#like she had to pretend to think about it for several seconds because heaven forbid anyone know her immediate and clear answer

[gravitasmalfunction]

Cute dates ideas for him: serenade your beloved with your zither while wearing your nicest clothes, and your hair cascading sensually down your strong but elegant back

Cute date ideas for her: bribe the assassins into revealing their employer and assassinating the employer the same way they tried to assassinate your beloved. Also, get his zither repaired :(

[formalpeacaps]

2/14/24 Recap Part One

Good morning, my beautiful, wonderful chickadees, I’m back! We’re all back! We’ve missed some things, haven’t we? Unfortunately all my old recaps are gone, but don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson and now am writing all of them in Google Docs, which means that Paige can delete the entire sub, she can delete videos I’m writing about, but I will always, always have receipts, and I will continue to pop up, like a very persistent little fungus. 

Anyway, I refuse to recap Paige being incoherent in the Bahamas as a birthday gift to her, and as soon as I finished this of course Paige posted another vlog, but let’s start with last week’s vlog and work our way into this week’s, shall we?

A “florida for the winter” vlog

I don’t know “why” this title “needed” “quotations”

Nine seconds in, and 1.75 fonts. It’s all one font technically, but she changes the color and if it’s italic or not three times.

Paige is hosting dinner. Paige is wearing all black in Florida because she’s “a cold person”. I think what she means is that she’s always freezing due to a lack of body fat, but I would accept that she’s also kind of cold emotionally speaking. That seems like an accurate statement as well.

Paige complains about getting a blowout because she “never feels like herself” when she gets her hair done like that, which begs the question why she pays money to get her hair done like that. Also I find it funny that as Paige says, “when my hair looks good it just doesn’t feel right”

We’ve seen your $20 Amazon extensions, Paige, we know.

Paige makes sure to let us all know she’s sending PR slippers from Rao’s tomato sauce, because heaven forbid we don’t know she gets free things in the mail as a very important influencer.

Paige makes dinner for Tommy’s - sorry, their friends. (You can tell it’s actually Tommy’s friends because it’s all guys, they refuse to acknowledge Paige or her camera, and several of them aren’t white.) Dinner is the world’s most basic cheese board, spicy rigatoni, grilled meats, and a salad, because our girl is a one trick pony. Oh, and her single dessert (banana pudding) afterwards.

The dressing recipe takes us up to 2.75 fonts and it’s just multiple types of mustard and multiple types of vinegar.

We also get to see a new DB glassware sample and it looks so weird? It’s shaped like an upside down coke bottle, but it has mason jar threading? This makes no sense

Look, okay, hi. I’ve looked into Paige’s demographic and I know that she could release a literal dog turd but put a white hydrangea next to it and her 2,000 die-hard sorority girl fan squad would buy it and they don’t care. I understand that none of these girls whose frontal lobes have not fully developed grew up watching Antiques Roadshow with their mom. But I did and I am bothered because glassware is made into certain shapes for REASONS, design elements like threading for a lid exist for REASONS, also I can tell just by the weight and clarity of it that glass is probably mostly plastic and it would feel wrong if you clicked your nails against it. Again, I understand, I’m not the target demographic. I know no one else cares, this is a nitpick, blah blah blah. But between you and me, as someone who gets very into nerdy minutiae about material design and history, I’m bothered. Had to just throw that out there.

IT HAS LIKE A RUBBERIZED LID WITH A PLASTIC STRAW IN IT BUT THEN WHY DOES IT HAVE THE THREADING THAT LOOKS SO WEIRD AAAAAAAAAAAAH

If you’re also weird about this stuff you can DM me and we can read Bill Bryson’s At Home together and discuss this in further neurodivergent niche interest detail

After dinner is over and everyone’s gone Paige and Tommy pretend that they’re cute and into each other but as always just come across as middle schoolers trying to prove that they’re very cool and like the opposite gender now

Okay I’m calling it, it’s the same font but now it’s in yet ANOTHER color and italicized so we’re officially up to 3 fonts now. 2.99 fonts? 3 fonts.

The next day, Paige “works” (puts on her AirPod Maxes and does Woman Laughing At Salad at her screen on what we’re led to believe are business calls) and then blathers on about all her brand deals. Two things about this. One: her face is so disconcertingly shiny. Like she looks like an overly waxed cafeteria apple, or like if you touched her face it would make the new sneakers on a gym floor squeak. Why is she so shiny? Second of all, maybe because I don’t follow influencers, but I have never found an influencer who talks so much and so inorganically about their brand deals. Paige never misses an opportunity to be like, hello, I have a BRAND DEAL, did I mention there’s an upcoming BRAND DEAL, soon I’m going to have a BRAND DEAL and yet somehow never legally discloses ads in a very Mikayla Nogueira fashion. The result is both technically illegal and yet deeply inauthentic feeling so it’s like not even worth the FEC violation. My memory is faulty because I simply do not care, but considering how bad Paige is at doing the one thing she’s supposed to do, it doesn’t exactly surprise me that I think the only people Paige has worked with repeatedly over a long span of time are brands that will work with literally anyone (Mejuri, Intermissi, Revolve), Revlon makeup, Frankie’s bikinis, PJ Place, and maaaaaaybe Butcher Box and Thrive Market? Speaking of -

Not legally disclosed Thrive Market sponsorship! Paige eats three entire chips with salsa to prove she’s a girl’s girl who totally eats normal amounts. Paige claims she needs to subscribe to this company to get her Poppi fix in the boonies of “not being outside a major city” in Florida but Poppi had an ad during the Super Bowl and is in my local Shaw’s (that’s New England’s big basic regional grocery store chain, like equivalent to a Roche Brothers or Market Basket or Kroegers or whatever) AND Whole Foods, so that doesn’t strike me as… correct.

Tommy decides he wants stir fry so they go to Whole Foods and Paige makes “Asian-inspired peanut sauce stir fry”, I assume to bait me into screaming at her. [NOTE: there used to be now-deleted rant about Asian cooking that I have edited out in post production because Tumblr says it makes this text block too long and lol who cares] I don’t like being this person because the idea of “authentic” cuisine is bullshit and gatekeeping, and so if you, a normal-ass person, like your Americanized Paige style stir-fry, you can keep your Americanized Paige style stir-fry. But if you’re cosplaying as a food influencer and great chef and claiming to make the food of another culture, it’s just basic respect to actually try and understand what the fuck you’re doing and make clear to your audience where you’re adding your own twists.

Love to play my favorite game, Guess Why Paige’s Followers Are 99.99% White Sorority Girls/Former Sorority Girls Challenge

Paige doesn’t vlog for a fascinating day of filming ads and watching Tommy fish (oh no!!!) and then lays out in the sun and philosophizes on how zen and calm she is in Florida because of the weather and because Tommy’s a “super grounding person”. As she says this Tommy screams and hits her with the hose and she adds in font number four “So grounding <3”. Before Paige and Tommy go to the beach for him to surf and her to film people without consent on her drone, she rhapsodizes about citrus season and how oranges are better than candy.

“It’s eighty degrees at the beach and I’m wearing a sweatshirt. I’m probably the only girl in Florida to do this. I don’t know if you can relate to this but if there’s a slight breeze, the hoodie’s going on” - Yeah weird it’s almost like what happens when you don’t eat enough or have a proper amount of fat on your body????? You’re cold??? Even when you shouldn’t be??? Like that’s not a cute little girly thing it’s a symptom you need to be eating more???? ANYWAY.

Paige pretends to care about manatees and them getting hurt by boats but I would also bet she and Tommy go on the exact type of boats that hurt manatees all the time.

Paige body checks herself in a Free People Movement outfit (undisclosed PR from Australia!) and then they play tennis and eat… Mashed potatoes and gravy? Sure.

New font in the end credits (yellow on a puke-y olive background) which brings this video’s font count up to five.

[EDITOR'S NOTE - the second vlog I recapped is in part two, there's a character limit.]

[pi-cat000]

MSA: Winged Arthur AU (part 9)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8 

Part 10: here

The Lance POV:  

NOTE: I may have gotten a little carried away with the introspection, which kind of took over from the ‘Lance explains Lewis’ plan I originally wrote. 

.

Lance leaves Vivi with Arthur. The girl’s got a head on her shoulders so he can trust her to keep an eye on the kid in case he wakes from his- apparently- magic induced unconsciousness. Magic…Not something a regular person thought about, but, hey, it was quickly becoming a reoccurring theme in situations involving his nephew, so he should work on getting used the idea. Especially if the wings are permanent. Lance still doesn’t know what to make of that development. Wearily, he pulls a beer from the fridge before thinking better of it and replacing it with Arthur’s extra-strength coffee. This night is going to be a long one. He’ll need the additional energy. The herbal tea he finds pushed to the back of the cupboard in a stack of small coloured boxes. Lance spends a second staring at the odd assortment before rubbing his eyes. Arthur and the slowly expanding collection of drinks he kept around for his friends…Friend. A long sigh and he picks a box at random.

Never had he seen the universe have it out for two people more than his nephew and the girl. And his life hadn’t exactly been filled with sunshine and roses, so he has a sound basis for comparison. Lance slams two cups down with a little more intensity than is strictly necessary. What the hell is he going to tell Vivi anyway? The whole subject of Lewis is a bloody minefield. Sometimes, on the rare nights, when Vivi and Arthur decided to take a break from endless road tripping to just spend a quiet second relaxing in front of the TV, Lance would salubriously listen to them chat and act like ordinary young people. Mostly, the subjects were light and friendly, echoing a time from before the bullshit. Other times, he’d be subjected to Arthur’s heartbreaking attempts at describing Lewis to Vivi. A pointless endeavour, the girl’s memory was so scrambled she struggled to retain even the barest comprehension of Lewis for more than a few minutes. Not that that had stopped the boy from trying. Right up until Lance put his foot down, banning any talk of Lewis in the house for all their sanities. Not a popular move that one. Now Lance gets to be the one to explain how Lewis, a guy Vivi had been friends with -and probably dating but not like he had ever confirmed that- had been erased, taking half her memory with him. Also, Lewis might now be a ghost…wraith…or whatever, because sure, that made sense. Lance finishes up with his coffee and aggressively dumps a tea bag in some hot water, carrying the two drinks out into the lounge. Vivi is right where he’d left her, settled next to Arthur, working through more of the feathers. The wings don’t appear nearly as dishevelled as they had been. Both kids are covered in enough dirt and blood that he’s amazed, and insanely grateful, that they’re even alive. The room has dropped several degrees in temperature, which Lance attributes to the windows, empty, devoid of their glass. He’d have to work on boarding them up later. For now, he places the two cups down on the tv-tray, before shuffling over to the cupboard quashed behind the couch, pulling free a pile of old blankets. They are motheaten and musty smelling, but it’d do. When he shimmies back around, Vivi glances up and gives a strained grin, taking the offered blanket. She immediately throws it over Arthur. Lance snorts and doesn’t bother commenting, placing the pile at her feet, finding his seat in the recliner. “So, about Lewis. How much are yeh rememberin?” He starts, figuring he should first gauge just how much Vivi remembers before launching into the convoluted tale. The basics. He would start with the basics. An exhale of familiar frustration, “Nothing really. All I have is this feeling that I know him, the ghost that is, from somewhere. Maybe the Lewis you know is a different Lewis?… Did we meet on a case or something?” “Not quite….” Lance grunts. So that was a big fat zero on the memory front. Looks like he’d be telling this story from scratch. He leans back, crosses his arms, and gathers his thoughts. “Yeh know that thing… The thing Arthur’s been searchin for this last few years?” A suspicious, abet calculating, squint. “Yeah…of course I do. I mean I should, I’ve been here for most of it,” Vivi responds promptly. Her next sentence is a statement, “Lewis is connected to my memory loss isn’t he.” Lance nods, continuing bluntly, “That thing… not really a thing at all. More of a person. A person who went missing the night yeh lost ya memories and Arthur lost his arm.” “…and this person is Lewis,” Vivi finishes, catching on quick. He nods, “That’s the name,” leaning back to gulp down some coffee and watch Vivi silently work through the information. “That ghost…the one outside…is he the same Lewis?” Lance grunts, “No idea.” Vivi continues, her tone sharp, “Because he was pretty intent on hurting Arthur. Why would Arthur want to find someone who’d want to hurt him?” Lance doesn’t answer, considering the question carefully. He doesn’t know much about ghosts or wraiths or supernatural anything. All he knew was that he’d liked Lewis when the kid had been around. There wasn’t a person in Tempo who hadn’t. The boy had been polite, friendly, and good-natured in a way many people weren’t. Honestly, Lewis and Vivi had easily been the best thing to happen to nephew, what with how happy hanging out with them made him. After Lewis ‘disappeared’ - god forbid Lance suggest he was dead in Arthur’s presence- Lance had grown to quickly dislike the echo he left behind. Easy to hate a person who wasn’t around. Now, there’s some fire ghost claiming he’s Lewis, and Arthur is covered in blood and scorch marks. Never mind that Lance had walked in on the bastard threatening Vivi, who had looked two seconds away from lunging at said skeleton with only a bat as a weapon. All to protect his nephew. This…this wraith creature claiming to be Lewis? It’s very easy to hate. “The three of ya were close friends for years. Did everythin together. Don’t know nothin about wraiths, but if it wants ta hurt Arthur, then it’s not the Lewis Arthur is searching for.” A pause. That energy rush Vivi had described earlier appears to have been mostly physical because there is an aura of fatigue resting on her shoulders, showing the beginnings of mental exhaustion. “Surely, I would remember someone that important? Or Arthur would have mentioned him.” “The kid tried,” He says, toning down the bluntness, trying for more compassion, “Multiple times. Whatever got the memories, it targeted Lewis and stopped yeh from retainin any info about him.” Vivi hesitates at that, muttering to herself, “I knew it. There is a connection between all the missing memories. It's not random. No wonder Arthur always got upset when I asked questions.”  Then speaking louder, “…But I remember now. Well, I recognised the name at any rate…so that’s something.” She perks up in a way that tells Lance he’s about to learn a bunch of weird supernatural trivia. “A wraith is an embodiment of anger and pain. When a person dies, and the circumstances surrounding the death are traumatic enough, their negative emotions trap them between here and wherever souls go. That’s what the books say.” “You said Lewis disappeared the night Arthur…When Arthur lost his arm.” A physical shiver. “What if, whatever happened back then, it killed this person…Lewis. I mean, we already know the event was bad enough to give us both blackouts, and god knows Arthur gets enough nightmares from the incident. Maybe it was bad enough to create a wraith. Of course, that still doesn’t explain why it wants to hurt Arthur. If you are right about us being friends and stuff, it shouldn’t be targeting us.” Lance can only shrug, “The Lewis I remember wouldn’t have hurt either of yeh. Well, as far as I could tell at any rate.” It is odd hearing Vivi talk about Lewis with such dispassion. Frankly, it’s strange hearing the word Lewis again, period. Along with the name is that weight of frustration and minor irritation. Of course, it couldn’t be a normal, regular, wraith of a random stranger. No, that would have been too fuckin easy. This wraith just had to be the very friend Arthur was driving himself to collapse searching for. Of fuckin course it was. Because that’s what Arthur needed, a dead friend who wanted to burn him ‘to a crisp.’ Heaven help it if it’s pretending to be Lewis to mess with them because Lance is one more encounter with bullshit away from shooting the shit out of the next supernatural bastard he saw.

.

NOTE: Lance is decidedly not happy. 

Part 10: here

[codynaomiswireart]

“Gauze in the Wound” - Part 19

With a grunt of exhaustion, King Frederic sat down and wiped the sweat from his brow as the noontime sun beat down upon the palace square.  It had been about two days now since the Saporian raid had taken place, and the citizens of the capital (as well as Frederic himself) were still hard at work repairing all of the damage that had been done.  As he took temporary shelter underneath the awning of Uncle Monty’s Sweet Shoppe, King Frederic couldn’t help but feel some slight resentment towards that heavenly body pouring its hot rays down upon his kingdom that day.  As if his people didn’t have enough discomfort as of late…

Feeling the first aches of sunburn along his neck and shoulders, King Frederic couldn’t help but wonder how his kingdom came to revere that celestial giant the way that they did all those years ago.  Sure, the sun gave life in abundance.  There was no doubt about that.  But it could also burn it away to a crisp, and cause great pain. The Sun Drop had saved the lives of Arianna and Rapunzel, but it had also been a part of why Frederic had been robbed of sharing Rapunzel’s childhood all those years ago.  And it didn’t stop there.  It had robbed him of her a second time – sending his daughter to a far-off, unknown place, where anything might happen to her.

