#knowing you are a mausoleum of memories of the people you cared for

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Alles zu seiner Zeit

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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, mentions of death and loss, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Fifteen years after a plague struck Wisborg, the widower Harding continues to visit his wife and daughter at the cemetery where you work. His devotion spans across seasons but it might be more than those he lost drawing him back.

Characters: Friedrich Harding

Note: this is a new character for me so...

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Winter 

Bristles scrape on stone. Each push of the broom tugs in your arms, the layers against the chill inspiring a slake of sweat along your back. The trickle makes you itch as your efforts scratch across the ground, sending clouds of snow into heaps. 

Where once greenery blossomed and flowers smiled at sunlight remain only bristly sticks and frozen dirt 'neath the rug of January's malaise. The sombre grey skies form a thin curtain against the shadow of memories. The spectre of plague and whispers of a curse carry in the winds and swirl the flakes around your skirts. 

You were young the winter the sickness came. You'd known eight up until that blight and your brothers knew no other. They were of the forsaken, left in pine boxes to be buried when the frozen ground could be cracked with a spade. Your mother joined them soon after, though of a different malady; despair. 

Your father suffered the same disease but to a very different effect. At the bottom of a bottle. He lingers there in the depths of distraught distraction.  

You sweep the path clear to the doors of the mausoleum, then perpendicular around the perimeter. When the walkways are done, you will put your mind to the stones. And by the time those are revealed, a new sheet will litter the ground and your work will begin anew. 

Emmett, the youngest of the diggers, sits in wool and a leather cap, drinking hot barley from a cup. He shivers as you pass, mindful not to push the snow his way. He doffs the cup amiably. 

"How's it, fraulein?" He greets. 

"You would know so well as I, herr," you reply, moving the bristles anon. Your mittened hands cling tightly as the cold nips through to your knuckles. You keep your chin tucked into your scarf, 

"Frigid, ja," he cradles the cup and curls into its warmth. Adelaine, daughter of the sexton, must have offered the kindness. She does make certain to know all the diggers' names. "Would you do all this by your own?" He peers around the rolling expanse marked by headstones and monuments. 

"Someone must mind the spirits," you carry on without hamper.  

"For a pretty thaler or so, I'd pray," he remarks and clucks. 

You will not tell the truth. It is a thaler for the whole of a fortnight of sweeping and clearing the cobwebs; of breaking the frost from the keyholes and dusting away the musty leaves and stirred pebbles. 

"I pray you keep warm, herr. The almanac calls for a long winter." You bid as you progress away from him. 

"And you, Fraulein. Mind the ice," he girds. 

You keep careful steps as you press on. Emmett rises with his cup of barley and retreats to the shed with the shovels. A mean gale blows around you, nearly taking you off your feet. 

You steady yourself as you plant the broom and chatter against the deathly gust. There's a shrill whine from behind you. You turn as Adelaine clings to her fur-trimmed hood and hides behind a statue of the Holy Mother. 

"Fraulein," she trills in her creaky tones. "Have you seen Herr Emmett?" 

"Mm," you hum in hesitation. Her father, Wilhelm, warned you against encouraging her comingling. He is a pious man, minding the sacred grounds and all. "I'm not certain where he's strayed, Fraulein Adelaine." 

"Mercy," she huddles down against another violent draught. "The bishops says it's not been so cold since... well, he would not speak of it." 

She makes the sign of the cross and bows her head, clutching her hand where her golden necklace is hidden beneath her dress and cloak. Many would not wear holy icons so gregarious in their clothing. Simple wood or iron is more in line with the protestant pragmatism.  

The gate bell tolls and she cranes to see beyond you. Snow blows across her cheeks as the wind billows in her hood. Your own lets the bitter chill right through its weave.  

"There he is," she exclaims before your mind might follow her previous allusion. That corrupt wintertide. 

You turn to peer across the ivory swathes. Henrick and Emmett approach the gate and open it to the visitor. A figure on a horse rides through impatiently, nearly catching Henrick beneath the hooves. The gentleman wears simple black though the richness of its cut can be seen even from your purview. The breed of his coldblood steed attests to his fortune.  

Adelaine gasps and steps out close to you. You have seen the man before. As often you've seen the drape of his cloak, you would only know him by the emblem pinned upon the horse's harness.  

"It is the widower, Harding." She whispers.  

The man draws his horse around the stone crypt marked with his name. The one barren of any other decoration; no flowers in Fruhling, no ornament upon the door, nor even a cross carved into the lintel. You note the plainness each time you tend its grounds. 

He drops off his horse heavily. His boots send up a cloud and you grip the broom tighter. How quickly it's piled up all over again. Flecks fall along the folds of his cloak as he marches to the doors. You can hear the twist of the key as he lets himself within. The door slams sonorously and casts a pall over the grounds. 

"My father says he was young when his wife and daughters succumbed to the ague," Adelaine says. 

"Do not speak of it," you chide. "It is ill tidings to call upon the dead who wish to remain undisturbed." 

She tuts, "he comes every day. He disturbs them oft enough." 

"They are his to disturb," you sniff. "I should be certain it does not snow him in." 

She would not know what it is to have those beyond your grasp. To spend the nocturne longing for them to be there again. To hear them sing a lullaby or tuck you into sleep.

"Have you ever been inside? Even a glimpse? Father does not have a key." She grabs your sleeve before you can depart. "What do you presume he does within? I've heard him talking..." 

"It isn't of my concern," you tug away from her. "Nor yours." 

"Hmph, mind your lip," she sneers. "Or I'll have father find another broom sweep. Perhaps one more droll, ja?" 

"Apologies, fraulein, I only mean to do my work," you say. "The snow comes more and more. Perhaps you should go within, be warm." 

"Perhaps I might and perhaps I mightn't," she retorts and rubs together her gloved hands. "Very well, go about and do you work, little dormouse." 

You part before her temper can rise. Adelaine can be as prickly as she is pleasant. One moment a giggle, the next a growl. 

You retrace your steps along the path, uncovering the stone with the bristles as you do. You glance over at the yellow crypt as the wind wails as a wraith might. None are permitted within but the widower. It is a rule never broken. Never questioned. All know of the heartbroken Harding and his sorrow, even beyond those gates. Even as he hides within the walls of the house he once made a home of. 

Fruhling (Spring) 

As the annual thaw softens the earth, the frozen ground churns to mud, and the air bristles with the damp threat of rain. The early sprigs of green poke up from the flattened grasses and the cracks between the stonework fill with wet sludge. Your bristles clump with mud and you trade the broom for shovel to scrape it all away. 

Adelaine’s song carries with those of the songbirds, returned from their winter nests. She sits upon a bench and chimes as Emmett and Matthias dig into a new plot nearby. Her ploy is not subtle. 

Even as the season marks rebirth, death is to be expected. The hole is meant for the wife of a cobbler who did not survive her child. The infant, as you heard, is well. A reverence carries on the whispers as the old wives and grandmothers praise her noble sacrifice. It is as close as a woman might come to the bravery of man, though there isn’t much choice in the matter. 

Your mind wanders as the tedium of your work inspires preoccupation. Adelaine will be a wife one day. Will she end up in the ground upon her own sacrifice? Or will she sing then to her child instead of the diggers? 

What of yourself? You are no lady, your father is not rich but a drunkard feeding his demise off your tuppence. Should you have a husband when he succumbs to the rye’s dark tides? It would be practical. You father has no son, his house cannot pass to a daughter. 

With your days spent in the cemetery, you know that inevitability is closer than you should like. Your father should’ve died the night he was kicked in the skull by that old mule he slapped while in his cups. It is a miracle he lived to laugh so bawdily about the farce. 

You sigh and carry on, as you do many things in life. You will need to think on it more thoroughly before Winter comes again. It is a godsend your father did not catch the same ague as poor Frau Elke. You spent wakeless nights listening to his snores, searching for a cough or a choke. 

The day wears on and the burial happens in a bout of sunshine which beams down sardonically on the party’s grief. When the forsaken mother is buried, never to kiss the face of her child, they depart. Emmett and Matthias pat firm the earth as Sexton Wilhelm whistles for you. 

His daughter has been sent away. She cannot stomach the funerals. Ironic given her lot in life. Her family is not from Wisborn, they did not witness the plague, only heard of it. Her mother is well and alive, she never had any sibling, and her father is in fine enough health for a man his age. 

“These flowers are for the woman’s plot,” he gestures to a crate of marigolds. 

“Yes, Herr,” you reply diligently.  

“I will have one of the diggers assist,” he assures and struts off. 

You turn to face the plot. You heard the woman was younger than even you. A new bride. Not even twenty. You trace the cross over your chest and shoulders then pick up a basket of the marigolds 

Matthias comes with two hand spades. You take one and begin your work. You transplant the rooted flowers into the ground carefully. He grumbles as he kills more than he preserves. His hands are not delicate but calloused and well-worn. 

“Herr, I will finish,” you say. “You’ve done plenty today.” 

“Are you certain? There are still very many.” He glances over at the crate. 

“Too many. I will find them homes,” you promise. 

The gate bell rings as if supporting your suggestion. Matthias rises and dusts of his hands. Emmett and Henrick run down to open the doors to the visitor. Black velvet flaps over short bristles of reddish-brown. The widower canters in as the thick hooves clop over the stone. 

You pack down the earth around another stem. Harding dismounts as the diggers keep their distance. The lock grinds and the door drags on its hinges. It closes with a clunk as your shovel bites into the earth again and again. 

When you have lined the plot with the pleasant orange blooms, there is still a basket left. You peer around the fruhling blossom. Your eyes are drawn to the most bland swath among the sprawl. The yellow crypt and its vacant brick walls. Not even the ivy grows upon it. 

You are not so presumptuous as to disturb the soil. You cut the stems and bound them together with a headless one. Little bundles all snug together. You place them along the front of the crypt. They will die and blow away but it is a small blessing for the lost. 

You set above wiping clean the foot of the statue of the splattered mud. As you do, the crypt opens again. The cloak almost seems to float as its wearer remains hidden in its folds. He stops only two steps from the threshold. 

You scrape off dried muck with your fingernail as the clouds shift above. The sudden frantic scuffing and stomping draws your attention. Harding crushes the petals into the ground, decapitating the stems, twisting them into strands with his heels. His hood shifts you think for a moment he is looking at you. 

He kicks away what is left of the bouquets and approaches his dulcet steed. The beast is still as its rider mounts. It trods around the crypt then up the path to the gates. You frown and watch the widower’s departure. You did not mean to offend. You hope that Herr Wilhelm does not hear of this error. 

Sommer (Summer) 

Pollen floats in the air, tickling nostril and throat, mingling with the aromas of June. In the early morning dim, a cool breeze stirs the hem of your skirts and wafts around your clogs. You walk with a stick in hand, using it to traverse the cobbled roadway, chipped by the passing of carriage and hoof. 

Your trek to the cemetery is peaceful in the sommer. In the winter, it can grow quite eerie with the whistling winds like wailing wretches and the spindly branches like skeletons. In the summer, the trees are lush and rustling, waving like companions, and the grass ripples like water beneath the gentle flow. 

That morning, you hum to yourself as you peer ahead at the distant cemetery wall. There are houses along the old street but most still sleep in the dawn’s hue. You must be early to the graveyard so that you may ready the plots and paths. 

As you plod along, the posts of the cemetery gate come clearer over the rooftops. Your low melody is punctured by a sudden tempo. Slow and plodding. You move aside as you sense the nearing horse. The merchants rise as early as you; eager to deliver or claim their cargo at the dock. 

They do not hurry. They do not change measure. You traipse along and await their passing. As the shadow of the great steed nears, you do not count the creak of a wheel or axle. It is only a rider. 

Yet, they do not continue past you. The hooves keep a patient pace in tune with yours. You’ve never heard or seen a horse go so slow. Any beast you ever saw would tremble to be at full tilt amid the meadows. 

You peer over your shoulder curiously and follows the white fur around the wide hoof up the brown leg to the reddish sheen further up, the strands of a well-brushed main draping around the coldblood’s thick neck. Black velvet pleats around its rider but does not catch the wind. The fabric is too heavy for riding and for the season. 

The emblem on the horse’s chest gleams in your eye. It is him, the widower, in his mourning ebon. His hood shrouds his face as ever and he is silent as his horse walks beside you, as if an escort. 

You wait but he does not canter nor trot. He keeps the gait. You look ahead again then back to him. You wouldn’t want to be uncouth. 

“Guten morgen, Herr Harding.” 

As you’ve never heard him speak, you’re not certain you’ve ever heard any speak to him. Not the bold Adelaine or the stern Sexton Wilhelm. He only ever brought dire silence with him to the crypt. And then, as always, he remains quiet. 

You gulp and once more put your attention ahead of you. You are nearly at the gates, though you would not enter through the mainway. There is a smaller door round the east corner.

The gentleman and his horse bear down on you, their shadow rippling in the rising sunlight. Sweat trickles down your spine as a chill speckles across your skin. You feel as if he watches you but dare not look upon him in turn. You don’t believe you would see anything beneath his hood. You do wonder if the widower might indeed be a phantom himself. 

He steers to the gates and you pass them and head for the door behind the English oak. You pull the cord to lift the lever and glance over at Herr Harding. The widower’s hood shifts in your direction. You cannot see his eyes but you feel them. Like worms crawling over a corpse. You press inside and quickly swing the iron door shut. 

The gate bell pierces the early din of tweeting birds and skittering critters. Dandelion dust powders the air and bristles in your nose. You go to the shed to fetch your broom as the gates open at the widower’s behest. 

When you come out, he is gone. His horse is by the crypt and the doors are closed. You are deliberate in your work. Since that day with the marigolds, you’ve not gone near the yellow brick while Harding was as visitation. You always wait and say a silent prayer for his family as you clear the debris. 

There is much to do in the aged cemetery. There is no shortage of dead, forgotten or new. The stones must be cleaned or repaired. Wilhelm takes care to apply mortar to new cracks are to fix an eroded etching, so long as a thaler is offered for the effort.  

You brush the broom back and forth, pausing to watch a bee pollinate a flowerbed or a caterpillar make his slow progress over the stone. There is so much life here despite the purpose of the land. Where others come only to see death, you see what is still there. 

The sun ascends higher and higher. You leave your shawl in the shed and take a can to water the blooms. You marvel at how some petals seem to open and drink in the moisture. In the sommer, there is splendour. In sommer, you can hardly believe that winter could ever be. 

As you come around the path, the horse stands by the crypt, chewing the patchy grass. You pass by its swaying tail as you return the can to the shed. While there, you steal a handful of feed meant for the horses that draw the wagons of the lost. 

You cautiously near the large beast. It has been some hours since your arrival and it is a hot day. You open your palm, curving back your fingers to avoid the flat gnashing teeth. The horse smears spit on your hand as he eats the oats. 

The crypt door whines on the thick hinges and you wince and back away. You tuck yourself into an alcove as the door shuts heavily. You press into the brick as your heart races and you spot the littered trail of feed that leads to you. 

As Herr Harding comes around to mount his horse, he spies it too. He pauses as he bows beneath his hood, the edges of lifting slightly as he follows the seed and oat to you. You stare at him haplessly. You don’t know what to do or say. 

He turns and grabs the reins. He hauls himself onto the hours and clicks his teeth, driving his heels into its belly. The horse snorts and obeys, its hooves dusting along the stone toward the main gates. 

Herbst (Autumn) 

Summer wilts with the crisp bite of Herbst. One last breath of life before the grey winter. The leaves mellow to rustic tones of umber and gold, the pine cones litter the dirt, and the wet grass shine from the kiss of the morning fog. You sweep aside the wet leaves with your broom, skirts sodden along the hem. 

As you follow your usual progress across the grounds, the gate bell chimes. The echo rolls through the air and earth. The steady chafe of bristles guides you through the musty mist. It is a beautiful season but wet. 

You pause to brush leaves that have caught on plinths or statues, to wipe away the twigs across the stones embedded in the flats, and to tidy the plots of the leafy carpet. You can only count the blessing that it is not snow. 

Adelaine’s laughter flutters up to you. Her father helps her into a carriage. She has been entertaining a suitor as of late. She always spoke of a summer wedding but it seems a winter one may be on the horizon. She is off to see the bishop and her betrothed.  

Emmett and Matthias open the gates with little heed to their employer and his daughter. They must feel spurned after so long of her fawning over them. It is unfair of her to give them such false longings.  They shut the gates and stomp off back to their digging.

There was a family that perished in a fire. They will each need a hole among their designated plot. It is sombre and back-breaking work. You do not envy the diggers for more than their wage. Were you a man, you could take a shovel and make at least a thaler more than you do now. 

You shiver again. You’ve not been warm for days. You’ve not the money for fuel so the hearth remains dormant in favour of your father’s habit. The drink keeps him warm and you are left to wool and the friction of your palms. Thank the lord you have walls at the least. 

The voices of the men fade as they climb to the new plot and you come down the low incline toward the main row of the cemetery; the large mausoleum for the fallen soldiers and the next for the vaunted nobles.

As you near the yellow crypt, you are met with a most unlikely sight. The doors are open. You search around the desolate grounds.

The coldblood is not there awaiting his rider. The gate bell rang but you did not see the black hood enter. How can that be? Perhaps he did leave it unlocked the day prior. 

Looters are not uncommon. Henrick chases them off in the mornings as they sleep in an alcove or on a bench. Though, unless they have a chisel, they do not claim much. 

You rest your broom against the yellow brick. You stand before the open doors. Both are drawn wide. You look up at the arch as shadows plume within. As you stare inside, you swear you can see the darkness furling and unfurling. 

You make yourself move. Step by step you approach the doors. You grab the large iron ring on the left one and pull. It is much too heavy. Or you are much too weak. You grunt and try again, shifting it a few inches. 

A scratching noise stills your efforts. You squint as you try see through the thick gloom. 

“Allo?” You call through, “is someone within?” 

You wait for an answer. There is nothing, but then, a skittering noise. A rat, perhaps. 

A swirls of leaves blows around you and skid over the stone floor within. You look over your shoulder, hoping someone might pass and help you shut the place up. There is only you. 

You take your broom and enter cautiously. You hold your breath as you gather the leaves and push them back out. You might shove a door shut from within then use the broom to somehow leverage the other. 

You bat the last of the clutter out and turn to peer out at the red sky. Your feet leave the stone and your cry is smothered by a gloved palm. You kick out in fright as the broom clatters from your grasp.

You claw behind you blindly as you are spun to face the crypts black belly. You jolt back with your captor as he pushes the door closed with his weight, then the other. You writhe and flail, grabbing at the arm hooked around your waist.

He pants but does not speak. He carries you forward as your soles bounce off the floor. 

Your stomach meets something hard. A stone ledge engraved in tiers. You brace it as you’re crushed against it. Your arms shake as you try to shove yourself away, try to free yourself of this treacherous adversary. 

You whimper and wiggle your head helplessly, unable to free your mouth from behind his hand. You know by his strength, by his size that it is a man indeed. He shushes you and squeezes your jaw.

You quiver and splay your fingers on the stone shape before you. It is a sarcophagus. You shudder as your throat tightens. 

He presses flush to you. His warmth seeps through the damp layers of wool wrapped around you as his nose brushes up the brim of your ear. He exhales and his breath wraps around your neck. He sucks in air and nuzzles along your hair. He’s smelling you. 

He buries his nose in you locks and purrs. The deep gristle makes you quake. He continues to smell you, to feel you as his hand spreads on your stomach and grazes up your bodice. You tap your foot around in a frantic search for his, driving your heel down upon his toe. 

He grunts and brings his hand up to tap your cheek. He hums derisively. That noise alone freezes your blood. There’s something so base about it. 

