#like how many people actually use stuff like the spring or hide limbs?

[fanami]

Created a bunch of random Gacha Club characters. Decided to use some of the lesser used customization options for a few of them.

First Image: Springboy, Butter, Deon, Geeny, Fluffeko, DJ CYBR, and Google.

Second Image: Hoshita, HT, Kool Kid, Marietta, and Neighsayer.

Third Image: Midnight, Scrump, Mr. Dino, PinkPop, Tip, and Yumi.

[purrincesskittens]

my theory for dragons in the Atla universe as dragon!zuko is a popular theme that I'm in love with. Can't remember who its by but there was a incomplete fic out there on ao3 with a dragon!Bato that I remember seeing when I explored the dragon!Zuko tag on ao3. I also mention a character from @muffinlance 's Slavage, Panuk, in this theory because I have seen them in a few dragon!Zuko stories before and I thought him being a dragon himself would be interesting especially with his background.

Dragons are rare outside the fire nation. In the fire nation they are more uncommon then anything as having dragon blood is usually found in nobles or old blood lines actual original pure dragons were hunted to what was thought as extinction and no more pure dragon bloods were born as some dragons could take on human shapes gifted by Agni which resulted in the first dragon bloods . Zuko is a dragon same with Azula and their mother was of dragon blood and showed characteristics of a dragon from being descended from Roku. Uncle Iroh also has dragon characteristics while Ozai has very faint dragon characteristics. Sozin and Roku were known as some of the last known pure blooded dragon bloods. Most of those who are dragons now are not pure bloods not even Sozins line despite attempts to keep the blood line as pure as possible hence why Azulon arranged the marriage between someone of Roku's line and Sozin's line to try and bring more dragon blood back into their line which was a success and generated two actual dragons. Zuko has less control over his instincts then Azula and takes longer to shift then Azula and shifted later then her. His fire was always considered weaker then hers in either form. Azula was just better at hiding her dragon instincts as she got older then Zuko and has taught herself how to behave in a certain expected manner when she is in her dragon form. Azula is more of a lightning dragon then a fire dragon like Zuko and is the best flyer and can withstand hotter temperatures but Zuko is is more flexible and the better climber and swimmer and can hold his breath longer overall he has the most stamina as a dragon built up over time thanks to training with Uncle. Dragon blood lines try to marry strictly within other dragon blood lines in attempts to keep their blood pure and breed stronger dragon blood in the next generation.

Outside the fire nation in the earth kingdom dragon bloods are rare and growing rarer as those found to have dragon blood are recruited/forced/coerced into the army and used on the front lines for their increased fire resistance compared to normal earth kingdom soldiers which usually results in their early deaths as they still are not fully fire proof no dragon blooded has been since before Sozin and Roku even and even then there were limits no dragon known could survive an volcanic eruption or if enough fire was held directly against them.

The air nomads had dragons among them but they were wiped out along side their brethren. Aang is not a dragon nor of dragon blood but he knew several air nomads who were of dragon blood such as his mentor Monk Gyatso who was of dragon blood and had faint dragon characteristics.

In the Water Tribes only the south has dragons. The northern tribe eliminates all dragons to purify their people of the believed filth that is dragon blood. The southern tribe had more dragons before the raids began but now after the raids there are two known dragons left. Part of it is baby dragons or dragon bloods don't survive the winters with no sun. They end up falling into a coma like sleep and never waking up before eventually passing before spring can come. Those with faint dragon blood try to ensure any pregnancies are timed so that the children are born during the early spring so they are older and stronger by the time winter comes having the midnight sun of summer to grow strong during. Bato is from a surpisingly rather strong line of dragon blood despite no attempts having been made to keep it that way and was the only dragon blooded child of his generation to survive despite being born during the winter. He is more of a water dragon though and can't fly his wings are more fin like but is a strong swimmer and can breath boiling hot water. He will swallow water and heat it within his body before spraying it now boiling hot back out at his enemies. He is weaker against fire due to this compared to say Zuko but can withstand more drastic water temperatures and the cold compared to Zuko who can't handle the cold as well since he is a fire dragon. Panuk is the second dragon belonging to the Southern Water Tribes. He is more like a wyvern though with his front limbs being his wings with claws on them and he has long back legs that can run much faster over larger distances compared to Zuko or Bato. He can't fly either really his wings aren't big enough. He has glided low over the ground after getting a strong running start before but can't fly like Zuko can. He also can't breath fire or water but he does have the loudest roar and strongest bite force. Zuko is a decent enough flyer and fighter in his dragon shape and can climb much better then most dragons as well as swim better considering he is a fire dragon Azula can swim just not nearly as well as Zuko.

