#like . mama look what papa and i made ^.^ <- holding the most ragged little cloth doll you’ll ever see

[waroferas]

tp link’s childhood makes me so emo to think about tbqh

[miss-kittys-magical-library]

Leon & cuddles 🥰

A Spoonful of Sugar

(A Leon x Honey One Shot)

Word Count: 1500

Warnings: None. Not a one.

A/N: Leon decides to have a conversation with his little girl before she's born. And then five years after. @crabstick requested fluffy Kostas cuddling.

Not long after Leon turned 26, Honey started to show. It was the tiniest bump on the tiniest woman he ever loved. Her stomach, he thought, looked like she had swallowed a small melon. Which Leon thought was funny because every book he secretly perused in the library said the baby was a turnip.

Honey started to wear skirts and dresses more often. Clothes she sewed from scraps or outright stole from Jonny. Occasionally Leon's shirts would end up on her, a belt below her breasts to make it suitable. Anything to hide the coming changes.

They decided her pregnancy was nobody’s business which made their living arrangements harder. Honey and Jonny fought over the bed. Leon was torn between them. He gave up begging Honey to tell just him, just his best friend. But she would hold her stomach and her ground until her fiancé relented.

But then, in the middle of the night, Honey would cry. She would beg Leon’s forgiveness about the secrecy. That she didn't mean to be such a bitch. How she worried she wasn't attached enough to their daughter.

Leon held Honey in his arms and kissed away the tears. “Gracie, it's your body. You aren't a bitch. You’re just scared about being a mum. Your family isn't here to help is all.” He rubbed his nose along the top of her head. “You're really certain the turnip’s a girl?” His family was mostly men. Honey’s family was mostly men. How could they be so lucky?!

Honey would twist herself up in Leon's hair. Her fingers untangled a curl and watched it spring back in place. It crept past his shoulders. There were times she couldn't tell his from hers when they laid together, it was so long now. His mustache and goatee were slowly starting to follow.

“Our daughter from the future told me!” Her sudden laughter rang through Leon’s entire body. “And you! But not you?” Honey’s arm tightened around his waist.

“From the future? Blimey, why would I still look like this if I was from twenty years in the future?! Reckon I'll still be fit at fifty? If that girl was this baby, maybe he was our son?”

Leon started off teasing, but now he grew serious. His green eyes stared at the window while his eyebrows scrunched in thought. There it was, Honey grinned. His mouth slacked open. She kissed it deeply, her tongue a distraction.

Leon pretended to whine her name inside of her lips. Then in one dizzying motion, he laid Honey on her back. She shrieked in delight as he propped up on his arms. His hair hung down in waves on either side of her face before he leaned down to kiss her again.

Honey locked her knees around Leon's hips. She responded to his mouth and tongue when they blazed a path from her breasts to her bellybutton. He held her back in an arched position that made her believe he was going to keep heading south inside of her legs.

When he got to Honey’s stomach, Leon stopped. He brushed just the tip of his nose along the swell in her skin and muscles and womb. He kissed the bump tenderly before pressing the side of his face to it.

“Hello, poppet.” Leon’s greeting was soft and melodic. “I know Mummy talks and sings to you. She is simply mad for you already. Honestly, I am too. I might have to tell her that bit more often.

Honey took a ragged breath. Silent tears spilled down her cheeks. Her fingers combed through Leon’s mane while he kept on holding her and talking. His beard and warm breath sent goose pimples along her skin.

“Mummy says you're going to be a little girl. Are you then? You’ll be the first on both sides. All of your mummy’s side is boys, and I'm the only one on my side. Oh you'll have loads of cousins because I have loads of them, but I'm an only child. Wasn't always like that. My brother died when I was 16. So whether your mama likes it or not, you'll have to accept Uncle Jonny. And Mama will give in to telling him about you. Right?”

Honey snorted and rolled her eyes. She hated when Leon was right. But she also hated only finding out right now Toula and Nick had another son. Still that was her fiancé’s business, and she knew he would've eventually told her when he was ready.

“I think one day you'll have a brother of your own. But you'll be bigger than him and will have to take care of him. Kostas men don't do well without a woman to kick us in the arse,” Leon laughed. He kissed Honey's stomach again.

“Don't tell your mum, but I hope you are like her. Her long hippie hair, and those soft curved hips she's always planting her fists on. Her lovely, big dark eyes and cheek. Bloody hell I hope you have her cheek. I quite resemble a drunk giraffe, so it's best if you look like her.”

“Leon,” Honey tried to interject.

“I mean that! How lucky could I get to have two of you?” Leon squeezed Honey tightly in his arms. He spoke to her as much as her stomach while they both clung to each other. “And I can't bloody wait to find out what she's called.”

Honey had a name in mind, but didn't want to jinx it. “How about Sugar for now?” The moniker came out tentatively. Like she was trying it on for the first time.

He buried his face completely in Honey's body now. There was a humming that his fiancée immediately recognized and whinged playfully, “LEON NOOOO! Don't! I'll sing it for days!”

“A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down!! The medicine go doooownnn!! The medicine go down! Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down! In a most delightful way!” He belted at the top of his lungs with an exaggerated Cockney accent while he sang.

“STOP!!” Honey begged, but Leon only held her like a vice.

“NO!! You're stuck with it as long as we have a little one!”

He reached up and placated his partner with a kiss before lying back down on the pillows beside her. His arms around Honey's shoulder and across her chest. She settled down into his chest before falling asleep immediately. Leon hummed himself to bed not much after.

---

“PAAAPPPAAA!! SING!”

“Seeelinnnaaa it's 4 in the morning. You'll wake the dead with that whinging!! And Sunny!! Enough!”

“Yía yía says Sunny will gobble up flies in his sleep,” the little girl pointed at her brother. His mouth opened wide while he slept nearly upside down in his own bed.

“Oh yeah? Don't you reckon Ben will snatch them first?” The massive raven raised its head from under a wing to gaze at Leon and the little girl. “Πήγ��ινε πίσω για ύπνο (Go back to sleep).”

To Leon's shock, it obeyed. He turned back to his daughter who stared up at him with her large dark eyes. Honey's eyes. How he loved to look into them. She got to her knees and held his face in her hands, a deadly serious look on her own.

“I need you. To sing me. To sleep, Papa.”

“Am I being threatened by a five year old?!”

Selina batted her eyelashes; Leon snorted. Of course he gave in to her. As long as his little girl breathed, he would do anything for her. Even if that was to sing to her at 4am.

So her daddy scooped her up in his arms. He cuddled her. One large hand cradled her head so she could hear his heart beating for her. Like it did for Honey. Like it did for Nicklaus. And maybe a part of Leon was ashamed, but maybe not, because it drummed loudest for Selina.

“A robin feathering his nest has very little time to rest while gathering her bits of twine and twig,” he sang at about a quarter of the original tempo. The lovely song became a lullaby over the years.

The little girl joined in between yawns, “A spoonful of meee helps the med-cine go down.. Papa?” she asked. “What's that mean?”

“That yucky stuff is better with sugar.”

And that was true Leon thought as he fell asleep sitting up with Selina in his arms. Nicklaus made his world brighter. Honey held him together. But Leon's life was sweeter with Sugar.

Tag: @neuroticpuppy @bisexualnathanyoung @elliethesuperfruitlover @magic-multicolored-miracle @nightmonsters @super-unpredictable98 @vonkimmeren @messengeronthemoon @frogs--are--bitches @070188 @the-freckled-luba @forenschik @firstpersonnarrator @duck-noises @a-ghoulish-tale

[bevioletskies]

if i keep my heart out of sight

summary: Apollo used to think Klavier was an open book - someone honest, someone uncomplicated, someone who didn’t have anything to hide. But when Klavier asks Apollo to accompany him on a visit to see Kristoph, Apollo finds himself starting to think otherwise.

word count: 4.2k | read on ao3

a/n: For @klapollo-week, day three of seven (prompt: "protection"). All seven of my fics take place in the same continuity! However, each can be read as a stand-alone, with the exception of day seven being a sequel to day five.

This fic takes place at some point in time between Dual Destinies and Spirit of Justice, but doesn’t reference any specific plotlines otherwise. Fic title is from the song If I Keep My Heart Out Of Sight by James Taylor.

“You don’t have to, Apollo. I know I’m probably asking too much of you, so if - ”

“No, i-it’s okay, you just - you surprised me. I’ll, uh, I’ll be there! Only...we’re not going on your bike, are we?”

Klavier blinked. His expression scared Apollo; he’d never seen Klavier so stoic, so serious, not even during the most crucial moments of a trial. Then, Klavier burst into laughter. “Achtung, I ask you to come with me to visit mein Bruder in prison, and that’s what you’re concerned about?”

Huffing, Apollo narrowed his eyes at him. “Actually, I’m more concerned about you calling me ‘Apollo’ a second ago. You feeling okay, Gavin?”

“Obviously I’m feeling just fine, Forehead, as you can plainly see by me wanting to talk about Kristoph for a change,” Klavier drawled, his lazy smile betrayed by the sharp glint in his eyes. “And nein, not my motorcycle. Did you forget I have a car?”

“Apparently,” Apollo said. “You ever mess up the exhaust pipe on that one, too?” Now it was Klavier’s turn to glare. “Kidding, kidding. So, uh...what brought this on? Why do you even wanna see him?”

“Misguided need for closure?” Klavier let out a short, harsh chuckle. “Or maybe I’m just bored.”

Apollo had to look away from Klavier for a moment, the rush of emotions that had crossed his face just then too overwhelming to bear. They were standing in the courtroom, which was long empty now that their latest trial was over. Phoenix and Athena were waiting for Apollo in the defense lobby, while Trucy was back at the agency, eagerly awaiting the outcome. For Klavier, on the other hand, the only things waiting for him were the journalists on the courthouse front steps and the paperwork on his desk at the prosecutor’s office. “And...why do you want me to go with you?” Apollo asked, looking back up.

Klavier shrugged. “We don’t hang out enough,” he replied, grinning cheekily. He then turned and headed for the courtroom doors, lifting a manicured hand to wave him off. “I’ll text you, ja? Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Forehead.”

“Liar,” Apollo muttered, rubbing his wrist where his bracelet had squeezed him.

_____

Another week or so went by before Apollo found himself getting into Klavier’s car, his stomach turning unpleasantly. It was mid-morning on a Saturday, a time in which he was usually at his most relaxed - sleeping in, watching TV, and hanging out with his cat. But now, all he could think about was Klavier’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

“...Gavin.”

“Ja?” Klavier’s response was too quick, too loud.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Apollo asked. “You shouldn't force yourself to do something you don’t wanna do. If he, I dunno, contacted you and called you out or whatever - ”

“He didn’t,” Klavier interrupted swiftly. “And before you ask, nein, I didn’t contact him, either. Just this once, I’d prefer that he didn’t have the upper hand.”

Apollo’s face softened; he nodded. “Good call. Who knows - maybe it’ll work in your favor.”

They pulled into the Central Prison parking lot less than thirty minutes later. Apollo, trembling with anxiety, followed Klavier closely as they made their way through security. Prison, Apollo thought rather stupidly, felt cold, impersonal. At least Klavier radiated warmth, familiarity, though the guards seemed surprised to see him. That was to be expected, Apollo supposed, since it had been nearly two years since Kristoph’s imprisonment, and Klavier had never visited until now.

“Here he is,” one of the guards said gruffly after leading them through a confusing series of corridors. “Go on, then.”

Things were unsettlingly quiet for a moment. Apollo and Klavier stared at the reinforced door before them - Kristoph was no longer behind literal bars - waiting, anticipating, dreading what was to come. The only view they were afforded was a small window of an even smaller room, meaning they would only be able to see Kristoph from the waist up at most, even if he was on the complete opposite side of his cell. His back was to them, hands clasped neatly behind him. Klavier’s breath hitched. Kristoph turned abruptly at the sound.

“Ah.” Kristoph smiled pleasantly. “What an unexpected surprise. Mr. Justice, I didn’t know you still cared.”

“Hardly,” Apollo said through gritted teeth. Already, he felt the hairs on his arms stand on end. “Gav - Klavier asked me to come, so I did.”

“Still taking orders from a Gavin, are you?” Kristoph stepped closer. His face was gaunt, his skin ragged. Even his hair seemed to have lost its shine. “And here, I thought you were working for Wright. Or does he not pay you enough? Honestly, I wouldn’t think he’d be able to pay you at all. He’s very fond of working pro bono, from what I remember. How...charitable of him.”

“Hallo to you too, Kristoph,” Klavier said evenly, stepping in front of Apollo. “If you’re done being an arschgeige, it’s me you’re talking to, not him.”

Kristoph’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that so? I wouldn’t have guessed it, what with you shaking like a leaf.”

Klavier sucked in another breath between his teeth. “Do you really have nothing to say to me? Do you not think of our parents and what they think about you? What everyone thinks about you?”

Kristoph smirked, taking a few measured steps back. “Did they not teach us not to concern ourselves with the opinions of those who don’t matter?”

“So breaking Mama and Papa’s hearts, that doesn’t matter to you?” Klavier snapped. “If I were to bring them here, could you really say that to their faces?” Apollo glanced at him, worried. He’d never heard either Gavin mention their parents before, had always assumed they were gone in some sense. He couldn’t imagine what they were like, what Kristoph and Klavier’s childhood had been like, for them to turn out the way that they did.

“You’re better than that, Klavier,” Kristoph scolded lightly. He seemed to be enjoying himself; it made Apollo’s throat burn with disgust. “Emotional manipulation, hypothetical scenarios...they aren’t becoming of a prosecutor of your caliber.”

“That disappointment you feel? It’s mutual, vertrau mir,” Klavier retorted, letting out an irritable exhale.

“Is that really all you came here to ask me about?” Kristoph paced to the back of his cell, neatly dropping down onto the small cot he'd been given, covered with a threadbare blanket. At the very least, Apollo was satisfied to see how little he had. Phoenix had told him what Kristoph’s first cell was like, how infuriatingly luxurious it was. This was more fitting for a man of his morals. “If I’m broken up about hurting poor Mother and Father’s feelings?”

“Nein, that’s only the beginning,” Klavier said coolly. Apollo shivered, moving away entirely so Klavier could stand directly in front of the little window. “You know, even now, there are still people who think that I’m the arrogant one. The one who so desperately seeks validation, while you don’t have a care in the world. But tell me, Kristoph - if you really care so little about what people think, why are you the one in prison for killing someone who passed you over for a case that would've made you famous?”

Kristoph scowled. “Klavier…”

“And does it bother you, knowing that even before you became a killer, that everyone always preferred me?” Klavier continued, unflinching. “Our parents, our teachers, our family friends...the world at large.”

“Your silly insults are more suitable for a playground than a prison, how depressing,” Kristoph said, quickly regaining his composure. “After all this time, your lack of maturity still disappoints me. Not surprising, though, considering you were worshipped by the masses from a young age. But that worship, it doesn’t quite fill that emptiness, does it?” Klavier went pale.

Apollo let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “The hell does that mean?” he demanded, his voice echoing throughout the prison’s hallowed halls.

“All Klavier ever wanted, ever since he was a little boy, was to be loved. How asinine,” Kristoph drawled. “It was our parents’ love of soaps and Austen novels that...inspired him. Made him the romantic he claims to be. Personally, I don’t believe he was ever deprived of love. As he said, our parents adored him, our teachers and classmates thought he was just so charming...but apparently, that was still never enough.”

“Kristoph,” Klavier warned, eyes narrowing. “Halt mal.”

“Did you know, Mr. Justice, that he’s never been in a long-term relationship?” Kristoph’s gaze went to his brother’s reddening face. “For all his talk, all his literal song and dance about love, he’s never had what anyone would call a romantic partner. Just...sex and bad dates.” He cocked his head, looking at Klavier inquisitively. “Is no one good enough for you, Klavier? Is it that you haven’t found anyone yet? Or...is that you have found someone, only they have no intention of ever loving you back?” He neatly folded one leg over the other, smirking. “I’m inclined to believe the latter. I know your tastes, after all.”

“You don’t know me,” Klavier said lowly. His fists were clenched so tightly, he was leaving fingernail indents in his palms. “I don’t think you ever did.”

“That’s more than most people can say,” Kristoph replied. “When was the last time anyone cared enough to get to know you?”

Klavier reeled back like he’d been hit, his eyes wide and suspiciously wet. “I - I - ”

“Alright, enough!” Apollo said sharply, tugging on Klavier’s elbow. It took a few tries before Klavier moved away from the door, his chest heaving with emotion. Apollo cast him a brief, concerned glance - Klavier refused to look back - before stepping in front of him so he could look Kristoph in the eye. “You know what, Mr. Gavin?”

“Tell me,” Kristoph said, smiling devilishly.

“I obviously wasted my time thinking about what I was gonna say to you, if I was gonna say anything to you,” Apollo said, his own hands trembling by his sides. “But I’ve made up my mind. I-I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction of letting you continue to stroke your own ego. Save that for when you’re alone.”

Kristoph chuckled, amused. “I’m sure that sounded wittier in your head, Mr. Justice. Next time, perhaps.”

“Asshole,” Apollo muttered, pulling on Klavier’s arm once more. “C’mon, let’s get out of here before we do something that gets us thrown behind bars, too.”

Klavier was worryingly silent, barely managing to plaster on a polite smile for the security guards who led them out. By the time they returned to Klavier’s car, Apollo expected him to be furious, to be beside himself, to be completely falling apart. Instead, Klavier was smiling, leaning casually against the side of his car like nothing had happened. “Achtung, I’m starving. Where do you want to eat? I’ll pay.”

“I - huh?!” Apollo’s anger was quickly replaced with confusion. “Wait, we’re just gonna...eat? After all that?”

“Maybe today will finally be the day you have a meal with me, ja?” Klavier teased, his grin widening. There was no trace of emotion in his eyes that suggested he was feeling anything less than perfect. “I mean it, Forehead. You choose.”

“Um.” Apollo cleared his throat. “I...I guess I have a place in mind.”

_____

Klavier stared down at his food with more suspicion than Apollo had ever seen anyone have while looking at a bowl of ramen. “...Gavin?”

“This might contain more sodium than I consume in an entire week,” Klavier mused. He then picked up his chopsticks and began to eat. Apollo exchanged glances with Mr. Eldoon, who merely shrugged and returned to his station by his stockpot. Sighing, Apollo started eating, too. He’d given up on the notion of Klavier talking about what had happened, and honestly, he couldn’t blame him. There was a reason Apollo despised Kristoph like no other, even after all this time. The less said, the better.

“It’s good, right?” Apollo said, chuckling awkwardly. He wasn’t sure whether to go with small talk or stifled silence.

“My compliments to the chef,” Klavier said, loud enough so Mr. Eldoon could hear. He seemed unbothered, waving a hand in bare acknowledgement. “Anyway, what are your plans for the rest of the weekend, Herr Forehead?”

“The same thing I do every weekend - sleep, video games, more sleep,” Apollo replied. “How ‘bout you?”

“MIght go for a run tomorrow, it’s been some time,” Klavier said, popping a piece of chashu into his mouth. “But sleep sounds sehr gut, too. I worked more than usual this week, so maybe I should sleep in, get a massage…”

“Sounds...nice.” Apollo was starting to think silence was the better option. He felt seconds away from bursting with a dozen questions he knew he wasn’t going to get answers to. “Hey, are you - ”

“Do you - ” Klavier cut himself off with a soft laugh. “Sorry, you go first.”

“Are you feeling…” Apollo trailed off when he realized Klavier’s eyes were fixed on him intently; there was something in them that almost felt like a warning. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Never mind, i-it’s not important. What were you gonna say?”

“Do you…” Klavier went quiet for so long, Apollo turned back to his ramen, intensely aware of how close they were sitting, how uncomfortable they both felt. “...regret coming with me?”

Apollo nearly choked on his noodles in surprise. “Oh - no, no, n-not at all! I mean, it’s not like I wanted to see him again, but...I’d hate to think what would’ve happened if you’d gone by yourself.”

Klavier hummed. “...then let’s not think about it, ja?” Just like that, he was smiling again. This time, it looked off somehow. “Herr Blackquill told me Taka made a nest in your hair the other day. Your forehead makes quite the landing zone, doesn’t it?”

“You shut it or I’m stealing your egg,” Apollo threatened, elbowing him. Klavier laughed, making a point to eat the remaining half of his soft-boiled egg before Apollo could snatch it from his bowl. Hesitating, Apollo set down his chopsticks. “Actually, y’know what? Never mind my ‘never mind’ - are we really not gonna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” Klavier reached for his tea. “I asked if you regretted coming with me, you said nein. What else is there to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know, everything?” Apollo shot back, trying not to raise his voice. He didn’t want Klavier to think he was angry at him - after all, for once, he really wasn’t. He just wanted something, anything, aside from Klavier’s too-bright eyes and his indifferent smile. “Gavin, he - I - ”

“I think I liked it better when you called me ‘Klavier’,” he commented, taking a long sip.

“Don’t change the subject,” Apollo said, frowning. “Look, I-I’m not saying we have to talk about it now, but are you...okay?”

“I’ll be better once I get that massage,” Klavier said airily, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I should book it now before I forget. Personal massage therapists can be so finicky, you know? Especially when I want something specific.”

Apollo narrowed his eyes. “I see what you’re doing, Gavin.”

“Making an appointment? Ja, Forehead, very observant of you.” Klavier turned to look at him, then winked. “Don’t worry, you’ll have my full attention again in a moment. I know you’re desperate for it. Just be patient, bitte.”

“You are impossible to talk to,” Apollo grouched, picking up his chopsticks again. “Fine, I give up. I guess I won’t, quote-unquote, ‘get to know you’ after all.”

“Hey.” The sudden bite in Klavier’s voice made Apollo jump. “Don’t do that.”

“I - ” Apollo shrunk in his seat, simultaneously stunned and subdued. “...sorry. Sorry, that crossed a line. It’s just - you’re…”

“I hate it when you sound like him.” Klavier turned back to his own food, pocketing his phone more forcefully than necessary. “It happens more often than you think, you know.”

“I...didn’t realize.” Apollo tried, and failed, to clear the lump in his throat. They ate in silence for the next few minutes, painfully aware of how their legs were pressed together, how they kept brushing against each other’s elbows and shoulders. “Listen, um...I know it might not seem like I’m on your side most of the time, but...if you wanna talk about it, I’m here. No judgement.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Forehead,” Klavier said, though not unkindly. “Anyway, I won’t bother lying to you, I won’t insult your intelligence. I think I do enough of that in court. So...I’d rather not talk about it at all. Why bother?”

“Why bother?” Apollo repeated, confused. “You don’t wanna, I dunno, process your feelings or whatever it is you’re s’posed to do?”

“And then what?” Klavier sounded more bitter than angry now. “Talking about my feelings won’t make them hurt less.”

“I...guess not,” Apollo said slowly. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Right now, it seemed like nothing would bring Klavier any kind of comfort. “...besides, it’d be kinda hypocritical of me to ask someone to open up, huh?”

“I wouldn’t know. I...haven’t had the chance to get to know you, either.” Klavier finished his tea, then wiped his mouth. Another uncomfortable silence passed between them. “After all, it seems like neither of us is particularly forthcoming.”

Apollo shot him a bittersweet smile. “Yeah, that, uh, that about sums it up.”

Klavier then hung his head, almost as if he were ashamed of something, possibly himself. “...sorry, Apollo. I don’t mean to take this out on you, it’s just...I’m not used to this.”

“Visiting your brother?” Apollo guessed.

“Talking about mein Bruder.” Klavier gave Mr. Eldoon a grateful smile when he wordlessly came over to refill his tea. “Or talking to you, whichever one sounds better. Or, you know, worse.”

“Try all of the above?” Apollo suggested, managing to get a short laugh out of Klavier. “Hey, I’m just keeping our options open. And, um...it’s okay, Gavin, you’re fine. Things got...really rough back there. I don’t blame you for being...you know.”

Klavier nodded slowly, his expression inscrutable. Suddenly, he sat up like he’d just remembered something. “Ach, look at me - I still haven’t said danke schön for today!”

“Oh. You’re, uh, welcome?” Apollo turned back to his food and began shovelling noodles into his mouth, his face growing steadily warm; he wasn’t sure how else to respond.

“Wait, I haven’t actually done it yet,” Klavier chuckled, the light in his eyes gradually returning. “Danke schön, Herr Forehead, for coming with me to see Kristoph. For...cutting him off after he said...you know…”

“...that.” Apollo cleared his throat. “Yeah, I know.” They both went silent again, though it wasn’t nearly as stifling this time. Klavier waited patiently while Apollo finished his ramen, humming idly to himself. He seemed to be in better spirits now, though there was still a fog in the air that hadn’t quite lifted.