He slips his hand down again and the other follows. He keeps you penned in with his arms and removes his gloves, letting them fall to the floor. His fingertips dance up your bodice and back down. He kneads and pokes and caresses. He fondles you until you’re a trembling mess. 

“Herr, please--” 

He nips your ear and snarls. You close your eyes but it cannot save you from this. You are only deeper into the darkness. He drags his nose down to your neck and nuzzles into you there. His hand curls around your hip, squeezing before climb up your back and down again. 

He draws his face from your neck and his hands descend further. He tugs and yanks at your skirts, bundling them up in his grasp. He pulls them up to your waist and leans into you until your middle is right against the stone, your body bent with his. 

He hooks his arm under the layers of your skirt as his other hand wanders beneath. His nails skim your skin, goosebumps rising with his touch, and traces down to thighs. He pokes beneath them meanly and forces his foot between yours. He kicks your boots wide and you whine again.  

“Herr, please--” 

“Ta ta,” he warns in a hiss. 

He pushes his hand between your legs, cupping it over your cunt. He inhales again as he takes in the scent of your scalp, his nose once more delving into your hair. He slips his middle finger between your lips and rubs you. Gently at first, then firmer, quaking as he pinpoints on your clit, rolling it beneath his fingertip. 

Your legs tingle and tremble. You dip your head down and he growls. He spreads the slickness that rises with his uninvited touch. Your lips form around a silent prayer as you beg the lord for forgiveness.  

He pushes his finger into you, his hand against your cunt as he rocks in and out. He does not heed your babbling pleas or the shattering of your body and soul. He takes what he covets without repentance. 

He continues to pet you, coaxing you until you are heavy, writhing in a maddened state. You do not welcome him and yet it is pleasureful. It is joy like you’ve never known. And it bursts within you like damn, coursing free as a river as it slakes down your thighs. 

You wail between your teeth as you bite down on your shame. Father, Mary, forgive me. I do not want this. I swear it. 

He groans and exhales into you. He pulls his hand back and leaves you hollow and squirming. He reaches between your bodies and fusses with his own clothing. You squeak and try to crawl over the sarcophagus. He keeps you trapped as he clutches the rumpled fabric of your skirt. 

He once more scoops his hand around your pelvis and along your cunt. He spreads you and guides his cock along your bottom. You whimper and reach to stop him. He ignores you as he delves down along your cunt. He stops at your entrance and wets himself with your sinful excess. 

He snakes his hand up to your hip and pushes you onto him. Just his swollen tip. You gasp and gulp as you twitch around him.

He lets go of your skirts and they fall down over the front of your legs, the back caught between your bodies. He tilts and slowly impales you.

His hand crawls up your bodice and he pushes beneath the taught fabric. He squeezes your breast, two fingers framing your nipple as he snarls and burrows into you with subtle and slow thrusts. 

You tense and tremour as he gets deeper, crying out as he breaks past the last thread of innocence. He huffs and bows his head down. His lips brush over the meat of your shoulder close to your neck and he bites into it. You sob again and he bucks his hips. 

He puts you on your toes as he repeats the motion. He pulls back then snaps against your rear. Each time he bites harder, he gropes you tighter. He pumps into you, faster, more furious, more frantic. 

His voice trickles out between his eager rutting. He teethes at you as he pinches your nipple. He bends you over the sarcophagus as his breath billows all around you.  

He pounds into you so that the stone cuts into your hips and stomach. You snivel as your tears soak your cheeks and your head thrums. You grip the lid beneath you and hide your face against your arm. 

He spasms and buckles, his legs seeming to give out, though he keeps his hips moving. He fucks you until he cannot any longer. Until he is weak and panting into your nape.  

He sniffs and reaches to cover your hand on the stone. He slips his palm away and feels the sarcophagus. He slowly eases out of you and leaves you to hang off the lid.

He chokes into the blackness, “forgive me, Anna.” 

Your legs give out and you sink onto the floor. You hang your head as you barely keep yourself from heaping into a puddle. Herr Harding weeps over his wife as you do the same for yourself. 

[spngi]

My tears ricochet | mafia!carlos sainz jr x reader

Part 1

Prologue

summary: Mr. and Mrs. Sainz lived in a dream for many years, now everything is falling apart and they need to deal with their feelings

warnings: Grammar mistakes, citation of violence, Carlos is an idiot, mentions of cheating, angst

There's a warm breeze in the room, crossing through the space from the windows that remained open overnight, the scent of Spanish summer mixing with Carlos' aroma in the room. Carlos' arms surround me in bed, and I can't help but wake up to the kisses he spreads across my back.

"Good morning, darling," I murmur still drowsy to Carlos, turning to face him. He looks handsome in the morning, tousled hair, a silly smile on his face, his voice hoarse from sleep.

"Good morning, cariño," he replies, pulling me closer into his embrace, making me laugh; his hand is gentle as it touches my face in a light caress.

"That smile of yours makes me feel like the luckiest man in the world," Carlos says, and even after all this time together, he still makes me blush with affection.

"I'm the lucky one to have you, Carlos," I lightly kiss his lips. "I love you."

"I love you too," he responds.

Everything feels empty, the house filled with love and happiness now seems like a mausoleum, the hallways echoing even with people still in them, my head on the verge of collapsing along with my entire body. I feel broken, still alone, a million beautiful memories dancing in my head and wasted by the end.

Divorce. Just thinking of that word makes me nauseous. Five beautiful years shared reduced to a single piece of paper. I couldn't and wouldn't let that happen, no matter what Carlos tried; I wouldn't give that to him. Of all the long list of concessions I made to him, divorce wouldn't be added to it.

I can't go back to my room, I can't stay here without feeling the urge to go back to him, to plead and shake him until he comes to his senses, until he loves me again.

I return to the back of the house where Carlos had set aside a place for me to paint and have a moment of peace; there are many paintings hanging in that room, various phases of my life, our life. That studio was my safe haven. I close my eyes and try to breathe, pour myself a drink and put on an Etta James record.

It's when I finally look at the blank canvas in front of me, waiting to be filled, that I feel the tears rolling down, like a dam that has reached its limit.

"Y/n?" I hear Charles' voice calling me after a long time, catching me off guard. I try to quickly wipe the tears from my face, knowing it will be in vain.

"Hi," I turn to him, my voice trembling, and Charles tries not to stare at my state.

Charles is one of Carlos' right-hand men, helping him with business and also his security.

"Carlos asked me to deliver this to you," he places the same envelope from earlier on the table, and more tears roll down my eyes. He looks at me again, and I hate to seem so fragile in this moment.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, and I can't find the strength to respond; I just nod my head and hope he leaves. Although Leclerc was a great listener and a friend in his spare time, I didn't want to talk, to tell him what was going on. It would make the whole situation too real at this moment, so I just wait for him to leave so I can break down again.

I never opened the envelope; I didn't want to see what was inside, didn't want to know what I was worth in Carlos' eyes, didn't even want to negotiate how much our life together was worth. The papers went straight to the back of my closet, hidden from the world and from my eyes.

Carlos didn't sleep at home that night, even the next, and even the next four days. It was as if he was punishing me with his absence for not accepting the separation, as if leaving me wandering alone around the house would change my mind about it. The big house kept running, with staff and security guards wandering around. But Carlos didn't bother to come back home, or to take care of his own business, sending Charles back and forth all the time to pick up his papers and important things. And it's when I finally tire of this game that I decide to corner Charles.

He looks startled when he enters my husband's office and sees me there, sitting in Carlos' chair, with my Manolo Blahnik heels propped up on the table.

"Oh, Y/n... good morning, didn't expect to see you here," Leclerc sighs, and I give him a slight smile. "I came to get some things for Carlos and I'll leave you alone again."

"Actually, Charles..." I stand up and then firmly place my hands on the stack of documents he came to fetch. "The documents are staying; tell him to come get them personally."

"Y/n... Mrs. Sainz, I've been instructed to do just that," Charles replies. It hurts me to do this with him, the man had nothing to do with our marital problems but it was the only method of passing the message to Carlos.

"Don't think I'm trying to disrupt your life, Charles. Just pass on the message to him; I want him to come back home soon. He can't keep hiding in that tiny apartment forever." I lean on the table and watch his reaction as he realizes what I've said.

"Do you know where he is?" he asks me curiously.

"I found out the moment you left here on the first day," I smile cynically at Charles, "and I wouldn't want to have to go there to pay him a visit. I believe Carlos wouldn't like that either, as it would disturb the peace of the apartment's owner."

Charles still seemed surprised by the information I had. The truth was I couldn't keep dragging myself around the house in eternal sadness, wondering where my husband was. So, I took the opportunity to send my bodyguard after Charles. Lando was still young, but he was efficient and smart; he had been by my side since I moved into this house and Carlos decided it would be good for me to have some protection. As Lando was young, maybe it would be easier for me to get used to him, and it really was; we became good friends over time. Once he found out Carlos' address, it was easy to find out whose apartment it was and who the girl was.

Martina. That name sounded bitter in my head.

"I'll be keeping this for him for now, and it was good to see you, Charles," I smile, dismissing him.

I smile as I watch him leave, feeling at least somewhat victorious today. I look at his office again, pick up the picture frame I found stored earlier in the drawer, and place it on Carlos' desk again. The image makes me smile nostalgically; the photo of our wedding fills me with a bit of hope, the happiness in our eyes, love radiating from the photo. Maybe I could make everything go back to normal.

When I get up the next day, I'm not surprised to see Carlos at the table having coffee. That was good; he had come and was at home after all. He looks at me through his coffee cup, his eyes expressing no emotion, but it's comforting to have him there, sitting in our living room having coffee.

"It's good to see you," I greet him and sit next to him at the table.

"I wish I could say the same," he says, placing the cup on the table, "but you know I hate being pressured."

"I gave you five days, dear. Believe me, I was patient and kind," I fidget nervously with the ring on my finger. "Listen, we need to talk, open up to each other... Being alone in these last few days was horrible; this huge house where..."

Carlos doesn't let me finish speaking. He smiles, that kind of evil smile he gives when he's plotting something, the same evil smile I've seen so many times directed at someone else.

"I'm glad you mentioned that," he interrupts. "You were right about saying that apartment was tiny. And as you yourself said, this house is huge, so I believe you won't mind me bringing one more guest," he speaks naturally, as if he hadn't done something horrible, as if it wasn't enough to have tainted our marriage, he had to taint our home now, as if he wanted me to hate him more each day.

"You wouldn't do that," I reply shocked.

"Why don't you see for yourself?" he asks, pointing to the large door leading to the garden and the pool of the house, the smile never leaving his lips.

[therivercrow]

A Word With Friends - Perspicacious

OK, so this one's trying to do a lot. It's my response to this week's Word With Friends (perspicacious - tagged by @seaglassmelody and @blackwall-my-tiny-husband) and Thursday Bangers ("I've loved you three summers but I want them all" - from @teamtakagi).

It's also for @robinsea who wanted some loving for Alana and their amazing Rook, Ivy.

This is vaguely Rook's Roost AU in that it fits the main timeline, but it doesn't reference it heavily.

Enjoy a tender moment in the Necropolis Gardens:

"Thought I'd find you here".

Alana crouched down beside the timeworn headstone where Ivy Ingellvar of the Mourn Watch was half-kneeling, eyes closed, before a single lit candle that cast a tiny golden glow amid the indigo gloom of the Necropolis gardens. Ivy glanced up at Alana's movement, a sudden intrusion into their silent meditation, but not an unwelcome one.

"I needed to get away. I come here to think". Ivy's words were brusque but their eyes softened as they took in the expression of care on Alana's face. Their bright green irises shone like funeral lanterns in the deep black of their sclera.

Most people avoided Ivy's gaze, finding their glowing, demonic eyes unsettling, but Alana met them tenderly.

"Are you okay?"

Ivy sighed, shaking their head. "I saw Minrathous, what the Venatori did to Dock Town. I should have been there". Their voice took on a hardened edge. "I should have done something".

Alana rested one hand on Ivy's shoulder. "You couldn't be in two places at once, none of us could. Other Watchers were there, they tried their best. If you'd gone, you might have been..." Alana let the words fall away.

"I'm used to death", Ivy said. "I've lived with it my whole life, and I'm not scared. But what I saw in Dock Town, so many bodies - people - left in the street without a proper burial. It goes against everything the Watch stands for".

Alana turned away, thinking about their next words. The gardens were a peaceful haven, especially after the chaos of the dragon fight in Treviso, and the horror of what happened and was still happening in Minrathous.

Soft green and blue wisp-lights illuminated patches of the constant twilight, revealing islands of light in the sea of gloom, highlighting mausoleums and memorial statues, silent homes for the dead. The scent of flowers and candlewax wafted on the night air.

"Thank you", Alana finally said. "For choosing Treviso".

Ivy made their choice in a moment, they had no time to think about the situation with their usual cool logic. The Watchers scattered, some going to each of the two cities under attack, to help the Crows and Shadow Dragons there.

"I didn't choose Treviso", Ivy replied quietly. "I chose...you".

Alana lowered their head slightly, their voice cracking. "I know".

Alana wasn't good at these moments, where genuine emotion threatened to break through their carefully constructed mask. Ivy could see their discomfort, and understood it. In this they were the same; only where Alana deflected with irreverence, Ivy pretended stoicism. Underneath, both elves were small, scared, and fragile.

Alana shook out their hands as if to banish the rising feelings, and glanced at the stone Ivy had chosen to kneel at. The name was worn away by centuries but was still partially legible.

"Ingellvar", Alana read aloud.

"This was where I was found".

"That's where you got your name?" Alana asked. "This stone is...ancient. Look at it, it's overgrown with...oooooh, Ivy Ingellvar. I get it!"

The stone was indeed grown over with ivy, vines trailing like serpents over the carvings that once adorned the granite slab.

"Well, aren't you the perspicacious one?" Ivy chuckled. "Never been sure about the name, honestly".

"It suits you". Alana reached out one hand to Ivy's hair, a dark green knot of braids that sat atop their otherwise shaved head. "It matches your hair. And...I think it's beautiful".

Ivy gave a small snort of derision. "Beautiful?"

Alana met their eyes again. "Yes. You are".

"I thought we said we wouldn't do this". Ivy stood up quickly. "Not while..." they gestured widely, at everything.

"We kissed, Ivy". Alana said. "That day in Arlathan forest. You and me, in a sunbeam under the trees. And I haven't stopped thinking about it. I know what we said but -"

They stood level with Ivy, and held their hands.

"Everything with Minrathous, with Treviso, with those damn dragons". Alana's words caught in their throat. "It reminded me that we don't have forever. We're fighting gods. Sure, we have a small army to help us, but any day, any one of us could -"

"Die". Ivy finished Alana's sentence, saying the word they'd been avoiding.

"Well, yes". Alana's voice softened. "So, let's work with the time we have. I want to see where this can go. I want more summers in Arlathan with you. I want them all - if you do".

Ivy rested their head on Alana's shoulder, moving into a tender hug. The two elves stood embracing, in the quiet of the gardens and the cool of the night. "I do".

[ohmypawsandwhiskers]

It's WIP Wednesday!

I actually remembered this time!

Here's a snippet of the birthday thing I've been working on for Erwin's birthday (however late I may be)

The cobwebs crowd the corners and crevices of the abandoned school house, making the single classroom and it’s long tables seem more like a mausoleum than a former place of learning. Beyond the grimy glass, the people of Emmrich distract amble about their way, wearing smiles and bright eyes as the mourning of the teenage boy goes unnoticed, save for whomever just waltzed in behind him.

“Erwin, we were looking everywhere-“ her voice, that is beginning to become a soothing constant in his life, pauses as Dani’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “You okay?”

He swallows back the tears once more and turns to face her with a raised eyebrow. “You were looking for me?”

He hardly expected anyone to be around- it’s why he is here in the school house, spending his first birthday alone in the musty room. It is the closest he can get to spending it with his father, even if it is a ghost of a memory. Even if his mistake cost him his father- all so the government could ensure the peace and prosperity continued.

She tilts her head slightly, golden eyes scanning him over for some sign of a joke. “Seriously? Didn’t you get my letter?”

He shakes his head, trying to piece together what might have brought her here.

“So, you’re telling me I went through the effort of practicing my letters only for it to not reach you? See, this is why I didn’t learn to write in the first place! What’s the point of learning a different form of communication if it doesn’t even reach the person, huh?”

“You wrote me?” It comes a shock. The times he tried to work with her on her penmanship as she bemoaned the entire process- doing everything it took to not sit down and learn that he had been afraid to tell Chief he would be unable to actually teach her.

“Yeah!” She throws up her hands in exasperation. “I actually put effort into it, making it all fancy and shit for you, only to find out you didn’t get to see all your hard work payoff!” Dani huffs and looks around the room, distracted from her tirade as he can practically see the cogs in her mind wheeling as they piece together this place. The frustration fades from her face and relaxes into cautious understanding. “Your dad’s school house?”

Erwin can feel the heat rush to his cheeks as he nods, crossing his arms over his chest as he prepares himself for questions.

“It’s a bit of a shit-hole now, isn’t it?” Her words remind him of their first interaction less than a year ago- it had been brisk and jarring, but he found her words and tone sometimes failed to reflect the underlying emotion behind it all. “You’re choosing to spend a beautiful day inside some neglected place conveniently forgotten by the district’s lords instead of being outside?”

“It’s my birthday,” he admits, knowing she would drag this conversation out if he didn’t head her off. “It’s the first one on my own, and I suppose I just wanted to not be alone.”

Dani purses her lips to hide a smirk. “Hmm, yes, spiders do make great companions. Great conversationalists, I’ve heard.”

“Is there a point to your sarcasm, Dani?”

“Yes, it’s to get you out of your cruddy mood and get going! We’re going to be late! I’m just laying out your choices: spend your birthday chatting to ghosties and spiders, or spend time with me and a bunch of folks that care about you.”

Like the scales of justice she holds out her hands on either side of her, rocking side to side with the imaginary weight of his choices. Erwin reaches out and catches her wrist mid-drop to halt the movement.

“You never did say where we were going- that’s hardly enough to sway a choice. Maybe spiders would be the perfect birthday companions.” Already, his glum mood is starting to crack as a small smile accompanies his counterpoint.

No pressure tags: @askweisswolf @jayteacups @sleepy-sham @deepmushrooms @topaz-carbuncle @the-rebel-archivist @the-mpreg-guy and anyone else that would like to do this! I always get nervous tagging folks

[lemonsnapples]

I feel like there are too many people who think that Shen Yuan is lazy and would never work hard. He is usually contrasted with Shen Jiu, who is shown in the extras to be driven by his pride to keep cultivating to become stronger than Liu Qingge.

Sure, Shen Yuan's life goal is to be able to live a lazy, carefree, pampered life, but we've read SVSSS, have we not? Have we not seen how much Shen Yuan will bust his ass for his self-preservation?!

Oh, but Shen Yuan only cultivated once as SQQ then stopped, I've read some people online say. He never considered becoming stronger himself to be able to face LBH.

To that, I give you this quote from Vol 1 Ch 1 of the official English translation:

So damn awesome! Power worthy of a character who was a peak’s sole master. With this level of cultivation, if he diligently trained for the next twenty years, then maybe in the future—as a last resort, if he absolutely had to face that overpowered Luo Binghe—he might just be able to flee in disgrace!

As you can see, he does consider cultivating hard as a strategy. Then he does actually cultivate, and he didn't know how to out of muscle memory or from reading PIDW, either - he had to figure out how, as shown in Ch 2:

He sat on the stone bed and began to cultivate, carefully following the methods he’d memorized from manuals.

But right after he comes out of cultivation SHL attacks CQMS, and he got hit with No Cure, which meant that he couldn't cultivate anymore even if he wanted to.