He knew she had to go.  It was her destiny after all.  But it had been months since Rapunzel had been home, and it had been weeks since Frederic had received any correspondence form her.  And Arianna was gone now too, and the whole chain of events leading up to her and Varian taking it upon themselves to go and get Xavier could be traced back to when all of the trouble with the black rocks began, and that was all because of Frederic’s removal of the Sun Drop Flower all those years ago, despite Quirin’s dire warning.  Frederic knew he couldn’t have done any different, and that Rapunzel and Arianna wouldn’t have even been there in the first place had he not taken the risk, but he still couldn’t help wondering if things could’ve somehow turned out better than they had, if only he had known better about the other side of the coin that had been the payment for the lives of his family.

“Perhaps the moon isn’t the only light in the sky to have a dark side to it,” Frederic mused with a hard frown as he thought of these things.  “Though at least it has the decency to not pretend otherwise.”

Frederic sighed as he took a bitter gulp of water from his canteen, and squinted hard into the bright glare of the noonday sunlight as he watched his people work hard on the walls and rooftops of various buildings, and the steering rigs of the ships docked in the harbor.  The sabotage done by the Saporians had indeed been calculated, and while any injuries during the attack had been minimal, there were still those who had been hurt in all the chaos.  Especially when they had no idea if another attack would be attempted while they were vulnerable, it would definitely be another day or so before any force could be spent to do anything about bringing the perpetrators to justice, or doing anything about Arianna, Varian, or Xavier’s situations, wherever they were.

Frederic swiped a hand over his face as he tried to steady himself and prevent the anxiety that burned in his chest from showing outwardly.  He hated to admit it, but Nigel had been right.  His people needed him at this time, and he couldn’t let himself fall apart now.  “Besides,” he thought, “the sooner we make repairs, the sooner we can look to figuring out what to do about Arianna and the others.” 

After another moment of rest, King Frederic rose reluctantly to his feet, and stepped back out into the daylight as he made his way to where several of the city’s carpenters were cutting new boards to repair the roof of the bakery.  As Frederic came to the center of the plaza, he stopped suddenly as he saw and felt the large dark shadow of a bird swoop its way over him, and he looked skyward as he heared the trilling screech of an eagle sound overhead.  Frederich raised an arm to shield his eyes from the sunlight as the eagle in question came swooping down towards him, and soon alighted itself on one of the sideboards of the lumber cart before him.  The lumbermen around the cart all jumped back with surprise as the large bird of prey landed near them, and it again let out a cry as it raised and clapped its wings, clearly calling for attention as it fixed its eyes on the king.

“Steady on everyone!” the Captain called out to anyone nearby as he rushed in to investigate, with Pete and Stan also accompanying him to provide security as they placed themselves on either side of the king.  After Nazeem’s stunt with the Saporian messenger hawk, any unexpected avian visitors to the capital were certainly suspect.  Frederic was grateful for the Captain’s caution and vigilence as he approached the great creature, who folded its wings and bowed in greeting as the Captain came near.  It was clearly a wise, clever beast, and didn’t seem at all put off by the people’s skittishness as it settled itself down on the rim of the lumber cart.

“That’s right beastie,” the Captain said, his tone neither hostile nor lax as he addressed it.  “No funny business.  Now, what are you here for, and where have you come from?”

In answer to the Captain’s inquiry, the eagle raised his left leg, and the Captain could see a small graphtyc tied securely onto it.  With caution, the Captain removed the graphtyc from the eagle’s leg, and after making sure that the container wasn’t booby trapped, the Captain unscrewed the lid and removed the note from inside.  His eyes widened upon recognizing the handwriting in the letter.

“Sire!” the Captain exclaimed as he brought it forward to the king.  “It’s for you, and it’s from her majesty!”

In an instant, Frederic found both hope and dread kick into overdrive inside of him as he hastily took the rolled up parchment from the Captain, and he felt his heart beat hard against his sternum as his eyes turned to read this unexpected message.  Did the Saporians have Arianna write her own ransom note?  Or was it to reassure him that she was all right?  Was it some sort of sick hoax and not really from her at all?  Was it perhaps her desperate final words to him before the worst had happened!?

But as Frederic began to read the letter with quivering hands, most of these fears were immediately put to rest as the handwriting, style of language, and other small signs made it clear that it was indeed Arianna’s hand that had penned those words, and that she was neither held for ransom nor in any immanent danger at present.  The note also reassured him that there would be no further attacks anytime soon from the Sapoiran separatists.  The relief Frederic would’ve felt at all this good news been enough to make him melt that very instant.  …However, as he read on, Frederic came to have whole new slew of fears rise up in him, and he tensed up again as Arianna’s message conveyed to him all that had happened on their mission.

“Your majesty?” the Captain asked after a few moments, having noticed Frederic’s face turned pale as he read on.  “Is…everything all right?”

Brow furrowing hard, Frederic rolled the message back up (though very unevenly) without a word, and seemed to stare hard at the ground for a moment before collecting himself with a deep breath through his nose.  “Thank you,” was all that King Frederic said quietly to the eagle as he managed to look up, and after the eagle gave a small nod in return, Frederic turned to the Captain with a look of determined bewilderment.

“Captain, I need you to organize a company of about ten men, and have them ready to travel to Molson’s Grove within the hour.  That’s an order.”

“Er, yes, right away Sir,” the Captain said with a salute, and though still clearly puzzled by what was going on, he began to gather together the men who would be heading out for whatever errand King Frederic had in mind.  Setting a steely gaze forward, King Frederic made his way back to the palace to make his own preparations for travel…and for any possible confrontations with a potentially new yet familiar threat. 

“Oh Quirin…” was all that Frederic could think to himself as he heard the palace doors shut behind him with a low clang.  “Old friend, what have you done?”

“Ruddiger!” Varian exclaimed as he recognized his furry friend bounding towards him through the dark, and for a moment the boy nearly forgot all else around him as he opened his arms wide to receive his companion as he came nearer.  Some may have thought that upon seeing a glowing Ruddger appear out nowhere that in this dark and mysterious place, Varian might have suspected that he was merely seeing some sort of illusion or (heaven forbid!) a ghost of his little friend.  But again, somehow, Varian just…knew.  He knew that the thing he saw coming towards him was no mere mirage or some kind of spectre.  It was Ruddiger, and he was here!

“C’mere boy!” Varian called out to him as he came steadily closer.

But then-

“SWISH – BOOSH!”

Varian jumped back in alarm as he felt a sudden surge of heat pass by him on his left, his vision filled with a bright purple light for a split second as something seemed to explode a few yards in front of him, and for a moment Varian could only sit stunned, his heart racing in his chest as he had no idea what just happened.  A few seconds later, Varian came back to himself, and the pieces slotted into place in his mind as he caught sight of a bright shape dashing in a panic through the cloud of dust that had been kicked up by said explosion in front of him, and Varian also saw in his peripheral vision the shape of Lord Demanitus’s hand extended forward, with his fingers curved menacingly like the claws of a dragon in Ruddiger’s direction.

Varian gasped as he realized: His great-great-grandcestor had just fired a spell at Ruddiger!

“Oh!  No no no no!” Varian exclaimed, reaching out with his left hand to grasp Demanitus’s wrist before he could send another volley Ruddiger’s way.  “Wait!  Stop!  It’s ok!  Don’t hurt him!”

As Varian’s hand closed around Demanitus’s wrist, he could feel the man jerk his arm back slightly as he felt the boy’s touch, but Varian hardly noticed this as his eyes immediately turned again to scanning the cloud of dust for Ruddiger’s light and form.  Had Varian been more attentive to the man beside him, however, he may have noticed the slight cringe of pain that came to that face that resembled his father’s, as Varian’s grip (though firm, but not very hard) remained frozen on the man’s wrist for those moments as he tensely waited for Ruddiger to reemerge from the veil of dirt and smoke.

After a few more anxious seconds, Varian breathed out a sigh of relief and released Demanitus’s wrist as Ruddiger appeared tentatively through the curtain of dust, and then scurried as fast as he could into Varian’s protective arms.

“Hey there bud!” Varian said as he hugged Ruddiger close.  “Wh-what are you doing here?  How did you find us?  Why are you-?”

But again, Varian’s thoughts were interrupted as he now found himself having to restrain Ruddiger from lunging himself at Demanitus, who started back from the raccoon’s flailing forepaws and bared teeth as the creature snarled, snapped, and swiped in the man’s direction.

“Whoa, whoa!  Hey!  Easy Ruddiger!  Easy!  Calm down!” Varian yelped as he struggled to maintain a hold on Ruddiger.  “It’s ok boy!  He’s not gonna hurt you now.  You both just scared each other.  See?  Nothing to be afraid of.  It’s ok.”

After making sure Ruddiger obeyed and stopped trying to wriggle out of his grip, Varian turned his attention back to Demanitus, who sat with his right hand held against his chest, and leaning as far away from the bristling raccoon as possible.  “Oh, he didn’t catch you, did he?” Varian asked, as he saw Demanitus’s defensive posture around the hand he held close to himself.  “Sorry about that.  Are you ok?”

Demanitus paused, his eyes narrowing hard.  “Yes,” he finally concurred to say flatly through clenched teeth, still eyeing the raccoon in Varian’s arms with clear distaste.  “I’m fine.”

Varian frowned hard as Ruddiger bristled and hissed at Demanitus in response.

“Hey!  That’s enough Ruddiger,” Varian tutted him firmly.  “What’s gotten into you boy?” 

Looking up at Varian pleadingly from his arms, Ruddiger chattered at him rapidly, but of course Varian couldn’t understand his speech or what had gotten him into such a state.  Sure, Lord Demanitus’s magic had startled him of course, but it wasn’t like Ruddiger to not be reassured by Varian’s words about it being a mistake.  What was wrong with him?  Varian could clearly tell that Ruddiger was very frantic about something, but what on earth could it-?

Wait…earth!  Back on earth!  In the waking world!  Perhaps that’s what Ruddiger was so frantic over.  Maybe that’s why he was here. 

“Dad!” Varian gasped, suddenly remembering.  “Is that it boy?  Is that why you’re here?  You’ve come to bring me back?”

Ruddiger paused in his chattering, his mind working quickly.  Obviously, trying to convince Varian that this stranger in their midst was a hostile interloper was not working, and Ruddiger needed to get his boy away from him as soon as possible before any further damage was done.  Thinking quickly, Ruddiger nodded, deciding to roll with that explanation (which wasn’t exactly untrue anyway), and moved to leap out of Varian’s lap, and began pulling at his shirt sleeve in earnest, gesturing for him to follow.

But Varian hesitated, and his face shifted to a look of uncertainy at the idea of going back into the thick, dark, and dusty realm beyond the circle of firelight in order to follow his friend.  He was so much more comfortable here, and perhaps Lord Demanitus would be able to get him back in an easier manner if he asked him to, and without him having to brave any further places of darkness and isolation. 

…And…maybe…just maybe…maybe he could also have some more of whatever it was his fellow alchemist had been giving him to eat and drink…

Varian felt a knot tighten in his stomach, and for a moment he felt like he was going to be sick…

Again, something didn’t seem right about Varian’s eyes as Ruddiger looked up at his face, and the raccoon was beginning to grow desperate himself now, as Varian had clearly become reluctant to follow.  Tugging harder, Ruddiger tried again to pull Varian in the direction he wanted him to go.  Ruddiger didn’t know exactly where he would be taking Varian, but he knew that anywhere else would be better than here right now, and he trusted those who had sent him there.  If Pontus’s magic was able to get him here, he was certain it could also get the both of them back out.

 “I…” Varian finally managed to say, though exactly to whom he was speaking was a bit unclear, as his eyes looked to nowhere in particular and he said half-heartedly.  “I…I think I need to go now…”

“Hmm…” the stranger hummed beside him as he glanced between Varian and Ruddiger, the latter of whom fixed his eyes on the warlock with a look that was both frightened but also determined beyond measure.  The warlock knew he had to make his next move carefully.  The stinging in his wrist from where the Moon Drop had grasped him made him painfully aware that he was by no means able to survive a direct confrontation…yet.  But he did have a better foothold now, and he must not lose it.  Any misstep, and this chance would be gone.  He had to make sure his deception did not falter.

Finally, he managed a small grin, and drew his hood back up over his head as he said, “Yes, I believe you are right, young one.  You must go back now.”

“C-can you send me back?” Varian asked, hoping that the answer would be yes, and that he wouldn’t have to go back out into the dark again.  But even as Demanitus opened his mouth to speak, Ruddiger leapt forward and stood himself firmly between Varian and the warlock, with all of his fur standing on end, and his teeth beared as he growled aggressively.

The warlock chuckled from underneath the shadow of his hood.  “I believe your little friend would rather not have it that way,” he said in a tone meant to sound amused by Ruddiger’s behavior.  “Such a pity.  I’m not angry with him though.  We didn’t exactly have the best of introductions now did we?  My apologies I’m sure.”  Here he gave Ruddiger a small nod, though Ruddiger made no motion to return the gesture.  “Perhaps…one day we could be friends?”

Ruddiger remained rooted to the spot at these words, with his only movements in response was a small shudder up his spine and a quick swishing of his bushy tail in warning.  If only he could summon his battle form like the shapeshifters or werewolves from all those fairytales, then he might be able to take care of this problem right here and now.  But as it was, Ruddiger had no way of pulling off such as thing (as far as he knew), and he had no idea what this foe was capable of, even if he could.  And though this stranger shared Quirin’s face, Ruddiger was convinced that it by no means shared any of the same fatherly affections or interests for Varian in its heart as Quirin did.

This man was bad news.  Ruddiger was certain of that.  Even if he was the legendary Lord Demanitus, perhaps he wasn’t actually as good as the legends had claimed him to be…

“No matter,” the man finally made to continue after a moment’s pause.  “For now, you are quite right.  We must part.  But I’m sure your little friend knows the way home.  You may follow him back.”

“‘You may follow him back!?’” Ruddiger thought with disgust, and tried to not let the feeling of growing disease distract him from his mission as tried to remain confident about what he must do as he turned away slowly.  “Varian doesn’t need your permission to leave, thank you very much!  Hmph!  C’mon Varian.  Let’s go.”

With that, Ruddiger brushed himself up against Varian’s leg, and gestured for Varian to follow him with his eyes.  Varian swallowed, his brow furrowing hard, and for a sickening few seconds, Ruddiger wondered if Varian would ever move from that spot. 

“…Why doesn’t he trust me?” Ruddiger now wondered, slightly hurt as he looked back into those not-quite-right eyes.  After everything they’d been through, why did Varian have this sudden lack of faith in him?

Finally, though still with signs of reluctance, Varian rose to his feet, and gave an awkward, “Um…Ok.  S-see you later then, I guess…” in the warlock’s direction before forcing himself to move forward, though Ruddiger was still troubled by Varian’s slightly spacey countenance as they made off.

Though his first steps were staggered, Varian managed to keep on going slowly as he stepped away from the circle of firelight and back into the inky blackness beyond, with a softly glowing Ruddiger being his only source of light as he went forward just behind the little creature.  Varian brought his arms around himself as the chill of the darkness began to settle in around him as the pink light retreated further and further away behind him, and he bent forward a little as the knot in his gut twisted further, and he felt a wave of hunger pains claw at his insides.

But…a hunger for what exactly?  Varian wasn’t quite sure…

…Or was he…?

“Remember…” Varian heard the word whispered in his ear, and he only just managed to risk a quick glance behind him to see the hooded figure still seated many yards away now, never having moved from his spot, but his voice sounding like it was coming from right next to him.

“Remember what we talked about…Puer Lunae…”

With a small shudder, Varian continued to trundle behind Ruddiger into the increasing darkness, and after some minutes he wondered if it would ever end.  On and on they walked, with Ruddiger looking over his shoulder periodically to make sure Varian was still there and keeping pace with him.  Varian would make eye contact back with him, but otherwise he seemed strangely distant, very much unlike how Ruddiger was used to Varian behaving around him.

Something was wrong…but what?

Ruddiger tried giving a few cheerful trills in Varian’s direction, hoping to get some sort of reaction from him.  “We’re almost there Varian!  I’m sure of it!  Just keep going!” he hoped he was able to convey to his master.  But aside from only a slight raising of the corners of his mouth, Varian continued to move on in a fog.  Ruddiger frowned.  He didn’t like this at all.

Eventually, after what felt like near hours of walking in pitch-blackness (though it could’ve only been mere minutes), Ruddiger let out a squeal of delight as he saw a dim light form somewhere ahead of them.

It was the way out!

Bouncing with excitement as he looked back at Varian behind him, Ruddiger coaxed his master forward as he began to take off with swift scurrying towards the source of the light ahead of them.

“H-hey!” Varian shouted as he ran behind him.  “Not so fast Ruddiger!  Wait for me!  Where are you going?” 

Ruddiger stopped, confused by Varian’s question as he looked from Varian, to the light before them, and back to Varian again.

“Oh, don’t scare me like that!” Varian scolded him harshly as he came up to him.  “You almost left me in the dark back there!”

Ruddiger blinked up at him, nonplussed.  Then it occurred to him that somehow Varian could not see the light before them.  He was blind to it.  Ruddiger was almost certain this was due to whatever dark magic the stranger had used on Varian, and it became clear to the little creature that this was to make sure Varian couldn’t have left this trap in his mind without a guide. 

