with Sammy and went into the lunch room. You tried to line up in the lunch line with them, but they laughed and told you that you’re fat enough and you needed to lose weight. What did you do to deserve such considerate friends? You really owed them one for always looking out for and putting up with you.

While you were waiting for them, you pulled out your phone. To your surprise, Haley texted you a screenshot of her conversation with Unknown. You felt a chill run down your spine. All four pictures were of you. You rubbing your eyes as the light of your computer provided the only light in the room. Your bare back facing the camera as you stood in front of your closet this morning. You sleeping a day ago (you felt sick as you realized that whoever took the picture was standing directly over your bed). Lastly, you and Haley holding each other’s hand under the moonlight last night. Attached to the pictures, Unknown had typed “you have one more day or else sleeping ugly gets it. Do not tempt us.”

Hales : )

(Y/n), how the hell did they get these pictures of you

Did you seriously leave your window open???

Why wouldn’t you close your curtains

Oh god, do you think they saw us in your driveway????

(Y/n)

Haley calm down 

Hales : )

I know you’re not telling me to calm down right now

You have a stalker

One that can GET INSIDE YOUR ROOM

(Y/n)

We’ll get to the bottom of this

Like I said, I don’t care if my pictures get leaked

I care about your pictures

Until we figure out who’s doing this, we need to lay low

Hales : )

Hanging out last night was a mistake

I shouldn’t have gave you a ride

I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you

I’m straight

And you are too

You said it yourself

We can’t talk anymore (y/n)

(Y/n)

I’m not straight Hales

I’m gay

And I like you

Like

Like you like you

Hales : )

I’m sorry (y/n)

But I’m straight

We can’t talk anymore

Goodbye.

With each text she sent you, you felt your heart drop deeper and deeper into your stomach until you felt your heart shatter in your chest, the pieces lodging themselves deep within you and ripping you open from inside out. How could you be so stupid to think that soemone as perfect as Haley Andrews, arguably the prettiest girl in the senior year, go out with (y/n) Minecraft, a known trainwreck. Annie’s shrill gasp sounded right next to your ear, making you gasp and drop your phone onto the table with a loud bang.

“OH MY GOD (Y/N) YOU’RE A FAGGOT? WERE YOU HITTING ON ME EARLIER? YOU FUCKING PERVERT.”

The entire cafeteria fell into silence as they listened to Annie’s shrieking. Whispers started to meld together.

“(Y/n)’s gay?”

“How gross”

“Damn, I was gonna hit it”

“We have a dyke going to this school?”

You felt like you were suffocating as the whispers and Annie’s yelling jumbled together in a disorienting cacophony. Adrian and Sammy both glared at you from behind Annie with a hatred that you didn’t know they had for you. You tried stuttering an apology, but you were quickly shut up by Annie harshly slapping you across the face.

“I don’t wanna hear it, fag. You’re going to finish our essays and you’re never gonna talk to us again. Do you understand me?” When you didn’t respond, she slapped you again. “I asked you, do you understand me?” 

You frantically nodded your head, grabbed your backpack, and sprinted out the door without any real destination in mind. You sprinted before you found the bathroom that nobody used. Ducking into a stall and slamming the door, you felt yourself start to hyperventilate. You couldn’t feel anything except for the tightness of your chest. You couldn’t see anything. You couldn’t hear anything. You faintly tasted bile rising up in your throat as you bent over to empty your stomach. You threw up everything in your stomach until you were left sitting on the dirty floor painfully dry heaving. 

You sobbed on that floor for what felt like hours. Everybody knows your secret now. Your dirty, dirty secret. God, you were a pervert weren’t you? You made people around you comfortable by just being you. Faintly, you felt your phone start to buzz in your pocket, your shaky hands scrambling to fish it out. They were all texts from your brothers.

Wilby

(Y/n) I heard what happened

Are you okay????

Please answer me

Where are you

Technology Sword

I’m gonna kill them

I swear to god they’re dead

Blood for the blood god

(Y/n)

Pls dont do anything or hurt anyone

I’m fine

I’ll see you two after practice

Wilby

Tell us where you are

(Y/n)

I’m fine

I’ll see you two after practice

You silenced your phone and put it back into your pocket, once again feeling yourself start to dry heave again. Your sobs and gags echoed throughout the bathroom. This is by far the worst panic attack you’ve had yet, and it doesn’t seem like it’s gonna stop anytime soon. You heard the final bell ring and students start to rush to their lockers to get home, so you tried to muffle your shaking sobs the best you could. You had at least an hour before you had to go to volleyball practice. Until then, you would stay in the bathroom trying to ground yourself. 

Luckily, you managed to calm down to the point where you stopped crying and dry heaving. You were only shaking slightly. You felt numb and completely drained from your panic attack, practice today was going to be a struggle. You cautiously walked through the empty hallways jumping at every little noise. When you finally reached the locker room, you made a beeline past Zara and Jazzy to your locker. You pulled out your uniform and changed in one of the bathroom stalls.

Practice went by with the girls on the team giving you sympathetic looks and Haley ignoring you. Not that you noticed, you were ignoring everyone and putting all of your focus on the ball. The entire practice, you felt light headed and drained. Fortunately, practice ended right as you felt like you were going to pass out.

You changed as fast as you could and pulled out your phone.

Dadza

Come outside, I’m here to pick you up

You felt a dread pool in your stomach as you stared at the text. Did he find out? Was he going to kick you out for being gay? Wilbur and Techno wouldn’t let him do that to you, right? Reluctantly, you left the sanctuary of the bathroom stall and rushed out of the locker room and out of the school. Sure enough, your dad’s car was parked in the parking lot. You glanced over to where Haley’s car was parked last night and saw glimpses of you and her chasing each other and laughing into the night sky without a care in the world before you ripped your gaze away to stare at your walking feet.

You reached your dad’s car and sat in the passenger seat. Your dad grinned at you. “Hey hun, how was practice?”

You merely shrugged your shoulders at him. You didn’t have the energy to talk to anyone at the moment. You felt extremely drained.

“What’s wrong, did something happen? You can talk to me.”

“...I’m just sad that the season’s over tomorrow.”

“Don’t be sad kid,” a gruff voice coming from behind you made you jump. “That’s pussy shit.”

You yelped and whipped your head around to look at whoever said that. Your uncle’s cocky grin greeted you. You felt yourself grin back at him. 

“Uncle Schlatt!”

“The one and only.”

“How was your business trip? You’re home early.”

He rolled his eyes, “boring as hell. I’m so fucking glad I got out early, I woulda blew my brains out if I had to stay there any longer.”

“Schlatt!” Philza reprimanded him, glancing at him through the rearview mirror.

“What? I’m just telling the truth. I woulda!” He defended himself.

Your dad gripped the steering wheel. “You didn’t have to say it in front of (y/n).”

Schlatt scoffed, “please, she’s heard me say worse.” 

As they bickered, you felt yourself zone out as you looked out the window. Houses and street signs passed by in a blur as the car moved down the road and pulled into your driveway. You got out as quickly as you could and made your way into the house alongside your uncle and dad. As soon as your uncle walked through the door, Tubbo barrelled into him and pulled him into a tight hug. Schlatt laughed loudly and bent over to pick him up into a hug. You smiled at the father and son as Philza gestured for you to follow him into the kitchen. He opened the oven to check on something cooking inside of it and turned to face you, leaning against the counter.

“So what’s really wrong?”

“I already told you, I’m sad the season’s almost over.”

“It’s something more than that,” as you opened your mouth he quickly added, “and you can’t say that it’s because you’re tired. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

You sighed and mimicked his actions. “...It’s just been a long day. I really don’t wanna talk about it.”

Without warning, he pulled you into a warm hug, your face being shoved into his shoulder and him rubbing circles into your back. “That’s okay, just talk to me when you’re ready. I won’t push you.”

That broke you. Throwing your arms around him, you started to sob into his shoulder. He started to rock you back and forth whispering reassurances into your ear. 

“That’s good, let it all out.”

“I love you so much.”

“I’m here for you.”

With each sentence to fall out of his mouth, you felt more at ease and safe. Your dad always did a great job at making people feel safe, that was just his natural talent. After a while, you pulled away from him.

“Do you feel better?”

You smiled tiredly at him, “Yeah, I really needed a hug.”

He turned around to check on dinner, “I bet, you look like you’ve been to hell and back. You don’t have to tell me what happened, but just know that I’m always here for you and I love you.”

The rest of the family flooded the kitchen after a while of you two talking. Dinner went by with Schlatt laughing loudly and telling stories about the people he met on his business trip. Every now and then, Wilbur and Techno would glance at you, but you ignored them. You just wanted dinner to end so you could pass out in your bed. Once dinner was over, you helped your dad gather everybody’s plate and put them into the sink. The rest of your little family went to the living room to start a game of Monopoly. The last time you all played that ended in fresh bruises and shed tears.

“I think I’m gonna go to bed, I have to get some rest for finals tomorrow.”

“But (y/n), it’s Monopoly! You love Monopoly,” Tommy exclaimed.

“That’s alright, you look dead on your feet kid. Go get some sleep.”

“Thanks Uncle Schlatt. Goodnight everyone, love ya.”

A flurry of goodnights and love you’s follow you as you leave the room and drug yourself up the stairs. Without a second thought, you closed your curtains and plopped face first onto your bed. You passed out without even making sure you were fully on your bed.

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[yikesharringrove]

We’re Us

A little commishy for my bxtch @thinger-strang.

Read on Ao3

This shit is SOFT

-

“Dustin, we all saw that fireball hit you,” Will said accusatorily, gesturing to the red bean bag on the ground at Dustin’s feet.

“Okay, first of all, you’re supposed to call a pause of play before using my real name,” Dustin said, all in one breath. “And second of all, the fireball only hit my lute, therefore I sustained no physical damage.” Dustin gestured to the cereal box that was taped to a jump rope, slung over his shoulder like it was a prized instrument.

“No, it didn’t. We all saw it hit your shoulder. You’d lose that arm at least, and take probably, like, fifty damage points.” Lucas pretended to aim a bow and arrow at Dustin while he spoke.

Dustin was getting dangerously close to huffy territory.

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll take the stupid damage points. Can we resume play yet?”

Everyone nodded, and they fell right back into battle.

It wasn’t often they took the game off the DnD board, but the weather was perfect, summer beginning to make itself known a little earlier than usual, giving them April days that were clear and perfect and made for the best LARP sessions known to Indiana.

Will aimed a fireball at Max, and launched it right as she darted out of the way. It sailed past her, missing her left hand by less than an inch, and she laughed wildly, raising her pool noodle sword and aiming blow after blow at him.

The bean bag hit the fence and went spiraling awkwardly into the small alley between the house and the old wooden fence

It was Will’s last fireball, and he hurried to retrieve any he could reach, dodging as best as he could around Max’s wild sword-wielding.

She tended to wallop them as hard as she could, somehow knocking the wind out of them with her soft excuse for a sword.

Will scrambled to pick up his bean bag from the overgrown grass and curling weeds, catching his breath quickly in the alley where he couldn’t be seen.

And then a sound drew his attention away from the battle.

It was a soft sound. He wouldn’t have heard it if the rest of the party had been so quietly focused on battling one another less than twenty feet away.

But he did hear it, and his head whipped around to find the source of it.

Steve and Billy.

Against the house.

Kissing.

It was like time stood still.

Like Will had been hit by one of Mage El’s freezing bombs.

Steve had Billy pushed up against the side of the house, their bodies pressed flush together.

Steve was clearly propping up Billy with his body, Billy’s mobility cane, the one he had let them cover in stickers, was laying forgotten on the ground.

Billy’s arms were wrapped around Steve’s shoulders, his hands curled in the fabric of Steve’s t-shirt. Steve had his arms wrapped around Billy’s waist, half holding him close, half not letting him fall without his cane.

They were kissing like they were trying to devour one another, and Will realized that the sound he had heard was a moan.

It wasn’t like seeing Lucas and Max kiss, or Mike or El, or even Nancy and Jonathan.

Seeing Billy and Steve,

Will knew he shouldn’t be seeing them.

He knew this was wrong, and people said two boys kissing was foul and bad.

But this didn’t look anything but, well, loving.

The way Steve was making sure Billy didn’t fall while they kissed, the way sometimes they would pull back and smile, their faces never moving more than a few inches away from one another.

One of Billy’s rough hands left its place clawed in Steve’s t-shirt, reaching forward to brush one thumb clumsily down his cheek.