“I can tell you still have questions,” Klavier observed, right as Apollo was taking his last bite.

“I-I’m not gonna push it!” Apollo protested. “You don’t wanna talk, you don’t have to talk. Simple as that.”

“Pick the easiest one, then, and I’ll answer it. Just so you don’t walk away empty-handed.” Klavier’s smile was pleasant, friendly, as if he’d merely offered to play a game of twenty questions to pass the time instead. Apollo stared at him for a little too long, still unsure of how to figure Klavier out, if he’d ever figured him out.

“Okay. Um…” Dozens of questions seemed to flood Apollo’s mind all at once, none of which seemed “easy”. None of them seemed remotely appropriate to talk about here and now, not while they sat on rickety seats at a noodle stand on a colder-than-usual Saturday afternoon. He supposed there was one question that seemed less invasive in comparison, only he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer and all it implied. Apollo sucked in a breath. “Was he right about you, er…‘finding someone’?”

Klavier blinked. “...are you trying to ask me if I’m single?”

“Gavin, I swear to - ”

“Because I’d rather not get into it,” Klavier continued. “Ja, I don’t have anyone. But I do have someone. Someone who means a lot to me, even if...even though they barely give me the time of day. And...that’s all I want you to know.” His voice cracked slightly.

“I...oh.” Apollo was more confused than ever. “Fair enough, I guess.”

“I can’t believe that’s what you went with,” Klavier said, laughing quietly, more to himself than to Apollo. “Of all the things to ask about, achtung. My relationship status, Forehead, really?”

“Apparently.” Apollo finished his tea as well, then sat back with a satisfied sigh. “Well, this has been...awkward.”

Klavier couldn’t help but snort. “You don’t say.” He then softened. “I’m still grateful you’re here all the same. Even though it made you uncomfortable, you stuck around. Danke again, I mean it.”

“You needed someone to look out for you,” Apollo shrugged. “That’s why you asked me, right? Not ‘cos we don’t hang out enough or whatever that bullshit reason was that you gave me, but ‘cos...I-I was there. When it happened. I made it happen.”

Klavier stood, averting his eyes so Apollo couldn’t see his face. “You could’ve said no. To be honest, I was expecting it.”

“I’m sorry you expected it,” Apollo said, his voice barely above a whisper. For some reason, he felt as if he couldn’t speak at his usual boisterous volume. “And I’m not saying, y’know, sign me up again, but...if you ever go back...let me know, okay?”

Klavier merely hummed, then tossed a handful of bills in Mr. Eldoon’s direction before Apollo could even pull out his wallet. He wordlessly started heading across to the street where his car was parked, Apollo trailing after him. “What about you, Forehead?”

“Huh? What about me?” Apollo asked. He was really starting to get mood whiplash, though it definitely wasn’t the first time today or even the first time in the last ten minutes, not by a long shot.

Klavier smirked. “Have you…‘found someone’?”

“Wh-what the hell does that have to do with anything?!” Apollo exclaimed. “And even if I did, I-I wouldn’t tell you!”

“Then let’s keep our secrets, shall we?” Klavier sounded strangely serious all of a sudden; it sent a shiver up Apollo’s spine. “Let me take you home now, ja? I think we’ve had more than enough of...everything.”

“Agreed,” Apollo said, getting back into Klavier’s car.

The drive back to Apollo’s apartment would’ve been completely silent, if not for Klavier’s insistence on blasting the radio at nearly ear-splitting volume. It didn’t leave Apollo much room to be alone with his thoughts, though he supposed at a time like this, he was glad to not have the opportunity. He snuck the occasional glance over at Klavier, who seemed to be back to his usual self - drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, head bobbing along in time with the classic rock they were listening to, lifting a hand every so often to fiddle with his bangs. If Apollo didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought this morning never happened. He found himself wondering, of all the countless number of times he’d been around Klavier before, if he really was as calm, cool, and collected as he seemed to be.

“Have a good weekend, Herr Forehead,” Klavier said once he stopped outside of Apollo’s building.

“You too,” Apollo said, getting out of the car. He hesitated the moment his feet hit the sidewalk; he turned back to look at Klavier. “Hey, Gavin? Good luck with your...someone. There’s no point in me telling you, y’know, that you should think about moving on to someone who actually cares about you, ‘cos…” He swallowed. “...that’s just not how it works. You just - you end up feeling your feelings before you even realize you have feelings. And it sucks. Like, a lot.”

Klavier smiled ruefully. “Eloquent as ever, I see.”

“Gavin - ”

“But I appreciate the sentiment all the same,” Klavier finished, grinning. “Speaking from experience, are you?”

Apollo glared. “Gavin,” he repeated, more bitingly this time. Klavier merely laughed, tossing his head back as he did. His blindingly white smile was even brighter in the sunlight; everything about it seemed familiar to Apollo somehow.

“Ja, ja, I hear you,” Klavier said, still chuckling. “Auf Wiedersehen, Apollo.”

“See you around,” Apollo replied, waving as Klavier pulled away from the curb. He let out a long, desperately-needed exhale, then turned and headed into his building. Their conversation still felt disjointed, unfinished, and he knew he had to be okay with that. He had to, or he was never not going to think about Klavier and his indifferent smile ever again. Right as he reached his door, his phone pinged, informing him that he’d gotten a text message.

maybe we’ll get to know each other someday, ja?

Apollo bit back a smile, then sent a reply before heading inside.

I think I’d actually like that.

_____

a/n: Welcome to my third entry for Klapollo Week 2021! Continuity-wise, this is the first of seven fics, but again, there is no need to read the others to follow each fic on its own. So...this got angsty. Someday, I'd like to write a fuller version of this premise; I feel like Dual Destinies implies that Apollo and Klavier are closer than the way Apollo makes things seem, so I can definitely picture this happening. Also, I've mentioned this before, but I weirdly enjoy writing Kristoph despite him being, you know, Kristoph.

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Likes and reblogs would be much appreciated. Hoping you're all safe and healthy and doing well ❤️

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Behind a Name

Fandom: Star Wars: The Clone Wars + Original Character

Collection/Series: N/A

Pairing: Captain Bear (Clone Trooper OC) x Female Identifying Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff​ aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long​

Rating: T (Drinking)

Warnings: Characters, not the reader, drinking. Swearing. Yearning.

Summary: Out at a Cantina with Bear and his men, you ask a burning question that’s been on your mind ever since you first met him.

Notes: Hi, yes, i’m still on my Captain Bear Bullshit. 

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It’s not something you usually do, grabbing drinks with the clone troopers, but Captain Bear’s little troop had whined and moaned at you about leaving medical for five minutes and actually letting your hair down. The most vocal being Sunny and Kal, who had been adamant that you actually socialise even if it was just with them. 

You liked Bear’s little rag tag group of soldiers. They were friendly, approachable and oddly enough not quite as straight-laced as some of the others. You often caught them breaking rules and turned a blind eye, little, harmless things that made them entirely more human and entirely more individual and likeable. You didn’t have friends so to speak, but they were the closest to something like that for you.

Captain Bear was the most intriguing of the bunch. Leading the little troupe he was both a captain, authoritative and strategic, and an almost father like figure to his brothers. You noticed the little things he did for them; making sure they ate enough, got to bed on time, had their wounds seen to, that they were doing okay in every little way. Despite his large size, standing at an impressive 6ft 5 with the broadest shoulders you’d ever seen on a man, he was seemingly one of the gentlest of the clones you’d ever met. He spoke softly almost always, was gentle in the way he hefted younglings onto his shoulders and spoke to them as they drew on his armour. He was a rather good case of not judging a book by its cover, and he made you incredibly curious. 

You didn’t know much about them, any of them. They were right when they moaned that you barely ever left medical, that you barely ever socialised beyond small talk while tending to injuries. It was a sudden realisation that you didn’t really have any friends and that maybe it was time that you stopped being ‘doc’ all the time and started being you, a friend. That’s what convinced you to go out that night, that’s what convinced you to ask a burning question that had been on your mind since you met the Captain. 

“So how exactly did you decide on the name Bear?” You ask him as you lean back in the booth, your preferred beverage in your hand and your legs swung over one of Kal’s. Each trooper chose his own name, after the Jedi had made a point of encouraging more individuality. Each trooper had a reason for the name he chose and it was something that fascinated you endlessly. 

The men around you chuckle, Bear included who looks at you with a soft little grin that shows his teeth. It’s annoyingly distracting, the way his smile looks, comforting and inviting. 

“You know what a Garu-Bear is?” Sunny asks you before Bear can answer your question, wide grin across his face, stretching the scar across his lip. 

You shake your head, assuming some sort of bear like creature but not having heard of that particular species before. Although the vastness of the galaxy it seemed like every other day you heard about another creature that you’d likely never see in person. 

“Massive bastards and very, very protective of their cubs. Big parental instincts, pretty soppy for something that can take your head off.” Delta chimes in, explaining what one was. Before Sunny shoves him over to take charge again, “Well, he’s as big and as protective as one, that’s why he’s called Bear.”

“Cause he acts like our damn Papa Bear all the time! Can’t even go out for a drink without him worrying over whether we’ve eaten enough or drank enough water!” Delta chimes in with a guffaw, practically slapping his knee over his own joke, spilling his spotchka over Kal who shoves him away from him with a groan. 

“There isn’t any shame in looking after my troops and making sure you eat and sleep.” Bear insists although it’s clear from the way his brow furrows upwards in the middle and the less natural curve of his smile that he’s a little embarrassed by the teasing. It’s sweet, you think, the way he looks out for his brothers, his men. Even if they tease him for it. It’s sweet that he actually cares. You’ve seen captains who put distance between themselves and their men, who don’t seem to care, not truly. 

“Then there’s the younglings! He’d adopt every kid we come across if he could, drawn to them like Sunny’s drawn to stray lothcats.” Kal puts his two credits in, leaning across the table and gesturing in the air, drink in hand. His words are a little slurred and you can’t help but smile at how at ease each of the men are in Bear’s presence, even as he, himself, shifts a little uncomfortable in his seat. Bear scratches his beard as if to simply give his hands something to do. 

“Hey, don’t be too rough on the captain, not like he’s allowed to have any of his own!” Sunny chimes in in the man’s defence, but you can see how it only embarrasses Bear more. It’s a known fact that the clones weren’t allowed families, weren’t allowed romantic relationships let alone to have children of their own. It’s sad and unfortunate you think, considering Bear would probably make a wonderful father. It breaks your heart a little to know that something so simple as having a family of his own is out of his reach, something he clearly craves on some level. 

“Alright, alright! Enough! Why don’t you interrogate the good doctor now, huh?” He gestures towards you with a large hand covered in little scars, pulling the attention away from him as he goes to drink from his cup. You give him a glare that’s not truly annoyed so much as teasing as Delta turns on you this time, clearly the tipsiest of the bunch. 

“She’s as much a mama bear as you’re a papa bear. Always fussing over us like we’re her kids!” 

“In my defence whenever I see you, Delta, you’re usually filled with blaster holes!” You don’t have much of an argument against it, in truth, because he’s not wrong. You are a naturally caring person, that’s why you went into medicine. Combine that with a healthy sense of right and wrong and a protective streak and it was evident that you could in fact be a bit of a mother bear. 

“Yes, ma’am, doesn’t explain all the times you bring Sunny those little sweets he likes or how you remembered that I like spotchka the best.”

“Okay, okay...I'm a mama bear, are you happy now?”

“Oh, plenty!” 

The night continues in that vein. Questions are thrown about and answered, with many a teasing remark as you get to know them all a little better and in turn they learn a lot more about you than they ever thought they would.

Once Delta and Kal are a little too drunk to keep going responsibly, you all make your way out of the Cantina. Bear with Delta slung fully over one shoulder and with his free arm underneath Kal’s as he helps them on their way back to the barracks. Delta being by far the most intoxicated. You trail behind with Sunny, making sure the tipsy, but not quite as drunk, man doesn’t fall over or run into anyone either. 

Bear and yourself are it seems, the only two sober individuals. It almost makes you laugh, how clearly caring the two of you are, that you fell into the role of the sober friends without meaning to. You just did it because it made sense to ensure your friends got back to barracks okay. It was a startling similarity between the two of you.

Once the two of you have dropped all three men back into the barracks and effectively tucked them into bed, you turn to leave and make your way back to your own quarters across the base. But a gentle hand on your wrist stops you, careful as if worried he’d break you just with a little touch. 

You face him, not shrugging off the touch, in fact revelling in it a little too much. A sure sign that your lack of social behaviour has led to you being just a little bit touch starved. It shouldn’t feel that good, shouldn’t cause a yearning in your chest, to have someone hold your wrist gently. 

Bear looks at you as he brushes that curl out of his face, the one that promptly falls back into place across his forehead. He’s gentle as his thumb strokes your wrist and he smiles softly at you, those teeth peeking out from behind his lips, dimples forming at the corner of his mouth. 

“Let me walk you back? Please?” You don’t need to think, just nod with a bashful smile and slip your wrist from his hand only to bravely slip your hand into his. He twines your fingers together, his so much larger than your own make you feel delicate in a way you haven’t ever felt before. 

You feel the warmth in your cheeks, the stutter in your chest as you walk together back towards your quarters. It is early in the morning and no one is wandering about, it makes it easy to forget that you’d both be in trouble if caught with your fingers locked like that. Makes it easy to forget that he’s not allowed an entanglement of the romantic sort. 

Despite his significantly longer legs, he slows his pace to match yours, considerate of the difference in your walking speeds. Something little, something that shouldn't matter, but it does, it makes your chest ache. You don’t talk on the walk back, just enjoy each other’s company, the warmth of your hands in each other’s the brush of your arms and the feeling of something new. 

There are a few moments where you catch his eye, the two of you caught staring at the other and you laugh awkwardly and look away, warm and giddy and decidedly not feeling like a qualified doctor, like an adult in charge of a series of medical droids and nurses. You feel like a child, a little one with a brand new crush.

But, it’s not new. You have to admit to yourself that you’ve been attracted to Bear since you first saw him, since he introduced himself and his team. He is handsome, warm, and inviting. Like a summer’s day, a soft breeze that plays with your hair and a beaming sun warming your skin. He is gentle and kind too, something which is a stark contrast to so many of the men you are surrounded by every single day. He is careful with his voice, his words, and his actions. Aware of every move he makes, aware of how he is perceived and how he can intimidate. It is his consideration for those around him, his care and protection that warms your soul. You want to be one of those people, one of the people he cares for, protects, looks after...and you want to look after him in return. 

Your quarters are isolated, the head doctor, you are given private quarters away from everyone else. A privilege that has often left you feeling isolated, now as the two of you stand in front of your door, hand in hand, you are thankful for the quiet and isolation. 

His thumb strokes the back of your hand as you look up at him. Eyes roaming over the freckles on his brown skin, the scar that covers his cheek, that stubborn curl that falls over his forehead no matter how hard he tries to move it. 

“Goodnight, Mesh’la.” The mando’a falls off his tongue like honey, soft and sweet it caresses your ears and brings a sigh from your chest as he watches you intently. 

“Goodnight, Captain.” But neither of you actually pull away, neither of you untangle your fingers or make to leave the other. Instead the two of you stand there staring at each other in silence, fingers tightening and loosening against each other as you shift them. 

You want him to kiss you. You want him to ask to, your tongue sliding across your bottom lip, nervous and full of anticipating. You’re sure he wants to kiss you too, his brown eyes follow the motion, glancing between your eyes and your lips as if ready to ask, to move. 

He doesn’t. He takes a deep breath as if steeling himself and pulls away, slowly, ever so slowly, untangling your fingers with a sad little smile that is filled with regret and longing. 

“I...I should get back to the barracks...in case the commander comes by.”

“Of course...of...of course.” You can hear the disappointed loud and clear, riding your voice, and so can he, but Bear knows it’s a bad idea. It’s a terrible idea no matter how much he wants to kiss you, he knows he shouldn’t. Knows it’s against the rules, knows he can’t offer you what you deserve. You don’t deserve to be a dirty little secret, a hidden relationship. So he pulls away. 

You watch him, leaning back against the door to your quarters as his broad form walks away. Watch him look back not just once, but twice. Watch the sad dip of his brows, the longing smile as he moves away from temptation. He rounds a corner and then he is gone and you wonder if you will have to live with this ache in your chest for all your days. If it is your burden to bear.

                                             ------------------------------

                                                  All Works Taglist

@charradelange @belfry-bat  @gabile18​ @beccaboo929​

[mysmesomefluff]

Believe Again: Chapter 33 (Preview)

Three years later

When Saeran left the apartment this morning, it was clean, pristine and neat. He had left everything in order, having been the last one on cleaning duty over the weekend.

But now… eight hours later, he had returned… only to find that the apartment now looked like it had been completely and utterly ravaged. There was a (thankfully) wrapped diaper lying abandoned in a corner, splotches of milk powder on the floor, and little white footprints mixed with big ones trailing into the hallway. The couch looked like someone had been using it as a trampoline, pillows and cushions had been left on the floor, children’s books and toys were scattered everywhere like leaves in fall, and the dining table was a mess of food stains, some of which looked suspiciously like vomit.

Saeran had come home early, skipping out on dinner with his friends at college because MC wanted him home for dinner today. But he was starting to regret his decision when he surveyed the apartment, a grimace forming on his features when he realized he would almost certainly be dragged into cleaning everything up together with his stupid brother. Said man had one simple job today: to babysit his three-year-old child, while MC went out to do some grocery shopping.

And as expected, he had failed spectacularly at it.

The wind slammed the door shut loudly before Saeran could grab the handle. Not thinking much of it, Saeran shrugged and entered, but was promptly startled by a wail—one that belonged not to his niece, but to his brother.

Saeran sighed, carefully tip-toeing his way past the minefield of dirt to avoid getting his socks dirty. He managed past the living room and was about to approach the hallway that looked equally disastrous, when he heard an adorable, heart-stopping voice.

“Ran? Un-ko?”

Saeran froze in his tracks, wavering slightly as he almost lost his balance in the awkward position he was standing in, with one foot directly in front of the other. He was this close to stepping on a puddle of water, and he refused to get his socks wet.

The voice was followed by the sound of little feet running across the floor, like the soft pitter-patter of rain. Saeran’s eyes darted to the source of the noise, and there he found his little niece, with her wild bedhead and rubbing her big, yellow eyes. It was the most adorable thing to watch—the moment she noticed him, he watched as the sleepiness in her features evaporated in a flash, her lips parting into the brightest beam he had ever seen.

And then she was running towards him, releasing a high-pitched squeal as she went as if she were a train.

Saeran didn’t even have time to register his foot stepping into the water when she practically slammed her face against his calf, her little arms wrapping tightly around his leg like a koala to a tree.

“Unko Ran!” she cried happily, and Saeran didn’t even realise he was smiling until he noticed the slight ache in his cheeks. He bent down and scooped her into his arms easily, listening to the sound of her laugh echoing off the walls.

“Were you a good girl today, Eun-byeol?”

“Yes!” she nodded enthusiastically, cheeks turning a rosy pink as she held his cheek with one tiny hand. “Play, play!”

“I was just about to put her to sleep…” Another voice emerged, and Saeran craned his neck to see his brother slinking out of the bedroom, looking like Death itself. His hair was a complete mess, and he had what looked like marker stains on his arms and face—he must have let her use him as paper again.  

It took a moment for Saeran to realise what had probably happened, his mind going back to the loud sound that the door created when it slammed shut earlier.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch the door handle in time. The wind was too strong.”

Saeyoung merely sighed, but it seemed more exhausted than anything else. Saeran could only guess at what on earth happened in this house today. No doubt, his niece must have been a handful—she had inherited her mischievousness from Saeyoung and her stubbornness from MC. And that made for one very difficult and out-of-control kid.

Saeran remembered Saeyoung retelling how Vanderwood had laughed when he first begged him to help babysit, saying something about how “karma’s a bitch” before hanging up on him altogether.

As terrible as it sounded, Saeran couldn’t help but agree.

The most peculiar thing was that for some reason, his niece had taken an exceptional liking to him, attached to him at the hip and always wanting to play with him. It didn’t help that “Un-ko” were her first words, instead of “Mama” or “Papa”. That had upset MC and Saeyoung both so much that Saeran almost felt guilty for playing with Eun-byeol whenever she so asked.

But it wasn’t like he could refuse her, not when she was so cute. She had big, round yellow eyes, fat cheeks that he loved to poke and pinch, long, wavy red hair that made her look like an angel, and her voice was adorable too. Especially when she called his name. Like she was doing now.

“Yes, yes, I’m here,” he chuckled, patting her on the head.

“She was asking about you all day, you know. Ever since we told her that you were staying for dinner today. She even refused to take her nap until you were back.”

“You were?” Saeran asked, turning his attention back to his niece, who was beaming at him proudly once again, as if she had achieved something huge. Well, he supposed, to a three-year-old, staying up past naptime was a huge feat in itself.

“Play, Unko Ran!”

“But you need to nap first.”

His answer didn’t please the three-year-old. Her lips dropped into a pout, and she shook her head. “No, play play!”

“We’ll play after you nap,” he told her firmly, already walking back to the bedroom where she had emerged from. She started to struggle, and he had to tighten his hold around her lest she fell out of his grasp.

“No! No!”

“If you’re good, I’ll let you crack the eggs later.”  

That was the most effective bribe he had up his sleeve. Saeran smiled to himself when he watched her pause thoughtfully, mentally calculating the pros and cons of his suggestion. She had been obsessed with cracking eggs ever since they made pancakes together in the kitchen, of course while she was seated safely in her high-chair and watched Saeran do all the work. She had pleaded and begged for him to let her try cracking the eggs but he hadn’t allowed it. It took a while to placate her by giving her a slice of lemon to play with instead.

“Okay…”

She was rewarded with a peck on the forehead. “That’s my girl.”

It didn’t take long for him to put her to sleep—since she had been staying up past her naptime she was already exhausted. Within five minutes she was out cold, although it took another minute for him to carefully wrestle his index finger out from her grasp without waking her.

When Saeran left the room, he was greeted by the sight of Saeyoung wiping the floor with a wet cloth. He took a moment to watch his brother do the work, sighing as he went and looking thoroughly drained.

Parenthood was certainly taking its toll on this inexperienced father who couldn’t do anything without his wife.

In an uncommon show of sympathy, Saeran stepped forward, snatched the rag from his brother, who then looked at him, confused.

“Go sleep. You look horrible,” was all he said, before he took over and started wiping the same spot that his brother had earlier.

Saeran hated cleaning already, and his stupid brother just had to make it worse by squealing his name and throwing his arms around him in a hug. It took two kicks before Saeyoung finally let go, rubbing at the sore spots on his thigh but still wearing the silly, idiotic grin on his face.

“Thanks, Saeran. I appreciate it.”

“Just shut up and go to sleep or I’ll knock you out myself.”

***

A/N: I’m so sorry that this took so long, I died during recess week lmao and I actually had this part written out before but then I scrapped everything and re-did it soooooo yeah.

I ended up thinking more about how I can develop the plot to end things on a fluffier and happier note, which is why this probably isn’t the last chapter (AAAAAA I WAS SO READY FOR IT TO END BUT AT THE SAME TIME I WANT FLUFF) 

so yeah i’ll TRY MY BEST. To upload soon. But also finals are in like a moNTH so :D Anyways I’ll definitely have time to work on this after finals so wheeee it’s just a matter of time (I’m SORRY THAT I ALWAYS KEEP PPL WAITING am truly unreliable but :”(((( thx for sticking with this story i rly rly appreciate it) 

okay enough rant from me i’ll try working on this chapter more although my plan is for it to be p r e t t y  l o a d e d so it miiiight not come so soon either. I’ll just try :) 

[rune-writes]

Family Album

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Cloti Fall Festival 2020 by @clotiweek Day 2: Tradition

Word count: 2269

Rating: T

Warning: none really, but there are mentions of the Nibelheim Incident and Cloud’s mother’s death. Not anything too graphic though.

Summary: Cloud was cleaning the storage when he came across an old dusty book on the shelves. As he pulled it out, a small square paper fluttered by and landed on his feet. It was a photograph of a little girl with long ebony hair and bright ruby eyes sitting in front of a piano.

Read on AO3. 

~*~*~*~*~

Cloud was cleaning the storage when he came across an old dusty book on the shelves. Blackened and burnt, it stood out among other thick, heavy volumes and an abandoned computer set, fraying around the edges with a hint of red leather underneath. A little haphazard in the way it was placed, as though whoever had unpacked their moving boxes had dumped its contents with no regard of what was inside. 