Did he give up on the notion of becoming strong himself to be able to deal with LBH in the future, so that he's not completely reliant on LQG? No, he then came up with the mushroom body idea, which allowed him to be so strong he could break out of a huge net of immortal binding cables with his raw spiritual powers. That's something SQQ's body couldn't do, even in PIDW!

When Shen Yuan was threatened with his life by the system and by his belief that LBH would want to turn him into a human stick in the future, he went out of his way to do so many things for his own survival. It's not just his own survival that he cares about, either - when LBH was knocked out in the Holy Mausoleum arc, Shen Yuan dealt with ZZL and TLJ, and fought and killed the palace master, all while dealing with No Cure flaring up, all by himself.

Just because Shen Yuan wants to be lazy doesn't mean that there isn't a situation when he could be ambitious and driven - and that situation happened to him right in SVSSS!

In conclusion, Shen Yuan isn't as lazy as people think! For Shen Jiu, you gotta make him feel insecure to get him to act out of his pride. For Shen Yuan, you gotta threaten him and the people he loves to get him off his ass. They're driven by different things, but they can both be super ambitious under certain circumstances!

[inquisimer]

Hello Mer! From the 'Hit 'Em Where it Hurts' prompt list for Isseya and Garahel, "I don't want to go." Happy writing!!

thank you for the prompt! It's not often that my own writing makes me cry, but this piece did it 😭😭 Some introspection for Isseya at Garahel's memorial, before she leaves on her Calling.

for @dadrunkwriting | Isseya & Garahel | wc: 760

-

Isseya’s steps were a muffled echo off the arching walls of the Heroes’ mausoleum. Enough time had passed since the Battle of Ayesleigh that she was alone with the memorial they’d built for her brother. She lifted her eyes to the ornate urn that held his ashes and bit back a sob.

And Isseya, be kind to yourself.

His final words, his final wish. Not for himself, as he dove toward certain, necessary death, but for her. Perhaps he’d known that choosing to die was the easier fate.

Isseya leaned her Blighted body against the marble, forehead pressing into the angular representation of Crookytail that stood guard at Garahel’s feet. He, at least, had been spared the cruel rage and death that she’d inflicted on the others. For it was her fault—her magic, her hubris—no matter what Amadis believed.

“I don’t want to go,” she whispered. It wasn’t quite a lie—though as the sickly sweet voice of the Blight sang in the back of her mind, it wasn’t quite the truth either. It would be a relief to lay it all down. But this was not how she’d wanted to go. And she did not want to go without him, even though he was already lost to her.

It should have been her blow to take. The corruption in her was much farther along, hurried by her blood magic and whatever other strange, arcane forces decided which Wardens were worthy of sparing and which were destined to crumble away to nothing. While she wrapped her mottled scalp and sunken face in scarves to hide the horror, Garahel’s good looks persisted, no matter how haggard their duty made him.

They’d been right there together. Revas no less capable than Crookytail. It should have been her.

I have to go in alone. I have to. It was too tight for them to go in together. But that was not a reason he had to go in alone.

Isseya thought she’d come to peace with Garahel’s choice. But now the tears came forth, spilling from milky eyes and dripping pathetically down her waxy cheeks. He deserved every honor they’d heaped upon him; even before Andoral lay dead, he had been the hero of this Blight.

But in that moment, he’d stolen a quick peace from her. Not only did she have to keep on with every wretched, ragged breath, but she had to live, for the first time, in a world where he did not.

She had failed those she loved most. More than failed—she had condemned them. And she was alone with that regret.

Perhaps she did want to go, after all. She was ready for it to be over.

Isseya turned her tear-streaked face to her brother’s stone eyes. The only one who’d seen her, all along, as she walked a path darker than she should have dared and it twisted her into something barely recognizable. And he’d never flinched, not once.

“Will it be enough?” she whispered. The eggs were secured behind layers of stone and magic and guarded by a maternal High Dragon. Her journal was likewise hidden in Weisshaupt; in plain sight, but only for those who cared to truly look. Lyrium dust still glittered beneath her fingernails.

Her final atonement. And she would never know if it worked. That was the price she paid, for a chance to save her beloved griffons.

Perhaps something in Garahel had known that she was the only one who could make this choice. The true final sacrifice of the Fourth Blight. While the people of Ages to come honored her brother, none would know of the parts she played, the mistakes she’d made, or what she gave to try and set things right.

As it should be. She never wanted the glory that Garahel chased. If even one of those eggs survived long enough for someone clever and worthy enough to work through Isseya’s clues, it would be worth it.

She stared up at Garahel through glassy eyes. The masons hadn’t quite captured that self-assured smirk he always wore and they’d given him smooth skin where he had moles and evened out the lopsided angle of his ears. But Isseya could see every version of him, from their Joining through shades of Blight to the final moment before Crookytail dove, as clearly as she always had.

Both of them had given everything they had to the Wardens. As the Wardens demanded.

“I hope it was enough,” she whispered. It had to be. She had nothing else left.

[solhrafn]

Mausoleum of Instants: The Halfway Stone

Tentative foreword for a future (text) book, compilation of 20 years of blog posts.

That’s it. I’m forty now. Not long ago, my father sent me the traditional birthday wishes email. It was short, ordinary. Somewhere in it, almost casually, he wrote: “Je bent ongeveer halverwege” — You’re about halfway. As if I needed a reminder.

We share the same fears, he and I. I feel them in his silences, I see them leaking through his posture, his increasingly distant gaze. But I’ve always known them in him throughout my life. It’s always been there, beneath the surface of a man from whom I’ve indubitably inherited the emotional and intellectual starkness. A thing I’ve only grown to understand the older I got.

As it stands, we both want more time—not the vague longing most people express when they’re late for something or tired of their routine. We want time knowing it’s already broken. Knowing the void is there, a storm without discernible center, swallowing the horizon while our sails catch wind and our vessel inexorably cuts through the waves of our remaining time.

I think about all the terrors I’ve lived through and I worry—no, I dread—that when the end comes, I’ll collapse into it gracelessly. Weeping, pleading, humiliated by my own unpreparedness. I fear I’ll die as I lived: over-aware, overwrought, too conscious of everything to dissolve quietly. I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that we—my father, myself—would become like those I’ve seen leave: not necessarily at peace, but peacefully. Now I’m not so sure.

I’m forty, and that means I’m standing on the hinge decade: where raw potential calcifies, and you begin to see clearly how much won’t get done. There may still be light ahead, but it comes filtered now. Diminished. That childhood sense of boundless time is gone for good.

I’m forty now, and my photography knows no glory. It never sought it, maybe—but some part of me believed recognition would emerge, in time, but not too late. Some part of me believed that all the careful curation, the obsessive cataloguing, the melancholic repetition would amount to something more than piles of folders and printed books no one asked for.

But still: I keep shooting, I keep organizing, I keep threading fragments into narratives that no one reads let alone understands—except me. Because the truth is, meaning isn’t in the image. It’s in the echo between them.

It’s in the process of returning—again and again. Like a ritual. Like a child’s need for the familiar. My son, with his loops and repetitions, lives in patterns that comfort him. It’s something I realize, I share with him. I return to the same obsessions—photography, capturing fleeting moments, trying to hold onto time. He does it too, in his own way—time, clocks, trains—his own anchors in an unpredictable world.

Watching them grow, I am reminded of my own childhood, a time that now feels close, too close, almost like it happened yesterday. They will one day be forty, just as I am now, and when that day comes, I will be spent, worn thin by the relentless passing of time. I think of my father, standing there after my grandmother’s funeral, a look in his eyes that spoke of inevitability: “I’m next now.” A haunting thought that echoes with every passing year, as I see my own children’s time stretch out before them, as mine contracts with each day.

I watch my son and daughter grow, just as I once watched my grandparents grow old, and now, as I watch my parents age, I begin to see myself in that same transformation. There’s a deep, sorrowful ache in that. Not sadness exactly—just the unbearable clarity that every moment is already becoming memory.

We orbit each other��my wife, my son, my daughter, myself—each with our own rhythms, yet tethered in our own constellation, while the others that came before grow more distant, in all possible ways. We can’t help but notice their light fading.

In this small universe, I try to hold on to something of the now, even as it slips through my fingers and slides into the then. In these moments, I’m reminded: family isn’t a backdrop. It’s my whole stage. Yet in the seclusion of the lodges, my brain squirms and screams—eating itself away, trying to wrest permanence from the unforgiving flow that only rushes onward. This book is not a record of achievement. It is a mausoleum.

A mausoleum of instants: not the images themselves, but the words that cling to them—the moments before and after, the context, the echo, the weather around the shutter’s click. What you’re about to read is the scaffolding of the archive. The bones of the memory. The photographic gelatin—the emulsion that binds it all.

There are no photographs here. This is not a catalogue, not a gallery. It’s the internal monologue that ran parallel to every frame I ever took. It is the map to the emotional terrain behind the images I’ve quietly released into the world.

If you’ve seen my photographs, these entries might shift how you see them. If you haven’t, that’s fine. These words stand alone. They were always meant to. They were written at night, in transit, after long silences, under the pressure of too much feeling. They carry the weight of unfinished thoughts and unresolved decades.

You’re holding a book that begins at the halfway point, and from here we move in reverse. Not toward answers, but toward origin. Toward forgotten joys and accumulated griefs. I’ve written through twenty years of life. None of it was meant for posterity. But it survived anyway. So here it is.

The fog thickens behind me. I’ve unearthed these fragments—pieces of text, photographs of my mind. May their quiet symphony echo into eternity.

The fog thickens behind me. I’ve unearthed these fragments—pieces of text, photographs of my mind. May their quiet symphony echo into eternity.

[auxiliarydetective]

AP-01: Project Apocalypse

ch. 10: Tongue-Tied

AP-01 Masterlist

This fic is part of the Academy Projects series, a full rewrite of The Umbrella Academy with the addition of an original character, Kassandra Hargreeves. Throughout the story, you'll stumble across a few songs. This is supposed to make the fic feel as much like the show as possible, so I recommend you don't skip them.

Warnings: Canon-typical issues, child abuse, detailed descriptions of injury (?)

Grace’s soft hum danced over the air as Kassandra snuck down the stairs, careful not to make a sound. For as neat as her uniform shoes were, it took some skill to make them stay quiet. Finally, she reached the basement kitchen and leaned against the broken wall serving as an entrance, just watching. Grace was standing at one of the counters, carefully measuring ingredients for another one of her creations. But she was still attentive as always, it seemed, as she stopped humming and turned around, her eyes widened in surprise.

“Kassandra?” she gasped. “Shouldn’t you be studying?”

“I finished early,” Kassandra declared. “What are you making?”

“I’m making brownies. I figured you could all use a little snack after all the hard work you’ve been doing.”

Kassandra just stared and blinked for a moment, then came a little closer to the counter, looking at all of the ingredients. So, all of these mixed together were supposed to make soft, chocolaty brownies? Most of these weren’t even brown! Did they really mix that well?

“Can I help?” she finally asked. “I want to learn.”

“Your father wouldn’t be happy,” Grace replied, “about you wasting the time you should be spending on studying for missions on something you don’t have to worry about.”

This caused little Kassandra to pout. “I’m already useless for missions anyway,” she nearly shouted. “And Dad always says debriefing after a mission is just as important as planning beforehand and you give us treats after a job well done, so we should have treats after a mission, and I want to at least make those. Also, they make everyone happy,” she added quietly, “and I want people to be happy.”

“Kassandra…” Grace sighed, and ran a finger along her daughter’s face, lifting her chin. “You aren’t useless. Handicap or not, you’re still a valuable asset to the team. Your brothers and sister will be relying on your valuable insights during missions to keep them out of danger. They trust you more than anyone else.”

“But I can’t make them happy! Dad still locks Klaus in the mausoleum and Ben—”

She was interrupted by her lips snapping shut and her words getting stuck in her throat like pointy rocks, the force of her voice bumping into the blockade and recoiling into her lungs, making her let out a pained squeak.

“Shhh, shhh, don’t speak now,” Grace shushed her, gently placing a finger over Kassandra’s mouth. “It’s alright. Your siblings—”

“What’s going on here?!” Sir Reginald’s voice echoed against the high ceiling. “Number Eight? What are you doing here? You should be studying.”

“I finished early,” Kassandra replied weakly.

“Nonsense. There’s no such thing as finishing early. So you’ve finished the plans of the city hall? Continue with Icarus Theater. Back to your desk you go.”

“Yes, Dad,” Kassandra muttered, and her mother and father watched as she pattered back up the stairs.

Little did they know that, invisible to them, an adult Kassandra was sitting on the kitchen table, taking a trip down memory lane. In a blueish purple haze, Sir Reginald disappeared and the scene changed. Grace was in a new outfit, the ingredients on the counter had changed, the shelves were differently stocked…

Into the kitchen came a slightly older but still little Kassandra with a bandaged forearm, the lights seeming to dim when she walked in.

“Kassandra!” Grace gasped. “You really should be resting. You gave me quite a scare, fainting like that, and then your fever… I’m still not convinced you haven’t caught an infection.”

“The bearded man said the tattoo’s not infected and the doctor said I’m fine,” Kassandra said. Then, her eyes and tone turned pleading. “Please, just let me help. I need to help.”

Grace sighed. “Alright. But wash your hands first. I’ll get you an apron.”

Kassandra nodded, a little shakily, and her older self watched as she pulled a stepping stool over to the sink despite not really needing it. She watched as this little girl held her hands under the water and grew to hate them, fear them, see them as her greatest weakness.

“Mom,” the little girl said when her mother came back, “I’ve finally decided what I want for my birthday. Is it too late?”

“It is a bit last minute,” Grace replied, carefully tying the apron behind her daughter’s back. “But it’s not too late.”

“... I’d like a pair of gloves.”

Kassandra shook her head and let the memories fade, instead turning her attention towards the clock on the wall. It had been ages. Where on earth was Grace? Kassandra herself hadn’t been late; she had been in the kitchen on time for their baking session, but Grace herself still hadn’t shown up. Could she have just forgotten? If so, then… Come to think of it, she had also forgotten that Sir Reginald had died, so… something was clearly wrong. And her odd behaviour these last few days…

Maybe, Kassandra told herself, she just has to recharge, immediately recognizing those words as Diego’s excuse at the funeral.

Still, it was maybe the best option. So, Kassandra took her apron off and hung it on one of the hooks, then snuck herself some food and headed back up the stairs. She made her way up the grand staircase, glancing over at Grace’s gallery. Really, there she was, sitting on her sofa and doing a cross-stitch. That meant it had to have been a kink in the recharge cycle, right?

With that worry out of her mind, Kassandra retreated to her room, finding herself oddly exhausted. She hadn’t been doing that much over these past few days. There was no reason for her to be this exhausted, she told herself. Nonetheless, exhausted she was, and so she dug out her headphones and put on some music, then lied down on her bed. She let herself sink into the sounds drifting out of the speakers, letting them drown out everything else. Unfortunately, that meant she sensed the danger far too late.

When she noticed herself getting sleepy, she turned off her music and ran her fingers through her hair. But as she stretched out her mental antennae to find out if the bathroom was free, she not only found Klaus having the time of his life bathing – with the door open, again – but also an unknown presence. Two, in fact. In Luther’s room. A shiver went down Kassandra’s spine at their intentions, at the guns she realized they held, and a panicked, electric crackle travelled through her veins, mixing with the heavy sludge of guilt. She looked around her room in search of something to fight back with but found nothing. So, what now? Her heart racing in her chest, she slipped into her heels, then tiptoed towards the door, hoping she could at least attempt to warn Klaus. All that practice of sneaking around the house had to amount to something, right?

So, she opened the door as quietly as possible and slid out of her room, balancing her weight on the tip of her toes so her heels wouldn’t hit the ground. But her efforts were made futile by Diego stomping down the hallway in his combat boots, and she didn’t know whether to be angry, terrified, or happy to see him.

“Kass!” he called. “Is Five back yet?”

A jerk went through Kassandra’s body and she choked, looking at him with pleading, milky-white eyes.

“Ah, shit,” Diego growled, pulling out one of his knives, “I know that face. Where?”

Stiffly, Kassandra turned around and pointed to Luther’s room, staring into the faces of  two creepy carnival masks. A blue bear and a pink dog. Only a blink of an eye later, they opened fire, and everything happened too fast.

Diego pulled Kassandra down by the shoulder and started sprinting down the hallway, but she pushed him away, a bullet grazing her arm. They couldn’t get him. They couldn’t get them both. So, Kassandra ran for the stairs, that little servant’s pathway behind the way to the attic, her saving grace. Hidden behind a corner, she watched the bullets go past, Diego’s knives weaving in-between but ending in a metallic clang. There was silence for a moment. Diego must have hidden away and the intruders advanced, Kassandra thought, her blood rushing in her ears. The blue bear went past her to look for Diego, but the pink dog had to be around the corner, cold-blooded murder on their mind.

Just as Kassandra sensed the dog growing near, she bolted down the stairs, hoping the intruder would follow. Bullets spewed past her head as she tried to get a read on her opponent’s mind. But this took all of her attention. She stumbled, missed the edge of the next step, and tripped with a yelp. With a loud thud, her shoulder slammed into the stairs and she tumbled down. Down, down, down, trying not to let her head crash into the steps.

Finally, she landed on solid ground on the floor below, paralyzed by fear and pain. Her head was spinning, her muscles ached, and she hoped and prayed she hadn’t broken a bone. For a few seconds that might have been minutes, she lay there in silence, listening to steps thundering down from the attic and gunshots echoing in the lobby. Tears threatened to spill out of her eyes but she swallowed them down and picked herself up. Her right ankle was throbbing, the ankle strap on her shoe digging into her flesh. Quickly and quietly, she unbuckled the straps of her heels, gritting her teeth to ignore the pain. She had had worse. She had gotten stabbed before and lived, this was nothing. It was all nothing. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that her siblings were a couple rooms over and that they needed her help. So, Kassandra took off her shoes and placed them at the bottom of the stairs, then she pressed on through the servant’s pathway, leaning against the wall for support, keeping her thoughts hidden. Feelings, intentions, voices and sounds rained down upon her but she went on, focused on a single pattern of waves: Vanya. Vanya had stumbled her way into this mess and Kassandra saw it as her duty to get her out of it.

A familiar blur in her vision, she finally reached the exit towards the drawing room and gathered herself one more time. She closed her eyes and listened, letting the various waves and signals flow through her.

“Hey, asshole,” she heard Luther call, and she felt the blue bear turn around.

That was her chance. Kassandra pushed open the door to the drawing room, appearing from behind a bookcase near their father’s painting.

“Vanya!” she hissed, spotting her sister lying on the coffee table.

No answer.

Vanya! She called again, this time through her mind, and Vanya listened.

Lifting her head, she saw Kassandra behind the bookcase, but had her troubles getting up. Head wound. Drowsy. Maybe a concussion. Whoever that blue bear was, he was strong. Pressing her teeth together, Kassandra made a push from out behind the bookcase, across the room.

“Kass,” Vanya gasped, “what happened?”

“Fell down the stairs, nothing major,” Kassandra uttered. “Come on.”

She pulled Vanya up from the table and hooked her arm around her sister’s waist, Vanya mirroring her. Kassandra dragged her back to the servants’ pathway, the crashing and grunting of Luther and the bear cracking each other’s skulls flowing over from the entrance hall.

“Go in, go,” Kassandra whispered, giving her a push.

But Vanya didn’t let her go. “Wh- what about you?” she stammered.

“I need to go help Klaus, he doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“But you came from here, can’t you go back through here?”

“It’s bad enough if they get one of us, they shouldn’t get us both. Luther is keeping that freak busy, so I’ll just sprint on past.”

“You just fell down the stairs, I don’t think you can sprint.”