They pulled back from one another, smiling stupidly, still staring into each other’s eyes.

Billy brushed his thumb down Steve’s cheek again, and Steve moved like he was nuzzling into the touch, turning his head to the right, pressing a kiss to Billy’s rough, scarred palm.

It made Will feel like he was floating in space with nothing keeping him down.

Steve pressed a kiss to Billy’s cheek, then his nose, then his other cheek, and Billy’s cheeks flushed and he giggled, a sound that was so foreign to Billy Hargrove it almost made Will rub his eyes to make sure he was seeing the right person.

And Billy smiled, so calmly and easily.

It made his whole face change. He looked like a completely different person.

And Will realized, he’s never actually seen Billy smile like this.

The only times he’d come close, we tight tiny things that never reached his eyes and were dropped within a second or two.

This was a genuine smile, full of genuine happiness, and god -

They’re in love.

They’re two boys, and they’re standing right in front of Will and they’re in love.

They went back to kissing, moving their heads slowly side to side, their mouths opening and closing and Will was so aware of having never kissed anyone before.

“Will, seriously! I’ve been yelling for you-”

Mike stopped talking the second he rounded the house.

He was stalk still, his mouth hanging open like a dead fish at what he saw.

Will’s heart was thundering against his ribcage, and he tried to push Mike back towards the game, pleading quietly at him to move.

And then the rest of the group was joining them. Faces mirroring Mike’s dead fish expression as they stared, open-mouthed, at Steve and Billy.

Will had his back to them, but in the quiet, he could hear. He could hear the soft sounds and the moans, and even the giggles that made his face go hot and his stomach do a whole gymnastics routine inside of him.

Will was staring at each of his friends in turn, pleading with them to just turn right around, and continue on with play as nothing had ever interrupted their battle.

Like they haven’t just stumbled on a huge and dangerous secret.

He went as far as to push Lucas, gently shoving him backward saying go! Go! Under his breath.

The last thing he needed was for Steve and Billy to notice them here. To realize what they had seen. What they know.

And then-

“What the fuck?”

Billy and Steve broke apart, looking towards the entrance of the alley, and seeing all six of the party, staring at them.

Max had been the one to speak, and she was looking at Billy oddly, almost like she didn’t know who he was.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked, her voice quavering slightly.

Billy looked like he wanted to ground to swallow him right up.

Steve scrambled for the forgotten cane, keeping one hand on Billy’s elbow as he crouched down.

The movement made Will’s stomach flop over.

It was practiced.

Once Billy was standing on his own with the cane, Steve approached the kids calmly, his hands raised up like they were all wild animals that might attack at any moment.

“Look, I know how this looks, and you guys can’t-”

“It looks like, you guys were making out .” Dustin’s tone was hollow, and he looked as struck dumb as the rest of them.

“I know, and I mean, yeah. We were, but you need to listen -”

“Steve.”

Steve whipped right around when he heard the murmur.

Billy was standing slumped over against the house, one scarred, shaking hand covering his face, the other clutched so tightly to his cane his knuckles were white.

“Bill, I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. You’re okay.” Steve rushed to Billy’s side, holding onto his elbow again, brushing his fingers softly through Billy’s short hair, winding his fingers through the wild curls that were just long enough to form. “I’ll deal with this. It’s okay. They’re not going to tell.” Steve glared at the kids when he said that, as if daring them to argue.

Billy kinda, fell forward, leaning against Steve once again, his face going into Steve’s neck.

Steve didn’t react, still brushing his fingers through sandy blond curls.

“You all know what could happen to us if people found out?”

Nobody answered him.

Truth is, they did know.

They knew the stories about young men being beaten nearly to death. Being run out of town or put in the hospital over nothing but a rumor.

Being gay wasn’t something that was tolerated in Hawkins.

Hell, Will himself has been pushed around and called queer as long as he could remember.

Even by his own father.

“We won’t tell anyone.” Will felt like how Billy looked. Like he was shaking apart right in front of them. “I promise. We won’t. Not anyone.” He could barely get the words out. It was like his jaw had locked up with the rest of his bones.

He thinks it would kill him if anything happened to Billy and Steve over this. They needed to keep them safe.

He needed to keep them safe.

“Yeah. I promise,” El parroted. Steve beamed at them.

Will knew El had been very confused the first time she heard about Ryan Anderson, the high school sophomore that had been humiliated and beaten so badly his family had to leave town six years ago.

She didn’t understand how a boy that liked to kiss other boys was something that merited violence.

Hopper had surprised them all by saying that it didn’t, but some people felt like it did.

Who you kiss doesn’t matter as much as who you are. If you’re a good person, it’s all just extra fodder. But some people like to they’re better than anyone that’s different than they are.

El had called those people bad and that was the end of it.

“Billy, I won’t tell.” Max didn’t take her eyes off Billy while she spoke. “I swear. I’ll never tell anyone. Not even mom.”

Billy’s hand flexed on the handle of the cane, and his knees gave a wobble. Steve kept him upright, leaning over to murmur into his ear.

Will could just barely make out the words I’ve got you.

“I promise, too.” Dustin’s cereal box/lute was forgotten on the grass at his feet. “The party protects each other. It’s one of our laws.”

“Yeah, we stick together. This isn’t different.” Max gave Lucas a watery smile when he spoke up in turn.

Mike was quiet.

It was well-known how much he disliked both Steve and Billy.

All of the kids had some trouble trusting Billy after everything that had happened last summer. Billy didn’t seem to blame them. He kept to himself, even when he moved from his cold room in the military hospital into the Byers’ spare bedroom seven months ago, he was like a ghost moving through the house.

Only Steve could make him come out of his shell in those early days. Only Steve could make Billy join them for dinner and movie nights, take slow walks around the yard with his walker, and later with his cane. Only Steve could make Billy’s shoulders relax from their defensive position up around his ears, and now, it was finally dawning on everyone why.

The kids mostly left him alone, only Max and El bridging the gap and actually speaking to him. Max had been determined to see Billy through his recovery, glaring at him and watching like a ginger hawk while he did his physical therapy, practicing his grip and moving buttons from one bowl to another.

El would sometimes talk to Billy in a hushed voice. She would get him on his own and hush words like Papa and Mama and bad and Billy would have to retreat to his bedroom for slowly decreasing amounts of time.

Nobody but Joyce and Hopper knew what she saw in Billy’s head. They were just informed that he wouldn't be returning home after his two-month stint in the military hospital. Max hard clenched her jaw and nodded jerkily and nobody dared ask any further questions.

He and Will traded a lot of good mornings and tended to generally avoid eye contact when they came across one another in the house.

But none of them hated him, they were just a little weary.

Mike, on the other hand, had some unexplained vendetta against both Billy and Steve and Will found himself willing Mike to be kind in this moment. To not see this as some power over them, or something.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Dustin’s right. We protect each other.”

Steve gave them a smile that was so dazzling and bright, it almost gave off its own light.

His eyes were shining and he gave a watery laugh.

“They really meant it when they said children are the future.”

“Who said?” El asked him.

“I don’t know, actually. Just people, I guess.” Steve shrugged, jostling Billy who was still nestled in his shoulder. “Look, seriously guys, thank you. I can’t even imagine how I would’ve felt if-nevermind.” He cut himself off quickly, shaking his head. “It just means a lot. To both of us.” Steve smiled at them one last time, this time much softer and thoughtful. “You’re good kids.”

Nobody said anything else. They didn’t know what to say to Steve.

“I came back here to get my fireballs. I, uh, I got ‘em.”

Everyone looked back at Will, and, almost like they were coming out of a trance, began picking their makeshift weapons back off the grass, and chattering idly as they went back to the yard in order to continue their battle.

Will lingered for a second, looking over his shoulder at Steve and Billy, who were still wound together.

They were talking softly, and Will was pleased to see Billy lift his head back up, still looking pale and nervous, but smiling at Steve.

He leaned back down and planted a kiss on Steve’s neck, right above the edge of his t-shirt.

Will felt his face go hot, and tugged himself away, going back to the game.

It wasn’t until well after dinner, when everyone else had gone home, that they spoke about it again.

Will. Will! Do you copy? Over.

The static rasping of Mike’s voice through the walkie-talkie was coming from under Will’s bed where he had stashed it.

He quickly turned down the volume dial on the side before answering.

“Yeah, Mike. I copy. Over.”

“We need to talk about today,” Mike said through the walkie. “I mean, did you have any idea? Over.”

“No. I didn’t,” Will said, truthfully. Finding out had made a lot of things clunk into place, but that doesn’t mean Will knew. “Over.”

“It’s just, neither of them seem the type. You know? Over.”

Something about that statement didn’t sit too right with Will.

Before he could respond another voice crackled through the channel.

“This is gold leader joining the conversation to let Mike know he’s being a dick. Over.”

Will laughed. Trust Dustin to listen in on the conversation and come forward to defend Steve.

“Lucas, do you copy, too? Over.” Will waited a moment after he asked.

“Yeah, I copy. I wanted to hear what you all were saying first. I don’t really know what to think about all this. Over.”

“I don’t think there’s much to think about. Steve seems happy. Billy too, I guess. Over,” said Dustin.

Will’s heart swelled with a pride he didn’t quite understand at Dustin’s words.

Outside in the hall, the phone rang.

Will heard his mom scramble to pick it up, calling softly down the hall for Billy, and the unmistakable thumping of Billy and his cane coming to take the call.

He heard his mom scrape a chair over for him and retreat to her room, giving him some privacy.

“It’s just scary, you know? Like, something really bad could happen to them if anyone else found out.” Will thought for a second. “You think anyone else knows? Over.”

“Robin. She was making comments to Steve a few days ago about his secret relationship and I kept asking him about it until he punched me in the arm. She knows. Over.”

“I’m just confused,” Mike sighed down the line. “Steve dated my sister for like, a year. And Billy is always disgusting and flirting with my mom. Or at least, he would do that. You know, before. Over.”

“Yeah, that’s just Billy being Billy,” Max chimed in.

“You have to say over when you’re finished. Over.”

“ Fine, dickheads. Over.”

“That makes sense, but Steve and Nancy doesn’t. Over.”

“Lucas, it doesn’t have to make sense. David Bowie says he likes guys and girls. Billy has, like, three different magazines where he says that. Over.”

“Max is right. We don’t have to understand any of this. They seem happy, and good together, and that doesn’t really concern us. Over.” Will was hoping he could speed through the rest of this conversation. He could hear Billy in the hall, shifting and murmuring something Will couldn’t make out but was dying to overhear.

He had a feeling he knew who was calling.

“But, now it does concern us. We know. And as we’ve previously established, the more people that know, the more danger they could be in. Over .” Dustin almost sounded as though he might cry.

“Then, we can’t talk about it. Not unless we know for a fact that we aren’t going to be overheard. And maybe we should give them codenames. Only call them something like Han and Leia when there’s a chance of someone listening in. Over.”

“I like Lucas’s codename idea, but I’d rather die than call them Han and Leia. Over.”

“Okay, Mike, it was the first thing that came into my head! What, you think you have a better idea? Over.”

“I don’t know. Harold and Maude? Over.”

“That’s stupid, Mike. Clearly, they’re Bert and Ernie. Over.”

Will snorted at Max’s suggestion. He heard Billy coughing wildly in the hall. He listened carefully to him until it died down and he knew it wasn’t a bad one.

“I think we’ve come to an agreement. If we need further discussion, codenames: Bert and Ernie. Okay, my mom wants me to spend time with her tonight. So this is gold leader, signing off. Over and out.”

“I’m going too. Over and out,” Mike said.

“Over and out,” said El, not surprising any of them that she was listening in. She did that a lot. Simply listen to her own walkie, and when asked why she didn’t say anything would shrug and go nothing to add. They only asked that she sign off so that they knew she got whatever information they had discussed.

Everyone followed with their own sign-offs, and Will twisted the top knob on his walkie, shutting it off.

There was a moment of silence out in the hall, and then three beats on Will’s door.

He found Billy on the other side, slumped in the chair under the phone, his cheeks going red.

“Can’t get up,” he grunted. “Can’t reach the hook.”

Will didn’t say anything, nodding quickly and avoiding eye contact as he took the phone, placing it carefully back on the hook.

Billy got stuck in chairs fairly often.

His core muscles had been slashed up worse than anything else, and sometimes he just needed a good pull up.

Will took hold of his wrist, leaning his body weight backward to yank Billy to standing.

Billy kept his weight heavily on his cane, patting Will once on the upper arm in thanks.