Cloud scrunched his brows and tilted his head to the side. He set his rag down and pulled the book out of the shelf, blowing the dust away and wiping the rest from the hard, crisp edges. It looked like it had caught fire a long time ago, but the binding was thick enough to preserve the overall shape. The scorched pages had grown musty, the edges set in permanent blackened curl. The front cover had nothing except an engraved border that had seemed to be embossed in gold once upon a time, but had now faded with age.

Curious of what such a book contained, Cloud gingerly lifted the cover. As he did, a piece of small square paper fluttered by and fell on his feet. Cloud reached down and picked it up.

A photograph? It was so old that the paper had grown yellow and the colors had faded. Upon closer inspection, he could make out a little girl, probably around seven or eight years old, that looked uncannily like Tifa. The same round face, the same ruby eyes. Her long ebony hair hung low down her back as she sat in front of her piano, facing the camera with a huge grin across her face.

A picture from before the Fire…

Cloud recognized the piano. He recognized the room. He remembered sitting by his windowsill every time a piano melody drifted in from the house next door, followed by laughter and giggles as Sara Lockhart taught her daughter how to play the instrument. Cloud’s fingers trembled as his gaze shifted back toward the book.

Lifting the cover once more, Cloud adjusted his position to get the best light possible in the dim storage. LOCKHART was spelled across the front page with doodles and scribbles of what looked like a deformed dog, a flower, and then three faces beneath it. Papa, Mama, and Tifa.

Cloud stopped short. It was Tifa’s family album. When he flipped to the next page, the first picture he met was of Tifa’s parents in their younger days. Probably around the time after they just got married. Brian Lockhart had his arm around his wife in front of their two-story house Cloud knew so well, their faces parting into small smiles. The next picture was of the small garden they’d kept in their front yard, to which Cloud often saw Tifa help her mother tend. Then there were many pictures of Brian—Brian going to work, Brian in the living room, Brian having dinner. There were not many pictures of Sara herself—at least not alone. She was always with someone, either her husband or one of the villagers. When Cloud spotted a familiar face, his hand went still.

His mother, in that brown dress and white apron, her blond hair tied back to a ponytail, stood shoulder to shoulder with Sara. The huge toothy grin plastered across her face seemed enough to brighten a room. She looked so young then—much younger than he was now. Had she even had him?

Cloud traced his mother’s face with his finger. The painful twinge to his heart every time he thought about her had gradually ceased, but sometimes, there were moments like this when her face was so visible that his mind brought him back to that fateful day seven years ago. When he’d stood in front of his burning house while his mother hung limp from a long steel blade, her face so pale, blood trickling out of the corner of her mouth.

Run…

Her mouth had formed the word, her voice was nothing more but a strained whisper and a choked gurgling sound; her gaze, scrunched up in pain, bore into his. His heart had seized, as though Sephiroth had stabbed his Masamune into Cloud himself. 

“Cloud?” The call was sudden and loud in the quiet stillness, pulling him out of his reverie. Cloud blinked in surprise, only to find tears had sprung to his eyes. “Cloud, are you here?”

Footsteps approached. Cloud hastily blinked away his unshed tears, slipping the picture of Tifa with her piano inside the photo album before shutting it close. Just in time before Tifa poked her head in, her hair swaying to her side. Her eyes narrowed, her lips drawing back in a frown at the sight of the still-disorganized storage. She stepped inside and folded her arms over her chest.

“Are you still not done? We’ve finished cleaning the bar.”

Cloud chuckled under his breath, willing his voice not to quaver and hoping it was enough to hide his mental disquiet. He placed the book back on the shelf and said over his shoulder, “There’s a lot to clean here, you know.”

That wasn’t a lie. This was their smaller storage room where they kept many of their old belongings, including their undamaged possessions Marle had retrieved from the Sector 7 Slum ruins while they had been away. She, and some survivors, had found the hidden entryway to Avalanche’s hideout. Everything they’d kept inside was unscathed, including Jessie’s computer set, Barret’s punching bag, and Tifa’s camera. Books had been scattered across the floor—the tremor from the fallen plate had probably shaken them off their stack. There was also a TV—but what good would a TV do with no cable or signal?

Those were some that now crowded the space in their small storage. After packing and moving everything to Tifa’s new bar at the new city of Edge, they’d dumped most of everything in the small room at the back. That was well over two years ago now. Neither Cloud nor Tifa had ever cleaned or organized the shelves since then.

Cloud wondered if the family album had been among those belongings found within their old hideout. If so, how had it reached the place? He doubted Tifa had gone back to Nibelheim. Had some traveler found it and brought it with him—and later by chance it had found its way back to Tifa’s hands? That would be nice if that was the case. He wondered if any of his mother’s belongings had survived the Fire. Cloud never thought to look.

He felt Tifa’s gaze on him, the annoyance transforming to concern. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

Cloud gave a shake of his head, averting his eyes away from the album and resisting the temptation to check if there were other pictures of his mother there. But his movements were too slow. Tifa had already followed his line of sight by the time he grabbed the rag from the shelf. He heard her quiet intake of breath. Saw, from the edges of his vision, her taking a step forward before stopping short and pulling back.

“That’s—”

Her voice wavered. Cloud glanced over his shoulder. Tifa’s eyes were wide in a mixture of surprise and apprehension. As though she’d forgotten the album existed. Her voice was quiet when she spoke next.

“Master gave me that—Zangan.”

She finally took that step forward, then another, then strode over to the shelf where the book lay between heavy volumes on computers, programming, and stage acting. She reached over and made to pull the album out, before she paused, her hold on the book faltering. But then she shook her head and set her jaws, gripping the book binding and pulling it out of its place.

The picture fluttered out again. Cloud grabbed it before it reached the floor. When Tifa accepted it from his held-out hand and her eyes finally landed on it, her body went still. One moment; two… Cloud was wiping the shelf with the rag when Tifa broke into a small, melancholy smile.

“I remember this,” she murmured. She flipped the book open, her smile growing by the inches at the sight of her doodles on the front page. “I remember drawing this.”

From the corner of his eyes, Cloud watched as Tifa slowly turned the pages one by one, absorbing every picture in that album that wasn’t burned. He noticed some pages were lost, while others were burned to a crisp they couldn’t even make out the pictures on it. Tifa drew a shuddering breath as she stopped on a rare lone picture of her mother sitting on a rocking chair, her stomach big and round in late pregnancy.

“A few years after I settled here, Master came by one day. Said he was checking up on me, and that he was glad I’d found a way to make my own living. We chatted for a while, catching up. Then he told me he had returned to Nibelheim and found it reconstructed with people living there, as though nothing ever happened.” One corner of her lips twisted into a hateful scorn. “None of our belongings should have survived. But somehow, Master found the book lying around in a ditch a little ways away from the house. It might’ve fallen off a cart or something when they were cleaning up the place.”

Tifa gazed at the picture of her mother. The picture beneath it had Sara holding a tiny bundle in a blanket, with Brian in a rare joyous grin as he looked at the camera. A tear rolled down her eye, and Tifa blinked them away.

“I never had the courage to look through it. So I stashed it among Jessie’s books in the basement.”

She turned to another page, and a quiet laugh burst out of her. She lifted her head. Cloud caught the twinkle in her eyes.

“Look, it’s you.”

Cloud’s eyes widened in surprise, his rag already forgotten while he listened to her talk. Tifa turned the album around and showed him the picture on the top right corner. A small square picture with Tifa and Cloud standing in front of his house. Tifa was grinning from ear to ear, wearing that white one-piece dress with the brown ribbon, one hand held high in a wave while the other clasped his.

“Look at the camera, Cloud!” Sara had said then. 

“Smile!” his mother had shouted. “Come on, Cloud, say cheese!”

When he had refused, the two women had only giggled among themselves. He remembered scowling and thinking it was such a pain to have to take a picture with the girl next door. What would the other kids say if they saw him? They’d probably jeer and mock him. He’d refused to look at the camera.

But then he’d felt her hand enveloping his and heard her say, “Come on, Cloud. Smile.” He couldn’t have smiled. Not when Tifa had been smiling so close in front of him. She’d only made his ears burn, and he’d turned his face away despite the two women’s urging.

Judging from the picture, Cloud should have been six or seven then. He couldn’t believe he still held a memory from so long ago.

“Here’s another one,” Tifa said, turning to another page and finding a group photo in what looked like a birthday party. There was a cake on the table, and they’d strung a banner across the living room. It read Happy Birthday, Tifa! Cloud had stood on the side, still with a frown on his face. But at least he was looking at the camera now.

“Seems like it’s my seventh birthday.” Tifa’s eyes drew back in reminiscence, nostalgia tinging her voice. “You were so cute back then.”

“I should’ve smiled more then.”

What were photographs if not preserving a moment in time? Had he thought that, had he known those days would come to an end just sixteen years into his life, he might have appreciated taking pictures together more.

Cloud had always thought they were a farce. That people should just live in the moment and let it stay in their memories. If memories failed to retain them, then those moments were not worth remembering. But who was he to say anything about it? He’d forgotten the most crucial parts of his memories. He’d forgotten his friend. He’d almost forgotten his mother. Cloud regretted now not having anything to remember them by.

“Should we make them?” Tifa asked then. “A family album.” He met her gaze, open and inviting, as she smiled a soft smile at him. “I got my camera. We should start making one.”

“Tifa—”

“Photography was a hobby of my mom’s. That’s why she took many pictures. This was only one of the many albums she had in store. The only one that survived...” She pursed her lips, keeping her sadness at bay. “That’s why when a traveling merchant came by the bar a few years ago and I found a camera among his wares…” She chuckled. “It wasn’t that hard to buy it.”

So that was why she always had that camera with her. On days off or break times, she would often go out with a camera in hand, taking pictures of Marlene, of Denzel, of people visiting the bar or just people passing by. They’d smiled at her and posed for her. She had even tried to take his picture a few times, despite his reluctance. Tifa always looked so happy behind the camera.

“Sure,” Cloud found himself saying. A quiet smile broke through his lips. “Why not?”

~ END ~

[evaxsombra]

Once Upon a December

Kadeu, Club Territory, Abandoned House

30 December 2020, 2200

Snow was falling gently, making the usually dilapidated buildings and streets seem more like a wondrous dream than the rough and tumble faction that Club was. Eva was huddled deep in her Spade-issued winter set, a dark wool coat keeping the frost at bay. Her hand moved the cane to and fro across the path in front of her, pushing freshly piled snow to either side. Her boots made soft crunches with each step, a pleasant sound in the rare silence. Her hair was tucked under a cap, but her bat ears were free, slightly chilled from the cold. Eva could here the soft murmurs of families and friends in their homes and smiled to herself. She loved that sound—the sound of lives being lived.

Eighteen years. That’s not long for most citizens in Kadeu, but for Eva, at this very moment in her life, it felt like lifetimes. She could feel the snow kiss her cheeks as if in greeting, hear the creak of old wood, and the special howl of wind reserved for places long forgotten.

“Mama, Papa…I’m home.”

She greeted the her old home and the ghosts that dwelled within with a soft murmur. Anybody who’d ever seen Eva knew she was always blessing them with a smile made of sun, passion in even the tiniest of movements and words. If they saw her now, would they recognize her? The young woman standing in front of an abandoned, half-felled wooden house, shoulders hunched in sorrow and loneliness, mind as unfocused as her eyes, and cane looking like it’s the only thing holding her up rather than guiding her? Would they know it was still Eva who stood here?

The shifter took tentative steps forward, feet pulling her forward as if they remember exactly how many steps it takes to reach the door (five). Her hand gently rests against the door knob as if it knows how old the house itself is (forty-five years old) and fears it will collapse with a single breath. And when Eva finally enters, her body both tenses and relaxes as if it half-expects to find the two people Eva herself knows will never be there. Like it’s uncertain whether that would be cause for elation or crushing heartbreak.

Eva clicks her tongue against her teeth, the sound bouncing off the borders around her, reaching her ears once more and painting a picture both nostalgic and lonesome. She moved further in, wooden floors creaking and groaning from disuse. It’s clear nobody has lived her in a long time, but Eva knew that already. Every year it’s the same—no one’s ever home save for her.

With a sigh, she lowers herself slowly to the floor, the cold almost immediately fighting to reach her through the layers of clothing. Eva doesn’t mind, though. She likes it, the way it makes her body shiver and remind her that this time there’s no threat of death looming over her head. She’s not the five year old girl from eighteen winters ago, dressed in rags and waiting for her parents to come home like they promised.

She remembers telling Shu-Ling months ago how she was never one to sit still, never enjoy silence—and that was true. But this place was special, like it demanded a certain amount of reverence from the young woman that the rest of the world didn’t. Eva pulled out a small, hand-made lantern from a satchel that hung from her shoulder. It was poorly shaped, she knew simply from running her fingers over it, and she was positive it didn’t look nearly as beautiful as the lanterns sent off into the sky at the beginning of Yeon Nen. Still, Eva made it especially for this occasion and she was proud of it. She placed it on the floor, whipped out a match and carefully guided her hands and the flame to the wick inside. After a moment, Eva could feel the small burst of warmth fill air around her and she smiled.

“Well,” Eva huffed out as she sat back on her palms, “another year without you guys. Are you well?” A pause. Eva continued, a smile in her voice. “I know you guys don’t care much one way or another, but I didn’t tell anybody I came here…again. I didn’t wanna make Prospero feel bad. Don’t get me wrong! He’s an amazing dad and he’s only ever wanted the best for me…but I don’t know if he’d feel great if he knew I was still waiting for you.”

The darkness that was as familiar as her own breath, usually so oppressive, was now comforting, like her favorite blanket. It felt like it was keeping the pain at bay. Her fingers tapped a rhythm against the floorboards. “You won’t believe it. I got promoted to a Four! Look!” She showed off the wrist she knew to have her rank, though she’d never seen it herself. “Does it look as cool as it feels? …I bet it does.” Horse hooves could be heard through the walls. Eva waited until they disappeared. “You know how I’ve been trying to convince Hilo to come to Spade? Well, he finally agreed! But only if I become Ace.” She grinned widely. “That should be easy with how fast I’m moving up. Only twenty-three and I’m a Four. How many Spades can say that? Don’t answer that.”

The silence continued. Eva felt the grin on her face slowly fall. She whispered, “I’m keeping my promise. I’ll become Ace. But I made a promise to you guys to stay here….Does that make me a liar? But you didn’t keep your promise either. You didn’t come back.” A tear slid down the young woman’s cheek. “When are you coming home? You said you’d be home. I’m here. I’m waiting. I’m being a good girl just like you told me to.”

Just like that a wave of sadness and loneliness flooded Eva’s chest, but before she could let it overwhelm her, she sang. It was a lullaby so old, her father had told her he’d long forgotten where it came from.

“Do you want to sing it with me, Evangeline?” Her father asked after putting the toddler on his lap, rubbing her belly in a futile attempt to soothe the hunger pangs his daughter felt. Tear tracks trailed down chubby cheeks, but at the mention of her father’s favorite song, Eva lit up and smiled, revealing gummy backs between small teeth. She clapped and her father chuckled. “Alright. Ready?” Eva nodded. They both took a deep breath.

Dancing bears, painted wings

Things I almost remember

And a song someone sings

Once upon a December

On and on the father and daughter sang, one of deep timber, the other sonorous and high. They sang until little Eva could do it no more. Her eyes drifted close, but reopened at the sound of the front door opening. All the little girl’s energy came rushing back, hunger momentarily forgotten as she smelled the smoky fires and metals that she associated with her mother. “Mama!” Eva crawled off her father’s lap and waddled to her mother, using the sound of stomping shoes as her guide.

“Singing won’t put food on the table Koldo, or in Evangeline’s stomach.”

“It’s the only thing that calms her.”

“You haven’t gotten anymore jobs?”

“None. At this rate we might have to start looking at—”

“No.”

“Altagracia, my love, there’s nothing for us here.”

“Eva would never make it.”

“What if we scouted ahead? I heard from a friend it only takes a few weeks to reach the borders. After that, there’s land and countries that take care of their own. No curse, no fighting, no starvation. Eva could survive.”

Eva sat at her mother’s feet, understanding nothing, but smiling and laughing in a simple, innocent joy reserved only for children. Their eyes watched her with a fondness she could not see, but their voices were warm and concerned as they spoke.

“We can’t bring her. It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s dangerous here.”

“We have friends. Trusted ones. We can ask them to watch her until we return.”

“And if we don’t?”

“At least she’ll be in a world that we know has certainties and people who will help.”

It continued on and on for months on end. Winter approached. Eva could feel in the air the tension her parents carried, though she couldn’t understand why. The day came that they sat the five-year-old down, wrapped in ragged blankets and torn clothes. Eva could only make out their shadowy silhouettes, but their scents filled her nose and brought her comfort.

“You must promise us, Evangeline, you will stay here until we come back.”

“I pwapmis.”

“That’s a good girl.”

“You pwamise to come back?”

“We promise. A kiss to seal the deal, our little light.”

And so they did. But they didn’t come back and Eva found herself succumbing to the frost that invaded her empty home and only the appearance of the family friend saved her from death and solitude that day.

“But I never stopped waiting. I never will. I’ll move as fast as I can through the rest of my life, but you’re the only thing I’ll ever stop for.” The room was slightly warmer now thanks to the candle’s heat, but only just. It was enough, though, lulling Eva into memories too blurry to really recall, voices too faded to make out their meaning. Only the melodies and scents and touches remained.

In the distance, beyond the small walls that contained her pain and confusion, Eva could hear the cheers as Kadeu’s citizens brought in the New Year. Eighteen years since her Mama and Papa left, but at least there was something happy left of them. Eva smiled softly, knowing somewhere in her memories, there were feelings of love and family and a song that stayed with her—their gift to her.

Far away, long ago,

Glowing dim as an ember,

Things my heart used to know,

Things it yearns to remember

And a song

Someone sings…

Once upon a December

[random-imagines-blog]

The Face of God (Daenerys with Child Oneshot)

Requested by: @paultiteuf360​ Wordcount: 2808 Summary: You are a young, orphan boy who Daenerys finds upon reaching Dragonstone. You also have the power to see into the future, and you use that to change history.

Mother is God in the eyes of a child. And just like the dragons that were hatched in the fire beside Daenerys, you looked at her like she was the source of all love, kindness and nurture on this world. You were found as an orphan in Dragonstone, and no one could figure out how you could have gotten there. It was well fortified, and had not had a single soul living there since Stannis Baratheon, the former Lord of Dragonstone, had died during the wars. Being a  young boy of only about six, you didn’t remember the former Lord, and kept your mouth shut about why you had been there in the first place. But just because you didn’t say, didn’t mean that you didn’t know. Fate had brought you here - the same fate that had given you the ability to see into the future. You knew that your destiny, and that of the whole Seven Kingdoms, would truly begin here - and only you were able to stop the destruction that you saw when you closed your eyes.

Missandei was the first one who came across you, huddled up in a fireplace in the kitchens, trying to stay as far away from the soldiers as you could. With their tarnished armor and their blank stares, they terrified you. You’ve seen what they do in the future and it was frightening. The beautiful young woman was able to coax you out with a song and a gift of food, and you slowly retreated from your hiding spot, taking her hand with your grubby little own.

After a quick wash with some rags, a bowl of stew, a goblet of water and a fresh tunic that was far too big for you but certainly better than what you had before, Daenerys finally was introduced to you. She came to see you in the kitchens, watching with a startled expression as you spooned bite after bite of the stew into your mouth. Your appetite reminded her of the Dothraki, but you were not as vicious. You used the spoon instead of your hands, which was a good sign.

The moment that your eyes connected, there was something magical that happened. You felt at peace, at home for the first time in your short life, and she felt something - something she hadn’t felt since she had a baby in her stomach. The maternal instinct took over her, in a way that overpowered even the love that she had for her dragons, whom she called her children.

She asked for stew of her own, for if it was good enough for you, it was good enough for her. And she sat at the chair next to you, watching with enjoyment as you ate. Once your stomach was full to the brim, and a healthy glow was upon your rosy cheeks, you climbed over to her lap and curled up there in the same way that you had in the fireplace, but this was much more comfortable. The guards in the kitchen looked on with surprise as their Queen, the Mother of Dragons, not only indulged in the little boy, but seemed to just as comforted by you as you were by her. Your fingers played with the white-blonde hairs that dangled near your face, not enough to hurt of course, but to feel the silk strands.

“My little Prince,” She said, kissing the tip of your nose.

-

Daenerys always made sure that you were within eyesight of her. After her previous experience, she wasn’t going to let anything at all happen to you. If you weren’t sitting on her lap, then you were usually with Jorah, who took the place of a father figure in your life. Even you, at this young age, could see how he looked at your mama, and that’s what helped to cement him as a father to you. He had a wooden sword made for you, since there was no way that Daenerys was going to allow you a real blade, and you two would play sword fight, with you often winning to your delight.

Despite all of the love and attention, you were not spoiled. You didn’t get feasts, but lived off of the same food as everyone else. You did get clothing made in your own size but it was mainly plain, for you would end up getting it dirty in your playing anyhow. You did your best to learn everyone’s names, including the UnSullied and the Dothraki, learning the tough syllables that were impossible for some adults. Your mama did want the finest things for you, but after seeing the appreciation that you had for the simple things, she changed her mind.  You were just as happy with a whittled figure of a dragon than you would be with some mechanical thing.

The dragons themselves - Drogon, Rhaeal and Viserion - were utterly terrifying to you. You always hid behind your mama’s dress when they flew too close, though they didn’t threaten you the way that they did to others. They, like everyone else, saw the love that Daenerys had for you, and accepted you as their little brother.

-

Despite the love that you had for your new mama, you never told her about your ability. You never told a single soul. Even Lord Varys, who thought that he knew everything, knew nothing about your gift. You may just be a child, but you knew that telling would have bad consequences. You could stop bad things happening, but that would make worse things happen in the future. You just had to suck it up and try to understand your place in all of this.

It was the day that everyone was packing up to go to Winterfell. The war against the dead was going to begin, and you had already foreseen the outcome. It broke your little heart and you fell asleep crying most nights, facing away from your mother so she wouldn’t worry. You were going to lose so many of your friends.

“Come up, ride with me,” Daenerys said from her post on a horse, reaching down to help lift you. You shook your head, and saw the unfortunate look of hurt in her eyes.

“Can I ride with Jorah?” You asked, looking towards your father figure. “And then I’ll ride with you on the way back? Please, please, please?”

“If it pleases you, Ser Jorah,” Daenerys said, looking at her second in command. He nodded, and picked you up, sitting you between him and the reins. It felt nice to be near his warm body, and know that you were protected against anything that could come up and attack during the journey. But it was also bittersweet because you knew this was the last time that you were going to be able to ride with him.

-

Winterfell was horrible, and you never wanted to go back there. Though it was pretty at times with the snow falling, it was cold and it was dangerous. Being locked in the crypts with Uncle Tyrion didn’t make things better, for though you were old enough to understand that the dead shouldn’t be coming back to life, you knew that they would.

“Don’t put your knife away!” You cried out to the man that you thought of like an uncle, holding onto his arm as he was putting it into his sheath. You were full of terror, despite knowing that you were going to make it out of this. “The dead are coming!”

“We’re safe down here,” Lady Sansa said, gently. She ran her fingers through your hair. You didn’t dislike her, but you could see that she didn’t like your mama, so you were very wary. You pushed her away from you and retreated further into Tyrion.

“There are dead down here too,” You whispered to him, giving him the warning. The short man looked around cautiously at the crypts, and decided to keep his own weapon in hand, just in case. For he had noticed that some of the things that you had said tended to come to pass. He spoke of that to no one, keeping his suspicions to himself lest he cause an issue with you being called a demon.

After a couple of hours of careful watching, keeping close and trying to keep the cries of the young ones from escaping through the walls, the crypt was alive with the sound of fighting. The dead had risen, as you had predicted. Tyrion kept you hidden behind a statue of a dead king, then helped with what he could, saving a couple of lives in the process. Until finally, the moment came when the Night King was killed by that girl, Arya, and the dead fell, their last fight being a defeat. They could finally rest.

You were the first one out of the crypt when the doors were opened, being followed by Tyrion who was calling for you to slow down. You jumped over bodies, not looking below for fear of seeing a familiar face, and ran to where you knew your mama to be. She picked you up immediately in her arms, cradling you close, the fur from her jacket tickling at your face but you didn’t care because you could still smell her and she smelt like home.

-

King’s Landing was going to fall to ruin. You saw it the moment that Missandei was murdered in front of Daenerys and Grey Worm. You turned after seeing it, looking backwards at the soldiers that were behind you, having new thoughts about them after what your visions had foretold. They were going to become monsters. They were going to kill the innocent, they were going to destroy homes and families. And your mother - it was hard to believe it, but she was going to become the worst of them all. And she would be murdered as a consequence.

