#jon for ONCE took care of his looks and let someone curl his hair

[imjustapoorwayfaringgeek]

Brothers

hope these two see each other again </3

[butwhyduh]

Getting tall

Summary: Damian finally hits his growth spurts and the fam have opinions. Some damijon, timkon, jaytemis, and dickori mentioned.

Damian was an adorable tiny murder baby when he first showed up at the manor. Like a feral kitten. Short end of normal growth at 10 years old and thin too, Dr Leslie found. Make sure he eats 3 square meals and snacks when he wants and he’ll be just fine. Alfred had made it his mission, as he had done for both Jason and Tim, to put weight on Damian.

The first family member he outgrew was Cass. She reached over to ruffle his hair only to reach up above her head rather than below it. She didn’t mind. 5’4 isn’t very tall. She’d just have to remember that the next time they spar. Height wasn’t an important factor to her.

It was a few months later that Damian hit a massive growth spurt and grew 4 inches. He passed by 5’6 Stephanie.

“Hey little dude. What are they puttin in your food, miracle grow?” She asked when she noted how tall he was and how big his feet had gotten. Damian was a bit like the giant puppies all gangly. Alfred was adjusting the Robin costume monthly after Damian rushed to put it on for patrol one day and every time he raised his arms he felt his stomach show. Clothes were constantly being bought that met his newest height increase. The Kents were very appreciative of the barely worn clothing Jon got as Damian went through another pair.

“I’m perfectly normal in growth,” he said pulling on the hem of his shirt that was growing shorter by the day. Stephanie eyed him but left it. Tim hated the height jokes they would make when everyone started passing him in height. Nowadays Tim just rolled his eyes and deferred all short jokes to Bart who Damian was now taller than. Bart didn’t care at all because he was short but he was also at least top 3 faster people ever so who cares right?

For a very short time, Damian was taller than Jon. He liked that. Jon thought it was pretty funny.

“D, I’m going to be taller. My dad and mom are both taller than yours. I’ll be taller in the end,” Jon said with a grin before Damian pushed him off the roof. Jon giggled and stared at Damian with obvious heart eyes. The kid was definitely smitten.

Tim was half an inch taller. He didn’t acknowledge it in any way. But it wasn’t surprising. His mother was tiny, his father lower end of average, and Tim probably skipped too many meals with working during an important growth phase while he was becoming Robin. 5’8.5 is a perfectly normal height for a man. He had an easier time with stealth.

Bruce watched as his son grew more handsome and taller everyday. He recognized things he hadn’t taken the time to see with Dick or Jason and had missed completely with Tim. Aftershave, cologne, and deodorant budget went up exponentially and Damian was barred from bringing any of his shoes in the house and his Robin uniform had to double washed occasionally. He spent far longer in the bathroom doing his hair and agonizing over any spot on his face.

Bruce even once caught Damian do the lean on the doorframe while talking to someone they like when Jon visited once. He had to give the worst birds and bees talk of all time. Bruce also noted how Damian had Talia’s nose and his lip curled the same way hers did when he smiled. He stretched when walking to the breakfast table the same way Dick did.

Damian didn’t get another true growth spurt for 2 years. There was plenty of jokes that he jumped up to his height and didn’t move again. Jon was once again taller than Damian. Alfred was ready this time with the massive amount of food the 15 year old could put away and panels in his costume for easier adjustments.

Talia smiled proudly at her son as he grew taller than her. He was turning out handsome like his father but kept her feature and in her mind, that was the perfect combo. She never told Damian because she didn’t him to grow arrogant.

Dick didn’t notice it right away. He was so busy with Bludhaven and the Titans that he didn’t notice Damian had gotten a full inch taller than him. He only realized when him and Damian practiced a complex move that required a taller and shorter partner while training. They paired up as they always did and the maneuver completely fell apart. Dick was mentally putting together why it failed when Damian walked over and it clicked. Little D was not so little anymore.

“You’re taller than me,” he said brightly. Damian immediately grinned.

“So now you’re little D,” Damian said back. Dick laughed at that one.

“Don’t let it go to your head. I can throw you around like a tilt-a-whirl,” Dick warned. Of course, that’s exactly what happened the next time they sparred when Damian tried to use his height advantage.

“I can beat Jason so don’t think you can beat me just by being bigger,” Dick said standing over Damian who rolled his eyes.

Dick had no problem with Damian getting taller. It was his own height he had a complicated relationship with. See, Dick grew up as an acrobat. Being tall is a disadvantage. More weight to swing, more body to move. And his father had told him growing up that almost every Grayson man has been 5’8. It’s a legacy as strong as flying above the circus crowd.

And so when at 15, Dick was very distraught with the fact that he hadn’t stopped growing at 5’8. It felt like a part of his history and family legacy had died. He wasn’t one of the 5’8 Grayson men. He never told anyone beside Kori, late at night where she told him she loved him tall or small. She had already far outpaced Dick and was on her way to being 6’4.

Duke and Alfred and Damian were the same height for a short while. Duke would joke that he could just wear the Robin’s costume since they were the same size. Damian would threaten to disembowel him if he touched it and that made Duke laugh even more.

When he grew taller Duke once again joked with Damian calling him a not so jolly green giant and Alfred considered his nutrition attempt a complete success. Damian went from a tiny kid to a tall strong young man.

Damian and Jon were practically the same size for a while. Jon barely bent his neck to rest his chin on Damian’s shoulder as his partner worked on a complex mechanical part. Then Jon hit another growth spurt to end in his final height of 6’2, same as Bruce and his father. Damian enjoyed having a taller boyfriend for a while but would never say anything. High school dances were nice.

Bruce could see Damian getting taller and stronger and was practically grown. Dr Leslie warned Bruce that growth could continue until Damian was in his early 20s and he could end up a quite tall young man or stop tomorrow.

Jason liked being the tallest and biggest in the family. He had an entire inch in height on Bruce and was at least 20 lbs heavier. He was built like tank. When Jason had died at 15, he was terrifyingly thin. Alfred had tried his best but Jason had suffered malnutrition and hunger from practically birth. He was short and thin and Dr Leslie had told Bruce he probably always would be. And so when Jason came back to life a giant 6’3 and over 200 lbs, it was a shock. It took him forever to accept his size as anything more than an amour to create fear in his enemies. The first time he had accidentally scared a woman walking in the street at night, Jason had hated that he was so big. But within his family, it had become a source of pride. He was certainly taller than Dick and Alfred and even Bruce.

So when he visited Cass’s birthday party and Jason stood next to Damian and realized that the kid was taller than him, he was a little shocked. Damian had reached his final height of 6’4.

“When the hell did you get so big?” Jason asked while cake was being served. Dick nosed in the conversation.

“Little D is taller than you now,” he said with a teasing grin at Jason.

“And yet you insist on calling me Little D,” Damian said with an eye roll.

“I call him Big D,” Jon said with a smile. Dick blanched and Jason coughed out an awkward laugh.

“Good for you, bro,” he said patting Damian on the back. Jon blushed at the sudden understanding.

“No! I mean- he’s taller than me. I didn’t mean- uh,” Jon stuttered. Damian grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him away from his brothers who were laughing.

“It’s weird you know,” Jason admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

“The fact that he is dating Jon?”

“No, they’ve been together forever. That he’s taller than me,” Jason said.

“Are you- does it bother you that you aren’t the tallest?” Dick asked with a gleeful smile.

“No,” Jason said abruptly.

“It could be like how I learned my little brother was bigger than me,” Dick teased. “All of a sudden you were just massive. My tiny little brother was this big dude. Good thing I’m comfortable with my masculinity.”

“Your girlfriend is like 6 inches taller than you. If that isn’t emasculating then there’s nothing I could do,” Jason answered.

“Yeah, she’s always been taller than me,” Dick said with a fond smile. “You can’t talk with the Amazon you’ve been hanging with.” He pushed Jason’s shoulder with a grin.

“We’re just friends-I guess,” Jason said uncomfortable. “That’s not the same-“

“Well at least Tim will always be our little brother,” Dick changed the subject but mentally noted Jason’s reaction to the mention of Artemis.

“Yeah, he’ll always be a shrimp,” Jason agreed.

“Honestly fuck you both,” Tim said from across the room. With Kon standing next to him he certainly looked tiny.

“Hey, it’s my birthday and I am the shortest and I can still kick all of your butts,” Cassandra reminded them both and they laughed but neither corrected her because they knew she was right.

[darkorderaf]

hi!! can i request number 9 with jon moxley from the small details for fictional kisses prompt list? thank you, love!! i can’t wait to read it if you decide to do it!! <3

Yes, of course!! I’m always delighted to write Jon for you! I hope you like it. <3

Pairing: Jon Moxley x OFC. Prompts: Unbuttoning your lover’s shirt, pressed against the wall. Rating: M. Warnings/Content: Smutty smut. A little rough but nothing super intense. Word Count: 1,767.

(I don’t own gif; credit to audreyhrnes!)

Jon hated wearing suits but damn could he wear the hell out of them when someone finally managed to scam him into it. And she had. Sort of. Just for a night. She grinned to herself as she watched him tug on his tie, pace near the far wall of the room. The attempt to hide her smirk behind her champagne glass was caught by one Britt Baker and the good doctor sauntered over. She settled back against the drink table and grabbed one of her own.

“He is hating every minute of this, isn’t he?”

Britt gestured towards Jon with her glass.

“Oh, for sure,” she answered with a nod. She eyed Jon across the way and the look on his face when he saw that Eddie wasn’t also in a suit was priceless. As blue as his eyes were, she could see how wide they were clear across the room. “Eddie and I figured we might pull a rib on him, tell him that we would all be dressed nice. God, he fought against the tie like a dog with a collar.”

She had wrongly assumed that Jon wouldn’t mind the tie because of that correlation. She had seen all of his matches. But shit, they had almost been late because of that tie. He had threatened to tie her up with it and she should have known better than to dare him to do just that. Eventually, they had gotten their shit together enough to make it out the door and to the event. They could circle back to that later.

“He’s gonna hold this against you for forever, you know,” Britt said. “I’m going to go find Adam so good luck with Jon later. You’ll probably need it. Have fun!”

Britt shot a wink at her as they clinked their glasses together and downed their champagne. Just as she turned to set her empty glass, she could feel a presence behind her. A smile spread on her face.

“So, how pissed is Jon?”

“Truth be told his ass is a little chapped over it, doll.”

That was not Eddie Kingston’s voice. She tried to temper her face as she turned and looked up at him. Jon’s narrowed eyes greeted her.

“Hi, babe,” she said. “Are you having a good time?”

He shook his head, a smirk of disbelief on his face. He reached past her to grab a glass of champagne. He took a sip of it and scrunched his face. It wasn’t to his taste. Not like the bottle of Jack back in their room.

“Oh yeah, you’re gonna hi, babe me like you didn’t do anything wrong?” His low voice rolled through her ears. “You did me dirty, sweetheart. You and Eddie. He’s not getting out of this one and neither are you.”

She traced a finger down the line of open buttonholes at the front of his suit as she looked over him again. He insisted on wearing it unbuttoned, the sleeves pushed up. All broad and muscled, beard trimmed and that earring in. Hair a little messy like he’d just rolled out of bed or bar fight. Rugged and nothing at all like a gentleman.

“Oh, I get it,” he rumbled as he looked down at her, his dimples prominent when he began to grin at her. He made like he was going to kiss her cheek and lingered there. “Is it doing it for you, dressing me up all nice like this? I feel like it’s doing something for you.”

Her face flushed and she looked away for a beat. It was as much confirmation as anything. Jon’s tongue swept across his bottom lip and he nodded when he pulled away.

“Eddie and I thought it would be funny,” she finally said, confidently as she could. She fumbled for a glass and he did the honors of handing her one. She took a long sip of it before she spoke again. “We can go whenever if it’s really that ba--Oh we’re leaving now?”

Her words were all the incentive Jon needed to grab her hand and tug her towards the exit. She barely had time to set her glass down before they were through the double-doors. Thankfully, their room was in the same building the event was being hosted in. The time in the elevator went by quickly with Jon’s hand pulsating around hers, his barely contained energy swelling in the glass and metal box.

As soon as their door beeped them in, he was on her. He stooped down to pick her up against him and slanted his mouth over hers to claim. To bruise. Frustration spilled through and his tongue was harsh against her, his teeth sharp. She fisted his tie in her hand and tugged it hard when she pulled away from his mouth. He went to kiss her again and she pulled away.

“What, doll? What is it?”

His voice was a throaty rasp as his chest heaved. She kissed his cheek before she spoke.

“You said I did you dirty earlier, right?”

His intense eyes burned into her as he pressed her back against the wall. He nodded, then narrowed his eyes. What was she getting at? She made like she wanted to get down and he acquiesced. He grunted when she forced him back against the wall and she could see the way he strained against his suit pants, the way his thick thighs went tight. As much as dressing nice did it for her, he liked it when she got her hands on him and was anything but soft about it. Her hand loosened in his tie and she moved her hand down the front of his dress shirt, undoing the buttons as she went. She stood up on her tiptoes to kiss him and he groaned into her mouth when she popped the last one, her hand splayed across the warm skin of his stomach.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

She knelt down and kissed his stomach. His lips parted as he stared down at her, widened his stance. Her deft hands undid his belt and didn’t bother to pull it through the loops. His zipper went next and she slowly pulled his pants down over his ass, halfway down his thighs. Her fingers curled around the waistband of his boxer-briefs.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he said. His long fingers found a home in her hair. He hissed when she scratched her nails along his hip bones. His hips stuttered forward at the sensation and he tugged at her hair. “You’re gonna kill me. You are killing me.”

She smiled up at him as she palmed him through his briefs. He secured his bottom lip between his teeth once she bared him to the cold air of the hotel room. His abs contracted hard when she took the head of him into her mouth. Then the rest of him slid into the warmth of her mouth and he didn’t care about being quiet. A filthy moan thundered out of him when she took him as deep as she could and dug her nails into the muscle of his ass.

“Fuck, fuck,” he huffed out. “Do I need to wear nice shit more often, doll? Is that it? You like that? You like when I dress all nice for you?”

Her affirmative hum vibrated through him as she worked and his knees almost buckled. The hum turned into a moan and he swore. Such a large, intimidating bruiser of a man nearly brought to his knees just by her lips, her tongue? Fuck.

“Shit,” he heaved out. She felt him stiffen in her mouth and the muscles of his thighs go tight under her hands. The hand in her hair tugged hard and pressed her against him. His eyes fell shut and he leaned back into the wall to brace himself. “I’m gonna cum, baby. I’m gonna--”

Jon’s words were choked by his guttural groan as he filled the back of her throat. He hissed and his hips stuttered until the grip he had on her hair finally lessened. The back of his hand lightly smacked against the wall as he let her go. She looked up at him, completely debauched and still half-dressed in the suit she picked out for him. Her lipstick clung to his skin. His head fell back against the wall, eyes shut, and he barely startled when she kissed his neck.

He found her mouth with his and she felt his hands trace down her arms, his grip soft. Then the heat of their kiss was turned up and she moaned into his mouth as his tongue pressed against hers. The bliss of his orgasm faded, burned away by the resurgence of heat that made his hands feel warm as brands on her skin.

She moaned his name and reached for him. Except she couldn’t. She opened her eyes. His tie was gone, her hands bound behind her. Jon’s lips stalled against hers and she felt him smile. He pulled away, his breath hot on her moist lips. Hooded eyes looked down at her.

“You dared me earlier, doll,” he said as he guided her back to the bed. He slowly spun her around and pulled her back against him, his chest to her back. She arched against him when he mouthed against her neck. His hand lightly squeezed one of her breasts through her dress. “You remember that?”

She nodded. He squeezed the other and she panted.

“Do you still want me to make good on that?”

She whimpered and her head fell back against his shoulder. A low chuckle rose out of him when she whispered a yes.

“You dressing nice does it for me too,” he admitted as he guided her to bend over the edge of the bed. His hand ran down her back to play with her bound hands, squeeze her ass, then down her thighs to where the hem of the dress was. If it tore a little when he yanked it up over her hips, she didn’t care. He nudged her feet apart and she turned her head against the bed to look back at him. He leaned over her and she shuddered at his breath against her ear. “But fuck, you look damn good like this too. Real fucking good.”

He tore her panties down and the only thought that crossed her mind when he got his hands, all of him, on her, was that she would have to put Jon Moxley in suits more often. Forever, if possible.

[yourlocallovesickie]

dk if you still take requests for the beatles so apologies in advance but could you write something about maybe george coming down with a bug or something and being all bloated and achy and the others are trying to take care of him (could be poly or platonic, don't really mind)? if you want to of course 👉👈

Sorry this took a while, I went a bit overboard haha. Love me some sick George. Anyways, enjoy!

George had always tried not to be the weakest link in the group, especially because he was already younger than the others. But occasionally he would push off his own well-being to not be seen as the baby, especially on tour. The low hours of sleep followed by exhausting concert to exhausting concert and the tedious travel between them, afterparties, normal parties, interview, etc, etc . .

Needless to say they were all drained, so of course George paid no mind when he woke up from his 3 hours of sleep feeling tired and achy, his mind clouded and pounding, and stomach swirling. He'd often get stomach aches from stress and anxiety, so he popped a tylenol of five and headed to breakfast.

The others were all gathered around the small hotel table sluggishly eating their breakfast and sipping their coffee. Even Paul looked tired, and that man could wake up every morning at 5 am sharp with a smile on his face. Ringo and the aformentioned morningbird waved at George when he entered, John face down next to a half-empty box of cornflakes, which Ringo passed over to him as he sat down. The idea of eating food made his stomach gurgle angrily, and a sense of nausea began creeping up on him. He must just be hungry. He forced down a few bites of cereal before pushing it away, the others too occupied with keeping their eyes open to notice his lack of appetite, or how he lagged even farther behind the others as they prepared for the day's events.It wasn’t until they were in the car on the way to their first soundcheck/rehearsal, the other three keeping up a quiet conversation as George leaned against the cool window, arms crossed over his stomach and eyes closed, willing the nausea away that they noticed anything. 

“‘Ey George, I know you’re the quiet Beatle but you’re allowed to talk y’know,” John quipped. Responding seemed like too much work, so George sat still.

“Is he asleep?” Paul muttered, tapping the younger man lightly. With a groan and an uncomfortable burble from his stomach, George swatted Paul’s hand away, recieving cheers from the others. 

“There he is! Up ‘n at ‘em Georgie boy!” There was a playful thwak at his side that only made him groan again, curling over on himself. 

“We know you’re tired, but let’s all at least suffer together shall we?” John and Paul shared a laugh, and George could feel a warm hand press up against his cheek, cold metal rings making him pull away slightly as they made contact. the hand hovered by his cheek for a moment, George leaning into it before the hand retreated up to his forehead.  The laughter from the other two died down, and George could see their lightly concerned stares on him even with his eyes closed. The hand retreated once more, brushing his bangs to the side. 

“You feeling alright, Georgie?” Even opening his eyes to look up at the other seemed too much of a challenge. He shook his head and could immediately hear the others scoot up to get a look at him. He feels two other hands pressed against his cheeks and forehead, one playfully ruffling his hair as the other three Beatles mumble words his fevered brain couldn’t put together.

“I think we should go back to the hotel, he feels pretty warm,” Paul fretted, pressing his hand against the back of George’s neck again to be sure. 

“Brain’ll kill us if we cancel this close to performance.”

“Better we cancel now than right before the show when he passes out.” With a nod of agreement the three stayed close to George throughout the remainder of the car ride, the sick man nodding off against the window until he was rudely awakened by a sudden knot in his stomach. As his muddled mind struggled to wake up more he realized how nauseous and bloated he felt; like getting seasick right after dinner. The movement of the car only made him feel worse, and soon enough he had slurred something along the lines of “pull over” before throwing open the door and learning out just in time for a round of the cornflakes he’d choked down earlier to reappear, splattering onto the side of the road. His stomach twisted in agony, and even after a few more very productive, milky burps and retches a cloud of nausea continued to hang over him. At some point someone had started rubing his back, probably Paul; he could feel his delicate fingers slowly tracing patterns down his spine. 

“As rounds 2, 3, and 4 made their appearance and Paul helped keep George upright and inside the car, and Jon was turned away from them both for fear he may add his own breakfast to the concoction, Ringo turned to the driver and order they be taken back to the hotel. They were a little over halfway to the studio but they figured the less movement for George the better. After they were sure he was finished for the time being they started the journey back, every turn and bump in the road eliciting a small noise of discomfort as his stomach cramped and roiled. Every time he blinked it took more and more effort to open his eyes again until finally he opened them see to see the hotel they were staying at and a surprisingly few amount of fans crowding outside, theiri screams getting increasingly louder as the car pulled up. George doesn’t think he’d ever been so relieved to see an American hotel. 

Getting into the hotel posed a slight challenge, though. The second he stood up he was bent in half as another albeit smaller wave of vomit splashed up onto the sidewalk. He would have fallen into it had Paul not grabbed him once more, the others trying to sheild from fans and swarming paparazzi without being hit. The world seemed to spin and the crowd’s screams were so loud he felt like his head might explode. He closed his eyes to try and shut out the screaming and the flashing lights and the pain that they brought, and when he opened them again they were inside, half-walking half-dragging George up to their shared suite. He could still hear the screams, but they were so muffled he wasn’t sure whether they were still coming from outside or in his own head. His stomach cramped and gurgled, and George slouched over, both arms wrapped across it protectively.

"You alright there, Georgie?" John asked, and though there was no condescending note to his tone George still found himself huffing at the pity. 'I'm being childish', he thought, and with an arm still guarding his stomach he stood straight and walked slightly ahead of the others, dragging them back to their room before delicately hanging up his coat, toeing off his shoes, and slamming the bathroom door with a quick retch.

"Should I go check on him?" Paul asked, already gripping the doorknob and letting himself in. The sight nearly broke his heart. His band mate, best friend, and basically younger brother was curled over the side of the toilet, his back sweat-soaked and heaving as he gagged and struggled. There was a small puddle of bile by his feet and a spot or two on his shirt where he hadn't made it, and Paul immediately grabbed the towel by the sink and set it over the puddle, resting a comforting hand on George's back. A few minutes passed of the younger Beatle gasping and choking up his partially digested breakfast before John and Ringo joined them, and eventually they all led George out to a spot on the couch with a bowl at his feet and blankets surrounding him. Ringo slipped a thermometer in his mouth, just barely dodging the bout of sick that bubbled up with the gag the thermometer drew out.

"Ugh.. Sorry," he groaned, one hand wrapped over his stomach which twisted and contorted inside him, desperately trying to get whatever was inside him out. The other was supporting his weight, shakily braced on the arm of the couch as John held the bowl under his dripping chin. Ringo slipped the thermometer back under his tongue.

"You're alright," he responded, and George groaned as the vile was removed. "That's a fever."

"Dammit."

"Looks like no concert tonight, then," Paul said, receiving a cheer from John.

"Thank god! Finally a break. Thank you, George." The younger man sank down in his seat, and the others shook their heads. "What? I'm grateful!" With a sigh, Paul sank down beside him.

"What John means is no one is upset with you, Georgie. This happens, and really I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did." George nodded, and still curled in his little ball leaned into Paul, the others joining in as well. His stomach hurt, his entire body ached, but maybe with the others by his side this wouldn't be as bad as he thought.

[pitviperofdoom]

TMA Fantasy Week, Day 2

Prompt: Fae

Summary: A faerie imprisoned by hunters receives a strange visitor. (Pre JonGerry)

Warnings: Imprisonment, forced obedience.

Part of a larger story I’m working on. I’ll be posting it on AO3 when I’m finished.

***

He smelled the she-wolf before he saw her.

When the door to his little chamber opened, he kept his eyes shut, as always. Why bother opening them? The hounds had become tiresome to look at of his own accord. If they needed him, then they could bark his Name and be done with it.

And so he smelled her first—fresh blood and grave dirt clinging to her fur—and heard her claws click on the cold stone floor, until the sound softened as heavy paws became lighter feet.

It was a shoe that nudged him, none too gently, before she spoke in a voice laced with a low growl. “Get up, Keay.”

He rose because he could not do otherwise, even with only a fragment of his Name in her teeth. Reluctantly he opened his eyes to find the she-wolf standing before him, windblown and bloodstained from a recent and successful chase.

That was odd. The hounds rarely hunted without consulting him first, wringing answers from his unwilling lips until they were satisfied that they knew their prey. But here she was, eyes bright and hunger sated, without his help.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Shut up,” she snapped, and his jaw clicked obediently shut. Satisfied, Julia looked over her shoulder and called out. “Bring ‘em in, Trev.”

The other hound entered, though he stayed back by the door. And then, a moment later, a third figure crept cautiously through the doorway, skirting Trevor before coming to a halt at a respectful distance from Julia. In an instant, their eyes were on him.

They were small, though anyone would look small while standing near the hounds. They were nearly plain as well, but for a few flashes of beauty. Dark brown eyes, deep and sharp with curiosity. Dark hair that brushed their shoulders, shot through with silver. Slender hands on delicate wrists, that would have been graceful if they weren’t trembling so. It only took a glance to know why—their skin was darker than his, but he could still see the familiar bruises that marked their wrists. The wolves had been rough with them—another prisoner to share his cage?

No—they would never bother keeping a human. What good was a human to them, when they had him instead?

Only… someone must have aided in their hunt.

“Here you are, then,” said Julia, with a dismissive flick of her hand. “You want a story? He’s got plenty.” The human’s eyes narrowed at this—not angry, merely thoughtful. “Don’t look at me like that. We’ve heard what you do with stories.”

(His ears pricked at that—a human with sharp and curious eyes, aiding hunters and asking for stories in return. That could mean nothing, or it could mean everything.)

“Count yourself lucky we didn’t just rip your throat out too,” Julia growled. “Save everyone else the trouble.”

The human carefully shifted their shaking hands behind their back. “That won’t be necessary,” was their polite reply.

“Good.” Julia nodded shortly. “That’s our end of the deal, then.” She shouldered roughly past them, knocking them neatly out of her way as she rejoined Trevor. From some hidden pocket within her coat, she drew out a familiar slip of old, weathered sheepskin between her fingers and showed it off with a careless wave. “Give us a shout if he gets mouthy, and we’ll set him right.”

“You’re not staying?” the human asked.

“Trevor hates being around him too long,” Julia replied.

“Gives me the creeps.” Trevor’s lip curled past the tips of his teeth. “Looks human but ain’t. If it wasn’t so useful, we’d have killed it ages ago.”

“Door’s unlocked, so come out when you’re done,” said Julia. “Don’t worry about him escaping—he knows better.”

As the wolves left the dark chamber and closed the door behind them, not once did he take his eyes from the scrap in Julia’s hand.

The moment they were gone, he sat down again, and with a rustle of fabric his visitor joined him at a distance. Their eyes never left his face, even as he refused to meet them.

“You want a story,” he said. It was not a question.

“I don’t know if ‘want’ is the right word,” the human replied.

“You’re the Archivist.” The words slip easily off his tongue—the truth, then. “Why are you here?”

The Archivist was silent for a moment. “I led prey to them,” they replied. “I helped them hunt. I asked for a story in return, but they didn’t want to give one, so they brought me to you instead.”

He smiled at that, wide and angry in the dark, clenching his teeth until he could imagine the taste of blood. “Did they, now.”

“Will you tell me one?” the Archivist asked.

It was a question, not a command, and even if it were otherwise, without his Name in their hand it would have no teeth. “No,” he replied, savoring the taste of the word like fine wine.

It was not freedom that he felt in refusing, but if he closed his eyes and imagined, it felt close. It was his favorite word, if only because he so rarely got to say it. Sometimes it felt as if gold would fall from his lips when he did.

It was worth the pain that always followed.

The Archivist looked confused, but not quite surprised. “No…?”

“Their debt is not mine to pay.”

“I suppose it isn’t.” The Archivist regarded him thoughtfully, curiously. Their lips pressed together firmly, as if holding back a deluge of questions.

He waited for his visitor to rise back up, call for their hosts and demand they make good on their deal by forcing a story from him. There wasn’t much he could do to defy the wolves that held his Name, but defiance still tasted sweet in the moment.

But the Archivist remained where they were. Either they thought they could cajole or force him themself, or they simply hadn’t thought of it yet. If that was the case, then he wasn’t about to remind them.

“Then we’re at an impasse, I suppose,” they said after a moment. “Unless there’s something I can offer you?”

He bared his teeth in a smile. “Your name, if you don’t mind?”

“I do mind,” the Archivist replied without batting an eye. “You may not have my Name. But if you like, you may call me Jon.”

He spread his hands wide. “Then we are at an impasse,” he replied. “Jon.” A simple name, but it sat nicely on the tongue.

“I suppose we are,” said Jon. They glanced at the door, but made no move to approach it.

Perhaps they were simply stupid. Rather unfortunate, for someone so significant to the Court of the Eye. Then again, it didn’t take much in the way of cleverness to collect stories.

“Was there something else you wanted?” he asked.

Jon shrugged. “It hasn’t been enough time for a story yet,” he said. “If I leave now, they might wonder why.”

That was not the answer that he was expecting. “And?”

Jon raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you want them to rip one out of you against your will?”

He stiffened. “No,” he admitted, almost petulantly. Not stupid after all, then. “Don’t you?”

He didn’t like the way Jon looked at him after that, measuring him with a glance. “Not particularly,” they replied. “They’re the ones indebted to me, so they should be the ones to pay, not you.”

“Oh.”

From the other side of the room, the Archivist’s eyes remained fixed on him. “They have more than just your name,” they said, and though their voice didn’t rise at the end of it, he knew it for the question it was. “You’re a full faerie, or as near as you can be.”

He nodded. “Only half of one, by blood,” he replied. “But these things don’t really care much about blood.”

“Except vampires.”

“Obviously except vampires,” he snapped. The Archivist cringed at his tone, drawing in their shoulders to make themself even smaller. “What matters is power. And, for the Court of the Eye, knowledge. But I’m sure you already know that.”

“Yes,” Jon replied, a little hoarsely.

“Knowledge matters here, as well,” he went on. “That’s why they keep me.”

“They showed me that scrap she had,” said Jon. “They said it had your Name written on it. I thought it was awfully risky, showing me something like that when they want to keep you.” Their eyes narrowed in thought. “I’ll bet, if I called it right now without that slip in my hand, it wouldn’t work for me.”

It was not a question. In fact, the Archivist sounded like they were trying very hard to keep it from being one.

“What of it.”

Jon studied him for a moment longer. “Just curious,” he said. “In the meantime, is there something I can call you?”

The question puzzled him, though he didn’t show it. “You know my Name already.”

Their face spoke volumes—a tightening around the lips, to hold back something more telling. “I don’t think I’d like it if people used my Name, even if it was useless to them,” they said. “Is there something that you’d like to be called?”

The question tugged a “Yes” from him, though no more than that. He could have kept silent, and in spite of everything he knew about the world, he suspected that Jon would even let him. In the end, he replied, “Gerry.”

They smiled. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. “It’s a pleasure, Gerry.”

“No it isn’t,” he said, and the smile slipped from their face.

“No, I suppose it isn’t. I don’t suppose… is there anything I can do?”

“Steal my Name back from the wolves, and deliver it to me,” he replied. “You’d get a story from me then.”

He’d meant it as a joke, an impossible task posed to flaunt what little power he had. And yet the Archivist looked thoughtful, as if they were genuinely considering it.

“They’d rip you to shreds before you got close,” he said.

“Yes,” Jon mused. “I suppose they would. Considering how they’re trying to repay my favor, they don’t strike me as particularly fair.”

“Yeah, they’re big on foisting debts on others.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience,” Jon replied, and barely flinched when he showed his teeth. “From what I’ve seen, I doubt they won your name fairly in the first place.”

He ground his teeth. “I think it’s been enough time, don’t you?”