When Zuko meets Bato and Panuk he tries to teach them both to fly. This goes as well as one would think it does. Bato would prefer to stick to the water he's to old to learn to fly thank you very much. Panuk can't get enough leverage to get high enough to do more then glide he really isn't built for flying or swimming. Each has their specialty. Bato as the oldest is of course the biggest dragon at over 40 feet in length around the size of a giant squid while Panuk is next around 20 to 25 feet followed by Zuko who is only around 6 to 8 feet long and seems to be constantly molting as he is in a growth spurt period. Dragons can continue grow almost all their lives the older they get the larger they are. Bato prefers soaking in water to remove his molts or has Hakoda help while Panuk just likes to roll around and rub against stuff to remove his unless he can get someone to help. Zuko usually needs human help to get his molts off as his shed skin still sticks to much to the new scales underneath but otherwise he likes nearly boiling hot water or rolling in hot coals it softens his new scales and helps separatethe skin from them. Dragons also shed scales on occasion if some are damaged they shed them as new ones grow in and some shed them like animals with fur coats do during the spring and fall to get summer and winter scales in.

Dragons do hoard things even just those with dragon blood do. It's not that unusual for dragons and dragon bloods to hoard the people they are closest with. Zuko likes to hoard people. What few people he likes he is over protective of. His crew on the Wani are part of his hoard and now the Akhult crew. Azula is a part of his hoard along with his mother. He still loves them both even if Azula and him have a complicated relationship and his mother hasn't been around for years. Object wise he likes swords and theater scrolls and occasionally tea sets usually those he gives to his uncle who hoards them. He also has a hoard of turtleducks back at the fire nation palace that he started by accident and grew over time and refused to let anyone remove them. They are still there and the flock has grown too big to remove. Almost all courtyards with ponds now have smaller groups of turtleducks that originated from the flock Zuko started as a child. Zuko only has a few hoard items he cherishes enough to keep with him when he has to travel most of which he can keep on his immediate person. Bato hoards bones. He carves them for ceremonial use and for weapons. His tent back in the tribe was filled with his carvings some he shared with Hakoda because Hakoda and his family are part of his hoard. Sokka and Katara loved climbing on him in his dragon form as young kids and Katara loved trying to copy his water breath attack with her bending. Panuk hoards jewelry and beads as well as metal objects. He has few hoard items most he wears on him or are his weapons. Zuko and Panuk are similar in that aspect with keeping their hoards on them and keeping them small but Zuko hoards more people then Panuk does.

Hakoda is used to his best friends dragon form and they have their own way of communicating while Bato is a dragon. This method does not work with Zuko who had his own method of communication with Uncle Iroh who understood him enough and enough dragon behavior to form a method of communication with him. Panuk has a more simpler method that matchs his human body language more. Dragons don't always understand each other in dragon forms if they haven't been raised together or have a set method for communication between them already. Zuko is very nippy as a dragon compared to Panuk who is more vocal while Bato is calmer and steadier when Bato was younger him and Hakoda got into so many wrestling matches even when he was in his dragon form but those became less and less the bigger he got especially after he accidentally hurt Hakoda during one. They still happen on occasion to this day between them but Bato has learned to be more careful especially if Sokka and Katara are around. It's just easier and safer to wrestle as humans then human and dragon.

[chockfullofsecrets]

Critical Role: Waiting For My Mind To Go To Sleep

(Read on AO3)

Rating: Teen & Up for Caleb having a pretty bad day

Summary: He levers himself up from the little nest he’s made of his arms, his sudden suspicion the only thing keeping him from stumbling over the word. “This does not tickle one bit, by the way.”

“Okay,” Caduceus says. “Did you want it to?”

Caleb can't sleep. Caduceus decides to take matters into his own hands.

Wordcount: 5.3k (SAVE ME)

A/N: so this turned into... something... i think it’s safe to say in general that if you ever feel like Caleb, please take a deep breath and do something nice for yourself <3 

For anyone who's trying to keep track - set after Difficult, with a bit of reference to Staying Warm.

---

Caleb has not possessed a desk in a long time, so it is a shame that he is currently wasting his new one as a place to rest his head while he waits for exhaustion to take him.

He’s counting off the end of twelve minutes, growing increasingly frustrated as the simplicity of the numbers fails to stop his brain from running itself in ragged circles, when slow footsteps sound out from the hallway. “Oh, you’re still up.”

It’s Caduceus. Caleb peels himself off long-dried sheets of spellwork and tries to make himself look a little less like an empty shell of a person. “Ja, I am up, what can I do for you.”

The slight downward tilt to Caduceus’ eyebrows in an otherwise placid expression radiates disappointment. “You said you were going to sleep, earlier.”

Earlier being an hour and forty minutes ago, when Caduceus passed by him with a full teapot on his way to the roof. Strange, given that the kitchen is just next to the staircase and his study is on the opposite side of the house. He sighs and rubs at his face - there is a chance, however slight, that this time pressing at his temples will actually help with the headache even if he deserves the fucking thing for getting them here in the first place. “I am working on ah, a new spell, I am a little distracted.”