“Vanya—”

“And I don’t know where I’m going, I’ve never been in here.”

Kassandra let out an exasperated sigh, then begrudgingly slid back into the pathway with Vanya. The bookcase clicked shut and the sounds of battle faded, though there were still gunshots somewhere in the house.

“Come on,” Kassandra murmured, then headed for a nearby narrow staircase.

She snuck down the stairs, the wooden floor both cold and warm beneath her feet, Vanya right behind her. At the bottom, she paused again.

“There, at the end of the hallway, that’s the entrance to the boiler room. Hide in there, you’ll be safe. I’m going back up.”

“What if I went and got Klaus and you rested here?” Vanya cut in.

“Are you saying that you can sense where the enemies are?” Kassandra replied.

To that, Vanya stayed silent, and Kassandra hurried up the stairs, a piercing pain shooting up her leg with every step. Still, she sped up, up the basement stairs, through the labyrinth within the walls, then up to the kids’ rooms. By now, she was dizzy and nauseous, just trying to stay upright. But she swallowed it down and took a deep breath in an attempt to clear her mind. Still, there was nothing but white noise and an uneasy feeling in her bones.

She opened the pathway and closed it behind her, then rushed into Klaus’s room, throwing the door open. Klaus yelped in surprise, standing there in just a towel and his headphones, having been happily dancing.

“Kass!” he squealed. “Couldn’t you knock?!”

“No time, there’s—”

The words got struck in her throat and she coughed, spitting out little droplets of blood.

“Hey now, you know you shouldn’t do that,” Klaus blurted out, patting her arm in an attempt to comfort her. “Let me just get dressed, okay? What’s the plan?”

“We need to—”

Thud.

General Taglist: @starcrossedjedis @oneirataxia-girl @daughter-of-melpomene @bravelittleflower @box-of-bats

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Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

[spawnofdeath]

Item: A Diary

Item found in the ruins of a smaller wooden building, likely a temporary shelter constructed after the event that caused most of the destruction.

Item is a small book bound in calf leather with copper detailing attached to both covers. Corner detailing appears to depict flowering vines of some kind in the upper corners, flames in the lower corners. Center of the front cover shows a stag head, with remains of black enamel on antlers and eyes.

Book appears to be a diary.

Heavily damaged by the elements, few pages remain legible.

First legible entry far towards the back, apparently written after the disaster, transcribed:

"Three days since the earth stopped shaking. We are still just picking up the pieces, both figuratively and literally. We are hoping to make time to bury Mother and Father tomorrow, as the Mausoleum luckily still stands.

Scott is taking it badly. I don't know what to do to help him. We two are now responsible for the kingdom of Rivendell, but I am unsure he is in a fit state to take this responsibility, and I cannot for certain take it on my own. It was never meant to be just one of us. We are twins, we were born to rule together. I need my brother's help. I cannot do it alone. But it seems he cannot do it at all.

We had a fight about it earlier today. We've never had such a bad fight before. I don't know what to do. I love him, I do not wish to lose him. He is all the family I now have left. Even just in general, twins shouldn't separate, it's bad luck. We rule together, or we don't rule. I cannot do it alone.

Later.

I may have to do it alone. I was going to end this entry after the last sentence, but at dinner, Scott and I fought again. He isn't taking well my attempts to comfort him. He thinks I am letting go of it too easily. He thinks I do not care. I don't know how to convince him that I am just trying to do what's best for us, what's best for everyone! I don't know what to tell him. He thinks we should not rule together. He might not be wrong. It might be time to break tradition.

I need to talk to him about it more tomorrow, when both our heads are hopefully more clear, but I am exhausted. I have not been sleeping well, but I will have to try."

Several pages after this are fused by mold and turned illegible.

The next, and apparently last entry, only partially legible, transcribed:

"[...] writing this, most of my belongings are already packed up, and I and the ones willing to follow me are ready to leave by tomorrow, as are Scott and his followers. We will not be going in the same direction. I [several words illegible] leave this diary behind, as a record of our fate and plans to those who may come to this place after we have left.

Rivendell is in ruins, and if Scott and I will not rule it together, there is no point in rebuilding here rather than anywhere else. It makes no difference.

I, Xornoth, first of my name, King of Summer, Champion of Exor, am leaving with the ones who trust me to seek fortune in far places and found my own kingdom separate from that of my brother, Scott, first of his name, King of Winter, Champion of Aeor. We likely will not meet again. I try not to grieve that fact. I do not believe there is room in my heart for more grief.

Best of Luck, little Brother. May Aeor guide you and your people well."

Thoughts and theories:

What to even say here? What a thing to have just read. Need to speak to Xornoth about this urgently. We had been talking about gaps in our memories, of course, but to have forgotten something this important? I have to tell him. I have to show them this.

Other than that, again mentions of Exor and Aeor. Names that seem to come up a lot. Gods? Summer and Winter. Fire and Ice. Stag motives again, as well.

[blackjackkent]

Quick exploration of the Waning Moon now that Thisobald is dead.

Rakha finds the ledger that He Who Was asked her to find.

Once again, this was much harder for Hector to read than it is for Rakha. She goes over the words somewhat dispassionately - although she does note that Wyll, looking over her shoulder, looks troubled.

This, then, is what He Who Was meant about "backstabbing". The woman who wrote this, a hundred years ago, turned her friends - Selunites - over to the Sharrans for dissenting talk during Ketheric's takeover.

The image of what happened to this place is definitely starting to crystallize for her. In a way, the corruption of the Weave is a more easy tragedy for her to conceptualize than the deaths of so many people she doesn't know - especially when those deaths also make the beast keen eagerly in her head at the idea of so much misery.

But she can see the troubled expression on Wyll's face, and as she so often does, she lets it guide her when her own mind is too tangled to understand. The beast glories in the tales of murder and betrayal - but the woman she wishes to be does not.

-----

Not too much else of import to find in the distillery. There's lots of loose alcohol hanging around which is good for camp supplies. I've already established that Rakha doesn't enjoy drinking/getting drunk and the loss of control that comes along with it, so I'm sure she's not happy about this.

The only other major point of interest is Thisobald's secret alchemical room behind the distillery, where he has been investigating poisons.

Narrator: Research notes. They describe a powerful venom extracted from a rare purple worm. Distiller Thisobald Thorm sought to create a fatal poison using the worm's gullet. He procured several parts of a worm gullet, but rinsed one in error. The poison he brewed was noxious - but not fatal. Thisobald devoted months to formulating a deadly poison with the remaining ingredients, without success. After exhaustive experimentation, he was able to make a near-deadly extract from the glands. But to complete his poison, Thisobald required one last ingredient: the petals of a corpse rose. The book's index reveals corpse roses may grow near tombs, mausoleums, and particularly redolent cadavers. Thisobald enlisted a courier from Baldur's Gate to obtain corpse rose petals and other ingredients and deliver them to a covert location. Unfortunately, a deep purple stain darkens the final page, obscuring the parcel's destination.

(A/N: I think this is the most the narrator has EVER talked at one time. The DM was clearly very proud of this side quest. XD Also Rakha looks really good in this light. c: )

Something stirs in Rakha's head, reading this. Poisons. She knew about poisons, once. She remembered milking the poison out of a snake like the one Kagha had. She has killed people this way before.

Did she, like Thisobald, brew her own? She suspects that perhaps she did. She remembers, in the noblestalk memory, a sense of a mania for precision, accuracy, efficiency. An artistry that would have required a careful hand.

She shudders at the flickering recollection - but in spite of herself, she peers with greater interest at the page.

[INVESTIGATION] Focus your eyes on the page. Mentally separate the black ink from the purple stain.

Narrator: Your mind separates the black from the blue, revealing the stash's location. You mark your map as a reminder. With the corpse rose petals the package contains, you might create Thisobald's purple worm poison.

There is practicality in this, she tells herself. Corpse roses, it seems, grow on mausoleums - and a mausoleum is what she seeks. Perhaps this package might contain clues as to the location of the Thorms' burial place.

Deep down, though, she knows perfectly well that it is the echo of a far more morbid fascination.

[spotlightstudios]

To be kind to myself as I take a break from packing: this is an oc post! If you don't want to read about my oc Nash, then keep scrolling!

I've been finally being kind to two of my biggest comfort characters, my ocs Ichor and Nash.

Ichor is a character that will continue to follow me, and so his story develops as I do, but Nash? Nash helped me with a lot of self-discovery and self-confidence. (Ex. He was his party leader, and despite not always being right as in Correct, his party trusted him to do right by them as in what was best for them. Helped me learn that mistakes are okay and people will still support you.)

So, Nash's story was cut short. Our dm chose to not continue the plot, and we swapped campaigns. We were in the midst of a world-destroying war, people all over the continent were dying, and all of the pressure for helping then was directed Solely towards Nash (he'd established a kingdom w/ the party before these tragedies started, and he was deemed King alongside his husband Maldric.) And Nash had no way of helping them. The first city they visited that called for aid? They tried to fight off the monster, and they won, but at the price of Nash's life.

That should've been it. He died. The hope for the war died with him. Maldric locked himself in his lab, Nash's siblings were heartbroken, the whole city mourning.

Then the party realized they couldn't win without Nash. They sought him out in the afterlife and brought him back at the price of one of their souls. He ressurected alone in his tomb with no memory of dying. He broke out from his mausoleum and stumbled into the daylight without a second thought, afraid for his party and people. And then when the townsfolk saw him, they screamed.

He was undead. His wounds were still raw, blood coagulated and black, skin pale and cold. His heart didn't beat. The undead were riding all across the continent, and that was the doing of the enemy. His people feared the same had been done to their king.

It took some getting used to. Nash (who worshipped Helios, titan of the sun) could no longer feel the warmth of the sum. On adventures he was often so distressed that he couldn't lead his party or save them. He felt horrible that Maldric could no longer hear the beating of his heart or comfortably be held (despite the dwarf saying he didn't care), and he hated the way his people seemed to avoid him even months after the ordeal.

That was where we left off.

Now though, I've decided he deserves to be happy.

Nash grows old, and remains King of his city, Haven. Or, actually, he remains the same age. As an undead, though the fighting and defeating of their enemy left him with more scars and grey hairs, he grew no older. His God, Helios, chose to bless Nash after he survived the final encounter. As he struck the final blow beneath the sun, Helios made Nadh a champion.

He's immortal now. When under the sunlight, he is living. He breathes, his heart beats, and his wounds all close. While at night he's undead once again, his skin pales and his wounds re-open. During the day he gives off a natural glow, and everyone knows him as the Immortal Sun King. (Maldric, as a boon from his God Hepheastus, chose to inhabit a cyclops-made metal body, effectively becoming immortal to live beside Nash.

Nash's siblings aged and died as he ruled, their offspring (adopted and biological) are his bravest warriors and smartest scholars. He loves them dearly. He watches them grow, and the melancholy replaces the grief fairly quickly.

And, of course, he's the patron of many, many, adventurers. He's a father to a lot of them, a friend to others, and a savior to the continent.

The longer he rules, the closer he gets to godhood alongside Maldric, but he doesn't care for that much at all. He only wants to take care of his people as he always had. He has himself, his husband, his faith, and his home. What else could he ever hope for?

[zepskies]

@lamentationsofalonelypotato

Merry Christmas, my friend!! ❤️💚 First of all, I'm so honored that 'Twas the Night gave you some inspiration! 🥹 I'm excited to dive into this special Christmas edition of Take a Chance.

Aww poor Ben. I love how we start with shading in his past Christmases compared to what he's starting to experience now with the reader. We come at it from the same angle of headcanon, that Ben's mom was the only person who truly loved him in his family. So it was such a good detail that after she died, Christmases became just more of the same toxic/apathetic atmosphere with his father, compounded by the impact of his mom's death.

Of course he's having a hard time choosing a proper Christmas gift for her, because when was the last time he gave someone a gift because he genuinely loved them? I feel like Countess wouldn't be a good example lol. So what's going to be a reflection of the relationship he has now? Especially because she's not one for flashiness, or more materialistic gifts.

And as much as Ben loved that about you, it was only making this worse for him.

Yup. 😂😂

"Still not quite right?" She asks, adjusting the sleeves of her navy blue blazer. "We have some bigger jewel-" "It's not the fucking size." Ben snaps frustrated.

Lmfao come on, Ben. Let's not take this out on others. 🤣

"I'm not your fucking buddy." Ben sighs under his breath.

Okay, Ben. You do you. 🤣🤣

Ben had no intention of setting foot inside, but you were curious and even though it made Ben's throat tight to walk down the dusty cobwebbed halls, the wonder on your face as you walked through made the cold memories of the world he knew before he was a supe fade into the background. And this storage unit was all that was left of that life.

Wow, that's so interesting. Taking a trip literally through Memory Lane and walking through his family's mansion. I've never thought about that before, but I imagine it would be one of those things that Ben, for the longest time, couldn't bring himself to sell, but also couldn't visit. Like a mausoleum of his old life.

When Ben opens the trunk, he catches the smell of the floral perfume his mother used to wear and after all these years it makes him remember the tight hugs she'd give him the moment she sent him off to bed and the tight hugs she'd given him when he rushed down the stairs on Christmas morning.

You're killin' me, friend!! 😭😭

Something that you would have ended up doing about an hour before you had to go to the airport, but you knew that would only annoy Ben. But you liked annoying him.

Lmaooo deeply relatable. I feel like it would be oh so funny to intentionally getting on his nerves (knowing he wouldn't hurt you). 😂

He might not have been big on sharing, but your boyfriend was good at listening. Not just pretending to listen, but actually being quiet and wanting to learn more about what you're saying. You'd thought it was odd when you became roommates and you realized just how much Ben listened and remembered what you told him, but now it was one of the reasons that made you love your boyfriend more.

Oh, it's because he actually cares. 💗

In all honesty, you didn't hate how old fashioned Ben was, if anything it was a relief, a reprieve from the way the modern boys treated women. It was nice to finally be with a man who actually gave a shit about you and cared what you wanted.

People want to think there aren't any good aspects to "traditional/old-fashioned" men, but for the men who are actually good men, traditional doesn't necessarily mean outdated or toxic, so thank you for including this tidbit.

Her gift to him was so very sweet!! Of course she made him something heartfelt, and he appreciated it because it was a genuine "first" for him, having someone give him a hand-made gift from the heart. 💚💚💚

And his gift to her was absolutely perfect. 🥹 A keepsake from his mother? Him basically saying he wishes she could've met his girl? I'm dying of happiness from the sheer fluff. 😭💗

This was a beautiful addition to the Take a Chance story, and kind of feels like an epilogue in a way, even though I know you're working on that one too. I loved this, friend!!

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV, Soldier Boy POV and Reader POV

Summary:  All Soldier Boy wants for Christmas is to find the perfect gift for you and all you want is for your boyfriend to have the best Christmas he has in forty years. Reader is a supe with plant powers. (Takes place in my Take A Chance On Me Series- 4 months after they get together, but can be read as stand alone!)

Tropes: Established Relationship, First Christmas, Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Soft Ben/ Soldier Boy, Protective Ben/Soldier Boy

Word Count: 8.5K

Warnings: I'm going to label this 18+ because Soldier Boy (he's a warning and everyone knows it), Swearing, Mentions of Sex, Sexual Innuendo, Illusions to Sex, Fluff, Soft Soldier Boy, A little bit of self-deprecating thoughts, Soldier Boy is Mean to Hughie, Mention of drinking/drugs, Ben/Soldier Boy might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Take A Chance On Me Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Song Inspiration: Little Things By ABBA

A/N: I know I should be working on the epilogue of "Take a Chance on Me," but @zepskies wrote a lovely Christmas fic called 'Twas the Night for Dean Winchester, and it really just got me in a mood to write some Christmas Fluff! 🥰

Soldier Boy POV

Ben frowned at the delicate necklace laid on the black velvet cloth in front of him, the 10 carat diamonds catching in the brilliant lights that lined the ceiling of the jewelry store. It was the eleventh piece of jewelry that he'd asked the woman behind the counter to remove from the display case, and it still wasn't right.

Ben had waited until the last possible moment to go Christmas shopping. It wasn't because he'd forgotten or because he'd been so busy he hadn't had time to shop or because he'd been called away on a mission, but rather Ben kept putting it off because he didn't want to think about it.

It was his first Christmas back in the U.S, and it was already proving to be one so different than the ones he'd known before.

Christmas for him in his youth when his mother was alive was filled with light and joy. Each room of his family's mansion strung with tinsel, adorned with holly and festive wreaths, and a Christmas tree so large that it put all others to shame and sent the smell of pine wafting thorough the large home. He remembered the lavish parties his mother threw with women in gorgeous gowns and men dressed in suits taking crystal glasses from silver trays, remembered the warmth in the kitchen as his mother baked and rolled fresh pastry, remembered the taste of the hot chocolate on the tip of his tongue that his mother made him before she sent him to bed on Christmas Eve, and remembered her tight embrace and the smell of her floral perfume on Christmas morning when he'd run down the stairs into the living room.

Ben's jaw tightened.

Christmas without her was different, the large mansion where he lived with his father was cold and dark. The hallways desolate and frozen in the winter months that lead into spring, the kitchen no longer heated by the warmth of the oven or infused with the smell of gingerbread, the parlor no longer tinkling with the sounds of glasses and the laughter of guests, the living room no longer housed a Christmas tree so tall that it made the Eiffel tower look like a trinket, and there were no longer Christmas parties where people danced into the wee hours of the morning and poured themselves into bed smelling of champagne and eggnog.

All that was left was the drunken stupor of his father, the harsh words that echoed down the long hallways, and the urge for Ben to find the nearest bottle and drown himself in it.

Ben spent most of his years as a supe trying to forget the years that followed his mother's death and also his Christmases as a supe washing away the memory of the ones that seemed to be infused with the magic of Christmas in his youth.

Ben spent them at Legend's Christmas party with his woman of the hour clinging to his arm, making painful small talk and waiting until the party turned into a hedonistic thrall of sweat and skin as so many others had. And the next morning when he woke up from the fog, he turned back to the little white line that promised to make him forget and the amber bottle that did little to ease the reality that started to sink in.

But this year was different, because he had you.

You who loved Christmas more than anyone he'd ever met, you who was slowly reminding him how much he used to love Christmas as a child, you who'd dragged him to go Christmas tree shopping before Thanksgiving, you who had encouraged him to help decorate the small apartment the two of you shared with so many Christmas lights it was blinding,  and you who had planned something Christmas themed every week for the past month whether it be baking Christmas cookies or watching Christmas movies while drinking hot chocolate on the couch. And in each moment, you'd found some way to include him in it.

Ben wasn't used to that.

He wasn't used to someone wanting him there with them and someone like you going out of your way to include him in everything you did.

If a person had tried to tell him in the past that he'd ended up with someone like you, someone who smiled easily, someone who always put other people first, someone who actually gave a shit about him, someone who was always so damn warm and welcoming, someone who included in him everything you did in a way that didn't make Ben feel like an old grump, and someone who tried their best to make sure that Ben remembered every day that you wanted him around, he would have laughed in that person's face.

And yet there you were.

Truth be told Ben knew that the old version of him probably wouldn't have let someone like you close to him, let alone fall in love with them.

Ben hadn't met anyone else like you in the numerous years he'd been alive and he really didn't want to fuck it up. He'd fucked up so many other things in his life and he hadn't cared, but if it involved you, he wouldn't dare.

Hence, the current dilemma of him standing in the crowded Tiffany store at 8 pm two days before Christmas with you waiting at home for him to exchange gifts. Ben wanted to pick the perfect gift for you, but nothing felt right.

He'd never given much thought to what to buy someone for Christmas. In the past usually an expensive piece of jewelry, a handbag, a dress, or a car would have made any of Ben's many escapades swoon, but not you. Ben had tried to give you jewelry before, expensive jewelry that would have made any of those other women drop to their knees, but you were different.