“You guys know Steve has one of your little walkie-talkies, right?”

“ What ?”

Will genuinely didn’t know that.

“Dustin gave him one. I don’t know when, but he’s got it.”

“So, uh, so he heard. Everything.”

“And relayed it all to me through an embarrassing amount of tears, by the sounds of it.”

But Will could see that Billy’s eyes were brighter than usual in the dark, and suddenly Will remembered that there had been a wet spot on Billy’s sleeve.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I mean, well, you’re good kids. All of you.” Billy patted him on the shoulder again. “I was shitting myself out there when you found us. Thought for sure one a’ yous would go squealing.”

“Maybe we would’ve. Before.”

“Never thought I’d be grateful for nearly being turned inside-out.”

“And I never thought I’d be grateful for being found dead in the water, but here we are.”

“Yeah, shit’s pretty weird if you stop and think about it for a few minutes. Near-death experiences really put your sexuality in perspective.”

“Is that why you two started dating? Perspective?”

Billy huffed a breath, looking up towards the ceiling. He coughed twice, and Will could pretty much hear his lungs rattle and crackle.

“Yeah. ‘S why we started dating. Both of us kinda realized there’s no sense in feeling like shit about the things that can actually make you feel not like shit.”

“So, you’re in love? Both of you?”

Billy’s cheeks were flooded with color, the deep red spreading all the way back to the tips of his ears.

“I think so. We’re both a little too fucked in the head to say it, but,” he shrugged lamely, not bothering to finish his thought, and looking anywhere but at Will.

He gets it, though.

Fucked up parents make for fucked up kids.

Will considered himself the luckiest person on Earth, and any kinda parallel universe, that he had his mom to stop, and later heal, all the damage his dad had caused.

“Well, I’m glad that you have it. Both of you. I mean, we saw you guys. And after everything, it's good that you’re happy.” And Will meant it.

Even before last summer, he had never seen Billy look the way he did when he was kissing Steve. Look that calm, and relaxed, and that goddamn happy. It really meant something.

Especially to Will.

Because he had never thought of someone looking that happy when they kissed someone else.

He had never thought of a boy looking that happy when he kissed another boy.

Billy surveyed Will for a moment, still leaning heavily on his cane in the hallway.

Will had the suspicion that Billy could see right through him.

“He came to visit me a lot when I was in the hospital. Steve, I mean. I don’t know why he did. It’s not like we were friends or anything. But one of those days, when I was barely awake he started talking about everything that happened those couple days.” Billy shifted closer to the wall, bracing himself with one hand as he lowered himself back into the chair. “The Russians. I don’t know what he’s told you kids, but it wasn’t pretty.”

“He hasn’t said anything. I mean, we all saw how he looked after, so we figured maybe he got in a fight.”

Billy chewed on his bottom lip.

“Look, you gotta swear not to tell any of the others this, but, uh, it was a bit more than a fight.”

Billy was giving him a meaningful look and something churned around in Will’s stomach.

“Torture?”

Billy gave a tiny, shaky nod.

“He started talking about it. Said after that, he started thinkin’ about shit different. Said he thought he was gonna die down there and that nothing would change without him. It was heavy, and I was mostly feeling the same way, and I think that’s why he told me. Knew that I could get it. After that he kept visiting, and I noticed that I didn’t hurt as much when he was there. Or maybe I did, but having him there, squinting at the t.v. ‘cause he can’t see worth a’ shit, or making some stupid comment about a nurse on the floor just made it easier. He makes a lotta shit easier.”

“I think that’s what it should be like. I don’t think love should make things harder.” Will thought of his mom and dad, and how different she acted with Hopper.

Like she didn’t hurt as much when he was there.

“It was hard in the beginning. I mean, before we got together. I thought that he didn’t feel the same way, you know? That I was just being an idiot, feeling like that for my best friend. But then he told me. He’s always been a lot braver than people give him credit for. Anyway, he told me, and it should’ve been fucking terrifying. And I was scared of people finding out. Still am, but it’s like, even if we get run outta town, and everyone we care about turns against us, it’ll be fine because we’re not just me an’ him, we’re us .”

Billy blinked quickly, almost as if he was surprised by his own words.

They clanged around in Will’s head.

We’re not just me an’ him, we’re us.

“You don’t have to be scared, though. I mean, of people finding out. Of turning against you both. We won’t let that happen. Not about something like this.”

Billy gave him a weak smile.

“I guess it makes sense. I mean, you all took me in after killing half the town. Tracks that you wouldn’t throw me out for. Being gay.”

“There are worse things to be than gay.”

“Psycho killer not one of them?”

Will gave Billy as unimpressed of a stare as he could muster.

“That wasn’t you. You forget, I know what it was like to have him controlling me. I know what it’s like to not do anything to stop him, even when you are fighting with everything you’ve got. I nearly killed my mom. I even might have, if I’d been stronger. You fought against him, and in the end, you won. I never could’ve done that.”

Billy just stared at the wall slightly above Will’s left shoulder.

“I killed people, too. When he had me. Led a whole group of people right into a trap. And it still scares me what he did. But I know that it wasn’t me that did it. It wasn’t you that did any of that, Billy.”

“I tell myself that. Hell, Steve tells me that about every five minutes. Just hard to watch yourself doing that awful shit and not be able to tell your body to knock it off.”

Will didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t.

Billy was right. It was a nightmare watching yourself hurt people around you, feeling like you were in the backseat, screaming at yourself to stop.

But Billy had done what Will couldn’t’ve.

Right at that last moment, he stood up to the thing controlling his every move.

Stood up to that horrific flesh monster, adn died rather than let it kill El.

El, who he didn’t even know.

And then Billy’s bedroom door down the hall opened slowly, and Steve poked his head into the hall, swearing under his breath when he saw someone in the hall with Billy and trying to duck out of sight, knocking the back of his head into the doorframe and swearing again.

Billy laughed, a low wheezy laugh that ended in a short coughing fit.

“Real fuckin’ subtle, Harrington,” he choked out.

The door opened once more and Steve stepped out into the hallway, trying to look casual.

“I didn’t realize it was you there, Will. How’s it goin’?”

Billy laughed again, and gestured for Steve to come and help him stand up.

Steve did so quickly, smiling warmly at Billy when he had righted him on his feet, and keeping hold of Billy’s arm.

“Why are you sneakin’ in my window like some kinda perv?”

“Because I wanted to talk. I have a lot of emotions today.” Steve turned to address Will. “You kids are gonna be the death of me. And I mean that in the nicest way I possibly can.”

“Yeah, well. You guys are family.” Will shrugged, feeling very awkward when both Steve and Billy. Looked as though their eyes were overbright. Will panicked, trying to think of an exit strategy before he saw either of them cry.

He had seen them both in too many intimate moments today.

“Um, I’m pretty tired, so I think I’m gonna go to bed. Let me know if you need, uh, help tomorrow. You know, heading of my mom or anything.”

Will turned on his heel and slipped back into his own bedroom.

“Alright, Bert. It’s been a long day and I’m gonna need some help getting into bed. My legs have gone totally stiff.”

“Oh, in no way am I Bert! I’m totally Ernie. You’re Bert. Think about it: you’re surly, and rude, and-”

“Gonna dump you if you don’t shut up and help me go to bed.”

“Spoken like a true Bert.”

[5-falsehoods-phonated]

Overgrown Metal

Series Summary:  Almost two decades ago, the fae rose up from beyond the veil with technology far surpassing the human race, quickly taking over after laying waste to nearly everything in their wake. Now eight paths cross to right the wrongs on both ends, working to uncover secrets that would have rather stayed hidden

Chapter 5: Bow With Hope

Summary: Enter Patton.

Trigger Warnings: death mention. If i missed any please let me know.

General taglist: @im-an-anxious-wreck (if you’d like to be tagged for all works or specific ones feel free to ask!)

Patton sighed gratefully as the great doors closed behind him, quickly straightening before anyone could see and hurrying down the main street to the tallest building before anyone could catch him and ask too many questions. His jaw clicked painfully as he tried to subtly stretch it out and hoping no one would notice just how fast he was blinking behind his rather large glasses. Too many potential questions, too many potential conversations, too much of everything and honestly why wasn’t he there yet he was in impeccable shape and walking fairly quickly and-

He nearly crashed into the front doors of the building not having noticed tripping his way up the steps. Blinking a few more times he shifted his pack to one shoulder somewhat painfully considering its weight and nudged the door open slowly and just enough for him to fit through, slipping in fast and shutting himself and the inside away from any potential prying eyes. Dropping the pack carefully he slumped against the frame and let his eyes adjust, the milkiness nearly cleared from his vision as he stretched his mouth open as wide as it would go. Being mute outside the walls didn’t give you many opportunities or use for that matter for opening it very often, defaulting to clenching his jaw an unhealthy amount and making it a relief when he finally returned to his city and no longer had to worry about keeping up any pretenses.

Looking around revealed an unsurprisingly empty lobby, the converted hotel expanded almost impossibly wide and making the light fixtures work twice as hard to banish the shadows from the furthest reaches of the room. Several staircases led up and away to various sections of the building, though only a couple led down into the depths where he and others of his current status were rarely ever permitted to tread. Waving away the sadness that threatened to swell at the thought he simply sighed again and hoisted the pack back over his shoulder, oddities from a nearby Undercurrent ratting softly within it. He wondered briefly what the residents of the underground towns actually called themselves- certainly something better than the blatant derogatory name Societies had given them. The nicer ones were nearly identical to Patton’s own city: well structured layers of markets and power plants and homes all buried safely beneath the ground to adapt to their rapidly changing environment.

Of course he wouldn’t care to live in one...he didn’t even really care to be living in a Society despite the “safety” it promised him especially being as high up as he was. Given the choice he’d be a wanderer as so many were now, refusing to settle down where either roots or branches would eventually chase you out or kill you as you tried to hold them back. Vast open plains were really only a temporary solution as wildlife continued to grow and shift and spread without mercy or care for what it was destroying to create whatever ideals were behind it. Shaking his head once again he made his way to the nearest staircase. There’d be time for thinking later...maybe. For now he needed to deliver what he managed to find and hopefully it would be enough to pay him with a day pass to the cemetery; his superiors didn’t want the past to hold anyone back which was fine with Patton- it just  meant he worked incredibly hard to be able to earn his time with who he had lost.

Finally getting to the door he needed he took the time to give his jaw one final stretch, mouthing out a couple words to practice their shapes before he had to talk again. His vision  had finally cleared fully leaving his dark brown curls the only thing obstructing his vision. Carefully they were pushed up and away, tucked neatly behind his ears before he smoothed the front of his still dirty tunic. Wincing he tried in vain to brush as much of it off as he could only to give up after barely half a minute as the dirt made it clear it was there to stay. Stern voices chiding him for his lack of professionalism were waved away quickly. His job was tough and dirty and there was really nothing he could do to help with that unless they decided to transfer him to a different purpose. These assurances fell somewhat limply as he sucked in a breath. He would never trade his purpose for anything, dangerous as it could be and even with the added drawbacks. He was free to roam out there- within a time frame but still. He could see how the world was progressing and how life was coping, he could see grass and “trees” rather than the industrial colors of his Society, and most of all he could look for-

Gripping the straps he straightened one final time and placed his hand on the door knob. There would be time for thinking later; right now he had a job to finish. Swinging open the door before he could change his mind he stepped in, head down and shoulders back before shutting the door behind him. Nothing happened for a full minute, the only sound in the room Patton’s own quickly beating heart and the gentle tinkling in the bag as the trinkets shifted with his fidgeting, Five minutes had passed before he slowly lifted only his eyes to scan the room, realizing with a start that he was completely alone. 

Cheeks burning with slight embarrassment he walked forward towards the thin envelope with his name on it on the wide oak desk. Placing the pack beside him he opened to reveal a small wad of twenty dollar bills and a note most likely written by the direct herself.

Patton,

If your past findings have been anything to go by this should be enough to pay you for what you’ve brought back this time, though action will be taken if my assumption is incorrect. The day pass included was taken from your pay, I took the liberty of sparing you a trip.

Faris

Blinking in surprise he quickly shuffled his pay to find that there was, in fact, a day pass included. His stomach squeezed uncomfortably at the thought of his routine being known so well but the organization he worked for was a rather tight knit group so in the end he supposed it made sense. He nudged the bag closer to the side of the desk and turned to leave, only briefly wondering why the director hadn’t been there this time before quickening his pace back towards the way he came. If he hurried he’d be able to use it now; he’d scarcely thought of much else his entire trip outside the walls.