It’s not a lie, exactly. Studying is distracting him from sleep, and the cold comfort of possessing a house and certain debt gifted to them by a major political faction of the Kryn dynasty is distracting him from studying, no matter how nice his desk is. The last time his life took such a turn, he was a young man recently arrived in Rexxentrum with his two best friends in the entire world - he can think of many, many good reasons to prise the jaw of this particular gift horse open.

The problem, then, is stopping. Easy enough, when he can turn himself into a bat, but his distracted attempts at study and the resulting failures have removed even that avenue from him today. It is lucky that the Dynasty has yet to ask a new favor from them that would require him to cast.

But then, he has never held much hope for luck - and, oh, Caduceus has moved much nearer at some point.

“I will sleep,” he acquiesces, nodding in the vague direction of a flowing sleeve, and refrains from adding any sort of incriminating time frame. “You should get some rest as well, mein freund.”

Caduceus clears his throat, somewhere miles overhead. “Your arms are going to get sore, if you keep doing that.”

He looks down. Takes a deep breath and lets it out as he pulls his hands away from the scars and lays them flat against the fine wooden grain of the desk. “Thank you.”

That should be the end of it, he thinks, and he can go back to counting miserably, but the smudge of pink in his peripheral vision stays stubbornly present. “Is… is there something else?”

“You know,” Caduceus says with that unruffled serenity of his, “I think I��m going to make some more tea. I’ll bring you a cup, and we’ll sit for a while.”

Caleb winces.

He is fond of Caduceus, very much so, as he is of all his friends. It is just - it is not that he doesn’t know he is terrible, anymore, he has revealed all but the worst of it in Felderwin and their group has decided that his contributions are worth the trouble of associating with him anyway. But Caduceus, who cares so naturally and unselfishly, who operates with a faith in everything around him that Caleb cannot begin to understand - something about his knowing gaze is unsettling, when Caleb cannot tell what he knows or how he is judging him.

The part of him that is tired would welcome a friendly presence to lull him to sleep, instinctively knowing by now that they are safer here than nearly anywhere else in the world. The other part, bitter and exhausted, trusts no one. Least of all himself, when he cannot even think through political machinations.

He’s waited too long to respond - he can feel Caduceus’ gaze now, prickling at the side of his head. “I can bring some of this to the kitchen, if that is where you are going.”

“Oh, I was thinking we could use your bed,” Caduceus says. The visual of Jester waggling her eyebrows suggestively springs to mind, and he bites the inside of his cheek before he can smile. “Why don’t you go lie down, and I’ll be there in a minute with the tea.”

It sounds more like a command, really - Caduceus wanders off, and there’s nothing to do after that but to retreat to his room. He begins the rote process of shucking his boots and socks in deference to the warm night and reaches up for his holsters.

His fingers close around the buckles, and suddenly he is frozen, possibilities of disaster everywhere. It will be safer if they stay on him, even though they are in the middle of a residential neighborhood, he has to keep them close-

He breathes out, slowly, through his nose and strips them off as well. It feels like a punishment, but then, maybe that is how he can stop himself from thinking too much. Not that it has ever worked before, piling discomfort upon discomfort like a stone wall, but if it is what he has to hand at the moment then so be it.

Next, the bed. He takes a step towards the bed, knowing that is where Caduceus will expect to find him - but his mind is still spinning with a dozen different threads, spells and spycraft and a sudden curiosity as to what the Kryn stuff their mattresses with, surely they do not grow hay or cotton here-

He’s still standing there when Caduceus ducks through the doorframe, large fingers wrapped with delicate care around the handles of two mugs, and shuffles one of them forcefully into his hands. “There we go. It’s not too hot, is it?”

He gulps the first sip down inelegantly. It’s the perfect temperature to warm his throat without burning his tongue, as Caduceus’ tea always is, but it feels - wrong, somehow - “Is there something in this?”

Caduceus blinks down at him. “Oh, did some of the tea leaves get through the strainer? I mean, they’re probably pretty tiny if they can do that, but I can try to pick ‘em out if they’re bugging you.”

“Ah - I mean - it tastes-” He pauses, proceeds more delicately. “There is not anything in this meant to put me to sleep?”

Caduceus looks surprised, for a moment, before patient amusement washes over his face - Caleb glances down, awkwardly, and hopes that the gentle steaming of the cup in his hands hides the way his face flushes. “It’s not drugged, if that’s what you’re asking. But with how tired you look, I’m not surprised that’s what it feels like.”

“Oh,” he says. Maybe if he downs the entire thing in one shot, it will do him the mercy of knocking him out here and now anyway.

Suddenly Caduceus’ hands are on his, gently pulling the empty cup away from his fingers and setting it down next to his holsters. “Mind if I sit?”

“No,” Caleb says, and then “Uh-” as Caduceus takes him by the elbow and starts leading him in the direction of the bed. “Wait, what are we doing?”