“So, that was his game,” Ruddiger thought.  “Well, thank goodness I got here when I did then!”

Gently, Ruddiger tried to reassure Varian by brushing up against his legs again, and then proceeded to lead him on again at a steady pace (though not running now), hoping that his confident strides would give Varian some reassurance that he knew where he was going.

“Wait!  Wh-what is it boy?” Varian asked as he came along behind, his voice somewhere between annoyed and alarmed as Ruddiger continued to lead him into the dark.  “Where are you going?  What are you-?”

Suddenly, Varian’s voice was cut off as the light ahead of them swelled, and while Varian still didn’t appear to be able to see it as Ruddiger could, he felt the heat and weight of it hit him like how the other guiding light did before.  Bringing his arms up to shield himself with a yelp of fright at the unseen force that hit him, Varian thought he felt himself falling backwards with the loss of balance.  Though instead of his back hitting firm, dusty turf with the fall, Varian felt himself land onto something soft, and warm.  Varian continued to hold his arms over his face defensively, as now a bright light did begin to try to pierce its way into his eyeballs.  The switch between light and dark was so jarring, that Varian could only lie there panting as his brain grappled with what was going on. 

“Varian-?”

Varian took in a sharp, frightened inhale as the unexpected voice sounded at his side, and Varian nearly flailed about in another panic as his “fight or flight” system immediately took hold of him.  But he could barely move.  While Varian had been able to bring his arms up to his face, he found he could do very little else beyond that.  He felt stiff, and groaned as the aches and pains that now coursed through his limbs, with his hands especially hurting him.

What had happened!?  Where was he!?  What was going on!?

“Whoa whoa whoa, easy Varian, easy,” the voice came again, and Varian struggled to open his eyes and have them focus on the speaker as he turned towards them from where he lay on what he now realized was a bed.  “It’s all right.  Take it easy.  You’re all right.  It’s going to be ok.” 

Varian blinked the blearyness from his eyes, and was surprised to find Queen Arianna’s face hovering over him from off to the side, and he just barely felt the gentle touch of her hand on his cheek as he came around.

“Y-…your majesty?” Varian croaked out weakly, his brain thoroughly confused as he saw her smile big, breathing out a sigh of relief, and the feeling of Ruddiger now nudging affectionately at his side.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Arianna breathed with clear relief, and seemed to be struggling to hold back tears as she said it.  Varian had no idea why this was, but he soon had other things to think about, as he looked passed Arianna’s shoulder to see two other people in the room with them, both mirroring Arianna’s look of relief.  One was a stranger to Varian, though he was just able to recollect seeing her dimly in the night sometime before he had lost consciousness. 

The second, of course, was Xavier.

“…Xavier…”

The moment was brief, but it was a moment Xavier would never soon forget…and not in a good way.  For in that moment, as Varian’s eyes met his, Xavier did not see relief, joy, or even sadness there in the boy’s countenance as he caught sight of him.  Instead, in that moment, in Varian’s eyes, Xavier saw a combination of the last things he ever would’ve wanted to see from his apprentice directed at him.  In those eyes, Xavier saw a combination of fear, then bewilderment, and then finally, an all out dark glare directed right at him.

The moment was fleeting, for soon enough their eye contact with one another was broken by Sabine slipping passed Arianna to attend to Varian, whose attention was now diverted elsewhere as she began asking him questions and tending to his needs.  But it was a moment that had imbedded itself forever upon Xavier’s heart.

For in that moment, he knew...Varian didn’t trust him anymore.

[girlwithacrown]

Stuck

my first fanfic ... no warnings, mild swearing

They could not figure out which spell Lily had used. Madame Pomfrey had not given it a real try, but instead found their punishment fitting and hilarious.

Ever since the other marauders had figured out Remus' "furry little problem", Sirius had started to challenge his friend to little games of strength - just so he could proclaim to have defeated a werewolf. James found it hilarious, of course, although he could not bring himself to the same degree of insensitivity. It wasn't helping that Remus refused him most of the time: "Are you a wolf or a chicken"? That damn mischievous Black smile. Remus just could not bare the physical attention of his handsome friend any more. The constant nudging and tackling had messed further with his already messy dreams.

In an attempt to resolve this issue once and for all Remus had lured Sirius into an arm wrestling match, something so outragious muggelish that the notorious marauder could not refuse. Remus had not even planned on winning, but Sirius sometimes was just so infuriating. So it was definitely his fault when their hands slipped and caused a chain reaction resulting in the spilling of pumpkin juice over Lily's essay on the Declaration of Vampire Rights. Her fast and unspoken hex directly met their still entangled hands and they had not been able to detach them since.

"Is it really so bad to be stuck with me?" Remus had not talked to Sirius since his miserable attempt to disolve the hex by changing in Padfoot had caused them to trip over - Remus bruising his already bad shoulder. Now they where lying in Remus bed, him trying not to think about the next morning when they would be forced to hold hands at breakfast. It should not have been LIKE THIS. Also, not thinking about the possibility to close the gap between them. No sleep then, he thought to himself, with a deep and grumpy sigh.

James and Peters constant giggles had eventually

been replaced by their snoring. Remus shoulder still hurt and he shifted his body to release some of the pain, without closing the wide gap to Sirius, gasping when it did not work. Sirius must haved misread this as another unnerved sigh (of which there had been quite a few in the last hours).

"Oh for fuck sake, Moony. I will cut my arm of when you think it's so unbearable to be stuck in bed with me."

This made Remus laugh. Whenever he had imagined being stuck in bed with Sirius it had not been because of a hex. "My shoulder hurts, you fucking moron"

"Oh ... should I... I could ..." Sirius sat up straight abruptly, lifting up Remus with him and then drawing closer. "Which one is it?"

Remus knew it was a bad idea but the sweetness in his friends voice overwhelmed him.

"Left"

Sirius shifted behind him.

They had managed to change into pyjama bottoms, but because of their circumstance still wore their smart white shirts. Still, Sirius could feel some swelling beneath the stiff fabric just underneath the shoulderplate.

"Accio murtlap"

A small tin full of the healing lotion came flying through a small crack in the drawn red velvet curtains surrounding the bed.

Without asking, Sirius started to unbottom Remus' shirt from behind, just enough to reach into it.

The lotion instantly brought comfort and this time Remus' sigh was one of relief. A feeling that was not lasting, because without the pain to complain about, he instantly became even more aware of his situation. Suddenly, Remus felt reminded that this had been exactly the reason why he tried to prevent physical contact with Sirius to begin with.

Without making it seemed to rushed he tried to move away from Sirius, whose breath in his neck made him all dissy, not to mention his gallant hand still skin to skin with his. The grip tightend.

Sirius was not strictly known for thinking before speaking, but now his words seemd more carefully: "Why is it that you always move away from me?"

"Oh for heaven's sake. We are hexed together aren't we?"

"If I had known that's the excuse I need, I would not have resorted to tackling you"

Remus thoughts spiralled. Was it just him or seemed the room awfully quiet. This was it. He finally got Sirius into bed ... .

"Wait a sec, I have an idea .."

Sirius had removed his free hand from under the shirt and was now fiddling with the murtlap essence again.

"Oh that girl, I am going to kill her"

A strange sensation went to Remus' body as Sirius detached his trapped hand from their, what had seemed, never ending handshake. "She tampered with muggle inspired magic again - super glue handshake? We really have to forbid James to talk with her about practical jokes".

Remus looked at his now released hand, not believing that he had been attached to Sirius for some hours and had not even paused to enjoy one bit of it.

"Too soon?"

That Black smile again. "I think I could replicate it if you want a second chance". Sirius gripped Remus' hand again but instead of performing the hex he pulled Remus in. Their faces were inches apart. "Just heads up, I am going to kiss ... ". Sirius could not even finish his warning. Remus had already moved towards him, closing that final gap between their lips.

Sirius scent rushed through Remus' nose, his taste, his hands. This was it. This was what he wanted since the day Sirius started to grow his hair out and became the most attractive wizard of history. That damn Black smile.

But Sirius pulled away. Remus opened his eyes to find his crush looking at him suspiciously. Oh no, not the thought spirals again. "Remus?", he was holding his stare but barely keeping it up. "Can we just pretend that we did not need a hex from Lily to finally start snogging?"

"I actually thinks she deserves this and also I am going to give her all my money as a thank you gift".

"Well then just kiss me again"

-----

"Hiya Lily, enjoying breakfast?", Remus was really good at hiding his excitement.

Lily glanced up, one hand still engaged in rewritting her essay, the other holding a buttered toast: "Hey Boys, still not figured out the counter spell?"

Sirius was much worse at sounding severe, beaming with happiness: "Well you are just way to clever for us. Seems like we are going to be stuck together forever"

Lily smiled into her coffee mug: "Oh what a pity", then, more suspicious, glanced at the again. "Wait a moment... Sirius, why are your lips swollen. Remus ... Is this a fucking love bite above your collar? Oh for fuck sake, you are just holding hands aren't you? FINALLY ..."

[lifeinahole27]

CS ff: “You’re the Tune that Stuck” (au)

Summary: A soulmates au where you can have any number of things happen to reveal you have a soulmate. In this one, Emma suddenly hears the songs that her soulmate are either listening to or have stuck in their head. 

Rating: M for language just in case.

Word Count: Just under 8.5k

A/N: Just under the wire, here’s one of the fics that I mentioned in my retrospect, miraculously finished just in time. Please excuse any errors, as this is un-beta’d, and please excuse my bastardization of the movements of a symphony to break this down properly. One funny shout out, though: This fic was born and spiraled out of control after an exchange I had with @seastarved longer ago than I can actually remember, so I dedicate the concept to you, my friend. To all of you, Happy Whatever you celebrate, Merry Christmas, and I’ll be back soon with a January Joy and a CSLB to share. -xo

Prelude

Three times. Three times in the last week, she’s randomly gotten “The Song That Never Ends” stuck in her head. Out of nowhere. She doesn’t listen to that song. Who actually listens to that song? She’s not sure she’s ever liked that song, so why would it pop into her head just for fun and stick around for a few hours before escaping again?

The first time is at work, as she types up reports, and she doesn’t even realize she’s humming it until David, her friend and partner, clears his throat in that obnoxious way to let her know she’s doing something to annoy him, which in turn, annoys her. They stare at each other, with Emma glaring harder, until he clears his throat again in the way that says, ‘As you were,’ because he realizes he won’t win the fight.

The second time is at home while Emma is doing laundry. She’s halfway through draping her line-dry items on the rack when it suddenly starts playing, and she tries to change the song to something she actually likes for several minutes, before she decides instead to just imagine television static until the song goes away.

The third time, she doesn’t realize it has even reared its ugly head again until Mary Margaret, David’s lovely wife who is one of her best friends and her son’s elementary school teacher, asks if she is okay. Apparently, grunting out the tune is cause for alarm.

Mary Margaret hums in consideration after Emma explains what’s going on.

“What?”

“David and I didn’t realize we were soulmates until we were engaged, you know. We have these silly little birthmarks on the bottoms of our feet that match up if we press them together.”

“How did you not notice that? You dated for six years before he even proposed!”

“Emma, honey, when our feet were bare, we were hardly concerned with the bottom of our feet,” the sweet woman says with an obvious leer.

“I’m glad Henry isn’t around to hear this filth. From his teacher.” The other woman snickers, and Emma tries to hold back a smile. “You’re gross. I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Emma professes, making a face and moving to Mary Margaret’s side to pick at the food she’s preparing for lunch. “So, what, you think someone out there is listening to this song and that’s why it keeps getting stuck in my head? You think I have a soul mate?”

There’s a nod of agreement, even as Mary Margaret smacks her hand away from raw dough for her famous chocolate chunk cookies. “Could be worse, he or she could be listening to Henry the Eighth.”

“Speaking of, Henry is the only soul mate I need,” Emma finalizes, signaling the end of the discussion.

The aforementioned song gets stuck in her head, all her own doing, and she practically screams it in her mind in retaliation.

And thus, the war begins.

-x-

It turns out that once you figure out you have a soul mate that can hear the songs you’re listening to (or, heaven forbid, the ones that get stuck in your head) the worse the whole business gets. Suddenly, after Open House before the new school year begins, he’s aware of the music filtering in and out of his head like someone keeps turning the dial on the tuner. Whether the person on the other end of Killian’s brain knows it or not, he or she does a marvelous job picking the worst songs at the absolute worst times.

“Henry the Eighth” is bad enough, especially since he can’t stop thinking about one of his students and the crush he has on his unapproachable mother. Then there’s the time the children learn “Kookaburra” on their recorders, which is nearly derailed when Killian almost starts to play “Baby Got Back” halfway through the round-robin.

He will never forget the moment that Beastie Boys pops into his head during the one quiet hour he spends in the classroom, and he resists the urge to jam out to it in front of a full classroom.

He engages in gentle warfare for a day after he’s caught humming “Call Me Maybe” in front of Mary Margaret, who lifts her eyebrows almost to her pixie hairline at the song of choice. She seems to stop and consider him for a long moment before Killian coughs out an apology and scuttles back to his arts and music wing.

“What’s the most obnoxious song you know?” he asks the same fellow teacher a few days later. He’d been up most of the night with Backstreet Boys songs playing, and it’s time for retaliation. His hands have spent a significant amount of time in his hair during the last few hours, so he knows he looks disheveled and tired, and probably sounds crazy on top of it.

“Probably something like ‘The Song that Never Ends’ or something along those lines,” Mary Margaret responds, watching him carefully for something while she sips at her tea.

“Oh bloody hell, no. Not that one. That was a recent lesson on the recorder and once the kids started, they wouldn’t stop They kept derailing lessons for over a week. Little monsters, I tell you.”

If anything, the woman across the table looks like she’s trying not to laugh at him. “You could try something soothing instead of going for annoying, instead? Just a thought.”

Allegro

One day she wants to kill her soul mate, and the next she almost wants to find who they are when they pick songs like they did last Thursday. She viewed that hour of instrumental music as a peace offering during her overnight patrol, so she’s tried to ease up on how annoying she goes with the songs lately.

She toys with the idea of how to figure out who this person is, tries to come up with the easiest way to figure out whether it’s a he or a she, if they’re local, if they always have such shitty taste in music…

She’s technically on lunch when she starts this new game of theirs, but she stays glued to her computer in order to find the perfect song while David is more than likely making eyes at his wife. After a couple initial search phrases, she finds the one that might get the point across quickly. Her earphones go in, cautious as ever so that David doesn’t figure out what she’s doing if he comes back. While she didn’t tell Mary Margaret not to tell her husband about her soul mate, she’s sure it wouldn’t have mattered; her friend is classically bad at keeping any kind of secret.

Checking to make sure she’s still alone one more time, she hits play on the video she’s pulled up on YouTube, assured that she is the only one listening to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” in this room, while someone else, somewhere else is hearing it, too.

She goes back to her paperwork, losing all interest in the pb&j she slapped together this morning in interest of time, and instead keeping herself busy to see if she gets a response when the song ends.

When the tune ends, she clicks out of the video and waits, and surprisingly is not disappointed. He’s apparently caught onto the game, listening to “A Boy Named Sue” wherever he is.

The song plays all the way through, and she has a smile on her face when David walks back in. He asks her a question, motioning for her to take out the earbuds she forgot to take out when she was done with her own song. “Listening to some good tunes on your break?”

“Ah, yeah,” she responds. She clicks out of the various windows open and stashes her headphones, giving a sheepish smile in the process.

“As long as it helps get through that mountain of paperwork you always leave behind, I’m not going to complain. Just don’t play Backstreet Boys for at least another month.” He grins at her, returning to his own desk as Emma huddles behind her monitor.

So, her soulmate knows she’s a woman. And she knows her soulmate is a man. Emma can’t figure out what else to share with him, though, so she aims for some of her favorite tunes for a little bit.

They start to pass songs back and forth when they have time, with the one that’s free picking up the slack if the other is unable to return the favor. Whoever is on the other end of her brain clearly doesn’t work on Saturdays and Sundays if his frequency of music increases where hers cuts back as she works through the weekend.

-x-

In the middle of September, Mary Margaret invites Killian to one of the high school’s football games. It turns out her husband is one of the assistant coaches, so she spends a great deal of time in the stands during the football season.

“Normally, my best friend comes with me, but she’s not back in town yet,” his fellow teacher explains.

“I’m happy to accompany you any time,” Killian says, smiling at her comfortingly and following up into the bleachers.

Despite living in the states for a few years, and living in Storybrooke for slightly less time than that, this is the first time he’s gotten to enjoy the customary American tradition of Friday night football. The Storybrooke marching band might not be big, but they are mighty, and he finds himself humming along with the fight song before the game even begins.