Walking as quickly as he dared through the silent lobby he found the long familiar flight of stairs and hurried down them, barely stopping ;long enough to shove the pass through the slot before nearly crashing into the second door he hadn’t been paying attention to today.. Schooling his annoyed expression as the pass was logged he reached immediately for the door as he heard the beep, mood sobering immediately as the cold musty air hit his face. The cemetery was a quiet place, as they so often were, and hung heavy with the warm smell of earth contrasted just shy of unpleasantly with the crisp air of the underground cavern. Here the dead lay still in whatever a family could scrounge to wrap them with, most only in their best clothes laid as carefully and respectfully as possible in the holes dug by those who cared for them. Families weren’t allowed to see the dead laid to rest, too painful a thing to watch with the limited amount of technology they had, the director had said. Patton would have gave everything- he glanced up at where his feet had automatically taken him. His son’s grave.

His tight smile turned genuine as he kneeled in front of the stone, tears already pricking his eyes as he stared at the name written there. He brought his arm up slowly, palm resting on the corner of the smooth stone he had picked out himself: smooth and just big enough and slate gray with obsidian cracks spidering at the side. He always liked smiling in the cemetery, hoping that if God forbid his sin’s soul lingered he would see his father smiling and be comforted. He knew if he was ever a spirit he wouldn’t want to see his family mourn him, pain cracking their usually cheerful features. No. He’d rather them smile with the memories of their time spent together, and especially for his young child, he smiled as wide and as long as he could, simply absorbing the silence and trying his best to turn the cool indifference of the stone into warm comfort with the simple touch of his palm.

“I always wondered who it was you put all your hard earned savings towards. Though I’m deeply curious patton: if you’re mourning him down here, then why look for him up there?” Patton froze at the cold words tossed at him so carelessly, matching the rest of the room and sapping what little warmth he himself had left to offer. Standing carefully he schooled his face into what he hoped was an open expression and turned, meeting the deep brown eyes of Director Faris. 

She really shouldn’t be this intimidating he thought to himself as he bowed his head. The director was his height and only slightly chubbier, dark suit with a crisp lab coat laying carefully over it filling the picture of professionalism. Really the only thing scary about her was the necklace she wore with their society emblem carved into a small pendant, the snarling muzzle of a dog glinting in the low light. Her stern gaze never wavered from him, much as he wished it would, and the air between them had grown incredibly uncomfortable by the time she cleared her throat to indicate he could answer.

“Blind hope I suppose.” He offered weakly. “Thank you f-”

She waited patiently for him to clear his suddenly very dry throat, trying desperately to clear the gravel of disuse from his voice before he tried to speak again. “Thank you for  including a pass with my pay, the saved trip is greatly appreciated.”

“Blind hope that he survived and somehow escaped your notice for ten years?”

“A father knows.”

“So does a leader.” Faris stepped forward and  laid a hand on his shoulder. “You always have so much trouble simply letting go Patton. Let the past be.”

Patton bit back the retort of his purpose that was given to him by the director herself was finding relics of the past along with whatever could be made from present materials to bring back to the city. His purpose relied on the past and people finding new ways to innovate it so it fit into the future. That to simply let the past go- well, wasn’t so simple. He cast a longing gaze to the smooth stone sitting obliviously in the dirt, Faris’ eyes following sharply.

“Whose body do you think is down there if not your son’s? How little respect do you have for us if you think we would deceive you on such a personal level?” Patton felt a wave of guilt wash over him at those words, looking down shamefully. “Have faith, Patton. This world has no more room for questions.”

As the director's hand fell from his shoulder at last she gestured as she turned away, taking confident strides to the stairs. “Follow me when you’re ready; I have other things to discuss with you.”

Pressing his lips together, Patton took one last look at the grave marker. Doubt curled not for the first time in the back of his mind, an ever growing sapling digging its roots ever deeping in the bed of questions he had surrounding the Society in which he lived and the people put in charge of it. As one of the head researchers it didn’t sit right with him that Faris allowed so little to be questioned, instead offering up faith as the sole reason to follow whatever whim the higher ups decided to pursue. He worked only a small branch of the Society, so much was left behind closed doors he very rarely if ever had access to. There was always, always room for questions. 

“I will never stop looking for you.” He whispered quietly enough so he was sure faris wouldn’t hear before turning and hurrying towards the steps. “I promise you, Virgil.”

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[frizz22]

Ch. 2 After Vormir

End Game canon divergence fanfic. 

SPOILERS for movie. 

Read on ao3

He didn’t expect to see her laying in the water several yards from him. Her body not the small broken thing he’d last seen at the bottom of a cliff. Had, had the planet delivered her body to him so he could bring it back? Give Nat the funeral she deserved? 

Barely breathing, Clint scrabbled over to her. “Nat?!” He murmured patting her cheek with one hand while the other fumbled for a pulse, unable to help himself. “Natasha!” He urged, abandoning his attempt at locating a pulse and shaking her shoulders.

“Ow.” She groaned, shifting slightly in the water before cracking open an eye.

Clint huffed in disbelief and tears poured down his cheeks even faster as he yanked her up into a tight hug. “God, Nat, I… oh Nat.” He mumbled, pressing his face against her neck as he clung to her.

Moaning, Nat pushed him away and pressed a hand to her ribs. “I don’t, I don’t understand.” She shook her head, baffled. “The stone? Was it never here?” He opened is hand and the little gem gleamed at them from his palm. Nat ran a hand over her face, “but why—”

“Don’t question it,” he interrupted, tucking the stone away and framing his best friend’s face, tracing her jaw and tugging on the end of her braid before pulling her into another hug. “Lets just get out of here before the universe changes its mind.”

Standing, Clint pulled Nat up as well. Carefully wrapping an arm around her waist, Clint moved to hit the button on his wrist device when Red Skull appeared. Snatching Nat’s gun before she could react, Clint pointed the weapon at the being. “Back away, you’re not taking her. I’m not losing her again. If you have to have someone, take me.”

“No,” Nat snapped, already trying to shield him, though they just ended up jockeying one another.

The Red Skull merely eyed them curiously. “I’ve never seen this,” he informed them, drifting closer despite the gun. “The stone, the stone gave her back. I’d heard of it in legends, but never thought to experience it myself.”

In no mood to chat, Clint shuffled back, trying to keep himself between the Red Skull and Nat. “Just press the button Nat, I’ll be right behind you.”

She chuckled humorlessly, “not a chance, stupid. Either you leave here or neither of us do.” She reached for his button, trying to send him back herself.

“No need for such dramatics,” Red Skull interrupted as he started to circle them. “You paid the price for the stone, you earned it. The planet will not take it back simply because it gave her back. A sacrifice was made, but—”

Nat frowned, “what? Was I not ‘good’ enough for the planet? For the stone? Spat me back out? Too much red in my—”

Rounding on her, Clint scowled. “Shut the hell up about that damned ledger. You and I both know you balanced it long ago. If the stone required a ‘good’ soul than you’re the best of the two of us.”

Red Skull cut into their bickering, “you’ve bypassed the laws of the stone. It required one of you to sacrifice the person you loved most to obtain it. Not for one of you to sacrifice yourself to protect the one you love most.” He eyed them, “you broke the laws, and yet, the stone rewarded you for it. It must have found you worthy.”

The comment had Nat’s mouth snapping shut in surprise. “Worthy…” she breathed in disbelief.

Clint smiled affectionately at her. “What did I say?” He murmured, with a slightly teasing ‘I-told-you-so’ tone. Before she could argue, before Red Skull or the stone or the planet or whatever had spared his best friend changed its mind, Clint gripped Nat’s hand tightly. “Let’s go home.”

Still struck silent, Nat gave him a half smile and nodded. And together they hit the devices on their wrists and were whisked away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blinking, Nat regained her bearings. They were back at Avengers Headquarters and everyone else was reappearing around them too, each slightly disoriented but looking triumphant.

“Did, did it really work?” Scott asked, looking at each of them.

Each of them nodded hesitantly in turn before incredulous huffs and nervous laughs escaped them as they realized they’d actually pulled it off. Suddenly, they were coming together in the middle, going around the circle and hugging, clapping shoulders, kissing cheeks. They’d done it.

It was only when Thor hugged her a little too enthusiastically that Nat growled, pulled away and instinctively wrapped an arm around her ribs.  

“Were you hurt?” Thor asked, brow furrowed and eyes filled with concern. Unsure how to explain what happened, Nat just shrugged, they got hurt on missions all the time, no need to dig deeper. Clint, however, couldn’t let it pass.

“She died.”

The entire room went silent, faces sobering and then scrunching with confusion. Stark was the first to break the silence, to no one’s surprise. “But she’s standing right here, Barton. What are you talking about?”

Waving a hand, Nat shook her head. “I’m hurt because Clint shot an explosive arrow at me. Not—”

“You shot and killed her with an arrow?!” Bruce exclaimed, looking between them in shock.

An offended look crossed Clint’s face, “of course I didn’t kill her! And I didn’t shoot at you, just next to you.” He clarified, gesturing with his hands.

“But why shoot in the first place…”

“Now I’m confused…”

Voices overlapped one another, and Nat couldn’t help but notice Steve had been silent the whole time, watching her intently. “If you died, how are you here?” He interrupted softly, and everyone fell quiet once more.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, “I walked it off.” She told him, echoing the orders Steve had given them when Sokovia was floating miles above the ground. The group just stared at her in wonder, until she had to duck her head and she walked off the platform, a slight limp in her stride.

“You can’t just leave it at that!” Rocket called after her indignantly.

Rolling her neck, Nat didn’t turn but kept heading for the Medbay just down the hall. “Clint is the one who wanted you all to know so badly, he can tell you.” Her disinterest in sharing her death didn’t dissuade the others, though. They all filed into the room after her, crowding around.

Bruce tried to tend to her injuries, but in Hulk form he had to turn the duties over to Steve and Rhodey as he stood in the back talking about x-rays and MRI’s as her military men helped her with the time travel suit, and grabbed bandages and topical anesthetics to patch her up.  

Rocket, Thor and Scott sprawled onto the free beds, listening closely and waiting for an explanation for her death. Nebula hovered awkwardly off to the side, looking like she’d been ushered in here with the others and would rather be anywhere else. Clint leaned against the door though, keeping them all trapped inside, just watching them all, eyes flicking to Nebula frequently as Tony complained about how everyone knew how he almost died, repeatedly, he might add. And it was no secret about Steve being turned into a ‘Capsicle’ either, or Rhodey’s close call when Vision shot him from the sky. So, it certainly wasn’t fair for her to hold back on them.

As the conversations washed over her, Nat couldn’t help but think this was what she’d died for. This family that knew nothing of personal space or how to let things lie. This family that had to share pretty much everything with each other because secrets had torn them apart in the past. This family she never could have dreamed of having or dreamed of deserving. It’d been worth it, her death, or it would’ve been had she not come back. And she hadn’t expected to live, why would she?

But she’d believed in them. That they’d all get their jobs done and pull off this crazy plan they’d concocted when Scott walked through their door. Believed they’d bring everyone back; Nick, Maria, Bucky, Sam, Wanda and all the others. She’d believed in them and that made it a fraction easier to launch herself off that cliff.

She’d told Clint the truth, she hadn’t wanted to die. Not when they were so close to fixing everything, to hitting the undo button. But if it’d been between her and half the universe, there wasn’t a question. And if it was between her and Clint…. Well, if possible, that’d been even less of a question.

There’d been no way in hell she was going to let Clint sacrifice himself.

No way she was going to have failed him and let him spiral and do so much in the wake of the loss of his family only to let the Bartons feel the same grief when they returned and found him dead and gone. No, they deserved to be whole. And she refused to tell Laura and the kids that daddy could have come home, but instead they got her. A poor consolation prize.

The decision to launch herself off the cliff was clinical, easy, relatively speaking. Doing it… well, Clint had made it easier for her to do it, if only by being an idiot. A race to the literal bottom. She huffed out loud at the thought and everyone turned to her, waiting.

“I’m not sharing.” She told them dryly, arching a brow. The group then turned expectantly to Clint who sighed and ran a hand over his face before glowering at her. “You’re the one who had to tell them I died; you can tell them how.” She repeated in response to his glare.

Slowly, Clint explained what happened once they arrived on Vormir. How they’d had to decide who would die in exchange for the stone; how they fought verbally and physically over who would shoulder the responsibility; how she’d sacrificed herself to save them all.