And as much as Ben loved that about you, it was only making this worse for him.

The one time that he'd tried to give you a gift outright, a beautiful diamond and emerald drop pendant with earrings to match, you hadn't been impressed. Sure, you'd thought that it was beautiful, but you'd told him that you liked gifts that "meant something."

Whatever the fuck that meant.

And he knew for a fact that the 10 carat diamond necklace on the velvet pillow in front of him would mean nothing to you.

"Fuck." Ben murmured under his breath, and the saleswoman stiffened.

"Still not quite right?" She asks, adjusting the sleeves of her navy blue blazer. "We have some bigger jewel-"

"It's not the fucking size." Ben snaps frustrated.

He was running late.  He knew that you were waiting at home for him to bring back dinner and to give him his present, the one that he was sure would be thoughtful and perfect for him because you were always so damn caring.

The other shoppers were pushing and shoving their way to the counters where other salespeople stood in identical navy blazers and white button down shirts, the tension and buzz of two days to Christmas electrifying the air, while Christmas music that Ben couldn't recognize played in the background.

His supe hearing made it worse. Sometimes it was a bit overwhelming and as much as Ben pretended that he didn't have PTSD, he did. Being surrounded by this many people was not helping. It was in moments like this when you were there, would hold entwine your fingertips with his and brush your thumb gently over the back of his hand to ground him as if you could sense his discomfort.

Ben hadn't ever had someone care enough to notice things like that. Another reason why he wanted to find you the perfect gift, because you put up with all his shit and didn't ask for anything in return.

"Ben?" He hears a familiar voice ask, hesitant, and he turns to see Annie standing a few feet inside the open doorway. S

he's wearing a black puffer jacket and her hair is hidden under a red stocking cap, while Hughie holds the door for her. Hughie's arms were laden down with bags while Annie's remained bare. The winter wind blew in through the space, flecking bits of snow onto the rugs that had been laid out to avoid the customers sliding through the sludge.

"Hey." Ben grunts, not quite smiling.

He wasn't good at talking to your best friend or her boyfriend. Personally he thought that Hughie was a fucking pussy and that he didn't have the balls to tell Annie no, but the one time Ben had told you that, you'd only rolled your eyes and told him that Hughie "loved Annie."

Ben loved you and he did have the balls to tell you no, but Ben thought that sometimes it was better to keep his mouth shut and do what you asked. Not to mention Ben hated saying no to you when it was something that could make you happy. Ben liked making you as happy as you made him. 

He flinched at the thought. The self-deprecating monologue was beginning to seep in, the one that told him you were turning him into a "pussy" and that he should cut and run. The same monologue that made him make a mistake and run back to Vought a few months ago when he should have run to you.

Ben shakes it off.

"What are you doing here? I thought you two were going to leave this morning for Illinois?" Annie asks in surprise used to Ben's grouchy demeanor.

Your grandmother turned Christmas into a two day extravaganza, complete with a Christmas Eve and a Christmas Day party. And although Ben and you were supposed to begin the 14 hour drive to Illinois this morning, your grandmother had insisted the two of you catch a flight first thing tomorrow.

"Decided to catch a flight tomorrow." Ben replies.

Ben was secretly happy, because flying meant that he wasn't going to have to drive 14 hours in the snow. The two of you had driven to Illinois once before, and Ben hadn't minded it. You’d been more upset with him for not letting you drive, but Ben liked driving. Driving meant that he was in control and in an emergency situation he wouldn't have to reach over the console and yank the wheel to save the two of you and driving meant that you could relax in the passenger seat and work on whatever it was you were crocheting.

"Like us!" Hughie flashes Ben a wide smile that Ben doesn't feel the need to return. “You should have told us. We could have all traveled together!”

Ben's frown deepens at the thought at being stuck in a metal tube for hours with Hughie and he knew that if you were here you would probably elbow him in the side and tell him to "be nice." If anyone had ever tried to do that to him in the past, he would have ripped their arm off, but not you.

"Last minute shopping?" Hughie asks trying again.

Ben dragged his eyes over the numerous bags hanging from Hughie's arms. "Yeah. You too?"

"Mhmm. We just finished." Annie replies. Her gaze drops to the diamond necklace on top of the display case that the saleswoman is fiddling with. "Is that for-"

"No. Of course not!" Ben says sharper than he means to, shoulders tensing. But him standing in this store when he knew that you were waiting at home for him to celebrate Christmas made him feel like Annie and Hughie had caught him red-handed. "She doesn't like jewelry." He adds referring to you as he takes a step back from the counter and the sales associate who looks confused.

“But sir-“ The woman begins to say, but Ben waves a hand to shut her up.

"Why do you think that?" Annie asks interrupting the woman.

"Because she yelled at me when I bought her that diamond and emerald necklace!" He shouts so loud that some of the other customers turn to stare at him. "This was a fucking mistake, I have to go-" Ben starts to stomp out the door and past Annie not sure where he's going, but she shifts to stand in his way. His eyes narrow in annoyance, thinking about all the ways that he could move her.

He only put up with Annie because she was your best friend and he knew that if he did anything to her then it would upset you, and Ben didn't like upsetting you.

Well, he did think that it was cute when you got angry with him. Your eyebrows scrunched together, your cheeks turned a cute shade of pink, and your eyes seemed to glow with the force of your anger. There were few people who had the courage to tell him off, but the more you did it, the more he started to like it.

But this was different, and now thinking about you only reminded him of his current dilemma.

"Ben, wait a minute." Annie says.

"What?" He snaps

He could practically feel the seconds ticking away until he had to go back to the apartment. It was the first time that he'd ever dreaded going home and seeing you and fuck he hated every single moment of it.

"She does like jewelry." Annie's mouth drops into a sympathetic smile.

Ben tried not to get more angry when he saw the pitying look in her eye. He didn't need her pity, didn't need anyone's pity! He was still Soldier Boy damnit!

"Then why the fuck did she-"

"She doesn't like this kind of jewelry." Annie clarifies. "She like vintage stuff, simple, refined. Hell, I have to practically drag her away from the display cases at Atomic Archives."

"Atomic Archives?" Ben asks hesitantly. He had no idea what Annie was talking about. You'd never mentioned that place before.

"Yeah, it's our favorite antique store. It’s about two blocks over from where the plant shop used to be.”

"Can you show me where it is?" Ben says it before he can stop himself, his heart surging with hope at the possibility of finding the perfect gift for you.

"I mean I-" Annie begins to say, but Hughie interrupts.

"Babe, didn’t you say that the owner was closed this week because she went out of town?" Hughie asks her, throwing a sympathetic look in Ben's direction that made him bristle.

"Oh, right." Annie sighs.

Ben felt the hope inside pop and deflate like a pricked balloon, but the longer he stood there in the crowded shop, with the ostentatious jewelry twinkling under the lights, the buzz of the chatter of other shoppers, and the ridiculous new-age Christmas music that grated on his ears, he began to have an idea.

"Come on." Ben might have said it as a suggestion, but it wasn’t open for debate. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he needed Annie and unfortunately that meant that Hughie was going to tag along.

"What?" Annie sputtered.

"Come the fuck on. I don’t have time for this." Ben snaps back and stomps out the doorway past Annie and Hughie into the snow.

"But what about-" Hughie begins to say and Ben whirls around to glare at him, eyes narrowing. "Okay you got it. Lead the way buddy." Hughie nods his head in agreement.

"I'm not your fucking buddy." Ben sighs under his breath.

Soldier Boy POV

"This place is really murdery." Ben hears Hughie whisper to Annie from somewhere behind him. "Do you think Ben is going to try to kill us? Should I call Butc-"

"I'm not going to fucking kill you!" Ben snaps, pulling out his keys, the jingle of the metal echoing down the long hallway. "And I guess you really can't make a decision without that British fuck can you?”

The storage unit warehouse was desolate, but that was to be expected, it was after all two days to Christmas and most were more focused on buying things to put in their storage units than moving things out. The lights along the roof of the steel gray hallway flicker and throw long shadows over the navy blue doors of the units doing little to alleviate the creepy aura.

In hindsight Ben did agree that this particular storage space was "murdery," but it was the only one that he could get close to the apartment last minute. The same apartment that Ben has been trying to convince you to move out of.

It wasn't the safest neighborhood, and Ben hated the thought that you'd lived there as long as you had, walking home at night alone before he moved in. Now it wasn't a problem because Ben never let you walk by yourself. And as hard as you'd fought him not to live in a "big fancy apartment" all Ben wanted was to live somewhere where he could imagine staying permanently. Not in a small one bedroom apartment where he had to stoop in the shower, the bed barely fit in the bedroom, and seemed too small for one person let alone two.

He knew that he was wearing you down, but he still had a long way to go.

"Why are we here then?" Hughie asks.

"You're here because your girlfriend wouldn’t come without you.” Ben rolls his eyes as he fits the key into the thick padlock.

He was getting tired of listening to Hughie’s whining. He heard enough of that when he was stuck on missions with him, but he was tolerating him, for the moment at least. He had to, because if he didn't then he was never going to be able to find the perfect gift for you.

The interior of the storage unit isn't anything special. Ben didn't have much that he wanted to keep from his old life, as a supe or from his childhood. The things inside this storage unit were the only things that Ben had left that didn't cause him to be reminded of how his father chastised him or the drafty home that Ben returned to each time he got kicked out of another boarding school.

The mansion that had been in his family for decades had sat abandoned and locked up, hidden from the main roads so it was undisturbed after Ben's father died. Ben had gone to Philadelphia a few months ago to get things in order with the bank and prepare it for sale, but had been surprised when you told him you wanted to come.

He didn't think that you'd want to be involved in something so tedious, but it was almost as if you could sense how hard it was going to be for him, and you'd insisted.

Ben had no intention of setting foot inside, but you were curious and even though it made Ben's throat tight to walk down the dusty cobwebbed halls, the wonder on your face as you walked through made the cold memories of the world he knew before he was a supe fade into the background.

And this storage unit was all that was left of that life.

Ben located the old steamer trunk with ease. It was a faded gray now, but Ben remembered the day his father bought it for his mother. When the grayed sides were a soft supple black, the metal lock and edging were a polished gold, and the rose patterned fabric that lined the inside was soft and covered in bright pink flowers.

When Ben opens the trunk, he catches the smell of the floral perfume his mother used to wear and after all these years it makes him remember the tight hugs she'd give him the moment she sent him off to bed and the tight hugs she'd given him when he rushed down the stairs on Christmas morning.

He didn't like thinking about her or talking about her, but sometimes he would think of her when he was with you. Whenever you did something caring without being asked or whenever you took the time to check in to see how he was doing. Not that you were motherly, just that Ben hadn't had anyone in a long time care about little things like that.

The only other "relationship" he'd tried to have was with Crimson Countess and she didn't do any of the things for him that you did. There wasn't any comparison between the two of you as far as Ben was concerned.

He shakes off the memory the way he always does and moves some of his mother's clothes for the cherry wood carved box that he knows is in the bottom.

He opens it slowly, extracting a small velvet box from within, one of many inside that Ben probably should have taken to the bank ages ago for safe keeping. Ben's father had a tendency to buy things for his mother whenever he "messed up" and the small velvet boxes inside were proof of that.

Ben turns back to where Annie and Hughie are watching with curiosity at the door of the storage unit. "Here."

"Here?" Annie says hesitantly looking at the velvet box in Ben's hand.

"You brought us out here for a box?" Hughie huffs.

Ben narrows his eyes. "No. And if you tell anyone about this I'll turn you inside out, ass-wipe."

"Why do you always have to be so-" Hughie begins to say, but Annie nudges him in the side.

Ben wondered briefly if Annie and Hughie also tried to tolerate him the same way that he tolerated them for you.  

"Wow." Annie says, her voice hushed and reverent when she opens the box with strands of her blonde hair falling out around the hat.

"You think she'll like it?" Ben clears his throat, trying not to wince at the question.

He hated that he was relying on Annie for this or relying on anyone in general. Ben would have rather taken a long walk off a short pier than anyone for help, but he was just so desperate to make sure that the first Christmas the two of you spent together was perfect.

You deserved that and Ben wanted to give it to you.

"She will."

"Good." Ben takes the box back, but decides to bring the wooden box with him back to the apartment just in case. His eyes narrow as he looks over at Hughie. "If you tell anyone about this, I'll shove your head up Butcher's ass. Then again, you two would probably enjoy something like that."

"You're welcome." Annie raises an eyebrow.

"Whatever." Ben mutters.

Reader POV

Ben was late and you were starting to worry.

Not that Ben was always punctual. The man was about as punctual as the White Rabbit, but rather Ben was sure to let you know when he was running late. Not to mention Ben was rarely late to things that he knew were important to you.

And tonight was special or at least you wanted it to be.

You look at your phone again to check the time, noting that it was nearing nine and Ben had told you he was going to be back at eight. You were trying not to think too much about it, busying yourself with other little things, like packing for your trip to your grandmother's home in Illinois. Something that you would have ended up doing about an hour before you had to go to the airport, but you knew that would only annoy Ben.

But you liked annoying him.

Ben's nostrils would flare, his jaw would flex, and the green of his eyes would darken in a way that sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine, but tonight you were too anxiety ridden at how late he was to care about making him annoyed.

Ben and you were supposed to leave this morning to drive the 14 hours to your hometown in Illinois, but you'd called your grandmother a few days ago and asked her if Ben and you could fly in instead.

You wanted the two of you have a Christmas alone before you dragged him back home and made him sit through the two holiday parties your grandmother threw. So you'd planned a quiet Christmas at home where the two of you could drink eggnog, watch some holiday movies, and exchange gifts before Ben was subjected to every single person you'd known since you were six.

But Ben didn’t seem to mind any of that.

Regardless, you were going all out this Christmas. It was Ben's first since he'd come back to the States and you wanted it to be perfect and it was the first Christmas the two of you were spending together as a couple.

The anxious energy that thrummed through your veins reached out into the numerous plants in your apartment, that shifted and stirred as your powers coaxed them forward. The vines that crept along the walls shook with an unnatural breeze, the Christmas tree grew an inch taller, the mistletoe hanging above the front door grew another few shimmering berries, the blackberry and raspberry vines that hung over your refrigerator fidgeted and wove together into a curtain while the tomato plant in the garden box above your sink dropped bright red fruit onto the counter, and the orange/lemon tree that sat behind your kitchen table blocking the view of the alley beyond shook it's branches for a moment. You could feel everything alive in your apartment leaning towards you as if waiting for your silent command.

Rex, the creature you'd created from broken vines and trampled leaves four months ago, flicks his eyes over to you sensing the same disturbance the rest of the plants inside could.

You bite the inside of your cheek fighting your urge to check your phone even though you know that less than a minute has passed since you'd last checked. Instead you fiddle with the ribbon on the lumpy wrapped gift that is perched on your lap.

Shopping for Ben had been difficult to say the least.

You weren't sure what to get your 104 boyfriend who'd lived as a hedonistic playboy for most of his life and you didn't like giving gift cards (you didn't think Ben would understand the concept) or giving people meaningless trinkets that they used once and then threw away (the Grinch was right about some things). You liked giving gifts that you put time and effort into that you were sure the recipient was going to love.

And you were sure that the package on your lap contained the perfect gift and you were excited to see the look on Ben's face when he unwrapped it.

Your cat Bean purrs where he sits beside you on the couch and Rex your, for lack of a better word, Dragon was watching the multicolored lights on the Christmas tree in the corner blink on and off.

It was bigger for your apartment than it should be, but Ben had insisted on getting it and you couldn't complain. Not when he genuinely seemed to be happy to stand there in the snow picking out a tree with you.

And after when no Uber driver agreed to pick the two of you up because of the tree, Ben had carried it on his shoulder fifteen blocks while you begged him to let you help. When you'd tried to take some of the tree, Ben had shifted it to his other shoulder and taken your hand instead, which wasn't what you meant when you reached out towards him, but you didn't let go, not when it was cold and Ben's hand was warm.

The one jammed into the corner of your small living room didn't have a leaf out of place or any signs of decay. You'd fixed that with a flick of a finger.

You'd gone all out with decorations.

Every plant in your apartment had lights of their own and ornaments that swung just out of reach from your pets. Christmas lights were strung down the hallway and there was a wreath on your bedroom door. Strands of mistletoe hung over every doorway in your apartment and there was one taped to the wall above your bed. That one was Ben's doing, but you couldn't complain, not when it felt so damn good to kiss him.

Ben hadn't spoken about the Christmases he spent in the past, but he'd listened to you talk about your Christmases growing up when the two of you decorated the tree with ornaments you'd collected over the years.

He might not have been big on sharing, but your boyfriend was good at listening. Not just pretending to listen, but actually being quiet and wanting to learn more about what you're saying. You'd thought it was odd when you became roommates and you realized just how much Ben listened and remembered what you told him, but now it was one of the reasons that made you love your boyfriend more.

You sighed, a happy smile on your face. You didn't think that you could feel this way about anyone, let alone someone you hated for so long, but you did. Ben was changing the belief you had about what relationships should look like, and you were sure that you were doing the same for him.

You hear the jingle of keys and the fumble of the doorknob as Ben slowly opens the front door and you leap from the couch.

"You're home!" You exclaim as your body hits his full speed, but he doesn't move. It was difficult for you to produce enough force to move him, difficult for anyone really.

Ben chuckles "Miss me Petals?"

He moves the plastic bag of Chinese food to his left hand so he can hug you back, his right hand fitting comfortably over the small of your back to hold you tighter against him.

You could remember the first time you hugged him, when all he did was stand there with his hands at his sides awkwardly while you held on to him as tight as you could. This was better. Ben's embrace is warm and strong, unyielding, but full of the love that he’d had such a hard time admitting.

"Yes." You squeeze him hard, smiling into his jacket that's flecked with melting snow, cold against your skin, but the warmth of his body soaks through the chill and into you. You sigh, nuzzling further into him. "I was worried-"

"Why?" Ben's voice rumbles through his chest, against your cheek.

"Because you weren't home yet." You pull back to stare up at him. His brilliant green eyes catch in the multicolored strands of Christmas lights, strung through your apartment. There's snow caught in his dark hair, turning to water and dripping down into his face in the warmth of the apartment.

Ben frowns. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You're here now." You smile arching up to kiss him. Ben groans into your mouth, his grip on you tightening as he deepens the kiss, pressing the hand on the small of your back just a little more to secure you against his chest.

You sigh softly, content in living in this moment with him for another few precious seconds. The heat of his body transferring into you the longer you stand pressed against him, soaking through your sweatpants and chunky sweater in the best way.

You'd never felt this way about anyone in the past. There hadn't been another boyfriend who'd treated you the way Ben did, no other boyfriend who'd cared about the little things, and no other boyfriend who you were so in love with. Even your first love so long ago faded into the background, the one you thought you'd never get over, and all that was left was Ben.

You're too excited about giving Ben his gift to eat. You sit cross-legged on the plush gray couch so close to him that your knees are touching the outside of his thigh as Ben places the boxes of food onto your coffee table. The anxious energy tingling in the pit of your stomach and buzzing in your chest so much that it's difficult to sit still.

And before Ben can give you your chopsticks, you thrust the lumpy wrapped package onto his lap with a wide smile.

"You first!" You say.

Ben shakes his head. "It should be ladies first."

“I’m not a lady Ben. We both know that-“

“Sorry sweetheart that’s the way it goes.”

“Don't be so old fashioned Gramps. It's 2024.” You roll your eyes at him, laughing at the cute frown that pulls at his lips when you use the nickname. Ben never liked it, but when you'd first met, Ben hadn't told you his real name, and you'd assigned him the nickname and it had stuck when you realized how much it annoyed him.