By the second half of the game, he’s cheering just as loud as the rest of the crowd, getting swept up in the simple emotion of victory at the end of the game.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to my husband,” Mary Margaret declares as the band exits their spot in the modest stadium, the crowds dispersing into the chilly autumn night as the team leaves the field for the locker room.

Introductions move on to coffee at Granny’s when the need to chase away the cold that’s seeped into their fingers and toes becomes a necessity. While Killian had seen the sheriff a number of times, it’s his first time interacting with him, and he finds he rather likes the man. Not normally one to partake in regular frivolity, Killian decides to pencil in the next game as well. He doesn’t have much of a social life beyond the school functions he helps out at, so attending some football games might be a mark in the positive interactions column that is currently desperately lacking.

Halfway through his second cup of coffee with the Nolans, the object of his silly affections bursts through the door, a flurry of blonde hair and red leather.

“Mary Margaret! I have new information!” The words are out of her mouth right before she notices him sitting there, and her head tilts to the side in a way he can only classify as adorable as she sizes him up. “Hello, Mr. Jones.”

“Please, call me Killian,” he says, extending his hand as she settles in the booth across from him. Her gloves are also leather, and her handshake is firm and decisive.

“What’s the new information?” Mary Margaret asks as soon as she can command her friend’s attention again.

“Oh, nothing, never mind.” Emma waves her hand in the air before giving the other woman a significant look. Later, she seems to say without words, and Killian fights the smile that wants to break through at witnessing the signature girl-talk. “So, who won the game?”

As they continue to chat about the team and such, Killian gets to observe Emma as he’s never seen her. Usually, she’s incredibly reserved, her responses clipped and efficient as she comes in for conferences. Once, at the open house at the start of the year, he managed to smile at her without tripping over his feet, which he constituted as a job well done. This intimate setting allows him to see her as a woman, instead of just the parent of one of his students.

Despite the coffee, he can feel his early morning catching up to him, even as Emma starts revving up. Killian marvels at the energy of the woman, especially when he notes that she’s only had hot chocolate since she sat down. She looks a little disappointed as he announces he’s turning in for the night, which Killian takes as his own personal victory for the evening.

“Thank you again for a lovely evening, Mary Margaret, David. And lovely to see you again,” he trails off awkwardly, suddenly realizing that he doesn’t know how to address her. Does he call her by her surname? Will using her first name seem too personal? Heaven forbid he just call her Henry’s mother, which is how he’s used to referring to her in his mind.

“Just Emma,” she says, saving him from a tailspin of confusion and worry. She smiles, and when she fixes that look on him, he’s lost to the green of her eyes and the dimple in her chin, to the lines that bracket her mouth.

“Well, hopefully we’ll get a chance to do this again soon, just Emma,” he says, his smile bordering on suave as he takes her hand and kisses the back of it, her skin just as smooth as the leather gloves she removed shortly after sitting down.

The overt display of flirtation is normally against his nature, and he clears his throat nervously as he drops her hand and straightens, shuffling from the bench a moment later.

Emma is still watching him when he turns back at the door, a similarly awestruck look on her face that is only broken when Mary Margaret asks her a question. With a smile stuck on his face, he exits the diner and heads for home, only remembering he has a soulmate out there and feeling awful about forgetting when the solemn version of “I Want to Hold Your Hand” pops into his head as he walks through his own front door.

-x-

“David, it’s girl-talk time,” Mary Margaret informs her husband not a moment after Killian walks out the door of Granny’s diner.

“Why can’t I stay?”

“Do you really want to hear about my love life?” Emma asks, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

“Okay then. I’ll see you at home,” David says, leaning across the table at the same time his wife does in order to give her a quick peck on the cheek. Emma would be unhappy with the display of affection if it were anyone else, but she loves these two far too much to take issue with their gooey mannerisms.

When David is gone and they’ve refreshed their drinks, Emma switches to the other side of the table in order to sprawl out a little.

“He lives in Storybrooke,” she tells her friend excitedly.

“Who? But more importantly, what was that between you and Killian tonight?”

“What was what? I didn’t do anything.”

“Emma.”

“Don’t Emma me, I didn’t do anything! He’s just… really pretty, okay? I’m allowed to flirt with people even though I have a soulmate out there.”

“Out there in Storybrooke, no less,” her friend comments.

“Oof, yeah. I wonder if I’ve ever met him before.”

“I’d bet on it,” Mary Margaret says, but there’s something in her voice that causes her to continue after the short declaration. “I mean, it’s a pretty small town.”

Emma stares at the other woman for a second, her eyes narrowed as she considers the first half of the sentence. In the end, she just hums her agreement as she sips her hot chocolate.

“Anyway, how do you know he lives in Storybrooke?”

“He was listening to the fight song tonight. He must’ve been at the game. I’m almost sad I missed it now.”

“Hey! Why only almost? Didn’t you miss hanging out with me tonight?”

“Mary Margaret, if I could get you without the Friday night testosterone, I would be in heaven. You’re lucky they have those elephant ears or else I’d likely never show up.”

“You’re no fun,” is Mary Margaret’s astute observation.

They spend the rest of their beverages speculating who might be her soul mate, but all Emma can think about is Killian, and the way he kissed her hand – how soft his lips were, his fingers callused from years of playing musical instruments. Still, there was something special about that contact, and she doesn’t even mean to think of the Beatles song that floats through her mind, confused and slightly annoyed that she would ever want to hold anyone’s hand.

-x-

It’s a strange sensation, to have someone else’s music buzzing around his head. As October comes and goes, he hears the faint strains of “Happy Birthday” come through in his sleep one night, mentally joining along so she knows he’s wishing it to her as well. November is over in the blink of an eye, and he’s expecting another quiet Thanksgiving at his home, working on music or lesson plans, as it’s not his holiday, anyway.

Mary Margaret seems to realize that he’s on his own right as the date is approaching, so she invites him to their place. “We have a small rag-tag group that comes together for the day,” she tells him. “It’s just David and I, a couple friends you’ll meet, and Emma and Henry.”

He makes sure to give a customary “I’ll think about it” response and waits until he runs into her in the teacher’s lounge again during lunch. “As long as it’s not an imposition,” he says, making that his one condition. “And you’ll let me prepare a dish.”

“Cheesy potatoes. I don’t have the room in my oven this year, and they’re Emma’s favorites,” she tells him, giving him a brilliant smile and hurrying off to her classroom.

Snow is falling when he arrives at the Nolan’s charming home, looking bright and warm against the muted hues of oncoming winter, but the chimney is sending up smoke and the front door is open and fogged, and it all looks more and more inviting the longer he stands out in the driveway of the farmhouse. It’s all too picturesque, and Killian wonders how he landed in such a cozy position, invited to the family dinner of a family who isn’t his. His casserole dish won’t last forever in its carry-case, not without cooling anyway, so he finally walks up the steps of the porch, appreciating the soft sounds of the worn wood beneath his boots.

He knocks twice on the storm door, but there’s no response amongst the clamor of silverware hitting the floor, a loud curse, and a sharp laugh which follows closely behind. Something echoes in his head, and he wishes he could rewind the noise to see what it was, but it’s gone as quickly as it sounds. Instead of waiting to be invited in, he slips through the door, knocking his boots on the doorframe and calling out as he does.

Mary Margaret is in the entryway in a flash, apologizing for the lackluster greeting as she explains that Emma dropped the entire box that held the fine utensils they use for fancy meals. “She’s currently up to her elbows in soapy water washing them all, and Ruby isn’t helping by teasing her about it.” She takes the portable carrier from his hands, zipping away to the dining room for a moment before she’s back in front of him. “Let me take your coat. There’s a tray for shoes under the hooks there, and if you’re weird about walking around in socks like Emma is, there are slippers in that basket right there.”

His coat practically vanishes from his shoulders as the whirlwind pixie bustles around him pointing and explaining and hanging before she’s all but sprinting back to the kitchen. She calls over her shoulders for him to follow, that they’re already working through a bottle of wine but she’s on her fifth cup of coffee, and he’s welcome to either option.

Truthfully, he’s not given a choice, as a glass of wine is thrust into his hand as soon as he enters the kitchen, put there by a leggy brunette with the tips of her hair dyed red and her lips painted to match. “You must be the fresh meat.”

“Ruby,” comes the stern name, and Killian glances at Emma. She’s standing at the sink, her sweater tied around her waist and yellow rubber gloves on her hands. Her hair is tied back but falling in her eyes as she turns to narrow her eyes at the other woman. “Hi Killian, ignore her. You’re not up for slaughter. It’s just been a few years since anyone new came to dinner and that was long enough for her to forget her manners.”

“All’s well, love. I’m much tougher than I look. Is there anything I can help with?”

“Nope,” Mary Margaret says as she appears out of nowhere, her exuberant personality shining in the overheated kitchen. “David and Henry are in the den with some friends. Why don’t you go join them and I’ll call you if I need anything?”

He nods, giving a slightly suspicious look to Ruby who is still sizing him up. He catches Emma’s eyes when she glances over her shoulder and winks at her. Well, he tries to wink. It’s more a weird, delayed blink where one eye shuts more and faster than the other, but her lips turn up and it almost looks like she’s blushing when she turns back to her task.

While he exits the kitchen to join the others in the direction that Mary Margaret indicated, he slows his pace when he’s on the other side of the swinging door, just managing to hear a snappy “Ruby, don’t start. And don’t touch,” from Emma before he continues to his destination. He smiles to himself, continuing on to meet the others.

There’s a suspicious thing that happens every time Killian is near Emma: he forgets about the songs in his head, he forgets that there’s a soul mate out there for him, and he forgets most of his other sensibilities. Instead, he’s enchanted by Emma in every way. Her laugh is her own form of music, and in a dining room full of her friends and son, it’s one she sings every few minutes.

He’s already interacted with Henry plenty. The young lad is talented beyond his second-grade years, and he’s happily picked up every instrument in Killian’s music classes. More than that, he’s always marveled at how Henry treats him as if he were an equal. And he writes songs – lyrics and poems, pages full of his scrawly handwriting, notes hastily written down to catch them as if they were running out of his head – and he’s brought them to Killian to ask for his help. The boy is brilliant and funny and Killian now knows that he gets much of that from his mother.

He and Emma find themselves on a covered couch in the Nolan’s three-season room, each with a steaming mug in their hands as Emma sips from her standard hot chocolate and Killian drinks coffee, and he tells her all about his adventures with her son. Said son is in the den, curled up on the loveseat in a post-turkey food coma. Roland is draped over the arm of the same chair, his toddler body too exhausted from the sheer amount of food he consumed.

The rest of the adults are in various places around the house, telling stories or cleaning up, but he’s lucked out because it’s just Emma by his side, their conversation quiet and her thigh warm where it presses against his. Beyond the vinyl covered windows, the wind is gusting, but Killian feels more comfortable out here than he did in the house, as overheated as it was from the oven being on all day.

“The cheesy potatoes were really good, by the way,” Emma says between topics. “They’re my favorite.”

“Mary Margaret said as much. I’m glad they pass the test, Swan.” He wonders if there will ever be occasion for him to make them again, if this is not the last of the cluster-family meals he’ll get to enjoy, but that feels like he’s getting ahead of himself.

There’s another comfortable lull in conversation before Emma speaks again. “You’re really great with Henry, you know.”

“He’s an exceptional young man, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. He’s quite the writer, as well.”

She chuckles at that, shaking her head knowingly. “He has been since he started talking. He told his own bedtime stories. Started making up songs before he knew what some words even meant. I don’t know where I went right with him, but clearly I’ve done some good.”

“I’d say you’ve done a lot of good, love. We aren’t supposed to claim favorites, but he’s mine. Without a doubt.”

“You’re his favorite teacher, but don’t tell Mary Margaret that. She’d be heart broken,” she whispers conspiratorially.

Their conversation turns to the upcoming holidays, and the Celebration of the Season pageant they’ll have before they break for Christmas and New Year.

“Henry will be playing a solo. I don’t know if he’s told you that, but the other kids wouldn’t even audition because they heard him play.”

“He doesn’t let me listen while he practices. He wants me to be surprised,” she informs him, her smile going affectionate around the edges. “Listen,” she starts.

“Swan,” he says at the same time, and they stare at each other for a moment in the dim lighting from the windows above their heads.

She leans in first, her lips catching his in a soft kiss. He thinks he hears the soft strains of Etta James in his head, but he’s too focused on the way her hand is slipping around to the back of his neck, her fingers sliding into the hair that rests just above the collar of his sweater, to really be sure. His thoughts fly far away when she breaks away to set down her mug, and he does the same just before both of her hands are framing his face and she’s kissing him again, harder this time, more tongue involved, and he’s not sure he’s ever tasted anything as sweet as her kiss, nor is he sure he’ll ever replace it in his life.

One minute she’s almost climbing into his lap, and the next she’s pulled away, her forehead pressed against his for the length of a heartbeat or twenty.

“That was…”

“I gotta go. I have to get Henry home. Um, have a good night, Killian.”

She snatches her mug from the wicker table as she goes, and then she’s back in the house.

It’s partly because he’s stunned, and partly because he recognizes her need to run that leaves him sitting there until he hears Henry’s voice. Then, he slowly wanders in, lifting his hand instead of saying goodbye as her eyes dart to meet his. Henry ambles over, rubbing his eyes and giving Killian a sleepy hug around the waist.

“See you Monday,” he says, his eyes barely open as he looks at Killian. He gives the boy a small smile, placing his hands over his shoulders to return the hug. He chances a glance at Emma, whose furrowed brow and torn expression says everything he needs to know.

“Go on, lad. Your mother is waiting. I’ll see you in class.”

He watches as Henry shuffles off, grabbing Emma’s hand as soon as he’s close enough. With her son’s hand tucked in her right hand, and a bag of leftovers in the left, they head out into the cold November evening and Killian is left standing in the foyer, wondering just what happened.

Adagio

She’s an idiot. More than that, she’s a fucking idiot. No regular idiocy here. This is next-level idiot shit, Emma Swan.

For at least the tenth time today, Emma smacks her forehead onto the laminate surface of her desk.

“Are you okay?” And for at least the tenth time today, David looks like she’s going to explode into a million pieces if he looks at her the wrong way.

“I’m fine,” she groans out. “Just tired. I couldn’t sleep last night.”

“Too much sweet potato pie? Because that was my problem.”

“David, I didn’t get any sweet potato pie because you ate it all before Mary Margaret could offer it to anyone else.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” is his firm retort. “But seriously. Is everything okay? I’ve never seen you hit your head this much after a holiday.”

“Yeah, I’ve just… I’ve got a lot on my mind. But it’ll be okay.”

When she seems unwilling to talk anymore, David finally returns to his own work, allowing the quiet of Friday rest between them. Normally, in other parts of the country, everyone is out in shopping-mode. Thankfully, Storybrooke is not a big town. They don’t see the same crowds or hype that exists in other cities. So, instead of dealing with endless calls about fights, riots, and misdemeanors, they’re sitting around the station while the rest of their meager police force sleeps in.

She wasn’t lying about not sleeping. All night, she laid in bed staring at the ceiling waiting for some answer to fall from the plaster above her head. Either that or she hoped the actual plaster would fall and knock her memories loose so she would never have to remember what it’s like to kiss Killian Jones, to feel how soft his hair is, to see that confused and slightly heartbroken expression on his face as she ushered Henry out the door as fast as she could.

It's what she does: Emma gets scared, Emma runs. As sure as the clock moves forward or the trees bloom in spring, this is her pattern. Worse than just knowing her biggest flaw, there’s another downside to her rash decision to kiss the hell out of Killian last night. She has a soul mate, and said guy has been listening to sad music for at least an hour, the soulful jazz solos echoing around her brain with no escape.

There’s always the white noise trick; she can always just imagine TV fuzz again, or the weather alert sound, anything that might work to eliminate the notes that have invaded her mind. Anything has to be better than feeling whatever her soul mate is feeling for whatever reason. Why is he so down in the dumps? She thought things were going well? Can he tell that she kissed someone else? That she has (and here she swallows audibly, as if facing down the firing squad of her own mind) feelings for someone else?

No, she could drown him out, but this is her penance for kissing Killian. This is her punishment for hurting two men in one shot.

She does her best to avoid Killian over the next few weeks, but it’s hard when she’s walking through the doors of the elementary school and Killian is there, handing her a program with a subdued smile. He opens his mouth to say something, but another mother all but pushes her out of the way.

“You’ve done such a great thing here, Mr. Jones. It must be so tiring making all the arrangements for this event on your own, and coming up with educational ways to represent all the winter holidays.”

From a few feet away, Emma fiddles with her purse, trying to look back over her shoulder to see what Killian’s face looks like, but he’s mostly turned away from her at this point and she’s mad at herself for caring. The woman that bumped her keeps rambling on, and she has a hand on Killian’s bicep, squeezing it like she’s sizing it up or claiming him for herself, and it dawns on Emma that she has no right to be protective or jealous or have any feelings one way or the other about Killian. They kissed, she had an opportunity, and she ran from it like he set her on fire. Which, to be fair, he had… metaphorically, of course.