“Not really,” Jon sighed, but got up anyway. At the door, he paused and looked back. “One more question, if you want to answer.”

“What now?”

“Do you know if someone’s looking for you?” they asked. “Anyone you’d like to send word to? Anyone wondering where you are?”

“There’s no one.” Nothing was pulling the truth out of him this time, but it still poured hot and foul from his throat. “No one but the one who gave out my Name in the first place. My mother is gone, and my father died so long ago that I never even learned his name.”

Something sparked in the Archivist’s eyes. Not just emotion, but power—the very power revered in the Court of the Eye. He hadn’t expected that, and he couldn’t help wonder what his honesty had wrought.

The moment passed, and without warning, the Archivist smiled again. “Thank you, Gerry.”

They said it precisely and clearly, with obvious intention. It made him balk; the Courts worked in deals and trades and favors, and words of gratitude came with the risk of accepting a debt. He had to wonder once more if the Archivist was stupid.

But he wasn’t going to get an answer. Jon knocked on the door, and moments later Julia opened it.

“All done?” she asked gruffly.

He sat back, tired and vaguely curious. The Archivist was odd, odd enough to reawaken his own curiosity, long since buried after the wolves took his Name. It was a shame to see him leave so soon.

“Not quite,” Jon replied, startling him. “I have business with the Court and I have to leave, and I was only able to hear a piece of his story. I’ll be back later for the rest.”

What?

Irritation flashed in Julia’s eyes, but she stood to the side with an impatient huff. “Fine then. Guess the quarry you found us was worth a lot.”

The Archivist glanced over their shoulder before they left, briefly meeting his eyes. That strange light still shone in Jon’s gaze, steady and curious and otherwise unreadable. They were gone before he could properly decipher it.

Julia barely spared him a second glance before shutting the door on him and leaving him in the dark. He sat back with a sigh, thoughts running through his head with frantic energy. Had he caught the attention of the Eye? Had Jon caused it, or was he merely a symptom of that attention? Perhaps he would find out, the next time the Archivist came to visit him.

It was an odd feeling, to have something to look forward to again.

[dork-empress]

Singing in the Dead of Night

Damian Wayne meets a new masked persona in Gotham, and everyone has to adjust to her.

AKA I have a lot of headcanons about Lucy Quinzel and I'm making it other people's problem.

I want it up front that I haven't read these comics, just a lot of wiki pages and tiktoks. If there's a fun thing in the comics you can tell me, but this is my own version of this universe and these characters.

This is going to be the main story, but I may do some offshoots. If you want to subscribe, chapters are also posted on my Ao3 (link in my description).

“You need to take things less seriously.”

Damian looked up, looked down, and then looked back just to be sure it was really his father who asked. It was hard to tell sometimes if your superhero father had been replaced or possessed or something. “Are you serious? YOU’RE telling me that?”

“That should enforce to you how dire the situation is.” Bruce said, leaning back in his chair. “You’re still a kid,”

“I’m 15,” Damian said, then thought about his varied adventures, “Technically…”

“My point exactly,” Bruce said, turning a page on his crime reports, “You should enjoy being a kid, for a while.”

“Oh, did you enjoy being 15?” Damian said, and maybe that was a low blow, but if Bruce wasn’t ready for him to call him out he...shouldn’t have made him upset. Hmm.

Bruce looked up and stared into his soul, and Damian worried he might have stepped in it a bit. He backed up a step in case. Bruce took a deep breath, looking at him. “My childhood was stolen from me, but I at least had one. As did all the other Robins. You’re not responsible for what happened to you,but I think you could use some time. I couldn’t offer you a childhood then, and I can hardly do that now, I know, but I can do what I can.”

“And what are you doing?” Damian asked, narrowing his eyes.

“You’re suspended from Robin duties.”

“WHAT?!” Damian exploded, getting in his face. “What are you talking about?!”

Bruce didn’t flinch, “Until the Wayne Manor Christmas Party,” Bruce said, “I’ve called Tim and he’s willing to cover for you until then.”

“He doesn’t NEED to cover me,” Damian snarled, “I’m right here! I’m not injured, or dead, or ANYTHING I just--WHY?”

“I told you,” Bruce said, “You need to find other...hobbies, or form connections or SOMEthing. Anything other than the lifestyle. You have two months, you’ll live.”

Damian curled his fists, shaking, but had no more arguments. “You’re the WORST!” He said, and went off to his rooms.

The room was left in stony silence for a moment. Alfred came in, changing out Bruce’s cup of tea. “You don’t actually expect that to work, do you?”

“Not really, no,” Bruce said, “But he’ll be out of my hair for a little bit.”

Alfred was very dignified and so did not snort. But it was close.

Damian went out at night, saying he was off with a friend. Best to keep things vague, but if Bruce pressed, he’d say he was with Jon, and could probably bully Jon into vouching for him.

He dressed all in black, jumping from the rooftops, looking for trouble. There was usually plenty of it in Gotham. He just had to avoid the Bat Signal hanging in the sky and he’d be fine.

He heard a crash and looked down. Jewelry store robbery. Perfect.

He jumped down to ground level and approached the broken in window, taking out his sword. “Anyone in here, it’s better to surrender now,”

Of course, because it was Gotham, he wasn’t met by a normal jewel thief. No, instead, what approached him was a small walking orange balloon animal dog.

Because of course it was.

With an act first, think later attitude, he stabbed at it. He regretted it instantly as it let out some sort of opaque gas, the effects of which he didn’t want to find out. He pulled his shirt up over his mouth in hopes of preventing himself breathing too much in.

“Oh wow,” a voice said behind him, “Are you Robin?”

Damian whipped around and scowled. The gas was obscuring whoever was there, but the silhouette seemed like something of a ballerina. Why couldn’t one criminal just be normal?

He jumped back, ready to attack, but she didn’t fight him. “I’m not Robin,” he said, “I’m…” he didn’t think of another name. Ugh, this was more complicated than it needed to be.

“Huh,” she said, heading over to the display case, “This city sure has a lot of teenage ninja fighters, doesn’t it? Is ninja appropriative? Hmm, will have to think on that.”

She picked up a diamond ring from the display case and headed for the door. “Put that down!” Damian yelled at her, lifting his sword up.

“What, are you going to kill me for one ring?” She said, holding it, “Kinda overkill, don’t you think, Blackbird?”

Damian put his sword up to her, blocking the exit. “I’m not going to kill you, I’m just going to stop you,” he said, determined, but then her words sank in. “Blackbird?”

“Well, I’ve got to call you something, isn’t that how these superhero fights all go?” She stepped forward out of the fog, a girl about his age with a white painted face, lips painted into a heart, and bright orange and pink eyeshadow. “I’m Commedia, the hero of funny, the dancing clown, the laughing knight, etc etc.” she said, “im still working on my name too.”

She did a fancy twirl, getting out of range of Damian’s sword, which he countered to block her from the entrance again. “Oh, you like to dance?” she said.

“Clown, huh?” he said, staring her down, “You work for the joker?”

She laughed, high pitched and sweet, “Very much no,” she said, twirling again through the store, “Though I understand the confusion. No, Joker is...well, a joke. He’s not even registered in the clown registry.”

“There’s a clown registry?” He swung his sword.

This time, it came to a stop, with a matching jingle. He frowned, and saw it was a tambourine that the woman had lifted and stopped the sword like a shield.

He stared at the girl, Commedia, in stunned silence. She smiled brightly at him. “Well, this has been fun. But I really ought to head out. Raincheck on that dance, Blackbird.”

With a spin and a jump, she made it past him and rushed out the door, throwing a pink flower behind. A gas filled up the room in her wake, obscuring the view. Damian unfortunately got a whiff before he could block his nose, but he knew a simple fog cloud scent when he smelled it.

Damian went back into the shadows before the police inevitably arrived. It did seem below his paygrade, fighting someone who only stole a single diamond ring. But it was even stranger for that fact. A strangely dressed clown woman engaging in very strange and specific crimes in Gotham screamed “beginning of a dangerous plot.”

He wanted to go in swinging as usual, then remembered that if his father heard anything about a young person with a sword threatening police, he might catch onto the fact Damian went out that night. So, he went with the subtle approach. Breaking into the jewelry store’s records.

He was glad he did. It turned out that ring in particular had a history. It had been bought, returned, bought again, and returned once more, all by the same man, a Matthew Crenshaw. A quick records search brought up that he was a simple caller at a center. Nothing special about him. But, he was tied to the ring, and that tied him to the girl, so that was his first stop.

He tracked down the apartment to find Matthew Crenshaw in the middle of a very strange day. Damien watched through the window as Matthew lay on the floor of his meager living room, looking up at Commedia herself. She held the ring out to him, offering. “Well come on, man! Take it!”

“I don’t…” he mumbled, “Who...who are you?!”

“Just call me your fairy godmother,” she said. “Come on, you said you wanted it! So take it!”

“That’s…” Matthew said, “That’s the ring that Jenny liked...that she…”

“That you said would make the perfect proposal!” She said, dancing around, “So? Here it is! Now you can propose for real!” she said, giving it to him.

He juggled it, nearly falling over. Commedia came rushing over, jumping through the window and onto the fire escape. “Alright, hands up,” Damian urged her.

She turned, smiling. “Why, Blackbird? We going on roller coaster?” She put her hands high in the air and swung around the fire escape ladder, “Weeeeee!”

Damian followed her, pointing his sword tip at her chest. “Stop,” he said, “What are you planning?”

“Well, I’m planning to go sneak up to that window up there so I can look in and see what Matty and Jenny have going on,” She said, “Wanna join--OH!”

Damian pressed his sword up to her neck. “Cut the games,” He said, “You’re up to something, I know it. So tell me.”

Commedia sighed, giving in. “Matthew doesn’t want to get married.”

“I...what?” Damian said, confused.

“Matthew Crenshaw, the guy up there,” Commedia said, “He’s a nice guy, and he cares for his girlfriend Jenny, sure. But she’s been pressuring him about getting married, even though he doesn’t really like the idea of getting married. He’s talked himself into saying that he needs the perfect ring, but when he bought it, he decided he couldn’t afford it, and gave it back. So, I got it for him.”

Damian’s scowl only deepened as she kept talking. “Who’s he to you?”

She tilted her head, confused. “He cold called me to try and offer me a deal on car insurance.”

Damian put down the sword. He just. She said it so sincerely. “Who ARE you?” He demanded, now out of confusion more than anger.

She smiled brightly once more. “Why, I’m Commedia! The hero clown, the dancing--”

“Yeah, you said all that before, but like,” He sighed, “Why?”

Commedia’s smile fell down to something simple and kind. She offered a hand to him.

Hesitant, curious, and just...confused, he took it.

She led him to the other window, where they saw Jenny walking through the door. She gasped and ran to Matthew. “Oh, Matt! Matt, yes! Yes, I do, I do, I never thought this day would come! Oh gosh, I gotta call my mom, I’ve got a few dresses all picked out. You’ll see, it’ll be a huge party with everyone we know and-”

“Jenny,” he said, “Jenny wait, I...you know I don’t...I’m not comfortable with crowds and...and I don’t--

“But it’s MY DAY!” Jenny wailed, “You wouldn’t take MY day from me, would you?”

“C’mon,” Commedia muttered.

“Please, Jen,” Matt continued, “Look it’s just...if, if we did get married, shouldn’t--wouldn’t it be my day too?”

“Oh come ON, Matt,” Jenny said, walking to the counter, “We both know I’m the one who knows what’s best for you. It’ll be good! You’ll finally get to shine, and if you don’t like it, you’ll have ME there to take the rest of the spotlight!”

Matt’s hands balled into fists, and his face set, “No.”

“What?” Jenny said, incredulous.

“I’ve had it! I’m tired of-of you telling me what I like and what I don’t!” his lip trembled as he stood up. “I knew I was hesitant, but I didn’t know why! Now I see it’s becasue I didn’t want you in the rest of my life!”

“Hey now,” Jenny said, “Matt, calm down--”

“Get out of my house!” Matt went to the open window Commedia left behind and tossed out the ring.

“Whoopsies,” Commedia said and dropped away. Damian, confused, dropped down after her.

She picked the ring up from the ground and held it out to Damian. “I trust you can get this back to the jewelry store.”

“So, all of that…” he said, “was to help a guy get out of a bad relationship? That you barely knew?”

“He sounded sad on the phone,” Commedia said, “Made me curious.”

Damian scoffed, staring at her. “Who ARE you?”

She chuckled. “My guess is you’ll find out sooner or later,” she said, “So I’ll pick later, for now. But I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, Blackbird.”

She took out another flower. This one shot off into the distance like a grappling hook, and pulled her twirling into the night.

Damian could have followed her, maybe. But, holding the ring in his hands, he didn’t see much need to.

Across town, Batman was called to a bank robbery in the middle of the night. Inside, however, he didn’t find the vault broken in, and nothing stolen, other than a number of complimentary lollipops. “You know there are easier ways to get my attention.”

“Aw, Come on Bats!” Harley said, swinging from the ceiling with one of the lollipops in her mouth, “Ain’t this a classic? Brings me back to the old days.”

“Oh, you’ve stopped doing crime then?” He said, leaning back and looking up at her, “News to me.”

Harley flipped down in front of him. “Batsy, you know I’m tryin’! I do good, is it a crime to have a little fun while I do it?”

“If you hurt people, yes.” Batman said.

Harley deflated. “I haven’t done that in a while now. I’m goin through some life changes.”

Batman hummed, staring down at her. “I’m guessing this is about the small clown that has been reported around town recently doing strange acts of minor crimes to help people?”

Harley brightened again, balancing on the teller counter. “She’s my new apprentice! A bit of a goody-two-shoes, but I’m doing my best to train her.” She did a handstand, “I came to ask for some advice at raising child soldiers, considering you have so much experience.”

Batman always scowled, but it seemed his scowl deepened on that. “I help some people come to terms with terrible things that have happened to them, and teach them to be a force of good in the world instead of falling to the world’s darkness.” He thought back on his children, “It doesn’t always work.”

Harley laughed, “No kidding,” she said. She sighed, thinking. “To be honest, Commedia is already pretty good. I can’t claim credit for that.” She rocked back and forth, feeling uneasy.

Batman approached, slow so as not to scare her. “Well, we both know she didn’t get it from her father.”

Her face was already white, but she blanched further. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, “She’s my niece, she ran from home so I’m taking care of her and-”

“Harley,” Batman stopped her rambling, “I’m a detective, remember?”

She frowned, shaking at him. “He doesn’t know,” she said, “No one knows, she...she’s never met him and I don’t want her to I--”

Batman held up his hands, stopping her again. “I know,” he said, “I understand, really. And I’ll help.”

She blinked up at him, smiling. “Really?”

Batman nodded. “I’ll help you protect her. As for advice....if you ever figure out a perfect way to raise masked vigilantes, let me know. I mostly just do the best I can, and make sure they can do a proper spin-kick if they need to.”

Harley snorted. “I’ll make a note of that.” She grabbed the box of free lollies on the counter, “I am going to be robbing these though, and you can’t stop me.”

She headed for the back entrance and away. “Harley,” Batman called her again, and she froze, “The year you were gone, when you disappeared and suddenly your sister had a child she wasn’t pregnant with. I want you to know, I noticed.”

Harley smiled, turning, “Thanks Bats-” When she turned, he was gone. “And people call me a drama queen.”

[a-bang-for-your-bucky]

Welcome Home Part 4

Summary: Winter is here. Peyton has her match against Shida, Kenny has his match against Moxley, Brandi shares some information with Peyton.

Pairings: Cody Rhodes x OFC (Sister), Brandi Rhodes x OFC (sister), Kenny Omega x OFC

WARNINGS: 18+, explicit language, allusions to smut, a heated make out sesh, heel turn.

Word: 1,957

A/N: y'all i'm sorry this took so long. I hope this is as good as the other parts. <3

Tonight was the night. “Winter is Coming” had an action packed card. There was a rumor going around that someone was making their AEW debut, but only a certain few knew who. (Here's a hint: IT'S STIIIIIIIIIING).

My match against Shida was after Cody’s tag match with Darby against Team Taz. Brandi and I watched the AEW Dynamite Diamond Ring Battle Royal as I prepped, put my gear on and stretched. I rolled my eyes watching as MJF weaseled his way into a win. “One day, Wardlow is going to kick his ass.” I bet as I turned to Brandi. She nodded in agreement. She had been acting different lately. “You alright, sis? You seem off.” I asked her, genuinely concerned.

Brandi looked around the office space we were in, before getting up to close the door. “You can’t say anything, especially to Cody.” She made me promise before continuing. She was starting to scare me. “I’m pregnant.” She beamed, pulling a scan photo out of her bag.

My jaw dropped, eyes wide open. “I’m gonna be an aunt again?!” I all but squealed, taking the black and white photo from her. “Brandi, that’s so exciting! I know how much you guys have been wanting this.” She enveloped me in a hug.

“I haven’t came up with the best way to tell Cody yet, but it’s gonna be this weekend. So, you won’t have to keep the secret for long.” Brandi was positively glowing. This was the best news to get right before my match.

“Thank you for trusting me. I can’t believe this. It’s gonna bring me good luck, I just know it.” I smiled, hugging her again. A knock on the door pulled us back to the night at hand. “It’s open.” I yelled.

It was Cody. “You’re up, Pey.” He said as he walked in over to Brandi. “Hi, honey.” He whispered sweetly, giving her a kiss. I mock-gagged telling them to get a room before I left. It was time; My time.

A twenty minute long, extremely physical match later and I did it. By the skin of my teeth, I was able to get Shida in a roll up. For good measure, I used the bottom rope to my advantage, leveraging more pressure on the pin. Luckily, Rick Knox didn’t see it.

“Here is your winner, and new AEW Women’s Champion, The Dream Killer, Peyton Rhodes.” Justin bellowed into the microphone. The crowd was split between cheers and boos. Tony had met me at the stage.

“Peyton, any comment on the match?” He asked, obviously hinting at the rope thing. I smiled and shook my head.

“What Tony? You mean the match I just won? The one where I became champion? I think it went great.” I flashed him a toothy grin.

“But the rop-”

I cut him off. “Let me stop you right there, Schiavone. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I won that match, fair and square, with blood, sweat, and tears.” I growled into the mic, “Excuse me, I have a celebration to plan.” I stalked off down the heel tunnel. I only had about fifteen minutes before spot with Jon and Kenny.

Shit, I thought. I almost forgot about the conversation a couple of weeks ago. When Cody said he wanted me to turn on Jon, really solidify my heel turn, I didn’t think he’d want me to help take his title. Tony Khan wanted Kenny and I to play a ‘Power Couple’, basically take over the show.

I quickly changed out of my ring gear, back into my street clothes. The black skinny jeans were distressed and paired well with the grey tank top and tight leather vest I had pulled over it. My feet were clad in black combat boots.

I stood at the Gorilla monitors, watching Kenny’s match. I was still feeling high from winning my match and becoming AEW Women’s champion. I was waiting for my cue from Kenny to rush out. The last few weeks, Kenny had been dropping hints that he was turning heel. Tonight, I was sealing that turn and helping him win the AEW title.

Kenny had climbed to the top rope, looking like he was about to attempt a moonsault, but Jon rushed him. Kenny noticed and jumped to the outside of the ring. I gasped, worried he had landed wrong on his knee. Only relaxing once I saw him jump back up on the apron. Jon hit him with a forearm, knocking him off balance long enough for Jon to slide out of the ring and pull a foot out from under him.

Kenny went face first into the apron. Jon grabbed him, looking like he was going for the paradigm shift, but did a slightly awkward snapdragon into a speaker. Kenny laid there, defenseless. I grabbed my mic, and got ready to run out onto the stage. The ref was trying to keep Jon back, while the ringside medic checked on Kenny.

More referees came out to assess Kenny, and I could tell Jon was getting pissed. He stalked back over and tossed the extras out of the way, trying to get to Kenny. Jon rolled him back into the ring and began pounding on his head. Kenny brought his hands up to protect his head, shooting a signal that only I knew to look out for.

I rushed out the heel tunnel, mic in hand. “Jon, stop. Please, stop.” I begged as I got closer to the ropes. Jon paused, confused as to why I was out there. “He’s down, Mox, stop.”

He moved off of Kenny, walking over to me. “What the hell are you doing?” He asked, throwing his hands up. He turned his back to me, doing Kenny’s signature finger gun gesture. I reached over the top rope, grabbing at his shoulder. He turned angrily, causing me to jump back, strategically dropping the mic into the ring for Kenny. “Get out of here, Peyton!” Jon yelled at me before turning back to Kenny.

I had the referee distracted long enough for Kenny to grab the mic, and smack Jon in the head with it. He had busted Jon wide open, the blood staining his face. Kenny pulled down his knee pad, hitting a V Trigger one, two, three, four times. I was sure Jon was unconscious. Kenny pushed him into a corner, fatigue settling in. He used the turnbuckle as leverage to lift Jon up, preparing for a One Winged Angel. He slammed Jon into the mat with such force, that the entire ring shook. Kenny grabbed one leg, all but laying over Jon, pinning him.

“Here is your winner, and NEW AEW world heavyweight champion, Kenny Omega.” Justin Roberts announced, and the crowd booed. I slid into the ring, taking the title from the ref, giving it to Kenny. I went to raise his hand, instead Kenny pulled me close. One of his hands grabbed the back of my head, pulling me toward him. I froze as his lips met mine. Quickly, after recovering from the shock, I pulled away. Kenny kept me close as he raised the belt. My mind still blank from the kiss, he moved us towards the rope, carefully holding them open for me to step through.

Once we were backstage and out of sight, I turned to face him. “Care to explain what the fuck that was?!” I fumed. Kenny’s face went beet red. He swiped a hand down his face. I knew he was exhausted, but I needed answers.

“Look, I promise I will explain, but Callis has a chopper ready to get me the fuck outta here. Come with me.” He swore, gesturing to the back door. I nodded and let him lead me outside. As we neared the chopper, Alex Marvez stopped Kenny to ask what happened. Callis stepped out of the chopper, telling him that he, along with everyone else, can find out Tuesday on Impact.

They must have anticipated my joining them as I found my duffle, along with my title and phone on the floor of the chopper. The pilot flew us to an undisclosed location, which I soon found out was the landing pad at Kenny's hotel. Callis ran straight to his room, hunkering down from the fall out of tonight's show. Kenny opened the door to his room, gesturing for me to come in. I walked inside, getting comfortable on the couch.

I quickly pulled out my phone, letting Cody know I was with Kenny. He immediately responded stating they were about to send a search party. I huffed out a laugh and Kenny looked over at me.

"I guess I have some explaining to do huh?" He sighed, running his fingers through his blonde curls. I nodded sharply. "I want to apologize first. I shouldn't have kissed you, especially without your permission and I'm truly sorry." He amended, " second, I really wish our first kiss would have been under better circumstances." He smiled sweetly. This man always finding a way to melt my heart.

"I accept your apology, this time Omega." I teased. "What made you do it though?" I asked, unsure if I wanted the answer.

"You know, the adrenaline was coursing through my veins, and there you were looking like a damn angel. And I thought to myself, the only thing that would make this better would be to kiss you. Before I could stop myself, my lips were on yours." Kenny blushed, explaining himself.

The man looked like a damn dream. Still clad in just his wrestling tights, blonde hair a mess of curls, chest red from the hits he took. And to top it all off, his lips looked down right kissable. Only Kenny Omega could look this good after a grueling wrestling match. I thought, smiling to myself. And even though I was upset that our first kiss happened on Live TV with millions watching, I wanted nothing more than for it to happen again.

“Can we get a redo?” The words fell from my lips as a whisper. Kenny’s head snapped up to look at me. He took three big strides to the couch where I was sat, pulling me up to my feet. One of his hands, which I never noticed were so big until they were cupping my face, tilted my mouth up toward his.

Torturously slow, Kenny brought his lips to mine. My eyes fluttered shut as my hands came up to tangle my fingers in his curls. Impossibly, Kenny pulled me closer, causing a small gasp to leave me. He took the opportunity to slide his tongue against my own.

The kiss was sweet, passionate, and full of emotion. When we finally parted to breath, Kenny was the first to speak. “That was,” he stopped, trying to find the right word.

“Breath-taking.” I finished his sentence and he nodded in agreeance. “Ken,” I started. He cut me off by kissing me again. I quickly melted into the kiss. My hands began to roam his body, slipping under the tight T-shirt, feeling the taut muscles of his back.

I pulled away from his intoxicating kiss and pushed him back toward the couch. Once back in a seated position, I straddled him. “Fuck, Pey.” Kenny moaned as my lips attacked his neck. He pulled my face back so that our eyes met. His blue eyes were almost black with desire . “Can’t have you leaving any marks there, princess.” Kenny growled. I cocked a brow and ground my center down on him. Kenny immediately flipped us, so that he was hovering over me. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Princess.” Kenny had started to unzip my vest when we were interrupted by banging on the door.

Tags: @rach-supreme93

[iceeckos12]

some prompt ideas for your perusal! cold hands; lingering gaze; sharp words; an unexpected gift; walking with the wind causing your scarf and hair to billow out behind you.

a;kdjf i am very slowly working through these prompts. thanks so much for sending them! i settled on sharp words. and since you didnt specify the pairing that means i get to pick so....s2 canon divergence jontim??

thank you again to Bloodsbane on discord for helping with characterization.

cw for stalking, jon is vaguely suicidal, casual discussion of tim theoretically murdering jon

It’s two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and Tim is standing in front of his house, arms aching under a heavy load of groceries, staring at the person sitting on the bench across from his house. Their face is hidden behind a newspaper, but he can faintly make out the peach-colored plasters that encircle the fingers even from here, and he cannot do this right now.

He sets the groceries down on the front porch with a bit more force than he meant to and marches across the street. The fingers tighten and the paper crinkles loudly as he approaches, but the hands don’t lower, and that somehow pisses him off even more.

Tim grabs the top of the newspaper and yanks, and Jon lets out a surprised cry as half his cover is ripped away. They stare at each other for a moment, Tim so incandescent with anger that he can’t even begin to speak, Jon’s eyes wide and surprised and tinged with the faintest flush of fear.

Tim takes a step forward. Jon lets out a tiny, pathetic sound and flinches, lifting his arms to protect his head, and Tim -

Stops. Feels every bit of the anger drain out of him, replaced with bone-deep hurt and bitter disappointment and pure exhaustion.

“Well?” he asks, gesturing toward his house. “If you’re not planning on leaving, you might as well come inside.”

Jon’s throat bobs as he swallows once, then twice, and slowly lowers his arms. His gaze is still bright with fear as he tentatively asks, “Are you...are you going to kill me?”

Anger flashes through him white hot, and he closes his eyes and breathes through it. Once he feels like he’s not going to start screaming, he opens his eyes and looks steadily down at Jon. “And what would you do if I was going to kill you?” his gaze travels slowly over Jon, noting the rumpled shirt, the stark lack of anything to defend himself with. Out loud he wonders, “What was your plan?”

Jon just looks at him, mouth agape, like he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Tim sighs, turns around, and walks back to the house. Either Jon will follow him, or he won’t.

He’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved when he hears quiet footsteps behind him.

Jon doesn’t say anything as Tim lets them into the house, as he puts his groceries away. He just hovers in the living room, looking around warily like he’s never seen the place before, which he has. Tim, Jon, and Sasha used to have movie nights here when they were researchers, and the memory of them sitting together on the couch, laughing over some stupid plot twist or what have you, almost bowls him over.

“Take a seat,” Tim orders stiffly. “Tea?”

Jon opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and simply nods, shoulders tight as a bowstring as he sits carefully on one of the chairs.

Tim thinks about all the things that he wants to say, all the things he probably shouldn’t say, as he fills the kettle. What he really wants are some magic words that will make everything go back to the way it was before they joined the archives, when there were no worms or murderers and things were easy. There aren’t, of course there aren’t, and it’s a stupid, wistful thought, but he wants it so badly that he has to dig his fingernails into the palms of his hands to ground himself.

But that’s impossible, because there were worms, and Jon’s paranoia has a very real source, for all that his reaction to it is invasive and unacceptable. He doesn’t think there’s any possible way to fix it, but there has to be a way to make this better, to - to relieve the pressure, so to speak.

Christ, Tim just wants his friend back.

So he puts the kettle on the stove, removes two mugs and a box of tea down from his cabinet. Takes a deep breath and turns to look at Jon, whose gaze immediately snaps from the house to him.

“So,” Tim begins, then stops, uncertain where to go from there. Then, because Jon is still favoring him with that wary, suspicious scowl, “Stop looking at me like that.”

Jon’s head jerks down and his gaze skitters away, but he doesn’t apologize.

Tim lets out a ragged sigh, drags his hands over his face, and reminds himself that Jon came here despite his suspicion, which must mean that deep down he’s sick of this too. “Jon, this has to stop.”

Jon bites his lip, his shoulders tensing up around his ears. He looks two seconds from bolting, but still he says nothing.

“Christ, Jon,” Tim bursts out, slapping his hand against the counter for emphasis. He almost pauses when Jon flinches so hard he almost falls right out of his seat, but shakes his head and soldiers on. “What - what the fuck do you want? From - from me, from Martin. What can I do to convince you that I’m not some cold-blooded killer?”

“What I want is to find Gertrude’s killer!” Jon bursts out, finally. “If I can just figure it out, get some answers -”

Tim throws his arms into the air. “And then what? You - you’re not even carrying anything to defend yourself. What if I was the killer?” he looks around the kitchen frantically. Points to the kettle, “What if I poisoned this tea? Or,” points to the knife block, “Or took one of these knives out and stabbed you? What then, Jon?”

“Then at least I would know,” Jon grits, eyes wild. “At least then it would be over.”

“Well sure,” Tim retorts, sharp as anything. “And then you’d be no better off than Gertrude, because you’d be dead.”

They both freeze mid-gesture at that. Jon stares at Tim, eyes wide, mouth pressed in a firm, tight line. Tim lowers his hands to his sides, the air in his lungs escaping in one long, slow rush.

“Is that really what you want?” he asks, and it comes out all soft, less like the sharp accusation he wanted it to. “Because...even if you don’t believe me, that’s not what I want.”

Jon finally looks away, his long, clever fingers rubbing senseless patterns against the arm of the chair. “I want to believe you,” he says miserably. “I’m just....”

The kettle behind him screams, and Tim finally creaks into motion. He turns around and mechanically pours the boiling water into the mugs, watching as the liquid almost immediately begins to darken. He adds a bit of the milk that he’d purchased just that day, then some sugar, and walks over to deposit one in front of Jon.

Then he sits down on the couch, cradling the other mug between his palms, and asks, “Do you really think that I’m a killer?”

Jon turns to him, eyes wide. “No!” then cringes inward, one hand reaching up to tug at his messy curls. “Yes. Fuck, I can’t...I just don’t know, Tim. You’re, I don’t think you are, I don’t - but Gertrude didn’t either, did she? She wasn’t, she wasn’t careful enough, and someone killed her, someone got her, and if I’m not careful they’ll get me too. I, I can’t relax, I can’t get comfortable -”

Tim raises a quelling hand, cutting him off before he can spiral any further, burying the hurt that one desperate yes had caused. “So we’re all equally suspicious.”

“Yes,” Jon says, relieved. He picks up his tea, looks down into it, before setting it aside again, like he really does suspect that it’s been poisoned.

“Okay,” Tim says, drumming his fingers against his knee, thinking. Jon is watching him intently, though it’s less frightened and more hopeful, like he’s expecting Tim to magically produce the solution to all his problems. It used to be nice, when someone as smart as Jon looked at him like that. Instead he just feels vaguely annoyed, because this isn’t his fucking responsibility - except he’s committed now, so it kind of is. “...What if I helped you?”

Jon gives him a startled look. “I - what?”