“C’mere,” Caduceus tells him, easing himself down at the edge of the mattress and folding his legs up beneath him.

He stares stupidly. “Where?”

“On the bed, ideally.” Caduceus says, and tugs him a little closer. “Didn’t seem like you were gonna make it there yourself.”

He should walk around to the other side and lay down there, he knows, but months of travel with these people have ruined him - he sits automatically next to Caduceus and leans into his side as he might if they were stopping for an hour of rest before realizing what he’s done.

He jerks away. “Ah - you meant to lay down, of course, I will just-”

“Nope,” Caduceus says, and promptly snakes his arm around Caleb and pulls him over into his lap.

His back hits Caduceus’ knee with a solid thump - he flounders for a moment, trying to figure out where all his limbs are among the tangle of long firbolg legs, and then he realizes that Caduceus is watching him.

Their eyes meet. Caduceus smiles down at him, seemingly unbothered by the presence of an idiot in his lap. “There, you’re laying down,” he says. “Comfy?”

“Hnnnng,” Caleb whimpers. He rolls over as best he can and buries his face in his arms, unwilling to bear the eye contact - how many more things can he do wrong today?

Caduceus hums thoughtfully.

The next thing he feels is softness as gentle fingers undo his ponytail, combing through the strands, and arrange his hair to lay loosely around him - they smooth the last of it down and start massaging the back of his head, rubbing gently behind his ears.

It is so completely unexpected that it undoes him; he spares a single moment of thankfulness that he’s washed his hair recently and succumbs to the simple bliss. “Oh, Scheisse, that feels good.”

Caduceus’ belly, pressed warm against his side, shakes in quiet amusement. “Thought it might,” he says. “You’re not easy to calm down, are you.”

“No,” Caleb says, honestly regretful. Even as the rush of tingles from having his scalp scratched washes down his back, he still cannot make himself stop thinking - about whether he has manipulated Caduceus into doing this by being too lazy to take himself to bed earlier, about what he can do to return the favor-

“I know you think that I am neglecting myself,” he says finally, groaning a little as Caduceus drags a thumb firmly down the back of his neck. “I know I need to rest so that I can cast, I just - ah - it is tricky-”

Caduceus pauses, rubbing at the edge of his shoulder blade for a moment. “Of course you can take care of yourself.” He punctuates the statement by untwisting Caleb’s spine with a loud crack that leaves him gasping in sudden relief as a good amount of the tension in his back disappears. “Doesn’t hurt to have a little help, though.”

He scratches lightly at the backs of Caleb’s ribs. It’s pleasantly sharp, little pinpricks of sensation rushing up and down, and Caleb squirms happily for a moment into his hands before he realizes.

He levers himself up from the little nest he’s made of his arms, his sudden suspicion the only thing keeping him from stumbling over the word. “This does not tickle one bit, by the way.”

“Okay,” Caduceus says. “Did you want it to?”

Squirming a little more, he bites back the traitorous yes, please that forms on the back of his tongue. “No.”

“Then be good and stay still,” Caduceus says, and keeps scratching.

Caleb huffs and sticks his nose back into the crook of his elbow. “You are very bossy sometimes, you know that?”

He tenses as soon as he says it - there is a reason he keeps these things to himself unless he is talking about Beauregard, who seems to prefer his annoyance to most other things that leave his mouth.

Caduceus just chuckles. “You don’t have any siblings, do you.”

“No,” he says - and then, if only because they have been on his mind of late as he thinks about politics and consequences - “old friends, though, growing up.”

“Shame,” Caduceus hums, hands sliding down to scuff at his sides. “Then I guess you’ve never been in a tickle fight.”

There is the familiar, guilty, sting, thinking of the past - but one more thread of thought could hardly make the tangle any worse, could it? Of course Astrid and Wulf had known he was ticklish, they knew everything about one another. In the beginning, when there was still time for such things, he remembers them abusing the knowledge at times when Ikithon’s clear favoritism rankled a little too much, or, more rarely, to play - it had been much easier, then, to make him smile.

And then Molly, with his infernal grin and equally devilish fingers prodding for every sensitive spot he could find, the teasing - and that night by the fire, just before Hupperdook, his arm blazingly warm around Caleb’s shoulders in the winter chill as he jostled him around and assured him that it was perfectly normal to want such affections.

They are kind memories, even with the bitter regret of his own blame in their ending, and -

Verdammt, his ribs are starting to get sensitive.

He tries to breathe through it, but his lungs are fidgeting as badly as the rest of him would like to, startled and giddy; instead, he presses the edges of his fingernails into his palms and tries to see reason in the dark cradle of his forearms.

This will not help him sleep. He is wasting Caduceus’ time, if he lets this continue. It does not matter what he wants, when he has no right to ask for any of it.