“I was just wondering if you’d like to come to our place for the holidays, since I know your family is still over in England?”

They are? What family does Killian have? Jesus, she made out with him and she knows nothing about him and she wants to feel the right to be upset that he might accept an offer to spend his holidays with another – she turns to subtly check out the hand that’s now caressing his bicep – single mother and her child? It might really be time to focus on her soul mate and set aside any other thoughts of Killian.

“Well,” Killian starts, and Emma moves. She marches straight out of earshot and into the auditorium, working her way to her seat quickly. There’s an adorable little section for parents, and Emma smiles as she finds her spot, sandwiched between Mary Margaret and the new art teacher, Ashley. She’ll have to thank Mary Margaret later for the attention to detail, putting her next to other teachers instead of the other parents of the PTA that glare at her when she can’t be there on time because one of their punk kids spray-painted the windows of Mr. Gold’s pawn shop again.

Mary Margaret doesn’t get to slide into her own seat until just before the lights dim out and the curtain goes up, so Emma makes a mental note to mention it later. Then, she’s lost in the world of holidays, of different upbringings and traditions, and lost in the ideals of kids who are still too young to be bitter, or worried, or exclusionary for the sake of making themselves feel better.

And then comes Henry’s solo, which fills Emma with more love for her child, which she didn’t even think was possible, but there it is. His little fingers work the strings of a ukulele like he’s been playing his whole life, instead of for the last three months, and his young voice floats through the auditorium, strong and sure. The lights illuminate the rest of the stage, where the other kids wait to join in, and as their voices all join together she has to fight herself to not cry. It’s the most innocent rendition of “Auld Lang Syne” she’s ever heard, and she’s captivated watching them sing a song that she would be hard-pressed to sing, even if she were sober on New Year’s.

It’s halfway through the song when Emma realizes that she’s hearing it, but she’s also hearing it echoed in her mind. He’s here. Her soul mate is at this very event, somewhere in this auditorium. But he’s closer, which doesn’t even seem possible when Emma is just about on top of the stage. She’s tempted to stand up and start wandering the rows to find him, but it would probably be rude to start asking each man in the front three rows if they’re her soulmate. So she has to wait, instead refocusing her attentions to the kids on the stage, joining in the standing ovation that the small auditorium gives to the final performance of the night.

The lights go up after the curtain call, and parents and families start wandering towards the exits to wait for their children and mingle with friends. Mary Margaret disappears to go corral people towards punch and cookies that they’ve provided, and to hawk the DVD they’ll be making available to purchase. Emma, meanwhile, lingers around her seat, checking for any songs in her head. She keeps “Auld Lang Syne” in her mind, a soft memory of the music she just heard, hoping to find someone with the same nostalgia in their expression.

None of the other men in the auditorium seem to notice her, though. They all seem to be taken, holding hands with other men and women and talking about how well their children performed. Throwing in the towel, she heads backstage to see if she can catch Henry before he enters the swarm out in the lobby, so maybe they can sneak out the back and head home, instead.

She finds him back there, all right, but he’s not alone. Killian helps him pack away his ukulele, apparently on loan from the man himself, and Emma lurks around the doorframe to eavesdrop.

“That was even better than in rehearsals,” Killian comments as he hands Henry the carry case for the instrument. “I’m incredibly proud of you, lad.”

“Thanks, Mr. Jones. Are you gonna be at the Nolan Christmas party?”

“Well, I’m going to try, but even if I can’t make it, we still have lessons starting up right after the new year begins to look forward to, aye?”

“Yeah, I guess. You make the parties more fun, and Mom really seemed to like it when you were there for Thanksgiving.”

Emma’s face goes red, thinking again of just how much she enjoyed Killian being at Thanksgiving dinner. And not just because of the kiss, even though that was definitely a highlight. She’s so lost in the memories of the way he kissed her back that she misses whatever Killian says in response, and she’s scrambling away from the doorway just in time to make it look like she’s just arriving as their voices get closer to the door. She no sooner feigns a brisk pace towards the door, making sure her boots thwack the tiles a little for emphasis, before they exit the staging area.

“Henry! There you are!” She beams at her son, bundling him close without jostling the instrument strapped over his shoulder. Henry smiles up at her, accepting the brief fawning from Emma as she ruffles his hair, taps his nose with her index finger, and frames his face with her hands. “I am so proud of you, kid. You did great up there.”

“Thanks, Mom. Goodnight, Mr. Jones,” Henry says, turning to wave at his teacher, and it takes Emma that long to realize she was pretending a little too well like he wasn’t there. Killian, however, is just leaning against the door frame, observing the two of them interact. There’s a smile on his face, one that’s soft and dreamy as he looks at the easy affection between mother and son, and then one with a slight edge of mischief when his eyes meet hers.

He only holds her gaze for a second, looking back to Henry. “Goodnight, lad. Good job.”

Henry smiles at the praise, thanking his teacher one last time before pleading with Emma to go find his friends really quick. It’s only after she’s sent him on his way that she realizes she’s cornered herself alone with Killian once more.

“That was a great concert, Killian. I should probably…”

“Swan, would you go on a date with me sometime?”

“I don’t – I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“And why not, just so I know? If you’ve got a valid reason for turning me down, then I’ll be on my way and never ask again.”

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. So, she just closes it once more. A minute passes. Maybe two. Maybe it just feels like that amount of time because she’s pretty sure they’re both holding their breath.

The jovial look he’d had on his face when Emma first walked up disappears as they stand there in the suffocating silence at the stage entrance. He reaches up to scratch behind his ear as the last of the smile fades. Finally, he looks away from her, and seems to focus on anything but her. “I’ll be on my way, then. Having no answer instead of an honest one hurts just as much, it seems.”

If she’s lying to herself, she’ll say she tries to stop him. But he turns to head backstage, and she makes no attempt to call him back or follow him. She just turns, and walks on autopilot until she finds Henry. She thinks she interacts with a couple people, but mostly she just slowly angles them out the doors to her old Bug, with no further goal in mind than getting them home.

“I fucked up,” she says out loud as she lies awake in bed that night. It’s only 10:30pm, so she reaches for her phone and types the same three words to Mary Margaret.

“We’ll fix it in the morning,” is her friend’s immediate response, like she knows exactly what Emma is going through, like she’s in on what Emma has done.

(She should’ve known better; Mary Margaret already knows that she’s fallen for Killian, and has a list of ideas ready when she walks through the door the following morning.)

Sonata

“So, as I was saying,” Mary Margaret continues once a gaggle of school children run past them on the way to Winter Break Freedom. “I didn’t realize that Emma’s name got left out of our gift exchange. And since you’re not going home for the holidays, I was wondering if you would buy her gift.”

“I don’t know if that’s a wise choice,” Killian admits, standing still and looking forward as the busses file out of the parking lot. He watches as his breath clouds in front of him, tries not to think of at least three beautiful things he could easily buy for the beautiful woman. He couldn’t help that every time he went shopping that he found things that suited her. For the record, none of them are under the recommended $25 spending limit.

“Killian, I promise. She’s the easiest one to shop for. If you just get her some kind of gourmet hot chocolate, she won’t care who gave it to her, she’ll just be eternally grateful.”

 He bites back a couple curses, aware of the sparse amount of children still running out to be picked up by their parents. He does grumble a good time or two under his breath before finally turning to look at Mary Margaret.

 A sigh, and then he finally responds. “As you wish,” he tells her.

 “No, as she wishes.”

 This feels like a terrible idea.

 It’s halfway through the Christmas party that he realizes he’s yet to see Emma at all, which doesn’t bode well. Henry is wandering from group to group, a smile on his face and candy canes in his hand to pass out to guests. The young Roland is toddling after him, a dimpled smile on his face everytime he looks up at another adult, who in turn hands him a candy cane simply for being adorable. It’s after their second circuit of the room that Killian realizes there might only be four candy canes in the whole house.

 His casserole dish with the cheesy potatoes is mixed with the other dishes brought by guests, but Killian avoids them as he snags another roll from the basket, tucking it into his napkin before he refills his rum and finds a corner quiet enough for his thoughts.

 That is how he ends up on the same side porch where Emma kissed him, tearing apart the dinner roll and sipping his rum in between bites. The thoughts all muddle in his head, leaving him somber and wistful all at the same time, and all he can focus on is the soft notes of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” that reach this far beyond the walls of the house. With the bread gone, he rests his head back against the siding on the house and contemplates what the year has given him.

 Really, it’s not even the year that’s brought him much, it’s been the last few months. It brought him Henry in his classroom again, and Emma into his life, no matter how much that pricks at his heart right now. He was pulled into this family that adopted him as if he was any brother or sister or whatever he might be called, which is touching, especially with is own brother so far away.

 Something clatters back inside, and Killian is jolted out of his thoughts to a startling revelation. The music is not loud enough to be heard all the way out here. Which means…

 Which means that his bloody soulmate is at this party. He downs the last sip of his rum and carefully maneuvers himself back inside, skirting discussions and party jokes, clasping Mary Margaret’s elbow briefly with a smile as they pass each other. There’s something that looks like hope in his fellow instructor’s eyes, and she inclines her chin to point him down the hallway towards the stairs that lead upstairs.

 He nods once, giving her a smile of reassurance as he moves off in the direction she sends him in. It’s just a matter of making his way up the carpeted steps, his feet muffled by the fibers underneath. He concentrates a little harder on the song in his head, listening for the music to get louder both physically and mentally before stopping in front of a plain door at the end of the hall. He tests the doorknob, feeling relief when it turns, and swings open the door.

 The study is small, with a desk and chair, a computer playing Christmas tunes at a level just loud enough to be heard from the hallway but still not enough to drown out the party below. The decor is pretty simple otherwise, including an armchair in the corner, where he’s surprised to find Emma, her face buried in her hands but otherwise not seeming in distress.

 What would Emma be doing…?

 Oh. Oh! His eyes go wide at the notion, and Killian takes a chance to test his theory while there’s still time to back out of the room without her seeing him. He thinks the song as calmly as he can, keeping up with the words even when she gasps and lifts her head, blinking as she looks at him.

 “Oh, thank goodness, it is you.”

 She sighs in relief and moves to stand, and he’s still trying so hard to catch up on everything that’s just been revealed that he’s momentarily and happily stunned when she briskly walks across the room and kisses him like there’s no tomorrow. Thankfully, his mind kicks over to autopilot while he focuses instead on kissing her back. The rest can be figured and sorted later; this is a more important task at the moment.

 The fabric of Emma’s dress is warm beneath his hands, and he wants to take a moment to appreciate the sight before him, but when he pulls back to do just that, she’s right there again drawing him back in. She’s humming the tune of the song playing on the computer as she carefully kisses along his cheek, and he closes his eyes to soak it all in as he hears it in his mind and echoed all around him.

 After a period of time just short of indecent, they finally pull apart, resting their foreheads together while they both smile in the afterglow of a really perfect kiss. He shakes his head in wonder, and Emma’s smile widens before she laughs. It’s a sound he recognizes now, a music of her own bouncing from his mind to hers and echoing back to him, and he marvels again at how blind they must’ve been for all these months.

 “How did you figure it out, Swan?”

 “The only person that could’ve been closer to the holiday show’s music would’ve been the person behind stage. Mary Margaret helped me come to that conclusion. I think she’s suspected since the first time she heard me whine about the infamous music lesson that shall not be named,” she says, tilting her head to the side with a touch of a wry expression that brings to mind the beginning of all of this.

 “Ah yes, of course. Also labeled as my least favorite week in September.”

 “With a little bit of thought, it was easy from there. The fight song after you went to your first football game, the way I wouldn’t hear the music if I was spending time with you,” she recounts, and pauses as she traces her thumbs over his cheekbones. “There was the sad jazz music after I kissed you and ran. I was convinced my soulmate somehow knew I’d kissed another man that I was crushing on and he could tell.”

 “How silly it all seems now,” he remarks, taking the time to map her face with his eyes, to move one of his hands up to stroke through her hair as they consider all that this revelation brings. He skips back a step into the conversation, the smirk unrestrained and his eyebrow jumping up as he questions here. “Already had a bit of a crush on me then, aye?”

 “Nope. Maybe I changed my mind.” She says it while pinching his side, and he chuckles as he gathers her close again. “What do you say, Swan, would you like to be my date for the evening?”

 “Depends on what you got me for secret Santa,” she quips, pushing up a little onto her toes to kiss him again, quick and solid and just about the most affectionate thing he’s ever felt.

 “It’s not much of a secret if you already know it’s from me.”

 “Yeah, well, Mary Margaret also didn’t leave my name out on accident, if you know what I mean.” She gives him a wink, a true and proper one that makes his a pale joke in comparison. She tugs on his hand, leading him out of the room to join the party, where no one looks remotely surprised to see their hands linked together at any opportunity they can take.

 At the end of the night, Killian has the pleasure of driving Emma and Henry home. She sneaks him one last, goodnight kiss before she shuts the door and trails after Henry. About the same time he’s pulling back up his driveway, he can hear the happy little notes of “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?” filtering into his mind. He’s already excited that he’ll have a date for that evening, and a good idea of who he’ll be kissing at midnight.

[staticscreenwriting]

Everything there is - Billy Hargrove

Synopsis: Billy’s mom is not dead in this one. She has a boyfriend though and Billy isn’t sure if he fits into this new family dynamic.

A/N: I like this story it was fun to write. I do hate the header image though, it didn’t work out the way I wanted it but at least I hope the writing is good. Hope you enjoy, feedback is very much appreciated ♥

“ I can't remember what I used to do Who I trusted whom, I listened to before I swear you've taught me everything I know Can't imagine needing someone so But through the years it seems to me I need you more and more “

Iron Maiden’s Wrathchild is blasting from his stereo, as Billy Hargrove lays on the floor of his childhood bedroom. A sweltering, clammy heat has taken over California and the floor seems to be the only place providing some kind of cooling.

The gray muscle shirt is sticking to his skin like a damn glove and he feels disgusting. It’s like all the whining he’d done about it not being warm enough in Indiana, has finally come back to bite him in the ass.

Sure he could go downstairs where there are actual working fans in several rooms that still possess all of their blades, unlike the one in his room. He could go downstairs in favor of a less sticky, less uncomfortable surrounding but really he’ll take sweaty balls over the shit downstairs any day.

Going downstairs means dealing with Craig. Dealing with his mom. Dealing with his mom and Craig. As a couple. As a family. As two people who don’t seem to be able to stop kissing and hugging and touching like a bunch of teenagers who have just discovered french kissing for the first time in their goddamn lives. A couple who bought a cat together, a fat ginger one, and called it Cat Benatar. Who do crossword puzzles together over the breakfast table and watch game shows cuddled up on the sofa every saturday evening and who go to concerts together and road trips and dates to the bowling alley. A couple who’s happy. A family that’s complete.

Going downstairs means seeing all of this and realizing once again how out of place he is here. How much he doesn’t fit into this life, this family. How happy his mom is. Without him.

It’s half an hour later and an entire run through the Killers album again, that a knock sounds at Billy’s door.

He grumbles a “come in” and hopes the person doesn’t hear it and just assumes he’s asleep or busy — or dead, and leaves him alone.

They don’t.

Craig, all blue eyes and over the top toothpaste commercial smile, sticks his head through the slightly opened door and looks at Billy as if he’s about to drop some life changing news, like a lottery win or something.

He doesn’t.

Instead he approaches Bill with a “Hey Bud” effectively wanting Billy to punch himself unconscious so he never has to hear anyone, let alone this complete stranger, call him Bud. Or champ. Or any of those weird ass nicknames Craig has been hurling at him since him and mom had picked him up from the airport.

Billy is 18, not 8. Those nicknames stopped being funny or endearing a while ago and at 18 they’re pretty much just creepy.

Also he’s not Craig’s Buddy in the first place so he doesn’t know where he got that idea from.

“ You wanna come downstairs for lunch ? Your mom made some sandwiches. Asked her to add some extra bacon. I heard you like that. I can remember when I was your age I would put bacon on literally everything”.

Billy finds it hard to even imagine this slightly balding, stach wearing man with the paint splattered jeans and the ridiculous CCR shirt, as an actual living teenager. It feels like Craig just came out of the womb all boring and bad jokes and all.

“ ‘m not really hungry, thanks though “:

He doesn’t want to be rude or ungrateful, he really doesn’t. It’s just that sitting down at the kitchen table with his mom and Craig is just gonna end up being a torture for him and he doesn’t want to end up saying something that would hurt his mom. They’re gonna ask about College and School and Friends and, god forbid, his love life. He really doesn’t fancy any of those talks. Especially not with Craig.

“ I know man, but your mom really wants to spend some time with you. Come on, give her that. She missed you “.