That was when he did everything in his power to annoy you as well, so it seemed like a good fit.

In all honesty, you didn't hate how old fashioned Ben was, if anything it was a relief, a reprieve from the way the modern boys treated women. It was nice to finally be with a man who actually gave a shit about you and cared what you wanted.

"And I really want you to open yours first." You plead as you lean towards him. "Oh, and this goes with it."

You reach down behind the couch to grab the small golden barrel cactus, avoiding the sharp yellow spines, and place it on the minimal space left on the coffee table. You'd crocheted a dark green sleeve to go around the terra cotta pot.

"You got me a cactus?" Ben snorts.

"I mean, I have so many plants in here and I thought that you'd want one that was yours. Plus, you'll never have to water it." You gesture with one hand to the numerous plants around the room, the ones bathed in the multicolored lights from the Christmas Tree, the ones with bright green leaves that unfurled towards the light, the others with hanging vines that trailed to the ground so thick that you couldn't remember the color of the wall, the apple tree with ripe red fruit, and the numerous herbs in the garden box that hung over your kitchen sink. "And I gave it a sweater."

"Why did you give it a sweater?"

"It’s used to a warm climate and because I had some yarn left over."

"From?"

"You're just going to have to open your gift and find out." You shrug, but can barely contain your excitement.

Ben shakes his head at you, but a smile twitches on the corner of his lips. You knew that your boyfriend loved you because you were different than anyone he'd ever met, and you reveled in that. You liked that even though Ben was older than you,  that no matter how many other experiences he'd had in his life,  you were a first for him just as Ben was a first for you.

He rips through the paper carefully, trying hard not to ruin what was inside, the sound of crinkling and tearing blocking out the Christmas playlist for a moment that you'd put on before Ben had come home, but you can hear the ABBA song clear as day.

For a moment he stares down at the gift not quite comprehending what the lumpy mass in his lap is, but then he picks it up.

It had taken a month for you to pick out the perfect dark green yarn that was soft but not too soft, green but not too green, and another two months for you to finish it when Ben wasn't home, but you were proud of the sweater that you'd made your boyfriend.

He stares at it for another few beats, holding it up to the light, and it makes you worry that maybe you should have bought him something at the mall instead.

"You made me a sweater?" He asks, there's something on the edge of his voice that you can't place, some traces of emotion that you're not able to identify.

"Yeah. I wanted to make you something." You clear your throat, worried. "I mean- you don't have any and I know that you keep saying you run a little warm, but I figured we're going to Illinois for Christmas and it might be cold."

Ben doesn't say anything and you start to feel the self-doubt come roaring in.

Why did I make him a sweater? I should have bought him some cologne or something.

"And you complained when Butcher sent you on that mission to Alaska last month and I just thought that-“ You press your lips into a tight line, shoulders drooping. “If you don't like it I can keep it for me-" You fumble, but before you can finish, Ben yanks you into his lap.

His hands cup your cheeks as he kisses you so fiercely that it wipes any doubts from your mind. You make a surprised sound in the back of your throat, but sink into the kiss.  “Don’t you fucking dare.” Ben mutters against your lips.

Your blush burns against your face. “You like it?”

He nods. “ No one’s ever made me anything before.” His voice comes out a little bit gruff, as if he’s embarrassed to admit it, but it makes you smile.

“I figured and I wanted to change that.” Your fingertips dance over his forehead, brushing away the hair that’s fallen forward before your hand drops to cup his cheek, feeling the scratch of his beard against the palm of your hand. “But you’re sure you like it?”

Ben kisses you again, his large hands settling on your hips with an encouraging squeeze. “I do.”

“Good. Merry Christmas.” You wrap your arms around the back of his neck to hug him for a minute, sinking into his embrace with a happy smile.

"Merry Christmas doll." Ben murmurs into your hair, affection lacing his words.

Again, you send a mental thank you to your grandmother for understanding that Ben and you needed a day to be together and celebrate the way you wanted to before coming to stay. Not that you didn't like the Christmas Eve party or the Christmas day party, but you wanted to give Ben this. You noticed that Ben still had a hard time being in places with a lot of people when the PTSD came roaring back, and you wanted to show him what Christmas meant to you and hopefully show what Christmas would look like between the two of you as long as you were together.

“Sweetheart you gotta open yours now.” Ben’s voice rumbles, the warmth of his breath on your ear. It makes a pleasurable shiver thrill skate down your spine when you think of all the other times the two of you have been this close.

“It’s okay I can wait.” You hum into his throat, content, but Ben won't give in.

He pushes you back gently from his chest shaking his head. “Too bad. It's your turn."

"Fine." You start to move back to the space beside him, but Ben's hands catch on your hips to stop you.

"I didn't say I wanted you to move did I?" His smile turns more smirk.

"I-"

"How many times do I have to tell you that I like having you on top of me?" Ben purrs, kissing under your jaw, his beard scratching in a way that makes your throat tight.

"Keep doing that and the only thing I'm going to unwrap is you." You sigh in a half-moan, fingers curling into the hair at the base of his neck.

"After." Ben leans back to reach into his coat pocket and pulls out a small black velvet box that fits in the palm of your hand.

You hesitate to open it.

It wasn't that you didn't want jewelry for Christmas, it was that Ben and you had done this song and dance before after he tried to make you wear a diamond and emerald necklace with jewels bigger than your index, middle, and third finger put together. The whole time you wore it the only thing you could think about is how many groceries you could have bought with the necklace, how much you were afraid that it was going to break, and how much you feared that you were going to lose it or someone was going to try and steal it.

Maybe that was ridiculous, but extravagant gifts never appealed to you. You liked gifts that meant something, gifts that were heartfelt and thoughtful, gifts like the bookshelf Ben had gotten you months ago before you were dating because he noticed you needed one. Not to mention you loved just spending time with Ben. If he hadn't gotten you anything you would have been content with just sitting with him on the couch and watching a Christmas movie.

But you smile, because you don't want to hurt his feelings and because it's his first Christmas in forty years and you wanted it to be special.

It's Christmas and I will be thankful and happy with whatever he got me, because Ben was thinking of me when he bought it.

You think to yourself as you open the box.

The first thing you notice is that the box isn't as new as you thought, the inside of the lid is printed in ancient script that's a little faded, worn against the aged white silk that lines it. Your eyes drift to the piece of jewelry nestled on the pillow. It's a silver locket, hexagon shaped, and about the size of your thumb. The face is printed with weaving ivy leaves and roses that reach to a simple plain border.

Simple, stately, and completely you.

Ben is uncharacteristically quiet, but he breaks the silence first. "Do you-" He clears his throat, "Do you like it?"

He asks it hesitantly, as if he's afraid to hear your answer. It was unusual for Ben to look so nervous.

You can only nod, any words you had stuck in the back of your throat. Your fingernail finds the seam between the two pieces of metal and you gently unlatch the locket to see the picture inside. There's a piece of glass protecting a yellowed photo of a little boy who looks no more than five standing in a small black suit. You didn't think that they made suits for kids that small. He's smiling and one of his teeth are missing, but he looks oddly familiar.

"Who is this?" You ask. The more you look at the photo the more you think that you've seen him before.

"It's me." He says it quiet, almost a whisper.

"You? But-"

"It was my mother's." He clarifies and you inhale sharply in surprise.

"Really?"

He nods once, looking uncomfortable. By now you knew that moments like this usually made your boyfriend uncomfortable no matter how many times that you'd told him that he didn't have to be uncomfortable about being vulnerable. He was getting a little better, slowly, very slowly.

"Oh Ben I don't know if I should-" You shake your head, afraid to touch something so old.

Ben didn't often speak about his mother, but when he did, it was always reverent and respectful. You could see in his eyes how much he had loved her and how much he had cared about her. His father, Ben also didn't like talking about, but Ben never spoke of his father with the kindness that he'd spoke about his mother.

And you didn't want to take something like this away from him, something that meant so much to him, because of how much he loved his mother.

"No. I-" He clears his throat and Ben's hand tightens on your waist. "I want you to have it."

"But-" You stutter.

"What else am I going to do with it Petals? Can't exactly wear it myself." Ben chuckles, but the humor doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah, but it’s your mom’s and I-“ You trail off still looking at the photo of Ben as a little boy. He had the same mischievous twinkle in his eyes that you loved, the same unruly dark hair, but there was something different about him. He looked happier. It was the same look that Ben had when it was just the two of you together, the happiness that you wanted Ben to feel the rest of his life when he understood what it was like to be loved and cherished.

And it made you understand that the last time Ben must have felt loved and cherished was when his mother was still alive. It broke your heart to know that Ben had lived all these years without her and missed that in his life.

The locket was beautiful and the fact that Ben remembered what you said about liking gifts that “meant something” made your heart flutter.

Because this meant something. Ben taking the time to go through his mother’s jewelry and pick something out just for you that was special to him that he wanted to share with you, meant more than the emerald and diamond necklace he had tried to give you months ago.

There were tears burning behind your eyes the more you look at the photo of the little boy.

Ben is watching you. “Well-“ He shrugs. “I'm an only child. Which means I don't have any siblings who have wives to fight over this stuff so, I figured that if anyone was going to get it, it should be you. If you don't take it, it'll sit in that fucking storage unit. Seems like a shame."

You don't answer.

"And-" He hesitates, "I think my mom would have wanted you to have it. Hell, she might have given it to you, if I'd brought you home to meet her."

Your cheeks flush.

Ben studies you for another minute, before you watch his smile twitch into a frown. "Fuck, I knew I shouldn't have gotten you jewelry.  Annie said that you liked jewelry, but I told her you didn't and now the bitch is probably having a good laugh with that pussy of a boyfriend! Forget about it sweetheart, I'll go get you something else right now-" Ben tries to take the box from you, but you swat his hand away.

“Don't you fucking dare!” You shout, using the same words that he said to you when you tried to take his sweater away.

"But you don't like it-"

"I do!  And knowing how much this means to you, makes it better."

"Really?"

You nod, a wide smile wiping away any uncertainty in his gaze. "Will you help me put it on?"

"Sure." Ben says gruffly. His voice has lowered a little, and you know that it's a mixture of pride and love mingling in the tone. It made something break open deep inside and flood your ribcage with love.

You turn your neck to the side, pulling your hair away from the skin as Ben hooks the chain together at the nape of your neck.  The cool metal of the necklace against your skin and the weight are unfamiliar, but you already knew that you wouldn’t be taking it off anytime soon. "It's perfect!" You pull Ben in for a kiss, threading your fingers into his dark hair.

Ben smiles into your mouth, holding you tight against him as if he never wants to let you go and you don't want him to.

It was odd to think that you'd only been together for four months, but you couldn't imagine your life without him. It seemed ridiculous for you to think that Ben was it after such a short time, but he was. You'd never rushed into anything in your entire life, but then Ben was there shattering every expectation that you had, enough to make you throw your inhibitions to the wind and jump feet first into the unknown if it meant he was with you.

The kiss is softer than the one the two of you shared at your front door, filled with more emotion than Ben usually let the world see, but he was opening up bit by bit, learning that you wouldn't judge him for that and it made you feel sky high.

This was the relationship you'd always wanted, and you never thought that you'd have it with Ben, but now that you were here you wouldn't change a thing, because it wouldn’t have put you in his arms.

"You can change the picture." Ben murmurs into your lips.

"No way. I don't have any kid photos of you. And I'm pretty sure you'll see all of mine this week.”

“I bet you were cute.” Ben smiles, raising one of the hands from your hip to push your hair from your face. “Hard to imagine you being any other way sweetheart.” 

"Debatable." You sigh, nipping at his bottom lip in a way that makes Ben pull you back to him.

And when the kiss turns hungry, with you gripping his hair so tight you'd be sure that it would hurt anyone else, and with his fingers pushing up the bottom of your t-shirt to feel the warmth of your skin against his hands and find the dips and curves of your body that make you moan into his mouth, you can't help but think that this is the best Christmas you'd ever had.

"I do think it's later sweetheart." Ben's eyes shine with mischief, mouth pulling into the familiar smirk that makes your knees weak.

"Good. Because I have one other gift for you." You moan as Ben's mouth trails down to your jaw, his beard prickling against the sensitive skin, in a way that drives you mad.

"It's not another plant is it?" He bites just under your jaw and you tighten your hands in his hair, gasping softly.  "Fuck, I love those sounds you make baby." Ben murmurs.

"No." You've lost all ability to form sentences, not when he's so perfectly warm and the trail of his hands working up your abdomen consumes you.

"Give it to me later." Ben's eyes flash a startling green. "I want to unwrap my favorite gift right now."

"Keep going the way you are, and you're gonna find it."

Ben hesitates, before he raises his hand to feel the end of the brand new lingerie that you'd bought special for tonight, his eyes darkening with the realization. "Well then, Merry Christmas to me."

Ben's mouth falls against yours, but before he goes further, he pulls back just for a moment, his hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. Your eyes widen in surprise.

"Ben?" You question. 

"Merry Christmas Petals." He whispers, dragging his thumb over your cheek, and nudges his nose against yours in a gesture that warms your heart. He didn’t do things like that often, but whenever he did it always stood out to you, because it added on another layer to the man you loved with all your heart.

"Merry Christmas Ben."

A/N: I thought that they deserved a little Christmas fluff. I'm hoping that I have time to drop a follow up to this before Christmas, because I kinda want to write what happens when they go back to Illinois, but we'll see what happens! ❤️

As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, Likes, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! I love hearing what y'all think 🥰

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[farewellfuneralsau]

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Burial is a common funeral service that involves lowering a casket or urn into the ground. It can be followed by a memorial service and visitation period, where friends and family leave tokens and remember the deceased. It can also include eulogies, readings, or music that celebrate the deceased. In some cases, the burial site may be marked with a grave marker or monument.

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When someone you love passes away and you opt for cremation, the ashes are returned to your family. Redlands, CA cremation services will usually include this in the costs of their arrangement. They will also supply a standard urn that you may choose to display or use for a number of years.

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Cremation services can include scattering the ashes in a garden or landscaped area at home, in a columbarium, or in specially designed cremation furniture like tables or benches. Some people choose to keep the urn at their residence and display it prominently or store it in special places in the home that were meaningful to the person who was cremated. To know more about Burials Services in Redlands, visit the Farewell Funerals website or call 0404660974.

Funeral homes can offer many different services in addition to cremation and burials. These services can be very helpful when planning a funeral or memorial service. However, they may be more expensive than a direct cremation provider. It is important to compare prices and customer reviews before choosing a funeral home or cremation provider.

[theflyingfeeling]

For those who are interested in what I have managed to write for my "Gran Hotel AU" so far: ta-da!

..and those who have no idea/memory of what I'm on about: last spring I wrote this short fic in the AU I had come up with (loosely inspired by my trip to Dublin and the Spanish TV series Gran Hotel). This part below I wrote last summmer, and it's actually chapter 3, but since chapter 2 is about a different character entirely, it's not too illogical to read this one first, in my opinion. That is, if there ever will be chapter 2 😅😩 I put my outline for chapter 2 in the tags (mild spoiler alert)! I also suggest you read my ideas for the AU in general in the tags of the post linked above, otherwise I'm afraid this won't make much sense 😆

~

The grove of the family cemetery greeted Joel like an old friend, taking him into its cool embrace, which Joel was grateful for in the heat of the late afternoon.

He walked past his grandparents’ and great-grandparents’ graves, only stopping to snip a dried leaf off the light blue violet in front of his paternal grandmother’s tombstone. In his mind Joel promised to bring her fresh ones for her next name day. Grandmama would understand, he thought. She always did.

By the duck pond Joel dropped by the resting place of his father’s twin brother, taken by pneumonia only two days before their sixth birthday. With no one having actively tended to the grave since grandmama’s passing nearly a decade ago, the old stone had begun to grow moss, all but covering the golden carvings. Usually Joel was too inside his own head to mind the grave of an uncle he never came to know other than from grandmama’s stories, but today something pulled him towards the plain, small mound to root out most of the weeds thriving on it. Perhaps he had heard grandmama’s authoritative voice in his ears for a split second.

From there he continued his unhurried journey deeper into the memorial park, anticipating as much as awaiting the final few stops on his tour, until he arrived at his father’s grave.

The white lilies had dried weeks ago already, but Joel was yet to find the energy or motivation to throw them away. The carvings on the stone were still fresh, however, standing out from the already worn ones on the right side of the stone.

Like every day for the past almost four weeks, Joel had no clue what to say. Say nothing, Joonas would have advised him, he ain’t gonna hear you anyway, he’s dead. 

Ironically, Joel had not said a whole lot to his father when he had still been alive either.

Be as it may, something about the cemetery always made Joel talkative. He couldn’t have explained it if he tried to, but he supposed grandmama’s habit of walking in between the tombstones having full conversations with her long-deceased parents, her late husband and her baby boy had something to do with it. Joonas had always found it a little creepy and had politely declined grandmama’s plea for him to come along and learn about the history of his family, whereas Joel had gone with her each time, following on her heels and helping her take care of the flowers. One time, when grandmama had already needed a walking stick to support herself, she had asked Joel to look after the family graves and the garden surrounding them once she would be “gone to meet her maker”, as she had put it then. Joel had promised, but only after grandmama had reassured he wouldn’t have to go near the eerie, tumbledown mausoleum of his great-grandparents’, the founders of the Hokka estate.

That was why Joel often found himself crouching in front of names that no longer lived in people’s mouths, at least not the way they used to, staring at the dates that had changed his life forever, biting his lip in a failed attempt to keep himself from spitting out the disrespectful words.

“Fuck you.” 

He grabbed a fistful of grass in his palm and continued without opening his mouth to speak the words out loud.

Fuck you for treating her the way you did.

Fuck you for treating them both the way you did. 

Fuck you for treating us the way you did.

Fuck you for loving a bottle of whiskey more than your sons.

Fuck you for tending your minibar with more compassion and care than the legacy you’d be passing on to us.

Fuck you for dying of a heart attack at 65 and leaving us with this sinking ship.

Joel threw the shredded grass on the drooped lilies.

Fuck you for not being here for me.

When the letters on the tombstone began to blur, Joel looked away to get a hold of himself once more before he would move on. Visiting his father’s grave filled him with so much anger and bitterness and inexplicable hopelessness that he felt like skipping it altogether, but so far he hadn’t had the guts to do so, as if his old man’s disappointed look was still nailed to his back.

Having found his regular breathing frequency again, Joel stood up and turned to the pink roses growing in front of the right-hand half of the stone. 

The woman resting in the casket six feet under may not have been Joel’s real mother, but she was the only mother he had ever had.

Although she had had a tendency to favour her biological son when it came to deciding which birthday boy was served the last piece of the strawberry cake (even if Joonas was, more often than not, willing to share) or who was bought new clothes more frequently, Joonas’ mother was still the kindest woman Joel knew and had truly loved Joel as he was her own.

The only time Joonas ever visited the cemetery was when they planted the roses on her every birthday in the beginning of June. 

The last time Joel had seen Joonas cry was the day she had died, on a frosty February morning when Joonas had been fifteen and Joel sixteen. They had held each other close on Joonas’ bed, listening to their father breaking glasses in the office room above them.

‘Cause of death: fever’ Joel had read from the death certificate he had found in one of his father’s drawers in search of cigarettes, but in reality no one seemed to be certain what really had taken her. Their father had suspected it had been a food poisoning, and so he had had an excuse to take out his grief on the the blameless members of the staff and fired the chef and half the waiters, whereas grandmama had comforted the half-orphaned teenage sons that their mother’s heart had finally burst from loving her boys too much (which hadn’t been half as soothing as grandmama had probably intended it to be; instead, it had given Joel nightmares for weeks). There had even been talk in the town that she had gone mad with jealousy over her husband’s numerous affairs and eventually fallen fatally ill, simply due to heartbreak and excruciating loneliness.