“Caduceus,” he starts. The syllables shiver on his lips, too close to laughter for comfort. He tries again. “Caduceus, I - I am feeling much calmer now-” His heartbeat pounds loudly in his ears. “-if you would let me up-”

“Hey,” Caduceus says. “You got all tense again, stop doing that.”

“I just-” The path of Caduceus’ ministrations drifts over his sides, sending already-tingling nerves into high alert, and he panics. “Let go of me!”

It is the exact worst thing he could say, made worse in the harsh tone in which he spits it - the hands that have been chasing pleasantly up and down his spine still and lift away, the simple action radiating just as much disappointment as Caduceus’ furrowed eyebrows earlier, and his back arches in a miserable attempt to follow them before he can stop himself.

He bites his lip. He needs to apologize. He needs to crawl away and back to his desk like the worm he is, as heavy as Caduceus’ judgment is weighing down on him. He needs to do something other than lie here-

“Well, you don’t look very calm,” Caduceus says mildly. “You okay?”

“I am fine,” Caleb grits out automatically. He cannot be incapable of even the simplest of thought, he cannot-

“Huh.”

One of Caduceus’ hands makes its reappearance, suddenly, at his neck, two fingers slipping along the stubble under his chin to rest on his racing pulse and catch him in his lie.

The other, even more inconveniently, reappears just by the exposed hollow of his left armpit.

Suddenly, he cannot think of anything at all - he jumps and squeaks and curls away as best he can, fighting back the tremulous ah-ah-ah-! of burgeoning laughter that bubbles up behind his teeth as five fingers flutter merrily against the thin cotton of his sleeve.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Caduceus says placidly. He stops moving his fingers, but they just stay there, just barely touching, as if he is daring Caleb to try and crush them under his arm and see what happens.

Things seem very dangerous in a completely different way than they did seconds ago - if he was at peril of sinking, before, the feather-light presence against tender skin makes him feel like he might float away. He holds as still as he can, waiting.

Still, he shivers all the way down to his toes as Caduceus clears his throat. “You know, I have a sister - had? - uh-”

“May have, if you are uncertain,” Caleb says automatically, decades-old Common grammar lessons rushing to the forefront in lieu of any instinct that might actually be useful, and promptly bites his tongue.

“Sure,” Caduceus concedes, and gives his armpit another good tickle. Caleb squeaks again and tries fruitlessly to wrap his arms more tightly around his head. “She’d swear up and down that she wasn’t ticklish too, when she didn’t want to be. Not that it helped her much if you got a hold of her feet.”

Caleb becomes suddenly, horribly aware of his own exposed soles - he is facedown on the bed, his knees will not even bend the right way to let him hide them against the mattress-

Caduceus must catch the involuntary scrunch of his toes - he laughs, low and pleased, and pats him warmly on the back. “I think your ribs were working out just fine, but if you’re curious-”

“I am not.” Caleb says hastily.

Something swoops, low and excited, in his belly.

It really isn’t fair how tall Caduceus is, especially when it means that he can keep one threatening hand pressed to Caleb’s ribs at the same time he reaches for his feet. Caleb, still bundled facedown in his lap, only realizes what is about to happen when he feels a soft, fuzzy palm close around his heel. “Oh - oh, bitte-”

The first pass is a single fingertip, drawing tiny circles on the calloused ball of his foot. It hardly feels like anything at all, and for one foolish moment Caleb lets himself relax.

Then the fingertip drifts down to the softer arch, wriggling into a crease as his foot curls reflexively, and it tickles like a motherfucker.

“No, no, NO,” he yelps, and scrambles blindly through the next few moments -he jabs something solid with his elbow, cool air rushing on his face as he twists and pulls his knees in, but all that is secondary to the rush of relief as he gets something beneath his feet and jams them against it. He squeezes his eyes shut and pants, clutching his chest as if he can will his lungs into proper behavior.

Something knobbly vibrates against his shoulder.

He freezes. “Um.”

It takes a long moment for him to realize that he is, somehow, still in Caduceus’ lap - his shoulder is pressed to homespun cloth and a bony chest, his feet are crowded up against one of Caduceus’ thighs as the rest of him perches on the other.

His seat shakes a little as Caduceus continues to laugh at him. At this point, Caleb can hardly blame him.

Caduceus lets out a long, happy sigh just above where he’s pressed his face back into his hands in blatant embarrassment. “Oh, we’re going to have to hold you down for that, huh.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, like it is a foregone conclusion that someday Caleb will find himself with his ankles pinned and teasing fingers coming for him, helpless to stop them. It’s far too easy to picture, just now, and despite himself anticipatory giggles start to well up in his chest.

Unacceptable - Caleb presses his lips together, burrows as far into his hands as he can and tries fervently to pretend that he is not still well within range of someone capable of doing all of these things. What is wrong with him? Nothing is happening, no one really wants to tickle him, it is not funny-

Caduceus’ fingers, though, are still moving - one hand is dancing over the tops of his feet now, hardly touching, worrying at his ankles and the sparse hair on his toes. It doesn’t even - it shouldn’t tickle, but he can’t stop thinking that it might, or that Caduceus might reach for his ribs again, and he is too tired to redirect his thoughts anymore, he feels halfway to dreaming already, and - “Hnnmm - heeeh -”

His cheeks are already warm from the desperate effort of not laughing, but they burn even brighter as the giggles start flooding out.