Billy thinks that’s the biggest bullshit of the century. Clearly his mom hasn’t missed him all that much. She went and got a whole nother life. A better one. A happy one. While she sent him to live with his dad who they both know doesn’t give two shits about Billy. Clearly she hasn’t missed him enough to have him over for Christmas instead of going on a trip to Montana with her new boyfriend.

She hasn’t missed him at all he feels like.

But she’s still his mom and even if she breaks his heart he will never be able to break hers. Because despite it all she’s still one of the few people he has ever truly loved.

“ Alright “ He murmurs and gets off the floor, shirt sticking to his back. In that moment he kinda misses his dad’s old home in California, it might’ve been a shitty run down place but it had a little pool in the back and that was basically heaven to Billy.

As he follows Craig downstairs, he can hear his mom hum along to Hall and Oates. She’s in a summer dress and her hair is up in some intricate braids and Billy almost doesn’t recognize her. This isn’t the woman that stayed behind while he was sent away. Back then she was all tired eyes and messy hair and sweater sleaves pulled over her hands. This woman had her shit together in the best way possible. Billy isn’t sure he’ll ever fit into this equation.

“ There’s my boy. Come sit “ she exclaims as she spots Billy waking into the kitchen and pats the barstool by the kitchen isle where a plate is already waiting for him.

Billy can’t remember the last time his mom made a home cooked meal for him. Back when he was a little boy she had a habit of trying out the most ridiculous dishes from her own mother’s cookbook, which usually resulted in the entire family feasting on a big cheesy pizza because she burned the dish. When things got bad between her and his dad, she stopped trying all together.

Sitting down at the kitchen isle, Billy starts chomping down on the sandwich. It’s not the most outrageous and delicious 4 course meal but there’s bacon and cheese and that’s basically all he needs.

For a moment he feels like a kid again, who’s mom greets him after school with sandwiches and juice boxes and hugs and love.

Then he notices that neither his mom nor Craig seem to be eating anything. In fact, they’re not even sitting down. They’re cooped together, Craigs arm around his mother’s waist as they both intensely focus on Billy himself.

“ You guys alright ? “

“ Yes, yes. Of course “ his mom exclaims, her words coming out jumbled and too quick for Billy’s liking. There’s something she isn’t telling him and it’s both annoying and hurtful.

“ Actually we are more than alright “ Craig speaks up from beside her.

There’s this look in both their eyes of excitement and joy but also fear of judgement and anxiety. Whatever it is they’re trying to tell him, Billy isn’t sure he’s going to like it very much.

His half eaten sandwich now completely abandoned, Billy raises his eyebrows in question.

“ What’s that supposed to mean then ? “

“ I — “ his mom starts and takes a deep breath before continuing “ we. We have something to tell you. There’s a reason I asked you to come visit me this summer. Not only because I missed you but also because there’s something really big you need to know “.

She pauses again and Billy feels like every second that goes by he gets a little more sick to his stomache.

“ What is it, mom ? “

“ Craig asked me to marry him and I said yes. The wedding is next saturday and I — Billy I just really wanted you there for it. We’re just gonna keep it real small. Get married at the courthouse and then have a tiny celebration at the Comet View. There’ll be dancing and drinks and good food. You know, just a fun night “.

Billy feels like he just drank and entire bottle of ice cold water in one go. His insides are frozen, his mind is frozen. There’s something about these news that make it impossible for him to process them. It’s like a thunderstorm crashing down on him in the middle of an Indiana winter.

A relationship was one thing but marriage ? Marriage is big and it means a lot and it’s — forever. And it feels like that might just completely close the door on Billy ever being a part of his mother’s life that isn’t just a visit every few months if at all.

“ Billy ? “

He realises that they expect and answer. A congratulation. Something. But can he really pretend to be happy about something that might just break his heart entirely ?

Yes he can.

Pretending is all he ever does.

“ Mom that’s — good. Congrats. Really, that’s great “.

He hugs his mom and shakes Craig’s hand and he needs to get out. The nerves in his fingers and and his toes are tingling and his heart is beating at a speed he’s sure it shouldn’t be. He’s hot and cold and everything in between and he needs to be somewhere else.

Somewhere he feels happy and safe and calm and comfortable and — like home.

Somewhere with his girl.

He knew he’d find her here. It’s her place, their place.

While the tourists and the loved up couples and the families mostly flocked to the pier, (Y/N) and Billy had found their own little spot of heaven and calm in the form of an abandoned beach watch tower further down the shore where the driftwood accumulated and the white sand wasn’t as picture perfect.

But it was theirs. Unofficially sure but it was. He hopes it still is.

“ Hey Chewie, didn’t expect to see you here “.

It’s like no time has passed and yet it feels like another life completely. She’s there in her shorts that are way too tiny to even be called that and shades on her face shaped like stars. There’s a sunhat on her head and a book in her hand and he’s sure he’s never seen anyone more perfect.

She is his poison and his cure all wrapped in one big mess of a girl. She is perfect and flawed, complicated and so well put together. She is everything and all.

He wishes he could’ve stayed. Wishes that the future he had so desperately wanted to have with her wasn’t but a mere dream to wander off to at nights he couldn’t seem to fall asleep.

He wishes she would still love him. And that the universe would work out for him for once, so he could allow himself to love her more.

“ Why am I Chewbacca ? “

“ The hair ?! “ she says and motions to his curly mullet. There’s a laugh hidden in her words and it makes the anxious tingles in his fingers disappear for a moment.

“ Fair enough. What makes you Han then ? “

“ Well, you always made sure I shot first “.

Billy almost chokes on his own spit right then. This beautiful girl with a smile that can compete with the sun, spouts dirty jokes so casually like there’s nothing about it. But that’s who she is, who she’s always been. And Billy’s heart aches so much when he realises just how much he missed her.

“ Come here you big Wookie ! “ she exclaims, takes off her shades, and pulls Billy into a hug. She’s all warm and familiar and she smells like the ocean and her signature Opium perfume that Billy knows so well because he used to buy her a new one every Christmas.

He kisses her head softly like old times. Like when things were good and they were happy and they didn’t have a lot but they had each other and that was really all the needed. Now he has a shitty room in a shitty house in a shitty town. With people he can’t stand and a family that shouldn’t even be allowed to be called a family.

And she has —

He honestly doesn’t know because he never bothered to call. Not only did he want a clean cut to make it possible for her to move on eventually, but he was also a fucking coward and calling her, hearing her voice, hearing she was happy without him would’ve killed him.

“ You doing good ? “ he asks and almost has a heart attack as she looks up at him with her big beautiful eyes that hold so much love he can’t even fathom it properly.

“ I’m okay. What about you ? “

He could lie. Tell her how amazing his life is and how happy he is. How it doesn’t break his heart to see his mother move on to a life that he has no place it. How Hawkins is all he ever dreamed of and how he doesn’t miss her like crazy.

He could, but he doesn’t.

He’s done a lot of shit in his part, still does a lot of shit, but one thing he’s never done, is lie to (Y/N).

She’s always been his person. The one that you can’t and don’t ever lie to. She knows him inside out and accepts him still. All faults and issues and baggage.

You don’t lie to people like that.

“ Mom’s getting married “.

He wants to say so much more because there’s so much more bubbling inside of him but he has absolutely no idea how to put them into words. It’s too much, too fast. So he leaves it at that.

“ I know “

“ You do ? “

“ Yeah. Just because you left doesn’t mean I stopped all contact with your family “

That makes him feel a little better although he doesn’t really know why. Maybe it’s because it reminds him that she was so much more than just some highschool girlfriend. She was his girl. Part of his family. And knowing that some part of that stayed, some part of that is still there, makes him happy.

“ Also, I don’t know if you recall but my dad owns the place where the reception is held so even if she didn’t ask me to be her maid of honor I still would’ve found out about it “.

“ She asked you to be what now ?!”

“ The maid of honor. Look Billy, when you left it was hard on both of us and we kind of bonded over that. “

That was ridiculous, his mom sent him away it’s not like he had left on his own accord. He didn’t want to leave, he would’ve given everything and more to be able to stay. But he was a minor and both his parents had decided leaving for Indiana was the better choice. That was a fucking bullshit decision.

“ I don’t think I can do this  “

“ Do what ? “

“ Watch her getting married. It’s like she’s starting this completely different life that makes her so happy. And don’t get me wrong I want her to be happy. But that life began without me and it’s gonna end without me. There’s no place for me. I don’t fit in there, (Y/N). I’m not part of this future. I’m not part of this family. “

(Y/N) untangles her arms from around his waist and takes a step back.

“ Billy, what do you think your mom did when you left ? “

“ I don’t know “ he says and shrugs his shoulders. He hasn’t really spent any thoughts on that. In his mind his mom was doing what she always did, only without him. “ Meeting men apparently. Falling in love. Being happy “.

“ You are delusional “

“ I’m sorry ? “

“ Billy I know this is not something you wanna hear but your mom wasn’t a saint before you left. She wasn’t happy but that wasn't your fault. You were her happiness, everything else was what made her unhappy. I know you see her as this superwoman who always did everything perfectly and who could do no wrong. But that’s not the person she was. You know what she did when you left ? She got help. Went to therapy, tried to fix her life so by the time you were done with highschool and maybe decided to return, she would be better. So she could be the woman you always thought she was. Everything she does, everything she did, was for you. She didn’t send you away because she didn’t want you here. It broke her heart to see you leave. She sent you away so she could fix herself without relying on you to pick up the pieces if things didn’t work out “.

Billy swallows the huge metaphorical lump that’s built in his throat while he listened to (Y/N)’s words. He had always known that his mother wasn’t happy and that she didn’t really have her shit together the way other mothers did. But he never thought it was this bad.

And maybe being angry at her was easier than admitting that she wasn’t this fearless, invincible saint he had always pictured her as.

“ She didn’t get better because you weren’t there, Billy. She went out and did something to change her life so she would be better once you came back. “

He wants to cry. He wants to scream and yell and punch something. Because life is terribly unfair and his mother of all people doesn’t deserve to ever feel unhappy. He wants to cry, but he doesn’t. Because it’s not what he does.

Instead he pulls (Y/N) back into an embrace. It’s sticky and gross but it’s what he needs. Because she’s his sun and his stars and his home and the one person to always align his planets and put things into perspective when he’s losing his head.

“ I don’t want to leave again “

He hasn’t said it out loud before but he’s been thinking about it for a while. Ever since he stepped a foot back into his childhood home. This is the place he wanted to be and even though with Craig around it all felt like things had shifted slightly, it was still better than Hawkins.

This was his home. His heart.

This was where his mom was and this weird new family she was creating with Craig and Cat Benatar. But maybe they could make some room for him in that constellation. He really didn’t need much space. Really.

“ Then don’t. “

“ You think they’d let me stay ? “

“ Billy, your mom is missing a piece of her heart whenever you’re not here. She’s got a proper job now and a wonderful man in her life that you should really give a chance. “

“ And a fat ginger cat. “

“ And a fat ginger cat ! She’s got her life figured out pretty well, you’re the only thing that’s missing. It’s ridiculous that you even consider the possibility of her not letting you stay “.

She softly combs her fingers through his hair like she always did when they were cuddled up on her couch or in the back of his car. He had missed this girl so much.

“ I’m missing a part of my heart to, you know ? “ he says and takes her face between hands.

“ You are ? “

“ Mmmmh … I got not one to watch shitty horror movies with. Got no one to steal my fries and eat the pickles off my burgers. “

“ What else ? “ she ask and rubs her nose against his.

“ There’s no one there to make fun of my mullet and then later hold onto it when I make them see stars. There’s no one to make me shitty apple pancakes. No one to sing along to Whitesnake with and no one to call me out on my shit. No one to keep me from falling apart. No one to love me. Not the way you do. Not even close. “

“ I love you Billy Hargrove and I miss eating your fries and all the burger pickles. “

When she kisses him, she tastes like the ocean and the sun and pink lemonade and home.

Billy Hargrove’s heart beats at an alarming speed as he walks his mom down the little courthouse corridor. It’s a good feeling though. It’s excitement rather than anxiety. It’s a feeling that something is changing, for her and for him. Maybe this can be a step into a new life, one that he can be a part of if he makes an effort. One that he is no doubt accepted into.

His mom cried when he had told her he wanted to stay. Good tears. Happy tears.

He kisses her cheek as he puts her hand into Craigs. Craig who turns out to be a huge Metalhead. Craig who’s quoting shitty B-Movie Horror flicks. Craig who saw something in Billy he didn’t know was there and helped him get a part time job at a garage specialized on muscle cars and vintage vehicles with a good change of full employment after high school.

Craig who’s actually a pretty cool guy.

When he sits down, in the front row, (Y/N)’s hand slips into his and for that moment he’s sure his world, his universe, is as good as can be.

It’s later at the reception when he’s dancing with his mom. Yes, Billy is dancing. He’s a good dancer, okay ?! No shame !

His mom looks at him with that typical motherly stare of pride and unfiltered maternal love. He hasn’t seen that looks in so long he’s really missed it.

“ I’m so happy to have you back. Things are gonna be good from here on out. I know it. “

Billy’s eyes wander over to the girl in the bright purple dress that he thinks is terribly ugly but she makes it work anyway.

His mom’s eyes follow his and a smile appears on her lips “ You know, you guys could be next. To get married I mean “.

“ Mom, come on “ he complains but secretly, it’s all he’s been thinking about.

“ I know, I know. Go dance with her at least “ she says and places a kiss on his cheek.

“ I’m proud of you, Billy. “

Before she can walk away he calls out to her. “ Hey mom ? “

“ Yeah ? “

“ Thank you, for everything. I’m proud of you too “

She smiles but he can see the tears in her eyes. He hopes they’re happy ones.

“ Hey pretty boy “ a voice speaks up from beside him. (Y/N) looks all crazy and bright and out of place with all the elegantly dressed middle aged friends of his mother and Craig but damn if she isn’t the best thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

“ Hey pretty girl. “

His hands grab her softly by the hips as her arms fall around his neck and they start swaying to the music softly playing in the background. If this is what his life is from now on, he’s happy. 

This new little family is broken and weird and unconventional but It could be good, real good.

He looks into (Y/N)’s eyes and sees their entire future right there in front of him. 

“ I’m glad you’re back. “ 

“ Of course I am. Can’t live with half a heart now can you ? “ 

[magpiefngrl]

snakes on a plane

I’m totally and shamelessly reposting my Slytherins travel with Ryanair headcanon, because it got buried under the original (shit)post and I know @o0o-chibaken-o0o​ was busy that week and might have missed it? Anyway, that’s my excuse. Apologies for inflicting this twice to some of you. 

So in answer to Chibaken’s reblog here about 8th years taking a trip, I wrote:

I see two different scenarios in my mind re: flights. For the Muggle trip to Greecethe school would use Ryanair or Easy Jet so it’d be a humorous fic, born of my many delightful experiences with these two airlines (all the Europeans are probably groaning right now). First, the 7th and 8th years would be faced with hundreds of people queuing at the check-in desk, holidaymakers holding straw hats and the hands of little children, who you just know they’ll be screaming during the flight. Pansy would arrive with three suitcases and a hat box for a week-long school trip and have to pay something like three hundred quid for her extra luggage, while Daphne would be sitting on top of her own suitcase, trying to shut it; in the end, she’d wear three dresses on top of each other at Luna’s suggestion. As Daphne is a natural trendsetter, several Muggles would copy her style and soon it would be a sensation. Kate Moss would be photographed nine days later outside Groucho Club in three dresses and praised for her bold accessorizing. Back at the airport, all of the Slytherins would have to pay for excess baggage while all the Hufflepuffs would throw a tantrum at security, because they wouldn’t be allowed to bring their homemade pumpkin smoothies and honey biscuits onboard (although I think food is allowed through now?). However, a new delay would arise and make Peony Dufferdill, the Muggle Studies Professor, curse the decision to take her students on a Muggle trip. The delay is of course Draco: he’d make a fuss at security for not allowing him to go through with his wand. Everyone else would roll eyes and/or glare at Draco, because they’ve been told that wands are checked luggage only. In May,  Gatwick (or god forbid, Stansted *shudders*) airport is packed with holidaymakers, I’m talking thousands of people, so staff are exhausted and travellers are in a hurry and kids are crying and so Draco would have stalled about a hundred and fifty people at the very least by arguing about his wand, and Harry would try to intervene and explain things to him (‘cause he did it a lot those days, he liked to “explain” Muggle things to Draco after class) but Draco would be in a strop, and then Peony would have to subtly Confund the airport security staff and everyone around them (she kept her wand for situations like this, but she’d had the foresight to transfigure it to a lipstick first).