Steve unconsciously inched closer and closer to her as Clint spoke, until he was holding her hand, squeezing tightly when Clint described how she’d fallen away, how he’d seen her broken at the bottom of the cliff. Nat stroked her thumb over the back of his hand, trying to comfort him, but when Steve looked at her there were tears in his eyes.

Without breaking eye contact, Steve asked what they were all likely thinking. “How are you alive?” His tone was tender, and he’d pressed even closer, his hip resting against her knee though Nat doubted he was aware of what he was doing.

Thankfully, Clint answered, telling them how she’d come back, what the Red Skull had said, that she’d been worthy. Nat ground her teeth a little at that, but the group nodded and murmured in consent, glancing or outright staring at her with awe.  

Before any of them could get gooey, though, Clint rounded on Nebula. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell us what had to be done to get the stone?” Voice hard and eyes steely, Clint shoved off the door and advanced on the blue woman.

Stunned at being addressed, Nebula’s eyes flickered to the rest of them in confusion. “What?”

“You heard him.” Nat said, tone no softer than Clint's. “You knew the price, had to, why didn’t you warn us.” She bit out each word clearly, not having much patience for Nebula when her actions almost cost her Clint.

Everyone turned to her now, and Nebula pressed against the counter behind her as though trying to escape. “I don’t know what you're talking—”

Thor stood and towered over her, some of the old god of thunder peeking through, “you do. I almost lost someone else because you failed to mention this crucial detail. I can’t lose anyone else. Why did you withhold this?”

A smile tugged at Nat’s lips at the statement, she and Thor had never been the closest, his frequent intergalactic travels made it difficult. But she was glad to know he saw her just as much a part of his family as she saw him as a part of hers.

Nebula edged away from him warily, “I didn’t withhold—” she turned then, making for the door, but Bruce blocked it now where Clint had before.

Tony exhaled loudly then, drawing their attention. “You’re not Nebula.”

[baadbaadblacksheep]

Genji76 Week: Day 1

Prompt: Meeting, Past/History, Firsts

Read on Ao3: [x]

The Strike Commander swept through the Blackwatch quarters every so often, once a week maximum if he could help it. He thought it was important to maintain his presence to the black ops group and remind them that there was actually somebody in command other than Gabriel Reyes. It was his only hands-off project and yet he still felt the need to try to dig his fingers in. Reyes was always quick to shoo him away from snooping around, having to nearly drag Morrison to his office when the man insisted on dragging his feet by observing the details of the quarters and its inhabitants. 

“He’s no one you need to be concerned about. Just an asset. Keep moving, Morrison,” Reyes had barked at him when he first noticed the newest acquisition. Genji was still recovering from his life-saving alterations, sitting on a cot in their own medbay reserved for recovery and small injuries. He had been acquired a week and a half ago, and Jack would have known about him right away if Angela wasn’t so deathly serious about her patient confidentiality vows. Reyes growling at her to keep her mouth shut about this detail of the highly classified Blackwatch op also helped.

Morrison moved right along as they passed the observance window looking into the recovery room, but his eyes were locked on the cyborg. The man looked as rigid as the machinery that made up parts of his body, unmoving like he was a deactivated omnic. The Strike Commander would have left his curiosity there, let it drop off, but just before Genji was out of sight, the cyborg moved. His head perked up slightly, and his red eyes found blue. 

Genji was a well-kept secret until he was finally approved to train with Blackwatch nearly 3 months later. Angela did not want him to strain himself until she knew his body could handle it. In those months, Jack Morrison had not forgotten about the man in the medbay. He had tried asking Gabriel about him, but was blown off every time with a gruff “You’ll see in time.” Jack stopped asking after about a month, though he always peered about the Blackwatch quarters in search of those red eyes during his weekly visits. 

It wasn’t until Morrison was invited to watch Blackwatch’s daily training that he finally saw Genji again. Reyes was proud of his elite agents and Genji had become one of them very quickly. Gabriel had his arms crossed, smiling proudly as he watched the simulation below their observation tower run without a hitch. Jack had to admit, Genji and McCree teamed up made one hell of an offensive force. 

“Impressive,” Morrison murmured, his eyes never leaving the cyborg. “Is he cleared for the field yet?” A muscle worked in the Blackwatch commander’s jaw, and he was no longer smiling. 

“No. Anger issues. He does well in the simulations but outside of them he’s a loose cannon. Put Gonzalez through a wall last week for staring too long.” Gabriel blew out a sigh, rolling his shoulders. Tension in his muscles that would never leave. “He teams up with McCree every simulation, but he won’t work with anyone else. Not approving him for field work until he will.” Jack nods, watching the Blackwatch crew leave the simulation area with victorious whoops and roughhousing. Sure enough, the cyborg trailed behind, not joining in the triumph.

“He’ll make it. I know a certain hothead who didn’t work well with others when he was younger. He’s a commander now.” Jack grins and dodges the punch to his shoulder.

Where McCree had always been at Reyes’ side when he walked around the base, Genji now joined the other side. It was like day and night trailing behind the commander. McCree was kind, greeting others as they passed and always having a quip for a few of them. Genji radiated anger and hate, making a move for a sword or knife on his person if anyone gawked or approached him. The gawking from others stopped fast. 

Morrison and Reyes passed each other in the hallways often. They were both busy men with places to be. They would exchange curt nods and continue on their way. Now that Genji was tagging along, Jack always spared a glance to the cyborg, trying to observe him the most he could for the few seconds he had before they passed. The first few times, he was pretty sure he was getting away with it. Genji never reacted to his staring.

The cyborg surprised him one day during those hallway passings when he stopped suddenly, letting Reyes and McCree continue forward without him. The Strike Commander’s footing faltered, and he stopped in his tracks when Genji’s gaze pierced his own.

“Getting a good look, commander?” Came the heavily synthesized voice from behind the metal mask, accompanying barely-squinting eyes. It should have sounded angry, it should have sounded offended. To Jack’s surprised, it only sounded like a genuine question. Almost a purr. The commander’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He was dumbfounded.

Gabriel calling, “Genji, quit screwing around,” from over his shoulder without breaking stride is what finally broke the standstill. The cyborg’s head tilted minutely, a soft ‘tch’ escaping him before he broke his gaze away from Morrison and stalked forward. 

Morrison blinked, hoping his slightly pinker face wasn’t too noticeable as he continued on his own path.

“So. He likes you. What did you do to him?” Morrison nearly choked on his water. He was meeting with Reyes to go over the intel collected during the last Blackwatch op, and they were finally wrapping up when Reyes decided to drop that on him. A small hint of a smirk was quirked in the corner of Gabriel’s mouth. God damn him.

“Who do you mean?” Morrison offered lamely, replacing the cap to his water bottle. He wasn’t stupid. It was Genji. The cyborg had been left on his own for two weeks while Gabriel and McCree, the only two people he would talk to or approach, were off base on the op. In their absence the half metal man had been sneaking and skulking around the base, nearly scaring Angela to death when he jumped down from some unseen high point in the medbay to meet with her for his weekly checkup with her. 

“Don’t play dumb. What did you do to the little ball of rage? He perks up and listens when people talk about you. I’ve seen him staring at you when you’re near us. Athena even reported his location as being in the main base when I was looking for him the other day. He never bothers to leave Blackwatch quarters. So what was he doing around yours, hm? McCree’s actually upset his little buddy’s been missing so much.” The little smile was gone, replaced by a deadly serious stare and a mouth set to grim. Reyes crossed his arms, staring Jack down. “What’s going on?”

What did he expect him to say? It wasn’t like Jack was actually talking to the guy. He had noticed him around the main base more often, yes, but he had assumed he was just wandering without Reyes to follow those few weeks. Well, wait. He had technically talked to Genji. The sneak had been in his quarters a few days ago. Morrison had been taken aback at the sight of the stoic cyborg sitting cross-legged on his bed, as though he had been waiting there for him. When Jack had asked what he wanted, hand reaching for the regulation pistol under his duster, the man had simply sighed and rolled his eyes, striding past him out the door.

“If it is not obvious, do not concern yourself,” was the cryptic answer he received. 

“God damn it, Morrison, don’t make me spell it out,” Reyes barked, pulling him out of his memory, “Are you fucking around with Shimada?”

Jack scoffed, eyebrows knitting together. The nerve! “What? No! I’m not McCree. I don’t fraternize. I especially wouldn’t do that with subordinates.” Reyes gave a snort of laughter at the McCree comment, rolling his eyes.

“He’s technically my subordinate, not yours. And maybe it would be good for the both of you. You both have a lot of tension you could stand to get rid of.” It was Jack’s turn to snort.

“Are you giving me permission to screw your soldier?” The Strike Commander snarled, rising from his seat and gathering his notes. The Blackwatch commander did the same, shrugging in nonchalance. 

“You don’t need my permission to do anything, do you Jackie? Besides, I was just settling a bet. I owe McCree fifty creds now.”

Things changed after that. It was slow at first. Jack started to lock eyes with Genji when they passed in the hallway, raising his eyebrows in silent greeting and getting raised eyebrows in return by the whole trio. Jack greeted him by name once when he passed by Genji by himself, waiting outside of medbay for Angela. Genji’s surprise and near-disappointed look as Jack kept walking confirmed for Jack what Reyes had been saying. Genji had even bumped shoulders with him during one of Jack’s weekly Blackwatch visits as he passed him by. 

Jack wasn’t too fond of beating around the bush. The game they were playing was getting old for him quickly. Genji obviously felt the same way, he would soon discover. Reyes had stopped him from entering the Blackwatch quarters with a raised hand. 

“Athena’s reporting Genji as being last seen on the cameras in the main Overwatch base. Seeing as you two keep eyefucking each other every damn day, I thought maybe he was with you. And I bet you know where he is, too. Don’t come back without him.” The door slammed in his face, making Jack step back in surprise. He could easily override the lock set on the door, but his anger turned him on his heel and sent him stalking out back to the main base. Fine. Jack would deliver the damn cyborg with a ribbon and bow if that’s what Reyes wanted. He was ending this now.

“Athena, where was agent Shimada last seen?” Jack growled to the ever-listening AI. 

“Agent Shimada was last seen entering your quarters, Strike Commander. He had your passcode, would you like to change it?” Jack headed for his room, feeling a fluttering nervousness at her response.

“Ah… no, Athena. Permission granted for his entry for now.” What was he doing? What was Genji doing? Morrison felt as nervous as a teenager, stopping outside his door, hesitating to enter his code. 

He was expecting Genji to be sitting on his bed again, but he wasn’t expecting his mask to be off. The metal mask and the black cloth mask worn over it was discarded on the bed beside Genji, though his hand still rested on them protectively, like he expected to put them right back on. They stared at each other for a while, Jack focusing on the scarred lips and cheeks he had never seen before. He wondered if many others had gotten to see this, either. 

Genji’s mouth worked itself into a frustrated frown when the staredown lasted too long for his liking. “I see I was mistaken yet again. At least you are not going for your gun this time.” He moved to get off the bed and was stopped in surprise by the “wait!” that tumbled out of Jack’s mouth. 

Jack cleared his throat, feeling embarrassed for his outburst. “Let’s talk.” The door slid shut behind him.

The Strike Commander didn’t return that day. However, Genji returned, alone, later that night after dinner had been served in the mess hall and the nightly rituals of poker games and drinking had started up in the Blackwatch rec room.  

“Where the hell have you been?” Jesse’s voice crooned out, trying to keep the kicked-puppy look off his face, “Ain’t like you to go missing fer so long.” Reyes rolled his eyes next to him, revealing his hand to the rest of the players.

Genji shrugged, expression unreadable. “None of your concern. Though McCree, I will say you now owe Commander Reyes his fifty creds back.” The cyborg left the room and headed back to his quarters, leaving the rec room in a state of chaos as the agents witnessed their commander nearly fall out of his seat in laughter.

[journalxxx]

Rerun

Inspired by @steampunch​‘s breathtaking art

The images on the screen are surprisingly clean and vivid, the sound of laughters and broken branches unexpectedly crisp and sharp. Each reel was packed and sealed very carefully, but Ford wouldn't have guessed they would have aged so well. They've withstood the test of time much better than the both of them, which, he supposes, is the exact purpose of such keepsakes. He doesn't watch them, though. He can barely remember the content of the tapes, but they hold very little interest compared to the fact that Stan's jokes and questions have gradually lessened, that his eyes are now glued to the screen as if the very essence of the universe was pictured on it. His own largely is, probably.