Tim shrugs, trying to figure out how to word this in a way that’ll get through to Jon. “I mean, you said it yourself. You don’t actually have a plan if you find the killer, so it doesn’t matter. If I’m the murderer you’ll be dead, but at least you’ll know.” He can’t believe he’s actually suggesting this. “If I’m not, then you’ll have a second pair of hands helping you figure this all out.”

Jon looks equally incredulous for a moment, but then it fades into quiet consideration. Eventually he says, “...But why? Why would you...”

“Because I hate that you’re doing this, but you’re scared and I don’t think I can convince you to stop,” Tim tells him tiredly. “I’d rather know what you’re doing instead of you just...shutting me out.” That hurts more than anything else, he doesn’t say. “And if I help, maybe this will all be over sooner. Maybe this will finally end.”

For a moment Jon looks at him, and for a moment he gets a glimpse of what’s buried beneath all the primal terror and sleep-deprived fervor: Jon as he was, young and small and scared. That little bit of clarity lands like a gut punch.

“...I’m sorry, Tim,” Jon whispers, curling in on himself, wrapping his fingers in his sweater. “I’m sorry that you have to do this. I’m so sorry. But...yes, please help me.”

“Yeah, well,” Tim forces a wry smile on his face that probably looks more like a grimace, and feels something lock in place. “What are us assistants for?”

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Broken Ribs- Prompt Fill

What if the Hunters broke Jon's ribs in America? In other words, Jon does not have fun on an airplane.

cws: nausea, injury, disassociation, hospital mention, fainting

I am still accepting bingo prompts, send me a prompt, a character, and let me know if you want a fic or a drawing (crossed out prompts are filled, starred ones are ones I have asks for)! Card by the wonderful @celosiaa​! Enjoy!

The air of the airport is oppressive.  Close and loud with the pain lancing through Jon’s chest.   Bustling people, ridiculously wide expanses of space all somehow abandoned and bustling at the same time.  

It’s hot.  He’s too hot.  

Shoulder straps of his bag digging into his back, bracing against the weight, crushing ribs that crunch sickeningly as he jogs on hole ridden legs, shoes with worn down soles skidding, only grasping purchase with the help of his cane.  

He can’t miss his next plane.  He can’t.  He needs to get back home… or rather the Institute.  He doesn’t really have a home anymore, does he?  Not his flat, certainly, and not with Georgie.  

Just one more flight.  A long one, but at least there will be no more running to catch planes, inconveniently at opposite ends of massive American airports.  

Airports are already weird, empty spaces where everything is big and loud and expensive and sleepy all at once.  Places where time has no meaning at all, and everyone is in both business dress and pajamas, sometimes at the same time.  But adding the whole American thing to it… is odd.  It’s not that it makes that much of a difference, every airport is actually very similar, but there is still something about the tang of ‘Rugged American Individualism’ that makes his skin crawl.  

Or maybe that’s the lack of sleep, and the lack of a proper shower in… too long.  He hates this.  He hates this.  He can’t stand the feeling of grit on his skin…. not since Prentiss, not since the circus.  Between traveling and being followed and kidnaped again and now traveling some more… he’s sweaty and grimy and he wants to tear his skin off, or at the very least scrub it raw.  Cut his nails to the quick, wash his hair a dozen times, scrub himself  again for an hour under as hot water as he can stand for as long as his useless legs will hold him up.  

He gets to his gate as the plane is boarding.  Barely in time.  

They take his cane at the front and he wants to cry.  Limping to his seat in the very back, vision getting spotty with pain.  He Really should have someone look at his ribs, they haven’t been right since the kidnapping.  Just the universe’s punching bag, isn’t he?   Kicked in the ribs by hunters.  He hadn't even Done anything.  (Well... he has now, but he hadn't at that point!

He just about collapses in his seat.  

Middle seat.  Shit.  

Christ he's dizzy.  Wouldn't be surprised if he's running a fever from the pain.  His body sending all sorts of signals of distress: thirsty, nauseous, tired, shaky, panicked that he needs something or he'll pass out or cry, or.... or... or.... he doesn't know.  

There is a tap on his shoulder.  Window seat passenger wants to get through.  Jon carefully eases himself to his feet.  Trying very hard not to wince, or puke, or pass out.  He limps his way up just far enough that Window Seat can get through.  Just.  

His ribs crunch as he sits again.  He tries to covertly wipe the thin sheet of sweat from his forehead.  A poor effort to detract from the attention his pallor and limp are surely getting him.  

He sits absolutely still.  His nose itches, but no... moving to scratch it would hurt too much.  He just... won't move.  The whole flight, ideally.  But surely his bladder and bad leg will have other ideas about that.  Jon sighs as shallowly as possible.  Breathing hurts.  

He drifts out of consciousness for a while.  Isle Seat arrives at some point.  The plane starts taxiing.  Jon doesn't remember the pieces, but they occur.  

He does notice the plane taking off.  The acceleration of the plane.  The stomach dropping climb.  And all Jon can think of is falling.  Aching chest tighter with panic.  

The smell of tea made too dark and with too much lemon.  What would have been a pleasant and soothing voice if he hadn't been plummeting with the acceleration of -9.81 meters per second per second without even the comfort of air resistance.  Oxygen moving by too fast to snag a breath.  He could have been falling for seconds, minutes, days, weeks, years, and it would have made no difference.  Hitting the ground would have even been a comfort at that point.  

He's gasping.  Chest crunching under the strain of his breathing through the vice grip of terror.  

He orders himself to take a very shallow, very measured breath.  The plane is leveling out, and he doesn't want to attract any more attention.  

Luckily he has always been good about deflecting attention.  Had a panic attack in the middle of a maths class in secondary school, and not a soul noticed.  Window Seat is staring out the window in fascination as the houses get ever smaller and are eaten up by the cloud cover.  Isle Seat is napping.  

Jon is very very very glad that he hasn't run out of dramamine yet or ...he would be a lot more not okay than he already is.  He is out of pain meds.  Unfortunately.  

Should have bought some in America.  You can get big bottles there.  Big bottles.  And God knows he needs them.  

He clasps his hands tightly and try to pull his breathing into a careful and shallow rhythm.  

He is drifting again when Window Seat lowers their armrest.  It strikes him on the way down.  Brushes him, really.  He bites down a yelp.  He curls protectively around his ribs, which causes them to crunch again.  That Really isn't healthy sounding.  Spots dance across his vision again.  

He isn't sure how much time passes before Window Seat makes to get up.  He almost doesn't have the energy to stand.  

He's seeing spots again, and he doesn't know how he will manage to let Window Seat back in.  

The seat in front of him has lowered their seat.  Jon, in the back row can't tilt his back.  Christ it hurts.  It all hurts.  The turbulence, the standing and sitting for Window Seat, the drinks cart making far too many rounds.  He doesn't get anything.  Can't stomach the snacks or the provided dinner, barely manages a couple sips from his own water bottle.  He knows his leg would thank him if he got up and moved around, but the thought of standing is too much.  The movie that he tried to watch was too grating and it just added to how Loud the plane is.  Almost as loud as his hammering heart and the aching of his chest.  He can't do it.  He can't do it.  He can't do it.  

He bites back a scream when Window Seat orders another drink.  The flight attendant jostling his ribs again, passing over the beverage.  This has to be the third or forth time.  How many drinks can one passenger need?  How many more before Window Seat will need the loo again, dragging Jon to his aching feet again?  

Jon bites back tears.  He was awoken by Window Seat again.  He'd apparently fallen asleep on Isle Seat.  ...Or maybe passed out.  Jon doesn't know.  He's too dizzy.  He doesn't look at Isle Seat.  He wants to apologize, but the thought of speaking sounds too painful.  He clings to control of his breathing.  Shallow breaths.  Slow, shallow breaths.  Don't make the ribs worse, don't make the pain worse.  

Jon doesn't remember letting Window Seat back in.  He possibly remembers standing?  Possibly remembers black spots eating through his vision?  And then he's face down on his grimy tray table.  A face full of the novel he picked up in the airport on his trip Before getting his ribs busted.  He's pretty sure he passed out and hand't fallen asleep, but he can't be certain.  

The flight attendant is shaking him awake, and Jon tries to hide the tears of pain that causes.  Yes, yes, he knows.  Tray tables needs to be folded away before they land.  

Getting off the plane is hard.  Window Seat is anxiously out of their seat and getting their luggage, meaning that Jon has to decide if he would rather sit back down, only to have to stand again when the way was finally clear, or he'd have to stand without his cane , bent at an awkward angle.  All after digging under his seat for his bag.  He thinks keeping it under his seat is easier on his ribs than getting it into and out of the overhead compartment... but he doesn't know.  He is fighting unconsciousness again.  

The plane is too hot.  Too loud.  His head hurts.  His ribs hurt.  Sick with pain, and shaky with hungry and dehydration.  He isn't sure that food wouldn't make him feel worse, however.  He skipped provided breakfast as well.  

At least he can't remember much of the flight.  Probably a blessing.  

He finally limps to the front of the plane.  He almost cries with relief when he is handed back his cane.  He's so tired.  So tired.  

At least he doesn't need to get any luggage.  All he has is is backpack and cane.  And a text from Elias saying Daisy is already there to pick him up.  

Right.  

Best not to keep her waiting.  

He doesn't think he can survive any more aggression.  Not for a while.  

He's too tired to even panic about being alone with her.  

She shakes him roughly when she spots him.  Demands to know why it took him so long, why he didn't text. All but shoves him into the car.  That's more than he can take.  He passes out.  Cane clattering to the pavement, head striking the wheel with the force of his momentum.  

When he comes to, he is being carried.   He hurts too badly to move, feels too sick to think.  He moans into the chest of whoever is carrying him.  Doesn't even have it in him to start in fear when he realizes the only one with biceps that big and fair is Daisy.  

They are going down a flight of stairs.  He wonders vaguely if she's going to kill him... but then realizes he might take that as a mercy right about now.  

Except she doesn't kill him.  She's taken him to the Archives.  He can hear Martin.  

"Daisy!  Jon!  Daisy, what did you do!  What did you do to him?"

Him... Jon?  He tries to ask what the fuss is about, but only manages another moan.  

"I didn't break him.  Your problem now."  She grunts that out, and plops Jon into Martin's lap.  At least he thinks... after he possibly blacks out again.  

Martin is patting his face.  Martin is patting his face.  "Hey, Jon?  Can you open your eyes for me?"  Jon tries.  And fails.  Eyelids too heavy.  "Jon, what's wrong?"

"Hurts," he whispers.  

"Hurts where?"  Martin is cupping his face.  Jon starts crying.  

He can't respond.  

"Jon can I take you to hospital?  Please?”

“Ribs..."

"Jon, please?"

Jon doesn't want to go to the hospital, he just wants to sleep.  Possibly just sleep right there and never move again.  Martin is warm and soft and smells nice and is quiet.  But he doesn't have energy to argue.  He makes a noncommittal sound.  "Stay?"

"Yeah, of course.  I'll call us a cab, yeah?  Get you checked out, then... you could come to mine, if you like?"  

Jon really doesn't have the energy to respond, so he just... gives it up and closes his eyes.  Letting himself drift and not worry about getting carried.  Maybe if he's lucky he'll either sleep or disassociate long enough that he doesn't have to actually think about the hospital.  Maybe he'll come back to himself on Martin's couch.  He even lets himself hope that maybe someone will take the initiative and clean him up first.  The idea of other hands on him would ordinarily be horrifying, but he's just too tired to care.  For now... he'll just sleep.  

[a-libra-writes]

How the GoT Characters React To You Being Very Affectionate

So the original request was “HCs for characters being touch starved” and I dont think all of them would be necessarily so I kinda just did this? Sorry to that anon lol I did my best. we are slooowly working through the GoT request pile

In this preference, you’ll be doting on: Ned Stark, Robb Stark, Sansa Stark, Jon Snow, Benjen Stark, Jory Cassel, Dolorous Edd, Mance Rayder, Tormund Giantsbane, Theon Greyjoy, Yara Greyjoy, Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont, Missandei, Grey Worm, Tywin Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Sandor Clegane, Bronn, Podrick Payne, Petyr Baelish, Stannis Baratheon, Davos Seaworth, Margaery Tyrell, Brynden Tully, Edmure Tully, Brienne of Tarth, Ramsay Bolton, Roose Bolton, Oberyn Martell, Beric Dondarrion, Gendry

NED STARK

Initially, your affections and sweetness were a little overwhelming for him. He wasn’t used to such attention, but he really didn’t mind them. Even when he teased you about being so close and touchy in front of all his bannermen, he wouldn’t change it about you. Ned’s favorite thing is when you’d find him in the middle of the day and touch his face to reassure him, he liked to lean into your hand and enjoy your touch before he had to return to his duties. You had a feeling that Ned was only nervous about it at first because he was being bashful, but once he was comfortable, he loved the evenings when you sat in his lap and freely kissed and touched him.  

ROBB STARK

Robb loves how open you are about affection and he feels so, so lucky that the gods gave him such a sweet wife. While he has to maintain his "strict" lordly facade when speaking to his men and other lords, he's more than relieved to melt into your touch at the end of the day. Whenever you’re by his side, holding his arm and beaming, he’s so proud and in love that he doesn’t even notice the eye rolling whenever you kiss his cheek or his hand. It honestly helps Robb get through the weight of the war and he sees you as a source of strength, rather than a weakness, as many less worthy lords would think.

SANSA STARK

Back when she first met you, Sansa loved how unashamed you were of affection. Some in court may see it as weakness, but still today she sees it as proof of your great compassion. Your touches and hugs comforted her greatly when you were friends, and when you became lovers, your soft words and kisses are just what she needed to bolster her spirit and be strong. Sansa takes great amusement in the fact you both can hold hands, sit close and whisper to each other and the court writes it off as "just close friends". She's happy and grateful to have such an affectionate, romantic partner, and she tells you often. Sometimes it’s difficult for her to return those honest gestures, but she knows you understand.

JON SNOW

Jon was completely flustered at first; even if it was a quick hug and kiss, he’d get red and stumble out whatever he was saying. At first he thought it was just because you were a girl, and he didn’t have much experience with those, but even just simple touches like holding his hand or brushing his messy hair out of his face would get his heart beating. Jon would realize that he’d never had so much attention and concern before, and while he liked it very much, he’d have a few moments of total surprise before happily returning the affection, albeit clumsily. Sometimes when you’re just holding his hand while talking, he’ll get distracted and grin at your connected hands, amazed he’s so lucky to have found someone like you at a place like this.

BENJEN STARK

Benjen adores this part of your personality, and he always takes it a step further just to tease you. Other times he’ll hold you close and not want to let you, giving you a taste of his own naturally affectionate nature. He’s glad you both are compatible like this, since there are times when you can’t see each other for a long time, and he loves that you’re just as willing to make up for lost time. Whenever you both have a long time alone, good luck being apart from him - aside from intimacy, he likes just having you in his lap or leaning on him. Tease him for being clingy all you want, he just gestures to your arms around him and says, “Well, that makes us a perfect match, doesn’t it?”

JORY CASSEL

While it initially flustered him to no end and took him off guard more than once, Jory easily adapted to your touches. He was glad you loved him that much, and you weren’t afraid to show it. Sometimes … okay, really often, he’s gently teased for it by his uncle and the other guards, but he wouldn’t change you at all. When Jory is feeling more bold he’ll return the light kisses, regardless of whose around. He’ll let you hug and touch and kiss to your heart’s content when you both are alone, and before long he’s total putty in your hands and will do whatever you please.

EDDISON TOLLETT

It always made him nervous when you’d take his hand to get his attention, or when you stood so close, which was often. Edd used to chalk it up to you being a girl, and from a better family, besides… But once you two were alone more and spent time together, he realized you were just a naturally touchy, affectionate person. Eventually he realized his nerves were from a damn crush. Before you were officially together, he watched you carefully, hoping you weren’t giving so many sweet touches to your other friends (you weren’t, and that’s what gave him the courage to talk with you about his feelings… that, and Sam all but shoved him to do it). Edd totally relishes in your affection, as he’s been lacking it in for years.

MANCE RAYDER

Mance enjoys how sweet you are, and thinks it’s amusing that such a young woman would want to lavish her kisses and touches on an old former crow like him. He always indulges you and even during meetings, he’ll let you sit as close as you want. Once you both are alone, he takes comfort in how easily you fit in his lap and how you rest your head against his chest. It gives him a warm feeling, one that feels like home … Something he hadn’t felt so strongly in a while. His favorite thing is when you doze off next to him, as nothing helps him think through his plans better than your scent and softness. 

TORMUND GIANTSBANE

Oh, Tormund can’t get enough of you, and he’s delighted that you’re just the same. He thinks this just further proves how perfect you are for each other, and he’ll say it loud and proud as he holds you up in his arms and spins you around. Yes, the other tribes are exhausted with you two and find you nauseating … but the last man who complained had two punches to dodge. Tormund especially likes that it isn’t just lustful touches and looks; he adores that you’ll kiss and hold him just because you want to, for no reason other than you’re in love. Everyone knows when he’s thinking about it because he grins like a dork and seems lost in his own world.

THEON GREYJOY

At first, he’d always use your frequent touches as a way to brag to Robb and Jon about how you prefer him. You were flirting, obviously, and you must have wanted to be with him. The thing he didn’t tell them is how much you puzzled him, because your touches were so … kind. Gentle, even, when you brushed a leaf out of his hair or took his hand to look at a cut. He didn’t know what to do, and his usual ego was no help. He’d never been cared for so gently like that. Your kisses were worse because they gave him such a foreign, fluttery feeling, he thought he was getting sick, yet he kept yearning for it. You’d be able to get past Theon’s usual bragging and discover an amusing, needy side as he’d follow you around, almost waiting for you to hug or touch him again.

YARA GREYJOY

On one hand, Yara has her tough captain’s reputation to maintain, so she has little patience if you have a need for her while she’s working. She can’t be seen accepting your kisses and hugs, no matter how much she yearns for them. She understands you might be hurt by this, but she’d hope you’d understand. Besides, she more than makes up for it later in the evening. Even if Yara might consider you needy, there is a comfort in how readily you give your affection and how much you enjoy touching her. She can’t remember having a partner who kissed her so sweetly, not just lustfully, and of course her family didn’t give her so much reassurance. Her appreciation for it only increases when she’s drunk, because you’re going to sit in her lap and there will be no escape, so touch and kiss however you like, she’ll just laugh and go along with it.

DAENERYS TARGARYEN

When she was in the throne room, carrying her heavy queenly persona, Daenerys couldn’t afford to glance your way and seem distracted. Once there was finally a chance to be alone together, Daenerys just soaked up the affection you gave her. She loved that no matter what terrible thing happened to you, your nature stayed loving and doting. She admired that. When her duties felt like too much, she relished in being able to curl up in your arms and feeling your fingers run through her hair. She makes sure you feel loved too, of course, but she’s so grateful you let her be selfish now and again and just take up all your attention. She often tells you what you mean to her, and anyone can see the way she looks at you.

JORAH MORMONT

Oh, poor sweet Jorah. He’s so overwhelmed by the affection at first, it completely distracts him from what he’s doing, even if all you’re doing is coming up behind him for a surprise hug and kiss. He leans into your touches so eagerly and it confuses you, because wasn’t he married once or twice? Still, it’s cute how weak you can get him, and you definitely take advantage when you’re teasing him or trying to get his attention. In the evenings, Jorah will waste little time in pulling you into his lap and muttering how sweet you are and how much he adores you, usually making the affection lead into something more. More than once you two end up getting lost in your own world and forget who's around you; only to be reminded by the Dothraki whooping and laughing. Truthfully, Jorah is very happy that you’re just as doting in public are you are in private. 

MISSANDEI

Your closeness and touches made her heart flutter and her hands get clammy, and it confused her at first. She’d be touched inappropriately, always against her will, but you always asked before you held her hand or hugged her. You were always so warm, and you smelled nice, and why were you hugging her, anyway? Missandei liked it more than she wanted to admit, but she wondered why. Once Jorah and Daenerys gave her enough hints, and you finally gave your confession, she realized she hadn’t been touched so sweetly and innocently before. Even after you’ve been together for a while, it’s the gentle cuddles and chaste touches that Missandei likes best. You don’t miss how she nuzzles against you when you cradle her against your chest.

GREY WORM

When you first took his hand as he escorted you through the market, you thought you overstepped your bounds. He just stared at your entwined hands, not even noticing the bustling activity around him. There were other times when you’d hold his face while cleaning a wound on his cheek, or sit close to him at a meeting table, and you could swear he stopped breathing. Grey Worm never told you to keep away, but he also looked so much like a caught animal that you felt bad. In truth it made Grey Worm so nervous when you touched him, and he hadn’t the slightest idea of how to react. No one else did this to him, and you rarely did the same to others as far as he observed. Finally Missandei noticed his palpable confusion and helped him work out his feelings. When you two are together, Grey Worm never denies the affection you want to give, though sometimes he’s clearly startled or confused by it. He slowly begins to return it on his own terms, squeezing your hand back, resting against your shoulder, or gently touching your back as you two walk. It takes time, but you slowly get to see his shoulders relax and a soft smile appear on his face. 

TYWIN LANNISTER

As anyone would have expected of this man, he’s clearly proud to have you on his arm during social gatherings. You’ll sit close at the dais, sometimes leaning in closer to whisper something to him. The whole of the court gossips about your relationship enough, and you give them plenty of material with your affections. Tywin stays passive, although after a while he began to brush your hair aside and stroke your hand. Privately he continues to tell himself it’s for show and means nothing. That works until you both are intimate or enjoying a rare moment of peace together and he finds himself wanting you to stay close. He lets you cuddle close and kiss and touch, denying how much it affects him to the very end. It’s bad enough he has to contend with your wit and schemes during the day, he doesn’t need more reasons to become attached to you.

TYRION LANNISTER

Tyrion drinks in your affection like a man crawling in a desert; you figured that out quickly. You figured he was a naturally kind and loving person, and he was clearly taken with you, and you wouldn’t deny him the affection that came naturally to you. After a while you began to see how much he depended on it, how much he needed it. In private you gave him all he wanted - sometimes he still struggled to ask for it openly, you so took the lead - and in public you had to be careful. Not just because the court found your marriage a great joke and it was exhausting to deal with their gossip, but because it distracted Tyrion so much when you held his hand and gave him a simple kiss during a feast. He’d never grow tired of your attention and would tell you again and again how much he adored you for it.

JAIME LANNISTER

He relishes how affectionate you are and returns it tenfold, and more often than not ends up getting turned on and wants to take it further. While you’re fine with that, sometimes you just want to express your love. It doesn’t have to lead to anything more. Jaime was confused by this when you explained it - he tried to think back when someone kissed his cheek, stroked his hair or hugged him … just because they loved him. He especially needed that love and attention when he came back from the Dreadfort, and didn’t feel at all foolish asking for it, but he rarely needed you. You just always knew when to hold him, as if he needed more reasons to love you even more.

SANDOR CLEGANE

The first time you held his face to bring him closer, he flinched like it hurt. You noticed he was more willing to accept your touches when you were in bed together, and even then, his rough pace would slow and falter as you kissed him and brought him closer. To say Sandor was unused to affection is an understatement; he hated the panicky, anxious feeling it gave him, and his instant thought was to push you away when it happened. The feeling wasn’t a welcome one, but your touch and warmth was, so needless to say just simple touches gave him a mix of feelings. He tries to be gruff, but as time goes on he starts to just lean and melt into you, especially when you both are alone. He doesn’t want to ask for it, but you can tell he’s yearning when he sits around just staring and sulking at you.

BRONN OF BLACKWATER

At first he brushed it off as you just being one of those silly women, and you’d get tired of doting on him eventually. He thought you were trying to get something from him, but he didn’t have much to offer a lady besides the bed, which you weren’t always trying to get in. It confused Bronn when you kept doing this, and he denied himself how much the attention began to affect him. He started to get used to them, to want them, and he overcame these weird feelings by pulling you to his lap and trying to initiate something deeper. Pretty soon Bronn couldn’t deny what your affection meant, and began working out a way to tell you that you ought to do better than him. It was for himself as much as you, he wasn’t ready for this, but then you’d wrap your arms around him and the thoughts quickly left his head.

PODRICK PAYNE

You had to be careful when you were sweet on him and where, because the poor boy would redden to his ears and try to stammer something, if he could manage words at all. You thought it was cute that even after knowing each other for so long, Pod never got used to your affectionate nature. Sometimes when he’s working he gets distracted thinking about you, leading to him spacing out or making mistakes. Once you’re together, he begins to slowly gain confidence, although you’re still the one who usually initiates things first. Holding your hand or arm while you two take walks is his favorite, he feels all his anxiety slowly melt away.

PETYR BAELISH

Oh, he can’t hide how much he adores your attention. He tries to keep his cool, but the more you lean on him and look up through those pretty lashes, the less Petyr can resist giving you whatever you please. In private, he can’t keep himself from pulling you closer to keep encouraging you. All you need to do is act your usual, sweet self and you have him wrapped around your finger. When you both are intimate, his greediness is even more evident, he wants your hands on him and sometimes he even trembles from all the attention. Sometimes he breathlessly asks you not to tease him so much, but you know he wouldn’t have it any other way.

STANNIS BARATHEON

He hadn’t the slightest idea of what to do. You noticed that right away when he flinched anytime you expressed your affection. You outright asked Stannis if you should stop, and it’s not that he hated it, it was just… It was so new, he wasn’t sure how to react. It was difficult to dial back your naturally affectionate nature, but you did, taking things slower. Gradually Stannis began to enjoy the attention and return it in his own way, and he let you be as clingy and sweet as you wanted when you were intimate. He couldn't express it well with words, but he began to look forward to your embrace and anxiously yearn for your presence whenever he had to travel. Whenever you stood by his side during meetings, close enough that your shoulders brushed and he could feel your warmth, he’d feel a distinct sense of security and confidence. 

DAVOS SEAWORTH

Davos finds you incredibly endearing, and he’s always considered himself lucky to have you, but he’s not always sure if he deserves your affections. You have so much of it, and he often wonders if you ought to be giving it to a younger man of a better station. Of course anytime he has these thoughts, you’re right there to reassure him and make sure he knows there’s no one else for you. He “scolds” you for being cheeky whenever you show affection in public, but in private he lets you do whatever you please. He can’t get enough of your cuddles in the evening and how you just curl under his touch, he thinks he might be the luckiest man alive.

MARGAERY TYRELL

Oh, Margaery thinks you’re just a doll. She loves teasing you about it, but she’s the one who pushes things and sees how much you two can get away with. The court assumes you’re just “good friends”, although her grandmother has given her plenty of scoldings about the rumors floating around Highgarden. Margaery loves being spoiled by your attention and often waits expectantly for a kiss or hug - you can get back at her by “forgetting” and walking past her. If she had her way, you’d be draped around her all day, fawning over her and she’d give you sweet praises and pets in return. No, this mental image is not awakening anything in her, don’t ask. 

BRYNDEN TULLY

The old knight thought he was too old for things like this, which is to say, a beautiful lady doting on him and wanting his affection. For a short while he thought you should give your attention to someone else, but as the relationship went on, he felt like an idiot for thinking that at all. When you hold and kiss him, Brynden just melts into the warmth and comfort. He loves the more gentle touches you have, like when you hold his face as you kiss him or rest against his chest and curl up in his lap. Half the time he can’t even make a jap about your neediness, because he feels he needs it just as much. He loves feeling your warm skin under his rough hands and it’s even better if you start getting hot and bothered from all his touching.

EDMURE TULLY

Edmure loves it because he’s just as absurdly affectionate and touchy feely, and it makes him giddy with happiness when you take his face in your hands and just hold him like that, you don’t even have to kiss him. All of Riverrun knows how sappy you both are and it’s both sweet and just sickening. Brynden can’t decide if he’s amused or annoyed by it and Catlyn just dies inside at the ‘impropriety’ of you two mooning over each other at dinner. You two have quite a reputation in the Riverlands for being such a loving couple, and the smallfolk adore you. 

BRIENNE OF TARTH

Your knight had such a strong reaction to your touches that you thought she hated it at first. You’d do something simple, like brush her hair out of her face to better see a bruise or hold her hand when speaking to her, and her face would go red as an apple. With great difficulty, Brienne finally explained that she didn’t hate it, she just … Well, she trailed off, but you could tell she felt like she didn’t deserve such attention. It’s worse once she realizes her feelings, she gets so flustered and starts to read into every action you take, wanting it to mean something, but positive that she was just projecting. You’d have to take the first step in confessing and reassuring her. 

RAMSAY BOLTON

He used to take advantage of this, grasping you when you came close to brush something off his tunic or fix his hair. As much as Ramsay’s clingy nature could be suffocating, you were always an affectionate person, and you felt it was all you’d get in the Dreadfort. However, you began to notice that he’d be off-put by your genuine concern and softer touches. Sometimes he’d just stare at you, trying to puzzle out why you were doing it. He didn’t think he disliked it, he wanted your attention all the time, it just gave him such a startling feeling. After a while you were able to calm Ramsay’s more unstable moods by just keeping hold on him and distracting him with touches. Whenever something pulled him away from the Dreadfort, he'd grow antsy with each passing day, both from wanting to be back in your arms and not understanding why he wanted it.

ROOSE BOLTON

Even if you weren’t pleased with the arranged marriage, you couldn’t help but hold Roose’s arm as you both walked, or gently touch him to get his attention. You steadily got a little bolder, because you noticed there was a brief, strange look in his cold eyes anytime you touched him. You knew he didn’t dislike it because when you slept together, he’d almost shudder as you ran your hands along his body. You began to figure out what made him pause the most, what he responded best to, and that’s how you could sway him - just by being considerate, comforting, and a little needy. It was always a surprise how such a cold man began to expect and want the attention, although Roose pretended he didn’t care. He was more honest about his feelings in private, expecting you to give him even more.

OBERYN MARTELL

Oberyn adores that you’re such a sweet and needy thing, and he teases you about it all the time - but you know he’s the same and he wouldn’t change you for anything. He doesn’t care whose in the room, he wants you in his lap and just beams with happiness when you lay your head on his chest or wrap your arms around him. Eventually Doran will please ask you two to reign yourselves in, at least during important dinners and meetings. It’d be up to you to dial it down, because Oberyn will stubbornly want to keep you on his lap or right by his side.

BERIC DONDARRION

While he was initially bashful, Beric quickly began to relish in your affection and seek it out, especially when the day’s events were hard on him. In the evening he loves nothing more than resting next to you, his arm around your waist or letting you sit in his lap. When it’s time to sleep, he feels so much more peaceful when your head is on his chest and he can pet your hair as he slowly dozes off. Beric tells you many times that he’s grateful for your sweetness and warmth, and he gets plenty of it, quietly worrying he’ll forget something one day.

GENDRY

The first time you took his hand to pull him back from running into someone, he nearly dropped what he was holding. You kept holding it as you two walked home, and he was praying you didn’t notice how sweaty his palm was. You were like this as long as he could remember, always giving him hugs and standing so close and holding his hand far beyond the age when you two should’ve stopped. It was never really anything you two discussed, because it was just who you were, and as much as it made him blush, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[athina-blaine]

MoMM Chapter 4 - The Storm, Part 1 (Preview #2)

(Note: this is not the finalized draft; anything featured is subject to edits or deletion!)

The Storm, Part 1 (Preview #1)

Martin lurched upright, sucking painful gasps through his aching teeth,  his sleep shirt sticking to his sweaty skin. No light permeated the  windows— he may as well have been in a tomb, for all that he could see.  

Jon was out there somewhere. Alone. As was his mother.

I’m coming back to you. I’ll find a way out of here. I’m doing everything I can–

Liar.

Martin curled up onto his side, wrapping trembling arms around himself. Even though there was no one else to hear him, no one to stifle himself for, he drove his teeth into his lip until his mouth filled with the dull taste of copper.