Caduceus can surely hear him, for all that he is hiding his face and never intends to reveal it again, and besides that he is squirming, winching his arms to his sides and scrubbing his feet uselessly against the rough fabric of Caduceus’ trousers to try and get away from his fingers without lifting them. “Heheeeh - ahaha - oh, stop, stop, help, I cahahan’t-”

Curling up in a ball doesn’t seem to help at all - a small part of him knows that he’s more or less tickling himself at this point, but all that means is that there’s nothing to get away from as he twitches and begs, no mercy from his own overtired brain, no one to help him get out-

Just as the panic really starts to choke him, something warm and grounding wraps around his shoulders.

He regains just enough awareness to feel Caduceus’ huge palm cradle the side of his head and pull him into his chest. “Shhhh,” he soothes, so low that it rumbles through the both of them. “I’m here, I’ve got you. Breathe, breathe.”

Caleb comes back to himself slowly, like the tide pulling back from the rocky cliffs of Darktow - the exhaustion is still there, burning behind his eyelids, but the thunderous crash of his heart in his ears slows to a steady echo under Caduceus’ touch. He takes in a tentative breath and nearly buckles from relief as it stays in his lungs.

Caduceus murmurs something to himself, pensive. Caleb hears it more through his chest than his ears. “Better?”

He sucks in a few more breaths before he feels calm enough to answer, slumping further against Caduceus and drawing his hands cautiously away from his face. “I am fairly sure that is not how ti- ah, how that is supposed to work,” he says tiredly. “But at least it is over. Caduceus, I am sorry-”

“Oh, I’m still going to tickle you,” Caduceus says, and Caleb nearly starts choking again.

A thousand startled exclamations catch in his throat. “Why,” is the one he gets out, and oh, he does not even begin to know what to do anymore with the excited little twist in his belly at hearing Caduceus’ words.

Gentle fingers take his chin and tilt it up until he can see Caduceus looking back softly back down at him. “You’re not being very nice to yourself, are you.”

That wrenches a rueful little smirk from him. “And why should I be?”

“Don’t do that,” Caduceus admonishes. He doesn’t - frown, exactly, just looks at Caleb more intensely until he has to fight the urge to wriggle himself loose.

“You were disappointed, earlier, when it didn’t tickle, don’t think I didn’t see it.” He tries to shake his head, but Caduceus holds him still. “I saw how you looked when I said we’d have to hold you down later, too - you want me to tickle you, Caleb, so I’m going to. That’s enough.”

Caleb opens his mouth to tell Caduceus that he doesn’t want it, that he has long since accepted that tickling is a happy and childish thing for those who do not have to try all the time to not be terrible, but he can’t quite get the lie out under his steady gaze. “I shouldn’t,” he says instead. “I should sleep, I am just wasting your time.”

Caduceus huffs, cuddling him impossibly closer and rubbing a thumb over his cheek, and Caleb has to close his eyes - he does not know, sometimes, how these people can be so careful with him, so willing to offer affection, unless he has tricked them somehow. He does not know how to repay it, either. It is hard to tell which piece of his ignorance is worse.

“You’re not. We’re going to talk about that, someday, when I’m not trying to put you to bed,” Caduceus tells his eyelids. “But that night after the dragon, a little tickling put you to sleep just fine - and you were doing all right until you decided you were going to be stubborn.”

Caleb has to smile at that, just a bit - Caduceus sounds openly affectionate, if mildly frustrated, and even though he does not deserve that it is a little funny to think that he might be as much of a troublemaker as Jester or Beauregard simply for refusing to sit still in Caduceus’ lap.

Caduceus pokes lightly at the slight round of his cheek. “There, that’s better.”

He loosens his grip, then, letting go of Caleb for just long enough to loop his arm around his chest. Caleb opens his eyes, curious - Caduceus is smiling at him, slow and mischievous, and his elbows automatically twitch halfway to his sides before he realizes that Caduceus’ arm is in the way and blocking him from getting them all the way down.

That tricky, light feeling takes hold of his chest again. “Ah - Caduceus?”

Caduceus adjusts his grip a little and raises his other hand, wiggling his fingers in a way that might be considered thoughtful if they were not pointed distinctly in Caleb’s direction. “Yeah?”

Despite everything, Caleb finds that he is fairly good at reading people when he needs to be. Which means, in this case, that he can tell - Caduceus is trying to make him more ticklish.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop it from working.