Bless the visual arts. Three nights of detailed tales and heartfelt apologies didn't so much as spark the barest hint of recollection on Stan's part, yet a handful of pictures from a child's scrapbook and few minutes of haphazard recording are proving miraculous. Ford observes his brother's features with trepidation, the deep shadows cast by the projector giving him an even more serious and profound appearance. This is it, he can tell. He hopes.

The reel stops with an abrupt snap. Stan blinks, glancing around himself as if suddenly awoken from a dream. He rubs his hand on his eyes for a moment.

"...Damn. Sorry, can we rewatch the last part? I spaced out a bit." "Of course." Ford stands up and starts fiddling with the projector, rewinding roughly half of the tape. He bides his time with the equipment, and with his questions. He sits back on his chair as two overly energetic kids are about to earn themselves a semi-permanent banishment from the family shop. "Where did you say you found these?" "In my private study. I don't quite know how they ended up down there, but I do remember having them sent here from home. I guess I did move around some stuff at some point..." Stan keeps staring at the screen thoughtfully, slouching slightly to the side of the armchair, his hand holding his right cheek. A frown crosses his features, but only for a moment. "...Right. The second underground floor. I could never get past that fancy lock. But the backdoor to the emergency stairs was a child's play. I can't believe the gnomes never found a way in." There's his answer. Relief washes over him slowly, almost a physical weight settling in his stomach and crawling up his spine. It pervades him so deeply that it feels almost unpleasant. Stan shoots him a small, satisfied smirk, and Ford can only smile in return. "I set up a couple of magic deterrents back in the day. You got in?" "'Course I did. I turned the whole house upside down while I was searching for anything that could help me fix that mess in the basement. I couldn't make sense of anything I found down there though, not even the giant computer. Goddamn codes and passwords everywhere." The precarious Fort Stan on the screen collapses loudly, catching their attention again. An abrupt cut spares them their father's decidedly unimpressed reaction to their filming ambitions, and the setting switches back to the great outdoors. Stan's expression shifts again, to one Ford doesn't quite know how to interpret. "I found these, I think. I checked one, but I didn't... Well, they weren't going to help me with the nerd work. I put them back where I found them." Ford considers the screen for a moment, realizing he himself has no memory of that specific sequence. He remembers asking for the reels, when his mother had decided to toss away some of their old stuff. He remembers the thought of the tapes being destroyed feeling vaguely unpleasant, he remembers packing them adequately for when he would have time to watch them. For later. "...I never watched them either." Silence stretches between them, way more meaningful than all the inane chatter and one-sided conversations of the last few days. Stan sighs deeply, and Ford squeezes his arm gently. "...Are you all right?" "Yeah, yeah." "If you're tired, we can call it a day and-" "No, really, I'm fine. It's just- it's just..." Stan's gaze drops to Ford's hand and he stares at it intently, as if trying to gauge the right word from Ford's knuckles. "...Nuts." "That's putting it mildly." Stan smiles, and falls silent again. He is strangely pensive, strangely quiet and cautious, much unlike his normal boisterous character and even his easy-going and carefree amnesiac self. Of this third, probably temporary iteration of his brother Ford knows nothing, and he has absolutely no idea how to handle it. "Stan... I know I've been nothing but spitefully secretive about everything since I came back. About myself, about my plans, about Bill- and God knows how much damage that caused. But if there's anything you need to know... Anything you want to ask..." "No, not ask... but I do have something to say." He frowns, picking an invisible speck of dust off Ford's sleeve. "And do. Before it slips my mind." That is a loaded introduction if Ford's ever heard one, so he waits. Stan slightly leans forward, then he pauses, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his features, then he leans forward again. He doesn't stop. His lips land on his brother's, his breath tickles his cheeks, and Ford's mind goes completely blank. The first emotion emerging from the void is utter dread. Because Ford cannot possibly fathom what may have spurred such an action, so it must be some sort of mistake, some tragic inconsistency or misplaced attachment in his brother's memory, a positively catastrophic one. He tries to inch back from him, but Stan's arm slips from his grasp to hold him by the side of his head. Ford's mouth opens imperceptibly in surprise, and suddenly he's acutely aware of his brother's thumb tracing his cheekbone, slowly tickling his sideburn, of his palm brushing the shell of his ear, of his fingers tangling in his hair and curving on his nape. Stan's lips caress Ford with a gentleness that he's never experienced before, with his brother or with anyone else, and with a deliberate tranquillity that subdues any objection. It's over before Ford can recover properly. Stan leans back just a bit to look at him, still gripping Ford's head firmly, only slightly flushed and holding his gaze steadily. "I..." Ford gulps. Each word feels like a round of Russian roulette, ready to blow both their brains out. "I think... this is a serious misunderstanding." "You think, uh? Figures, I should have started with the other thing. But that 's been... a long time coming." "What... Stanley, what on earth-" "Shut up and listen, Poindexter. Carefully." The hand on Ford's nape becomes heavier. The grip on the back of his neck suddenly feels way more like a vise, and Stan brings their heads closer again. Their foreheads bump. Hard. Painfully. "You motherfucking bastard." Ford blinks. His doubts on Stan's coherency and sanity have skyrocketed in the last sixty seconds, but he has no opportunity to express them. "To make it quick. I'm not going to rub in your face the ungodly amount of utter bullshit that you spew on mine thirty years ago, but don't think I don't remember. Don't think for a second that I don't remember." He can feel Stan's nails digging slightly in his nape, their glasses tinkling uncomfortably against one another, his brother's steely tone digging in his chest like a knife. "I'm not going to question your right to complain about the state of the house as if it was a deconsacrated temple- my house, as much as it is yours - or to burn my merchandise, or to disparage three decades' worth of work to bring your sorry ass out of Sci-Fi Land. I'm not so stupid that I can't see your point in those matters. A cheap, selfish, haughty point, but a point nonetheless." "I-" "What I do question-" Stan's jaw sets at a sharper angle, a tight grimace twists his features "- is how much of a petty, self-absorbed prick one must be to greet his own brother after thirty whole years with a punch on the face. A punch. On the face. And insults. And a full-fledged eviction notice." "No, listen." Ford's head snaps up, nudging the other to earn himself enough leeway to look at him. "I told you, I'm- believe me, I'm truly sorry about that. I had just come back, the house was-" "I know what you said and for God's sake, shut up. This is nothing, this is childish, obnoxious, irrelevant crap- nothing compared to dragging a couple of kids - my niece and nephew, your niece and nephew- into your personal holy crusade against a psychopathic, mind-controlling monster. They could have died, Ford. They could have gone mad. I may have done a lousy job at protecting them from all this myself, but at least I tried. At least I tried." "...I know. That... I know. You-" "Stanford. Shut. Up." Stan finally loosens his grasp and raises his head to meet Ford's eyes. He doesn't look as furious as Ford was expecting. He doesn't look angry at all, in fact. He looks dejected, tired. Sad. "I know that you know, and that you're sorry. I know what you told me. The problem is, you told me yesterday, and the day before that. You told me when I didn't even know what the hell you were talking about, you gave me your apologies when I didn't even know I deserved any. And that - as sincere as you may have been - is cowardly as fuck. Wonderfully refreshing for your conscience, I bet, but completely meaningless for me, because I couldn't talk back." The logic is flawless. It's his turn not to talk back, so he doesn't. Stan's expression grows softer. "So. We're doing this all over again. We're talking again about all this, so that you can deliver your apologies properly. And... have some of mine as well. And we're talking to the kids too, of course. They deserve it more than the both of us." Ford nods and instictively glances at the clock. Stan follows his gaze and shakes his head. "Not now. God, not now, I barely even know how old I am. And you look ready to stab yourself with an ice pick." Stan is still holding him, but Ford finds that it doesn't feel as if he's about to snap his neck any more, so he can lean back to a reasonable degree. Ford sighs tiredly, scratching his own knee nervously. "Well, you are right. About... basically all of it. I... I know it doesn't mean much like this, but... I really am sorry. For everything." "I know. I heard you the first ten times you said it, but... Hell, don't give me that look, I refuse to console you. You had that coming." Stan pinches the bridge of his nose, his whole face scrunching up. "Don't go moping around like that, you'll worry the kids. I just... needed to get all that out of my system." Ford considers his brother's words for a moment, his thought dwelling on a short but very prominent part of the evening. "...All of that?" "Yeah. All of that." Now that expression, Ford recognises. He's seen that purposefully casual, undisclosing demeanour countless times from countless hardened gamblers on Lottocron Nine. And apparently three nights in a smelly cell and a forceful ejection from the dimension's finest establishment still haven't taught him that not all bluffs should be called out. "...Is there anything else I need to hear?" Stan snorts. "Yeah. You're a stuck-up, insufferable, pushy smartass." "...I see." "A callous, unfeeling, smug cock." "I'm... glad this nasty incident hasn't impaired your vocabulary." "A remorseless, ungrateful, stubborn son of a bitch." "We still have the same mother, you know." "Are you seriously-" The reel snaps loudly as it stops. They both stare at the bright, white screen for a moment. "Dammit. I can't get to see the end of this thing." "Shall I rewind it again?" "Nah, maybe another time. Put on the next one." Stan lays back comfortably on his armchair and his hand finally withdraws from Ford's neck, slipping off his shoulder. Slowly, lightly. Almost like a caress. "And grab more popcorn while you're at it."

[onemilliongoldstars]

most ardently- chapter one

Clarke Griffin has been forced to abandon her name and her family. She is desperately hiding in her new role as lady's maid to Lady Lexa, fumbling through her duties and hoping to become invisible, when she realises that her heiress mistress is caught firmly under the thumb of her overbearing uncle. As Lexa suffocates under the expectations of her remaining family, she and Clarke slowly realise that they may be each other's safe haven.

or: Clarke is hiding a secret while struggling to seem like an experienced lady's maid for Lexa, who is painfully glad for a friend.

1/6, 5.7k words

Read on ao3

“You're going to be a terrible lady’s maid.”

Octavia’s voice echoes over the tiles of the kitchen from behind her, but Clarke is too busy balancing the heavy tray in her hands. The china clinks softly under her trembling grip, evidence of her inexperience, but she grits her teeth and clenches her jaw so tightly that it hurts even as her arms shudder under the unusual weight.

“Here, let me.” Octavia scoops the tray from her hands just as her arms begin to fail her and dumps it on the table with a clatter of silver and crockery. The delicate rose patterned cup shivers under her rough treatment, but Octavia doesn't spare it a glance. Instead she turns her attention back to where Clarke is running her fingers over the skirt of her dress, trying to iron out any wrinkles and hide her fear. It's borrowed, dark and patched in places, a little too small so that her ankles and dark stockings show, and despite the pristine white apron over it, Clarke feels almost bare in the scratchy, foreign fabric.

“Clarke, calm down.” Octavia's fingers on her arm are reassuring and grounding and she centres herself around the feeling, letting out a soft sigh.

“I'm sorry,” Her voice is quiet but steady.

“It's alright.” Octavia’s fingers tighten and Clarke can see the worry in her eyes when she continues, cautiously, “Are you sure you want to do this? There's no obligation-”

“Octavia, please.” She steps from the girl’s grasp, which feels abruptly poisonous. “I am well.”

“What’s going on?” Raven’s voice makes her cringe and her eyes swing to the door to see the stable girl wiping sweat from her forehead.

“I'm telling La–Clarke...” she glances back at the blonde guiltily at the slip of the tongue, “...that she doesn't have to do this.”

“Octavia, with all due respect...” She folds her hands behind her back and straightens her spine. “I cannot continue to accept your generosity; you barely know me. Your brother should not have to suffer my presence in his home without payment. I must earn my living.”

“You know you're welcome to stay with us freely,” Octavia insists, “and I still think someone with your… background shouldn't be sleeping on a pallet.”

“Thank you,” she allows a small, graceful smile, “but I will not take charity; I can do this as well as anyone else. I spent my life being waited on–something must have stuck with me.”

“Perhaps…” Octavia sounds deeply sceptical, and she glances back at Raven for support, but the stable girl only shrugs, crossing her arms.

“If the princess wants to make her own way, I think it's a good idea. See how the other side live.” There's a deep slice of bitterness to her voice, like a sliver of ginger caught in her throat, and Clarke sniffs.

“I was not a princess, I was… to be a countess.”

“Now you're just like the rest of us,” Raven snaps, leaning against the doorframe to eye her, “so you'd better start acting like it.”