A knock startled Martin from his troubled doze. A lone ray of light had managed to break through the storm, cutting through the lingering shadows of his room. The winds shrieked. The snow roiled and bellowed and pounded the windows. The white wall stood firm.

Nothing had changed. Martin curled in on himself, fighting the urge to tug at the wisps of his hair as his heart thundered against his ribs.

We share tea every morning and dinner every night. He’s back. We’re talking. I’m not lonely. I am not lonely.

So why had nothing changed? What was he doing wrong?

“Martin?”

Martin jumped. Jon’s face was peeking out from behind the door, and when their eyes met, he held up two cups of tea.

Martin had overslept.

“Shit,” he breathed, moving to scramble out of bed. “I’m so sorry, I-”

“Remain where you are, please.”

Head buzzing with exhaustion and grief, Martin settled back down. No point pitching a fit now when he’d probably just tip over. Jon would probably just push him back down again.

“You seem unwell,” Jon said as he sat at Martin’s feet, handing him his cup. Martin’s reflection stared up at him from the hot, dark liquid, blurred and unfathomable. 

“I look that bad, then?”

“You look as if you slept poorly, yes. Maybe a change of pillows is in order?”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s just ... one of those nights, I guess.” He sipped at his tea, desperate to leech any glimmer of warmth and comfort offered to him. And yet, the jasmine tasted acrid in his mouth.

Why are you lounging about like this, sucking on tea? a voice whispered. You should be figuring out a way out of here. There must be a way, and you need to find it.

“So,” Martin said. “Still no change in this storm, then, huh?”

“… That would appear to be the case, yes.”

“Yeah. I just, it seemed like …” Martin swirled the tea until the liquid nearly sloshed over the rim. “I mean, now that we’re talking again and everything, I assumed things would … get better?”

Cup half raised to his lips, Jon paused, his eyes unreadable. “You … assumed if we resumed communication, the storm would clear?”

Well, when Jon said it like that, the whole thing sounded silly. Martin’s cheeks heated. “I mean, this is all because of that one, isn’t it?” His hands tightened on the cup. “The Lonely? That’s what’s causing this, right?”

“I don’t remember insinuating as much.”

“What else could it be, though?”

Jon’s thumb traced the handle of his cup, silent, and Martin took that as his answer.

“So, we’re talking again, yeah? So shouldn’t it just … go?”

“I couldn’t tell you how the entities choose to manifest themselves,” Jon said, a new, hard edge threading his words. “To act like I could would be deceitful. I’m sorry to say, but I don’t think your plan will come to fruition.”

Martin’s chest panged at his tone. Plan? It hadn’t been a plan; that made it sound like Martin was … using Jon in some way. Martin had merely thought it was a bygone conclusion. And why wouldn’t it be? Want to get rid of an entity of loneliness keeping you trapped somewhere? Spend more time chatting up your beautiful host! Why wouldn’t that sort of logic work?

But of course it hadn’t been that simple. He was a fool for thinking it could be.

He just wanted Jon to give him an answer. To tell him to have hope, to tell him it was okay to have hope, despite everything terrible about their situation. He just wanted him to understand, and Martin was running out of time.

“Today’s the day,” Martin said, desperation thick on his tongue. “When I’d send my letter back to my Mum. I meant to tell you that before, but I … I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to jinx it or something.”

Jon pressed his lips together, and his eyes were so sad and pitying that Martin wanted to be sick. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s not your fault. I should have done something before now. Made a plan or …” Martin’s eyes returned to the safe murkiness of his tea. “But instead I’ve just been sitting around here and …” -drinking tea, reading useless books, making moon eyes at- “Do you think anyone would have told her by now? That I’m gone?”

“I-”

“No, God, why would you know a thing like that? Sorry, I just …” Martin sucked in a sharp breath, bottom lip wobbling. “I can’t decide which is worse; if someone’s told her already, or if she’'ll just be stuck wondering what happened to me.”

Christ, stop. This whining was only making Jon shift uncomfortably in his seat. But the image of his mother, alone in a too-small cottage she hated, that was too drafty and smelled like damp, waiting for his letter to arrive in the post- waiting, and waiting, and waiting-

“I should have been doing more. What was I even thinking? I thought things would just work out and I’ve just been sitting here-”

“You can hardly be expected to know-”

“I could have tried in the first place,” Martin said, aware his voice was creeping in volume and helpless to stop it.

And then, it hit him. 

“What if I tried just ... leaving?"

“… I beg your pardon?”

A burst of impassioned energy welled up in his chest, chasing away the chilling emptiness. “What if I tried just leaving? Muscling my way through the storm?”

Confused laughter escaped Jon’s lips, trailing away under the hard weight of Martin’s stare. A crease diveted Jon’s eyebrows. “Martin, t-that ... That would be absurd-”

But Martin wasn’t listening, adrenaline sweeping through his limbs until he thought he could run. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of that? That was a plan. “I could do it. The storm doesn’t have to be gone and so long as I’m dressed for it- If I leave now, I could make it to the post office before-”

“Are you hearing to yourself right now?” The ferocity of Jon’s tone snapped Martin out of his racing thoughts. “The only thing you’ll accomplish is getting lost. You don’t know the way, and you’ll freeze before you get anywhere useful. Martin, please, I understand your situation is-”

“You don’t.”

The sharp words lingered heavy. Jon pulled away, eyes wide, but Martin didn’t retract, or let himself feel guilty about his sudden volume. Jon needed to know; he needed to understand this was important. Important enough to try anything.

Taking a deep breath, a touch of steel hardened Jon’s jaw once more. “Then what of Phillipa, hm? Have you even considered her well being in this grand plan of yours? You’d force her through this blizzard carrying you on her back?”

Martin’s stomach sank, guilt twisting in such fierce knots that his anger was strangled in its own crib. No. No, he hadn’t considered Phillipa in this slapdash plan of his. She’d never make it through the storm, no matter how careful Martin was.

But without her, Martin didn’t stand a chance.

This is what happens, the voice said, louder now, when you get complacent.

Something brushed his arm. Martin flinched, but Jon’s expression remained steady and calm; it almost made Martin angrier, the sore, wounded cavity in his chest desperate to snap and argue until they were gasping for breath. So long as they argued, Martin still had a chance to be right- there was a way out of here they just weren’t seeing, and they could figure it out together if they just kept-

“It’s not your fault,” Jon said, and the shame that swept over Martin nearly choked him. He drained the last of his cup, trying to collect himself. The tea had gone cold.

“Thank you for the tea,” he said. Jon stretched out his hand for Martin’s cup, their fingers brushing, and Martin had to beat back a shiver. “I … I think I'm going to lie down for a little while. If that’s okay. Probably won’t be up for cleaning out the study later.”

“Martin, please, I’d hardly expect you to clean. Take your time.”

There was no judgment in his tone, no sneer to his lips, even with how brusque his words were. Of course Jon would understand. He’d understand how Martin was feeling better than anyone. Trapped. Helpless. 

And Martin had gone and yelled at him for it.

Curling up under the sheets, Martin let the shrieking wind carry him back to a troubled sleep.

[river-bottom-nightmare]

Damijon Secret Santa

@woahjaybird happy holidays ris!!!!!!!!!! i admit, i was a bit confused, bc you signed up for a ship fic exchange and requested platonic bros, but whatever. i hope you like it!

To be honest, it was something Damian said a lot. 

Jon heard those words practically every time Damian opened his mouth: in the middle of a mission, when they were baking pies with Ma Kent, during a stakeout, on a rooftop eating takeout. 

They used to be annoying. God, sometimes Jon just wanted to drop his restraint and punch Damian in the face, full-force. Especially when he said those words, again and again and again. Over time, though, Jon grew used to them, and after a while, they just began to amused him.

You should be afraid of me.

Because Jon never understood those words. What was there to be scared of?

The two of them were sitting on a rooftop in Metropolis, Jon with his long legs dangling over the side of the building, Damian cross-legged next to him. Taking a long slurp of his smoothie, Jon glanced over at Damian, who was outlining their plan of attack for tomorrow-- a mission to take down an arms dealer who had been working out of Metropolis for months. With Dad stretched thin over League, international, and intergalactic affairs, criminals were becoming a little less hesitant to step foot into the city. Superboy and Robin would be taking care of that soon.

Jon was listening, he really was. The battle plans were definitely lodging themselves somewhere in Jon’s subconsciousness. But he had to admit, most of his attention was fixed firmly on Damian himself.

Jon remembered the days the prickly young boy would throw his nose up haughtily in the air, state he’d been intelligent enough to have a doctorate at seven years old, and miff at anyone who insinuated otherwise. It was a far sight from when Damian had  curled himself up on Jon’s bed, and under the guise of watching a movie, told Jon about his acceptance into the most prestigious art schools in Gotham. 

And that was the reason behind Jon’s inattention, wasn’t it? Damian was eighteen, now. Their age difference didn’t seem like much when they were ten and thirteen and going against the world with all the confidence of a couple boys playing pretend. Now, Damian had a weariness in his shoulders, but lips that quirked up into a smile far too often, skin layered in scars but hands gentler than Jon ever thought he was capable of. Jon himself was a fumbling, awkward fifteen year old with jeans that were always too short, hair that was always too messy. And Jon used to think he was over feeling inferior to his best friend.

He’d miss him. Jon would miss Damian so much. Sure, Damian would probably try and keep their visits somewhat consistent, but work would pile up, and a curator would probably see Damian’s talents and whisk him away to the world of the famous artists, and Damian would forget he ever had a friend named Jon and would go on to become a household name while Jon spent the rest of his life living in his parents’ house and updating his mediocre blog that he started because of a dare.

No, he wasn’t being dramatic, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, Damian seemed to catch onto his lack of attention and snapped his fingers underneath Jon’s nose, startling him back to focus.

Never one to sugarcoat, Damian said, “You look miserable.”

“What? No, I’m fine!” Jon didn’t know why he even tried to play it off, he’d never been able to lie to Damian.

“Right. My mistake. Someone who was fine would definitely spend the past hour drinking out of a smoothie cup that’s already empty.”

Huh. Jon hadn’t even realized he’d finished the drink. He put it to the side and shook his head. “Really, it’s not a pro-oblem.” Oh, goddamnit.

“Your voice cracks are ridiculous,” Damian informed him. Why had Jon ever thought he’d changed? That smug voice was as irritating as ever.

“Yeah, they’re hilarious, thanks.”

“I don’t understand why you’re upset.” Apparently, this matter was serious enough for Damian to put his map down. Wasn’t that comforting?

But Jon had never liked to keep things from his best friend. “That. That’s what’s bothering me.”

“Your voice cracks?” Now Damian just sounded confused.

“Yes! No, I don’t know. I just don’t like them.” Jon crossed his arms in frustration.

When he looked over at Damian, the other boy’s eyes were wide, and in that stupidly deep and non-cracking voice, he said, “This conversation has gone well past the point of understanding and I’m going to continue with the plan now.”

Jon sighed. “No, Damian, it’s not that.”

“Then?”

Searching for the right words, Jon drummed his fingers together. “You...you’re going off to that fancy art school soon. You’re all grown up. And here I am with my stupid video games and voice cracks.”

Jon wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting. Damian could never be called a master of social interaction, and his basic settings were sarcastic, condescending, or incredulous. Still, Jon expected something a bit kinder than:

“You’re such a moron, Jonathan.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Jon stared at Damian for a moment, blinking stupidly. “So I tell you about the problem that’s been eating me up for weeks, and all you say is that I’m a moron? Thank you so much for that.”

“I’m telling you you’re a moron because you’re worrying about something so inconsequential.”

“Oh please, do elaborate.”

Damian paused, then let out a tired sigh, turning to face Jon. This was going to be a serious conversation, then.

“Jonathan. I have told you time and time again. You should be scared of me-”

“Oh my god,” Jon interrupted. “This stuff, again?” He was laughing now. “I know, I know. You should be horrified, cower in terror underneath my ruthlessness, blah blah blah. You say it all the time, I get it. I should be scared of you.”

Damian stared at him. “Are you done?” he said with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m tired of you bringing up the same thing over and over, Damian.”

“And in saying that, you just proved my point.”

Jon frowned in confusion. “What?”

“I’ve always said that you should be afraid of me. But you never have been, not since the moment we met.”

“Like there’s anything to be scared of.”

“Yes, Jonathan. There is.” Damian looked Jon in the eye, his gaze sharp and serious.

Damian’s honesty was strange, something Jon wasn’t used to, so he tried to play it off with a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, assassin training’s tough-”

“When I was six years old, I murdered a man in front of his daughter.”

Jon fell silent.

“I used to command an entire legion in my grandfather’s army. We completely destroyed and took down three different countries.”

“Damian, I-” 

“Once, Grandfather put me in a straightjacket and wrapped me in chains, surrounded by trained guards, with no instruction other than to escape. And I did.”

Hesitantly, Jon said, “I never knew.”

“Because I never told you. That, and so much more, is why everybody I ever know has been scared of me.”

“Even Nightwing?”

“Nightwing grew out of it eventually,” Damian admitted. “But everyone else. The rest of the bats. Father. Even Mother. There’s fear in their eyes when they look at me.”

“Oh. Uh,” Jon shrugged. “That sucks.”

“That sucks?” Damian said, dry but amused.

“I didn’t know what else to say!” Jon defended.

“See? That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

Jon furrowed his eyebrows. “You’ve been trying to tell me it sucks? Because I already knew it sucks.”

“Jonathan…” Damian trailed off, then grabbed Jon’s wrists with his own hands.

“Hey!” Jon protested, though only out of surprise. Because Damain’s hands were warm and his thumb was pressing down on Jon’s pulse point and Jon could honestly say he had no objection to this.

Damian’s face showed nothing but piercing intensity: brows furred and eyes locked on Jon’s own. “Jon. Look me in the eyes, and tell me you’re scared of me.”

“But I’m not?”

“I just told you things that would have grown men running away from me in terror. Tell me at least some of that scares you.”

“No,” Jon shook his head and gripped the other’s boy’s wrists back. “No. I’m not scared of you.”

Letting out a breath, Damian moved away. For a moment, Jon found himself chasing that warmth.

“You are the only person who’s ever thought that.” Damian turned, shifting to mirror Jon’s position. Staring out over the city, a billboard washed colours over Damian’s face. He looked like a work of art, and Jon had no idea how anybody could ever fear him.

“You’re my best friend, Damian.” Jon shrugged, despite the fact that Damian couldn’t see him. “I’ve seen you scream at a machine for losing at Cheese Viking. I’ve seen you befriend a little squirrel you found on Ma’s farm. So how exactly am I supposed to be afraid of you?”

Damian nodded, as if that solidified something. “If you really think that I would leave the only person that isn’t scared of me, if you think that I would stop being friends with someone who has always thought of me as a human first and a weapon second just because I’m going to a university, then you are the biggest moron to ever walk the face of the earth.”

Stunned, Jon moved to sit next to Damian. “Oh.”

Jon had always been aware of their height difference, made plenty of jokes about it, but it really struck him how much smaller Damian was when the older boy turned to look up and smile at him. “So stop worrying, okay Kent? It’s unbecoming.”

“Whatever you say,” Jon acquiesced. 

Damian wasn’t leaving for good. Damian, with his burning green eyes and molten beauty, still wanted to be friends with him. 

With a smile on his face, Jon turned to look out at the city, letting the quiet wash over him. At his side, Damian did the same. A huge thank you to @iamwhelmed for organizing the secret santa this year!!

tag list: @woahjaybird @birdy-bat-writes @elles-shitposts-personified @subtleappreciation  @screennamealreadyused @pricetagofficial @catxsnow  @iconbicon

[screamting]

Winter in Kansas [80s AU] 2/2

previously: Bruce managed to sit on the bed for a full five minutes, hands held carefully in each other and breathing slowly, heart steadying, before he locked it in place.

And he left the room, footsteps quiet as he could make them on the carpet, and went back downstairs.

--

Clark wasn't there, but his parents were. Jon was in front of the TV drinking a cup of coffee while Martha hovered behind him, both talking about expected snow before they saw Bruce

“Hey honey, can I getcha something?” She asked.

--

Bruce’s mother had been dark-haired, like him, not blond and graying like Martha. It helped. Even if he'd been hoping to catch Jon.

“...I was wondering if I could ask some stuff outside?” he said softly.

Snitches get stitches. But these two knew. He was just entering the circle. Just confirming.

--

The two of them shared a look. Like they knew exactly what this was about.

Jon sighed and set his coffee down before getting it of his chair. “Sure, Bruce. Lemme just get my shoes on.”

--

Bruce nodded, waiting patiently and not making more sound than he absolutely had to for the few moments it took.

He saw the look. He knew what it meant, too.

At the very least, he wouldn't have to ease into this.

--

Once Jon had his dirty, mud-caked boots on and a thick jacket, he stepped outside and held the door open for Bruce to follow.

“So whaddya wanna ask about, son?”

--

Bruce followed, and stepped out into the field behind Jon.

He waited until they'd walked a little before speaking, hoping the crunch of his boots and the Kansas wind might hide his words from someone else.

“...how much can he hear?”

--

Jon turned to face Bruce and hesitated, his face hard to read.

“Pretty far last he told me. I don’t know the specifics.”

His voice was low too.

He gestured for Bruce to follow him. Lead him to one of the tractors, climbed on, and started it up, but then climbed right back down. He talked only loud enough for Bruce to hear over the constant rumble and shake of the machinery.

“More noise makes it harder for him as far as I know.”

The tractor was loud, but it didn't have the same bite as cars flying past on the freeway when trying to walk down the street. He could bear it.

--

“...so that's the only way to get privacy? Clutter the sound?”

--

“I wouldn’t think of it like ‘getting privacy’, Bruce. Clark isn’t trying to hear everything for the next mile. It’s just background noise for him. He tries not to pay attention to it. It’s only when he hears things that worry him that he pays attention, or his name.”

“... Think of it like… standin’ in the middle of a freeway. Your friend is right next to you talkin’, but not raising their voice. You can’t really make anything out unless you hear something like your name, or maybe ‘help’. Words you pay more attention to without even thinkin’ about it.”

--

...he listened, and nodded, but all the same--

All the same.

“...you called me a big name out east,” Bruce said. “When we met.”

--

“Yeah,” he shifted a little on the tractor to get more comfortable. “I know about Wayne Industries. Know what happened to your folks. Was all over the news.”

--

...he nodded, then. Okay. Jon had some context, then--

“I asked a girl out last month and three gossip rags picked it up,” he said. “...my friends tell me private stuff.”

And Clark could hear through walls.

--

Jon sighed, “Are you worried he’s gonna go around telling everyone everything?” He asked, sounding like he had this conversation before. “Before you knew about it, did he go around doing that?”

“He keeps everything he hears to himself.”

--

“That doesn't mean they trusted him with it,” he said. Looking down.

He wasn't… angry. And it didn't come out angry.

But he couldn't stop sounding tired.

Everyone, always listening in. Always hearing about him without him being the one to say it.

Even in Kansas. Jon knew. No chance to say things for himself.

--

Jon sighed, “No. You’re right.”

“... But it ain’t fair to blame Clark. He never asked for any of this. When it first started he used to lock himself in closets or hold his head underwater for… way longer than anyone was comfortable with. Don’t think he slept for at least a week.”

--

“I'm not trying to blame him,” Bruce said, and… he wasn't lying.

It almost surprised him. He wasn't trying to spare this man’s feelings.

“...I'm trying to find a work-around.”

--

“You know what the best work-around I’ve come up with?” Jon said, looking down at Bruce.

“Askin’ him when not to listen.”

--

Bruce looked up at him, expression confused.

Did Jon announce when he had private conversations?

--

Jon just shrugged down at him.

“Sometimes you just gotta take someone’s word.”

--

Okay. He would.

“That include taking his word he can't control it?”

--

Jon nodded, “I know you weren’t around to see it, but my boy went through hell just trying to deal with it. He’s a lot better, and I imagine he’ll keep getting better, but right now… that’s all you can really do. Take his word.”

--

The sharp parts of Bruce’s reply seemed to sail right over Jon’s head. Maybe the tractor’s noise hid the edges in his words. He didn't know.

If there wasn't any way to do it, though, then Bruce had… no other questions to be answered like this.

--

Or maybe Jon just didn’t have the energy in him to respond to it. He looked tired, like this song and dance had happened one too many times.

“That all?”

--

...he nodded. But still, he asked, “could I make a phone call?”

--

“Sure,” Jon said, and reached to turn off the tractor. But first--

“Bruce?”

--

Bruce looked up at him.

--

“... You could do my boy a whole lotta harm with the power you have. And while I can’t force you to do anything, I will ask that you keep this to yourself.”

And then he turned off the tractor.

--

“Mr. Kent,” he said, eyes and voice too steady for a sixteen year old. “I knew he was weird two months ago. I take care of my friends.”

He climbed off the tractor with him.

--

“I’m glad to hear that.” Jon said, and climbed off after him.

He lead him back inside and to the phone that hung on the kitchen wall.

--

Bruce thanked him quietly, and took the phone off the rack to dial.

He didn't have a tractor or anything else but the TV to hide his conversation, but still, he spoke softly into the receiver, enough that the Kents on the other side of the room wouldn't get more than a few snatches of conversation.

“...have the address already? ...okay. Thanks. Bye, Alfred.”

Hung up again.

Shuffled towards the couch.

“...I realized I forgot something, so Alfred’s going to send it in a few days,” he said, assuming that was fine but informing them out of politeness all the same.

--

“Okay.” Martha said, and did pass a look to Jon, who just gave her a nod.

They had a talk.

It was fine.

… There was still no sign of Clark.

--

Clark, he figured, was probably still in his room. He hadn't heard or seen anything to suggest otherwise.

So there was only one thing to do, in the handful of hours left before dinner.

He went to the guest room and dug through his bag, pulling out a clasped wooden box, folded with hinges, and headed to Clark’s bedroom door. And knocked.

--

It took a moment, but Clark did open his bedroom door.

The light was off and his eyes were a little puffy, like he’d been crying but stopped a short while ago.

He hesitated, but did step aside a little to let Bruce in.

“Hey.”

--

Bruce stepped in.

“So,” he said, skipping through pleasantries. “You are: stronger, faster, and have better hearing than me. And you can fly and reportedly burn people with your eyes.”

He sat on the floor without ceremony, and unhooked the box to let the game pieces all fall out, and reveal the pattern underneath.

“So, the next question is: do you know how to play chess?”

--

Clark flicked on the light out of habit whenever someone came inside.

“... Kinda?” He said, watching Bruce plop down on the rug. Like the question confused him.

--

Bruce nodded, starting to set up the chess board. “Kinda? You know how each piece moves?”

--

“Yeah.” He said, and sat down across from him.

--

“Cool. You fine if I take black?”

--

“Go ahead.” Clark shook his head.

--

Bruce took black and made the first move.

And they played chess.

--

Clark knew enough about chess to play, but he was by no means any sort of champion.

Eventually though, he did ask; “Are you mad at me?”

--

“Did you do anything I should be mad about?” Bruce asked, mostly focused on going easy on Clark and playing at his level.

He wondered if he could get this game to a draw.

--

“Be a freak.” He said bluntly.

--

“...” Bruce moved one of his pawns.

He has secrets bubbled up inside of him that he doesn't need to pour out. They aren't his to give. If he can find distaste in Clark overhearing secrets accidentally, he can't console himself in spilling them full-knowing.

So instead, he says, “I've met worse people.”

--

Clark just sighed, like what Bruce said didn’t mean anything.

But he didn’t say anything and continued to half-heartedly play chess. After each move he would pull his arms into himself, hugging them, like out of the two he was the most vulnerable even if it was anything but.

--

...Bruce watched. Saw Clark tugging his arms in on himself. Saw him curled between moves.

“...what are you so scared of?” he asked. Finally. When it was clear things weren't getting better.

--

“Everyone,” he said.

“... After the- the shooting, and whenever I’d do something that no real person should be able to do, Ma and Pa would sit me down and remind me that I needed to keep it to myself. That I had to be a ‘normal human teenager’, even if it was just an act, because what if someone told the wrong person. What if they came swooping down in helicopters to drag me out of the house and go seal me in some secret underground bunker somewhere to stab me with needles.”

“And I try. I try but it’s hard. I run too fast and hear too much. It’s like I’m constantly holding my breath and I can never breathe because if I did someone will hear and drag me away.”

--

….

Bruce nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “...that's…”

God.

God.

He hadn't expected to hear that.

Hear that fear out of Clark’s mouth. The same raw level of fried nerves that knotted in his shoulders and let him wanting to scream, but unable to.

“...I…” God. Fuck. He's spent one day in Smallville, away from Tommy and the pap, and he's falling apart like Gotham was a mould desperately trying to help him hold his shape. “I'm scared of everyone, too.”

--

Clark was trying not to cry again. His eyes were glazed over. He wiped at them before anything could come out and looked over at Bruce.

“Why?” He asked, confused.

He didn’t know of all the things his friend was scared of.

--

To be fair to Clark, it was a very long list.

“Everyone in Gotham knows me,” he said, face the same carefully controlled expression he usually had when he was trying to explain something on their homework, or when speaking to the teachers and adults. “...and they know what I'm worth. I wasn't kidding about kidnappings. They've happened before.”

“...I bribed someone when I was ten. To stay with Alfred,” he continued. “...they wanted to take me away. There's a lot of people who are counting down until I'm eighteen and have access to the money. A lot of people want it.”

“...I just want my family back. And to not feel like every street I walk down’s going to have a mugger with a gun on it.”

...he looked up, and met Clark’s wet eyes with his own, darker, exhausted ones.

“...it sounds nice. To have a friend I don't have to worry about being shot.”

--

Clark finally managed a little bit of a smile.

Friend.

“... Sorry. I didn’t realize having so much money would be such a problem. But it makes a lot of sense. To me that whole… life… just, they show it on TV like it’s anything but a problem. Don’t have to worry about the crop doing well or the cows dyin’ to depend on whether you’re gonna have to cut corners and stuff.”

“I try ‘n do what I can with what I have to help out. Heavy lifting. Lookin’ for engine problems where Pa can’t see. That kinda stuff. I tried to convince them to just let me fly to Gotham too, to cut on bus faire, but they said no.”

He made his move and swallowed.

“I wanna help people, Bruce. That’s why I went to that house and ended up…”

Clark didn’t finish his sentence.

“But whenever I do I just get scolded. And I’m scared that someone will find out it’s me, and then that’d be the end of it.”

--

Bruce listens.

He's still watching Clark’s eyes, and his mouth, and he can't imagine this boy doing what they say he's done.

“Kent,” he says, with steel in his tone. “I would've given anything for someone to get in the way and burn the man who killed my family’s arms off.”

--

Clark smiled a little.

Validation.

…

“I don't regret it. At all. If it happened again I'd do the same thing. Even though I'm scared of being taken away. It'd be worth it, I think.”

--

Bruce picked up one of the chess pieces he'd captured and threw it at Clark’s head.

“Don't be stupid.”

--

It connected but Clark just let it.

“Huh?”

--

Bruce gave him a glare, though it wasn't a particularly intense one.

“You can't do it one time and get taken away so the next guy has a clear shot,” he said. “So next time, don't get caught.”

Geez.

--

He blinked, “So like… do it and run? They'll still see me though and tell the cops.”

--

“No, like don't do it so they know you're an alien,” Bruce said, like it was obvious. “As much as they deserve their arms burned off, it might get suspicious.”

--

Clark gave him a look. “As soon as they shoot me and I don't die they'll know something is messed up.”

--

“Then wear a mask,” he said, leaning forwards, an odd light in his eyes. “Be so alien they can't imagine you're who you really are.

--

Clark looked a mix of shocked and excited. “Like… a comic book hero?”

--

Bruce wasn't sure what the expression on his own face was. “Sure?”

--

… He made his move and didn’t say anything for a few minutes.

“I used to pretend I was one when I was little. I think that’s why I learned to fly before, y’know, all the other stuff.”

What kid didn’t want to fly?

--

...Bruce looked down at the board and quietly moved his piece, too.

“...I lied to you before. About where I'm going when I'm eighteen.”

--

Clark looked up at him but definitely wasn’t mad.

“... You know where you wanna go?”

--

“...I wanna learn how to hunt people down,” he admitted, head low.

--

“... Like… a detective?”

That didn't seem bad or even a little out of character for Bruce.

--

…

“Maybe,” he said. He didn't really have a word for what he wanted.

But Clark used to pretend he was a comic book hero…?

Bruce dropped his gaze again.

“...I found a cave, when I was a kid,” he said. “I fell inside while walking. I used to pretend I lived inside it. A monster. Who would come out and hurt the people who deserved it.”

…

“It's stupid, now.”

He was stupid.

But he was still going to go.

Going to find someone dangerous and powerful, and say teach me how.

--

“That's not stupid.” Clark said, taking his turn.

“... Well, maybe the eating part. But wanting to track people down and make them pay isn't stupid. It's what we're doing now kinda. Looking into the Court of Owls.”

--

“...yeah,” Bruce said. Nodding. “...do you think we’ll find them?”

--

“... I’m not sure, honestly.” Clark admitted. “I feel like we’re finding something deeper but I dunno if it’s the Court of Owls.”

“Just gotta keep diggin’ to find out.”

--

...Bruce nodded.

He took a breath.

“....you're in check, by the way.”

--

“Oh.”

He made his move.

…

“You’re going easy on me.” He smirked.

--

“Yep,” Bruce said, moving a piece on the opposite side of the bored and giving Clark time to escape. “Don't feel bad. I've been playing Tommy for years. Only recently started to give him a run for his money.”

--

Clark huffed, “I don’t feel bad. I know you’re way out of my league.”

It took him a few seconds, but he made his move.

--

...he moved another piece.

“...does that bother you?”

--

‘Maybe a little,’ Clark thought.

But Bruce didn’t even like guys. He knew that after seeing what happened with Tommy.

“Nah,” he said instead with a smile. “I’m just glad you put up with the redneck from Kansas.”

--

Bruce huffed.

“What's that got to do with chess? You guys not play board games out here?”

--

Clark gave him a look.

“Do Kenny ‘n Pete look like they’d play chess?”

--

“Kenny ‘n Pete look like they play tic tac toe,” he said.

--

Clark let out a laugh that could have melted a room.

“Yeah, basically.”

…

“God. I’m sorry about them.”

--

Bruce gave him a confused look.

“...that they have big mouths?” He said. Because, yeah. He was sorry for that, too.

Or was it a flawed intimidation tactic? Hazing?

Not speaking to him for half the day?

--

“Yeah. Big mouths and I think they were just trying to throw you off. Maybe they were kinda mad I made friends back in Gotham and then brought them with me? They’ve been my friends for a long time. Probably know more about me than my parents in some cases.”

--

“They shouldn't have thrown you under the bus like that,” Bruce said, and that was all he could say about them without saying anything cruel.

He moved the chess piece.

--

“Yeah I’m-- I’m pretty pissed at them right now.” He sighed, watching the board.

“Really thought you’d hate me.”

--

“...” yet again, he found himself asking, “why?”

...Clark kept saying that. ‘I thought you'd hate me.’ Why was he so certain? Why…

--

… Clark shrugged.

“I dunno. I’m not a super interesting person or anything and then you throw the whole ‘alien’ thing into the mix. It’s just-- it seems easier to just… hate? I dunno.”

He made his move.

“I’m dumb.”

--

….yeah. Bruce nodded. “Yeah. You are, huh.”

He moved in kind.

“...I take care of my friends.”

--

Clark smiled.

“Me too.”

Made his move.

“So just let me know if you need to move something really heavy.” He joked.

Kinda.

--

Bruce nodded.

“I'll get you renovating the manor grounds in no time.”

“Check, by the way.”

--

He scoffed and watched it happen.

“That a job offer, Mr. Wayne?”

--

“...I can pay ya under the table, but it might damage my reputation,” he said.

--

He looked confused, “Why would that damage your reputation?”