He widens his eyes entreatingly. “I was not being stubborn! I - I just panicked-”

“I told you to be good and stay still, didn’t I?” Caduceus’ arm is more than long enough to wrap all the way around his skinny chest, especially without the holsters - his hand curls carefully under Caleb’s arm, and he has to press his lips together tightly to avoid laughing then and there.

“I couldn’t!” he pleads. “You - you were-” He stumbles over the word itself, half hoping Caduceus will interrupt him again - but he doesn’t, just holding him steady. “I was trying,” he finishes lamely, willing himself not to blush and failing entirely.

Caduceus is grinning at him now, through his beard, smug in that gentle way of his. “And I was trying not to rile you up too much.” he muses, “Suppose we’ll just have to tire you out instead, how’s that sound?”

Caleb gapes. Caduceus is the nicest and gentlest of all of them; surely he is not about to trap Caleb in his lap and tickle him until he cries. And surely he should not want it, the traitorous squirmy feeling in his belly up and fluttering like a live thing.

The long, downy fingers of Caduceus’ free hand pluck his shirt loose from where it’s just barely still tucked in and slip underneath to tease at the fuzz of hair on his tummy, and such logical reassurances suddenly lose much of their weight.

“You - you planned this,” he accuses breathlessly. “You did, I didn’t - hm! - even do anything-”

“I mean, I don’t plan a lot of things. Dinner, mostly.” Caduceus prods at his belly button and he jumps, completely off guard for what comes out of Caduceus’ mouth next.

“You’re just really, really ticklish.”

Caleb whines. Just saying it makes every nerve in his body hum with anticipation, now, and when Caduceus pokes his belly button again he’s sensitive enough that he can’t hope to fight back the peal of laughter. “Don’t.”

Caduceus snickers and just keeps poking at the same spot, sending him into a tumble of frantic laughter as he twists this way and that and fails to escape. “Oh, that helped, huh?”

“No, no, oh nohoho-”

The hand holding him in place tickles gently through his shirt at the softness just above his ribs - usually he is protected by layers of leather and paper there, enough to hold off one of Veth’s crossbow bolts, but all he can do now is whimper.

Caduceus’ free hand sneaks up his other side and repeats the process under his shirt, and he shrieks.

“Heh,” Caduceus chuckles, and eases off for a moment. “You gonna be good if I’m not holding on to you?”

Presumably he wants to get his other hand under Caleb’s shirt and torture him even more, but that’s not the reason Caleb reflexively clings to his arm. “No, no, I need-”

He cuts himself off before he can say that he needs Caduceus to hold him, largely because he does not want to admit it even to himself.

Luckily, he does not need to say more. “Okay, I’ve got you,” Caduceus says easily, and squeezes him a little tighter. “Let me know when you’re done, yeah?”

Before Caleb can ask what that means, Caduceus’s fingers spider under his shirt and start kneading, gentle and merciless, at the top of his ribs.

Caleb breaks instantly. He can’t get his arms far enough down to protect himself, can’t hope to get loose - he tries to bite his lip for a moment to stop himself from laughing, flinging his hands back over his face, but all his breath rushes out in a sudden squeal as the first shock of ticklish sensation hits him in full. “Ahahaaaaa - aaa!”

Caduceus tickles one side of his ribs until he’s sobbing and kicking, completely insensible, and then lazily spiders down over his sides and belly and back up to the other side to tease and tickle as he pleases. He tickles up into his armpits, around the soft curve of his tummy, and rubs his thumbs into the bony outcrop of his hips through the pockets in his pants - he goes back and forth, back and forth, until Caleb loses track of time and numbers and which language he’s begging in and can only measure how much air is left in his lungs before he starts wheezing again.

At some point, he can’t hold himself upright any longer - he sinks down against Caduceus’ bracing arm, but it only stretches the skin over his ribs further. He wails.

It goes on until all he can do is gasp and snicker weakly as Caduceus prods his way back up his side, stopping to trace at each ribin turn. His eyes drift shut, at some point. He doesn’t think he’s ever been tickled so badly in his life.

Still, it seems that there is the possibility for it to tickle even worse - Caduceus’ hand finally, finally slips out from under his shirt, and he just manages to gasp out a sigh of relief before it closes gently around his ankle.

His eyes spring open. “Mein Gott, bitte, bitte, not there,” he hiccups. “I’ll die, I’ll die, please!”

Caduceus hums - held upright, he can just see Caduceus’ wrist pinning down the top of his foot as his index finger traces a light, tickly circle around the thin bone of his ankle. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

Caleb grasps for the threads of his thoughts, heedless of confession in the face of being tickled more, but to his surprise there is little left to worry about - even the exhaustion feels far away now, his whole world narrowed to the warmth of being held here.

“Nothing,” he says honestly. He giggles a little as Caduceus’ fingers keep moving. “Ankles, maybe.”

Caduceus laughs aloud at that, letting go of his foot and untangling their arms as he briefly nuzzles his forehead. Caleb’s seen him do it to the others, before, but never to him. He sighs at the warm, fuzzy pressure against his hairline, the light huff of breath that stirs the mess of his hair. It’s nice.