Flying with Ryanair or Easy Jet is a unique kind of hell, so picture the narrow seats and aisles of the place full to bursting with travellers, kids who start screaming after takeoff, Greg trying to squeeze his bulky frame in one of those tiny seats (new headcanon: Greg turning to boxing as a way of coping after the war and releasing tension, and meeting Dudley and becoming besties! Omg). Harry would be sitting next to Ron and Hermione, but he’d rather sit next to Draco, who had been dragged in the middle seat by Greg and Blaise. At least Harry’s across the aisle from them, so Draco is full on sarcastic comments because it amuses Potter, and Harry is leaning towards them and Blaise would change from the aisle to avoid having Draco lean over him all the time, but no one wants the middle seat so he stays put. You have to pay for the food in budget airlines and the prices are exorbitant, but only the Muggleborns complain, because they know what £5.5 gets you in the real world and it’s not a tiny Panini with a slice of cheese.

Professor Peony would be sitting next to an elderly couple who do the crossword in the Times or read Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, and she’d thank the heavens for these quiet people (she can hear Draco’s sniding all the way to the back, drilling into her brain, and Potter laughing from across the aisle, and Daphne saying how she’s too hot with these dresses on and Ginny saying “You’re too hot. Period” and Millicent would be howling at some extremely rude joke McMillan is telling her, which draws the attention of several four-year-olds and their frowning parents) and so Peony would buy a tiny bottle of wine (“keep them coming” she tells the air steward) and decides when they land, they’ll have to book British Airways for the return flight and if she needs to cover the cost for the students who can’t afford it, then so be it.

Visiting Greece would be great, though. That’d be a fun fic to write :)

The second scenario that I wrote in the tags (I actually started writing a fic about it some months ago but it’s only 300 words) which @bixgirl1 also mentioned is a long-haul flight to, say, Sydney. Emirates or Singapore Air are fantastic airlines and a long-haul flight has several comforts, but these people would be in first class so it’d be amazing. I’m talking proper silverware, screens on the seat in front of them with a selection of DVDs to choose from as well as the regular in-flight entertainment, blankets and face masks and tiny toothbrushes and special socks and glasses of champagnes just before takeoff). Pansy, Daphne, Blaise, Theo, Tracey and Greg would be be sitting next to each other, but the seat next to Draco would be empty. And then Harry boards the plane because for some reason he’s going to the same convention in Sydney – and wouldn’t you know! He’s got the last empty seat, right beside Draco! What are the chances of that?! Draco isn’t too pleased, because he’s a little nervous about flying, but tries to hide it. The two of them have been out for coffee once or twice and they’ve had some pleasant chats at the Ministry after training, and once they sort of flirted in a pub (Draco isn’t sure, he was a little tipsy at the time and may have been bolder than normal and he thinks that maybe Potter was also drunk and didn’t mean whatever he said – Draco can’t remember for sure and vows never to drink again, while holding his second glass of champagne of course). Takeoff is indeed stressful for Draco, but Harry holds his hand for support, only every time he tries to pull his hand away, Draco pretends to shiver so he’ll keep holding it for some time. Harry looks amused, but Draco is sure he’s fooled him.

This flight is a whole different experience and after a delicious meal (they have a menu with several choices), the lights dim and everyone settles for a long night and covers themselves in blankets. Harry and Draco have been talking – Draco a little calmer now that the plane seems able to stay aloft; he wasn’t sure it could – and they’ve had some wine and they’re leaning back on their seats, which fully recline because first class. The blankets are super soft and they spread them over them as if they’re about to sleep. (spoiler: they won’t sleep). But they encounter some turbulence, nothing terrible, but Draco yelps, very embarrassingly, (Blaise and Theo scoff from further down the plane) so Harry takes his hand again and tries to comfort him and maybe under the blanket (it’s not Harry’s fault, he can’t see through fabric) maybe instead of finding Draco’s hand, he touches his thigh? Idk you decide.

And then they make out. Hm, I could write a bit of smut based on that, one day.

Thank you for the prodding, Chiba and Bixie, I was incredibly and miserably blocked and burned out for the past week and couldn’t write a sentence, but here’s 1k words on a headcanon lol. ❤  �� ❤

***

(This and the cock and nipple anon replies are the only writing I’ve done since Erised! Writer’s block is still going strong)

[wolf-with-a-pen]

Twin Skeleton’s Part 1

Trigger Warnings: Swearing, Death, Gore, Unreality, Murder, Being Watched?

Masterpost, Next

Please tell me if I have missed a trigger, and I will be sure to add it, if you want to be mentioned when I post a new part, ask, and if oyu want me to tag this with anything else, tell me.

This is a new series,hopefully shorter than Knockin' On Heaven's Door, it physically wouldn't let me work on it until I had wrote at least part of it. I should hopefully be able to work on it next week, but if not, expect another part of this.

Word Count:2909

I HAD BEEN dead for 6 years when they arrived. Unwilling to leave the hotel after the horrors they saw and the near-death experience they had. I watched as their friend took their last breath, just like I had so many years ago, albeit in a more... bloody way than mine. Almost reminded me of Psycho with the amount of blood that poured out of them, spilling on the yellowing carpet, pooling around both of them. However, this time I wasn't fully fixated on the dying people-not this time. No, I managed to dial 911 and somehow get an ambulance for them (I'm as surprised as you are) and made sure to memorise the perpetrator’s face in case I saw them again. Anyone willing and able to kill is bad in my books. Especially after that, but I refuse to talk about it. There's no point dwelling on the past anymore.

For the event that happened, it was quite a sunny day. Surprising since deaths almost always happen in the rain. (Yes, I'm looking at you authors. Why? Oh, and hi to the audience I suppose. Who knows why you are using my life for your entertainment, but who am I to judge? Still don't like you, but I guess I'll put up with you.) Anyways, where was I? Right, honestly, I didn't mind that day, for the life of a ghost is a lonely one- we are rare. Only people with unfinished business become ghosts. Surprisingly only a small amount of the population. Most say "I want to do X before I die", but most of those desires aren't strong enough to cause them to become a lost spirit. And even then, most leave within a few years, or their unfinished business isn't necessarily needed to be done on earth. The rest of us are doomed to stay in one room for most of eternity, invisible to almost all. Almost being important. There are a few who can see through the veil of death, but it is rarer than ghosts themselves. Imagine my surprise when I found out that 1) they are created, not born, and 2) when one found their way into my room. Are you imagining it? That's you audience. Yes? Ok, now times it by 100. Yeah, I was shocked.

It was a month later I found out. You see I believed that both of them had died. I only saw one of their souls leave, but I assumed the second's wounds were just as severe- severe enough they wouldn't survive. I was wrong. They stumbled in 4 weeks later, discharged but clearly not out of the wars. Way too many bandages were on them, almost excessively. Their entire body appeared to be covered, save for their head and hands, despite only one wound being present. And it was on their chest. They didn't need half of them. But, oh well, better safe than sorry I guess? Who knows. All I know is they were followed by one of the staff members- clearly to make sure they didn't get hurt. However, they ignored their aide to stare straight at me. Yes, that's right. At me. Not through me. In the background the aide started. “Here you are,” he announced. “It hasn’t been changed beyond the clean-up and we made sure it stayed empty the entire time,” he launched into a full blown speech- I could tell he would. I cautiously stepped to one side, sure that they couldn’t see me, and were just staring off to the distance. Their eyes followed keenly. I knew I had to react before they told the staff member. Quickly I put my finger to my lips, saying out loud. “They can’t see me, act like normal.” I saw them nod slightly, before turning to the staff member, pretending to be interested in what he was saying. But the whole time, they carefully cast sidewards glances at me, as if I would disappear if they didn’t constantly look at me, while trying to decipher if I was actually real or not. It appeared they couldn’t decide.

Only once the other human had left did they talk. “Who are you? And how can I see you?” they said tentatively.

“Who I am does not concern you as of yet. And I don’t know how you can see me. Probably something to do with being stabbed made you able to see through the veil – you can see through the divider that separates our world and yours, automatically making me visible to you.” I replied curtly.

“Wait, so are you a ghost or something?”

“Yes, I am.”

“So, I can see ghosts now?”

“Yes, you can see ghosts,” I replied, annoyed “you can also see angels and demons in their true form, though why anybody would ever want to do that, I don’t know.”

“And you saw me get stabbed?”

“Who d’ya think called the ambulance sweetie?”

“And I’m gonna ignore how you managed that. Despite saving me, you don’t want me to know who you are.”

“Of course not. You might get attached and do something stupid “to be with me” or worse, I might get attached and have to watch someone else die. No way am I letting that happen. I can’t do that again. I don’t think I’d last. Plus, the first thing is a fast track to hell- it wouldn’t work. The only reason I’m still here is unfinished business. You have none. And you have the rest of your life to live out. I don’t want to infringe on it."

“Fine, keep your secrets then. I’m staying here and talking to you anyway, whether you like it or not.”

“Great, just what I needed. A companion. I have been fine for the last 10 years, I think I’ll be fine for 10 more, or however long it takes for my spirit to disintegrate.”

“Don’t be like that. I might not be that bad.”

“Fine, you have one chance, don’t waste it. You have a month to earn my trust. If you don’t, you leave me and this place alone. If you do, I might let you stick around for a while. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The first day was relatively annoying. For some reason they decided to pester me until I gave them some information about myself, whether on accident or on purpose to shut them up. That and gushing about how they have always wanted to meet a ghost and asking me to explain how everything in the new world they discovered worked. I didn’t mind telling them that much. Why wouldn’t I when they would have to get used to it, and fast? Despite being a minority, they would soon see us everywhere. Well, us and angels and demons. God forbid they meet a Guardian. That’s why I don’t mind. They opened up a world of just new, unfamiliar and dangerous things. I kinda owed them an explanation of what was going on. How the world truly worked. I started with two concepts that most people already knew of: heaven and hell.

“So, what do you know of heaven and hell?”

“Just the religious speculations people came up with. Heaven is said to be a safe haven of angels you reach when you die- if you have done good deeds that is. Hell is supposed to full of demons, and where you get tortured for eternity for all the bad things you have done to others. I always hoped it would be the other way round cause everyone says I’m going to hell.”

“First, none of that is really right. Second, what do you mean by you’re going to hell?”

“Because I’m a demigirl and a lesbian, everyone says I should be in hell.”

“Well, we’re all going to hell- only those of pure heart or are naive enough to be manipulated go to heaven. There are few exceptions to that rule. The rest of us end up in hell for having too much personality. It’s better for us anyway- you don’t want to go to heaven. It is a dictatorship, ruled by one person with a hive mind to enforce their laws. Highly corrupt, anyone who even slightly misbehaves or shows opposite ideas to the leader has their soul removed and their shell is sucked into the hive mind- an army of ruthless soldiers with no feelings or general consciousness. All actions are controlled by the leader. Hell is much better. It is more of an anarchist government type thing, with no rules. What you can do is only limited by the strength of your moral code. Only those who are deemed the worst of the worst are punished- mostly the ones likely to disrupt the relative peace too much or are general pieces of shit. For example, genocidal maniacs, and the likes of Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk. From what I’ve heard, there is a special place in hell for those two to suffer. Plus, demons can come to earth, whereas the angels are trapped in heaven from the second they step foot in there by the guardian angels and the border guards.” I rambled on, forgetting who I was talking to, and the fact that most readers and listeners prefer to have shorter paragraphs.

“Wow,” they said once they managed to recover from the information overload, “So, technically I was right about the role reversal.”

“I guess.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot to introduce myself, I’m…” they started before I cut in.

“Ruby-May Johnson, but you prefer to be called Bee. You are 30 years old, and have been single all of your life. You were born on the 19th of May, which is likely where your double-barrelled name came from. You are an extrovert and sister to Lily August Johnson-Kennedy, who died in the attack.”

“How do you know all that?”

“Your passport says a lot. The rest are assumptions from watching and listening to you before, I had nothing better to do, so I watched you.”

“Right, OK. You still not willing to tell me about you?”

“Nope.”

“Alright. What should I call you and refer to you by? I’ll go first. I’m a demigirl, I like she and they pronouns, but prefer they to she. With relationship terms, I prefer the gender neutral terms, but I’m still fine with the female ones.”

“Ok Bee. Try not to refer to me. Nobody else knows I exist, and I'd prefer to keep it that way. If you have to use she/her or you’ll get she/hurt. If you need me, use Spectre. Everyone else does.”

“Thank you Spectre.”

“It’s late, sleep now.”

“No, I wanna know more.”

“No,” I announced, forcing them into their bed, “I refuse to tell you any more until you have slept.”

“Fine, but only because you leave me no choice,” they agreed begrudgingly, “Good night.”

“Good night,” I replied, making myself invisible to all- including veil-seers- and turning off the lights.

“Wait! Please stay until I fall asleep. And, can you turn the light back on.” I heard, their voice cracking slightly.

I made myself visible, flicking on the lights before inquiring, “Autophobia, nyctophobia or somniphobia?”

“A bit of all of them.”

“Ok, I’ll stay. I’m pretty sure in the bottom draw of the dresser, there is a night light if you want it.”

“Really? And yes, thank you.” They climbed out of bed, making their way towards the dresser grabbing the night light and pushing it into the wall. It illuminated the room nicely, I remembered that from when I had to use it. I simply answered her first question: “Yeah, I know what it’s like. Now, sleep. You are safe as long as I’m here- I will be watching you and making sure you don’t get hurt.”

“Thank you.” Bee whispered, closing their eyes and falling asleep.

“Sweet dreams. I hope.”

The second they fell asleep I turned invisible and ventured as far out of the room I was able to go. Here, the barrier between the possessed areas of the world were thinner, allowing me to talk with the nearest spirit to me. Or at least, what I believed must be the nearest spirit. And he probably wasn’t actually a ghost, but good enough for me. I called out to him, knowing he would most likely be there. “Ashton, are you able to talk?”

“Yeah, sure, nice to talk to you again Spectre. How long has it been? A month or two at least. Anyway, what did you need?”

“What, no, I don’t need anything,” I said. You know, like a liar.

“You only talk to me if you need something, whether information or more physical, you cannot fool me.”

“Fine. I managed to somehow end up with a veil-crosser.”

“Seriously? Cool. How did you manage that?”

“I called an ambulance.”

“You know we’re not meant to interfere.”

“It was them, they struck again. I couldn’t let it happen again.”

“I understand, but you still know the rules. If anyone found out you’d be doomed to stay there forever, unable to interfere anymore. You’re lucky that I’d be a hypocrite to tell them, if I was anybody else…”

“I know. And I need help. What can they do that I need to know about, and what do I need to teach them?”

“Firstly, you need to teach them about all of the aspects of death.”

“How am I meant to do that when I don’t know all of them myself? You refused to tell me more than angels, demons, ghosts and veil-breakers.”

“There are more, I’ll get my human to take the book to your room, and see if I can get him to talk to them, and teach them a bit. As for abilities, they depend on the person, you just need to wait for them to figure it out themselves. They only find them when they need them the most. It works on instinct, don’t force it.”

“Ok, thank you. It should be helpful. How are you getting on with yours?”

“Turns out he can give us temporary physical forms.”

“Is that how I could call the ambulance? Usually I can’t touch anything.”

“Probably.”

“Tell him thanks, if it was him. Also how is the asking out thing going?”

“Badly, I have tried so many times and it never worked. He’s just really oblivious.”

“Himbo?”

“Yes.”

“Ask him out straight. Well, since you’re gay, it wouldn’t be straight, but you know what I mean. Tell him outright that you want to date him.”

“I’ll try.”

“Keep me updated, I want to know if he accepts.”

“I will. I suppose I’ll speak to you later then?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Bye then.”

“Goodbye.”

I stayed in the bathroom a few minutes before making my way back into the bedroom. The first thing I noticed was that they were still asleep. “Good.” I thought, “At least they won’t be sleep deprived.” Then I noticed it- the door was ajar a crack. “Strange.” I thought. “I was sure I made them lock it.” That’s when I saw it. A singular eye, peering at them through the door, filled with a malicious intent I noticed instantaneously. I shivered. Bright blue with red streaks running through it- easily distinguishable and recognisable. It was the same eye I had seen 1 month ago, and again 10 years ago. They were back to finish the job. Gently, I used whatever power I could muster to push the door closed and lock it, leaning on it to make sure they couldn’t get in- I knew whoever it was had the keys. Quickly I remembered something Ashton had given me a while ago in case of a situation like this. Carefully, I fished a small silver charm with wood beads in white and yellow out of my pocket, and tied it around the door handle. Hoping it would work, I stepped away form the door. Their key turned in the lock, unlocking it again. I prepared for the worst, standing by the telephone- next to the door in case I could apprehend them.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!” screamed the door as they tried to force their way through the door, quickly realising it wouldn’t open by the handle, after trying the key in the lock a few times. Despite it being just wood, they were failing miserably. Glad to know Ashton’s charm worked. For he believed it was a protection spell, given to him by a god looking like a crow, but at the same time, he could tell it wasn’t really a crow. Why wouldn’t a god choose a crow to parade around as- I mean, it’s jet black, sleek and pretty, and supposedly very clever. As I always say, who am I to judge? At least I knew the charm worked, and we had something to protect us until I could convince Bee to but some more security stuff for the doors and windows- especially the hinges that have a pin to lock them so it doesn’t pivot. Those would be a godsend. Then we’d only have to worry about the strength of the glass and the door- easily fixable with the charm. With that plan set, I sat in the corner, next to the bed, and with a clear view of the door. I sat, planning out a security plan for next time, before eventually losing consciousness- something I didn’t know ghosts could do.