--

Bruce looked up. “...it's black market activity,” he said. “Which is fine on a small scale, but if I was paying someone I’d have to report it.”

--

“Oh, I see what you mean.” He snorted.

--

…he managed a smile about it. “Yeah. I don't exist on a small scale.”

--

Clark didn’t say much to that, and made his move.

… Eventually their game would end and it would be time for dinner.

--

Bruce would go downstairs, and eat with the Kent family for dinner. And--

...and try to not feel strange. Or an outsider. But… it wasn't impossible, in a strange way.

...he knew Clark’s secret, too, now. And it made it easier to slide into a place like this.

Insular.

--

Maybe things were easier for now. They did certainly seem easier for Clark’s parents, and as they started to sit down around the dinner table Jon would ask; “Everythin’ good now, gentlemen?”

And Clark would look over at Bruce and then smile a little and nod.

--

Bruce nodded, “yessir,” and…

It was nice. Even with knowing Clark might hear anything.

Somehow, he still felt a little more free.

--

They had a nice dinner. Jon asked Bruce things occasionally, mostly about how Gotham was, how he liked it. He didn’t ask about parents or business. Just typical kid stuff like school and how it was going. They avoided talk of Clark’s incident completely.

Things around the Kent house were extremely ‘normal’ considering. It was like… bizarre interlaced with normal, and now that Bruce was in on it they didn’t need to worry.

After dinner Jon asked Clark to come help him get one of the tractors out from a mud hole it was stuck in, and if Bruce watched he would see Clark lift the front up and simply back the whole thing up.

--

...and Bruce would watch. From the porch, regular, hot tea in a mug. And he would watch Clark lift the tractor and say nothing.

His friend was an alien. And he wasn't sure, exactly, why he was taking it so well.

...when they came back in, they watched TV and got ready for the night. And… Bruce wondered, faintly, if Clark would hear if he had a nightmare tonight.

But he didn't.

Not tonight.

--

Clark could, but… Bruce had nightmares semi-frequently. It wasn’t polite to encroach on that or bring it up, so he didn’t.

Trust that he’ll give you privacy.

That morning the sun would rise and the day on the farm started even earlier. Jon was up and out of the house before the sun was up and when it did finally rise breakfast would start to be made.

Bacon and eggs with toast.

…

When Bruce came down Clark wouldn’t be there.

--

Bruce found he hadn't been given a time to wake up, and so he woke on his own--fatigued still, but only in the way of waking up in new places--with the clock saying an hour earlier than when he usually woke at school. It was still a dark, and he lay in bed, enjoying the ability to not have to get up immediately. He started his way downstairs when he began to smell food and an unusual amount of sun (in other words: any amount of sun) hit his windows.

“Good morning, Ms. Kent,” he began with, obviously. “...Clark sleep in?”

--

“No I think he’s up already.” Martha said. “He likes to sit on the roof when the sun comes up. He’ll come down soon now that you’re up.”

“How d’you like your eggs?”

--

“Scrambled dry,” he said, and… didn't have to question how Clark would know he was up.

“Okay.”

--

Martha nodded and cracked open the eggs for his breakfast. “You sleep okay?”

There was a small thud on the front steps before the door opened and Clark came inside wearing little more than pajama pants. It would be the first time Bruce had seen him in less than two layers.

It became obvious why.

He was… kind of jacked.

He didn’t look cold either despite the temperatures outside.

--

...what the fuck.

But Bruce kept his mouth shut. His heart sped a little, but slowed again a moment or two later.

“...morning.”

--

“Mornin’.” Clark mumbled, scratching his stomach and instantly rooting in the fridge.

Two cups.

“Y’want OJ or milk?”

--

For eggs?

“Orange juice,” Bruce says, watching him.

--

Clark shook up the OJ and poured Bruce a glass before handing it over to him, but he went for milk.

“Mind puttin’ some bread in for toast? ‘N get the butter out, please.” Martha said, and Clark did as he was asked without complaint.

Martha plated Bruce’s eggs and handed them over, then pulled the towel off the plate in the middle piled with bacon. “Help yerself.”

--

“Thanks,” he said, startled out of his observations for a moment, and--

He was watching two things, a little lost in them both, but at least they were all in this one place. Just--on one hand, caught in the mundanity, in a mother asking her son to pull out the toast and bread, and on the other hand, a small thing in the back of his mind which informed him that Clark’s stomach muscles twisted every time he moved his arm.

He waited until he was joined at the table to even think about eating.

--

Clark made some toast and put it on a plate for them to grab from and by the time he sat down too his eggs were finished.

Sunny side up.

He thanked his mom as he sat down and started to dig in.

“Just cover the bacon back up when you’re done, I’m gonna run out and help your daddy.” Martha said, taking a sip from her coffee before leaving the two eating on their own.

--

Bruce started to eat as Clark joined him, thanking Ms. Kent again, and…

…

“You always sleep without a top here?” he asked, losing his shit completely with a straight face.

--

Clark was busy shoving a strip of bacon in his mouth. “Uh-” He chewed and swallowed.

“Yeah. I like the sun on my skin when I get up.”

--

Oh. Okay. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, so he just--nodded and got his own piece or two of bacon.

And kept eating.

“...plans for today?”

--

Clark shrugged a little and put some ketchup on his eggs before breaking them up. “Dunno. Usually I hang out with Kenny ‘n Pete on my days off, but…” he glanced up at Bruce.

“Not feelin’ that anytime soon.”

…

“Thought about just… flyin’ around for awhile. Haven’t been able to do that in Gotham. But that’d leave you here unless you’re fine with coming.”

--

Bruce was ready to tell him he was fine with just reading a book for a while, but--

“...with coming along for flying?”

--

“Yeah. I’d carry you. Like, it’s fine if you’re scared though. It’s pretty weird. But figured it was impolite not to offer.” Clark said, pushing runny egg mess on his bread and eating it.

--

Bruce stared at him like he was crazy.

“Take me flying,” he said.

--

… Clark grinned with a mouthful of toast and a bit of ketchup on his lips. “O-kay.”

--

He was stupid and (buff, and Bruce wanted to lean over with a napkin and shove it on Clark’s lips to get rid of that dumb ketchup) absolutely intentionally being dense, because who didn’t want to fly, even if you had to be carried?

But instead, he said, “Shut up and eat faster,” and started shoveling his breakfast down in kind.

--

Clark grinned and did just that, shoveling his food down and eating toast and bacon before standing up and chugging his milk.

Shirtless.

He put the plate in the sink and wiped his mouth with his hand.

“Dress warm, it gets cold.”

--

Bruce felt something in his stomach flip, and he nodded, running back upstairs to tug on his winter boots and add on another layer and his heavy coat. Clark’s borrowed winter hat. His good gloves.

And he was ready.

--

Clark got dressed too and then met Bruce back downstairs a moment later. He opened the door out to the porch, stepped off the front step and… float there, spinning around as if in water to face Bruce with his hands in his pockets.

“Piggyback or in my arms?”

--

“Arms,” Bruce said, not wanting a piggyback--he was sixteen, not a kid, after all. It didn’t matter if Clark could carry him fine.

--

“Okay.”

Clark hovered close again and reached out, hand going around Bruce’s waist and pulling him close. He pressed himself against Bruce and locked his hands around the small of his back. Waited for Bruce to position his hands how he wanted.

… He might have been enjoying this a little too much.

“Ready?”

--

...somehow, Bruce didn’t realize he was going to be held like this in Clark’s arms. He knew they’d go around him, but--face to face, he guessed he hadn’t expected, and found his face close enough to smell Clark’s neck as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders securely.

Even through his heavy layers, he could feel Clark’s body, unusually warm against him.

Despite having just drunk orange juice, his mouth was dry. He told himself it was nerves.

“Ready.”

--

Clark smiled at him and then looked up.

And they started to rise, slow at first. Clark kept his grip firm and make sure Bruce didn’t slip, and soon they were over the roof of the the farmhouse. He started to fly away from it, legs angling as if to ‘push’ away from the farm.

Over the empty fields.

--

Once they were up in the air, Bruce… forgot.

He forgot about a lot of things. About how he was sort of uncomfortable being this close to anyone, or how he was fully clothed and Clark was half undressed in his PJs, or what was going on back home.

There was nothing under his feet. It was just-- a moment. A moment of disorientation, and realizing the air was cold and sharp with wind, and how empty the air was around him. That flying was just falling interrupted.

And Clark’s firm chest against his own was the only thing the world that felt stable at that moment.

He wanted to see the fields. The farmhouse. The long shadows, stretching over the yellow, frost-bitten fields.

But before that, before getting lost in wonder, staring-- he tightened his grip on Clark, and held himself close against him.

--

It was nice to be held so tightly by someone who wasn’t his mom or dad. He couldn’t even recall a time that had ever happened before. He kept people at an arm’s length for his own safety, and even when he did let them in there was still that fear of rejection. But last night Bruce had insisted and insisted that he wasn’t mad, that they were still friends, that it didn’t change anything.

When he got to the point he wanted and started to fly backwards gently, to really get in the whole view of the farm, he looked back down at Bruce with that award-winning smile.

“Whaddya think?”

--

“It’s big,” Bruce called back over the wind.

But he couldn’t… think of anything else to say about it. And maybe the new-day sun in his eyes said enough. The way it hit his ghost-pale face in the way it never could reach in Gotham.

There weren’t skyscrapers here. The long shadows ran only along the ground, far, far below them, cast by regular-sized objects, not buildings made by giants.

And the sky was in every direction he looked.

Big.

Blue.

Beauti--

--

Maybe looking back on this day when he was older would be when he said he started to love Bruce Wayne, but right now he still didn't quite realize it. Even as he looked down at the other boy rather than the scenery, watching how the light illuminated his pale skin and tired, sharp eyes. There was a fierceness to Bruce he had never seen from anyone else. Fierce and ironclad in everything he wanted to be.

“Yeah, it is.” Is all he said though, and would slowly continue to hover backwards, getting further away, then go a little left towards the trees that marked their property.

You could see the roads. The buildings in the distance. Cars driving along. Birds flew beside them a safe distance away.

And somehow Clark shined just like the sun, curls blowing in the wind and arms secure around Bruce's waist.

--

Bruce didn’t say much while they were up there, focusing on breathing in the cold wind and staring down at all the world below in a way he’d never really been able to before.

Not like this. Alone and secure, without airplane walls around him.

(Even if he wasn’t alone at all.)

...but Clark would still be able to hear his heart beat, strong and excited with the world below, pressed against his bare chest with just the coat between them.

...but Gothamite he might’ve been, Bruce still could only stand the cold against his face for so long before his cheeks started turning pink and windburnt.

--

Clark might not have been able to feel the cold like Bruce, but he could see it.

“Gonna start going down.” He warned, and did just that. A slow descent left and down…

… and they were back on the porch, feet touching down.

--

A little wobbly, Bruce pulled away once his feet touched the floor-- not because of anything bad, but because as soon as the wind wasn’t rushing him anymore, he realized he desperately had to wipe his nose, or it would drip out everywhere.

“Tissue,” he mumbled.

--

Clark was… a little hesitant to let go, but as soon as Bruce pulled away he let him go.

“... Oh! Yeah, c'mon.” Clark said, arm leading Bruce back inside.

There was a tissue box right by the door.

--

Bruce hid his nose in his face until he was able to get to the tissue box and snatch one out, blowing his nose.

“Danks,” he said.

--

“No problem. I forget that's a thing that happens.”

Clark's skin hadn't changed even a little.

Chalk that up to another power; resistance to cold.

--

Bruce noticed Clark’s immunity, but didn’t say anything about it really. He just focused on blowing his nose, and once he was done, rubbing his cheeks to warm them up again.

“...you never get sick or stuff, either?”

--

“Uh,” Clark began as he walked to the kitchen to make something warm for Bruce.

“Not since I was little. Mom says when I was a baby I struggled a lot. Like I couldn't breathe. But I don't really get cold anymore. I can't get burnt. Can stick my hand right in a fire and nothing. Can grab hot pans.”

“It's like--” he shrugged. “Invulnerability?”

--

...Bruce had honestly just been wondering if Clark was affected by bacteria at all, but… that was a lot more than he’d asked for.

“...not anything?”

--

It was nice to just… talk about it with someone. Sure his friends knew, but… they always asked him weird questions about it. Like if he looked at people naked.

“Well getting shot hurt, but other than something like that? Nope.” Clark put on some water for tea.

--

...Bruce didn’t question it, even if he did watch Clark a little longer, lingering.

...he realized now that he looked at Clark, that… he didn’t have any marks on his skin.

Not a mole. Not a freckle. Not a paper-thin scar.

And he’d been shot.

“...I can’t tell at all,” he said, maybe a little breathless, watching Clark’s back as he filled the water.

--

“Revolver hit me here--” he said, turning and pointing at his face. “Shotgun hit me here--” he pointed at his arm and chest.

“Gave me a black eye and broken nose and a lot of cuts. But they healed pretty fast. No scars or anything.” Clark shrugged. “Worst anyone's been able to do too me. I've fallen out of trees and moving cars and jumped out of two story windows and mostly been fine.”

He gave a sheepish smile.

--

Bruce found his arm going up to his neck, fist tight, and tried not to think about the hole that he’d seen punch through his mother.

He had scars on his arms right now. He had cuts healing right now. And Clark had jumped out of buildings and been shot and leapt out of moving cars--

“Why did you jump out of a moving car and a two story window??”

--

Clark laughed, “Well the car thing was I saw a dog and I was like… five. Really gave my folks gray hair for that one. And I jumped out of my bedroom window when they grounded me once and didn't quite have flying down yet. But I landed okay!” He gave Bruce a dumb grin and thumbs up.

--

Bruce buried his face in his hands.

--

Clark just laughed again and pulled the kettle off the stove to pour them both some tea.

“Genius alien from beyond the stars.” He joked.

“Really though I’m just…” he shrugged. “Just a kid on a farm who can’t get a date or pass his driving test, or… y’know.”

--

He didn’t know. But he nodded anyway.

“Yeah,” he said. And he wanted to say he was just normal, too.

But he could get a date, and wasn’t a farm kid, and could drive, just not legally.

…

“...wanna be lazy normal and just watch some TV?”

--

“Hell yeah.” Clark grinned and handed him his tea.

--

...the first day or two had been rough, but it grew easier with each passing day.

The Kents didn’t ask him about his family. They just… brought him to the table. Clark did alien things, and human things, and mostly reading-and-TV things.

They had a Christmas tree, and bit by bit presents appeared under it as the Christian Holiday grew closer. And, to Bruce’s relief, one such present arrived in the mail with a little bit of time to spare.

He’d been invited to Christmas parties before, but he’d never really celebrated with his family that he could remember--what he did remember was mixed up with Chanukah somewhat, with how young he’d been at the time. And though he was fairly sure the Kanes celebrated both, they only really invited him for things like Pesach and Sukkot.

So it was… the first time he’d really seen a family Christmas in person, rather than through every movie and pop culture magazine in the world.

...it was much quieter than he’d been led to believe, when the day finally did come, and he wondered, briefly, how the Kents had managed to tell Clark about a magical flying man in the sky when he was a child, or if they’d let him know Santa Claus was a fictional character to avoid accidental alien imprinting.

--

The day Christmas arrived there was a bit more of a set time to get up, but things still moved the same as they had been.

The sun rose and Jon tended to the cows, but then would be inside for the remainder of the day unlike his usual sparse appearances throughout. They made pancakes for breakfast and waited until everyone was sat around the table together to eat.

After breakfast was time for presents, a few under the tree for Clark, some for his parents, and…

Martha handed a little box to Bruce too.

--

...it was nice. It was still approximately like a regular day, which was a little strange, but it was nice. He ate the breakfast with his usual appreciation and followed to the livingroom around the tree once it was done, watching.

Bruce took the little box with a quiet ‘thank you,’ and smiled. Most of the gifts around the tree were for Clark, but that was fine.

...After a bit of confusion, Bruce had brought his presents down a day or two before. One for Jon. One for Martha.

Two for Clark--one of them being the little package that had arrived in the mail a few days earlier.

The first three presents Bruce had picked out while in Gotham, asked Alfred to purchase and wrap, and had brought them on the train himself on the way to Smallville.

He hoped they were fine.

...for Ms Kent, before knowing her name, he’d gotten a blue sapphire necklace with matching earrings. Not especially expensive, so it wouldn’t feel condescending or she couldn’t find things to wear them with. Not so cheap it looked bad coming from him.

For Jon, it’d been a little easier.

High quality black leather gloves with a matching sidebag.

… and for Clark, he’d… for the first present, he’d simply gotten him an autobiography of one of the muckrakers who’d lived through the mob wars of the 20s and 30s.

...it was the second present, in a much smaller box, that had Bruce anxious.

--

Jon and Martha kept insisting that he didn’t have to get them anything of course. They were very impressed by the gifts though, Jon giving a rather genuine smile and Martha leaning over to give him a hug in thanks.

Clark really liked the book too, and it actually took him a moment to put it down and pick up the second present that Bruce had given him.

“Another one?” He asked, a little surprised while pulling off the wrapping.

--

Bruce nodded and… looked down a little.

...inside the box, there were what looked to be hearing aids. Pale, thin, and mechanical.

“...they’re sound blockers,” he said softly. “...you said Gotham was too loud for you. And what you said about three miles, I figured…”

…

“You don’t have to use them.”

--

Clark clearly didn’t know what they were before Bruce said anything, but then the realization hit him.

“... Oh. Wow, Bruce.” He said, pulling them out. “That’s… really cool.”

“How do you put them on?” He asked, already trying.

--

Oh.

Bruce brightened a little, and shuffled closer, sliding until their knees knocked together.

“Here,” he said, taking the first one from Clark’s hand and brushing away his hair to get a good view of his ear.

He slid it in carefully, looping the hook that made it appear so much like a hearing aid over Clark’s ear.

“No one should question it, since it looks like a regular thing.”

--

Clark leaned in closer to help him and… maybe kinda stayed there a little longer just so he could be closer to Bruce while he helped put them in.

“This is really cool.” He said again, voice quiet.

“Finally gonna be able to sleep.” He laughed, a little joking and a little not.

--

Bruce smiled a little, glad Clark liked them so much. “They working?”

--

He went quiet and focused, a smile spreading over his face. “I can’t hear the cows.”

Martha looked like she might start crying.

--

Bruce grinned wide, something warm spreading through his chest.

“You like them?”

--

“Yeah. I really do.” Clark grinned.

…

He leaned over and pulled Bruce into a hug.

--

For a moment, Bruce was startled, freezing up in the sudden hold.

...then, he leaned into it, closing his eyes, and finding himself melting into the hold.

--

… Clark found he really didn’t want it to end, but… his parents were right there. So it had to. But while it lasted he held Bruce tight and whispered out another ‘thank you’ before pulling away.

“Wish you woulda had those when you were younger.” Martha smiled and Clark laughed.

“Yeah, really.”

--

Bruce smiled and edged away from Clark again, opening his own present quietly while the others talked.

...he felt a little better, now, knowing the gift was well received. That it wasn’t a bad idea.

...soon enough, though, January would come, and the hearing aids would be really put to the test as their return to Gotham grew closer.

--

Bruce’s gift was… less impressive, but…

“I know it ain’t your style, but…” Clark grinned.

It was a baseball cap.

A baseball cap with ‘SMALLVILLE’ embroidered across it.

“Least it’s somethin’ to remember us by.” Jon chuckled.

--

Bruce sighed deeply, eyes rolling up to the ceiling, and flipped the hat up to destroy his hair style by putting it on.

“You know what, Kent,” he said. “At least it’s not John Deere.”

--

Clark grinned and roped his arm around Bruce to give him a side-hug.

…

January would come eventually though, that was for sure. Clark would hug and kiss his parents goodbye and they would tell Bruce they loved having him, to come back any time. He was always welcome in their house.

Then it was a bus ride back to Gotham and Clark definitely packed his new hearing aids.

--

...he wasn’t sure why he was the one struggling to not get emotional once the Kents drove away, and he found himself in the bus seat, staring at the seat in front of him.

...but he was. For the first few minutes as the bus pulled out of the station, Bruce just… curled up in his seat and worked to keep his breathing steady.

And they headed back to Gotham.

…

He wouldn’t wear his ‘Smallville’ cap with him as they reached their destination late the next day, though. He’d return to the borrowed snow cap, and hide the ‘smallville’ one deep in his bag so that it couldn’t be seen.

...and as they returned to the dorms, he had a weight of dread in his chest that he wasn’t unused to, but…

It hadn’t been there the last two weeks.

And knowing Clark could hear his heartbeat just made him more anxious, now, about keeping secrets.

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 16

Yes, hello, it’s me again. Boo Boo the Fool. Clearly, I’ve underestimated my capacity to word vomit, thus the chapter count has been updated. It’s for real this time, though, I promise, guys. I’m not fucking crying wolf again, I swear.  Only one more to go after this.  Crazy, huh?

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Sixteen: Splinter

“Perhaps he really is a Targaryen – to the bone. But he’s finished with apologizing about it. If this is what they’ve made him, then this is what he’ll be.

If treason is what they expect, then by the gods, he will give it to them.” - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

"Here." Jon tips the cup toward Bran's lips, wiping up the spill of water at his chin when he pulls it back, and Bran nods appreciatively, his hand still at Jon's wrist.

"I'm alright," he says, urging Jon to set the cup back down.

Jon settles into his seat at Bran's bedside, the cup forgotten along the side table.

Bran settles more comfortably into his furs. "Thank you," he says, wincing slightly at the tug on his bandaged leg when he adjusts.

Jon only nods, swallowing tightly, his eyes glancing over to Sansa's prone form along the bed beside Bran's, tucked securely beneath the furs. It's been nearly a day and a half she's been unconscious. Jon sighs, rubbing a hand down his face in exhaustion. "She should be here – helping you with this. She should be here," he gets out tightly.

Bran sighs. "And she will, when she wakes."

Jon clenches his jaw, shaking his head. His eyes bead with wetness instantly. He drops his head into his hands, elbows resting along his knees and he lets out a ragged breath, a worn exhale. "Gods, she nearly – I nearly – " He doesn't have the heart to finish such a sentence.

Nearly lost her.

He hasn't the heart to even imagine it.

He remembers rushing to Measter Gregor's before the man could even make it to their chambers, Sansa's unconscious body terrifyingly light in his arms, the bloodied seat of her dress soaking through to his sleeve, and how he sobbed, how he tore through the halls screaming for the maester, chest aching, throat raw, muscles quaking as he ran with her in his arms. How lifeless she'd been when he dropped her, as gently as he could, onto the cot in Gregor's clinic, backing away to let the old man and his acolytes do their work, watching, always watching, and gasping, crumbling – begging her to just open her eyes please gods just open your eyes open your eyes Sansa please please OPEN YOUR EYES –

Jon closes his eyes at the memory, keeps his head in his hands, tries to focus on the faint sound of her breathing, the slow intake, the shallow exhale. Over and over. In and out. Over and over. This becomes his constant, his world.

He doesn't know what he'll do if it should ever stop.

"Jon."

He takes a deep breath, lets it rattle against his palms. He pulls his head up just slightly, fingers stilled splayed over his cheeks, eyes meeting Bran reluctantly.

Bran keeps his gaze resolute. "She will be here. When she wakes," he repeats. And he sounds so sure.

Jon lets out a rueful chuckle at the tone, his hands slipping from his face, hanging limp between his knees now. "I don't..." The words crack, shutter away.

"She's stronger than you think."

"Stronger than poison?" The question sounds harsher than he intends, but it's not her brother he intends his ire at. His gaze softens at the reminder. "A person can be strong, sure, they can be willful and passionate and all these things and still – poison does not discriminate. It does not care about character. It kills. That's all it does. It just... it just kills." His words hollow out at the end, a bitter sigh, his hands returning to his face.

A heavy silence pervades the air.

(Over and over. In and out. He listens for it, always.)

"Poison," Bran says, seeming to mull the word over as he says it. "And you're certain?"

He scoffs then, rearing back, hands leaving his face once more. "This wasn't simply an accident. This wasn't simply a miscar – " He stops then, the vehemence lodged in his throat. He glares at Bran, eyes still wet. His jaw ticks, teeth aching where they clench. He tears his gaze away finally. "No, this was poison. That amount of blood? That sudden and that violent? No. Someone did this to her," he snarls, head shaking.

Bran curls his hands along the edge of blanket at his waist, looking down at it a moment. He purses his lips, takes a breath. He looks back up at Jon. "Was she with child?" he asks softly.

Jon blinks at him, breath stilling in his chest.

'Was'. Not 'is'.

Jon's face crumbles instantly, breath hitching on a cry, shoulders slumping in on him with the weight of it. His hand goes over his face, as though to hold it in, as though to slow the tide, but it washes from him instantly, without reprieve, without end. "Oh gods," he croaks out, shaking with it. "Oh gods, how am I supposed to tell her?" he cries. He buries his face in his hands, tries to bite back his sobs, his head shaking back and forth. Disbelieving. "How am I supposed to tell her we lost it?" he wails.

In a way, he'd known. Before Maester Gregor pulled him aside, with Sansa slumbering in the next room, dosed with more than a few of the maester's herbs – he'd known.

"I think she'll make it, if she can pull through these next few hours. But my Lord, I must tell you. The babe... there was no saving the babe. I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

Jon had stared at the man with unseeing eyes. Just listening. Standing there. Wavering. Taking it all in. His eyes had shifted toward the bed where she laid, her brow sweat-lined, her body limp. And he'd nodded. Just nodded. "I understand," he'd said.

He'd sat down at her side then, took a wet towel to her chin, cleaned the blood from her as though it had never been. He did his best to feed her the tonic Maester Gregor gave him, slipping it between her chapped, parted lips by the spoonful, wiping the drizzle that escaped down the side of her mouth. And then he smoothed the hair back from her face, tucked the furs around her, sat there watching her for an immeasurable amount of time, before he drew in a sharp, long breath, his lungs quaking with it, and everything seemed to come down at once. He'd reached for her hand, crying, crying for her, holding her hand to his face, nuzzling into it, pleading, and crying, crying, crying.

But there will never be enough tears for such grief.

"How do I tell her?" he manages on a shaky exhale, fingers curling over his brow.

"Jon," Bran tries to comfort, his hand rising, and falling on nothing. "I'm so sorry."

It repeats. Over and over.

I'm sorry.

In and out. Over and over.

I'm sorry.

It repeats.

(But Jon only wants it to stop – just...stop.)

Just then, something does stop.

Jon stiffens at the realization, going still. His ears strain for the familiar sound of her steady breathing. It doesn't come. He glances up when a hoarse sigh breaks along the air instead, ragged and disused. His eyes land on Sansa as she stirs.

Jon nearly vaults over Bran's bed in his haste to return to Sansa's side, stumbling into the seat at her bedside, hands grasping at her own, eyes wide and wonderous on her face as she blinks once, twice, moans lowly beneath some hidden pain. And then she opens her eyes.

Jon meets her gaze ardently, brows cinching together in a painful hope, the tears still hot on his lids. "Sansa?" he asks, hardly daring to breathe the word.

She moans again, shifting slightly, blinking back the haze. Blinking again. Eyes focusing in the late afternoon light. She stares up at him. He stares down at her. Her mouth begins to tremble.

"Sansa," he tries again, barely more than a whisper, the name caught in his throat like the edge of dusk, like water-logged wood. It splinters away – sodden and heavy. "Sansa," he cries, and something joyful slips in just then – unintended. He gasps beneath the force of it, a disbelieving laugh breaking from him.

She furrows her brows, blinking furiously. And then she smacks her dry lips, tries for words, swallows back that uneven breath, that quake in her lungs. "Jon," she manages, a fierce, brilliant smile catching at the ends of her lips, tugging further, further, until it spreads wide, before it cracks at the edges, weighted and tear-stained, her face falling with the remembrance, her arms going wide, ignoring the heavy ache of them and the exhausted lull of her body and the still vibrant rack of pain through her limbs, simply reaching, for him – for him, for him, for him.

Jon reaches back, winding his arms around her, tugging her up into his chest, letting her sigh into his throat, hands firm at her back, along her neck, bracing her to him, cradling her.

"Jon," she cries.

"I'm here," he says into her hair, swaying with the weight of her.

She starts to shake, her fingers curling into the tunic at his back. "Jon," she says again.

"I'm here," he hushes. "I'm not going anywhere."

How does he tell her? he had wondered.

But when she grips at him tighter, when she sobs into his chest, when she quakes beneath him, when her wail breaks through the air like something wounded and raging – he thinks maybe she knows.

But Jon can only hold her.

In and out. Over and over.

(His constant.)

"I'm not going anywhere," he croaks again, hand trembling in her hair.

He thinks surely she knows.

* * *

"Do you need anything?" Jon asks, his fingers tracing the length of her jaw.

Sansa burrows further into the sheets, eyes slipping shut. "I'm alright."

Jon lays beside her, hesitant at first to encroach on her space, but when she had tugged him onto the cot in a needful fervency, hands curled tight in the tunic at his chest, curling into him when he stretched out alongside her, her forehead falling to his chest, his arms winding round her, well –

He's fairly certain he couldn't deny her anything at this point.

Sansa sighs, lashes fluttering. A heavy scoff leaves her, fingers curling tighter along his tunic. "No, I'm not alright," she corrects.

Jon's hand retreats from her jaw, reaching around her back instead, cradling her to him. "I'm here."

"Yes, but here is exactly the problem."

Jon clenches his jaw, his hand smoothing down her back. She's so pale. So utterly pale. Her lips are chapped, dry. Dark rings settle beneath her eyes like half-healed bruises. He barely manages not to tremble at the sight of her.

"I'm scared, Jon," she manages through a quake. "I'm scared, and I can't stay here. Not anymore. In this keep, in this family. I can't do it." She buries her face in his chest, heaving a tear-laced sigh against his collar bone. "I'm sorry, Jon, I can't... I can't do it anymore."

"I know," he gets out roughly, holding her tighter. "I know."

"What are we going to do?"

"I'm going to get us out," he says.

She stills in her shaking, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, brows furrowed sharply. "Jon... how can you...?"

"I'll get us out. I swear to you. Aegon will have to let us go," he says, a measure of surety seeping into him that hadn't been there before.

Sansa's eyes darken, her mouth tipping into a frown. "I don't trust him. I don't trust any of them," she bites out.

"Do you trust me?" His hand slips up to her hair, cradles the back of her head. His eyes are imploring on hers.

She shifts her eyes back and forth between his, her mouth parting. "You know I do," she whispers.

Jon swallows tightly, taking courage at the reminder. "Then trust that I will get us out."

She stares up at him, red wisps of hair matted to her forehead with sweat, a permanent etch of pain along her features.

Her body is still fighting. Still weak.

It lights a fury in him that is unspeakable. And yet, the hand he holds to the back of her head is gentle beyond measure.

Sansa stares up at him for long moments, her lip pulled between her teeth. She looks down to his chest, keeps her gaze fixed there, takes a long and slow breath.

His hand slips back down to the small of her back, curling there. His voice is rough and uneven when he finally speaks. "Sansa, the babe..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

Jon swallows tightly, looking down at her. Her gaze is harsh on his chest, unblinking. Her hand stays curled in his tunic.

"Sansa..."

"I don't... want to talk about it." She releases a shallow breath. "Not now, at least."

Another bout of silence eases between them. Jon sighs into her hair. "Okay." His hand slides smoothly up and down the length of her back. "Okay."

Some of her stiffness eases out at his answer. "Thank you."

Her voice is so small. So tired and worn. Jon keeps his grief tucked securely behind clenched teeth. "You should rest."

She has very little left in her to say otherwise, and so she only nods, her hand uncurling from his tunic to bunch in the sheets beneath her.

"Rest," he says, starting to pull from her.

Her hand snaps back to his tunic, holding him there, her eyes blinking widely up at him. "Will you stay?"