Joel, on the other hand, knew better. He knew she had been stronger than that, always trying her best to make sure Joonas and Joel had been outside playing or bothering the kitchen staff, far out of earshot whenever she had confronted her husband after finding yet another maid in his bed. He knew she must have been unhappy in her marriage, but also that she had been aware of what she had married into. Yet, she had chosen to stay, not because she had loved her husband that much, but because she had understood she could never have afforded as much as a roof above her head, let alone be allowed to take her boys with her, even if she had been able to provide evidence of the adultery committed by her husband. She had stayed, because despite how miserable her life had undoubtedly been from time to time, she had wanted to ensure a happy childhood for Joonas and Joel, one where they’d have at least one loving parent in their life.

She would have deserved so much better than an unfaithful drunkard of a husband with heaven knows how many secret lovers and possibly even more illegitimate children. She would have deserved a more honourable final resting place than that next to the honourless scoundrel who had selfishly demanded to be buried by her side; a pathetic excuse of a man who had never deserved one bit of her unselfishness.

Those were among the countless of other things Joel usually murmured as he sat in front of her grave, on the grass right by the roses, just to be closer to her. This time, however, he remained silent, only reaching his hand to caress the cheek of a porcelain angel Joonas and he had brought there on the first anniversary of her death. The angel was missing its right wing, broken when the statue had been knocked down in an exceptionally intense thunderstorm. Joel had been devastated by the loss, but Joonas had told him she probably didn’t mind; she had always been drawn to all things broken and imperfect. 

“You know, like that teacup without a handle she didn’t want to throw away because it had her favourite flower painted on it,” Joonas had said.

And me, Joel had almost added, the bastard son of her husband she could have easily thrown out of the house the second his father slid a ring on her finger and no one would have judged her for it. 

Instead, she had read him bedtime stories and kissed his knee better when he had fallen down from a tree, and Joel wished he had told her how grateful he was for it all when she had still been alive to hear it. Alas, around the time of her death, Joel had been an adolescent full of rage, too burdened by frustration and fear to worry about the mortality of his mother. 

“Joonas says hi,” he whispered to the tombstone. He touched two of his fingers to his lips and pressed them against the cold of the stone before getting up and walking away, towards the grave he always saved last on his tour.

During the years following their mother’s death, Joel and Joonas had kept receiving pitying looks and regretful words of condolence from members of the staff, the people of the town, and even the hotel guests who had gotten wind of the tragedy. “Poor boys,” they always said, “how ill-starred in life must one be, to lose his mother at such a young age.”

Yet, Joel had always thought Joonas was lucky.

At least he only had one mother to grieve.

Fair enough, Joel had never known his birth mother, the only daughter of Mr. Byström, who had been one of the most important investors of the hotel once upon a time. From the hotel’s tattletale receptionist Joel had heard that Mr. Byström and his wife had disappeared in a storm on their way across the Atlantic, only a week after Mr. Byström had asked Joel’s father to “take his girl under his wing”, should something happen to them during their journey.

Joel was pretty sure that by “taking his girl under his wing” Mr. Byström had not meant “knocking her up at the age of 19”.

Grandmama had never talked much about the circumstances of Joel’s birth, apart from the weather: “it was a real cloudburst, raining hounds and mousers for hours without end, and still your first scream was louder than any thunder that has ever roared above this house”. 

Joel supposed she had wanted to be considerate towards the lady of the estate by keeping the names of the hotel owner’s previous lovers out of her mouth, although it wasn’t like Joel’s mother had ever been given such a privilege to begin with.

When Joel had been but six months old, his mother had understood the rumours she had heard weren’t just rumours. For two more months she had borne looking at young Miss Porko’s swelling belly before she had filled the pockets of her trench coat with rocks and jumped down the bridge crossing the river that ran by the estate.

Hence, there was nothing but soil below the wonky wooden cross Joel had erected in her memory in the farthest corner of the memorial park, in the shade of an enormous, over a century-old oak tree. Even if her body had been found, she would have been buried nowhere near the estate, for she had never officially been part of the family. Still, Joel had wanted a place to visit her, to talk to her, and since the bridge from which she had jumped to her underwater grave had rotted away years ago, he had had no choice but to make her a memorial on his own.

When Joel arrived at the cross, he sighed as he saw it having fallen down again and crouched down to straighten it. Then he took the rose from behind his ear and stuck it in the soil, next to all the other ones in various stages of wilt.

Some days he talked to her about his day; how he had gotten out of bed just in time for supper and avoided everyone until leaving the house when the sun began to set. 

Other days he just sat there, wondering what on earth he should say to a mother who had not lived to see her firstborn’s first birthday. 

It most likely would have killed her anyway, had she not done the job herself; as if by some cursed twist of fate, Miss Porko’s son was born on the 5th of October, exactly one year after Joel’s birth. And while Joel had been welcomed to the world with an intense downpour, Joonas’ arrival had ended nearly two weeks of rainfall and lured out the first rays of the sun in almost a month, if Joel was to believe his grandmama, who had always loved to reminisce about the events of that day.

From across the cemetery Joel had one day dragged an old wooden bench that had been situated near the grave of a long-forgotten relative – an uncle who, according to grandmama, “had always been a bit of a pillock” – and replaced it in front of his mother’s. There he sat for hours on end, staring at the cross and the roses, asking the universe over and over again what life would be like for him if his birth mother had lived for longer than twenty years and seven months.

Or if Joonas’ mother had not collapsed all of a sudden when getting out of the bath while Joonas and Joel had been busy arguing about who got to sit on the front seat of their father’s new Mercedes.

Or if grandmama was still around, offering her prickly life wisdom at every turn.

Or if his father was lying passed out on the couch of his office instead of dead in his grave. Maybe one of these days Joel would have had the courage to say all the things he wanted to say to him.

As the sun disappeared behind the forest looming at the border of the estate, Joel lay on his side on the bench and hugged his knees to his chest. He kept his gaze fixed on the white cross for as long as he could still see it before it got too dark, before tiredness forced him to close his eyes and wait for restless sleep to come.

[saintsofwarding]

EMBRYO

Chapter 15: Epilogue

A few minutes before her bus was scheduled to reach its stop, Rose gave Sam a call.

She picked up.

"Rose?"

"Hey, Sam," Rose said. She leaned the side of her head against the cool glass, watching the small town roll by. Illuminated windows cast panes of amber over the snow, and Christmas lights hung from fences and around doors, colors bright against a darkening sky. Even in the dead of winter, this place had a cozy feel, trapped in time.

"Where are you?" Sam asked. "Are you okay? Those people in the suits, they...they told me you wouldn't be able to talk to me anymore, that...that I shouldn't try and contact you..."

"Yeah. Technically I shouldn't be calling you at all. I just wanted-" She cut off with a sigh. "I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry. And that...I wish it had all worked out differently."

Sam was silent on the other end of the line.

"You still there?" Rose asked.

"Yeah. I'm...just thinking."

"About what?"

"The same thing."

Rose smiled a little. She shifted on the bus seat, adjusting the strap that hung crosswise over her body. "What are you doing?"

"We're gonna go to this ice-skating thing they put on every year. Me, and dad, and...and my mom." She paused. "She's doing better."

"That's wonderful, Sam."

"It is. I wish you could be here. Meet them." She paused again. "Maybe...someday..."

"I actually have all these records I wanted to ask if you would listen to with me."

"No way. Records? Get out."

She sounded so unenthusiastic Rose snorted. The bus driver glanced back at her; she was the only passenger on the bus, a girl with blonde hair now bobbed to her shoulders, dressed all in black, something that might have been a lacrosse stick in a sheath over one shoulder. It wasn't a lacrosse stick. Rose fixed her attention on the snow flurries outside.

"We don't have to do that," she said, allowing herself to luxuriate, for a moment, in the fantasy. "It probably won't be cold enough to ice-skate once I get back, so...roller skating?"

"I totally suck at roller skating, heads up."

"Well, I've never been at all, so you've got that on me."

The automated voice called out her stop. Sam must have heard it over the phone. "Got to go," she said, softly.

"Yeah."

"Take care of yourself, Rose."

This time, her smile felt true. "Always."

Sam hung up. Rose listened to the silence.

The bus drew to a halt. She swung out and onto the icy pavement, waited for the bus to shudder along, then dropped the burner phone to the ground and crushed it under her heel. With a glance at the darkening sky, she began up the path, toward the cemetery gates.

It spread before her, blanketed in snow, in deep-blue shadow. Gravestones stood like dark smudges against the snow, trees creaking in the light breeze, in the flurries of snow that gusted each time the wind blew.

Rose moved through the cemetery with her hands in her pockets, her chin in her scarf, headed for the lonely tree atop a small hill near the place's center.

The grave beneath it wasn't ostentatious. No grand mausoleum, no monument. Just a slab of dark granite, a little carved scrollwork at the corners, and an inscription.

In loving memory of

ETHAN WINTERS

a kind husband and loving father

who put family before all else.

"I know you did, Dad," Rose whispered. "Thank you."

No one was buried here. According to Chris, the grave was empty. The last he'd seen of Ethan Winters was his back at a distance as he faced down Miranda and the Black God, as he set off the explosion that ended them all. Whatever remained of him, whatever remnant, crystalized corpse or bones or dust, was still there, in that mountain village, where all of this began.

Where she began.

Part of her, at least.

Was she Rosemary Winters? Had she ever been? She lifted her hand, snowflakes drifting into her pale palm. All consciousness within the Black God, combined. A dead girl, a girl made to be a monster, a girl born to be a god, and her. Maybe Ethan Winters had never truly saved his daughter at all.

Her hand curled into a fist.

Maybe it didn't matter.

Now, she reached to her back and grasped the hilt of the sword sheathed there.

After the docks, after Chris had worked out the situation with the backup the BSAA had sent, once the last remains of the Embryo were destroyed, he'd taken Rose to an evidence lockup and showed her everything they'd pulled off Heisenberg when they took him into custody. There was the Tickle Stick, of course, now oozing oil. A clutter of spare machine parts, pocket knives, and cigar stubs, the kind of junk he took around everywhere. A tiny brass compass on a chain. And a hammer.

Massive, welded together from scrap metal, too heavy even to lift unless you happened to be able to cancel out its weight with magnetism. Rose recognized it, of course; Heisenberg had brought it with him from the apartment.

"He had something of a penchant for these," Chris had explained, with a hint of bewilderment. "It's yours, now. If you, uh, want it."

Rose touched the edge of a gear, traced the snarl of wires and cables that attached the massive head to the handle. The places where his finger marks had worn divots into the handle was almost too much. Looking at them, mere hours after she'd last seen Heisenberg seemingly consumed in an explosion, was painful as a finger in a bullet wound. Was he still in one piece? Had her mother put him into crystalline stasis, like Rose had once been put into, a dreaming state somewhere between life and death?

Either way. She ran her hands over the divots in the wood, as if, somewhere, he might know she wasn't gonna give up.

"Kinda ostentatious, don't you think?" she said, keeping her voice steady as best she could.

Chris had shrugged. "Seems to me that was his style."

He was gonna be so mad at her when he saw what she'd done to his hammer. Rose figured she'd be able to handle it when the time came. They had a mutually-agreed-upon ass-kicking appointment, after all.

Now, she drew the sword. It gleamed darkly in the fading winter light: a massive blade forged from the hammer's scrap, its hilt a twisted thing made of cables and gears and a tiny brass compass, handle molded perfectly to her palm.

She swung it round and plunged it point-down into the earth over Ethan's grave, then knelt, her hands clasped around the sword's hilt.

"I'll fix this," she vowed. She pressed her forehead to the flat of the blade. "This whole mess."

It wouldn't keep going forever. The fear. The vengeance. The grief that had driven Mia Winters to do such terrible things, all in the name of family. Cycles of rage, cycles of pain. It had to come to an end. It wasn't Rose's fault to make right, but she'd make it right anyway. For the people she loved. For the dead.

For herself, and the life she knew was possible, somewhere on the other side.

She had a plan, her and Chris. The beginnings of one, anyway. Mad, maybe. Dangerous, almost certainly. Would it work? She doubted it.

Would she still try?

Until her heart stopped beating.

The sound of engines traveled to her through the still, snowy air. Slowly, Rose stood. She withdrew the swordpoint as footsteps crunched through the graveyard, approaching her.

"That is so dramatic," Chris said.

"Yeah, well. I was raised by the most overdramatic showman in Europe, so. It's kind of my lot in life."

Chris joined her before Ethan's grave. Silent for a long moment, he contemplated the stone, the inscription.

Then, "You shouldn't have left."

"I know. I had to see this place."

"Yeah, I get it." He paused. "You ready for what comes next?"

"Are you?" Rose said.

A smile split Chris's chiseled features. "He'd be so proud of you," he said, nodding at Ethan's grave.

Rose nudged him, lightly, with her elbow. "I think he would be of you, too."

"Then let's do this."

"Okay." Rose nodded. "Let's go get our monsters back."

She made a promise, then, deep inside herself. She'd find Heisenberg. She'd find her mother. And when the fight began in earnest, everyone standing in her way would see why even Miranda was afraid of her.

Then-

She'd show them all what she was really made of.

***

[smells-like-mettaton]

Rating: T (for inherent neutral ending angst)

Summary: Toriel's old house feels like a mausoleum. She will gladly ignore chisp crumbs and lumpy mattresses for a place that feels more like home.  (Queen Toriel ending fic for Soriel Week 2021.)

Word Count: 5211

XXX

The bedroom was exactly how she left it. Her bed pushed up against the gray wall. A book about snails on the wooden desk. A knit sweater with the embroidered words "Mrs. Mom Lady" in the wardrobe.

Even after all this time, she could barely look at it without her soul splitting in two.

She'd known this wouldn't be easy. She hadn't seen this house in over a century. Still, she wasn't prepared for how Asgore had sealed up her old room like a tomb, a photograph of the day that everything went terribly, horribly wrong.

At least the last child was safe. They should not have had to take a life to save their own, but she doubted Asgore had given them a choice.  Her own soul felt more numb than anything.  To her, Asgore had died a century ago.

What was done, was done. And as usual, she was too late to do anything but sweep up the dust.

She backed through the doorframe, shutting the door with a quiet click. She would have to return eventually, but for now, she yearned for a place with fewer painful memories.

"Hey, Your Majesty." A voice startled her as she attempted to escape the foyer. Luckily it was a voice she would always recognize.

"Hello, old friend." She turned and smiled at the monster leaning against the stair railing.

He was smaller than she expected, with that deep voice. Not that that was a bad thing. As for him being a skeleton, that had been apparent from the abundance of bone puns.

"You know the formality is unnecessary," she told him softly.

"Is it?" He shuffled from foot to slippered foot. 

In all her time of joking with him through the door, she had never expected him to be so cute. 

"Didn't want to assume, old lady."

He winked, and she felt a weight lift from her chest. At least one monster would still treat her like a person, and not like a mythical figure returned to save them.

"Toriel," she introduced herself for the first time. He had to have heard already, but between rushing to the palace, scattering Asgore's dust, comforting their—her people… she hadn't had time to seek out her friend.

He seemed to feel comfortable walking right into her home, though. Did he ever visit Asgore when he was here? Her friend seemed like the type of monster who went wherever he felt like, and Asgore, for all his flaws, had never turned a monster away from his home.

"Sans." He held out a bony hand. "Sans the skeleton."

"Nice to meet you, Sans," she tested out the name and clasped his hand with her paw.

A loud pthbbbbbt echoed through the empty hall. Her eyes widened.

"Wow, Toriel. That's, uh, some way to make an introduction." He winked.

She squinted down at the inflatable object in his hand, the source of the farting noise. Then she pretended to ignore it.

"It certainly is. I was not aware that skeletons were capable of flatulence."

His eyelights gutted for a moment before he burst out laughing.

"Your jokes are even better in person," he said once he composed himself.

His laugh set her soul fluttering. In all their conversations through the door, he'd never laughed like that. Maybe she should have tried fart jokes sooner.

"I am always happy to tickle your funny bone." She smiled, and his face tinged blue.

"Happy to be tickled. But, uh. I guess that's not all I'm here for?"

Her breath caught in her lungs. Of course he would not visit without a reason. 

"I suppose not. Would you like to have a seat?"

"It's nothing that serious," he assured her quickly. "I just thought you'd want an update on the kid."

"You've spoken with them? They are still here?"  She tried to keep the hysteria from her voice.

How could they have taken Asgore’s soul and not returned home?  Had the Barrier proven too powerful?

"No—geez, I'm making this sound worse." He ran a bony palm down his face. "They’re definitely gone.  Papyrus tried to call them nonstop.  Besides that, you know the big stuff. The king's dead."

Her lips drew to a thin line, pulling tight across her fangs.

"I can hardly fault them for that."

"Right." He stuck his hands back in his pockets. "I gotta be honest. The way the kid looked when I last saw them… I don't think they did it."

Her brow furrowed. She was inclined to hope that the child had not chosen violence.  They had been so sweet, so eager to talk and joke with the monsters of the Ruins, so quick to hug her even after she’d fought them.  It was hard to imagine them striking down Asgore.

"But… then what do you think happened?"

Sans shrugged. "Wish I knew. I kept watch best I could, but…"

"I could not expect you to come between them and your king." As much as she wished he could have. She had hardly expected him to agree to watch over the human at all.

“Couldn’t have even if I wanted to.  These bones aren’t as sturdy as they look.  Maybe I shoulda listened to my bro and drank more milk...” He grimaced and glanced away.  “Anyway.  Like I said, I don’t know what happened.  Just.  Be careful, okay?”

“Careful?” She blinked.

“Yeah.  You never know.” His gaze flickered to a potted golden flower on the end table next to the stairs.

“Sans.  If I did not know better, that would sound like a threat.” She crouched down, so she could better meet his eyesockets. “Is there something you are trying to tell me?”

“Man. First I rip one in front of a lady, then I threaten her.  I’m makin’ a great first impression.”  He rocked back and forth on his slippers. “Look. Toriel. I don’t wanna scare you, ‘specially since today must’ve been hard. Real hard.”

His eyelights bored into her irises. She found herself needing to look away.

“It has certainly been… interesting. Moreso than any day since I last saw this place.” She suppressed a shudder.

Change. Her life had been constant for so long.  There would be no more of that, now. Hopefully that would be for the better, but only time would tell.

“Yeah. Being flung away from everything you’re used to… don’t imagine that’s a cakewalk. Don’t want you to worry about freaks hiding in the shadows on top of that.”

Somehow, she felt he made more sense when he was on the other side of a door. Knock-knock jokes had a formula. Just another normalcy she had forfeited, she supposed.

“Please, Sans. If you believe I am in danger, you may say so.”

“Fine. So.” He grinned, and she couldn’t help a snort.

“Alright, I suppose I walked into that one.” She smiled, despite his warning. “Under normal circumstances, I would say I could handle myself. But I must admit you are more updated on the state of the kingdom than I.  Do you have any information that could help?”

“...Not really?” His grin turned sheepish.  “You look like a tough lady. I bet my bones are rattling over nothing.”

“I would still humer-us you.”

He gave her a funny look. “You’re actually taking me seriously?”

“Why would I not? You are my friend.  Perhaps… my only friend, at this point,” she admitted.  It would be foolish to ignore a warning, even if it was based on gut feeling. Or, whatever skeletons had in place of a gut.

“Well.  Uh.  If someone, something, was behind the king’s… yeah. If it wasn’t the kid, whoever else it was might still be around. So.” He coughed. “Sounds stupid when I say it like that, huh.”