“Raven!” Octavia scolds, frowning at the girl.

“What?!”

“Be kind! She's lost her family-”

The kitchen door creaks as it’s pressed open, and Clarke turns hurriedly with the others, petticoats brushing against her ankles. The housemistress is a foreboding figure in the doorway, tall and wiry with old age, her skin sucked close to her cheeks and sallow in colour. Hair slipping from dark brown to silver is scraped back so harshly that her head looks slightly odd and misshapen, and when she fixes piercing eyes on them all, Clarke folds her hands uncomfortably at the small of her back.

“My apologies, girls.” Her gaze falls from Clarke to Octavia who flinches away from the stare. She is deeply dry, mouth twisted in a horribly small smile when she speaks. “I was not aware you were being paid to spend your time chattering amongst yourselves.”

“No ma’am, sorry ma’am.” Octavia runs hasty hands down her skirt, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles, and returns to her task of chopping through the mountain of parsnips on the broad kitchen table. Clarke chances a glance from the corner of her eyes and finds that Raven too has disappeared, leaving her to face the wrath of her new housemistress alone.

“Madam.” She bobs a quick curtsey at the woman, whose brows quirk into a frown.

“You are the girl Octavia recommended?”

“Indeed madam,” she raises her eyes and meets the housemistress’ sceptical gaze with as steady an expression as she can manage, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The housemistress swings her eyes to Octavia, who remains so focused on her work that Clarke fears she may chop through the table, before looking back to Clarke. “Do you have experience in domestic service?”

“No madam,” Clarke straightens her shoulders under a quick rush of bravery, “but I am hardworking and classically educated, I may be a great company to your lady.”

The housemistress lets out a laugh which scrapes like nails against a chalkboard and her smile turns cruel once again. “You are not here to be her companion, girl. You are here to wait on the lady; dress her, bathe her, keep her rooms orderly. Be seen and not heard, am I understood?”

“Yes madam,” she bobs a curtsey again, even as the skin on the back of her neck burns with humiliation.

“I doubt you have anything to say that my lady would wish to hear, regardless,” the housemistress steps forwards, grasping one of Clarke’s hands in her own and inspecting the soft, pale skin and clean nails, her nose wrinkling when she turns her gaze back to Clarke’s. “Good god girl, have you ever worked a day in your life?”

She is saved from answering by the obnoxious ringing of one of the bells lining the upper walls of the kitchen. The housemistress sucks unhappily at her lips, making a displeased noise in the back of her throat and finally saying, grudgingly.

“Our lady has rejected almost every lady’s maid I have sent her, you will have to do.” She grasps the tray and thrusts it so bodily into Clarke’s arms that she almost stumbles back. “Do not displease her and you may last through the day. When our lady has no need of you, you will make yourself useful as a housemaid, am I understood? I will not have lazy service in my house.”

“Yes madam,” Clarke agrees, dutifully, eyes darting to where Octavia is watching them from under her eyelashes.

“My name is Mrs Myborn, you may refer to me as ma’am,” the housemistress sniffs imperiously and when the bell rings again, looks expectantly at Clarke. “Well? Tardiness is not appreciated in this household, girl.”

Clarke takes that as her cue to leave, bobbing another half curtsey to the woman as she struggles to shoulder her way out of the kitchen with the unwieldy tray in her hands. The kitchen is down a small flight of stairs and Clarke trudges her way carefully up the narrow staircase, her shoes already pinching at her toes and her arms already trembling under the strain of the breakfast tray. When she steps out of the delicate, white panelled door and onto the marble floor, it is as if the breath has been stolen from her lungs. She has to pause for a moment to take in her surroundings, hesitating under the gleaming light of the crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling to stare, agape, at the room. She has not seen such grandeur since she left her home over six months ago and now the sight almost brings tears to her eyes. Here, under the steady watch of careful oil paintings in gleaming golden frames and the swoop of marble statues, she has to stop and catch her breath. Stubbornly blinking the tears from her eyes, she forces herself to look down at the white apron sitting against her shabby dress and inhales shakily at the sudden reminder of who she now is.

It is only when she is on the first landing, hesitating by the swooping, carved bannister, that she realises no one had done her the dignity of telling her where she was actually going and she feels panic grip her like the stone hands of one of the statues. For a moment she contemplates the thought of returning downstairs, still laden with the tray, but the thought of Mrs Myborn’s glare as she is surely thrown out into the gutter is enough to push her heavy feet onwards in her pinching shoes. The first few doors she passes have been left mercifully ajar and she spies several spacious drawing rooms in gentle yellows and blues, a study with dark panelling and the picture of a scowling man over the mantle, before she comes to the first closed door.

It is quite impossible for her to lift her hand from the tray, with its weight and she spends a moment considering her options before finally lifting a foot to tap cautiously against the door. There is no response and so she continues this method, quietly pleased with herself, before finally a low voice calls out an entreaty to enter and she is able to no less than shove the door open.

It bangs against the wall and she is momentarily mortified by the sound, freezing in the doorframe to meet her new mistress’s raised eyebrow with a terrified gaze. The girl sits up in a wide, four poster bed, a stark nightdress almost blending into the pasty pallor of her skin. Dark hair tumbles around her head in tight curls and green eyes watch her with something between amusement and outrage as she edges cautiously into the room.

The drapes are still pulled shut, but some light filters in from the early morning sky and slides between the slight gap, illuminating the lady and the room in shades of white and blue, a white marble fireplace sitting comfortably close to the bed to provide warmth in the night. Clarke swings her attention back to the girl in the bed when she coughs slightly.

A flush heats her cheeks and she hurries abruptly forwards, almost tripping over her short skirts as she deposits the tray as gently as she can into her mistress’s lap.

“Your breakfast, my lady.”

“Thank you…” the girl’s voice is still pleasingly low and even, despite the fool Clarke has so readily made of herself and she quirks an eyebrow, watching the way that Clarke hesitates. “You may open the drapes,” she provides, when Clarke seems lost as to what to do and Clarke hurries around the bed to do as instructed, pulling back the thick material from the wide windows to cast the whole room in murky London sunlight.

“An orange,” when she turns, her mistress is holding the fruit between her fingers curiously and she seems to sense Clarke’s gaze, because she turns her eyes back to her and explains, haltingly. “Mrs Myborn does not usually allow me such exotic fruits… she thinks they are sure to be poisoned.”

Clarke lets out a snort and speaks without thinking, “That’s ridiculous, oranges are delicious and perfectly safe.” She still abruptly the moment her brain catches up with her mouth, frozen at the bottom of the bed and the girl blinks at her for a moment, astonished by her response.

“I see,” she says at last, placing the orange wedge down untouched and focusing her attention on Clarke. “You are my new lady’s maid?”

“Indeed, my lady,” Clarke bobs a quick curtsey, cheeks heating up again under the girl’s intense scrutiny.

“What’s your name?” The girl cocks an eyebrow and Clarke edges slowly around the bed to take her teapot into her hands, glancing at the girl to make sure she’s doing the right thing.

“Clarke, my lady.” She pours the tea carefully, her fingers still shaking.

“Clarke,” the girl echoes her name, spreading it out satisfyingly across her tongue like fresh butter. “I am Alexandria.”

There is no invitation to call her anything less than her title and Clarke just nods, swallowing against her dry throat and adding milk to the teacup, stirring gently in an attempt to not look at the girl in the bed. She had expected someone much older, but Alexandria cannot have many more years to her name than Clarke herself.

She chances another glance at her and is startled to find green eyes watching her closely.

“What can I do for you today, my lady?” She steps away from the breakfast tray, chewing on her lip as Alexandria considers her question.

“Help me dress for the day,” she offers at last, “be sure my fire is stoked. I have no intention of leaving the house today, though,” her voice drops, hinting with dark bitterness, “my uncle will surely have arranged callers.”

“Of course my lady,” she swallows at the thought of tackling the fire, but the dressing sounds almost pleasant after a morning of helping Octavia collect water and haul fresh vegetables from the market for dinner tonight.

“You may get on with the fire while I finish,” Alexandria reaches for the book sitting on her side table and then says, offhandly, “and light the candles for me, the dark in the city is ghastly.”

“Yes my lady,” she bobs a final curtsey and wonders if she should be feeling dizzy yet from so much dipping up and down.

Thankfully, the fire is already laid and she has learnt how to use a tinderbox from her many days attempting to clumsily help Octavia and her brother around their small, few rooms in a house in the east end. Carefully, she lays out the implements from the silver tinderbox and uses the flint and steel to ignite the rough linen at the bottom of the box. The spark takes almost instantly and she cups her hands carefully around the slight flame, blowing gently to encourage it to catch until she is able to light a candle with the flame and press it against the kindling beneath the logs. She can feel Alexandria’s curious gaze on her as she works, prickling at her neck and shoulders.

When the fire is properly caught she dampens the tinder and replaces everything methodically back into the box, standing to deposit the candle on her mistress’s bedside. Alexandria’s book still sits unopened in her lap, her food almost untouched and Clarke almost says something, before biting her tongue and reminding herself not to be impertinent.

Alexandria instructs her to fetch warm water and lay out her clothes while she waits and then turns back to sipping her tea and reading her book with a slight frown. The tray has been set aside in the bed in favour of curling her legs up beneath herself and she does not touch her food, Clarke notices as she slips quietly about the room, but to delicately eat the wedges of orange Octavia had fanned out for her across a small china plate.

At last, after what feels like hours but is not more than thirty minutes, most of which Clarke spends patiently waiting for instruction as Alexandria reads, the clock on the mantlepiece chimes quietly. Clarke sees Alexandria startle up in surprise, blinking at her as if she had forgotten Clarke was there. Clarke, who had been leaning against the wall and attempting not to fall back to sleep, jerks fully upright again, flushing.

“Goodness, my apologies,” Alexandria is almost amusingly flustered, snapping her book shut to rest it on the table. “I had forgotten- I lost track of the time, please excuse me.”

The words are so astonishing that Clarke can only stare at her for a moment, before gathering her senses enough to answer.

“I am here to serve your needs, my lady.”

“Regardless…” Alexandria flushes, but says nothing else as she swings herself from the bed. Clarke is surprised to find that stood to her full height, her mistress is taller than her. She had seemed so small in her large bed, dwarfed by the space and Clarke steps hurriedly out of the way as Alexandria paces past her to examine the clothes set out for her and nod approvingly.

“Yes, this will do nicely.”

To Clarke’s great relief, Alexandria does not ask her to wash her and instead goes about the task of scrubbing her face until it is bright and rosy herself. She averts her eyes respectfully, even though Alexandria steps behind the screen to slide into her petticoats and is startled by the girl’s call.

“My lady?” She responds, tentatively and hovers by the screen beyond which, she realises with a jolt, she can see the girl’s silhouette as she struggles into her petticoats. When there is no response, she steps cautiously around the screen to see Alexandria holding out her corset with an expectant air, watching her as she reaches out with shaking hands to accept the offer.

“I shall need help,” she explains, unnecessarily, and Clarke nods as confidently as she can, considering the implement in her hands as if it is a loaded musket. Lady Alexandria turns her back and gestures and Clarke takes a moment to stare at the thin material of her petticoat and the way that her hair falls in a waterfall of curls down her back.

“Clarke.” Her mistress’s irate voice snaps her from her reverie and she blinks away the haze of blue and green to hurriedly help Lady Alexandria position the corset around her waist. The lacing is fairly simple, if she thinks about it and she begins from the bottom, pulling as efficiently as she can to tighten in her mistress’s waist. Her fingers graze against the girl’s back and she attempts not to notice the touch, swallowing against her suddenly dry throat.

It is only when she is halfway up her back that she notices the way her lady has reached out to place a hand against the wall, steadying herself. Her breathing is slight and shallow and Clarke’s fingers hesitate uncertainly against the laces.

“What are you waiting for?” Alexandria demands, turning to give a glare over her shoulder.

“My lady,” she begins, anxiously, “I just- I wonder whether this is safe.”

“This is how it must be worn,” Lady Alexandria’s voice is almost tired and heavy and Clarke chews on her cheek for a moment before saying, quietly.

“Perhaps… if my ladyship were to breathe more deeply whilst I lace it you would have more comfort. It would not dig into your ribs, so.”

Alexandria hesitates at her words, glancing back again to peer at her. “Do you think that would be acceptable?” She asks, after a moment.