He hates the tremor of fear in her voice. "Aye, I'll stay," he gets out gruffly, easing back down.

She sighs in relief, eyes slipping shut once more, shoulders easing out their tension.

Jon brushes the hair from her sweat-lined temple. "I'll stay," he promises lowly, watching her.

And he does stay – until she is asleep once more. And then he stays a while longer, just watching her, fingers trailing from her brow to her cheek, down the line of her jaw, clenched in her worried sleep, then down the length of her arm, and back up, tracing the lines of her, committing it to memory.

When he is sure she won't be disturbed, he disentangles from her, easing himself off the cot beside her. He releases her hand reluctantly, tucking it back beneath the furs. He takes a breath, lets it to air. And then he stalks toward the door.

Bran glances up from his lean along his propped-up pillows, hand stilling over the parchment he'd been writing on. "Jon?"

Jon ignores him, a singular focus coming over him. He pulls the door back, dark gaze meeting the startled guard that greets him outside the threshold.

"M'lord?"

"Has Maester Gregor sent any word of his findings?" The question is low and terse, nearly a bite.

The guard shakes his head. "No, m'lord. He's still convening with the other maesters."

Jon nods, brow furrowing. "Summon Theon Greyjoy." he says, eyes flicking to the guard opposite him. "And no one else, aside from him and Maester Gregor, gets through this door, do you understand me?" The words are even and low, a quiet ferocity to them that keeps the guards muted, only fervent nods sent Jon's way. Jon releases the door and stalks back through the clinic to the threshold on the opposite side of the room leading to Measter Gregor's adjoining solar. He passes Bran and Sansa's beds swiftly.

"Jon, what are you going to do?" Bran asks urgently.

"What I have to," he snaps, making his way into the solar and settling at the vacant desk. He finds Maester Gregor's parchment easily enough, dips his quill into ink, and sets to writing. He's nearly finished when he hears a knock on the door, peering up to find Theon lingering in the threshold, eyes falling to the missive beneath Jon's hand.

But Jon returns to his work, scribbling out the last of his message, leaning back to look at it. "Greyjoy," he greets, gaze never leaving the desk.

"I am summoned," Theon gets out testily, a sneer to his voice.

Jon lets the ink set a while longer, his silence a practiced, terse thing. He glances up finally, fingers folding around the ends of the thin parchment. "Yes. I have a task for you."

Theon laughs, a dark, rueful sound, clipped at the end. "Forgive me, my lord, but I'm not particularly inclined to serve you at the moment."

Jon settles his dark stare on him. "Your inclinations are inconsequential at the moment. And regardless," he grinds out, folding the ends of the parchment over, and taking the spoon of hot wax from its stand to pool over the closed edges, "This serves the Lady Sansa, not myself."

Theon pushes off the threshold and walks further into the room. "Oh, serving the Lady Sansa now, are we? Last I checked, you weren't doing too grand a job of that."

Jon shoots a swift glare his way, returning his attention to the letter, pressing his seal into the hot wax. "Your concern for my wife is touching, improper as it is."

"Well, at least one of us is concerned."

"You overstep your bounds, Greyjoy," he says lowly, rising from his seat.

Theon sneers at him, stalking closer. "If you recall, my lord, it wasn't you that saved her life in Stannis' attack."

Jon grinds his teeth, fingers curling into fists at his side. "I'm well aware." And it takes everything of him to say it.

"Then perhaps you can tell me how she ended up here, hmm? Perhaps you can tell me where you were when she was nearly killed? Again! Tell me how you were serving her?" he barks, arms stretching wide. "Because I've yet to see it, my lord!"

Jon storms around the edge of the desk, closing in on him. "You have no idea what I've - "

"She trusted you!" Theon yells, a finger raised toward him. "She trusted you to protect her and she nearly died for it."

"Don't you think I know that?" Jon bellows.

Theon stops, staring at him, his chest heaving.

Jon barely manages not to shake in his fury, his fists still held tight to his sides. His nostrils flare under his deep breaths, eyes narrowed on Theon. "Don't you think I fucking know that?" It comes out clipped and ragged at the end and he must tear his gaze away from Theon's before the break can overtake him.

Theon rears back slightly, brows furrowed over his sharp eyes.

Jon moves his heavy stare to the far wall, stepping off to the side, trying to rein in his labored breaths. "She's out there in that bed – alone and in pain, because of me. Because of me," he gets out on a croak, mouth clamping over the words. And oh, how they sting. To say them to a Greyjoy of all people. To admit to it before a Greyjoy.

Jon didn't think he could sink any lower. And yet here he is.

"What are you going to do?"

"What I have to."

Jon's eyes slip shut. It's a sour slice of shame that lights his tongue. But he will swallow it. He will swallow it back for her. And he will do what he must.

"Do you think me so unfeeling?" Jon asks him, a coarse whisper.

Silence greets him. A long stretch of it. Jon opens his eyes to glance at Theon at his peripheral.

The man is glaring down at the floor, hands bunched into fists at his side. "No, I do not, my lord," he gets out roughly, at length, as though the words were a pain to utter.

And perhaps they are. As much as Jon's.

He turns fully to Theon then, stepping before him. "I will never be comfortable with the feelings you clearly harbor for my wife. I will never be comfortable knowing she still cares for you in some regard."

Theon looks back up at him then, gaze narrowed.

"But I am not ungrateful." It's like gravel in his throat. Jon swallows thickly, trying to get the words to air. "When you saved her, when you..." He stops, dips his head down, eases some of the tension from his trembling fists. "I will never forget it," he vows softly. He looks back up, meets Theon's gaze. "Which is why you are the only person in this city I trust to save her now."

Theon blinks at that, mouth parting. Hesitation wars across his features, his eyes flicking between Jon's.

Jon lifts his chin. "So," he begins, lips pursed tight, "Will you help me?"

He thinks about that day in the courtyard, looking across the field of bodies to where Theon stood, bow in hand, arm still pulled back in release, his own chest heaving, eyes wide.

He thinks about the relief that flooded his chest at the sight, at the weight of Sansa in his arms, at knowing there were those in her life that would not see her fall. No matter the cost.

And he thinks he can live with Theon Greyjoy being in love with his wife, if that's what it means. Perhaps it's selfish of him. Perhaps it's just another way he's learned to manipulate, to use one's emotions against them. Perhaps he really is a Targaryen – to the bone.

But he's finished with apologizing about it. If this is what they've made him, then this is what he'll be.

If treason is what they expect, then by the gods, he will give it to them.

"Will you help me?" he asks again, more a demand than anything.

Theon continues staring at him silently, shoulders pulling back. He lets out a shallow scoff, hand wiping over his mouth, eyes lifting to the ceiling, and then drifting back down to meet Jon's. His mouth is a harsh frown. "What is it you want me to do?" he grinds out.

Jon doesn't give him a chance to rethink it, turning swiftly back toward the desk, grabbing the sealed letter. He turns back and hands it to Theon. "Ride to Winterfell. Ride now, as fast your horse can carry you."

Theon looks down at the letter, taking it with tentative fingers. His brows bunch in confusion. "And this is...?"

"My treason."

Theon's gaze snaps up to Jon's. "What?"

"Every two days, you will receive a raven from me. If ever you do not receive that raven, then you are to hand this to Lord Stark to read," he says, motioning toward the letter in Theon's hand.

Theon cocks a brow at him. "What does it mean if you do not send a raven?"

"It means I am dead."

Theon lets out a disbelieving laugh, stalking away from him, and then stalking back. "My lord, this is..." He shakes the letter in his hand. "What are you planning?"

Jon winds his hands behind his back, head tilting as he looks at Theon, an even stare to his dark eyes, unblinking. "You will receive a raven every two days while Sansa and I make our way North. So, until we are safely at Winterfell, you will guard that missive with your life."

Theon swallows thickly, eyes drifting back to the ominous letter.

Jon sighs. "Pray to the gods Lord Stark will never have need to open it."

Theon shifts his gaze back to Jon, appraising him. And then he stuffs the letter into a pocket, nodding once, swiftly and decidedly. "I will do this," he says simply.

Jon doesn't let the flutter of relief he feels between his ribs rattle him any further. Instead, he reaches out for Theon's shoulder, urging him toward the door and back through the clinic. "Good. Now, you must – "

"My lord, I've returned."

Jon glances up at Maester Gregor's announcement, finding him in the doorway as the guards shut the door behind him. Jon nods his greeting, turning swiftly back to Theon. "You must go – now. And you must go unseen. Lady Sansa's life depends on your urgency and your secrecy, do you understand?"

Theon nods once more. "I do." He glances over to Bran, who's looking between the two with a plaintive expression.

"What is going on?" the boy asks, exasperated, as he drops his quill and parchment back to his lap.

Theon clenches his jaw, looking back to Jon. "She asked me to protect him."

"If you succeed in this task, then it will save them both," he assures him.

Theon blows a shaky breath from his lips, steeling himself. "This treason of yours better be worth it," he gets out on a sly laugh, a reluctant smirk tugging at his lips.

"All successful treason is," he swears, low enough that only the two of them might hear.

Theon keeps his gaze a moment longer, seeming to search for something, and then he's turning away, back toward the door with a polite farewell for Gregor and Bran, eyes lingering only a moment longer on the boy in the cot.

Jon gives Gregor an uneasy smile then, ushering him toward the solar. "Maester, what have you discovered?"

"Am I not to be included?" Bran asks sharply from his place in his bed.

Both men glance back at him. Jon humors him with a tender smile. "Bran..."

"She's my sister, you know. As much as she is your wife. And I deserve to know who did this to her just as well as you," he says, eyes demanding on Jon's.

Jon can't help the chuckle that leaves him, even when there is no mirth behind it. Because yes, the boy is right. How simple of him to think otherwise?

Gregor looks to Jon, a reluctant expression crossing his face. "My lord, this is a delicate matter."

Jon nods, turning them toward Bran's bed instead now. "All the more reason her family should hear it." They stop just on the side of Bran's bed, and Jon helps the older man into a seat before taking his own.

The maester sighs, shaking his head. "My lord, after examining her blood, and her symptoms, I must tell you that the lady has most certainly been poisoned."

"Yes," Jon scoffs, "I figured as much when she started coughing blood." At the Maester's grave look, Jon shakes his head, grinding his teeth. "Apologies, Maester. Please, do go on."

Gregor sighs, winding his hands before him. "We've been able to ascertain the poison as Red Ausmothis. It's a plant some maesters use, in small doses mind you, to help clear the bloodstream. But in large amounts, it can cause a patient to bleed excessively, as it also thins the blood, see."

Bran peers up at him from the bed, brows sharpening down over his intent eyes. "Yes, but how was it administered to my sister?"

The maester gives a slight shrug of the shoulder. "Ingested, I assume. Through food or drink."

Jon's mouth purses into a tight line, his gaze shifting away. "And how quickly does it act?"

"Rather quickly, my lord. I would wager she'd been dosed that very morning."

Jon keeps a tight clamp on his fury, curling and uncurling his fists. "I see." He blows a shallow breath through his teeth, eyes flicking over to Sansa's sleeping form. A pain ricochets through him, his chest constricting at the sight.

"But my lord," the maester begins, his hands wringing themselves as he glances between the two of them. "There is something more troubling."

Jon's gaze whips sharply to his. "What is it?"

He sucks a breath in, face twisting into uncertainty. "I've said that some maesters use this plant, yes, and well – you see, I myself have used it."

Bran leans forward just a touch, eyes riveted to the maester. "What are you saying?"

"My stores are emptied of it, my lord."

Jon blinks at him, head rearing back. His ire flares hotter, sparks an unease in his chest. He shifts his weight in his seat, gaze hard on the man. "You think..."

Maester Gregor swallows. "I think whoever did this stole from my stores, yes. And recently. Very recently."

Jon takes a long, slow breath in, mind reeling. He stands from his seat, paces away. He braces his hands to his hips, a heavy exhale leaving him. He wipes a hand down his face, paces back toward the two of them. "What are you trying to say, Maester Gregor?" The words come out strangled.

Because no.

No, he will not think it.

The maester's eyes drift down to his hands as they wind around his chain in thought. A worried sigh leaves him. "The peculiar thing is, my lord, only two people have been under my care here, aside from the Lady Sansa, of course. Only two people, as were Prince Aegon's – apologies, His Grace's – orders."

"Yes, of course," Jon spits, a hand raked through his hair. "Only members of the royal family."

Can't be seen by outsiders, of course. Can't make their weakness known. Shut them up. Lock them away. Everything is safe behind closed doors, right?

Right?

Jon seethes where he stands, a quiet, thundering rage seeping between his ribs.

The old man looks up at him with concern. "Yes, exactly. Only Lord Bran here," he says, motioning to the nearly immobilized boy, "And..."

"Rhaenys," Jon hisses.

His fury is a silent, bone-gripping beast.

Bran is shaking his head, eyes frantic. "Wait. Wait, I think..."

"Rhaenys," Jon says again, a shaky hand wiping over his mouth.

No. No, he cannot think it.

"But my lord," Gregor begins, twisting in his seat to look up at Jon, face drawn in concern and perplexity, "What reason could the Princess Rhaenys ever have to harm Lady Sansa? Or your unborn child?"

A red haze overtakes Jon. A quiet stillness. His jaw aches where he clenches his teeth, nearly rattling in his skull. Nearly frothing at the mouth with it. This thundering rage. This rancid hate. "Yes," he seethes, already stalking toward the door, overcome – and undone. "What reason shall she give, I wonder," he snarls, a violence coursing through his veins, rioting in his blood.

It's shockingly welcomed – how his hands itch for her throat. How he yearns to smother that vengeful, resentful pulse beneath his own palm.

"Jon, wait!"

But Bran's voice is already distant in his mind, already drowned out by the rushing in his ears.

Because this is what they've made him.

So, this is what he'll be.

Fire and blood, it is, then.

* * *

When Sansa wakes, it's with eyes peeled swiftly and widely toward the ceiling. She blinks. Blinks again. Lets the breath shudder through her.

And all at once she remembers. Bloodied sheets. A crippling pain. The desolate cry falling from her lips. The inexplicable hollowness that follows.

Her mouth parts, a soundless gasp breaking from her, her hands gripping the sheets beneath her in trembling fists.

All at once she remembers.

Before she can let the cry overtake her, she narrows her gaze on the high, grey ceiling, finds a spot where the arches meet, focuses on it. Glares and glares and glares at it. Breathes in. Breathes out. Keeps her eyes fixed to that far, grey spot.

Lets the grief bleed from her bones.

She reminds herself that she isn't safe here. She will never be safe here.

Later, she tells herself, nearly biting through her lip to keep the pain at bay.

Cry later, she swears, even as the tears bead at the corners of her eyes.

(Cry when you are safe. Until then...)

Sansa sucks a sobering breath through her lips, stirring beneath the furs, her body aching from its recent fight. Her vision swims when she tries to sit up.

"Sansa!"

She flicks her gaze to the bed across from hers, meeting Bran's worried eyes instantly.

"Bran," she croaks, throat dry from disuse. A hand goes to her pounding head.

"Thank the gods. I've been calling to you," he says urgently, still bedridden.

Sansa blinks at him in confusion, drawing her hand away from her forehead when the pain dulls into a vague ache. She draws further up, braces her weight on her elbow as she looks at him. "Calling me?"

Bran nods. "Sansa, I think... I think Jon is in danger."

She narrows her eyes on him, pushes up from her elbow, body heavy, until she can swing her legs over the side of the bed, hands braced along the edge to hold her. "What do you mean?"

A worried look crosses Bran's features. "I don't want you to over-exert yourself," he mutters.

"Bran," she says, taking a smooth, even breath to steady herself, "You wouldn't have tried to wake me if it wasn't important."

He gives her a sigh, face drawn tight.

She offers an encouraging nod, straightening somewhat. "So, what do you mean?"

"You were poisoned."

"Yes," she says through chapped, pursed lips. "Yes, that wasn't exactly hard to deduce."

"But Sansa, Maester Gregor is sure it was the Red Ausmothis from his own stores, recently stolen. Very recently."

She can only nod, teeth clenching. "As in..."

Bran hesitates a moment, turning more fully toward her, as much as he can. "Jon thinks it was the Princess Rhaenys."

Sansa glances away, wipes a stray strand of hair back behind her ear, a short, shallow breath leaving her. "When she was here, after...after the attack."

"Yes."

Her eyes slip shut. She'd considered it after all. How could she not? The way Rhaenys had looked at her as she wiped the blood from her hands in this very room, the cold, detached way she'd glanced to her stomach, the dark, unblinking stare she'd sent her away with.

"To kill a living thing – it's not so hard, after all."

The words lodge in her chest, the terrifying remembrance shaking her. But then –

"She was right."

Sansa stops, breath hitching in her throat. Her eyes snap open along the far wall, slipping slowly back toward her brother. "Bran," she gets out tremulously.

"But I saw her," he says, head shaking.

Sansa stares wide-eyed at him, barely breathing. "What?"

His words are fervent, feverish, rattling off his tongue like an avalanche, like a mountain coming down on her. "I thought it was a dream. Some drug-induced dream in the night, still drunk off that milk of the poppy, but I woke after dark at some point, saw a figure across the room, for just a moment, just a moment before sleep overtook me again, but I saw her, I know it, I wasn't mistaken. That white hair – "

"Bran," she chokes out, the breath stealing from her.

He meets her gaze. "I saw Daenerys."

Sansa feels sick. Her head swims. She braces a hand to her forehead, palm settling over one eye. She bends over, eyes squeezing fiercely shut. "Bran, I..." There's bile at the back of her tongue.

"You see, Lady Sansa, I was a Targaryen before I was ever a wife, before I was ever a princess or a mother. I will always be a Targaryen, a dragon. But you will never understand this."

The bile rises high in her throat, choking her. "Oh gods," she moans out, pushing herself to her feet shakily, wavering at the sudden vertigo.

"Sansa!" Bran warns, hand out-reaching. "Sansa, sit down. You're still not well."

"I have to go to him," she mutters lowly, almost to herself, a hand reaching for the cot to steady herself.

"Dammit, Sansa, I didn't tell you this so you could hurt yourself trying to do something foolish," he admonishes, trying – and failing – to reach for her from his position in the bed.

"Don't you see, Bran?" she hisses, whirling toward him, stumbling slightly. "He thinks it's Rhaenys."

"I know," Bran grinds out. "I know but – "

"If he hurts her," she says, head shaking, hand falling from her face as she straightens, vision easing back into focus, "If he hurts his sister, Bran, he will never forgive himself for it. Never," she swears, already gathering her skirts in her hands.

"Sansa, please, wait," he pleads, face overtaken in worry.

"I have to go to him," she whispers, turning for the door, gait slow and measured, taking her strength where she can. She braces a hand to the threshold.

"They will always be the stepping stones to my glory."

Sansa snarls beneath her breath, swinging the door wide.

She will never be but a blight beneath another's shadow, this she swears.

* * *

"Tell me you did not do this," Jon urges brokenly as he lets the door to Rhaenys' solar settle closed behind him.

His sister rises from her seat at the window in an unearthly calm, watching him.

He stares at her, long and hard, chest already heaving, fury already staining his lungs. "Tell me it wasn't you," he seethes.

Rhaenys cocks her head at him, lips pursed tight. "Is Lady Sansa... unwell?"

He thunders toward her suddenly, upending the side table he passes in his fury, the crash resounding in the room, and she blinks sharply at the sudden motion, spine straightening, chin lifting when he stops just before her, half-reeling, the anger of his heaving breath painting her cheeks. "Don't you even say her name," he snarls, eyes wild on her.

Rhaenys lets out a breath, looking up into his face, and something flickers over her features, faltering. But she swallows it back quickly, squares her jaw.

"I didn't think you could sink so low," he gets out, disgusted.

She glares up at him. "Oh, 'low' am I? Low?"

"Yes," he seethes, eyeing her.

She shakes her head, glare never diminishing. "That's rich, coming from you. You have all you've wanted now, don't you?" she throws at him, arms branching out, encompassing. "A place in this family. Acknowledgement. A pretty little wife. A babe." And then she scoffs, features screwing into something ugly, arms dropping back to her sides. "Except not a babe any longer, huh?"

"Don't you fucking – "

"And yet I still have nothing!" she screeches suddenly, stepping into him, eyes wide and dark and smoke-lit. Her hot breath pants from her, her own fury taking root.

Jon's fists shake at his side, his whole body a tight, rigid line, a quaking fury, boiling just beneath his skin. "Sansa was never a threat to you – never a threat to the love I held for you," he spits at her, the words rancid on his tongue, and he watches her blink fiercely at him, her jaw quaking at the ring of his words. He curls his lip in distaste, his chest constricting. "You killed that love all on your own," he chokes out.

She swallows tightly, chin still lifted, but she cannot stop the tremor from lighting across her skin, or the way her brows dip together in pain, or the instant sheen of wetness over her eyes.

(Perhaps moons ago, such an image might have stricken him.)

An ache burrows into his chest – an ache of years and years and endless, relentless years. The ever-long ache of loneliness.

(All of them, just grasping blindly in the dark, missing each other by miles.)

He wishes now, that he remembered what it was like to hold affection for this woman. He wishes he remembered what it meant to need his sister.

"Had you any love for me at all, even in the slightest," he grinds out, throat constricting at the words, eyes already tearing, "You would not have done this."

Rhaenys rears back, face still pinched tight. "I have done nothing unwarranted."

Jon snarls in her face, chest heaving. "My child is dead because of you. My wife – "

"I have done nothing," she hisses, voice cracking at the end, a hand pressed to her head, a shuddering breath leaving her. "Nothing," she whispers.

Jon scoffs – harsh and jagged and ugly. "You're a vile woman, Rhaenys."

Her head snaps up at his words, face blanking out.

And it's just so sharp in his chest, so cutting and bitter and inescapable. It claws its way up through his throat, hooks its claws at his ribs, anchors there like a foul thing – ready to bleed him from the inside out, from heart to tongue, from lungs to mouth – so that he can barely bring the words to air. "And I regret ever having loved you." he manages through grit teeth, ignoring the instant, painful remorse that lances through him at the words.

Rhaenys stares at him, still as stone. She licks her lips, takes a breath, tries to smother the quake of it with a laugh. A dark, mirthless laugh. She squares her jaw, tears hot on her lids.

(It is the shift – the rupture. Years from now, they will look back on this moment and they will know.

They will know.)

"Yes," she says, low and even and breathless. "Yes, paint me your villain. Your tormentor. That's what I am, aren't I? The source of all your struggles. The cause of all your grief. So then strike me down, brother," she says, arms stretching wide, voice a quiet hiss of air. "Take your revenge," she urges, eyes narrowing intently on him. "I imagine it hurts, doesn't it? To have watched it bleed out of her?"

Jon blinks back the hot wetness at his eyes. "Stop," he growls out, teeth clenching.

But she only advances, closing the already narrow distance between them. "It's not easy to watch what you love being torn away from you, is it?"

"I said stop," he warns lowly, chest heaving.

She glares up at him, lip curling. "You're a damn fool, Jon. You should have always known how this would end."

The rage is smarting along his tongue. "I swear I will – "

"I hope it hurt."

"Rhaenys - "

"And I'm glad it's dead," she spits.

(The rupture.)

His hand snaps toward her throat before he even realizes it, and then he's rushing her back with a roar until she collides with the wall, gasping, eyes blowing wide, hands grasping at his wrist.

"Shut your mouth!" he snarls in her face, fingers clenching at her throat as he leans in. "Shut your fucking mouth!"

Rhaenys arches against the wall as she tries to pull back from his grasp, a choked cough breaking from her lips, nails digging at his wrist. "Get off me!"

But it's a white-hot rage that rushes through him, keeping her pinned there against the stone, unrelenting, unforgiving. He bares his teeth in an ugly snarl, hot breath splashing over her cheeks. "You nearly killed her!" he bellows, pressing her into the stone, voice rattling with the force of his fury.

"I didn't," she grits out, a hiss of air, eyes glaring hot and accusatory at him.

"I said to shut your fucking mouth," he bites out, eyes shifting wildly between hers, and his fingers flex over her throat – just barely. Just enough for him to feel the warm rush of blood beneath his grip, to feel the thrum of her strangled words beneath his hold. Enough to wonder what just a little more pressure would do – if maybe he could crush her windpipe beneath his palm.

His eyes flick down to his hand over her throat, breath still raking violently from him, snarl still tugging at his lips. And then he glances back toward her face, panting, quaking – consumed.

Her eyes flick between his, widening just a touch, a flash of fear crossing her features, a wet croak leaving her, and then she's shaking, clawing at his wrist, mouth parting in silent alarm.

(Just a little more pressure, and – )

"Jon," she whispers, eyes tearing. "Jon – "

"Jon!"

The door slams open behind him. He whips his head back to find Sansa braced against it, panting, sweat dotting her brow.

Her eyes blow wide at the scene before her, and she stills instantly, mouth parting.

Jon nearly releases Rhaenys entirely in his surprise, straightening as his eyes take in Sansa's weakened lean against the threshold. "Sansa," he chokes out.

Her eyes shift frantically between them, and then her face draws into hardness, pushing off the door to stalk toward them. "Jon, don't do this, please."

A quiver of regret ricochets through him, his hand loosening around Rhaenys' throat. He swallows back the shame on an uneasy inhale. "You should be resting," he gets out in a dark whisper, turning back to face Rhaenys. His rage isn't quieted so easily.

His sister glares back at him, fingers still locked around his wrist.

"Jon, please, you're scaring me," Sansa urges, finally making her way to him, hands wrapping around his arm, tugging him away from Rhaenys and toward her. "Jon, please."

His tears gather in earnest now, lip trembling as the breath catches along his tongue. "What she did..." He cannot even manage the words, his throat constricting, his vision blurring from the tears.

"I didn't!" Rhaenys snaps, huffing and impatient.

And all his rage, all his years-long heartache comes tunneling down into a pinprick focus. "I'm tired of your lies. Your manipulations," he bites out, voice rough.

Sansa's hands grip more forcefully around his arm, one of them gliding up his chest and then to his cheek, urging him to look at her. "She didn't," Sansa gasps, head shaking, her own tears hot at the corners of her eyes. "She didn't, Jon, please, just – just listen to me."

Jon tears his gaze back to his wife. He blinks at her, his hand slowly opening at Rhaenys' throat, releasing her completely. He staggers back from the motion, and Rhaenys slides down the wall instantly, hands going to her throat. She drops to the floor unceremoniously, coughing through her curses. "Gods, Jon," she spits through clenched teeth, indignant to the end.

But Jon is staring at Sansa now, body trembling, taking in the sight of her, struck suddenly at how small and weak and pale she looks. His hands go instinctively to her arms, cupping around her elbows as he tries to hold her up. "Sansa, what..."

"Listen to me, Jon, she – she's your sister, and... and you don't want to do this, trust me, you – "

"She is nothing to me if she hurt you," he swears vehemently, hands going for her face now, cradling her jaw in his hands, thumbs brushing at her cheeks.

She nearly crumples into him at the motion, eyes wet instantly, mouth parting.

The fierceness of his admission scares him and yet anchors him in equal measure. Because it's the truth, after all. It's the most unquestionable truth he knows.

Rhaenys goes quiet on the floor beside them.

Jon peers at Sansa with imploring eyes, the rage dulled in him suddenly, only a vague heaviness keeping him rooted there before her. Just the sight of her. Just the sureness of her, there in his arms, at the edge of his fingertips. Just the knowledge that she's here – here, with him. Alive.

Just breathing her air –

The fury that had displaced him only moments ago settles into a low hum at the back of his mind, an uneasy but needed calm wrapping itself around his bones, thawing him out.

Sansa's hands wrap around his wrists, holding him tenderly. "I'm alright," she gets out on a whisper, voice clogged with tears. "I'm right here. I'm alright."

Jon's face crumbles at the words, at the fissure of pain he still recognizes crossing her features. And he knows she's still hurting. Knows her body's still fighting. "But you're not," he croaks out, thumb grazing against a fresh tear sliding down her cheek. His eyes rove her face. "You're not," he says brokenly.

Sansa swallows thickly, jaw clenching. She nods at him, taking a single, solid breath in. "I am, Jon. I promise. I'm not going anywhere."

His own words from earlier, reflected back. He curls in on her at the thought.

Jon's eyes drift down to her stomach instantly, a drop in his gut, the breath catching along his throat. He chokes out a sob. "But the babe..."

Her hands go for his face instantly, dragging his gaze back to hers, and then she's pressing into him, peering up into his face – fierce and fervent and yet still tear-lined. "We can try again," she promises him, brushing the curls back from his face with a tender touch. She offers a trembling smile. "We can – we can try again, Jon, because I'm okay. I'm okay and I'm right here, do you understand me? I'm right here. I'm not leaving you." She nods at him again, eyes shifting between his, sniffing back the tears. "I'm not leaving you, okay?"

A ragged breath leaves him, the force of it nearly winding him, and he drops his hands from her face to wind around her back, tugging her into his chest, sighing as he buries his face in her shoulder. Her arms link intrinsically around his neck, one hand buried in his hair, holding him to her.

"Sansa," he chokes out, and then there's an instant wave of revulsion rushing through him, pulling him from her, his eyes snapping to his sister. Realization at what he'd done, at what he'd let his anger do to him, branches through him like the slow pooling of ink in water. His tongue is heavy with the sickness, eyes widening. "Rhaenys, I...," he gets out hesitantly, arms slipping from around Sansa's waist.

She's staring up at him from her place on the floor, mouth a tight line, eyes wet. It's a face he's never seen before.

"Rhaenys - "

"What is all this ruckus?" Aegon demands suddenly, throwing the doors to Rhaenys' solar wide and stalking into the room. Daenerys strides in just behind him, silk skirts in her hands, an expression of annoyance flitting across her features.

"Your Grace," Jon begins, but never gets to finish.

Sansa slips from him like a ghost. She's all the way across the room before he realizes what's happening. And then her hand goes flying, smacking Daenerys across the cheek so hard her head whips from it, the loud crack resounding in the still room.

The following silence is deafening.

Jon stares wide-eyed at his wife, at her trembling shoulders, her barred teeth, her furious gaze. Aegon stands in a similar stupor beside his own wife.

"Sansa," Jon croaks out, hands reaching emptily at air.

Daenerys' head lolls back to glare dangerously at Sansa, not even bothering to reach for her cheek, to hold the smarting, reddened flesh beneath her soft palm. She just glares at Sansa.

Jon feels his breath break into a million jagged pieces in his throat. "Sansa," he gets out hoarsely, stepping toward her.

And then Sansa's swinging again, a bone-splitting shriek escaping her as she launches herself at Daenerys, eyes red-rimmed and glinting. "You monster," she screeches.

Everything snaps back into motion at once – Jon rushing toward them, Daenerys howling her indignation, Aegon grabbing frantically for Sansa's wildly swinging fists, Rhaenys pushing herself up off the wall, blinking disbelievingly at the scene before her.

"Lady Sansa, restrain yourself," Aegon bellows, a hand closing vice-like around her wrist, dragging her off Daenerys as the other woman tries to pull from her reach, spitting her distaste.

"Your Grace, please!" Jon yells, trying to step between their fumbling forms when he finally makes it to them, one of his arms wrapping tight around Sansa's waist and dragging her back with him.

But she's raging hard now – raging and raging and wailing. "I should kill you!" she screams, grasping at Jon's back as he tries to haul her away, her eyes only for Daenerys. "I should rip that shriveled excuse of a heart from your chest, you wretched woman!"

"Sansa! Sansa!" Jon screams, fighting her fury.

"You are dangerously close to treason, do you understand me, Lady Sansa?" Aegon snaps, chest heaving. "To strike the queen..."

Sansa cries out in Jon's arms, her sudden strength waning, her body shaking uncontrollably. He tries to gather her in his arms, hushing her, reaching frantically for her face. "Sansa, Sansa, please, talk to me."