“You have to stop her Uncle Tyrion,” You said, standing straight and strong like an Unsullied in front of your uncle. “She’s not going to listen to the bells.”

Tyrion knew better than to question how you knew this. He sat in deep thought, looking at you, a young boy of just seven years old now, who had seen things that no one your age should have had to see. “We cannot stop the Queen from doing what she wants to do.”

“A lot of people are gonna lose their mamas and their papas. People who haven’t done anything wrong!”

“What are you talking about, little Prince?” Your mama’s voice came from outside of Tyrion’s tent as she walked in. This makeshift tent was only temporary, for he was to be taking you away from King’s Landing, back towards Winterfell after the sun had set. The time for negotiations was over, so Tyrion’s part was done - and she didn’t want you to see the injustices of war so closely at such a young age.

“Mama, why did you free the slaves?” You asked, turning to her with wide eyes, full of fear, tears tempting to fall. What you could see was her dead body in the arms of Jon Snow. Your beautiful mother, the person who saved you, who loved you. You couldn’t let this come to pass.

She scooped you up in her arms, sitting down on a chair with you on her lap, just like she had when she had first found you. Just like when the bonding had begun. “Because a person should never be owned,” She told you, putting a finger under your chin to make you look at her. “I answer injustice with justice, my love.”

“And will you show justice today and be fair, mama?” You asked, almost retreating to a baby like state in her arms. You didn’t want her to leave, didn’t want to take the risk of the horrible future happening. “Are you going to make King’s Landing our home?”

“Once I sit on the Iron Throne, all of the Seven Kingdoms will be our home,” Daenerys told you with a smile.

“But if you send in the dragons to destroy everything, there won’t be a home left,” You said, resting your head on her chest. You closed your eyes and heard the heartbeat. It was strong, just as she was. She remained quiet for a moment, stroking your hair, your face, while in thought. “And if you hurt good people and do bad things, then someone is going to get justice on you mama.”

She just kissed the top of your head, got up, and set you back down while you were sitting. “Get some rest, my love, you have a long journey tonight.”

-

A month later, you were sitting in the dining area in the castle of Winterfell. Your head was down on the table, and you were groaning. This is the longest that you had been away from your mother, and you were waiting for a letter, an appearance, anything! You were scared, constantly pacing, driving both Sansa and Tyrion crazy. But they didn’t know what you knew. They hadn’t seen what you had seen. Your mama could be dead right now, and a raven could be coming for Sansa and Tyrion to be at the trial of Jon Snow. You didn’t see what the future held right now, it was all up in the air.

“There’s someone approaching,” A guard called out, making you raise your head. Sansa tensed up in her own seat, where she was drinking water and was deep in thought. You might not have warmed to her still, but you didn’t blame her for being pensive, not with Jon and Arya over there.

“Who?” The Lady asked.

The door opened before the guard could say, and a man with messy black curls, covered in a large fur coat, entered the hall. He looked around, a few scrapes on his face but not the worse for wear. Your breath caught in your throat. Had your vision come true? Had he killed your mother, after she brought chaos to King’s Landing?

There were more footsteps, and then the roar of a dragon from outside. Drogon! You would know that sound anywhere! You leaped to your feet, bounding over the bench onto the table. You didn’t care that you may be scolded for it - your Mama was here! The very second that you saw the familiar white hair, plaited so prettily behind her ears, you jumped into her arms. And being your mama, she was expecting this very thing and caught you, holding you in your arms.

“Well?” Sansa asked, standing from her spot at the head table, looking at her brother.

“I would have brought you her head, but the crown was heavy enough,” Daenerys said, holding her head up high so everyone could see the golden crown which contrasted against her light hair. Her eyes flickered over to Tyrion who had stood up in amazement. He had assumed the worst with how you had been acting the last month, moping over something, be secretive. “Tyrion is the last Lannister alive,” She said, her voice loud and confident, echoing throughout the room. “The way that it should be, in my opinion.”

“I see,” Sansa said. She wasn’t too enthused over the new Queen, but at least it seemed her position was safe. She then realized that these were the only two coming into the hall. “Where is everyone else?”

“Resting in town. Food and water is being brought to the wounded soldiers. The dead will come here to be burnt or buried, as you wish it,” Daenerys was being more respectful to Sansa now, seeing as you had been fed, sheltered, and generally taken care of in her home. “I’ve come to bring my little one home with me. And my hand.”

“My Queen,” Tyrion said, bowing before her. “May I ask...”

“He betrayed us, going to her side.” Daenerys said pointedly. “He got what he wanted, and what he deserved.”

“Mama, is there still a King’s Landing?” You asked, looking up at her face with wide, attentive eyes.

“It will need a name change since there is no King, but yes, my love.” She stroked your cheek with affection, then hugged you again. “Oh, I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too Mama,” You held her back without restraint, knowing how hard it was for her to control the Targaryen madness inside of her. All ended well - and no one would ever know just how truly you had intervened with fate.

[lagranpepita]

Have You Ever Wanted to Live Forever?

Just a little short story :)

Perhaps it was her past trauma. Hallucinations came with trauma, Hazel believes. As long as anything hadn’t been proven wrong in the time she’s been gone. But since this particular hallucination was incredibly vivid, she was inclined to believe she was finally going crazy.

After all these years, centuries most likely, she was finally going senile. Could an immortal even go senile? Surely not, at least not to Hazel’s knowledge. 

The hallucination gave her an adorable contemplative look, and Hazel realized that her hallucination was a child, maybe a bit younger than seven years old. That just made things infinitely worse. Hazel was not good with children, a figment of her imagination or not.

Hazel’s hallucination wore pathetic rags covered in dust and soot and smelled like a pile of trash had a personal vendetta against the female child. Hazel wrinkled her nose in disgust. Did her mind deteriorate more than she had thought, so much so that her hallucinations were the equivalents of a sewer rat?

The mirage tried to glare at Hazel when it saw Hazel observing it with revulsion. “Stop that.” Oh joy, the hallucination could talk. Truly this would be an interesting conversation.

Hazel sighs, fanning herself dramatically. “I am not doing anything, child.”

“I’m not a child!” The gremlin squeaks indignantly.

“Oh?” Hazel purrs. “Then what are you?”

“I’m six and a half! I’m too old to be a child,” says the apparition proudly, completely ignoring the question of what are you. Hazel holds in a sigh. Children, she thinks exasperatedly with a mental shake of her head.

“Of course,” Hazel agrees, nodding. In her experience, which is quite a lot, children are easier to deal with when they think they’re in control. Perhaps that works the same with hallucinations.

The delusion waves its arms excitedly in the air. “You wanna see my new toy?” Without even waiting for an answer, it rushes up to Hazel and shoves a broken doll.

Hazel eyes the doll with distaste. “What a...pretty doll you have there.”

Hazel’s hallucination nods excitedly and, if she was a normal person, Hazel would have worried it was going to fall off. But, fortunately for Hazel’s sanity, she is not a normal person. Emotions are just a concept, like physics and mortality, they don’t exist.

Not to Hazel, that is.

“Papa stole it for me!” Hazel quirks an eyebrow at the stole part. She decided to approach this figment with caution. This hallucination must have...fragile feelings that should be encouraged.

Hazel feels like smiling.

“Child, do you know what the word ‘stole’ means?” Hazel raises, carefully watching the illusion’s reaction.

To Hazel’s mild surprise, it grins and nods again. “It means to take without paying! Mama always said money is a sugges- suggestian?”

“Suggestion,” Hazel supplies, a faint smirk on her face.

“That!” 

Hazel eyes the illusion in front of her. “Stealing is against the law, dear.”

Hazel feels immense satisfaction at the way the child doesn’t even pause. “Oh? That’s too bad; Papa is teaching me to steal and I love it!”

Hazel raises her eyes to the sky, smiling. The sweet child has such corrupted thoughts. Perhaps this is the universe’s way of taking pity on her after suffering for all these centuries. Or it’s Fate’s way of punishing her for nothing by giving her a hallucination that Hazel can’t resist caring for.

Hazel has always avoided humans; their mortality sickened her after a while. They’re all ants, so tiny in the grand scheme of the universe. Though, she would never admit this to herself, caring for mortals would mean they’d be put under the same curse.

Humans would be and look young forever, but they don’t realize that being youthful forever means living forever. 

Yet, adults want to stay alive forever. But children want to live. 

What better companion on a never-ending journey than a child seeking to live?

Hazel turns her attention back to the young girl, her thoughts drifting away. The young girl smiles at her, confused (so innocent). “Miss?”

“Darling.” Hazel drops down to eye level. “Have you ever wanted to live forever?”

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Banshees of Autumn

Genre: light horror

Words: 1.7 words

Summary: A young girl lives with banshees arriving every year to her city and roaming the streets.

Every year during the week before and after the fall equinox mama and papa dressed me and my sister up as boys. They do the same in the Nelson house and the McCormick house and Lacy Green’s house despite the fact she hates pants and paints her nails pink every day. For two weeks or so little girls disappear from the streets of the city.

They stow away my long red curls under a cap and shove mucky brown boots on my feet that don’t even fit and wrap me up in a large leather jacket- even when it’s too hot out for leather. I don’t mind dressing up as a boy so much though, it’s a perfectly fine game.

We run around and climb the fences our skirts usually snag on and tuck away apples in our pockets when the merchants aren’t looking and deepen our voices and pretend to shave our faces. It was all a fun little ritual.

It was the nights that were the worst.

Chilly phlegmatic nights where no one went out and my father lifted me up on his lap and read stories until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore the owls hooted deep in the late hours. They were always somber tales too, ones of farmers waking to find their fields covered in black birds and wicked poison berries. Tales of princesses with ice in their hearts and voices that put their entire kingdom to sleep with nothing but nightmares for company. It was of bears that talked rabbits into their waiting maws and brambles that shredded your feet if you didn’t dance.

Sometimes I was thrilled by the tales with their troubled heroes and tragic ends. Other times I asked that we read something else, anything else, and clenched my hands in my boys pants.

Father insisted that these were the stories for fall.

Then, sometimes, in the heart of the night with the stories funneling through my veins and worlds tipping from a knife point into the darkness of the season I would hear it. The brisk and blood-stilling sound that tremmored and heaved in through me in the way of an ocean.

The noise split the air and my father immediately plugged my ears and exchanged a look with my mother who would go to the door and bolt it tightly shut. My older sister- also dressed as a boy, blew out the candles, plugged her ears herself, and we waited.

And waited.

And then my father would take his hands away and resume some grisly story of mermaids devouring the soldiers of a flooded castles. Every year we hid from the thing that screamed in the streets.

Of course, I forgot. It was the autumn equinox when I was eight years old and I forgot.

“He blesses me,” I plucked a petal off the head of a flower. “He blesses me not.” I plucked a second petal off and rolled over in the grassy field. My knees were already stained green, but it didn’t matter since these weren’t my clothes. “He blesses me…” I was almost done with this plain white daisy and it’s bold yellow head. “He blesses me not!”

I had a test coming up in the next few days and I had been praying non-stop for days to the God Theos of knowledge and understanding. The letters on the page always bled together for me and played pranks where they switched spots and pretended to be each other.

Some God out there had to be able to set things right so I could make sense of the page. “He blesses me!” I tore the final petal off the flower and squealed. “I will pass this test!”

I sat up with a flourish and kissed the daisy head before slipping it into my pocket.

I had chosen a sloping tired hill to hide away on, it was a green pasture with a red farmer’s house in the distance and a dense forest above me and the city below me. Buildings billowed smoke from chimney’s nearby and sheep bah-ed in the distance with warm breath. I had been avoiding going home all day there because of another test I failed.

I turned however, and there was something on the hill. It stopped every thought in my head about school or marks or my family waiting by the fireplace to give me a tongue-lashing.

There was something on the hill.

She seemed to roll in with the mist: a damp cloud that descended all around as the evening sun stuttered past the tree tops and set my teeth on edge. Her willowy outline swept across the icy grass and out of the light fog, a chill slithered through my flesh at the sight.

She wore a perfectly powder-white gown with a shredded filthy hem that hung just past her knees in muddy strips. Her feet were bare and bone pale with ragged toe nails that scraped across the ground as she walked.

She swayed in some unseen wind when she moved and her long dark hair lay lifeless and unkempt down her shoulders. Her face was just as mute and dull with gallows cheeks and deep bruises under her gaze. Her frigid eyes looked at something just beyond me and her mouth was a limp hole on her face with slightly-parted cracked lips.

I scrambled backward as she approached and tried not to make sudden movements. It was never good to try and run when the dead walked the earth.

I brought my cap down low on my brow and edged backward toward the warm chimney smoke and safety of the houses. Nevertheless, I blinked once and then she was kneeling down before me in a boneless stoop.

We regarded each other in dead silence and my eyes itched as I refused to blink again.

She put out one slim hand and it hovered just before my face. “Are you a child?” Her voice was slick and as cold as the frozen earth, but there was also something real and heavy about it. A kind of weight to it that you could hold in your hands. I nodded quietly. “I am.” I responded softly as it was rude to ignore a question. “Are you dead?” “I am.” She responded without inflection. “What are you doing out at night?” I glanced up at the darkening sky and she moved slightly closer. I shivered, “I didn’t mean to.” “I see.” She continued and I looked her up and down as I decided where to kick so I could try to make a run for it. “They say you shouldn’t go out at night.” She said evenly, “Not you at least, not you, not you, not you.” She sang the last part in a way that made my skin crawl and the hairs on my neck stand on end.

“I know…” I responded in a small voice.

“That’s the rub though.” She drew in a deep, ugly breath that rattled in her chest nastily, “Do they lock you up? “What?” “Do they place you in binds and tell you to hold your tongue and wait your turn?” I shook my head, “I don’t know what you mean.” “Do they, child? Do they crack their mouths across you skin and call you beautiful even as you do nothing for them and them nothing for you. Do they cast your freedom aside for their own satisfaction?” “No.” I said quickly and tensed to bolt to my feet. “I don’t think so.” “They will.” And then the hand was lightning fast and clamped around my shoulders. “A human girl all the same.” Her hand was hard as cement and just as cold; her nails dug in with needle-point precision. I whimpered softly. I didn’t know where I went wrong. How had she seen through my clothes? But perhaps it had never been about that.

“Oi,” A rusty older voice called near the farm house. “What’s going on over there?”

The banshee twisted around in place and her mouth spread open wide as a gaping, horrible hole in her face.

“AHHHHHHH!” The scream was worse than anything I could have ever imagined: otherworldly. Terrible. High-pitched and curdling your blood like bad milk left in the sun. 

But the worst part was the feeling that curled and crawled and erupted from it. It burrowed into my guts and threatened to swallow me whole in it’s fear and it’s horror and it’s raving, empty stink.

It lied and it swore and tore away at everything I was. My eyes were streaming and I barely noticed as she hauled me off the ground and started sprinting toward the woods with me in her arms.

“AAAAAAHHHH!” The Banshee shrieked and I had no thoughts left in my skull to kick or claw at her and stop her from stealing me away.

“Not this year, you bitch!” A woman yelled above the echoing horrible wordless cry and then a single boom shifted the night air and the bullet crackled just to the left of me. And we fell. Down, down, down, both me and the banshee crumpled onto the icy grass in a heap.

I managed to crawl out from under her feather-light body, wipe up the blood dripping from my ears, and scramble to the side.

“Come to me, girl.” A farmer was running just behind me with his arms out and I turned to flee as black tar blood spilled across the grass behind me in a widening bloom.

The farmer scooped me up before anything else and the last thing I saw was a white pale body rising from the earth again. I flinched as she looked over her shoulder, opened her mouth impossibly wide into a starry black hole, and screeched again with a world-bending roar as she retreated into the woods.

Sometimes I still think about her- about what she was and what could have happened if the farmer’s wife hadn’t shot her through the center.

But most years I simply curl up in a ball on the floor of my parents house and cover my ears with both hands for hours and hours on end until the banshees of fall stopped roaming the dark, cold earth searching for girls to spirit away and make their own.

--------------------

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[ghostbustermelanieking]

snippets from an msr historical au

cleaning out my 2019 fic closet lol. this is excerpts of a historical au i did, based on a short au prompt i wrote in june here. it takes place in 1850s new york where scully and emily are irish immigrants who befriend mulder when he offers to tutor emily. i wrote these snippets months ago and it'll probably go unfinished, but i liked it too much to not share. so here is my scattered sense of world building. 

---

Melissa had been the one to suggest the name. She had been there in the birthing room, the only one left after her mother had traveled to America with Bill and her father was gone and Charlie was in England. Daniel had been elsewhere, of course, it wasn't proper for husbands to be in the birthing room, and he upheld tradition stronger than she did, so it was Melissa and her friend the midwife, Melissa holding her hand, Melissa handing her the squalling babe. She had passed out from the pain and felt a rush of relief when she woke up again; she had feared she wouldn't wake up again after it was all over. She knew many women who had never met their children. Melissa had brought the baby back, the tiny child with their mother's eyes and a patch of bright hair, and Dana had filled with relief. If she had no one else in this marriage, which had long grown sour, she would have her daughter. 

Melissa had suggested Emily because she loved Wuthering Heights, recently republished under the true name of its author. "It's a beautiful name, Dana, and perhaps, if she's lucky, she'll receive even an ounce of the creativity that comes with it," she had said, clutching the tiny hand in hers. "What a wonderful thing that would be." 

That had been enough to convince her. Emily Margaret, she'd said, for her mother, far away in the heartlands of a country she would never see, and for her stepdaughter, who hated her fiercely, though she didn't live with them anymore. The girl hated her, for taking the place of her mother, but Dana saw it as a chance to make peace with the both of them. It did not work, though; Maggie had not had any interest in her sister, or in her stepmother, and Dana had long given up trying. Given up on the whole family, her husband included: he took little interest in her or his daughter, and when he did, it was in a possessive sort of manner that made her skin crawl. The medical lessons she'd received as a young woman were long gone, and he saw her only as the keeper of the house and of his child. He wanted more, but she refused. 

When he'd died on the voyage over, a small, shameful part of her had been relieved. She would not have to pretend to love him anymore, to feel the same way as she had all those years before. But she had feared so greatly for her daughter, that the illness would take one of them, too. She knew life would be hard without a husband, as was the cruel and unfair way of the world (her mother had told her as a little girl as she braided her hair), but it would be impossible for Emily without her. She would end up alone in some horrible orphanage, neglected and abandoned. And Dana could not imagine life without her daughter now, imagine being alone in the city she'd heard so much about. She could not go out west alone, and she could not survive alone. She remembered lying in her small, cold, hard bunk, holding Emily's small figure close, her lips to her hot forehead and murmuring a prayer. And God had heard her prayers. Her daughter had lived, and she looked more and more like Melissa every day. 

Emily often has questions about this, the family she will never know. When the two of them are lying in their bed, behind the makeshifts wall John had built to separate their tiny space from the rest of the equally tiny apartment (he and Barbara sleep in a bed on the other side, adjacent to the stove, and their boy Luke sleeps in a pallet on the floor), she will whisper questions about her father, her half sister, her aunt and her uncles and her grandparents. But it is often Daniel and Maggie, the family she will never know. "Did they love me?" she whispers. "Was Papa kind? Was Maggie beautiful?"

Dana offers some truths and some falsehoods, knowing she will never see either of them again, and therefore her stories will never be contradicted. Yes, Maggie was beautiful, although she mostly remembers a girl not ten years younger than her calling her a whore and a witch and a false mother. Yes, they loved her. No, Emily will never know her sister, because though she did love Emily (although Dana does not know if this is true), she did not feel the same for Dana. There is a picture that Daniel had made before they went, of Maggie, her hair combed nearly and gathered up, wearing her best dress, her cheeks thin, and Emily sitting on her lap, her face twisted with displeasure at having to sit still for quite so long. Emily loves to look at it, and of the faded portrait of the two of them on their wedding day, though Dana does not feel the same. But she allows Emily these frivolities. She cannot give her much more than that. 

---

She meets him by accident one Sunday, her one and only day off from the factory. She and Emily go to Mass every Sunday, of course, and then she spends much of the day helping Barbara to clean, cook, do the laundry (she always does hers and Emily's, at least; though Barbara has the time in the day to do it, she will not accept the favor). She takes a rest, sometimes, or she spends time with Emily, playing jacks or cards (Luke Doggett taught her to gamble, and she cannot shake the habit), or with the worn rag doll she and Melissa had made for her in Ireland, or reading to her. Her favorite is a newer one by a man named Melville. Dana relishes the time alone with her daughter, as she is often too tired to do anything like this after work. She has meant to teach Emily to read and write herself, considering that she's too young to start school yet, and John claims that most children already know a bit before they begin school, but she's barely had the time to teach her more than a few words. Sometimes on Sundays, they have a brief lesson, but there is so little time in the week. 

One Sunday, after Dana has hung the laundry, and scrubbed the floor, and washed the dishes, she decides to go and find Emily, thinking they can read another chapter of Melville, perhaps. (She likes the book, she will admit; it reminds her of her father and his stories of the sea.) She expects to find Emily on the tail of Luke and his friends—they are much older than her, but her lonely girl still follows her around like he is the brother she'll never have—but Luke claims he has not seen her. She finds her, finally, on the steps of the building, an old reader Luke had kept open on her lap, squinting furiously at the page. A man is sitting beside her, pointing out the words on the page, speaking in a calm and patient voice. Dana recognizes the man immediately as their neighbor, Mr. Mulder, a schoolteacher who she has spoken to in the hall before. She's seen him occasionally playing with the young boys in the building, or talking with the men and women about books, plays, politics, scientific discoveries. She'd had a particular long discussion with him once on the effects of anesthesia in medicine, which Daniel had commented on several times.

"Emily," she says, and Emily scrambles to her feet and runs to her side, beaming with excitement. "Mama, this is Mr. Mulder, the schoolteacher," she says in a rush, tugging at her skirt. "He saw me trying to read and he offered to help!" 

"He did?" She strokes the top of her daughter's head, messy from where she's taken it out of her braids, stealing a look at the man. 

"My apologies, Miss Scully," Mr. Mulder offers, getting to his feet. "I didn't mean to intrude… I only wanted to help, if I could."

"It's not an intrusion," Dana says, but she is still wary. "I have been trying to teach her, but I often cannot find the time, and she's so desperate to learn. She's still too young for school yet." And privately, Dana worries about what Emily will go through when she enters school, considering the anger New Yorkers have for immigrants. There is a Catholic school she's looking at, simply because it seems like the best option, but it still is too easy to worry. 

"Mama," Emily whispers, tugging her skirt again as if she finds her embarrassing. 

Mr. Mulder smiles a bit. "Your daughter is very intelligent. She should have no trouble catching up."

"I'm six years old," Emily informs Mr. Mulder, her back automatically straightening as if to look older. "In a year's time, Mama says she can put me in school."

"I'm sure you're very excited," Mr. Mulder says, without even a hint of indulgence in his voice. Emily nods, a little shyly. Mr. Mulder seems to be thinking a bit on the subject, but he speaks soon after. "Perhaps if your mother permits it," he says, speaking as much to Dana as to Emily, "I could tutor you in my spare time. Teach you your letters and give you a head start on reading."

Emily's eyes light up, shyness forgotten, and she tugs pleadingly on Dana's skirt. "That would be wonderful!" she breathes. "Please, Mama, can't I do it?"

"I don't know, Em… I wouldn't want to impose on Mr. Mulder's time." The man certainly seems smart enough to educate her daughter, but it seems too large a favor to ask of a complete stranger. It is also worth noting that she doesn't know the man very well outside of polite conversations in the hallway. She offers Mr. Mulder an apologetic smile. 

"It's not an imposition at all," he says. "I would be glad to do it."

Dana bites her lower lip, her hand on her daughter's boney shoulder. "I-I could not afford to pay you anything," she says softly, although that may be obvious. None of them are wealthy—that is why they live here. But she may be a step down from the rest, staying in the corner of a friend's apartment with a screen instead of a wall, using her meager earnings to buy unsubstantial meals and pay a portion of the rent. If she had the money, she would get Emily and herself their own place, but she's got something of a disadvantage in that area. There isn't much she can do to rectify it. 

Mr. Mulder shakes his head immediately. "No money is required," he says, his voice full of sincerity. "I would be glad to do it as a favor."

"I could not ask that of you…" she tries, but he halts her protests quickly. "Do not worry about it," he says. "When I was younger, my little sister was not allowed to go to school as I was, and she wanted to learn as badly as Emily. I tried to teach her, but I wasn't very good at it." He offers a rueful little smile. "I would be glad to be able to give someone else the opportunity where I couldn't give it to her."