“It does not.  I think it is sweet that you are worried.” He wouldn’t be able to see her blush, thankfully. It had been a long time since anyone had looked out for her.

“Geez, Toriel.” He rubbed the back of his skull. “You’re gonna ruin my reputation.”

“What reputation? Are you typically a monster with a heart of bone?” she teased.

“Nah. I just don’t worry. Too much work.”  It was difficult to tell if he was joking.  “Guess I can make an exception this once, though.”

“Why, thank you, my friend.”  She had the sudden urge to reach out and squeeze his hand.  It would be more for her own comfort than his, so she did not act on it. “To be honest, your words are a relief. I do not mind the excuse to avoid this place.”

“Oh.” He sounded surprised. “You got somewhere else you’d rather be?”

She both did, and did not. How could she explain without sounding like a clinging child?

...Perhaps that was the wrong metaphor. She would have preferred her children to be a little clingier.

“‘Cause, uh, if you don’t mind a bit of mess… my door’s always open.”

She blinked at the offer. Had he felt the thoughts stirring in her soul?

She didn’t want to be alone. Not again. And she had told him the truth: there were unlikely to be any other monsters she knew still around. Perhaps Gerson; she and Asgore had always joked that he would outlive them.

That joke seemed awfully morbid now.

“Sorry. Was that too forward? Our friendship’s built off closed doors; guess we should just take 'em one at a—"

"No," she interjected too forcefully. “No. I would love to visit your home.”

Though she had never set foot there, she already suspected it would feel more like a home than this place.

“You really—? Great.” His skull tinged the faintest blue. “Just, uh, know that it’s nothing fancy.”

Toriel smiled. “‘Nothing fancy’ sounds wonderful at the moment.”

Perhaps wherever he lived would be out of the way enough that news of her return would be delayed. If she could be lucky enough to pass for an ordinary monster… well, that was likely too much to wish for. It certainly wasn’t becoming of a queen to hide from her subjects.

Stars, there was so much to get used to. So many formalities to reacquaint herself with.  She hoped such things would wait until tomorrow.

Sans returned her smile.

“In that case, I know a shortcut.”

XXX

She handled the shortcut well for a first-timer. No stumbling on the other end, no complaints of nausea or dizziness. Of course, she was a Queen. A Boss Monster. Why would a magic trick ruin her composure?

Sans wanted to laugh. All this time, he'd been joking with the Queen. She didn't seem to mind, but she could just be “humerus”ing him.

...Nah. She had every excuse to ignore him if she really wanted to. Instead she'd actually taken him up on his offer.

He almost forgot to drop her hand once their feet landed in the soft snow. Heh. Who was he kidding? It was just nice to feel her fur under his fingers. To touch her, and know that she was real.

"Oh!" Her eyes lit up, reflecting the gyftmas lights strung haphazardly around the house's columns. "I remember this place!"

"You do?" Sans's browbone furrowed.

"I saw it while travelling from the Ruins to…" she trailed off.  To stop the kid from fighting Asgore.

Sans felt stupid for not trying to stop them himself.  Not that a kid that determined would’ve listened, anyway.  Still… he’d believed in them.  Hoped that by some miracle, they’d get ‘em out of this mess.

Heh. That was too much pressure to put on a kid, even a determined one.

"Yeah." He coughed quietly. "Guess we're hard to miss. Papyrus did something to the Gyftmas lights—even when the CORE lights go out for the night, ours stay on. Never figured out how he pulled that off."

Toriel laughed before seeming to realize something.

"I will get to meet your brother!" She clasped her hands together. "I wish it had not come about for such an unhappy reason, but I am excited nonetheless."

He chuckled. Her excitement was contagious. That was something she and Papyrus had in common already.

He pushed the door open, called out for his brother—and noticed the monster sprawled out on his couch.

"Oh." Sans blinked at Undyne, who was snoring so loudly, he should've heard it from outside. Guess he'd been a little distracted. "Uh. This is awkward."

"What is it?" Toriel hung back, her head ducking through the doorframe. "Is your brother sleeping? I would not wish to wake him. You said he rarely sleeps, did you not?"

"Nah, it's not him. Forgot his pal's house burned down. Actually, I'm sure you met her. Undyne? Captain of the Royal Guard?"

"I… yes, we met." Toriel edged inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click. "She looks far more peaceful now than she did this morning. From what I understand, my ex-husband was something of a father to her."

"Something like that." Sans nodded in agreement. There hadn't even been a Royal Guard until Asgore created the position for her. Sans wondered if Toriel would keep it around now that Asgore was gone.

Welp. It wouldn't hurt, what with his suspicions about Papyrus's friend "Flowery." 

(Maybe Sans should let Toriel sleep on the top floor rather than the couch anyway. No dirt for stray flowers to get into up there.)

"Should we be staring?" Toriel said with a soft chuckle.

Sans shook his thoughts away. "Sorry. Just thinking. I, uh…"

There wasn't room on the top floor. Sans's lumpy, crumb-dusted mattress was out of the question. That left only Papyrus's bed, which while rarely in use, had too much sentimental value to give to Toriel without asking. Where was Papyrus, anyway?

"Undyne!" His brother practically kicked in the door. "I have returned with nutritious—oh!"

Papyrus's sockets blinked at Toriel. Then at Sans. Then at Toriel again.

(Undyne let out another loud snore.)

"Sans?”  Papyrus dropped his groceries on the table next to the pet rock. “Why didn't you tell me we had another guest??"  

Because he was an idiot who hadn't planned past one impulsive offer. His face went a little blue.

"I guest you would figure it out," he managed to joke. 

Toriel let out a bleating laugh at that. The suddenness of it was enough to jolt Undyne awake.

"NGAHH!!" She tried to leap off the couch, but ended up rolling onto the floor. "I'm here, Asgore! I won't—oh."

Her single eye blinked up at Toriel. 

"Papyrus?" Undyne hissed through her teeth. "Why didn't you tell me the Queen was coming??"

"Because I didn't know!" Papyrus replied brightly. 

"I, uh, promise I'm usually more professional than this." Undyne summoned an energy spear and used it to push herself to her feet. The attack left a small char mark on the carpet. "I am at your service, Your Majesty."

Sans thought she looked real professional in a pair of Papyrus's MTT-brand crop top pajamas. Toriel didn't comment on that though, instead opting for a matronly smile.

"There is no need for that, Captain. I am not here on business, but as a friend."

That smile turned towards Sans, and he fought back a blush.

"Yeah. I was just gonna, uh, make some dinner. Y'know, welcome our queen back with some Snowdin hospitality."

"Dinner?" Papyrus squinted suspiciously. "You don't cook dinner. I cook dinner."

"First time for everything, right?" Sans winked to hide his embarrassment. 

Of course Papyrus wouldn't buy his excuse. But he really didn't want his brother and Undyne worrying on top of Toriel. Granted, it was Undyne's job to worry about security threats… but she'd tear up the house's foundation if she thought an enemy might be hiding anywhere in a five-mile radius. 

"Sans," Toriel chided him. "You do not owe me that."

"Wowie! You must be a great influence on him, Bald Asgore!"

Toriel blinked before bursting out laughing. Sans's grin widened. 

"Her name is Toriel, bro."

"Of course!! Where are my manners?" Papyrus bustled past him to shake Toriel's paws. "I am the Great Papyrus! It's an honor to meet you, Queen Toriel!"

"The honor is mine. Sans has told me so much about you," she said, and Papyrus blushed pink.

"You? Know the new queen?" Undyne whispered to Sans while Papyrus and Toriel got acquainted.

"You know me. I know everyone." He winked.

"She came out of nowhere."

"Yeah. My bro and I know what that's like."

Undyne huffed, but Sans didn't offer a more thorough explanation.

Papyrus's affronted shout signalled that Toriel had dropped her first pun.

"I take it back! This is the worst day of my life!!" 

Sans met Toriel's eyes, and they both laughed.

"I suppose I will have to help Sans in the kitchen as my pun-ishment," she said with a coy wink.

"Normally I would object to a guest cooking, but in this case I will make an exception!" Papyrus turned on his heel and grabbed Undyne's arm. "We will clean up the living room in the meantime! Try not to corrupt the queen any further, Sans!!"

"Wouldn't dream of it, bro."

He gave a quick wink to Toriel behind Papyrus's back, and they moved to the kitchen.

"Did I actually upset him…?" She asked once they were out of earshot.

"Nah. He's just dramatic like that. He'll drop three puns per sentence when he thinks I'm not listening."

He turned away, rummaging through the fridge for something edible they could cook.  Discreetly, he tucked his empty chisp bag behind Papyrus’s spaghetti-filled tupperware.

“Oh, good.  I would not want to make a bad first impression.”

“Pfft. You’d have to try real hard to do that, Tori.  My bro sees the best in everyone.”  He smiled and pulled a “pupperoni” pizza out of the freezer.  It wasn’t anything fancy, but at least it would be edible.

He turned around, pizza in hand, and found Toriel staring at him oddly.

“What?”  His sockets widened.  “Uh, you’re not vegetarian, are you?”

She shook her head quickly, her gaze skimming off of his like oil from water.

“Pizza sounds lovely.  It has been quite some time since I had one.”

Sans didn’t pry, but he couldn’t help wondering what her expression had meant.  Had he said something weird?

...Oh.  He’d called her Tori, hadn’t he?  He should know better than to use nicknames without asking.  Papyrus hated them.

“Please, allow me.”  She held out her paws, so she couldn’t be too upset.

He handed over the pizza, and he jumped when fire flared to life in her palms.  For a moment he thought the fire would scorch the pizza beyond recognition, but the flames were just pleasantly warm.  He’d never known a monster other than Grillby to have such careful control of fire magic.

“Heh.  I didn’t know you were so hot, Toriel.”

As soon as he said it, he clamped his jaw shut.  Geez, how stupid could he be?  Making bad jokes was one thing, but flirting with bad jokes?

The fire went out.  She looked up abruptly—er, looked away from the pizza.  He was still a good two feet shorter than her.

“Tori was fine,” she said, her voice soft.

“Uh,” he replied intelligently. 

She suppressed a giggle, and he was pretty sure his face burned hotter than her fire had.  He could stand to take notes from Alphys and throw himself in the trash.

“Or not.  Whatever is comfortable for you,” she reassured him.  “Now, should we eat dinner before it gets cold?”

Eating was hardly something he could screw up at.

“Sure,” then after a pause, he tested, “Tori.”

Forget her fire magic.  Her smile could’ve heated the pizza all on its own.

XXX

For once in a hundred years, dinner was a warm and energetic affair.  In addition to the pizza, Papyrus had tossed together a salad from his fresh groceries, and Sans had briefly stepped out to grab a few orders of wings and fries.  In the end there was plenty of food for four hungry monsters.

Papyrus apologized for the lack of seating, but Toriel didn’t mind sitting on the couch squeezed between Sans and Undyne, eating off of paper plates.  She couldn’t imagine anywhere she would have felt more comfortable.

Before long, though, the day’s fatigue caught up with her.  She supposed it was to be expected—she wouldn’t regain her social stamina all at once.  

Sans caught her eye, and he nodded towards the stairs as Undyne and Papyrus “owned” each other in an MTT-Brand fighting game.

“Sorry.  I know they can be a bit much.” Sans rubbed the back of his skull.  

“They’re lovely.  I wish I had the energy to keep up with them.”  She smiled.

He leaned against the banister, smiling down at them.  Papyrus had gotten the upper hand this time, and was punching the air with joy.

“Me too,” Sans said, still looking away.  “I was thinking.  If you want a place to rest for the night, my bed’s open.”

She blinked.  Her face seemed to catch fire.  That was rather more… forward than she was expecting.  Sure, she had enjoyed his lighthearted flirting, and much as she tried to deny it, feelings had been growing in her for a long time.  But to have him return those feelings? And so boldly? It was as unfathomable as it was unlikely.

“I can get ya some fresh sheets, and I’ll crash in the shed.  My bro set up an, uh, guest room there when the human was in town.”

Oh.  She rubbed the heat from her face while he wasn’t looking.  How foolish could she be, to think he would be implying…? Well.

“I would not force you out of your room,” she said.  “If your brother prepared a guest room, I am sure that would be adequate.”

He let out a quick laugh.  “Uh, you’re not used to my brother’s… decorating.  Seriously, I don’t mind.”

She sighed.  If he insisted, she supposed it would be rude to deny his hospitality.

“Alright.  Thank you very much, Sans.”

“Great.”  He smiled back at her, then went into his brother’s room.  She waited patiently, and only jumped a little when he suddenly reappeared from the right hand door.  Perhaps the two rooms were connected in the back by a bathroom.

“Hotel Sans, one vacancy.”  He winked while holding the door open.

She chuckled behind her hand.  “You really did not have to resort to this.”

“Heh, I wouldn’t call it much of a resort.  The bed’s not even queen sized.”  He rubbed the back of his skull.

The bed was smaller than she was used to, but it did have fresh sheets.  That was the only fresh thing about the room.  Chisp crumbs had been brushed under the dresser, and… that was a tornado.  A self-sustaining trash tornado.  Though at least there was a pine-scented air freshener suspended in it.

“Sorry, it’s… really not much.  Uh.  Probably kinda insulting, expecting the Queen to sleep—”

“It’s perfect.”

He blinked.  “Huh?” 

“I am no stranger to a few crumbs, Sans.”

She remembered days that bled into weeks that bled into months.  Months where she couldn’t bring herself to clean, could hardly bring herself to care at all.  Months that had grown fewer and farther between since she’d met a friendly voice behind a door.

“I would’ve vacuumed,” he said sheepishly, “but I suck at it.”

More embarrassingly loud laughter burst from her.  In front of Sans, though, she didn’t feel the need to curtail her joy.

“Thank you.” She poured as much sincerity as she could into her voice.  

“‘S no problem, Tori.”  A light blue tinge warmed his cheekbones.  How could he possibly look so adorable? “Bathroom’s down the hall if you wanna wash up or anything.  And Undyne’ll be on the couch, so this is probably the safest place in the Underground right now.”

Her brow furrowed.  Sure enough, there was no bathroom door inside the room—he must have used one of his “shortcuts” to move from his brother’s room to here.

“So, uh.  I’ll be in the shed—uh, guest room if you need me.”  He flashed one more tense grin before turning to leave.

“Wait.” She stepped towards him without thinking.  

He looked up, one brow ridge raised.  She found herself biting her lip, wondering if she dared ask what her soul wanted.  It was silly, really.  She’d been on her own for years, decades.

Maybe that was why she was so hesitant to lose this one taste of companionship.

“I would feel… safer, if you would stay too.”  Her face burned beneath her fur, but she projected her usual composure.

“...Welp. Can’t say no to that, huh?”

She was about to reassure him that he could say no—that she was asking as his friend, not as his queen—but the soft smile on his face told her he already knew.  

He briefly left to grab a few things, then returned with a few pillows and, for some reason, a dog bed.

“You are not going to sleep on that,” she said in disbelief.

He flopped the dog bed in the middle of the floor and started fluffing it.  “Why not?  Gotta throw a dog bed a bone, right?”

“Sans.”  

The outdoor lights dimmed, as if at her command.  Only the colored Gyftmas lights outside and one dim indoor bulb lit the room.

Her confidence waned with the light.  What had she expected him to do?  She’d asked him to stay.  Unless she wanted to…

Oh, to hell with it.  She was too old to be so shy about these things.

“If you are not opposed,” she swallowed, “we could… share this mattress.”

When he looked up, she couldn’t make out his eyelights at all.  Their glow returned slowly, like the rising of the sun from her memories.

“Heh… you sure?  You don’t even know if I snore.”

She laughed and sat on the bed, patting the space beside her.  “You do not know if I snore, either.”

“Fair enough, Tori.”

They took turns cleaning up in the bathroom—she was imposing on Sans enough without adding the smell of dirty fur to his bed.  Then she did her best to ignore the flutterings in her soul as he slipped off his hoodie and climbed up onto the mattress.  She insisted he stay under the sheets; her fur would keep her warm enough with just the light blanket on top.  

The sheets were a barrier in name only.  There was only so much space on the mattress, so no matter how he adjusted and apologized, she could still feel the curve of his spine against hers.

It felt amazing.  It felt terrifying.  It felt like a mistake.  It felt like the only thing she’d ever done right.

The one saving grace of the whole situation was that it didn’t stir memories of Asgore.  Her royal beds had been triple the size of Sans’s lumpy mattress. She and her ex-husband had rarely slept back to back, and if they had, the feeling would have much different.

“...Tori?” Sans’s voice was just above a whisper.  “You, uh, still awake?”

As if she could sleep while enduring the wonderful agony of friendly touch for the first time in a century.

“Yes,” she replied softly.  “Am I taking up too much space?”

“No, ‘course not. I was just, uh… geez.” He sounded embarrassed.

Risking their precarious balance, she rolled over to face him.  Or to face the back of his skull, at least.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Doin’ sans-sational.” He chuckled to himself.  “Sorry.  Never got to use that one with you before.”

She would have laughed, had she not worried about shaking the whole mattress.

“It was sans-tastic,” she joked back, and he laughed again.

Then abruptly, his laughter cut off.

“Thanks, Tori,” he said in a quiet but firm voice.

“What for?” She wished she could take his hand, see his face, learn what thoughts were passing through his skull.  Instead she gave him as much space as physically possible… which still was not much.

A long, silent moment passed.  Had he fallen asleep?

“I know it’s not how you wanted,” he finally said, “but I’m glad I got to meet you.  So.  Thanks.”

Warmth spread outward from her soul to fill her whole body.  Sans could probably feel it radiating from her.

“Thank you, Sans.  If I had to return, knowing no one…”

He rolled to face her.  His eyelights were mere inches from her pupils.

“You would’ve been fine.  All you had to do was tell a few of your amazing jokes, and the whole Underground would’ve been linin’ up to be your pals.”

She suppressed a laugh.  “I hardly think that would be appropriate, under the circumstances.”

“Eh.”  He shrugged.  “Plenty of monsters in town cope with jokes.  You’d just be relating to the common folk.”

She stared into his sockets a little too intently.  At this distance, it easily made her dizzy.

“Would you be included in that demographic?” she couldn’t help asking.

“When I first met you?  For sure.” His gaze darted away.  “But it’s crazy.  Between you and the kid… I’m startin’ to think there’s more to life than good food and bad laughs.”

“Really?”  She and the child had made such an impact on him?

“I know.  Don’t tell Papyrus.  He wouldn’t believe you, anyway.” He winked.

“My lips are sealed.” She smiled.

Silence hung between them.  It should have felt awkward, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn away.  In the end it was Sans who yawned in her face and then hurriedly flipped back onto his other side.

She laughed, and clearly she was exhausted too, because she pressed a kiss to the back of his skull without thinking.

He froze.  She froze.  There was no way to play that off gracefully.  And there was no way she could fall asleep and pretend that it had not happened.

“Heh… those didn’t feel very sealed to me,” he finally rasped out.

It took her a moment to process what he meant.  Meanwhile her embarrassment only burned hotter.

“I am so sorry—”

“I’m not.” When he rolled back to face her, his face was bright blue.  “You’ll still be here when I wake up, right?”

His question was tinged with desperation.

“Of course,” she answered automatically, despite the many responsibilities that she would have to attend to in the morning.  She was the Queen once more.  If she had to, she could adjust the schedule of meetings and speeches to accommodate… this.

Whatever this was to be.

“Remind me in the morning,” he squeezed her hand, “that this is real.”

His hand quickly went limp.  She was worried for a moment, before she heard the faint snore escape his nasal cavity.

She gave him a fond smile, and allowed her own eyes to close.  She did not know if sleep would come or not.  She did not know what challenges the new day would bring, or what old challenges would continue to rear their heads.

But she did know that she was not alone.  For tonight, that was enough.