"She took my child from me!" she wails, eyes finally meeting Jon's - blown wide. Salt-tinged.

"What?" Jon asks, breath winded from him.

Aegon straightens in surprise, his jaw snapping shut.

Sansa slumps into Jon's arms, mouth quivering. She snaps heated eyes toward Daenerys once more. "The Red Ausmothis. It was her. It was her doing, my lord," she mutters darkly, fingers curling in Jon's sleeves as she fights to remain upright, sweat lining her brow again, body clearly weakened from her fit.

Rhaenys stumbles toward them, edging along Jon's periphery. "What did you say?" she whispers.

Aegon folds his hands behind his back, shoulders pulling taut. A crease of worry dips along his brow. "Lady Sansa, let me warn you that slandering the queen will not be tolerated."

Sansa heaves a steadying breath, eyes slipping to Aegon smoothly. "It cannot be slander if it's the truth. Your wife poisoned me, Your Grace."

"She's gone mad from her ordeal," Daenerys mutters at her husband's elbow, shaking her head. And then her face pinches tight, a visage of pity crossing her features. "I know such grief intimately."

"You - " Sansa starts, seething, catching herself on a heated breath, swallowing the rage back down. Her fist quakes along Jon's sleeve.

Jon brushes a loose strand of copper from Sansa's sweat-pebbled temple, his hand trembling. A new kind of rage begins to curl beneath his skin – quiet and cautious.

Daenerys breathes heavily just behind Aegon, her eyes never leaving Sansa.

Aegon swallows tightly, chin lifting. "Explain yourself, before I call the guards in to restrain you."

Sansa straightens against Jon, half-braced against him for support. "Maester Gregor said his stores of Red Ausmothis – the poison they found in my blood – went missing recently. But access to his clinic and his quarters had been strictly forbidden to all but a few, thanks to Your Grace," Sansa explains, gaze shifting to Aegon's for a brief moment.

Aegon narrows his gaze on her.

"It's why you suspected Rhaenys," Sansa continues softly, eyes flicking over Jon's face in concern.

He turns his head slightly, catching Rhaenys' form in the corner of his eye, never looking upon her fully. He curls his arm tighter around Sansa's waist in his hold of her.

Something jagged and shameful starts to coil in his gut.

Aegon glances to Jon, and then swiftly to Rhaenys, violet eyes sharp and narrowed. "Is this true?"

Jon nods mutely. Rhaenys stays stock still beside him, hands hanging limp at her sides.

Sansa lets out a rueful laugh, blinking back the tears. "But Rhaenys wasn't the only one to visit Maester Gregor's clinic at that time."

Daenerys scoffs, stepping forward finally. "Yes, I was there. You all saw me," she says, motioning toward the three of them. "I came to collect Rhaenys. It is hardly secret."

"And how convenient," Sansa says through clenched teeth. "That you put in an appearance that could clear yourself of suspicion – with Rhaenys to vouch for you."

Rhaenys steps closer, peering at Daenerys with a watchful expression. Her lips purse almost imperceptibly.

"But that wasn't the only time you were seen in the clinic," Sansa says.

"What other time could I possibly – "

"That same night, my brother saw you."

Daenerys' mouth clamps shut, her eyes narrowing so swiftly Jon almost misses it.

An eerie calm seems to overtake Sansa then, her trembling ceasing, her eyes intent and watchful. "You stole into the stores that night, took the Red Ausmothis, and poisoned me the following morning at breakfast. Perhaps you hadn't planned it to happen so soon. It was rather reckless of you, after, all. But what other opportunity would you have to so easily cast suspicion on Rhaenys? What other chance would you have to so cleanly get rid of a loose end?"

"What are you talking about?" Daenerys snaps, her chest heaving.

"It was the easiest way to silence Rhaenys. Whether the poison was just meant to induce a miscarriage, or whether you truly intended to kill me..." She trails off, her head shaking. "But you knew Jon would never forgive her if he thought she'd tried to kill me. You knew what would happen if Rhaenys was deemed the culprit," Sansa continues.

Jon tries desperately to ignore the sour shame curdling in his gut at the slow realization.

Daenerys scoffs. "This is ridiculous." Her breath comes uneasily though, her head shaking just a touch too forcefully. "Why in seven hells would I need to 'silence' Rhaenys?"

"Because you're the one who convinced her to kill Stannis," Sansa gets out on a dark exhale, swallowing thickly.

Jon glances to Rhaenys then instantly, but his sister is already staring at Daenerys, jaw tight, brows furrowed. It's a painfully hopeful expression.

"Daenerys," Rhaenys whispers.

It sounds almost like a plead. And he knows that voice. Has known it for years. It's a needful voice – lonely and desperate and grasping.

And suddenly everything slips into place – nauseatingly so.

Jon wipes a hand over his mouth, the breath raking from him.

"Whispering your putrid words of vengeance," Sansa mutters, disgusted, "Preying on her fear, manipulating it into a weapon for you, a finely honed blade. It was easy to convince her to kill him, wasn't it? When you saw how distraught she was?" Sansa glares at Daenerys, lip curling.

Rhaenys takes a hesitant step toward them, her hand reaching for Daenerys' silk sleeve, fingers curling unsurely along the smooth folds. "You... you told me I'd have no peace until he was dead."

Jon feels a wave of sickness rushing over him.

Daenerys whips her sharp-hewn gaze toward Rhaenys. "I said no such thing."

Rhaenys stiffens, her hand falling from Daenerys' sleeve, mouth tipped open.

Daenerys clears her throat, seeming to shake the trembling princess' distress off with a hard look. "You were hysterical. I highly doubt you could rightly recount anything said that day." Daenerys turns sharply back to Sansa. "And the same goes for your brother. He was half-unconscious from milk of the poppy, if I recall. How can you trust any account from him? And why would any of this benefit me, hmm? Stannis could have named his conspirator if Rhaenys hadn't taken matters into her own hands. Why would I want him killed, when we could have uncovered the plot against us with that information? You're weaving quite the tale here, Lady Sansa, but I'm afraid it makes very little sense."

Sansa takes in a heated breath at Jon's side, face setting to near stone as she determinedly wipes away a stray tear. She stares at Daenerys for only a moment, only a brief, stilted moment, and then she bares her teeth, nails curling along Jon's arm, chin jutted like a ravenous thing. "You wanted to kill him because you were his conspirator."

Aegon steps forward then, a hand on Daenerys' arm, tugging her back. "That's enough, Lady Sansa," he grinds out, eyes dark on hers. "You're throwing around accusations now with hardly a shred of proof, and I'll not stand for it."

"Oh, you'll stand for it, Your Grace," Sansa bites out, pushing from Jon fully, standing straight-backed and unwavering.

"Sansa!" Jon hisses, reaching for her, trying to tug her back, but she shakes him off, stares the newly anointed king down.

Aegon's brows nearly hit his hairline, a disbelieving scoff escaping him. "You're braver than I thought," he says. And then his eyes narrow. "Or simpler," he scoffs.

But then Sansa's eyes shift quickly back to Daenerys, closing in on her and ignoring the king. "What did you promise Viserys, hmm? What did you guarantee him when you told him to hold his ships back at Stannis' approach? Was it a chance at the crown? Once your brother and husband and bastard nephew were dead, was that it? Or maybe you promised to annul his marriage to Cersei Lannister?"

"You should stop while you can, Lady Sansa," Daenerys mutters darkly.

"Lady Sansa," Aegon warns again, voice low, though it wavers now, just the slightest.

But Sansa can't stop, it seems. Could never stop. She only pushes forward, glare intent on Daenerys, mouth a cutting line. "Perhaps you should have stopped. Before you ever betrayed your own ambitions."

"And what ambitions are those?" she asks haughtily. "What more could I want, but what I already have? I was already deigned the next queen when I was betrothed to His Grace," she says, motioning to Aegon. "Why would I ever plot treason against my own self?" she laughs, head shaking with it.

"Because Father planned to wed Aegon and Rhaenys," Jon says suddenly, the breath winded from him, a kaleidoscope of thoughts assaulting him. "Because you were about to be set aside."

Aegon turns swiftly to Daenerys, eyes wide, shoulders stiff.

Rhaenys opens her mouth, but no words follow.

Daenerys squares her jaw, a hateful gaze lighting her features, a shadow of flame haunting the edges of her expression. And then she smirks, a dark laugh falling from her lips. "Rhaegar would never shame me like that."

"But he did," Rhaenys says suddenly, voice clogged with tears. "He told me. He told me our union would bear fruit. That we would be able to continue the Targaryen line."

"I am the Targaryen line," Daenerys hisses violently, face screwing into an ugly visage, snarl breaking free, a finger jutted into her chest with her adamancy. "Me. And I will not be set aside so easily."

Aegon swallows thickly, eyes flitting between the three women in unease. His jaw quakes, his breath coming unsteady. "I've heard enough," he says on a shaky breath. He turns to his wife. "Daenerys - "

"Rhaenys told me it was easy to kill a living thing," Sansa says quietly, interrupting the king.

Everyone turns silently toward her.

Sansa keeps her gaze on Daenerys, steady and sure. "She told me 'she' said it was an easy thing."

Daenerys' nostrils flare, her fists curling at her sides.

Rhaenys shakes her head, eyes drifting to the floor. "No..." she says in disbelief, voice cracking.

Jon turns to his sister, reaching on instinct, and then letting his hand fall away. It takes all of him to stay still, to stay steady and immovable. To let Sansa speak her piece. It's an unmanageable mess of remorse and resentment and exhaustion that tangles instead him. And somewhere else, somewhere only he knows, a bit of understanding wedges itself into the light.

Daenerys scoffs again, harsh and jaded. "I don't know what you're talking about," she snaps.

But this time it's Rhaenys who speaks, voice wavering and scared. "You told me I would never be safe until he was dead," she whispers.

Daenerys snaps dangerous eyes her way.

Sansa breathes deeply beside Jon, watching the two women keenly.

Rhaenys straightens, hands curling along her silken skirts – like some measure of comfort, some anchorage. "You made me think there was no other way. That there was no other way," she says shrilly, hands shaking now. "You told me it would just happen all over again, if we were to let him live. You told me I would only ever be safe when Stannis was dead!" she shrieks, crumpling in on herself, tears springing along her eyes again.

"Shut your mouth," Daenerys hisses at Rhaenys, sneer brimming along her lips. "You're only embarrassing yourself."

"You used me," Rhaenys gasps, mouth trembling.

A part of Jon aches at the words, at the realization.

"You used me," she cries, closing in on Daenerys, tears already trailing their tracks down her cheeks.

But Daenerys stands spine-straight, chin jutted, undaunted. "You were a blubbering fool," she admonishes, sneer curling along her lips, and Rhaenys stops abruptly. "What would you have done without me all these years, hmm? What could you possibly have accomplished on your own? You think seducing your desperate bastard brother is some grand feat?" she scoffs.

And the acid bites. It bites hard and unforgiving and loud. Jon feels the burn even as he repels from the words, meeting Rhaenys' wide eyes, and then Sansa's.

But Daenerys doesn't stop there. She steps toward Rhaenys, pushing her back merely with her vehemence. "You're a means to an end, dear niece. A means to a rightful, bloody end, but a means, all the same. You've never been more than that, I can assure you," she sneers at her.

And then Jon's rage is vibrant once more, an overwhelming ache coursing through him. A remembrance. A longing. The sister he once loved. The brother he once needed.

He looks at Daenerys and sees nothing but ugliness. Nothing but vile, unkempt selfishness. Not a House, but a Name. Not a home, but a grave.

A place he never wishes to return to.

Rhaenys stumbles back at Daenerys' visceral attack, a hand going to her mouth.

"You said it was easy to kill," Sansa says, as though in reminder. A blunted whisper that edges itself into their awareness. A quiet splinter of recollection.

Daenerys shifts her gaze to Sansa – abrupt and heated.

"I wonder how you came upon such understanding," Sansa says succinctly.

Jon tastes bile at the back of his tongue, an unexplainable queasiness overtaking him then.

"Who exactly did you kill, to know such a thing so intimately?" Sansa asks, voice like a sheet of ice. A deadly calm.

The room settles into another stilted silence.

And then, "Daenerys," Aegon chokes out.

Jon looks at his brother finally, finds him with his face drawn, his gaze on the floor, a sharp furrow to his brow. The sight throws him.

"Daenerys, you didn't..." he manages through an unsteady exhale, eyes drifting up to meet hers finally.

But she has only her glares left, only her spiteful scowls and cold detachment. "Yes, Your Grace?" It is said almost like a challenge.

Aegon stumbles back a step, head shaking, eyes widening in a dreadful realization. "That morning when – that morning Father died. When I woke and you were by his bed and you said – you said he passed in the night..." he mutters disbelievingly, voice trailing off.

Jon sucks in a sharp breath at the thought.

Even Sansa takes in a shuddering inhale beside him, seeming to not have expected quite such a revelation.

Rhaenys moans low and tear-laced, her face pressed into her palms.

Aegon licks his lips, reaching for Daenerys' arm. "Tell me it's not what I'm thinking."

Daenerys lifts her chin, eyes sharp and gleaming. She glances to each of them in turn, gauging, her breath coming quick and shallow now. "Your Grace, this is... this is absurd."

"Tell me you did not kill my father," he urges darkly, fingers curling tightly along her wrist now.

She tries to yank back, but he holds her tight, peers into her face with something desperate and needful.

"Let go of me," she bites out.

"Tell me!" he demands, shaking her.

"I will not be treated thus," she swears, sneering into his face.

"How could you..." He nearly sobs with it.

"Aegon – "

"He was your brother!"

"He was weak!" she shouts, chest heaving with it.

It comes like the first gasp of drowning – the fear and realization bright and sudden.

Aegon releases Daenerys as though burned, recoiling from her, his face screwing into a wounded disbelief, his breaths coming halted and heavy. "You..."

"He was no dragon," she says in answer, voice deadly calm again. And then she glances out over the rest of them, eyes lingering over Sansa, before her gaze shifts back to Aegon. She blinks. Seems to slip into something dark and unnamable, the barely perceptible curl of her lip like the promise of a hook to a fish's maw. And then she smiles.

It takes the sun from the room.

"So yes," Daenerys begins, slow and even. "I took a pillow to his face and smothered him in his sleep. What life would be left for him, anyway, wounded as he was? I saved him."

"You killed him," Jon corrects vehemently. "Your own brother, you killed him!"

"Oh gods," Rhaenys moans, a hand going to her stomach as though sick, slumping against the desk to keep herself upright.

Sansa lets out a tremulous exhale at Jon's side, and he glances to her, sees the paleness of her cheeks, the tremble to her limbs, and he reaches for her, helps her to a chair not far from them.

Daenerys laughs. It halts Jon as he leans over Sansa in concern, the sound sending a chill lancing up is spine. He glances back at her, his vision already blurred with sudden tears. He wipes at them furiously, hardly able to fathom more at this very moment, only trying to shove it all away, to focus, to keep himself from dropping to his knees from the weight of it.

It takes all of him not to barrel into Daenerys with every ounce of rage still left in him.

"Why are you all so surprised?" she asks shrilly, a touch of delirium to her voice now, her smile stretching wide and sharp-toothed as she raises her hands to encompass the room. "Is this not what we do? Is this not what it means to be Targaryen? We take what is ours, with fire and blood. We take it," she says breathlessly.

Jon glances at her over his shoulder, his teeth clenching as he tries to rein in his anger.

She only barrels on though, heedless of their growing horror, drunk off her own righteousness. "But Rhaegar didn't understand that. He'd grown soft – same as you all. He'd rather kowtow to every lowly kingdom, offering marriage and alliances – compromising – rather than show them the strength of our rule, to put them in their rightful places – beneath us." She barks another laugh, mirthless and cutting. "In fact, the only thing my brother knew how to take was women who were never his in the first place."

Jon's shoulders bunch in his vile anger, a hand curling slowly into a fist at his side, his other stiff along Sansa's shoulder. She reaches for his hand in concern, lays her trembling fingers over his. He takes a breath, glancing down to her in reassurance.

"But I will not be so weak. I am the blood of Old Valyria. And I will take what is mine," Daenerys seethes, her delirium sharpening down into a fine focus, a rush of dark ambition – blossoming out like blood in snow. She glares at Rhaenys, who only stares back at her, tearful and exhausted. "I will not let loose tongues set my plans astray. Nor will I allow failure to go unpunished. Stannis has learned that lesson well enough." Daenerys' gaze shifts to Jon and Sansa, her lip curling in distaste. "And I will not allow for bastard blood to ever supersede my own claim. I am more than my womb. I am no less a queen simply because that bitch can whelp."

Jon nearly breaks from Sansa then, stepping toward Daenerys with a dangerous expression, but his wife's hand at his wrist stops him, tugs him back to her in her need, her body trembling from the exertion, and he breathes deep, tries to keep his vision from flooding red, standing stock still beside her chair.

Daenerys smirks in satisfaction, gaze finally drifting toward Aegon. And then her smile slips, eyes hardening, mouth a thin line. She lifts her chin. "And I will not be set aside by any man. Not even my brother." Her eyes narrow, an eerie, sure calm settling over her. "Not even my king."

Aegon stays staring at her, a quiver of pain flashing over his features. Silence reigns in the room once more, and then Rhaenys slumps back against the desk fully, head shaking as she winds her hands into her hair.

"Guards!" Jon barks.

Four men enter the room at the call, with two of Aegon's Kingsguard.

"Jon," Aegon says weakly, shaking his head, but he's still reeling, a hand bunched in the chest of his tunic, words failing him.

Jon gives him only a single, momentary glance of hesitation, a brother's last, lingering concern, and then his face is steeling into determination, his decision long since made. "Take Her Grace," he commands, the title a sneer on his lips. "For the crimes of kin and king slaying."

Daenerys huffs her indignation. "You would dare!" she shrieks.

"Oh, I would dare a lot worse," Jon promises threateningly. His eyes narrow on hers. "You've no idea what I'd dare to do to you."

"Jon," Aegon manages, clearing his throat. "I won't... I won't allow..."

"She killed King Rhaegar," he cuts in, making sure his voice is loud and even – unequivocally clear for all to hear.

The guards shift hesitantly on their feet at the exclamation, eyes shifting between them.

Jon steps toward Aegon, his hand still linked with Sansa's behind him. "She killed a royal babe," he grinds out, just barely managing to keep his voice from quaking. He registers Sansa's soft sob just behind him, and squeezes her hand in his. "She's admitted to these crimes herself. It is the highest treason one can commit."

Aegon glances to his wife, who glares hotly at him, daring a soul to touch her.

"I am a queen," she grits out, nostrils flaring. "You cannot – "

"You will try her, Your Grace, or I will kill her where she stands," Jon promises vehemently, chest heaving. "Make no mistake."

Aegon's eyes widen at the low threat, and he swallows tightly.

Jon thinks he should be surprised at the surety with which he says it, at the fierceness of his rage. But he can't find it within himself to question it.

Because he would, he knows. He would kill her without hesitation, right here. Right now. For what she's done to them. For what she's done to Sansa.

He glances to his sister, still crumpled in on herself, weeping quietly, a hand over her face.

For the inescapable self-disgust he feels when he remembers the frail pulse of Rhaenys' throat beneath his palm.

Jon tears his gaze away from his sister, settling on his brother instead, dark and unblinking. "Your guards have heard her crimes now. It won't be long before the rest of the Keep knows. Or do you plan to silence them as well? To cover up, once again? Just like our father did. You see how well that served us."

Aegon opens his mouth, closes it, squeezes his eyes shut as he shakes his head. "I..."

"I doubt Viserys would keep his silence concerning her part in this," Jon continues, motioning toward a fuming Daenerys, "Not when he could lose his head for it." His gaze sweeps smoothly toward his aunt. "I suppose it was a convenient failsafe for you, to pin the Lannisters with the crime of his turning, when you eventually killed him, too. Just another loose end, I imagine."

Daenerys steps toward them, scoffing. "You baseborn cur," she spits. And then she swings her fierce gaze on Aegon but he shrinks back, a hand going over his face as a ragged breath leaves him.

"Take her," Jon demands once more, ignoring Daenerys.

She shrieks and rushes toward him, but the guards grab her before she can land a fist. She howls as they drag her back.

Aegon croaks her name, hand falling from his face as he watches her struggle.

"You can't do this to me!" she shouts, shoving at the guards, digging her heels in. "I am the dragon, do you hear me? I am the blood of Old Valyria! The only rightful Targaryen! You can't - you can't – "

"Put the traitor in chains," Jon commands, voice booming over Daenerys' threats.

As she's dragged from the room, Jon feels a tug on his hand, and he glances down to Sansa, finds her leaning over the cushioned arm of the chair, her head in her free hand. He kneels down beside her immediately. "Sansa," he urges, a hand going to her cheek.

She smiles dimly at him. "Will you... will you take me away?" she mutters through her pain.

Jon nods, releasing her hand to slip his arms under her knees and around her back, scooping her up into his arms. She winds her arms around his neck, her head falling to his shoulder with a sigh.

Jon turns to look at his siblings, still rocking from the revelations, faces drawn, mouths tipped open. Rhaenys stares at him with a surrendering sadness he has not seen in years. He gulps back his unease, focuses on the weight of Sansa in his arms. "This isn't finished," he says, eyes flitting toward Aegon.

But his brother – his king – can only shake his head numbly, his eyes to the floor, a hand back over his mouth. And at the sight, Jon realizes how small and lowly he is – has always been.

It's not a welcomed realization, he finds. It smarts keenly, in fact. Like a splinter finally torn free.

(It still aches where it was buried, though, and Jon wonders if it always will.)

The last thing he sees before he turns for the door is Rhaenys's tired weight pushing from the desk, walking to Aegon with hands raised, reaching for him, a tear-laced sob escaping her lips, and then her hands slipping round his shoulders as she tugs her younger brother into her arms.

He does not stay to witness more.

He turns for the door, Sansa secure in his arms.

He does not look back.

* * *

"You said you would not be the king that let House Targaryen splinter to pieces. This is how you do it," Jon says lowly, standing before Aegon's desk, hands cupped together behind him. An even, single-minded calm blankets over him as he stares down at his brother.

After making sure Sansa was settled back at Maestor Gregor's, he'd stopped only to ensure Daenerys was still secured in the cells, before making his way to Aegon's solar.

He will not wait another moment. He will not keep Sansa in this dragon pit another second.

Aegon looks up at him, head lifting from where it rested in his palms, his elbows braced to the desk beneath him.

"Execute Daenerys."

Aegon stands swiftly, swaying with the motion. "You don't understand what you're asking."

"I'm not asking," Jon says evenly.

Aegon narrows his eyes on him. And then he shakes his head, rakes a hand through his fine, silver hair, stalks away from the desk. "It's not that simple."

"It is. It is that simple. She's a kinslayer. And a kingslayer. It's as simple as that."

"She's the queen," Aegon protests, voice rising shakily. "She's... She's the queen, Jon, my wife, and – "

"And a murderer." He stays with his hands secured behind him, shoulders pulled taut. He does not give an inch.

Aegon glances over his shoulder at him, a frown marring his features. "She was threatened, you know that."

"By what? An unborn babe?" he sneers, his ire rising. "Or perhaps a dying man?"

Aegon paces back toward the desk. "Do not ask me to execute her," he bites out, a wet sheen over his eyes, a fist jutted into the desk. His shoulders rack with his heavy breath.

Jon blinks at him, the revelation sweeping through him. His mouth parts, a disbelieving breath leaving him. And then the sneer is back, lips tipping down in a foul frown. "Gods, but you love her, don't you? You actually love her?"

Aegon licks his lips, braces his hands along the desk. He shifts his gaze back and forth along the length of it, as though searching. "She is... she is my wife, and I – "

"She murdered my child!" Jon bellows, his hands coming from round his back, a thunderous step taken toward his brother.

Aegon clenches his jaw, gaze still set to his desk. His shoulders are a thin, trembling line. They cannot carry more.

Jon is shaken by the frailty of him then. He swallows back his ire, reaches for that cold-cut calm, that steady severity, lets it wash over him. "You think she has any affection for you?" he asks derisively. And he would be lying if the sudden stricken look on his brother's face hadn't hurt. But he is well past sympathy. So, he continues. "You think she knows love? Understands it?" He scoffs. "She killed our father, her own brother. What do you think she will do to you, when you've ceased to be anything more than an obstacle to her?"

Aegon slumps back into his chair.

"You cannot pardon her."

Aegon looks up at him, breath heaving from him, brows drawn down.

Jon squares his jaw. "You will take her head, or I swear on all you find holy, brother, I will take it for you," he seethes out, glaring down at him. "And I shall not be clean about it," he promises darkly.

His brother closes his eyes, swallows thickly. His face blanks out, features smoothing into stillness, and then he's blinking his eyes open once more, violet gaze fixed to Jon. He brings his hands to the desk, winds them together slowly and meticulously, steepling his fingers together over the wooden table top. "You've grown bold," he says stiffly – alarmingly quiet.

Jon says nothing, continuing to watch him.

Aegon cocks his head. "Where has all this confidence come from, that you can so easily make such demands of your king?" he asks coldly.

Jon barely manages to keep his smirk at bay. "This very moment, Theon Greyjoy rides to Winterfell with my hand-written missive to Lord Stark detailing your part in Stannis' rebellion against the crown, and how his daughter was nearly killed in the process, only to be poisoned by Stannis' conspirators barely a sennight later."

Aegon's fingers press together tightly, a deep frown marring his features. "My part?" he asks incredulously.

"Your part. Or your wife's," Jon says, moving to lean over the desk, hands planted on either side of it, almost a mirror of his brother. "I suppose my little woven tale wasn't very far off the mark. It matters little though. Whether Ned Stark knows it was you or Daenerys who plotted against his own daughter, who killed the reigning king, who treated with rebels and threatened the peace of the realm – in the end, it doesn't matter which of you takes the blame. Because either way, he will raise his armies and march on the capital. Either way, he will avenge his kin. You and I both know he won't stand by again and watch another lady of the North bleed out in the South," he says meaningfully.

Aegon clenches his jaw, his anger clearly visible in the lines of his face, his flashing violet eyes, but Jon is not deterred. Instead, he relishes in the sight, an unfamiliar sort of freedom playing at the edges of his mind, a new kind of thrill, wholly independent and his. Untethered.

"You would bring war upon us?" Aegon hisses.

"Aye. I would bring war upon you. Upon this whole House. Upon every Targaryen that ever threatened me or my wife," he grits out, nails curling along the wood of the desk beneath his splayed hands. "I would bring a war like you've never seen upon all your heads."

Something flashes in Aegon's eyes, and he purses his lips, stares up at Jon. "You can't possibly think I'd let either of you live, then."

Jon keeps his gaze, his glare never relenting. "No," he says evenly. And it's the truth. But here's another truth: "Which is why you have a choice."

His brother cocks his head, lips a thin line, watching him. It's a bare motion to continue.

Jon takes it as the encouragement he'd been looking for. "Execute Daenerys for her crimes against the crown and against the realm. Illuminate her dealings with Stannis, and her manipulation of Viserys. If you're lucky, and if he was smart enough for it, our uncle would have kept evidence of their correspondence. Leverage that for his life. It will solidify the accusation against her – that she tried to eliminate those with claims to the crown, even against you. Let her take the fall for Stannis' attack, for Rhaegar's death, and then let Sansa and I go North, to Winterfell."

Aegon sucks a slow, heavy breath through his lungs, standing stiffly to face Jon. "And why would I ever let you North, hmm? Where you can plan such treason yourself with Lord Stark?"

"Theon Greyjoy has been instructed to expect a raven from me every two days. Should he ever not receive a raven at such time, he is to deliver my missive directly to Lord Stark. But," he says, licking his lips, staring his brother down, "If you should let us North, let me continue my ravens, then my missive will never land in the hands of Ned Stark. And he will never know of the babe she lost, of the poison your wife fed her. He will never have reason to raise his armies against you, to break from the crown."

Aegon's nostrils flare, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "You expect me to trust you? To trust that once I let you North, you will not do exactly that? Once you are safe and out of my reach?"

"I don't expect you to trust anything," Jon says, "Except your own fear."

Aegon's eyes narrow sharply. "What?" he gets out on a sharp breath.

"You can silence us now, kill us, detain us, whatever it is you're thinking of, and you are guaranteed war with the North. And considering our family's fragile hold on the other kingdoms, I'd wager the Riverlands and the Vale won't be far behind the North. Come to think of it, even the Reach has ties with the North now. Do you think they'd bet on your dwindling power? Or that of the House their precious Rose of Highgarden has now tied herself to?"

Aegon's frown harshens into a thin line, his ire clearly building.

But Jon forges on. "Or you can let us go. Take me for my word. I have never broken it. When I tell you we will go North quietly, I mean it. I will live out the rest of my life in Winterfell with my wife and her family. I will not pursue any courtly station or high appointment. I will not stir rebellion or thoughts of independence. I will stay your loyal vassal, and you make keep whatever precarious hold you still have over the kingdoms. Give us your leave, and I will give you peace."

Aegon curls his hands atop the desk, staring him down, a war waging within him.

"But should you threaten my wife or her family, ever – then I will raise such a rebellion as you've never seen before. I will lay our House to waste, once and for all. I will strike you down from that precious Iron Throne with my own hand, do you understand me? I will bring all the continent down on your head and watch as fire and blood takes you," he seethes out, chest heaving. "Test me, and I will demolish you and yours. Test me, and it will be the last thing you do."

Aegon pulls his hands from the desk slowly, watching Jon with keen eyes, straightening as he watches him. And then he looks off to the far wall, takes a deep, soldiering breath, winds his hands behind him in some semblance of grace – what grace he has left, at least. And then he sighs, and it seems to take all of him.

Jon barely allows himself to hope at the sound, staying stock still.

Aegon's frown eases out, a solemn, blank look overtaking his features instead. He flits a resigned gaze to Jon, turned slightly from him. "You wish to go safely North, and have Daenerys executed for her crimes," he says softly, a quiver of regret lining the words.

Jon only nods, never relinquishing his hard gaze.

Aegon's eyes drift down, another heavy sigh leaving him. "Have you any other conditions?" he asks reluctantly.

Jon doesn't let his breath of relief escape him, instead, drawing back from the desk, straightening slowly, evenly. He clears his throat, nods at Aegon. "Let Rhaenys go."

His brother glances up at that.

Jon sighs, shaking his head. "Let her choose her own path," he says.

Aegon says nothing, only shifts his gaze back to the far wall.

Jon wonders if he's remembering that day. That day seven years ago. A half-dead horse. Seventeen arrows. Rhaenys breathing slow and shallowly, slumped in Aegon's arms, Jon's hand gliding over her hair, his other hand fisted in his lap.

It had been a grey afternoon, the hills rolling past them, King's Landing just a hazy shroud over the horizon. Their men, few and trusted, had stood back an appropriate distance, their gazes turned respectfully.

Jon remembers suddenly, as though from a dream, that Aegon had been the first to cry.

The recollection jars him – sudden and unexpected. He hadn't recalled that detail until just now.

Hadn't wanted to, perhaps.

"Rhaenys..." Jon begins, his voice faltering. He clears his throat, tries again.

(A grey afternoon. Her innocence – gone.)

"Rhaenys never had a choice before. Never had the chance to heal," he says, voice clogged with tears. "When Father covered it up, when he silenced those guards to 'protect her honor'," he grits out, teeth clenching, "He'd done her more harm than good."

"She'd have lost any possible marriage prospects, if word got out," Aegon argues softly, almost as though he weren't truly trying. "You know that."

Jon scoffs. "And what marriage prospects has she now, hmm? You?"

Aegon cuts a heated glance Jon's way and it silences him abruptly – the pain in his eyes vibrant and unpracticed. It's not a look Jon's ever seen on him before.