[myrhymesarepurer]

It doesn’t matter.

FMAB, Post-Promised Day

They had not spoken. Three days, four days, give or take or give. They had not spoken, for this, they knew this would be the result, He smelled the iron, felt the blood under his toes. “I would have done it.”  “It doesn’t matter.” 

Pairing  Royai Rating K, sorta

a/n this one’s called, “how much can a overwrite and be vague simultaneously”? I never bought any of the post-promised day hospital shots I’ve read. I think they were there for a long time. And, I think it was complicated. And, I’m definitely avoiding my smut with pure and utter angst. Oh, my poor babies. Enjoy. 

ff ao3

Contrary to what one might anticipate,  it was not a joyous reunion.

He requested that she stay with him in the same room, their beds separated by only three feet of a nightstand.

He couldn’t see. He needed an aid, he said.

She was his aid. His vice.

Always had been.

The doctors agreed. It was the best option.

Mustang had lost his sight, but he also had through and through stab wounds on both hands prone to severe infection, as well as a concussion

just to add a cherry on top.

Hawkeye still lacked a major volume of her blood and had a freshly stitched slit across her carotid.  Yes, supervision was ideal, a bunk buddy was ideal,

and it seemed wrong to separate them after everything. But, the reunion was-

They had not spoken.

Three or four, give or take or give, so many days since admission.

They alternated pretending to sleep while the other was awake, had visitors, ate meals.

They both could admit it had become quite extreme.

The men didn’t comment. Perhaps it was the trauma. The Colonel and his Lieutenant. They ignored each other.

Their reunion after everything, all of it, the post-mortem was

silence.

Roy was blind, but he could still see red gushing, spreading, coating the tile, endless.

He could smell iron in the air, invisible, inextinguishable blood.

His breathing was deep, fighting off shock. breath in and breath out.

Day one, two, three, four give or take or give.

He stared at the ceiling,

Riza saw the same, felt the same, the cold and the slice

over and over, but she could open her eyes, stare at the IV bag, outline her bandage,  ground herself. 

It was over. They did not speak.  

She winked an eye open often, having the luxury of checking on Roy without getting caught.

He was not sleeping. Neither was she.

They both asked for stronger sedatives. It did not work. They did not sleep. They did not speak.

Their reunion was not joyous. It was painful, callous, cold.  

Alas, the fallout was inevitable. She wished they had separate rooms.

He stumbled blindly to the bathroom, four in the morning. She wasn’t asleep.

They did not speak until she involuntarily, accidentally, regretfully said,

“Bedpost.”

He flinched in her direction, blinked at her bed, “Huh?”

“You’re about to run into it, Sir.”

“Oh.” “Inch to the left. Then forward.” “Right.”

She wished they had separate rooms. He wished she hadn’t said anything.

The chain reaction was imminent. The inevitable was unavoidable.

They were foolish, stupid  to think otherwise.

“I would have done it.”

He did not move. Not an inch to the left. Not forward.

He just stared at the floor, held onto her bedpost.  

Riza sat up, sighed.

She didn’t want to talk. Roy wanted to go back to bed.  

The Lieutenant said “Bedpost,” and it was all over. Damn it.

“I would have done it.” “No.” She said, solidly.

She knew what he meant, what he saw in his mind’s eye while he grit his teeth, and clinched his jaw.

“I was going to do it. I would have done it.” “You would not have.” The Lieutenant told her Colonel.

She had orders. She was not to die. She was to watch his back, and stop him, shoot him, if he even dared to give in to that kind of evil.

But, to be honest, her position in that moment, cold on the floor, she had no power, no blood, no pistol, no physical capability to hold him back.  

He knew.   He was so close before she gave her signal. Too close. 

“Yes,” his voice a caustic whisper, crushing the bedpost under his hand. “I was going to. I planned to.”

“I was going to save you,”

He knew very well he could’ve committed the crime, the ultimate sin, the irreparable, abhorrent, deplorable act,

human transmutation, He would have done it.

Then and there, he felt, no, he knew he would have buckled under the weight of air full of red iron.

“I did not care about the rest. They could all burn. I did not care, I was going to do it.”

Roy twisted the knob, the wooden top of that bedpost. He clenched it until his knuckles were white. His face flushed into a red hot, burning, hatred.

For himself. How could he consider such a thing? Then again. How could he not?

His mind waged war on itself. 

what kind of man would- well, perhaps a man that-

He felt the bedpost might splinter. I was going to do it.

“No.” “Riza.” “Colonel,”

She demanded. She was in front of him. He could feel her in front of him.

He pulled at his hair, buried his hands, wanting to snatch it all. He wanted the pain, the punishment.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you.” “I understand, Sir.” Your precious woman is dying, Mustang.   Roy huffed, he couldn’t breathe. 

What will it be?

“You don’t. I would have done it.  I would have done it because I -“

“Stop.”  

Riza raised her hand, raised her voice, sliced through his words, shot him down, cut him at the knees.

Insubordination be damned.

This was not about pecking order. This was not about the Colonel and his Lieutenant.

This wasn’t about anything. There was no story here.

It did not matter.

“I understand what you are telling me. I am not a fool.” Riza snapped, rushed, spitting out so many more words at once than she ever had before. ”If we were simple. If we were whole,” She shook her head clear. 

“No,” She said, “You would not have done it. We are not whole. We are not simple. So, it doesn’t matter.”

She had rushed. She had struggled. But, just as quickly

she solidified.

They had not spoken. Three days, four days, give or take or give.

They had not spoken, for this, they knew would be the result, precisely this.

Roy would say something like this, admit feeling like this about all of it, about her, and then where would they be?

Better than where they were, Roy felt, he thought for three or four, so many days straight.

But, Riza, for one, could not trust herself not to crumble, not to admit the same.   “For us, Sir, It’s irrelevant,” so she said.

“Excuse me?” Roy protested. “You would not have done  You know this.”

She stepped away, turned, half way to her bed.

Even blind, he caught her arm. “You don’t get off that easily.”

Roy Mustang was the only one ever willing to fight Riza Hawkeye.

She was three feet away three, four, however many days straight, radio silence.

He needed contact, He needed proximity.

He needed her, and he needed her to understand.

“It’s over.”

He was blind. Their goals were gone, He would have done it for her.

It was over now, all that they had worked for.

You would expect him to be defeated. Instead, in the dark, he was relieved. 

He would have done it for her. In the dark, now, he could say why. 

but Riza bit her lip. She bit it all back,

“No. This is a waste of time.”

It was not over. He was dead wrong. They needed to stop talking.

But, he still held her wrist, tugged her back to him. Riza. Riza broke, “It does not matter.”

He scoffed, “Others would argue the exact opposite-“ “You did not perform the transmutation,” She put her foot down, “You did not do it for the very same reason I asked you not to,”

Colonel, Please, she whimpered then, dying. Do not sacrifice everything. For my sake.  Riza pulled her arm free and started to plead.  “We chose. Because, you and me- 

It does not matter.  ”

Roy’s jaw hung useless, he heard her voice grow tight. He heard her break. It was the closest she had been to crying, sobbing since Lust.

Since she just knew he was gone, and every piece of her body, every cell, every organ, every part of her soul

became necrotic, toxic, dead.

Yet, there now, the tears did not come.   Instead, it was her voice that betrayed her.

Instead, she grit her teeth, and seethed, and shattered into a million tiny pieces.

Roy would not have seen her tears. She could’ve cried freely, undetected, but she didn’t.

Heaven forbid Riza grieve in peace. Instead, her voice betrayed her, and Roy flinched, froze ice cold when she backed away, and used his rank.

“Please, Colonel.”

His Lieutenant, his best friend, Riza. She shook.  

“I am begging you. Do not make this matter.”

They didn’t speak for how many days, so many days, three or four, give or take or give.

Their reunion was not joyous.

They said nothing. They said nothing, because if they spoke, they would finally

say it,

and it would destroy everything. “It is not over. Do not make this matter,” she pleaded, “Not now.”  

Not now.

Not now, when they had their whole world ahead of them. They survived, and having done so,

as cruel as it was, there were consequences

Many would find the fire, the blood, the smoke giving way to a clear blue sky.

It would be clarifying for most, freeing.

For the Colonel and the Lieutenant, after all that, the blood and fire, and the clear blue sky.

They were trapped.

Their terrible fate, it just grew more excruciating by the second, more unjust, utterly unfair.

After all that.

There was nothing for them. The fact that there would never be a Roy,  a Riza, only a Lieutenant and a Colonel.  It stung worse. It hurt more, after all that.

The pain wouldn’t go away, unless they stopped talking right now.

“Please.”

Roy was caught. He had no choice. He had to let her go

just as he had to in the tunnels, cold and gray and bleeding on the floor.

He had to. It was crucial. It was the most good for the most people.

He had to let her go, again.

Even so, he couldn’t help it, stepping to her.   She flinched backward. He felt it.  

Roy raked fingers through his hair again,  a pained frown, defeated, hopeless.

After all that.

To continue speaking like this, about this,  It would slice through further, cut even deeper, to an irreparable degree.

She understood what he was telling her, and he understood why she begged him to stop.

Please don’t make it matter. Not now.

Roy nodded, gave in, agreed. as much as he could, “It doesn’t matter.”

Riza was shamefully short of breath, in panic, desperate for a comfort undeserved.

She tripped over her feet, her involuntarily step. She stepped to him, grasped his shirt. Roy’s hands found her waist.

He followed up her arms, grazed the rough bandages strangling her neck. He cringed. He smelled the iron, felt the blood under his toes.

I would have done it.

For her, he would have done it. Even still, she was right.

He didn’t do it

for the very same reason she begged him not to. They were irrelevant,  nonessential.  Regardless of how they felt,  even after all of that. 

Roy ghosted her cheeks and got so close.

He hovered her nose, and gave her peace.

Three words.

“It doesn’t matter.”

His finger swept the tear off her cheek. She nodded, a flurry. He rested his forehead on hers.

Three words. The wrong three words, but the only three words he could ever say to Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. 

“It doesn’t matter.”  

uh ouch. hopefully this is realistic. they aren’t a profess their love kind of couple. it’s an understanding, I think. and, if they said it out loud, maybe it would hurt more than heal? at least for right now. who knows. okay. but, people, tell me if you get what this is about  or like what’s happening bc it is like really vague i need sleep.  Reblog reblog tag tag comment, let me know what you think or if you hate me. Also, READ WHAT I’M AVOIDING IT’S MUCH HAPPIER AND FUNNY I THINK

[mendedwings]

Day 5-Growth

@7kpp More Sadie/Hamin because, seriously, none of my girls grow as much as Sadie. And Sheltered Princess/Hamin is amazing. 

The needle dug into her finger deep enough to draw blood, and Sadie couldn’t entirely suppress a small sound of dismay and pain as she jerked away. She sucked on the pricked finger as she glowered at the fabric spread across her lap. This had seemed like such a good idea when she started. But hemming was apparently more different from embroidery than she’d thought.

Very carefully securing the needle in the pale green fabric, Sadie lifted her project off her lap to examine her progress. What had started as a dress, simple yet elegant, was now a half-hemmed tunic, the bottom edge wandering lopsidedly lower to the left. And she’d only pricked her fingers three times so far. Bracing herself against the high probably of it happening again, Sadie resumed her work. She smiled to herself every so often when her gaze caught the discarded pile of fabric that had been the skirts of what was no longer a dress. Mother had chosen the dress to match Sadie’s eyes, which was the main reason this one had been chosen as her victim.

It took another hour, several more pricks to the finger, and enough frustration she almost gave up, but Sadie eventually held in her hands one tunic of pale green silk, with a squared off neckline, slightly puffed sleeves, and a hem that looked like hit had been sewn by a five year old. She didn’t care how it looked. The point of this idea was to embrace her new life. Brushing stray bits of green thread off her, Sadie hid the results of this sewing session and went to see if Ana could loan her the one thing she needed.

A few minutes later, after a successful visit to Ana’s rooms, Sadie stood in front of her mirror is the freshly ‘altered’ tunic, borrowed trousers--slightly baggy, as Ana was more muscular than her--and half-laced riding boots. They were the closest thing she had to the sturdy boots she’d seen Hamin or Ana wear, and for her purposes, they would do.

Sadie studied her reflection. She looked more like a girl pretending to be a pirate than an actual pirate, but that was alright. She was satisfied there was barely any trace of the duty-bound shrinking violet who’d arrived at the isle meek, defenseless, and sick to her stomach at the thought she might let down her parents. Something was missing, thought... Sadie squinted at the mirror for a few more seconds before uttering a triumphant “Aha!” and gleefully cutting the dark blue hem off the discarded skirts to use as a sash. It went around her waist twice, and she had just tied it in a loose knot when someone knocked on her door.

Sadie tensed. She’d shooed off all her servants for a couple hours to work on the tunic, which meant there was no one to answer the door.

“Glitter?”

She hesitated for only a moment. Of all the people on the Isle, Hamin would understand. “Just a moment!” She didn’t run--that would have ended with tripping over her laces--but she may have hurried. “Inside, quick. I want to show you something,” she urged, half-hidden behind her door in case anyone was around. 

“Answering your own door? Scandalous,” Hamin teased as he stepped into the room. “Or is this another step in the process of becoming your own person?” He pulled one of the Truly Awful Biscuits out of his pocket and almost gleefully bit into it, then practically choked when he saw what she was wearing. “Glitter, what-”

“I wanted to see what I’d look like as a pirate,” Sadie explained, her words practically tripping over each other as she huffed dark curls out of her eyes. “But I don’t have anything other than dresses, so I borrowed pants from Ana and cut down one of my dresses, and I know the boots are wrong, but it’s the best I had-”

“Shh.” Hamin walked closer to rest a finger against her lips, his eyes twinkling with laughter. “You make a fine pirate, Glitter.”

Sadie blushed and tugged on the somewhat ragged hem of her tunic. “Once I get better at regular sewing, I’ll be able to make shirts that actually look decent.” She ran a hand self-consciously over the pale green fabric. “I’m thinking about embroidering a flower on here. A Maiden’s Vigil. Emmett told me the story the first week here, and it was... the first seeds of thinking maybe I could be myself. Free of duty and expectation.”

Hamin grinned. “A fine idea. You’ll be the prettiest pirate in the history of Hise.”

“Because you’re a completely unbiased judge of that title,” Sadie teased, playing with her hair and sneaking another look at herself in the mirror. Yes, it would look so much better with some decoration, to draw the eye away from the hem.

He just shrugged cheerfully and finished the biscuit. “Much as I enjoy this look on you, you do know you’re allowed to still wear dresses?”

“Mm-hm,” she nodded. “I need look no further than Cordelia to see that. And I will. After all-” a smirk tugged her lips-”I’m hardly planning to greet the Arland ambassadors dressed like this. Or, God forbid, my parents. My poor mother would faint dead away. But occasionally, in private-” she winked- “I could be convinced.”

“Is that so?” Hamin’s grin was wider now.

“Eventually, once we’re back in Hise, I’ll wear things like this in public, but let’s start small.”

Glitter, you are a treasure. I count myself the luckiest of men that you have chosen me.” All trace of teasing vanished from Hamin’s voice as he continued, “I am so proud of you, Sadie. You have taken your old life and adapted it to fit the new, growing and challenging yourself along the way.” He stepped closer and took her hands in his. “I cannot wait until I am yours and you are mine.”

“I thought we already were,” Sadie needled, blushing nonetheless. 

“Officially, you tease,” Hamin laughed.

“Well, until we are, you probably shouldn’t be caught lurking around my rooms when there are no servants present. That really would be scandalous.”

“Very well, Glitter. For the sake of your honor, I’ll leave.” His eyes gleamed mischievously. “Shall I climb down the trellis to avoid being seen?”

“Heavens, no! That would be worse!” Sadie protested.

“Only if I get caught. Are you saying you think I’d get caught?”

“I’m saying I think you should leave. By the door,” she clarified. “I’ll see you later.”

“Later, then, Glitter,” Hamin agreed cheerfully, kissing her on the cheek before he darted out the door.

Sadie closed it firmly behind him and quickly changed back into a more appropriate outfit. She hid the pirate clothes in the bottom of her trunk. This was definitely not the time and place to start dressing like that in public. But someday she would. 

Hopefully someday soon. 

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The outfit alteration idea came from a conversation I had with @flockofflamingos ages ago when I first completed the demo with Sadie and Hamin rearranged all my plans for her. We got to talking about the switch from princess to pirate and the idea of her cutting down dresses into shirts or tunics came up(I’m pretty sure it was her idea...), and I love it so much. It’s absolutely something Sadie would do.