“Of course, my lady,” she hurries to undo the laces, watching with satisfaction as Alexandria is finally able to heave in a full breath. Of all the things she misses in her old life, this is not one of them. She begins slowly lacing the corset back up, allowing Alexandria more space to breathe and says, firmly, “the most important thing is your comfort, no fashion should come before that.”

Alexandria scoffs softly and seems to surprise herself with her own words, “if comfort were the most important thing I would wear britches all day.”

“That seems very practical to me,” Clarke agrees, after a moment of shock. The smile playing at her lips is strange and unprecedented, even as she hurries to add: “my lady.”

“Thank you, Clarke.” Alexandria tells her, softly.

She helps the girl into her dress, fastening the tiny buttons up the back with steady fingers and when she sees Alexandria heave in a satisfied breath, a wave of warmth passes through her.

---

Alexandria retires to the library when she is done, leaving Clarke to whisk the breakfast tray back below stairs. Octavia tuts over the food remaining in the dishes and cook, who has returned from selecting the finest cuts of meat at the butchers- a job she trusts no other with- takes great pains in lamenting the poor appetite of her mistress. She is a large woman, married to a man by the name of Bustle, and Clarke thinks that no name has ever suited a woman quite so well. Mrs Bustle is plump and small, with rounded cheeks and a constantly harried nature, and seems to labour under the impression that her mistress will starve to death.

Octavia hurries to introduce her to the footman, James, and the butler Mr Darby, who give her polite smiles. James inclines his head to her and she bobs a curtsy to both him and the quiet butler, who tells her he hopes she soon finds a place here. There are only a few maids, including Octavia and herself. Mrs Myborn is quick to find fault and quick to dismiss, which often leaves them under staffed. Octavia assists in the kitchen and covers most of the cleaning, but a bucket and sponge are shoved unceremoniously into Clarke’s hands the moment she arrives downstairs and she is told to have the entry hall floor done by luncheon.

It is hard work, especially for one not used to the usual grind of household life, but she is determined not to complain and so sets to scrubbing the floor with diligence. The water is so hot it burns her hands and the soap smells so strongly that she has to turn her head and cough into her sleeves, but by the time the clock chimes eleven times she is halfway across the entrance hall. The bucket heaves under her as she carries it down the stairs to the kitchen, careful not to let the dirty water escape and make a mess. Mrs Bustle is wiping floury hands against her apron and she jumps into action at the sight of Clarke emerging into the large kitchen.

She entreats the girl to change her apron and cap and take a steaming cup of tea and plate of fresh cakes to her ladyship upstairs and Clarke, sensing the woman’s distress, hurries to comply. In the entryway a knock on the front door makes her pause and she hesitates, glancing around uncertainly in search of James or Mr Darby. The knocking comes again, more agitated and so she steels herself and crosses the wet floor carefully, balancing her tea tray against her hip as she opens the door.

A young boy, in a cap and an oversized jacket stands before her, bouncing on his heels in the late October chill.

“Can I help you?” She peers behind herself anxiously, in case Mrs Myborn should choose to suddenly appear, but the boy is blessedly quick.

“Letter for her ladyship, miss.” He holds out the small letter, printed with thin, slanted handwriting and she takes it, thanking him and shutting the door.

“Whatever are you doing girl?”

The voice is so loud that she startles around, mindless of the slippery marble and her shoes slide out from beneath her. It seems to happen slowly, she feels the tray slip from her grip, her hand flail out to grab at the delicately engraved table at her side. The tray lands with the clatter and smash of silver and china and her grasping hand, instead of finding purchase, knocks the vase close by and brings it too crashing to the ground beside her.

There is a moment of stunned, shocked silence which hangs in the air between them like dust mites caught in the evening sunlight. Clarke turns an aching neck to stare, aghast, at Myborn’s horrified face and feels her stomach sink with dread.

“Goodness!” The voice that breaks their silence comes from above, where Lady Alexandria had been leaning over the bannister with a horrified expression and is now lifting her skirts from around her ankles to hurry down the stairs towards them. “Clarke! Are you alright?”

“Your ladyship,” Mrs Myborn moves quickly to intercept her at the bottom of the stairs as Clarke flinchingly extracts herself from the mess around her, each limb groaning. “I am so sorry for the inconvenience, the girl will be let go at once, you have my assurances.”

“Please!” Clarke staggers up a step, holding out a hand, “I’m sorry, I can do better your ladyship.”

Alexandria looks between them both as if she has really no idea what to say, stumbling back up a step in the face of Myborn’s obstruction. “Mrs Myborn, I usually leave the running of below stairs to you,” she begins, eyes darting to Clarke’s pathetic figure. “You do know best after all.” Clarke’s shoulders slump and she bites harshly on her cheek to crush back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Alexandria catches her and her expression hardens, “but this time I must insist. Accidents happen after all, especially in a new place and the girl is hurt.”

“Thank you,” Clarke almost wilts under the verdict, brushing away a stray tear with the back of her hand, “thank you, I’m so sorry your ladyship. I shall clean everything up, it was not my intention to-”

“You certainly shall clean everything up,” Mrs Myborn replies, tartly, cheeks heating furiously, “and relieve your wages to the replacement and repair of everything you have broken!”

“Of course,” Clarke reaches out a hand to brings shards of crockery and crumbs closer to herself, “of course, yes.”

“Wait,” Alexandria pushes past Mrs Myborn’s figure at the foot of the stairs, hesitating a few steps from Clarke. She stares at her for a moment, as if struggling to find the right words. “I only mean- she cannot clean up in this state, she is hurt. She’s bleeding.”

Clarke’s eyes widen and her gaze flickers downwards. She has been cut, she realises belatedly, a sluggish stream of blood escaping the ragged tear in the skin of her palm and it’s as if the realisation brings her back to herself because the pain is abrupt and sharp.

“Come with me, I’ll see to it,” Alexandria tells her and if her eyes are softer, lighter Clarke can blame it on the shock of watching her housemaid fall, or the gentle candles to light up the dreary hall.

“My lady,” Mrs Myborn looks as white as a sheet, “you must not trouble yourself, one of the maids can do it.”

“I think the maids ought to look to cleaning this mess,” Alexandria replies and then smiles wryly back at the housemistress, “my uncle will not be best pleased to arrive to this.”

“Of course, my lady,” Mrs Myborn bows her head, but her lips are as tight as a seam and Clarke knows that she will feel the housemistress’ wrath later for their lady’s gentle treatment.

“Come,” and there is Alexandria, standing above her with a hand outstretched and Clarke reaches up to take it without thinking, allowing the woman to assist her shakily to her feet. “I have bandages and rubbing alcohol in my chamber,” Lady Alexandria explains, quietly and, casting a nod at Mrs Myborn, lets Clarke curl an arm through hers to help keep her upright as they make their way slowly up the stairs.

In Alexandria’s bed chamber reality seems to come crashing back down on Clarke. She remembers, from her place on the chaise at the end of Alexandria’s bed, the many instructions Octavia had given her on the behaviour of servants to their mistresses, and by the time her lady turns back to her, Clarke is halfway to standing.

“My lady,” she says, at the surprise on Alexandria’s face, “I should not be here, this is not proper in the slightest.”

“Sit,” Alexandria holds out a hand, not touching her, but a clear entreaty for her to stay and so Clarke sinks back onto the chaise with a fearful glance at her employer. “I like to think myself as not too high and mighty to take care of my lady’s maid when she is hurt.”

“You barely know me,” Clarke protests softly, but when Alexandria’s slender fingers take hold of her own she does not pull away.

“No,” Lady Alexandria agrees easily, her eyes fixed firmly on Clarke’s hand as she pulls it into her lap and douses a clean rag in rubbing alcohol. “But I think I should like to, Clarke.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Her heart feels caught in its throat as she watches Alexandria bend carefully over her hand, eyelashes like silk thread against her delicate skin, a few tender curls escaping her pins to fall over her cheek.

“This may hurt,” Alexandria warns, glancing at her worriedly but Clarke smiles a small, sad smile and assures her.

“It takes far more than a little rubbing alcohol to hurt me, my lady.”

“I see,” Alexandria presses the rag down on her cut and Clarke’s fingers flinch automatically, a hiss escaping between her teeth as Alexandria continues to talk. “Are you new to town, Clarke?”

“Yes your ladyship,” she swallows, fixing her gaze pointedly to the window across the room, where she can see trees swaying from the park across the street and hear horses stamp and winnie and men shout. “Fairly new.”

“I do not often come to town,” Alexandria’s fingers tightening around her hand are the only warning she gets that the girl has added more rubbing alcohol to her cloth and Clarke lets out a grunt. “My uncle likes for me to be seen out in society, but I would much rather be at home than here.” She gives a final pat to the wound and nods, “there, ready to be bandaged.”

“Thank you, my lady,” she does not protest when the girl adds padding and begins to wrap the wound. “Where is home for you if I may ask?”

“My family has a large estate up north,” Alexandria tells her, winding the bandage carefully over her hand, “Towerhill Hall, it’s been in my family for generations.”

“And are your family there for the winter, my lady? You have come here alone?”

Alexandria freezes under her gaze and Clarke is left to watch helplessly as the girl finishes her care in silence, fastening the bandage with a tight knot and withdrawing her hands to hold them in her lap. Finally, when Clarke is about to apologise and hurry from the room, from the house, from the city itself, she speaks. “My family are dead. My older brother died in the war, my mother and father both died of illness. I am the only heir.”

“Oh, I-” her heart aches for the girl and she goes to apologise, but Alexandria has already risen from her seat and is carefully replacing the bandages and bottle in their chest. “I am so sorry.”

“Please, don’t be.” Alexandria spares her a slight smile, as false as a pedlar’s promises, “they died when I was very small, I do not miss them much, as awful as that makes me.”

“That doesn’t make you awful at all,” Clarke’s words rush over one another like water down a narrow stream and her fingers catch at the crumpled letter in her apron pocket. “Here, my lady,” she stands and crosses the finely embroidered rug spread out across the floor to hold it out. “This came for you,” her eyes catch the name on the front and she frowns, “or at least… I think it is for you?”

“Really?” Alexandria reaches out, taking it delicately and sliding it open to pull out the small note. “Ah,” a true, rich smile lights up her mistress’s face for the first time since Clarke met her, “it is for me, a note from my cousin. She lives in town and always pays me a visit every few days, between her many other dalliances.” Alexandria glances curiously over the envelope and smiles again, slightly embarrassed, “yes that’s me, Lexa. A family name, a pet name more than anything. Most know me by my real name but Anya and I have known each other many years.”

“It’s a lovely name,” Clarke assures her, folding her hands in front of her and watching as her ladyship carefully slips the letter into the locked drawer at the top of the writing desk.

“Thank you,” Alexandria glances back at her uncertainly, “I can trust your discretion? The maids do not usually answer my door, Mrs Myborn insists it is in bad taste, but my letters so often come to me opened that it may be a policy I begin to encourage.”

“I would never open your letters, my lady.” Clarke’s face drops in horror and Alexandria’s smile is soft and hopeful.

“No, I don’t think you would.” She brushes down her skirts, though the soft blue is as perfect as when Clarke had dressed her in it this morning, and casts an eye over Clarke’s appearance, which she abruptly realises is most likely ghastly. “You may want to run upstairs and change your dress.”

“I-I do not have anything else here, my lady,” Clarke hesitates, fidgeting, “my appointment was rather last minute, I am still at my lodgings in town.”

“Oh,” Alexandria’s face falls and she frowns, glancing back at her dressing room door, “I am sure I have something that you could wear.”

“No, no your ladyship,” Clarke protests before Alexandria can hurry away, catching herself before she reaches out a hand to stop her, “I could not possibly.” She runs a hand over the crumbs and water stains on her dress. “I will change my apron and cap, if it is not offensive to you to see me like this in your house.”

“Not at all,” Alexandria pauses, still halfway to the dressing room door and says, cautiously, “I will tell Mrs Myborn to set you up in the attics though, if you are obliging? Sometimes I may require you in the early hours and it would not do to have you walking around town that late.”

“That… would be quite acceptable,” Clarke blinks at her, surprised, “if Mrs Myborn will stand to keep me employed.” The words slip from her before she can think and she inwardly curses her quick tongue and temper, biting at her lip as she ducks her head.

Alexandria, to her surprise, lets out a soft huff of laughter, though she quickly stifles it. When Clarke chances a glance back up at her she is smiling, “Do not worry, you are becoming a great asset to me. I will not allow her to drive you out.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Clarke bobs a slight curtsy and turns to leave her.

Lexa. She sounds the word out in her head. It suits her new mistress very well.