"I would never – " Aegon cuts himself off, swallowing tightly, gaze drifting down to the desk as he shakes his head. "Whether you believe me or not, I just... I don't want to see our sister hurt anymore."

Jon's mouth parts at the quiet admission.

Aegon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But what can be done for her?" he says brokenly, and it lights a pain in Jon he'd thought long forgotten.

"Let her decide," he says.

Aegon's hand falls from his face, his gaze drifting up to meet Jon's.

Jon swallows thickly, nodding. "Whatever it is – whether that's to marry, to leave this place, to... I don't know. Whatever it is – let it be her choice. Give her back the power to chart her own course, to control her own fate. Stop caging her." Jon swallows back the quake in his voice, his eyes tearing at the words. "This is what we can do for her," he urges.

Aegon looks at him, and suddenly, they are young boys again, each looking to the other for acknowledgement, each hanging on the other's words. He's back in that stable, all those years ago, before he ever loosed his father's horse. Aegon is right on his heels, giddy and reckless as they lead the mare out. And Jon...

Jon has his eyes fixed to the sky – wide and dark and littered with stars.

"I've always wanted to ride Father's horse," Aegon says behind him, his hand trailing the mare's flank, eyes wonderous on the beast.

Jon looks back at him, catching the awe in his features, and his hands loosen around the reins instinctively, suddenly struck with a harsh realization.

For he was never meant to ride his father's horse.

And maybe there's a bit of allegory to the realization, but he's too young to know it just then, too young and earnest and free.

He watches Aegon's hand glide up the side of the horse, a sense of possession to the motion, and Jon thinks he understands then, finally, though it takes him many, many years to acknowledge it.

(A bastard craves and craves, after all. He'd been taught thus, and hadn't thought to ever question it.

Even when he found he wasn't the only one craving.)

"We all have our parts to play," his brother had said, and he had been right.

So, he will be the traitor. He will play the part.

(But the curtain closes here.)

And perhaps this is their tragedy, in two acts. In fire and blood.

(There is no Act Three.)

"Let her go," Jon says again, breathless and winded – exhausted from this struggle, this plight. "Just let her go," he pleads on a hoarse whisper.

Craving has done nothing for any of them. Only reminded them of their loneliness.

(He wants to be a brother, just one last time.)

Aegon watches him with clear eyes, nothing accusatory in them, nothing searching. And maybe he does remember – rolling hills and his sister's breathless, hollow voice –

"Ride."

Aegon clenches his jaw, his gaze swinging away from Jon's. A sigh leaves him, heavy and laden with the past. "I understand," he says, voice soft.

Jon can only nod. They stand like this for many moments, with neither of them willing to break the silence. And then Jon dips his head in a respectful farewell, backing away slowly. He makes it nearly to the door when Aegon's rough exhale stops him, his hand halted mid-reach for the handle.

"How did this happen?" his brother asks brokenly, sinking down into his chair, his head in his hand, and Jon nearly turns back fully then, halting just at the half-turn, still braced for the door and yet – inexplicably tethered to the man hunched behind the desk.

A man he used to know, as a boy. A man who used to be a boy.

(And maybe this is what softens Jon, in the end.)

Aegon brings his other hand to his face, burying his sob in his weathered palms. "How did this happen?" he asks again, voice quaking.

This, Jon thinks. Everything.

This chasm between them, this resentment inside them, this choice before them.

Everything.

How did this happen?

But Jon knows it very well. Has known it from the start, even if they didn't.

He turns fully to his brother, hand falling back to his side. It's alright that he never meets his eyes, his face still buried in his hands. It's alright because, in the end -

"We did this to ourselves," Jon says, a measure of surety to the words – a finality.

Aegon stiffens, his sob choked off on a sharp inhale.

Jon doesn't wait for a reply. He doesn't wait for his brother to tear his face from his hands, to look at him desperately – suddenly boyish and lost. He doesn't wait for anything.

He simply leaves.

That sudden-ripped splinter, that searing hole left in its wake – Jon finds it doesn't sting so much anymore. Because in the end, it is a clean ache.

It is the harrowing ache of freedom – when all the blood has let at last.

[haunted-by-catholic-guilt]

That's Wasteland, Baby

Emma.

Martin came back into view holding the baby, call it the fever making him emotional but he felt like he could cry, seeing his husband hold their daughter.

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for the emma au in which jm adopt a daughter!! @celosiaa

no tw i can think of!

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Martin was no stranger to being woken up suddenly.

In his years with his mum, then the institute, both his and Jon’s nightmares, it was rare he didn’t get woken up once a night somehow.

Especially with Emma.

He felt the bed shift next to him, quick jerky movements from his husband, he opened his eyes, god was he tired, and looked over to see Jon hunched over himself, shaking on the bed.

“Jon? Love?”

His husband’s eyes darted open and stared him down, and he tried his best to ignore the flash of green that slid over his dark brown eyes like the eyelid of a snake.

“What’s wrong, habibi?”

Martin moved slowly, ignoring the ache of exhaustion deep in his bones, and opened his arms, telegraphing his movements, and as soon as he did Jon let himself fall into his chest, clinging to him like a lifeline.

It was only when this happened did Martin realize why Jon seemed so...scared.

“You’re burning up, dear, can you let me go so I can get the first aid kit and your medicine?”

Jon shook his head, mumbling something about Elias, no- something about Jonah, things about people that made Martin’s heart race in rage because they hurt his husband, hurt him.

He brushed off the anger, that’s not what he needed right now.

Just then, Emma began to cry.

He cursed silently.

“Jon, love, I need to go get Emma, you need to let me go, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Luckily, that broke through Jon’s fevered and terrified haze, and he let go of Martin reluctantly, falling back down on the bed.

Martin moved as gently and as quickly as he could out of bed, before running into Emma’s nursery, she was fine, probably just hungry, but he wouldn’t be surprised if she caught whatever Jon was sick with, assuming it wasn’t stress-induced or an allergic reaction.

Or something else.

Panic wouldn’t help, he knew it wouldn’t, so he held Emma to his chest and walked into the kitchen, getting the formula ready as fast as he could.

Emma began to cry harder, and Martin was ashamed to admit that he felt some distress at this at all, but he just shushed her gently and bounced her back and forth.

The formula was done, after testing it on his wrist he sat on the couch and began to feed his baby, and for a second he let himself feel some sort of odd comfort.

Jon was ill, yes, but he knew deep down it wasn’t like before, and that the fact that Jon was willing to be held at all, and that he was willing to let go so he could take care of Emma, was an improvement.

The first time after the institute and Jonah that Jon got sick, Martin remembers how scared he was, because what if it wasn’t just the flu, what if it was withdrawal again?

It made it worse that he didn’t have anyone at that time, and now only really had a few co-workers.

And Sasha and Tim.

The first time they spoke, after they… well after they died was an interesting one, a lot of emotions for sure, as well as pain and, well, joy, after some time.

But they weren’t as close as they once were, there was still an uncomfortable feeling around when they spoke, like the feeling of waiting for a bomb to go off.

Felt a little bit like old times then…

He brushed the feeling away, Emma was almost done with her bottle, meaning he’d be able to get to go back to Jon, who had been quiet this whole time.

He stood up when he finished feeding Emma, she liked to be rocked until she fell asleep, so he carried her on one arm while making tea and getting medicine with the other.

When she fell asleep, he placed her back in the crib, kissing her head gently, and heading back into the kitchen and grabbing the items he prepared for Jon, and going back to his husband.

“Jon?”

The man pried his eyes open, blearily looking at Martin with fever hazed eyes.

“Hi, love, can I take your temperature?”

Jon nodded, letting Marin run his hand through sweaty hair as he checked his temperature.

“39.0, you’re really not doing well, love, I have some medicine and tea, can you take them for me?”

Jon let himself be lifted up, Martin was proud of him, letting care come this easily, and the small man easily took the medicine, taking a few sips of tea, before slumping forward onto Martin.

“Alright, love, you can rest now.”

Martin shifted against the headboard of the bed, he probably wouldn’t be getting much more sleep, Jon would be up having nightmares and coughing fits for the rest of the night, and likely the day, and Emma would be up again multiple more times.

The house was so quiet and eerie, it always was at night, but he usually had the comfort of Jon being there, and he still was, physically, but Martin knew that his mind was giving him a fevered tour of his past.

He took a breath, deep just like his therapist taught him, to bring himself back to the present, to ward off the fog and chill knocking at his window.

Weird how he could be cold even with the love of his life burning at his side.

He played on his phone while petting Jon’s hair gently, he stirred a few times, nightmares creeping on him, when he shook himself awake Martin would always hush him gently back to sleep, reassuring he was safe, that they were safe.

The sun began to creep up onto the window, he’d need to call in for both Jon and himself, or post onto the google classrooms Jon kept open on his laptop that he wouldn’t be calling today.

After that was done, as if on cue, Emma began to cry again.

Martin sighed before going to her nursery, changing her and placing her on his hip while he prepared the formula for her breakfast and the tea for himself, Jon would be asleep awhile longer, meaning he’d be able to set up Emma with some toys on their floor for the time being.

After feeding Emma, and bringing her playpen into their bedroom, and giving her some quiet toys, Martin sat on the bed and drank his tea, making sure to keep his eyes on both Emma, who was now trying to eat some toys that should choke on, and Jon, who was sleeping soundly curled around him.

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Jon had to run.

He had to go he had to leave he- he didn’t know where he was.

Where was Martin?

The feeling of a vice around his neck tightened and he struggled.

He needed to run.

Hands, large hands on his arms, someone calling his name and-

He opened his eyes, Martin stood over him, eyes worried, but something in them told Jon they were safe.

They were safe.

A sharp shrill cry broke him out of the trance, and Martin looked off his face and quickly stood up.

Emma.

Martin came back into view holding the baby, call it the fever making him emotional but he felt like he could cry, seeing his husband hold their daughter.

Martin’s hair was curly and messy, it didn’t look like he’d had time to get ready for the day, and Emma in a yellow one-piece, Jon recognized it as one that one of his students gifted him when they found out they were adopting Emma

Emma was resting on Martin’s shoulder, she looked pretty tired out, he assumed it had been a long night judging by the exhaustion on Martin’s face.

“Martin”

His name was a prayer and an expression of thanks all in one, and Jon could spend an eternity just looking at him.

Martin smiled softly a him, his eyes warm and safe.

They were safe.

“I’ll be right back, love, I’m going to put Emma in her crib.”

He left, but was back soon after, he sat next to Jon on the bed, gently cupping his cheek.

“How’re you feeling, love?”

Jon leaned forward, resting his face against Martin’s soft jumper.

“Better with you, hyati”

Martin chuckled, and wrapped his arms around Jon.

Jon thought for a moment about how far they’d both come, how ten years ago this wouldn’t have happened, how when they first met he was so scared of loving Martin.

He thought of the worms and the coma, and how they were both sure they wouldn’t make it, and how even after it smoothed out they didn’t know.

He felt Martin smiling in his hair.

“How’s the weather up there?”

He pulled back and looked at Martin’s eyes, a soft hazel color that screamed safety.

“Sunny and warm, habibi”

[katherinewilliams221b]

For A Greater Good 16/18

Not my gif. Before It’s Too Late

Summary: Kate Williams, young healer and member of the Order,  joins Durmstrang’s staff at Dumbledore’s request. Her mission? Find a Death Eater and survive long enough to tell the story. Set in 1996.

Pairing: Charlie Weasley x ofc/mc

Masterlist

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5]

[Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10]

[Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14]

[Part 15]

--

Warnings: mentions of blood and wounds

Classes were over, grades had been hung in the corridor, and Durmstrang celebrated that another year was over. 

Kate was forcing a comb through her brown waves when she heard laughter and hasty footsteps outside her dorm. Returning her attention to her hair, she pressed more insistently on the knot that was refusing to untangle and contemplated the day ahead of her; the Annual Exposition of Dark Arts had arrived and with it, the crushing fear of not leaving Durmstrang anytime soon.

She had told Dumbledore and Rhode she was no auror; she didn’t have training in catching criminals, if that’s what one of these people were.

“Well, it’s not like someone will raise their hand and say ‘it’s me, Kate, take me to Azkaban.’” She murmured to her reflection in the rusty mirror next to the door.

Why? Why had Dumbledore put her there? What was she supposed to do? Almost six months had passed; she had heard from Dumbledore only once, and Rhode was so busy with the school’s events that had practically forgotten why she was there.

But Kate still remembered. She still remembered what happened to Flavia Hodges.

Having abused her locks enough, she attempted to shape them into curls, twirling some hairs around her finger. When she finished, she traced her dragon necklace before securing it under her robes.

Who would be willing to join a Dark Wizard? And why? For a greater good, as Corentin had said? Or maybe for more personal reasons? No one was exempt from guilt, no one was good or bad; Cassandra Steiner was rude and disagreeable, but she was a mediwizard and cared for others; Flavia Hodges was almost murdered and Kent Jorgensen would have protected the man he thought was guilty, but he wasn’t ill-intended and seemed to be a clever man; Leron Angelov was sick and violent with his son, but he had enough problems to be a criminal; Libor Marek was intolerant and prejudiced, adequate characteristics for a Death Eater, but that didn’t make him one; and the only thing that Kate knew about Mer Yankelevich was that she was a liar.

She let out a heavy sigh and made her way to the desk. After grabbing her cloak from her chair and fastening it around her neck, she grabbed the several items she intended to carry with her at all times: her wand, her diary, the list and the trick wand that the Weasley twins had sent her.

The night before, tidying up her belongings, she had found the box that Fred and George had sent her and thought it could be a good farewell gift to Vivien, in case she wanted to give a lesson to Jon Hopkins.

She felt uncomfortable with everything she was carrying on her. The list and her notebook were inside her improvised pockets, and both wands were safely tucked in each sleeve. Impractical for the occasion, but with everyone distracted with the AEDA, it was very easy for someone to slip out of there unseen, and she had no intention of anyone walking into her room and finding those items. After fastening her ankle boots, she headed outside.

 Rhode had not been exaggerating when she described the AEDA as the biggest event of the year; the corridors were ostentatiously decorated with garlands and lights; countless carriages arrived on the castle grounds one after another and the doors to the dining hall were open all day, held up by pillars from which people could grab pamphlets describing the event’s activities.

Tables had been rearranged to form the various displays, and the students were dressed in their finest robes to honour the occasion.

The hustle and bustle of the day made the place unrecognisable, characterised by its usual gloom and darkness.

She advanced through the hall, pausing from time to time to watch project demonstrations and congratulate those taking part in the competition. Her eyes fell on a familiar face next to her; Leron Angelov sat behind a table where a seventh-grade girl explained her work to three wizards who, judging by their golden robes, were the judges.

“The potion lets you transfigure into whatever animal or object at will, only for a few minutes…” she exposed. Kate approached Angelov and leaned in to whisper, “Don’t do that.” Leron stared at her and stopped scratching his arms.

After wandering around for a while, she finally reached her own table, greeted her students and settled wizards and witches filed in and out of the room, delighting in the students’ magnificent works.

She wished with all her might that she could share their enthusiasm.

She gave several forced smiles, for Rhode’s sake, as the organiser of the event she wanted everything to go smoothly, but deep inside she was overwhelmed by a deep worry that she didn’t know how much longer she could bear.

“It’s really ugly.” She overheard one of her students, Greta, referring to her umbrella flower. Several of her children were standing behind a table, presenting their work to the audience.

A single umbrella flower, magically modified to remain a medium size, floated above the table; its vibrant red colour stood out among the sober tones of the place. The top of the plant, usually hollow to do justice to its name, now was decorated with thirty-seven fangs all around the base, giving it the appearance of a weird-looking lamp.

“You should be proud,” she reminded them, “You’ve managed to do something wonderful.”

“It’s still horrendous.” Jon Hopkins commented, wrinkling his nose.

“We’ve done next to nothing...” lamented Micael. Kate raised her eyebrows.

“What do you mean, you haven’t? We needed every single one of your plants, remember they didn’t all germinate, and only one of them got these results. And these posters explaining the whole process? They are priceless...”

They were still not convinced, so she kept insisting “In a few years, someone will want to do the same as you and they will be grateful to have your work as a reference”.

A man and a woman approached their table and after reading a few paragraphs of their report, left without comment. Everyone visibly deflated.

“By the way, where is Vivien? I have something for her...” asked Kate. Micael shrugged.

She looked around, but it was impossible to find anyone among the crowd. She saw a few familiar faces; like Jorgensen chatting animatedly with some seventh year students or Sheyi Mawut, who was making his way through the wizards towards her. There was no sign of any other teacher.

“Well, well! This is the first time in a long time I’ve seen first-year students exhibiting. What have we got here?” Mawut looked at Kate with a smile and she touched two fingers to Micael’s elbow. The boy looked at her and Kate nodded.

“We have created the first umbrella flower with teeth, Professor! It’s one of a kind because the species itself is unique. It floats like an umbrella flower and has teeth like a fanged geranium...”

Kate watched proudly as Micael’s other classmates came up to support him in his rehearsed explanation, some interrupting the speech out of excitement at being able to contribute something.

“And you did this on your own?” Suddenly the children fell silent and looked at the ground or anywhere but Mawut’s face.

“They’ve done all the hard work,” Kate interjected, “Finding the plant, germinating it, growing the geraniums, crossing the two species...”

“How wonderful... can I read your notes?” Mawut let out a laugh as a mountain of notebooks were at his disposal in a matter of seconds. “Maybe just one will be enough.”

The teacher’s kindness managed to relax Kate just a little.

“I’ve got better at my flying practice, Coach Mawut!” Greta commented, “Do you think I’ll ever be as good as Lena?” Kate raised her head at the familiar name.

“I’m sure you will.”

“Who?” she asked to extend that conversation.

“Lena?” Mawut pointed to some drawings and nodded, smiling, “Lena Yankelevich, she was an impressive seeker. Several top teams like the Vratsa Vultures or Heidelberg Harriers wanted to make contracts with her.”

“What happened?” Mawut closed the notebook and thanked Micael for his explanation. Greta tugged at Kate’s sleeve, causing the fake wand to brush against her skin.

“She died, Professor Williams...” she lamented.

“In the middle of a match… She disappeared into the mountains and never came back. Some Muggle climbers were in the area and saw her, and we found her surrounded by three men who had stolen her broom. But we shouldn’t have gone...” He paused and in a quieter voice added, “The climbers got scared when they saw us. There was a lot of commotion and they pushed Lena... down the cliff. No one knew how Lena had come to that situation.”

A witch casually approached the table and wrote something down on a piece of paper. Everyone around her watched in silence as she looked at the plant and then nodded before turning away.

Mawut went to add something else, but Libor Marek joined them.

“This is an unfair competition.... and what is this? A plant?” He grimaced, and Kate glanced at Mawut before averting her eyes to the rest of the room.

Astrid Rhode had stepped on the pallet where her lectern stood. After rearranging her papers, the witch cleared her throat and drew everyone’s attention to her.

“I can’t begin to express how wonderful it is to have all of you here on this special occasion. To honour this event, let me introduce you to Lazar Berović, a former winner of the AEDA thanks to his system to identify and capture chameleon ghouls.” Kate joined the round of applause with little interest. The man in question took Astrid’s place and started his speech.

Her mind drifted to the single hair that had fallen on her sleeve, and she dully grabbed it between two fingers as slowly as she could, making an effort of not listening the ghoul-hunting narrative they were being ‘gifted’.

She had a document whose content had expanded over the last month, completing a full page and a successfully finished project. There was nothing to keep her at that school any longer. Nothing, except the original reason she was there: to find a supposed Death Eater.

But I want to leave.

Would Dumbledore be angry if she returned early? But how much longer would she have to stay?

I want to go home. I want to go to Charlie.

Then come home.

Charlie’s voice again, echoing in her head as if he were talking to her right next to her. This time she didn’t panic, it was the push she needed to make her decision. Dumbledore would have to settle for the list.

But she would be leaving a bunch of children in the hands of a murderer. No, she’d figure it out when she was safe. If anyone wanted the scroll Kate had in her possession, she’d have to flee before it was too late.

The speech was over, and the room filled with the previous murmur of happiness and excitement.

“Excuse me...” Kate stepped away from the group, leaving Micael in charge of defending the front, and made her way to the door.

She hadn’t realised how much she’d become accustomed to the noise until she’d walked a few corridors away from the dining room. With everyone partying in the middle, Kate and the silence went hand in hand all the way to the library. Or at least, that was where she was headed, had she not come face to face with Corentin.

“Ah, Katherine, I was just on my way to the exhibition...” The librarian’s smile crumbled at the sight of her expression.

“Corentin...” she whispered, “I think... I need to get out of here.” They both looked around, but they were alone.

“And how do you plan to do that? With a carriage? They don’t leave until the 20th.”

“I have to go get my trunk and apparate. I don’t know... I’ll jump to Romania and... then to England.” Corentin shook his head.

“I’d recommend three jumps at least.”

“I don’t know that many places! I don’t know where we are!”

“Keep your voice down.” They dissimulated again as two wizards passed in front of them. They greeted each other cordially, and when they were out of range, Corentin grabbed Kate’s elbow. “Everyone is in the Dining Hall. In fifteen minutes the band Rhode has brought will start playing so everyone will be paying attention. Go to your room and stay there until I let you know.”

“What are you planning?”

“We’ll apparate together. We’ll do Sweden, Germany, France and you go to England alone.”

“Corentin...”

“You go. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.” The librarian didn’t give Kate a chance to question him, and she watched him march in his bat form down the corridor.

She turned and broke into a jog towards the side staircase on the ground floor, a shortcut that would take her to her bedroom. She slowed when she felt a presence around her. She sensed desperation by legilimency, and it wasn’t her own. Anger too, even fear.

She turned a corner, but someone was waiting for her. Strong but elegant hands clamped over her mouth and grabbed her robe, pinning her against a chest.. Her pulse quickened, as did her breathing. She tried to free herself from the arm that held her, but it was too strong.

Slowly, the hand covering her mouth slid to the side and reached her neck. Kate couldn’t breathe. She felt the hand tighten around her neck and Mer Yankelevich’s needle-like nails made contact with her skin.

“Give me your wand.” Kate made a movement too sharp for the teacher’s liking and she gripped her tighter. “Slowly.” She tried to take a deep breath, but she had begun to shake in such a way she couldn’t concentrate on her breathing. “Give me your wand, now.”

With an idea half-formed in her head, she moved her left arm to release the wand. Seeing her, Mer snatched it from her hand and jabbed it into her back. “Let’s go for a walk. Don’t even think about running or screaming” They strolled to the other end of the ground floor. They passed by several wizards and in the eyes of the world everything was normal.

Just as the teacher muttered “Incarcerous” the Weasley twins’ wand trap rose into the air and began to hit Mer in the head. Taking advantage of her absent-mindedness, Kate broke free of her grip and ran off in search of the front door. She pulled her real wand out of her other sleeve, knowing Mer was very close behind her.

Just a little closer.

She ran through the sea of people in front of the door, hoping to get lost in the crowd. She glanced back as she went, but there was no sign of the teacher.

She left the castle with bated breath, and hastily pulled her diary from her pocket, muttered ‘Reducto’ turning it into a tiny, almost unrecognisable object, and continued running towards the bridge.

Maybe she could take refuge in the forest, go to the coordinates Dumbledore had given her, maybe the stranger would find her if it was an emergency. She cursed when she remembered she had burned the map.

She was about to reach the other side of the bridge when something hit her from behind, causing her to fall to the ground.

With a scream she hit the stone, and from the ground she saw Mer Yankelevich striding towards her. She looked around frantically, searching for her wand. She reached out and drew the weapon towards her before pointing it at the teacher.

Yankelevich paused, pointing her wand at Kate, and waited for her to rise from the ground. Both witches stared down at each other in a duelling stance, and the spells soon began to explode. Kate fought back as best she could, trying to remember some of Marek’s tricks, but Mer was the Charms teacher and she knew that at any moment she would tire herself out until she lost.

“You’ve got something that���s mine!” shouted Mer between curses.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Kate started to walk backwards, trying to go around Mer and turn her back on the castle, but the teacher was quicker and cornered her against the bridge wall.

“The stone! Where is it?”

“I don’t have any stone!” Kate peeled away from the bridge wall, dodging spells with little grace. One in particular made her ears pop, and she could barely hear Mer accusing her of lying repeatedly.

“How did you get in the room?” shouted Yankelevich, “The column broke!” Kate gasped as a stunning spell hit her leg and she staggered backwards. Focused on not falling to the floor, she didn’t notice the parchment flying out of her robes.

“You broke it?” Kate asked as she tried to catch her breath, “Why?”

“It wasn’t on purpose. That’s the entrance to Grindelwald’s room, and I was trying to open it.” She took a few steps towards Kate, pointing her wand at her. “So tell me; how did you get in?” her accusatory tone made the young witch flinch. Kate bit her tongue, physically, to avoid revealing how wrong she was. In case she didn’t make it out of this situation alive, the teacher must not know her way into the room.

With Charlie in mind, she lowered her wand, hoping to give Yankelevich a sense of security. Band music began to play from inside the castle, conveniently deafening those inside and isolating them from the catastrophe that may or may not be occurring on the bridge.

In only an instant, Kate noticed how the teacher got distracted by the sound of the instruments and took advantage of her glance over her head to begin a duelling offensive. Mer defended herself gracefully, dodging and occasionally returning her opponent’s attacks. Kate’s chances diminished with each spell.

Yankelevich turned her back on the castle, and it was at that moment Kate realised her previous oversight. There, at the feet of the person who might be her executioner, the list of Death Eaters’ names lay within her grasp.

“Mer,” she began cautiously, “all this is for your sister? None of this is worth it.”

“What do you know! Do you have a dead sibling? You have no idea...” It was a stab in the heart without knowing it. The internal debate in Kate’s stomach was making her dizzy, and as she considered whether to tell her story, the teacher crouched at the sight of the document. “We all lose loved ones. Angelov, Jorgensen, Marek, myself.” Mer ignored her.

“So this is how Karkarov intended to communicate with the Ministry...” The parchment flew through the air as Kate’s spell impacted against the teacher’s hand. Both witches began a dance of lights and explosions again, swirling around unknowingly gravitating towards each other.

The castle doors burst open and a third wave of spells shot towards them. Libor Marek was almost galloping in their direction furiously airing his wand.

“Mer!”

Kate let out a choked cry as Yankelevich twisted her arm backwards. She had managed to physically reach her and after pulling at her forearm, one hand with threatening nails anchored her neck against the teacher’s chest; with the other, she pointed her wand at Kate’s temple.

Both witches looked at Marek with completely opposite expressions.

“Mer... Let go of the girl.” He warned, holding up a hand.

“Look, your guardian angel has arrived. Day after day, that man has been preventing you and I from having a friendly chat, always sitting outside your classroom, hovering in the corridors without letting you out of his sight,” she turned to Marek, “tell me Libor, what has this girl done for you?”

“This is not about her. You think I don’t know you were seeing Karkarov on the sly? You think I don’t know that you threatened to turn him in to the Ministry? You think I don’t know that you’re the one who’s been trying to get to that imaginary room?”

“It’s real! She got in with the help of the bat she has as a friend. And now she’s going to tell me how.”

Kate couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You knew?” The accusation was drowned out when the grip around her neck tightened. “She tried to kill Flavia! She practically couldn’t speak!”

“And who do you think stopped her from going to the hospital wing to finish the job, huh?”

“Enough.” Mer finished. She forced Kate to walk to the bridge wall and bent her over the stone. She stared straight into the eyes of the abyss; the fog prevented her from seeing the end, if the cliff had one, and she knew that if she didn’t act soon all that would be left of her would be her memory. “I’m only going to ask you one more time. You found the resurrection stone, where is it?”

“There was no stone!”

She felt the needle stick as if it had happened in slow motion. She brought her hand to her neck as Mer released her and managed to drop to the ground just before the barrage of spells between her and Marek reached her. If she was dizzy before, now she was convinced she was going to throw up.

She slid down the stone to the ground as her vision blurred. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again, trying to maintain some control over her body. Spotting her wand near her, she awkwardly crawled towards it, avoiding a violet light that flew treacherously close to her.

She tried to get to her feet, but instantly collapsed again. The nausea was increasing, her vision was blurring more and more, her pulse was throbbing. She pushed her hair out of her face as best she could and rubbed her eyes, but she couldn’t quite focus on the dancing figures circling before her.

Corentin was waiting for her somewhere, probably by the door of her room to take her to a safer place. But she couldn’t reach him, not without the list.

Kate frantically searched for the paper somewhere on the bridge, hoping with all her might that the wind wouldn’t suddenly pick up. Moving her head like that did not help her condition, and the migraines she had been experiencing made their appearance to reinforce her misfortune.

Where were the cavalry? Why was no one from the castle coming to the rescue?

A bitter taste rose in her throat, forcing her to spit out some saliva, which to her horror was whitish. 

No one would come to help her. She would have to save herself.

With what little energy she had left, she stumbled to her feet and took a few steps towards the other side of the bridge. The list was at her fingertips, but the world was spinning and twisting, and now both hands were trembling.

The moment her hand made contact with the paper, a spell exploded against the stone above her head. But she couldn’t back out now. She reached out and caught the parchment between her fingers. She pointed her wand at herself, still shaking, and felt the familiar tug in her stomach that would pull her out. Yankelevich looked with terrified eyes at what was about to happen and pointed her wand at Kate.

The green light of the unforgivable curse never grazed her.

  Kate collapsed to the floor of the grimy Grimmauld Place street with a sob. Corentin had warned her about this; I recommend at least three jumps, the librarian had said.

Lying on the floor with her arms stretched out on her sides, she looked to her right; her eyes were full of tears and her arm full of blood. 

I recommend at least three jumps.

She felt herself choked up again. This time, some foam adorned the corners of her lips, while trying to reach her wand with her left hand.

Three weary taps against the ground caused the building in front of her to awaken, revealing the door of the Black family home. Breathing was getting harder and harder, and with her ears increasingly clogged, Kate tried, to no avail, to stop her splinching from bleeding. Without dittany, it would be impossible.

She raised her wand towards the building with a groan. Unable to utter a word, she concentrated on firing several red lights into the windows. Some bounced off the walls and others off the glass, and she prayed it would be enough, for keeping her arm up was draining her strength.

As the convulsions became more violent, her hand fell to the floor with the rest of her body.

Attempting to keep her eyes open, she made out figures coming out of the house; one was a lanky, black blob she likened to a Dementor by the way his cloak moved; the other was much shorter and rounder with a hint of red hair. The rest of the people who rushed at her were indistinguishable.

Severus Snape forced her eyes open with his fingers, wearing a worried expression. Recognising him, Kate screamed, or at least she thought she did. The only sound that came out of her mouth was a painful sob.

“Darling, darling, look at me, it’s going to be alright,” Molly reassured. Kate wanted to shout that nothing was right, that she was in danger, that the man who was pouring the contents of a potion down her throat was a traitor.

The convulsions hadn’t stopped yet, but the unbearable burning in her arm did. She wanted to watch her wound heal, but Molly clutched her tear-soaked cheek preventing her from seeing the amount of blood that had gushed out from her arm.

“You’ll be fine, sweetheart, you’ll be fine.”

She choked on her saliva and Molly tilted her head to help her spit out the remnants of foam. Several conversations sprang up around her; all seemed distant, like an echo in a cavern.

When the shaking stopped, the relief was almost immediate. Snape forced her jaw open, emptying a vial into her mouth again. The commotion didn’t seem to end; several wizards and witches combed the street for any Muggle witnesses, and others were busy inspecting windows and doors.

Intense pain engulfed her head and mind. Attributing it to migraines, Kate missed the long, silver strand that shot from her temple in the direction of an unknown wand. She closed her eyes, and with one last deep breath everything went black.

--

[Part 17]

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A/N: Oooooooooof I dont know how did you react to this I’m so nervous

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