Emily tugs at her skirt again and whispers, "Please." 

Dana chews her lower lip again and sighs. "If you are absolutely sure it would not be a problem, Mr. Mulder," she says. "I know Emily would appreciate that very much." 

Overjoyed, Emily bounces up and down on her toes with excitement. Mr. Mulder smiles at the both of them widely. "I can assure you it won't be a problem, Miss Scully," he tells her. "It will be my pleasure."

---

They practice reading each night, at least for a little while. Even when Dana is so tired she can scarcely keep her eyes open, they spend a few minutes going over Mr. Mulder's lessons, if nothing else. Emily has always been a fast learner, and within a couple of months, she is able to stumble through a page or two of Moby-Dick. Dana is incredibly proud. She can remember her own lessons in reading and other forms of education: her father had taught her often when she was younger, alongside Billy and Melissa, but the lessons had more or less stopped at a certain point. Past that, she had more or less taught herself with books of her father's, watching Bill and her father as they worked, more books still from Daniel's vast library. She never wanted that lapse in education for her daughter; it may be inevitable at some point, but she'll do what she can to prevent it. 

Emily seems to adore Mr. Mulder as much as she does the lessons. "He is funny, Mama," she tells her in the second week, after she's retrieved her and thanked Mr. Mulder profusely. "And kind, just like John is. Much kinder than the other men in the building. Luke says he's the best schoolteacher he's ever had, and he's very smart and fair to the other children."

"He sounds very nice," says Dana, swinging their hands between them. 

"He is." She looks up at her with Missy's eyes. "Was Papa like that?" she asks. 

Her voice is so high and innocent, it makes Dana want to cry. No, she thinks, biting her lower lip. She says out loud, "I-I could not say, Em. I don't know Mr. Mulder well enough to make a comparison between him and your father."

Emily nods, her face serious. She looks down at her shoes, almost self-consciously. "I would like to believe that Papa was like Mr. Mulder," she says softly, and Dana squeezes her daughter's hand tightly. "I-I imagine him reading to me some nights, and helping me read. Y-you could take turns. And he could buy me pretty things, perhaps, and teach me all that he knows, like John does for Luke. Do you think he would have, Mama?"

"I know he would have," says Dana. It may be a bit of a lie, but that hardly seems to matter as much as her daughter's happiness. 

---

Mulder had done it, originally, because Emily Scully reminded her of his sister. He'd seen her as often as the other children in the apartment building, sometimes hovering after Luke Doggett the way that Samantha had followed him. But more often, he'd seen her by herself, playing alone on the front steps with a ragged doll in hand, or trying desperately to read, hunched over a ragged old reader and struggling out loud to sound out words, dress muddy, pigtails unraveling. And he had thought of Samantha, sneaking reading lessons in the back of their immaculate library, trying to climb up a tree and ripping a hole in her stockings. It had been enough to cause him to offer up free tutoring, on an impulse, remembering his sister and how frustrated she used to get whenever he would leave for school and she would have to stay home. He hadn't been lying about that. 

But a part of it was because of his admiration for her mother, Miss Dana Scully, who he'd seen in the halls often beforehand. She is beautiful, and intelligent, and there is something about her that simply draws Mulder to her, in a way he cannot explain. He is sure it won't go anywhere past friendship—Emily has reported that her father died only a few years before, on their trip over from Ireland, and Mulder himself has never particularly expected to be married—but he still enjoys any opportunity to spend time in her company. Particularly the talks they have when she drops by to retrieve Emily after shifts at the factory; they often last long, while they discuss books or plays or scientific theories, anything of the sort. Sometimes, he will ask Emily and Miss Scully to stay and share in his supper, sparse as it is; other times, Miss Scully will invite him to share leftovers of John Doggett's, or whatever cooking she has done herself. Sometimes, he fears he is bothering her, but other times, it seems as if she might like him a bit, too. He cannot tell for sure. 

He tells himself it does not matter. He is here mostly to save money, so that he can travel. He hears there is opportunity in the west, but he would be fooling himself if he cited that as the reason. It does not matter to him where he ends up; all that matters is that he finds his sister and brings her home, after all of these years. 

But still, he enjoys tutoring Emily. She's a bright young girl, a quick learner, and sweet. He does not know anything of her father aside from his death, but she still undeniably resembles her mother in every way he can see. He teaches her a bit of mathematics after she's gained some talent in reading and writing, and she enjoys that immensely. She has a load of questions for him every time she sees him: about stars, about history, about how things work and why they happen and where places are. Sometimes, Miss Scully will answer her before he can even open his mouth, blushing a little after and looking at him as if to see if he minds. He never does.

---

She shows up at his door after midnight, her face white, shaking. Emily at her side, curled into her with a blanket wrapped around her shoulder, her face hidden in Miss Scully's skirt, crying softly. For a second, Mulder doesn't know what to do, what to say. "Miss Scully, is… is everything okay?" he stammers, clutching his door in one hand. He sees a sudden splotch of red on her dress, alarming and bright. "Are you hurt?" he stammers. 

She's shaking her head. "No, no, Mr. Mulder, it's not that, it's just…" She swallows hard, her eyes wide and helpless. "I-I need you to take care of Emily. I need to leave her here. Please."

Emily seems to clutch Miss Scully's skirt harder at that, shaking her head and crying more frantically. She mumbles something that sounds a bit like, "Don't leave me, Mama, don't leave me."

Mulder takes a sharp breath and opens the door wider. "Come in, come in," he says, and Miss Scully does, stroking Emily's mussed hair with quivering fingers. "W-what has happened, Miss Scully? Perhaps I can help."

Miss Scully clenches her chin and shakes her head, her face turned down towards her daughter. "I-I cannot… I do not have time for this, Mr. Mulder. I… Please. Please, Mr. Mulder, I have to leave, they will be coming for me."

"Who?" On an impulse, he reaches out and takes her free hand. It is cold and soft, and as he draws it closer, he sees the same glimpses of red, red crescents under her fingernails. "Who is it, Miss Scully? Who is coming for you?"

Emily's sobs are heart wrenching, even muffled by Miss Scully's skirt. Miss Scully looks to be on the verge of tears herself. She does not pull her hand away. "The… the police," she whispers. 

"The police?" Mulder's mind tightens in fear as he remembers something suddenly, something he has often forgotten: the Irish are not well liked here. He wonders if these prejudices have somehow found the Scullys. "What has happened?"

Miss Scully bites her lower lip before lifting her chin so that her clear, blue eyes meet his. "There… there was a fight at a bar," she says tentatively. "John's son was involved, and so he intervened, and was injured. They followed him home. I… intervened, and I… harmed a man in an attempt to protect the Doggetts and my daughter." Her chin quivers once, steadies. She presses a hand over her daughter's head, spreading her fingers over her scalp. "He's dead," she whispers. "And he… he was police. So they'll be coming for me, to arrest me, and I… I will not find mercy here. I have learned that much."

His mind racing, he stammers, "But that… that is not murder, Miss Scully… that is self defense. A-any jury would see that."

She laughs bitterly. "But who can prove it? Emily did not see, and Barbara and John had already slipped down the fire escape. The only witnesses are the men who would have me arrested. And I will be convicted. Americans do not have any sympathy for women of my background." She swallows again, her pale white throat, a bruise blooming underneath her jaw. The sight of it makes Mulder furious. He is still clutching her limp hand. "S-so I am begging you, please take my daughter," she whispers. "She adores you. Take her, a-and take the money I have saved, and you can send her west, to my brother's house… I have to go. If they catch me, I can't let them get her. And if I escape…"

"Please, Mama, please don't go," Emily whimpers, drawing back, her cheeks smeared her tears. "Don't leave me alone, Mama, please."

"I have to, sweetheart." Miss Scully leans down to kiss her daughter's hair. Mulder can see her tears falling, glistening in the candlelight. "I must. But you will be safe here…"

"I cannot do this," says Mulder, speaking abruptly, almost without thinking. 

Miss Scully's eyes widen with horror, and she pulls back her hand as she looks up at him. "You… you will not help me?" she whispers furiously. "After everything, I-I thought you cared for my daughter… cared for me, as a friend…"

"N-no, Miss Scully, y-you misunderstand," he stammers, his eyes wide. "I will protect Emily, of course I will protect Emily, but I… I will not leave you to be arrested."

Her eyes widen in surprise. "You are foolish to offer this," she whispers. "If they catch me… you cannot hide me here, Mr. Mulder."

"I cannot," he agrees. "But I can get you out of the city. You and your daughter both." His mind is racing, full of ideas. "I-I have friends I trust, a house I could take you to tonight. And tomorrow, we-we could go to my mother's house, in Massachusetts, for the time being. The two of you could stay there until… until we figure out a way to get you to your brother's."

Miss Scully is quiet, her eyes wide. Emily, leaning into her mother, is looking between the two of them curiously, like she is hopeful that this will happen. "You will be safe," Mulder adds. "Both of you. I promise you that."

"I could not ask that of you, Mr. Mulder," Miss Scully whispers. "It is too much."

"It's not." Mulder thinks of the money, put aside to search for Samantha. Enough for three train tickets north at least, if not a little left over after to fund a trip to wherever Miss Scully's brother is. A part of him is reluctant to spend the money he has been saving for so long—part of him feels like he is abandoning his sister, his family—but the rest of him is remembering Samantha at seven, at eight, more caring and compassionate than anyone in his family. She rescued animals (kittens, baby birds, piglets from the barn), knitted things with their mother to send to the local orphanage, shared her food with the servants on occasion and stole food from the pantry for the family down the road who never had enough food. She would want him to help them; he can still picture her wide, teary eyes, her weepy voice prodding him to help them, help them, Fox. And he wants to. He looks at Dana Scully and her daughter, the best companions he's found in the past few months, and he knows immediately that he must help them. He has no choice. 

"I have money," he says out loud. "I can get you out of the city. I can help you. Both of you."

"Please, Mama, you must come with us. We can't leave you all alone." Emily hugs her mother hard around the waist, sniffling loudly. "I need you, Mama, please."

Miss Scully looks to her daughter, and then back to Mulder. Her eyes are still wide with fear. She sighs a little, tensely, and whispers, "I'll need to pack some things. My savings…" 

"If you tell me what you need, I'll go and get it. You should not have to go back there."

Miss Scully rattles off a list in a quivering voice: clothes for the both of them, a knife that her father gave her, her bundle of coins underneath the bed. Emily tugs on his sleeve and adds softly, "And my dolly, please. And the picture of my sister Maggie, and of Mama's family. There's two of them."

Mulder slips out of his apartment and into theirs and finds it all, bundling it into a ragged carpet bag. He grabs their coats, too, and the family Bible under the bed, and a pistol he finds in John Doggett's part of the apartment. He tucks the pistol into his waistband and goes back to his apartment, where he finds the girls sitting on his bed, Emily curled up asleep in her mother's lap. "There is no need to wake her," he says when he sees Miss Scully moving to do just that. "I can carry her. It may be easier if she is asleep." 

She nods, taking the carpet bag from his hands. "I… I cannot begin to thank you, Mr. Mulder," she whispers, shifting Emily off of her lap and standing. 

He's begun to gather his own things, shoving his feet into his boots, retrieving his own savings. He puts a few books he cannot bear to part with into his bag, and a drawing he's held onto for years now, a portrait his father commissioned of Samantha. Photography was not in fashion when he and his sister were growing up, and so this drawing is the only memory he has as to what she looked like. "There is no need for thanks."

"You've done too much for us," Miss Scully whispers. She's put on her coat, and Emily's coat, and now she is tying a piece of cloth over her head—he assumes, to hide her bright hair. Her voice, soft as it's been all night, sounds a little different, as if she's trying to sand off the edges of the accent, attempting to sound different. "I… will find a way someday to repay you."

"It is not at all necessary." He shoulders his bag, grabs his hat and pulls it onto his head, before leaning down and scooping up Emily. She is a bit tall to be carried, but much lighter than he expected, barely weighing anything in his arms. She stays asleep, her coat and the blanket hanging off of her lightly. He shifts her in his arms and turns back to Miss Scully. "Shall we go?"

Miss Scully nods, her fingers rushing to button her coat. She grabs her carpet bag, clutching it to her chest, and trails out of the apartment after him. 

 ---

She was twenty-one the first time she was married, at the end of the famine that had plagued her teenage years. She remembered being frightened, if only a little bit. She'd met Daniel a few times beforehand, and though at the time he'd seemed kind and honorable, she found it bizarre that his young daughter was only seven years younger than her. Practically the right age enough to court her younger brother. She hadn't wanted it for herself, it was the last thing she'd wanted in a way, and yet she could not protest. She could feel her mother watching Melissa as she helped her to get ready, and knew she was thinking about the disappointment Melissa had given her by refusing to marry, even driving away potential suitors. Her sister was going to have the life she wanted, and Dana was going to take her place as the honorable daughter, the one who did what she was supposed to do and did not argue. She wasn't marrying Daniel Waterston for herself, but for her father, because it was what he wanted, and she could not stand to let him or her mother down. Her father walked her down the aisle, and she wore the veil her mother had worn when she'd gotten married, and she'd wished to be somewhere else. 

Now here she is again, in front of an altar with a man, but her father is dead, and she hasn't seen her mother or sister in years, and her daughter sleeps in the room upstairs, and she is twenty-eight and grimy and dressed in a dress that is too large for her because her own dress has bloodstains on it. She does not feel like a bride. The only good difference, she thinks, is that she knows her husband-to-be better than she perhaps ever knew Daniel. She knows he is intelligent and kind, and willing to protect herself and her daughter. And no matter the reason for this impromptu, inconvenient marriage, she is glad for at least that. 

Mr. Mulder is holding her hands, so gently in his, and he's not quite meeting her eyes, but she can still see kindness in his face. She doesn't quite have the courage to look at him, either, and so she looks down at her boots. Mr. Frohike, their witness, stands in the corner. The preacher, a friend of Mr. Frohike, stands before them without asking questions. He simply opens the Bible and says the words, all the right ones. Dana and Mr. Mulder say what they are meant to, too, and then it is done. They do not kiss, not even chastely. There is no music or flowers or white dresses. Dana could not care less. 

Just before the ceremony, Mr. Mulder leaned down to whisper in her ear, saying, "I promise you I will be a gentleman, Miss Scully. This marriage is for the safety of you and your daughter. It doesn’t have to mean a thing." 

She blushed immediately, heat rising on her cheeks, and looked to the ground. "I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Mulder," she had said softly. "And you need not worry. I trust you." 

When she looked back at him, he was smiling. "Perhaps we should do away with the formalities, Miss Scully."

"Perhaps," she had agreed, a bit amused. "I won't be a Miss anymore, after all." She offered him a small smile back, still unbelieving that he was helping her so much, that he was willing to hide and marry a murderess. A man she barely knew. "Shall I call you Fox?" she asks. 

Mr. Mulder had flinched, just a bit, and shook his head. "Perhaps… just Mulder, if you do not mind. I have never liked my first name, and most people I know call me Mulder."

It's unusual, but it's no more unusual than the rest of this situation. Dana smiles and nods. "Well, you may call me Dana or Scully, I suppose," she said lightly, unsure of why except that he has always called her Miss Scully, like she has always called him Mr. Mulder. "Whichever appeals to you."

"Which appeals to you more, Miss Scully?" he'd asked, teasing, and then the preacher had been ready, and now here they are. 

Once, she had believed she would never get married again. Now, she is married, and she has no idea whether or not it counts. 

Mr. Mulder—Mulder—keeps hold of her hand as they go back upstairs to Emily. It's the first time anyone has held her hand in years, and she is surprised by how nice it feels, his warm and callused fingers wrapped around hers. Daniel's hands had been cool, his touch unyielding, his voice the same faux-polite sound it always was as he talked to everyone but her. Mulder's hands are gentle, holding her hand carefully—not as if it is fragile and may break, but as if it is something precious, something he cares for. She knows this is not quite the case, it cannot be, but it is nice to pretend, for just a moment, that this is a true marriage, that she and Mulder love each other as a husband and wife should. 

[onedayiwillflyfree]

When the Sun Begins to Fall Chapter 12: Fight

Read the full story here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21255530/chapters/53940832

Chapter 12: Fight

“Ow! Get off!”  Anne cried from the bed when Gilbert entered the room. Marilla and Diana sat on either side of her, trying to run cool rags along her body, as Cole fought to keep her from rolling off the bed. Her white cotton nightgown stuck to her body, her sweat soaking through the sheets and blankets that were furiously trying to be kicked off her.

Anne’s shrill cries echoed off of the wooden floors, sending shivers down his spine. Her heart rate. Check her heart. Gilbert rolled up his sleeves, taking large strides across the room. He reached for his bag, pulling out his stethoscope. Pushing Diana aside, he tried to speak calmly to hysterical woman. “Anne, I need to try and lie still! I need to listen to your heart!” Leaning forward, he tried to get close to her chest when a sharp fingernail slid across his cheek.

“Don’t touch me!” Anne growled. “Stay away from me!”

His fingers nimbly touched his cheek, wiping away a drop of crimson liquid from the thin cut. It stung, but the pain was nothing compared to what he felt staring at Anne’s slender body roll around the bed.

“Gilbert, are you alright?!” Marilla asked, her voice filling with fear.

“I’m fine.” He said, wiping the speck on his clean pants.

“Can’t you give her something?” Diana said as she leaned her full weight into Anne’s body so she wouldn’t harm anyone else. Gilbert peered over to his bag, thinking of the morphine he had brought with him. When he packed it, he prayed he wasn’t going to have to use it. It seemed that wasn’t going to be the case.

Anne continued to fight as Cole swatted away a wild kick just as it was about to kick him. “Gilbert, if you have something, do it!”

Gilbert wasn’t sure why he was hesitant. Was it because he had seen people become addicted to it? Or the fact that he couldn’t bare to Force something on Anne without her permission. “I-I don't…”

“She’s going to hurt someone!” Roy shouted as he ran to help Diana with holding Anne on the bed.

“Or worse, herself!” Diana said, her words vibrating as she was being shaken.

Inhaling deeply, Gilbert began to dig in his case. Where is it? Why is it whenever I need something I can’t…

“Got it!” Gilbert yelled, grabbing the capped syringe beside it. He stared at the bottle for a moment as Anne let out another scream. Her heart will burst. Do it you coward. He stuck the syringe into the cork and filled it with just enough to allow her some peace for a few hours. Flicking the glass with his fingers to release the air, he turned towards his frightened assistants. “I need you all to hold her still. Cole, Roy, take her waist and legs. Diana, her body. Marilla, her other arm.”

Shifting into their positions, Anne’s eyes widened as everyone began to hold her down. “No! Go away! Away!” She screamed, her head now being the only portion of her body able to move. “Help me!”

Ignore her. This is for her own good. Gilbert focused his attention on her left arm and wrapped a piece of rubber cord tightly around her arm. While searching for a vein, she cried for him. “Gil! Gil!” His eyes shot to hers, the fear overtaking her anger as tears streamed down her face.

“I’m right here Anne. I’m right here.” Gilbert's voice cracked. The room began to spin, Gilbert’s attention being pulled every which way everyone's voices began overlapping one another.

“Hurts! Stop!”

“Do it Gilbert!” Cole and Roy yelled, their grips loosening.

“I can’t hold on much longer!” Diana struggled.

“Gil! Help me!” Anne sobbed.

A thin blue line surfaced and he quickly pricked the needle into her skin, catching the vein. “This will help you Anne-girl, I promise.” She howled as the thick, clear medicine into her body.

“Mama...papa...” her voice trailed off as the morphines powerful grip took hold. The groups hands lifted slowly from her body, each taking timid steps back and waiting for the young medical student to hopefully provide some answers. Gilbert pulled the needle from her arm, releasing the rubber cord, and set them on the table next to him, opting to set it down as far as possible from Anne’s reach.

Gilbert went to run his fingers through his hair when Cole pulled him away from his thoughts. “What the hell was that?” He looked up to see the strawberry blonde leaning against Roy for support. Diana and Marilla had joined one another, both sliding down to sit huddled on the floor.

“That…” He brought a cotton rag to where she was bleeding and pressed down to clot the vein. “Is what happens when someone’s fever is incredibly high.”

“First she can’t breathe, then the seizures, and now this?” Diana asked, the sadness obviously apparent as she stared at her sleeping bosom friend.

Gilbert sighed. “Most assume when a person gets sick that it’s the illness itself that kills them. In truth, I have seen more people die from fever than from the pneumonia itself.” He rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window, staring at the far fence where he had been talking and smiling with Winifred only a few moments prior.

“But I thought she spiked last night, with the seizures?” Roy questioned.

Pushing away the guilt of his happiness from before, he turned back to everyone’s terror. “I said it wasn’t going away without a fight. This is it fighting back”

Every one watched on as he took his stethoscope from the floor and placed it into his ears before pressing the bell against Anne’s rising chest. The rattle in her lungs was still there but thankfully it sounded as if the mucus was loosening. Thank your mother for me Aluk he thought silently to himself.  Four pairs of eyes burned into him, anxiously awaiting for what he was going to say. “Her lungs sound a little better. The breathing treatments and the juniper needles appear to be helping.” Gilbert threw the stethoscope back around his neck and pulled the chair that had somehow made its way across the room next to the bed.  “Which means now we just need to focus on the fever.”

“So what do we do now?” Gilbert didn’t know who asked the question, nor did he care. He truly getting tired of being asked that when he knew he was running short on responses. Fevers were such a fickle topic in the world of medicine, and only now were doctors were beginning to research deeper into how to help cure diseases such as typhoid and pneumonia..

“We keep her hydrated.” Gilbert said plainly, eyes drifting towards Anne.

“And then what?” Roy asked for everyone.

“And then we wait.”

“We wait?” Diana asked confused.

“Yes. We wait.” Gilbert answered resting his elbows on the bed next to Anne’s arm. He laid his head down, hoping that the questions would momentarily cease because his answers, much like his courage, were slowly running out.

———

Anne’s fidgeting grew worse as the sun began descending in the sky, every few hours waking in a fit of hysterical screaming. She would call for people who she had never met, reaching out for them and begging for their help. Begging for them to ease her pain and take it away. Begging for her Gil to save her while fearing the man who was standing next to her as he wipe her down with cold rags. Her eyes never looked to him, only staring at the ceiling and far corners of the room.

Others flitted in and out of the room, Marilla and Gilbert remaining constant as they tried to keep her as comfortable and cool as possible. Both held tightly to each of her hands as she slept, Marilla's head constantly bowed as she prayed to whoever would listen, begging them to let her daughter live and to ease the pain she was feeling.

Gilbert sat silently, squeezing tightly to Anne’s bony fingers and pressing them to his lips every so often. Even though she wouldn’t acknowledge that her Gil was in the room, he wanted her to know that he wasn’t leaving. He was still there, keeping his promise.

As Hazel and Mrs. Lynde prepared supper in the kitchen, Anne awoke into a fit worse than any of the ones prior. Her body convulsed frantically, waking Gilbert just as he was beginning to doze off with a punch to the top of his head. Marilla received the worst of the abuse, Anne’s leg reached out and kicked her square in the chest, sending her tumbling back into the wall.

“Marilla!” Gilbert screamed as he stood to leap over the bed.

“I’m...I’m...” she said through heavy breathes, clutching tightly to her surely bruised chest. “I’m fine, get the medicine!”

Bash, Cole, and Roy tumbled in through the door, racing to help provide aid.

“Roy, get Marilla out of here!” Gilbert yelled as he fiddled with the syringe and tried to get the last of the morphine from the bottle. He received no arguments, Roy rushing to Marilla’s side and pushing an arm underneath her to help her stand. quickly exited the room, Marilla wheezing as they walked away. Cole went to his designated spot, holding down Anne’s wild legs, earning a kick in his already swollen lip. He didn’t complain, it wasn’t the first time today he had been kicked and it was probably not the last.

Bash took his position and sat on the bed, leaning across her and grabbing her far arm.“Sorry about this Anne,” Bash said, leaning most of his body weight onto her chest.

“Hurt! Stop!” Anne screamed, her head turning side to side, tying her hair further into knots. “Mary! Mary!” Bash’s eyes widened as he looked about the room, rising slightly from her chest.

“It’s a hallucination!” Gilbert yelled as he tapped the glass for good measure. Bash ignored him, still looking about the room as he hoped to catch sight of a woman who wasn’t there. “Bash!” Bash snapped out of his trance, pulling his focus back to his brother. Gilbert understood his pain, the desire to see someone who was long gone. But right now, he needed his full attention on saving someone who was still breathing. “Please, Anne needs you now.”

Bash nodded, leaning his weight back on Anne’s chest. She wailed as thick tears fell from her sapphire orbs. Gilbert sucked in a deep breath, pushing the needle into a fresh vein. The fit began to subside once again, her limbs went limp on the bed. Bash and Cole slowly stepped away, half anticipating that the fit would rev its wicked head. They only calmed when Gilbert removed the needle from her arm, setting it aside next to the unused rubber cording.

He was about to fall into the seat, hoping to rid himself of this migraine when Anne turned her head slowly, meeting Gilbert’s eyes for the first time that day. She reached her fingers for his, trying to pull him near. He stepped closer, wrapping her hand tightly in his. “Thank...you...”

Gilbert watched as her eyes fluttered shut and her fingers go limp. His throat constricted, he couldn’t breathe and his heart was about to beat out of his chest. Most of all, he wanted to scream. You are allowed to be afraid. So long as she doesn’t see it.  

His legs moved by themselves, rushing him from the room and into the hallway, where his knees finally gave way. He fell onto them, shoving his head into his hands and let out a roaring scream followed by uncontrollable sobbing. Bash and Cole followed close behind him, stopping in the doorway at the sound of his wails. Diana and Roy, who were racing up the stairs to help, halted and stared down at the distraught man.

He threw his head up, glaring at the ceiling. “You can’t have her! I won’t let you have her! ” Tears poured from his eyes, no one dared to move an inch. “You can’t have her.” He whimpered, his voice straining through the wails.

Collapsing into himself, he curled himself into a ball with his back against the wall. He couldn’t stop the sobs, nor the tears. He couldn’t breath, his chest was being crushed. It hurts. Oh God, it hurts. I’m going to die, Anne’s going to die and I am going to die right along side of her.

Bash reached forward, wanting to take his brother in his arms when a tiny voice called from the steps. “Unsel Gilbur?”

Gilbert wanted to look at her but he couldn’t move his head. He was out of ideas. Out of pain medication. And above all, he couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe? A small body shifted beside, dropping to lay down beside him and wrapping a tiny arm around his shoulders. Only when she squeezed him tightly did he finally begin to calm, his sobs ceasing. Lifting his head after a moment, he was greeted by a pair of the most beautiful chocolate eyes. There was no sadness behind them, no fear. Just adoration for the man she loved without conditions. “Are you okay?” She asked sweetly.

“Yeah baby.” He lied, his voice hoarse from the sobbing.

She pressed her lips together, immediately saw through him, much as she always had and would for the remainder of his life. “Lyin’ bad.”

He sniffed, his lungs still hurt and snot dripping from his nose. “It is, angel. You’re right.”

“You sad?” She questioned, wiping away a tear from his cheek.

“Yeah Del, I’m sad.” Gilbert opted for honesty, knowing it was no use lying to her. “I’m afraid.”

“Cause Auntie sick?” He nodded. Dellie, without any hesitation, smiled and kissed his nose. “Auntie get better. Promise.”

Gilbert narrowed his eyes at her as he pushed himself onto his elbows. “What did you say?”

Dellie sat up and looked to Anne’s room with a smile. “She get better.” Gilbert swallowed as he looked about the hallway. A stunned silence hung in the air, no one quite believing what they were hearing.

“She get better.” Gilbert whispered as his eyes drifted to the crack in between Cole and Bash. Saying those three words, his chest began to expand and the weight that had been crushing them vanished “She’ll get better.” He repeated as one corner of his mouth lifted. Dellie gave him a toothy grin when he turned his head back to her. “Come here angel.” Dellie climbed onto her uncles lap and nuzzled her head into his chest. Gilbert squeezed her tightly, earning a sweet giggle in return. “You are right Miss Delphine Lacroix. She’s going to get better.”

———-

When the sun began falling behind the far hills of Avonlea, those within the four walls of Green Gables were so exhausted that the house was near silent. Mostly everyone, with the exception of Delphine and Hazel, decided to stay down in the kitchen and parlor, waiting impatiently to see if they were needed. After much deliberation, Rachel had finally convinced Marilla that after the kick to her chest that she truly shouldn’t be sitting in the hard wooden chair for the entire evening and Anne would want her to be comfortable. Marilla eventually conceded, rubbing her surely bruised chest, and opted to stay in Jerry’s room so she could be closer to Anne if needed. The only one to remain within the four walls of Anne’s bedroom was an over exhausted Gilbert.

Anne’s fever remained elevated, her body fidgeting and shaking any time she tried to stir awake. Luckily, the last of the morphine was holding on longer than the others before it. Although, he wished he had more to give her, her quiet sobs as she slept indicating how much pain she was in. Sleep through it Anne. Please. Just sleep through this last rough bought .

Gilbert pulled a fresh rag from the water bowl, parting her lips and ringing the water into her mouth. She shivered under the coolness but her lips would twitched in the corners, almost as if she was silently thanking him. Bringing the rag to her forehead, something twinkled in the corner of his eye. He turned to the bedside table to see the gold lettering shimmer in the fleeting light of day. Perhaps Winnie had the right idea to read to her.  

Right as Gilbert was reaching for the emerald bound novel, Anne’s finger twitched against his. His nervousness slowly returned, almost as if he was waiting for her to wake up and begin her thrashing but only her lips moved, uttering words of gibberish.

“Katie, go. I don’t...go.” Anne whispered, a small amount of fear creeping into her tone. Gilbert adjusted in his chair, leaning his elbows against the bed. “Not ready. Go away.” Her voice became increasingly desperate, almost as if she willing away a dark force. “Go!” The fidgeting of her limbs was beginning, her hands and feet twitching.“Alone. Alone.”

Gilbert slid his hands around her left hand. “Hey Carrots,” he said, his lips moving gently against her fingers. “You’re not alone.”

Anne’s legs began to kick, not as violently as before but enough their quilt was shoved to the bottom of the bed. No no, not yet Anne. Sleep longer, come on. “Mama! Papa!” Her voice begged. Gilbert squeezed her hand tighter, hoping to bring her back to some form of reality. “Don’t go! Alone!”

Her eyes frantically moved about the room, searching for things he couldn’t even imagine. The convulsions continued violently as she called out for her mother and father, for Mary, even for someone named Katie. “Go away. Help. Go!” The words all sounded the same to Gilbert as they started to slur together. “Don’t leave! Alone!”

He shook, he was afraid. When would he stop being afraid? You fight for her. Be her strength. Winnie’s commands echoed through her head. “Be her strength,” Gilbert said as he willed his body stop shaking. He pushed the fear away, sending it straight into his toes, which tapped anxiously against the floor. Who cares, as long as she can’t see it.

“Anne,” he scooted his chair closer, the smell of salty sweat stinging his nose as bent closer to her. “Anne-girl.” Gilbert called again, hoping he could become a beacon calling her home from the dark depths of her mind. “It’s Gil, your Gil. I’m here.” The quiver in his voice was prominent, but he wasn’t even sure if she could hear him. “You’re not alone Anne-girl. You used to be. But that was a long time ago.” Her eyes continued on their quest but as he spoke, her legs became less agitated. Be her hope.

“I know before you arrived in Avonlea, you were alone and left to the solace of your imagination. You imagined all these fantastical places and people because you had no one.” He brushed a knotted curl away from her eyes, a little shock when she didn’t jerk away. “But then, a little over five years ago Anne-girl, you found us.” He smiled, thinking of that moment in the woods that he first met the fire queen that would hold his every ounce of his heart. “You had told me on many occasions that Avonlea was heaven on earth and Green Gables was your personal Eden. So much beauty, nature you almost didn’t need to escape.”

“Six years ago, Avonlea was a small-minded town, neighbors whispering behind one another’s back, everyone trying to be better than one another. And then, the Cuthberts sent for an orphan, a boy. And somehow, fate brought them the fire haired goddess of adventure. Slowly, she began to help people see that, perhaps there was more to life than the cheapest price on fertilizer”

Gilbert watched as Anne’s legs were shivered, not from a convulsion but instead a chill. Reaching down, he pulled the quilt to cover her. “You change people, Anne. You bring out the goodness in them that most didn’t know existed. I mean, Marilla was a feared woman, she terrified me as a child. And you helped her find joy again.” His eyes drifted to her treasures that had been strewn about the table. Spying a blue ribbon under Winnie’s book, knowing that it could only belong to one person, he picked it up and tied Anne’s matted hair off to the side. “Diana, who was destined to follow in the path her parents had laid out for her and marry whoever paid the highest price for her. You helped her find her voice and courage.”

Next, his fingers made their way to the old, yellowed sketch. “Your acceptance of people Anne, it’s remarkable really. Ka’kwet and her tribe, Cole, Bash... you saw them when society would happily shove them aside. And you didn’t ignore their differences, you embraced them.”

Gilbert’s lip quivered, his wandering hands finding a small red dictionary. So you can beat me fair and square. “You...loved me, cared for me. Even after I shattered your heart and left to marry another, you still loved me.”

“Go away! Go!” She mumbled, fear drenching her eyes with moist tears. The twitching in her legs began again, less volatile but enough to pull his eyes back to her. She thrashed, threatening to pull her hand from his grasp.

“No,” he said sternly, bringing his other hand to engulf hers so she couldn’t pull away. “Not this time Anne. I promised I wouldn’t leave you. Not now, not ever again. We’re in this fight together.” Words were mumbled under her breath, her eyes closing as exhaustion set in. Her body wouldn’t allow her the sleep she so desired. All her limbs throwing themselves, the only steady one belonging to the hand wrapped in Gilbert’s. “Fight a little bit longer, please. Just a little longer.”

Her gaze locked onto the end of her bed, her limbs tensing.“Tired, Matthew. I’m so tired.”

“No,” Gilbert breathed out, reaching for the upper portion of Anne’s arm, trying to keep her here by sheer force.

“Seeing those who have left us when death is coming near is common Gilbert,” Doctor Ward said squeezing his young apprentice’s shoulder as both stared at a young mother calling to her deceased husband. “It’s just their way of fetching souls so they do not get lost on their way to Heaven.”  

“You can’t go Carrots!” Tears fell from his eyes, soaking her already sweaty arm. “You can’t go. Not yet. You’re not done here.”

Gilbert's sobs were almost over taking his words but he fought through them. “You have young minds you need teach of the beauties of this cruel world. You need to publish your novel, your speeches.” He choked on his words, the weight returning to his chest. “You have so much of the world you need to see. So many beautiful sites that I want to show you.”

Anne’s hand reached for the end of the bed, whispering Matthew’s name over and over again. “No.” Gilbert cried forcefully as he pushed her hand down. “We need to take walks in the orchards again, I need to show you the market streets of Trinidad and the beaches of South America. Together, we need to see the cathedral of Notre Dame and the masterpieces in the Louvre! Walk through the streets of London as you quote Shakespeare to me.”

Gilbert’s mind swirled with everything he wanted to show and do with her- everything he should have been doing with her from the beginning. “Scotland. We need to go to Scotland. You… you need to dance under the stars in the fields of the Highlands. And... And find your family. Find who made you and where you came from.” He was squeezing her hand so tight that her fingers began to pale. But he was too afraid to let go.”I will get your there. I promise that someday I will take you everywhere in the world. I will do whatever you ask of me… You just need to fight.”

His words fell on deaf ears but the words wouldn’t stop. He felt it was the only thing holding him together. “I want to kiss you. Lord, do I want to kiss you in every place I had ever desired to. The orchards, the Lake of Shining Waters, even at the schoolhouse.” A manic chuckle escaped his lips. “Do you remember when we were learning to dance for the county fair a few years ago?” His legs shook harder with every word, the floorboard rattling beneath his foot. “Of course you remember, you had to have felt it too. God, you have no idea how badly I wanted to wrap you in my arms and feel your soft lips against mine after we danced. I should have kissed you that day and I should have every day since.”

He sobbed, leaning his head into the bed and allowing tears to soak through the mattress. “I’m so sorry Carrots. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I have been drawn to you since the first moment I saw you in the woods. That I started having feelings for you when you smacked me across the face with your slate. It’s always been you, Anne. My Carrots, my Anne with an e.” His words were barely comprehensible and his throat was raw from the strain but he needed to say it all. If this could be the last time they were together on this earth, she had to know.

Gilbert looked up, touching the knotted bottoms of her hair. “I have loved you from the first moment I met you, perhaps even before then. So live. Live so I can spend each day holding you in my arms and basking in the wonder that is you. I love you Anne Shirley-Cuthbert and I always will.”

[thetravelerwrites]

Feera (Gnoll)

Rating: Mature Relationships: Male Gnoll/Female Human Additional Tags: Exophilia, Gnoll, Monster Boyfriend, Male Reader, First Person Perspective Content Warnings: Blood, Period Mention, Children Mention, Pregnancy Mention, Buried Alive, Stabbing, Surgery, Stitches, Grevious Bodily Injury, Slit Throat, Accidental Injury, Infidelity, Unhappy Marriage, Attempted Murder, Attempted Murder by Spouse, Attempted Murder by Spouse's Mistress Words: 5258

While protecting their crops from a flash flood, Feera catches a whiff of human blood and finds a woman clinging to life in the forest. Please reblog and leave feedback!

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A sudden downpour had sent the family scrambling to secure coverings over the crops. It was looking like flash flood weather, and we had to get the rain barrels and gulleys set up around the perimeter of the field to deal with the excess run off before it washed out the rows and our entire harvest was lost.

Rain was a good source of clean drinking water for when the surface of the river froze over in the winter, so whenever there was a deluge like this one, we collected as much of it as we could and kept it in the old cave, which protected it from freezing.

My brother, Kurra, and I had just finished setting out the last one, completely drenched and shivering, when I caught it, a faint whiff of blood.

“Kurra,” I said, lifting my head and sniffing the air. “Smell that?”

Kurra paused and mimicked me. “Is that blood?” He asked.

“Smells like it. Human.”

He shrugged, eager to get back to the house and lay in front of the fire. “Maybe one of the girls started their monthly courses.”

I shook my wet head. “You know that smells different. This is… this smells like a wound. Like deep blood, near the heart.” I got down on all fours and prepared to sprint. “Come on, let’s find it.”

Kurra sighed and got down on all fours as well, and we took off between the trees.

My kind are notorious for our speed and stamina when running, so in no time at all we had covered miles of distance and stumbled into a thicket that reeked of blood on the very edge of Asker’s territory, which was not small in the least.

“I don’t see anything,” Kurra said.

“Sniff around, there’s something here,” I said, searching the ground. “There’s so much blood, I can’t smell anything else.”

“Yeah, I think I found it,” He said, lifting his paw. Red seeped up from under the soil in the impression of his paw print. The ground he stood on had been recently disturbed; it was a blank span of earth with no vegetation growing on it.

“Dig,” I said, scooping the soil and throwing it between my back legs. Kurra followed suit. As we dug deeper, the blood was wetter, fresher, and I stopped once I realize one of my claws had gone through the flesh of an arm. Panicked, I used the sides of my paws to scoop away the dirt to uncover what had been buried there. I was startled to uncover a young human woman.

“It’s a girl!” Kurra said in shock. “Is she alive?”

“Help me lift her!” I said, and we pulled her from what was to be her grave. I pressed my ear to her chest. “She lives! There’s a heartbeat, but it’s faint. Run! Get Mama!”

Kurra sprinted off like a loosed arrow and I tried to shield the poor woman from the rain with my body. She was bleeding from several wounds to her chest and stomach, not to mention the clawing I had just given her arm, as well as an ugly, ragged gash on her neck that she had her hand wrapped around, keeping the dirt and water from getting in.

I looked over my shoulder anxiously, wondering what was taking so long, when she grabbed the fur of my chest weakly, tangling it in her blood covered fingers. Looking back, I saw her eyes open, looking at me with a pained expression.

“He… help…” She rasped, her voice ragged from the injury to her throat. She gulped and gurgled wetly. “Please… he killed me… they killed me…”

I grabbed her hand. “Don’t try to talk. Just hold on, lass. Help is coming. Just hang in there.”

“Feera!” I heard my mother call over the rain. The large shadow of my father’s wings fell over me and the young woman. “What’s happened?” She asked as she climbed down from his back.

“Someone buried a woman out here!” I called back. “She’s not dead but she’s in bad shape. Been stabbed, it looks like.”

“Hurry, get her back to the house. We need to get her cleaned up and assess the damage. We may not be able to save her, but we can damn sure try.”

I nodded, carefully lifting the woman into my arms. She cried out in pain as I moved her, carrying her bridal style, and I dashed back toward the house.

Inside, Yala and Caeli were heating water, sterilizing tools, and preparing healing herbs and other medical supplies. Mother was the best healer we knew, and Lymera studied with her all the time. Between them, they might have a chance and saving the girl’s life.

I was directed to take her into the washing room, which we used to clean off all the dirt and muck from the field and hunting instead of dirtying the river. This room had a gulley pipe that took all the dirty water back outside and around to the outhouse; Cetzu’s invention.

Feera pushed two of the benches together to make a short table, and I laid the girl onto it. She was breathing in short, ragged gasps, shivering from the cold and loss of blood, while more blood dripped freely onto the floor.

“Mother, quickly!” I shouted.

The women of the family filed into the room like army ants and shooed me out as Yala began to cut the ragged, filthy, blood-soaked gown off of the woman’s body. Mother grabbed me and told me with a grim face to bring a long knife and more firewood.

“We need to cauterize the wounds, or she’s going to bleed to death before we can help her,” She told me. “Hurry, son!”

I rushed to get the biggest knife I could find and handed it to her through the door.

“What’s going on?” Cetzu asked as he entered the house. Reed and the centaur boys were on the covered front porch, looking in through the open windows, still dripping from being out in the rain.

“Someone buried a woman alive on the edge of Asker’s territory,” Kurra replied. “There’s no telling how long she was laid there. She may be too far gone, but Mama and the girls are doing what they can.”

“That’s horrifying,” Birch said in disgust, shuddering involuntarily. “Who would do something so evil?”

“I think she knows who did it,” I replied grimly. “While I was waiting for Mother, she said something like ‘he killed me’ or ‘they killed me.’ I think she knows her attackers.”

“Well, I hope she’s able to tell us, at least,” Kurra said. “So we can hunt the bastards down.”

“Slow down, there, son,” Declan said. “The rain is letting up. Why don’t you and your brother go back to where you found her and see if you can find anything that could give us clues as to who she is or where she came from. We need more information before we act.” He gestured at the taur boys. “Take them with you. You need as many eyes as possible.”

“Yes, Papa,” I grumbled. We could use their help, sure, but they’d slow us down. Tuars of most races could run fast, but the four legged ones, like Birch, Yew, and Reed, didn’t have the same stamina as gnolls and tired quickly. We’d have to go at a slower pace to accommodate them.

We took off back toward the site where we’d found the young woman just as the rain stopped. As the house disappeared behind us, her anguished screams of agony as Mother began cauterizing the wounds followed us into the darkening forest.

We made it back to the site of the burial much more slowly than before, and night was falling. Kurra and I could see just fine in the dark, but the taurs were as blind as humans at night. They at least had a better sense of smell than humans.

“Oh, gods, this place reeks of blood,” Reed said, choking a little. Not surprising; both he and the centaurs were obligate vegetarians. They literally didn’t have the stomach for blood.

“Ugh!” I growled. “We should have brought Cetzu or Toklo. They’d have been more help than you lot!”

“Oi!” Yew retorted. “Papa told us to come, so deal with it! Besides, Cetzu can’t come this far! Asker doesn’t like how he smells. And Toklo took Sayo and Asahi fishing! So you’re stuck with us!”

“Yew, shut up,” Kurra said. “I found something.”

I looked to him and saw he was pulling a bag out of the grave in which we’d found the woman. It was a woman’s large leather travel bag with a wide, woven strap with embroidered flowers on it, though the colors were hard to tell since it was caked in soil.

I took it from him and examined the strap, wiping the dirt off as best I could. There, under a little bee, the name Erisandra was embroidered in what looked like red.

“We’ve got a name, at least. Erisandra,” I said. “Let’s get back to the house. We’ll look through this and see if we can find some clue as to where she lives.”

Back home, the woman we now knew was named Erisandra had been cleaned and stitched. Mother had prepared a poultice of honey, echinachea, and goldenseal while Lymera attempted to get her to drink to replenish her body’s fluids. Mother was not confident about the woman’s chance of survival. The next few days would be telling, but if she got an infection, there was no hope.

Mother called me into the washing room and asked me to carefully move her to one of the small guest rooms on the ground floor. She was nude and still wet from the washing of the filth from her body. Her many injuries were wrapped in bandages and she was covered in a thin sheet. Free of the blood and dirt, I could see that she was fair complected with freckles on her nose and shoulders, and had blonde hair that was jaggedly cut off at the ear. She was thin, perhaps malnourished, and looked to be tall; taller than any of my human family. She’d have come to my chin if we were both standing at our full height.

Once she was moved and resting with Lymera, Soraya, and Yala tending to her, Mother, Caeli, and I cleaned out her bag and laid out it’s contents on the dining table. It was mostly clothes and small personal items, nothing that would give us any indication of which village she had come from or who her would-be killer or killers could have been.

“Well, there’s nothing of use here,” Mother said. “Let’s pack it all back up, just in case by some miracle she survives to take possession of it.”

I picked up one of the folded gowns and was about to place it back inside the bag when I felt a stiffness in between the fabric. Carefully, I extracted a small red book.

I couldn’t tell you what in my mind made me decide to take the book. I can’t begin to understand why I silently hid it in the fur of my underarm while no one was watching and continued to pack up the bag as instructed as if I hadn’t just stolen something personal from a dying woman. But it was an impulse I couldn’t ignore.

That evening, me and the two-legged boys went to our room and lay down in our usual pile of bodies. Cetzu, Kurra, Toklo, Asahi, and I always nested together for warmth. I lay curled around Asahi for hours, unable to fall asleep, when I finally placed my fox-like little brother on Cetzu’s stomach without waking him and sat up.

The book kept revolving around in my head. I had hidden it on my bookshelf and my eye kept wandering to it. I gave up on sleep and got to my feet, snatching the book from the shelf and going back downstairs to the quiet ground floor.

The fire in the hearth was still smoldering, so I blew it back to life and lit a few candles to read by. I sat at the dinner table and opened the cover to realize it was a diary.

I knew I shouldn’t have read it. These sorts of things are intensely private. I could have justified that it was for the purpose of learning who she was and where she was from, but I knew better. The curiosity was just too much for me to bear.

Mother always said my curiosity would get me bitten in the ass one day. Today might have been that day.

      July 25

Mother has given me this diary as a wedding gift, to document my happy life as a new bride, but will I be happy, I wonder?

The wedding is tomorrow. I like Rory, and we’ve been friends for a long time, but I’m not sure I love him nor that he loves me. He asked me to marry him and I accepted, but mostly because it would benefit the both of us to do so. He needs a wife to run his household and I need a husband to take care of me. Mother is ill and cannot work and Father passed last harvest. The house we live in is owned by my uncle, so I will need a new home when poor Mother dies. Rory himself has been on his own since he was fifteen, but his parents left him their house. He’s well off and has had a maid tend the place, but he insists that a wife would do the job better. I can’t say I disagree.

We are friends, and this is a good opportunity for both of us, I know that. But to be honest, I’ve always dreamed of falling in love. I know that’s not possible for everyone, but I had hoped.

It’s no matter. We will be good to each other. That’s what’s important.

      July 27

I’m a married woman now. The wedding was lovely. The wedding night was… less so. Mother prepared me, but it was still unpleasant. She assures me it’ll be easier in time.

Falling into a routine was much less difficult. Rory works most of the day, and I can do my own work in the house without him underfoot. He comes home, we share a meal, talk of our day, and go to bed. It’s comfortable and familiar, much like living with Mother, except for the… wifely duties. I’m sure I’ll get used to that eventually.

      September 24

I think I’m falling for Rory. He brought me flowers yesterday for no reason at all. And he hadn’t picked them somewhere, he’d actually bought them! He comes home at lunch time just so he can talk with me. This feels different than friendship. I find myself enjoying being intimate with him now. He’s more attentive to me and talks of children. Oh, I’d love to give him a son!

It’s exactly what I wanted, if not exactly in the order I expected, but that’s no issue now. We’re in love and it’s wonderful.

 The passages were dated nearly three years prior and carried on in the same vein for about a year: how happy she was, how in love they were, how good he was to her. I smiled. It was sweet, in a girlish way. I wondered if all women thought like this. My sisters were all different outwardly, but who could guess a woman’s private thoughts?

Halfway into the second year, however, the tone shifted suddenly.

      February 11

Rory has been distant lately. We haven’t made love in weeks. I wonder if he’s angry that I haven’t become pregnant yet. I’ve asked him, but he says he’s not upset with me, that he’s just busy with work and tired. There has been an expansion in town, so I’m sure he has been working very hard with the other men to build the new houses and roads. I just feel a space between us now. I hope it passes soon.

      April 3

Rory’s been acting strangely. He’s evasive and cold. He barely speaks to me anymore and he stays out late. I’ve tried to make myself as appealing to him as I can, but he won’t touch me.

What have I done to push him away? Is it because there’s no child yet? Am I a bad wife? I wish he would talk to me and tell me what it is I’m doing wrong so I could change it, but he says nothing. In fact, frequently he shushes me and tells me to stop bothering him with silly questions. He’s never spoken to me like that before.

Mother is getting worse and I’m hesitant to bring my woes to her. My friends tell me I should just be thankful he doesn’t beat me and that I have a roof over my head and food in my mouth. Perhaps they’re right, but… I want what we had a year ago. We were so happy. What did I do wrong?

 I felt a pang of pity for her. The entries got more and more woeful as time progressed. She wrote of feeling trapped and alone, how no one she talked to understood why she was complaining so she just stopped talking to them altogether, which made her feel even more isolated. She talked of how despondent she felt, and how she had no appetite and slept poorly every night, about how she must be ugly and stupid and not good enough.

The passages that began three months ago became alarming.

      March 29

He only comes home to eat and sleep now, otherwise I don’t see him at all. Rory turned up today around lunchtime after having been missing for two days. I was worried sick, but he told me to stop over-reacting. He claimed he got lost in the forest, though he reeked of ale.  

I’ve gone so far as to ask his friends about where he was, but they tell me nothing. He was angry that I had done so and left the house again for another three days. He’s been drinking more and more lately, and I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know where he goes or where he’s getting the ale, since the tavern has yet to be built.

What is happening to him?

 The next few pages were smudged with tears.

      May 17

There’s another woman. I should have guessed. I caught them in the act earlier this evening in the woods when I went to gather mushrooms for his dinner. He came home and acted as if nothing happened. He had the nerve to sleep in the same bed as me. I want to kick him out of the house, but it’s his house. I cannot go to my mother, as she now lives with a friend who is caring for her in her final days. I have nowhere to go.

 The next, and last, entry was dated three days ago.

      June 18

Mother has passed. She left me a will that said she was worried for me and saving money. She left me quite enough to start over somewhere else, enough perhaps to buy my own little cottage and live by myself without having to rely on a man.

I have not told Rory about the money or that I’m leaving him. He’s home so little these days, I doubt he’d notice that I’m gone.

I don’t have much in the way of possessions here, just my clothes, a few trinkets, and this diary. Erasing myself from Rory’s life will be no trouble at all. Hopefully I can find happiness elsewhere. He and his whore can live in the house that I kept for him. Let them rot in it.

 The rest of the pages were blank. I got up from the table and peeked into her room. She lay quiet and breathing softly, though there was still a ragged thread running through it that sounded painful. Her bag was laying next to her bunk and I grabbed it, taking it back to the dining room.

Upon searching it a second time, I found no money whatsoever. What an absolute cock. If I ever met this Rory fellow, I’d rip his throat out with my teeth. I replaced the diary in the bag and put it back in the room next to her bed. I went back to my own room and lay down alone, away from my brothers with a curious and sudden aversion to touch. I didn’t sleep.

Weeks passed before Erisandra was strong enough to do anything on her own, even feed or clean herself. She seemed in a daze through most of it and didn’t react to most things. She struggled to eat around the wound in her neck and only answered basic questions with a nod or shake of the head. Mother told us that she was in shock and that she needed time. The fact that she was alive at all was something to be grateful for.

Caeli had cut her hair so that it wasn’t so choppy, but it was extremely short. It must have been a glorious mane when it was long. Her wounds healed slowly, but after about two weeks, we were confident enough that they wouldn’t reopen spontaneously and the bandages were left off.

The damage was terrible to look at, and it hurt her to move, but Mother made her get up at least once a day to walk the porch a few times, to get air and circulate her blood. She said that clots were a problem for people who lay still for long periods of time. Standing up and moving about for a little while helped prevent them.

One morning, as I exchanged her empty water pitcher with a full one, I heard a raspy voice say, “Am I dead?”

I turned, and she was looking right at me, her eyes unclouded.

“No, you’re not dead,” I replied. “But you came close to it. Is your name Erisandra?”

“Yes,” She said. “How’d you know?”

“It’s on your bag,” I said, pointing to it.

“Oh, right,” She murmured. “I go by Eris, though.”

“I’m Feera.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

“My brother and I dug you up from the ground,” I replied.

“I don’t remember that,” She said. “I’ve seen you before, in my village.”

“What is your village called?”

“The elders haven’t decided on a name for it yet. It’s still relatively new. Most of it is still being built. But we’re close to the Willowshield stronghold, if that helps.”

“Ah, yes, I do remember that place. My brother and I delivered some supplies there once or twice. It did look newly settled. Progress must be slow going, if the tavern hasn’t even been built yet. That’s usually one of the first things to get built.”

“What?” She asked in confusion.

“Oh…” I grimaced. “I, uh… I read your diary. Forgive me, but we were trying to find some clue about who you were and where you came from. It seemed like the best chance we had.”

Liar.

“Ah, I see,” She said quietly. She turned to look out of the window and her gaze became distant.

Diffidently, I asked her, “Did he do this?”

She didn’t answer immediately, and when she did, her voice was quiet.

“He said we were going to start over, that he was sorry, that he would never see that bitch again. He was going to go to sell his house and we’d go to another town and build or buy a new one. I hadn’t told him about the money, so I thought he meant it. I thought he loved me and wanted me to stay with him. I was willing to give him another chance. He told me not to bring to much with me, since we’d be staying with his family at first. That once we had our new place, we could go back and get the rest. We rode on his horse for a day and a half before he turned off the road and into the woods. Where she was waiting for us.”

“The other woman?” I asked, and Eris nodded.

“He pushed me off the horse and she grabbed me, pinning me to the ground while he searched my bag for the money. Then, she attacked me with a knife while he watched. She even chopped off all my hair.” She reached up and tugged on a short strand. “I don’t even know how he found out about my inheritance, unless…”

I gulped in guilt. “Unless he read your diary.”

She sighed and covered her face in her hands. “I’m such a fool. A fool for believing he had changed. I should have just left when I got the money, but I was waiting for the right time.” She laid her hands back down on the bed and looked back at me, a strange expression on her face, as if she were still trying to parse out if I was real or not. “I swear this all feels like a dream.”

“I’m certain it does,” I replied gently. “How much can you remember from your stay here?”

“It’s hazy. I think I’ve been drifting in and out of awareness. I’ve seen all manner of strange creature while I lay here.”

I chuckled. “That’s to be expected. Do you know where you are?”

She shook her head.

“Has word gotten to your town of the farm run by humans and non-humans? A family of misfits?”

“I thought that was a tall tale,” She said.

“No tales here, Miss, unless you count mine,” I said, swishing my tail back and forth. She smiled weakly. It was something. “Anyway, I should stop bothering you. I’ll let you rest and tell Mama your lucid. Don’t worry, lass. You’re safe now.”

Laying back, her smile withered and she stared at the ceiling.

Mother was please to hear that she was at last regaining something of her former mental state, and made her a bowl of fruit with fresh grains, hoping she could stomach more than the gruel she’d been eating for the past few weeks. Peeking in, Eris seemed to be thrilled at the new dish.

Eris was well enough to sit with us at the adult table during dinner, while the older children ate on the porch as normal, and she relayed her story to the rest of the family to their disgust and disbelief. After she was finished telling her tale, we discussed what should be done.

“We should hunt the bastard down,” I growled angrily. Kurra yipped in agreement. “Him and his bitch.”

“We’re not fit to judge their guilt or innocence,” Reed said. “This is a human issue. It doesn’t involve non-humans. We should, at most, inform the town elders of what happened and let them decide on the best course of action.”

“Humans are unreliable,” Birch disagreed. He backpedaled when his human family members made noises of dissent. “Present company excluded, of course. I’m just saying, if we left it to the humans, nothing would be done about it.”

“I think I’d have to agree,” Yala said, feeding her youngest child from her own plate. He was a cervitaur hybrid, having two legs rather than four like his father and older sister, and was sitting in a raised chair. “Everyone in my village knew my mother was hurting me and no one did anything. ‘A family matter,’ they all said. ‘None of our business.’ It’s only their business when someone dies.”

Reed absentmindedly stroked his wife’s hair.

“But someone almost did die,” Cetzu replied. “Would they not care about that?”

“Cetzu, the only humans you’ve ever known are Mama and your sisters, and the few humans who stop here to trade. The human world is much crueler than you know,” Birch told him.

“Hey, I know plenty about how cruel humans can be,” He replied neutrally. “Did not my own original human parents leave me to die?”

“Your fae parents did as well,” Caeli argued. “Humans aren’t the only race that is cruel.”

“We’re not arguing that,” Birch said. “We’re discussing whether or not humans can be trusted to make the right decision in matters like these.”

Caeli and Yala seemed to take offense to this notion and opened their mouths to retort when I held up my paws.

“Wait, everyone stop,” I said. “Why don’t we asked Eris what she wants to do and make a decision based on that?”

That silenced everyone, and they looked to Eris, who seemed surprised.

“I…” She swallowed hard and sucked in a deep breath. “I would like to see him punished. The both of them. But I share your concern about whether or not my village’s elders will take the accusations seriously or not. If they do, there would be a trial, and there’s every possibility could get off free as birds. What would I do then?”

“A compromise, then,” Kurra suggested. “We bring it to the elders, and let them make a decision. If their decision is to dismiss it, or they take it seriously and the trial goes badly, then we’ll fix it ourselves. We give the humans a chance to do the right thing. If they can’t be trusted to do so, then we’ll do it for them.”

There was a murmur around the table. Everyone seemed pleased with this idea.

“Mother, Father, you’ve been quiet until now, but as always, you have final say. What are your thoughts?” I asked.

Mother and Father looked at each other for a long, silent minute. They had been together for so long now, that it seemed they could communicate without words.

“When we started this place,” My father said. “When we began taking in children and and giving shelter to the mistreated, it was with the understanding that we would protect those who needed protecting. We decided that, while we wouldn’t declare war over every slight against us, we would make sure those who hurt us paid the price for it. This young woman is now under our protection, and as such, she is now part of the family, which makes her enemies our enemies.”

Mother nodded. “Vengeance and justice are two sides of the same coin. This plan is a good one. We will contact the village elders and give them testimony once Eris has healed enough to travel. If they don’t take her seriously, or should the trial fail, we will take matters into our own hands.” She looked at Eris questioningly. “Does this sound agreeable to you, dear?”

Eris nodded immediately. “Yes, I agree. Thank you for your help. It means so much to me.”

“Think nothing of it, darling,” Mother said. “You’re family now, and family looks after it’s own. Now, let’s get you back to bed.”

Later, while everyone had laid down for the night, I again found that sleep eluded me. Was Rory still in the village? Would he have run, or perhaps he told the villagers that Eris left him? There was only one way to find out.

I got up and stretched my legs, like I always did before a long run. It was time to pay Rory a visit.

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My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

[stingerpicnic]

bottle me up (take me everywhere) chapter 2/2

Read on ao3

Based on this post

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationship: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin

Characters: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll, Snusmumriken | Snufkin

Additional Tags: Fluff, Established Relationship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Feelings, Purring, Gift Giving, y'all they're so in love it's ridiculous, Moomintroll continues to be sweetest creature on the planet, flustered snufkin, cat Snufkin rights babey, soft

Moomin doesn’t get that much work done on his gift in the morning.

Instead, he spends the early morning hours lazing around with Snufkin. The world feels fuzzy and soft. He feels fuzzy and soft, heart full of the kind of warm and gentle love that usually only appears sparingly and in quick flashes. The kind that strikes quickly and sharply for all its blunt edges and squishiness, in quiet moments when he looks up at just the right time to catch the edge of Snufkin’s smile, or his adorable look of concentration, or the tranquility that steals over his face when they’re just sitting alone, enjoying each other’s presence. The kind of love that would normally fill his chest so suddenly and so fully he’d be sure he would explode from the sheer size of it.

But he doesn’t feel like he would explode right then. There’s the good kind of ache settled right over his heart, but he doesn’t feel like he’s too small a container for the amount of love he has to give. He feels vast and unending, like the ocean Snufkin loves so much.

The early morning light is dim, casting soft gray shadows and granting the moment a sort of timelessness, a sort of intangibility. They’re alone and together and nothing can touch them.

It’s so easy to run his fingers through Snufkin’s soft curls, to seek out his paw with his own and entwine them, to press soft kisses into skin and hair and fur, to snuggle just a little closer.

There’s nothing better than the sound of Snufkin’s quiet breaths, Moomin thinks. The weight of his body draped around his own, soft and warm and there. The quiet sound of their soft, sleepy purring echoing around the fabric walls of the tent, an ever present reminder that they both feel relaxed, content, and safe. The barely there mumbled words they share between bouts of consciousness, almost too quiet to hear, like they’re both speaking something fragile, something that must be handled with care, something too precious to ever truly see the light of day.

Outside, he can just barely hear the gentle autumn breeze and the rustle of leaves. Inside, he catches Snufkin’s sleepy gaze. They both smile, silently agreeing that right now, everything is perfect.

Neither of them want to get up quite yet, and there’s nothing wrong with some lazy early morning snuggle time. They won’t be needed for some time yet.

….

Eventually, they do have to get up.

It takes them until they can no longer pretend that the sun hasn’t climbed high in the sky and that they’re not hungry. But they do, eventually, admit that it’s time to get up and crawl out of the tent to greet the late morning sun.

Moomin sees Snufkin start to stretch, arms reaching high into the air. He’s all rumpled clothes and messy hair, a red spot pressed into his cheek where he’d been sleeping on it. His mouth opens wide in a yawn, exposing his fangs. It’s adorable.

“I love you,” he says, because it’s true and he wants to say it. He’s sure he’s said it many times in past hour or two, mumbled against the top of Snufkin’s head and whispered into the slight space between them. But reality has finally gone back to feeling real and he finds he wants to say it again.

Snufkin pauses. “I love you too,” he says, with pink dusting his cheeks and a smile playing on his lips.

“You’re especially cute in the mornings. Did you know that, Snufkin?” he says, because it’s true as well and he wants to say it. The pink deepens to red.

“...I think I’ll make breakfast. Or lunch, now, I suppose,” he says too loudly after a moment. He moves to do just that, but not before grabbing his hat from where he’d left it and pulling it low over his eyes.

Their meal is good. After, they hike through the forest for a while and enjoy the beautiful colors of a forest in the full-swing of autumn and their own conversation.

That night, he kisses Snufkin goodnight and makes the short walk back to Moominhouse. Snufkin wants to be alone tonight. He’s had a lot of emotions recently and as much as he loves spending time with Moomin, he still needs some time alone to recharge. Moomin refuses begrudge him his time.

He eats dinner with Mamma and Papa and Little My. It’s good, too. He loves eating meals alone with Snufkin, he loves it when Snufkin decides to eat dinner with the rest of them, but there’s still something to be said for times like this.

Afterwords, he’s sitting in his room, staring at blank paper and resisting the urge to give up before he’s even started.

He wants to give Snufkin everything he could ever want. And what Snufkin wants is a reminder of reality, of the fact that he thinks about him all the time, of the space he’s claimed in his heart.

It shouldn’t be hard to give that to him. It isn’t, not really. He could write the length of Papa’s memoirs twice over just talking about how much he loves him. He’s already got so many words bouncing around in his head that he wants to spill out onto the page.

It’s just--he wants it to be perfect. He wants to capture the exact feeling that blooms in his chest every time he hears Snufkin’s rare laugh. He wants to describe the love he feels so accurately, so earnestly, that Snufkin would be able to feel it himself and be reassured. He wants to quantify something infinite, something precious, something priceless.

He’s scared that he’ll fall short. He’s scared he can’t not fall short.

Look at me, he thinks, just a bit ago I was so confident, telling Snufkin he’s cute just to see him blush and confessing that he’s my whole world. Where has my nerve gone?

He has to do this. He made a promise that he’d try. Even if Snufkin hadn’t heard it in his voice, a promise was still what he had meant.

So he takes a deep breath and thinks of Snufkin. Snufkin is messy and tattered around the edges and half the time he’s coated in dirt and mud. All his clothes are ragged and worn and wrinkled. He has sharp edges, though Moomin has always found them blunted whenever they concern himself. Nobody would call him perfect and yet Moomin thinks he is.

Maybe he’s not perfect in the traditional sense. He has faults and there are things about him that can annoy even him, but still. Still, Moomin looks at him and he can’t imagine anyone better. He wouldn’t trade him for anything in the whole world, not unless he wanted to be let go.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the quilt on his bed. Mamma had made it for him and he loves it to pieces. Still, if he looks carefully he can see small imperfections. Misplaced stitches, lines that aren’t perfectly straight. But none of those things make him love it any less. If anything, he loves it more, because there’s only the one that’s exactly like it and Mama made it for him.

Maybe it doesn’t matter if his gift is perfect. Maybe it doesn’t matter if there’s ink spots on some of the pages or if he feels like he’s repeated himself a thousand times. Maybe it shouldn't even try to be perfect. Maybe it should be messy and erratic and real. Maybe all that matters is that he pours all his love into it.

He fixes those thoughts in his mind, takes another deep breath to steady himself, and begins writing the first entry of many.

Snufkin, have I ever told you how much I love our mornings together? Today we did nothing but cuddle for hours before getting up. I wanted to stay in that moment forever. It was so incredibly nice and the love for you that filled my chest felt like….

….

It isn’t ready by the time Snufkin leaves for winter. But that’s alright, he hadn’t expected it to be. He has too much to say, too much love to express for it to be done so soon. And while he had accepted that it wasn’t going to be absolutely perfect, Snufkin deserved more than whatever rushed thing he would have produced had he tried to have it done by then.

Instead, he gives Snufkin a single letter to see him off. It wasn’t as detailed as his full gift, but it was sincere and full of love and he’d doodled little leaves and flowers and hearts in the corners and along the margins. Snufkin looked more than happy to have it, in any case, a tinge of relief making its way into the smile alongside the joy, so he's satisfied that it’s a good hold over gift.

Snufkin would come back in the spring and his gift would be done by the time he was ready to leave again. That’s as long as Moomin was going to allow him to wait.

In the meantime, Moomin continued to write whatever he lovely things could think of until it was time for him to enter hibernation. The few times he woke from hibernation, he wrote more. He wrote about the dreams he had and how much he missed him, how he was special and irreplaceable and good. He even wrote about how he had worked himself into a right fluster just thinking about how much he loved him. It was a little embarrassing, but Snufkin would probably like to knowing about it.

Then, Snufkin returned. The overflowing happiness he felt was nearly intoxicating. He scarcely wanted to think about anything else, not when his mind was just an endless loop of the words “Snufkin’s back!!!” But he forced himself to take a step back, just for a second before he succumbed again, to take in exactly what he was feeling in that moment, engraving it into his mind so he could copy it down later.

Spring, summer, and most of autumn passed in much the same way it had in all the years previous. The only exception was that now he had something specific to do with his time alone and he was making more of an effort to pay attention to every moment he spent with Snufkin so he could write about it later.

It was… a good feeling, to be working on a project he enjoyed. And it turned out that paying specific attention to the time he spent with Snufkin only made him love the mumrik even more, which shouldn't have been possible.

….

It was another cool late autumn day, just like last year, when Moomin knew it was time.

They had been sitting together in the yellowed grass near Snufkin’s tent, just enjoying each other’s company and conversation when he'd started to feel it. The soft line of pressure against his side getting harder, the twitch of the tail looped around his own, the change in his purr.

“Winter's almost here,” He says. Last year, he'd let Snufkin work himself up too much, thinking he would say something before it got too bad. This year he's bringing it up himself.

“Uh--yeah.” He feels Snufkin go fully tense against him before he sigh and relaxes again. “It is,” he says quietly.

“I have a gift for you,” he says, not bothering to hide the anxious excitement he's feeling.

“A gift?” he says, sounding far too cautious. Moomin sees his face color pink, “What sort of a gift?”

“Snufkin, it wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, now would it?” he laughs. “I had planned to wait a bit longer to give it to you, but it wouldn't hurt to do it now. You stay here, it won’t take me a second,” he says, already getting up.

It's not a minute before he's across the bridge to Moominhouse and up to his room. He pulls out the big green book that had become of the paper he had been using. He'd bound it himself, with the help of Papa, not too long ago and he's rather proud of how it came out. It's simple, but he thinks Snufkin would prefer it that way.

Quickly, but still carefully, he flips through the pages one final time. The first page is a dedication, “For Snufkin, I love you so much it's indescribable, but I'll try anyways.” He'd thought hard about what to put for it, but he's eventually settled on something simple that he thought captured what he was trying to do. Further in, he catches sight of a lot of his own handwriting and all the small drawings he'd scrunched into corners and along margins. He paused for a second on the page where he'd attempted to draw Snufkin himself--it wasn't very good, but he'd still included it and drawn hearts all around it for good measure. He's glad, now, that he'd decided to keep it. It's sweet, he thinks.

On the last page he spies his final entry, written not too long ago, “Snufkin, if you've read any of this you probably already know that I love you so much that sometimes I can barely breathe around the size of it. Still, though, I think I love you even more now than I did before. Writing this, paying attention to every moment we spent together and every feeling I felt around you, was enlightening for me. It enlightened me to the very likely possibility that I'll never stop falling in love with you. I didn't think I could be any deeper in love than I already was at the start of this, but I've never been happier to be proved wrong. I love you. I'll never stop.”

He'd signed it at the bottom of the page, like this was just some very, very long letter. And he supposed it was, sort of. A love letter to Snufkin.

He's almost embarrassed to give this away. He'd poured his heart out onto these pages and he hadn't held anything back. It was all… him, his thoughts, his feelings, everything, and giving it away was a scary thought.

But he knows Snufkin will take care of it. He's sure of it. He never would have even started if he wasn't.

Snufkin has never intentionally done anything to hurt him.

He takes a deep breath to steady himself, closes the book, and takes it down to Snufkin.

Snufkin, for his part, looks relieved when he sees him coming toward him carrying a book. Moomin notices the red leaving his face even before he crosses the bridge. Moomin isn't sure what that's about, he hadn't been gone that long and he hasn't even done anything worth him getting flustered over yet. But he lets it go, he has something he needs to do.

“Is that the manuscript you were working on all year? Are you finally going to let me read it?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.

That's right, he had told Snufkin he was working on a manuscript, just like Papa, when he'd been caught writing. It hadn't technically been a lie, he supposes that what he was writing could be called a manuscript if looked at a certain way. Still, he was lucky that Snufkin had dropped it after being told it was a surprise he was trying to keep secret.

“We'll, I did write it for you, specifically, to read,” he says, holding the book out for Snufkin to take.

“Oh,” he gasps. “You didn't have to do that, dove,” he says softly, like someone who's been given something priceless they never asked for and don't know how to handle without breaking, but he still reaches out to take the book.

“I was hoping you would take it with you on your travels this year,” he says, watching Snufkin open it to the front page, “but if you want I can keep it safe for you here until you get back.” He doesn't want to say that last bit, because he knows Snufkin leaving it with him would feel like a rejection, even if it wasn't meant as one. But he knows Snufkin's feelings on material possessions and traveling with only the essentials and he knows that books aren't really essential even if he thinks that this one should be, so he forces himself to say it anyways.

He's not sure if he ought to have bothered, though, because he's not even sure that Snufkin heard him. He'd frozen when he'd opened the book to the dedication, red beginning to creep its way back onto his face nearly instantly. The only movement he'd made since was a jerk of his arm to move the page. Moomin could see he was on the page of the very first entry, now.

Moomin watched him turn the page again. And again. And again. His face was getting steadily redder and redder as the seconds ticked by. He was worryingly silent. Moomin wasn't even sure he was breathing.

He felt his nerves rise within him again. Did he not like it?

“Um… Snufkin?” he says to what is apparently his statue significant other, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Snufkin jerks back, a ragged gasp tearing out of his throat. A loud purr violently erupts out of his chest, but he's also breathing irregularly, every other breath catching on the back of throat, and there's a shine to his eyes like he's about to cry, so Moomin doesn't quite know what to think.

Oh, this was not the outcome he'd been hoping for. How had he actually managed to make Snufkin cry with his gift?! He had to try to salvage this somehow.

“Is It really--I thought--well, I thought to give you something to show you how much you mean to me,” he stammers, sounding desperate and disappointed and shocked. He doesn't know what to say to fix this, and Snufkin is still staring at him with wet eyes. “Last year you told me you wished you could bottle me up and take my love with you to keep you warm in the winter and I thought, why don't I see what I can do? And well, you liked last year's letter enough so I thought that maybe this idea did have some merit, after all,” he's rambling now, he knows he is and it sounds pathetic and desperate to his own ears. He feels the beginnings of tears start to prick at his own eyes, but he refuses to start crying. “But if you really don't like it I suppose I can--” get rid of it, or burn it, or tear it apart, or something, he was going to say but doesn't get to. Instead he feels something slam into him, hard, a band of pressure closing around him.

A glance down tells him that the “something” was Snufkin and the “band of pressure” is the tight hug he's currently receiving. Snufkin has his face buried in his shoulder, his own shoulders shaking like he's sobbing and Moomin feels his fur start to get wet. But, Snufkin is also still purring up a storm and he did initiate the hug, so maybe he's not too terribly upset with him? Moomin hopes he's not. For now, though, he doesn't know what else to do but bring his arms up around him and rub circles into his back while he whispers assurances into his ear, so that is what he does.

He doesn't know how long they stand there, but eventually he hears Snufkin break the not quite silence they had settled into.

“Is it--the whole thing? Really?” he says, his voice, thick with emotion and raw from the tears still sounding so much like a child. A child with stars in his eyes who had just been told their impossible dreams were coming true. Excited and happy beyond belief but not quite willing to believe it's really his for the taking.

“Yes, the whole thing. I've been writing it since around this time last year,” he says, because there's really no point in trying to lie about it. He feels Snufkin press his face into his shoulder again, but this time he can feel his smile through his fur. “You're really not upset?” he asks, voice wavering, because he needs to know for sure.

Snufkin pulls back, face red and eyes shining, but the wide smile splitting his face in two is real, even if it is a bit watery. He's the most beautiful thing Moomin has ever seen.

“Moomin--dove--I-I can't tell you how happy you've made me. This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. I think it might be the sweetest thing I've ever seen be done for anyone,” he says, one of his paws coming up to cup Moomin's face. “Of course I'm not upset. I love it.”

“I thought you didn't care for material possessions?” he says, humor coloring his words. He feels a little silly now for ever letting himself think Snufkin didn't like his gift. It was just himself put to paper after all, and Snufkin seemed to like him just fine, loved him even.

Snufkin laughed. “I think I can make an exception, just this once.”

[hookaroo]

Vocivore Ltd. (43 of 46)

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging @ouatwinterwhump, @killian-whump, @sancocnutclub, @killianjonesownsmyheart1, @courtorderedcake, @facesiousbutton82 <3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38 HERE and HERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animation and art that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHAL Chapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

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Note: I hope it doesn’t feel like I’m rushing these final updates, but I kind of am :D Now that the story is pretty much complete, I don’t need as much time between chapters. But the real reason is that I’m going on a band trip to Ireland on the 30th (!!!) and was hoping to finish posting before I leave. Both to avoid keeping you in suspense and so that Winter(/Spring/early Summer) Whump doesn’t become Midsummer Whump! XD 

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Present (Monday, continued)...

“Deeeeeep inna hundred acre wood…”

A little voice sang, high and sweet, while a tiny body wandered the periphery of the darkened cathedral, perfect miniature fingers trailing sanded oak walls, touching each crack where the boards were joined, sometimes slapping them with a giggle. Killian lay flat on his back, completely immobile, straining to protect his daughter. He needed to get her away from there somehow, before his Master noticed her, before she was caught up in its tortures, her body broken and cast aside like a rag doll.

His words came out silent. And she continued to sing.

“Donkey named Eeyore, little friend… Kanga, Roo, Curious George, tee-hee-hee…”

Killian could feel his heart pounding with the terror of Hope’s imminent discovery and violent death, all of his nightmare scenarios coming true before his eyes. Still, voice and movement remained out of reach. And the waves of pain accompanying the effort only convinced him of the reality of the situation. But then came another voice that did not belong in that sanctuary of horrors.

“Shhh, baby; Papa is trying to sleep, remember?”

Killian's eyes snapped open and before anything had a chance to register--his surroundings, who was with him, even the throbbing pain in shoulder, chest, and hand--he was scrambling to push himself up to his elbows. Anguish tore through his upper body as he heard Hope squeal,

“Oh! Papa waked up!”

Killian fell back against the mattress, panting a grimace and still in the throes of dream disorientation. There was a commotion, Emma speaking quietly and urgently to someone else nearby, and then he felt her at his side, resting her hand on his upper arm.

“Shh, Killian, settle down. Lemme help you.”

The bed shifted suddenly beneath him, the quiet grumble of a motor sending vibrations through his chest and shoulder as the top half of the mattress slowly elevated. The movement made him dizzy, but his eyes were glued on the angelic face in the corner. She was in the arms of someone, being gazed upon by someone else, but it was like the radiance of her sharp outlines blasted away every other detail and left the rest of the scene in smeared, muted watercolor. Eerie prickles blanketed his face as jagged cracks begin to form in the crystalline layers of falsehood within his mind.

“Breathe, Killian,” pleaded a worried voice beside him. A chiming machine nearby seemed to second the request. But Killian wasn't sure he even remembered how, until he suddenly realized he wanted nothing more than to greet the daughter the fates had restored to him. His chest expanded, filling him with life and light and longing.

“Hope,” he whispered, the name as much a plea to hold her close as it was an expression of unbridled joy and near-disbelief all rolled into one. The bed stopped moving, and though the change in position had intensified his pain, Killian did not comment; he was too caught up in the moment to pay it much heed. In fact, he even started reaching for the grinning toddler, until his blazing shoulder reminded him why that was a bad idea.

The two observers moved closer, and enough orientation had returned for him to identify them as David and Snow White, yet still, he only had eyes for Hope. Wearing a watery smile, Snow passed her granddaughter to Emma and then stepped back. Seeing the desperate look on her husband's face, Emma gently spoke to their wriggly daughter.

“I think Papa wants a hug. Do you want to give him a hug?”

“I want a hug too, Mama.”

“Okay, just remember Papa's owies, okay? You need to be very soft and still by him.”

Hope looked a little bit intimidated at first by her mother's somber tone, but soon enough she was reaching both arms out toward Killian. After double-checking Killian's expression for permission, which was unnecessary and they both knew it, Emma settled her carefully against his right side, between flank and forearm, where a toddler’s lack of caution might not result in serious harm. As Emma settled into a nearby chair, keeping a hand on her daughter just in case, Hope hunched over and laid her head on Killian's chest. Maybe slightly closer to the sore shoulder than would have been comfortable in other circumstances, but the undeniable magic of the moment washed away such petty concerns.

Again rendered breathless, feeling as if he could stop time by remaining completely motionless, Killian's surge of uncontainable joy triggered the response that had grown so automatic the past month, back when such feelings would lead to certain doom. The vision, and the mantra, both so at odds with what his senses were telling him was true but inescapable nonetheless. Desperate to override the mental reflex, Killian curled a trembling forearm around the tiny body, tentatively resting his splinted, bandaged hand on silken locks as he silently quarreled with his internal voice.

Hope was not kidnapped; she was here, snuggled against him, delicate fingers patting him in imitation of what she'd observed in adult hugs. Tangible, indisputable proof, tapping a sweet, sweet rhythm next to his vulnerable heart.

Not tortured. No. He could hear her even breaths, contented sighs with no trace of pain or fear. Nothing in her tiny wiggles suggested any distress, merely a toddler's natural restlessness and the drive to remain always on the move.

Hope was alive. So very, very much alive. Not dead. Not dead. As Killian tried to clear blurred vision, he could hear muffled sniffling sounds echoing in every corner of the room, and he was pretty sure that they weren't all coming from him. Not that it mattered. She was alive, she was safe, NOT DEAD, and his sore shoulder could not stop him from squeezing her tightly against his ribs, long enough that she grew bored and started to squirm. Bursting with energy, with life.

Emma carefully steered miniature knuckles away from the central line tunneled within Killian’s chest. Reluctant to release his hold on his precious child, Killian kept his arm around her lower back as she sat up. Her beaming face could have lit the entire world, and lingering shades of grisly thought fled before the onslaught. Even should he have wanted to do otherwise, for some unfathomable reason, Killian would have been helpless to resist: he grinned back, tears and all, as the ocean reflects the sun’s glory. Sobbing one last time, his expression wobbling only briefly in the direction of pain, he whispered,

“Thank you, love.”

Adorable concern darkened Hope’s features, and she glanced from her father’s face to her mother’s and back again.

“Papa is crying, Mama,” she said, and she touched a faded diamond printed on his gown. Barely able to form words herself, Emma managed,

“He missed you, baby.”

Hope turned unsure eyes on her father, who nodded in earnest agreement. That may have been one of the biggest understatements he’d ever heard, but it was no less true for it.

“Why?”

Emma rested one hand on Killian’s elbow and used the other to rub small circles on Hope’s upper back. “Because he loves you a lot.”

“Why?”

Before Emma could answer--or direct the conversation away from the endless spiral of repetitive questioning--Hope spotted a familiar item lying forgotten on the bedside table. “I want Oreo, Mama!”

She leaned forward, stretching her arms toward the stuffed animal, though she really had no chance of even coming close to retrieving it on her own.

“Please?” prompted Emma, and she waited for Hope to repeat the word before grabbing Eeyore from the table. And Killian was struck by the utter normalcy of the scenario he’d just witnessed. Hope was alive and Emma was still teaching her manners as if she would need them in the future, because she would need them in the future, because she had a future, because she was not dead. Tears filled his eyes yet again.

“Oreooooo!” sang Hope gleefully, oblivious. She’d been unable to pronounce the donkey’s name when first receiving him as a gift. Since then, she had learned the words to the song, sort of, and knew that ‘Eeyore’ referred to her favorite plush toy. But ‘Oreo’ he would forever remain.

“Do you want to show Papa your story?” asked Emma as Hope squeezed the donkey around his fluffy neck.

“Happy Bear!” she cried, nearly leaping to her feet in excitement and causing a definite jolt in Killian’s shoulder. Emma caught her arm and helped her to settle down.

“Okay, but you have to sit quietly, remember?”

David stepped closer and handed Emma a thin stack of papers sandwiched between two  pieces of decorated cardstock and tied at one end with colorful yarn. As Emma accepted the homemade storybook, Killian could just make out Belle’s fanciful script gracing the cover, which read, The Happy Bear.

Half in explanation, Emma asked,

“Auntie Belle helped you to make this, didn't she?”

“Yeah,” answered Hope, already entranced by her creation.

Careful not to rip the pages, Emma opened the cover and began to read.

“Once upon a time, there was a very happy bear.”

She held the book up so that both Killian and Hope could see the illustration on the facing page. The crayon sketch was hardly recognizable, least of all as a bear; it was a simple, somewhat circular shape with two eyes of unequal sizes and a wide smile stretching from the corner of one eye to the other. In that moment, Killian would have gladly classified it as the most beautiful art he'd ever seen.

“It's lovely, darling,” said Killian in a gravelly voice, and Hope smiled and smiled.

Happy Bear went on to have several pages of disjointed adventures, appearing mostly the same on each one. When they came to the part where the wind blew all of the bear’s hair off, and a scribble at the edge of the page represented the wayward pelt, Killian startled himself with a genuine laugh, the first he had uttered in who-knew-how-many weeks. Emma had to stop and wipe away a tear from her cheek before turning to the next page.

It was a different type of paper, and Killian immediately recognized Emma’s handwriting taking the place of Belle’s.

“One day,” read Emma in a quavering voice, “a very naughty bear came and was mean to the Happy Bear and all of her friends.”

More circles filled the page, each wearing a frown, and it was difficult to tell which was the offending Naughty Bear. The next page had one giant, oblong shape towering over another half its size, and the smaller one wore a surprisingly recognizable expression of fear.

“Happy Bear’s papa came and told the Naughty Bear to go away.”

They had reached the final page. Emma's voice was thick as she read,

“Happy Bear loved her papa very, very much.”

The giant circle was joined by a smaller one with the distinctive, wide smile representing the story's protagonist. Even without appreciable arms, they were clearly locked in an embrace, celebrating the villain’s defeat. And Killian’s eyes were once again too flooded by tears to determine whether the back cover declaring The End contained an illustration.

Suddenly, what he had been through and accomplished had taken on just a bit more meaning. To think that his three-year-old, with the help of her mother, understood and appreciated the victory, could feel safe under his protection and might one day learn to follow his example was at once humbling and reassuring. Everything had been for her, whether he'd realized it or not. His Papa Bear's instinct to defend his little one. And she was safe.

“Again, again!” begged Hope. Her excited squirming was causing Killian's shoulder to throb, but he kept a tight hold on her anyway. The tormenting mental images could not compete with the truth on display, observable by all of his senses. And even the pain was preferable to what lay just beneath the surface of his consciousness.

Emma shut the homemade book, saying

“We can read it again the next time we visit, but right now Papa needs to rest.”

“No!” whined the toddler, but Emma was ready for this reaction. She got to her feet and, in an excited tone, said,

“We need to go meet Henry now, remember? Ice cream time?”

“H'ice cream!!" Forgetting all about her Happy Bear story, Hope began bouncing in anticipation. Emma quickly lifted her up before she could do Killian any harm, in the same motion snatching up Eeyore, who was lying facedown on Killian's abdomen. Whispers of panic flooded his mind at the sudden loss of proximity, and he gulped a breath that burned in his chest.

"Give Papa a nice goodnight kiss, okay?" Emma stooped to bring Hope within a cautious distance from Killian's face. Restricted movement meant he could not reach up to caress her, but he savored the sloppy smooch she placed on his forehead.

"Ni-night, Papa."

Killian could barely force sound through his throat, and the process was made that much harder by the fact that all he really wanted to do was ask her to stay.

"Good night, my happy bear," he murmured, sure that the desperation in his smile would frighten or upset her. But she merely giggled, pleased by the nickname, and thrust Eeyore in his face so he could bestow a kiss on a fuzzy ear.

As Hope began to sing loudly about ice cream, Emma straightened, shifted her grasp on the three-year-old, and brushed a gentle hand along his face, promising,

"I'll be back in maybe half an hour. 50 percent chance I'll be painted with hot fudge, though."

Killian nodded with a small wince. He was nowhere near ready for solid food yet; the longing he felt was for the company and, of course, the bliss of watching his little treasure enjoy herself with Henry and his family.

As Emma headed for the door, directing Hope to call out a “Bye-bye, Papa” as they went, David and Snow stepped forward to take her place. Tearing his eyes away from the retreating form of his daughter, Killian was, for the first time, forced into the realization that he had other visitors. That perhaps they had come to see him, not just to tag along with Emma and Hope. And he was suddenly struck with the reminder of what he had done to them both. All words of apology felt inadequate and stuck in his throat, and he was left helplessly staring, wondering if they would ever find it in their hearts to forgive.

Snow White was wearing a gentle, sad smile as she dug in a bag at her side.

“We should be going, too,” she told him. “But... we thought this might be helpful.”

She seemed a bit timid about the suggestion, as if it were in response to some information she was afraid he wouldn't want her to know. From her bag, she produced a plain, brown frame and rotated it so he could see its contents: a color photocopy of the last page of Hope’s book, the Happy Bear embracing her papa, both of their smiles as wide as could be. In a blank corner, she had pasted a photograph portraying a real life hug between father and daughter, from before any of this had started.

"Emma mentioned that you were having some nightmares," continued Snow in the same hesitant tone. "I thought, if it happens again, that you could look at this when you wake up and be reminded that she's okay and that she's thinking about you.”

She placed it on his bedside table, then adjusted everything so it was within effortless view, and he managed one strangled “thank you” before overpowering shame made him avert his eyes. The room’s outside window had the shades drawn, blocking out the daylight in the same way as the pall of trauma, physical and mental, fogged his thoughts and prevented optimism.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, a bit too loudly, trying to drown out the returning words and images worming their insidious pathways back into the spotlight. “For what we… what I…”

His lungs seemed to be shrinking, a great weight pressing down in increments, and he shifted his bandaged, useless hand toward the line of sutures between his ribs, all to no avail. He could hear the desperate grief that had colored the words of both of these dear people beside him, saw himself driving the sword point into David’s flesh, remembered the lies and heartache, and then the torture and the helplessness as his control gradually waned. Hope dead, no hope, no hope…

“Killian. It’s okay,” David was saying, his good hand wrapped carefully around Killian’s twitching forearm. “Killian, look at us.”

He sought the framed drawing first. His link to the new reality, a mild balm for his soul, not yet corrupted by doubts. Snow White’s hand joined her husband’s, warm and soft upon his arm.

“We’re just glad you’re back,” she soothed. “It’s all over… and you’ve suffered enough.”

Happy Bear hugged Papa Bear. Hope hugged Killian. Snow’s words, forgiveness implied, blanketed his guilt-ridden heart. He could not understand.

Killian looked up, first at Snow, then at David. Both were watery-eyed but relaxed, wearing honest and compassionate expressions. He could read their sincerity, bewildering as it was. He had perpetuated the worst of all lies, and perhaps they would never trust his word in the same way again… but they were willing to move past it and bestow upon him a mercy he did not deserve. Even if he’d had the breath for thanks, Killian lacked the words.

David must have sensed how overwhelmed he was, for his eyes took on a twinkle of levity as he added,

“You’re even off the hook for this.” He carefully lifted his wrist a fraction to call attention to the sling he still wore, and Killian found himself raising an eyebrow in response, more in bemusement than anything else. David sighed, looking off into the distance as he feigned annoyance. “I sort of… owed you that one.”

Before Killian could protest--that wasn’t real, though, and anyway, ancient history had been the last thing on his mind when he’d been forced to stab  David--Snow White interjected,

“And actually, Killian… we wanted to thank you for what you did. You made the Realms safe again, for us, for Neal… I don’t think we can ever truly repay you for that.”

She bent and placed a soft kiss on his tousled hair, then stepped back to allow David access. He took an awkward look at his injured son-in-law, possibly trying to figure out a way to shake hands or pat him on the back without hurting him. Finally settling for a light squeeze of his mostly intact forearm, he smirked,

“Seconded. But I’m not kissing you.”

Killian came perilously close to laughing for the second time that day, and only stopped because of the threat of unbearable pain from the required muscles. He caught himself with a grimace; when he opened his eyes again, David was just hiding a wince of contrition.

“Get better soon.”

Finally finding his voice, Killian met each of their gazes in turn as he breathed,

“Thank you.”

A sudden, overpowering weariness washed over Killian as his visitors took their leave, and though he still feared what his dreams would bring, he was better equipped this time to meet twisted memory in battle. He had his family’s thanks and forgiveness, the promise of future encouragement, and most importantly, the lingering feeling of Hope’s touch, real and solid against the threat of ethereal phantoms. Perhaps it would be enough this time. 

________________________________________________________________

AN: Shout-out to my best friend's little girl, who is a few years older now, but memories of visiting her at that age provided much of the inspiration for toddler Hope. The story book was based on one by baby Hookaroo, though, and I have to wonder if the poor hairless bear was an early stage of my metamorphosis into a whumper! XD

[paganinpurple]

A Feline’s Family - MariChat May 2019

I was falling asleep trying to edit this one, so I hope it’s not too terrible. I swear it will get fluffy again. In a day or two.

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AO3

Chapters (If there’s no link, it’s not written yet)

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10

11  12  13  14  15  16  17  18  19  20

21  22  23  24  25  26  27  28  29  30  31

Day 6 – Adoption/Family

To say the thud above Marinette’s head was unexpected would be an enormous understatement. There were only two ways she knew of to access the balcony above her –other than when she arrived by yo-yo, of course– and she was already inside her bedroom, so she knew no one had come from this direction.

The only other way was if someone in the building behind the bakery had climbed onto the roof and over the adjoining wall. The thought that some unsavoury person could be planning to climb down into her room made her unwilling to leave the noise un-investigated.

Gesturing silently to Tikki to climb into her purse, Marinette grabbed one of her larger, more intimidating looking knitting needles and quickly climbed up to her bed. She inched the skylight window open sneakily, trying to avoid alerting anyone who might be on the other side.

It became apparent almost instantly that the figure perched on her railing wasn’t some mystery thug, but Chat Noir. What wasn’t so obvious was why he was here, on her balcony instead of using the front door like normal, or why he was trying so desperately not to cry.

From her lower vantage point, she could see how ragged his breathing was and he kept alternating between blinking rapidly and trying to widen his eyes impossibly, as if that and willpower alone would allow him to stave off his tears.

She all but erupted from the window, dropping the knitting needle to her bed as she did so. “Chat, what’s wrong?” she said, her worry evident in her tone.

He turned to look at her, his face crumpling as soon as his eyes met her own, and he dropped from the railing to the stone floor, grabbing her tightly in his arms as he started to shake.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he sobbed.

***

“Marinette? Honey?” Tom called as he and Sabine stepped through the door to their living space. Marinette was often one to exaggerate just how bad things were in her social life, but she would never abuse their agreed codeword so, when both he and Sabine had received text messages that said nothing but the word, “gumdrop,” it had been an easy call on whether they should leave the bakery in their only employee’s hands for a while.

“Over here Papa,” Marinette said quietly from her seat in the middle of the couch.

As they made their way over, it quickly became apparent that Marinette wasn’t alone. A blond head lay in her lap, two black, pointed ears flat against it and the rest of the boy was sprawled out across the cushions. His eyes stared out ahead at the blank television and the residue of moisture on his cheeks glinted in the light from the front window.

Marinette continued to pet his hair as her parents approached the couch, Tom coming to sit beside her while Sabine lowered herself to the floor on her other side, in front of Chat.

“Sweetheart,” Sabine said fondly, reaching out to run her own hand through his blond locks, “What’s the matter?”

Chat’s eyes closed and his brow furrowed as if in pain, his head shaking a little against Marinette’s lap. “I can’t go home,” he said, “It’s…it’s not safe for me there anymore.”

“Did someone do something to you?” Tom asked gingerly, not wanting to upset him any more than necessary, but feeling it was important to find out what they could, so they would be able to help in the best way possible.

The boy’s head shook again. “Not exactly,” he rasped, throat dry from crying, “It’s complicated. My dad…I just know I can’t go back.”

“Mama? Papa?” Marinette said, looking between the two with desperation flooding her eyes, “Can he stay here? At least for tonight? Please.”

“Of course, he can,” Sabine said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “He’s staying as long as he needs to. Even if that means we’re helping him apply for college.” She rose from the floor and leant over the boy, who had finally focused on something tangible by turning to look at her. Placing a kiss on Chat’s forehead, she smiled sadly at him before addressing Tom. “Do you think you could go call in some more help to run the bakery today? The agency number is on the notice board in the hall.”

Both of Marinette’s parents left the room, but they returned quickly enough, Sabine coming back first and bringing a large blanket with her. She gently tapped Chat’s legs and –slowly– the boy moved himself into a sitting position so she could sit down next to him, his head bowed and completely silent.

Sabine shook out the blanket and draped it across his shoulders before pulling him against her chest in a tender, motherly hold. “Shhh,” she whispered, though Chat still made no noise, “It’s okay sweetheart. We’ve got you.”

Marinette wasn’t sure when her papa had reappeared, but she definitely felt him press against her back as he pulled them all into a tight group hug. She wrapped her arms around Chat’s middle, and her papa’s arm leant against the two of them as he grasped her mama’s.

It wasn’t long before the tears were back, and Chat sniffled into her mother’s shoulder while Marinette felt her chest tighten and ache for him. She wasn’t sure her heart could take the agony and she was only feeling second hand pain. It must have been nothing to how Chat was feeling.

“I w-want my m-mom,” Chat hiccupped, and Marinette couldn’t hold back any longer. She hugged him tighter, tears streaming down her face, genuine and ugly.

“Shhh,” Sabine repeated, stroking his hair and rocking him gently, “I know, sweetheart. All I can do is try to be the next best thing.”

“It’ll be okay, Kitty. We’ve got you,” Marinette sobbed into where she was pressed against his blanketed back, “You’re…you’re f-” – she gulped down a sniffle- “You’re f-family.”

Turning slightly in her mama’s arms, he slung an arm around the girl, crushing her to his chest while allowing Sabine to continue stroking his hair. “Thank you,” he sobbed, “Thankyouthankyouthankyou.”

Gasping at the shock of being practically dragged into Chat’s lap so he could hug her, Marinette pushed down the odd feeling churning in her stomach. The one that was telling her that while she cared deeply for her kitty, the word “family” just didn’t quite feel right.

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