“Alright. Off to bed with you, Mr. Caleb, come on.”

He’s already dreaming, he thinks - Caduceus has to help him over to the pillows, where he flops out and curls contentedly into the blanket tugged over him. Maybe it’s that he can barely move from exhaustion, cheeks still sore from laughter, but the bed has never felt better.

Drifting off, he allows himself to hope foolishly that this might not have to be the last time.

[gods-no-longer-tread-here]

This is a somft thing I wrote because my platonic scoundrel @roseforthethorns was feeling sad. Ily bby

(3k+ words, Family Gossip, Geralt being good with kids, something akin to a binding..... just fluffypuffy stuff)

~

“You are an absolute darling, Geralt!”

“Hmph,” he grunted, and tucked the honeysuckles into the circlet before placing it carefully on Jaskier’s head. “You need to be pretty for the party,” the Witcher said firmly.

Jaskier beamed at him, eyes shining with affection. “That I do, my dear,” he said, adjusting the flower circlet to be at a jauntier angle. “Oh, do you like the ring, by the way?”

Geralt nodded, raising his hand. It was a lovely ring, but rather cheap. Bronze band, yellow agate cabochon, and tiny pearls. It was well-used, though. Jaskier grabbed his hand, squeezed gently, then skipped to the door. “Come on, then!”

~

Geralt was expecting the stares. He was not expecting so many nobles to glide up to him, give a nervous greeting, and then inquire about his relationship with Count Julian. Geralt was too baffled to answer with anything other than, “He’s my bard.”

One sharp-eyed old lady with an ivory cane showed up at Geralt’s elbow, and poked his middle with her cane. “Hmm. Too skinny,” she declared, while Geralt fought the urge to splutter. “How do you expect to take care of little Julie when you can’t keep yourself fed?”

“We’ve been getting along just fine for fifteen years,” Geralt retorted.

The old lady sniffed in disapproval. “Of course you would say that, you’re a man. Both of you need plumping up.” She smacked his middle with her cane and added, “Be careful with that ring, boy. It’s precious.”

Geralt grunted, hands automatically coming together so he could touch the ring again. The old lady nodded and walked away.

Jaskier had said this would just be a short jaunt to say hello to his cousin and leave--but said cousin was a queen, and asked him to stay for the whole evening. Of course, Jaskier agreed. And now Geralt was leaning on a wall sipping honey wine and feeling superfluous. There was nothing to do here. He should be hunting, gathering coin for their journey, not letting nobles stare at him.

A man in a military uniform approached him, and Geralt tensed, narrowing his eyes. He didn’t think he was going to be taken away; the soldier was alone, and Geralt came with Jaskier.

The soldier stopped, bowed, and said, “Greetings, Witcher. I’m Captain Yetzii, of the Palace Guard.”

“Geralt,” Geralt said.

The captain nodded, his heavy mustache and eyebrows hiding most of his expression, but the wariness and aggression in his scent and posture waning. “I suspected as much,” he said. “Not many people hover in corners watching Count de Lettenhove with such a worried expression.” The captain’s mustache twitched and the corners of his eyes crinkled, and Geralt was hit by the realization that, though this man was human and had red-brown hair and was as lean as a youth, he bore a striking resemblance to Vesemir. Even his scent had a familiar tang.

Geralt frowned and answered the captain, “He gets into trouble more frequently than we Witchers. If I don’t watch him he’ll do something stupid and end up wearing a casket of wine as trousers.”

“He’s already done that,” the captain said. “On his twentieth birthday, he and some of the troops got so drunk that they started a contest of what they could wear that was within uniform regulations. I don’t know how, but they all ended up agreeing that a wine casket and some sheafs of straw was within the rules.”

Something stirred in Geralt’s memory, and then jumped to the forefront: a few years ago, when he and Jaskier met again in spring, and got so drunk that--Geralt’s mouth twitched, but his voice was dry as he told the captain, “I know exactly how. I once witnessed him convince a king that he had created a dashing outfit out of moonlight and fresh air, then encouraged the king to wear it while giving a speech to the commoners. The fool actually believed him and stepped onto the platform before the crowd naked.”

The captain snorted, his posture relaxing further. “We heard of that, but no one knew it was M’lord Julian. Have you ever caught him dueling? He’s never been good at it, but by the gods, he tries. Especially when he was younger; whenever he visited, the Guard had to follow him when he went on a quest to seduce every barmaid in the city, because it was inevitable that he would end up trying to duel some poor citizen.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched again, visibly this time. “I can believe it.”

Somehow, swapping stories about Jaskier’s ineptitude with fighting rolled right into passive fighter roles; Geralt admitted that he’d rather be bitten by a manticore than pose as a bodyguard, and Captain Yetzii commiserated, saying that he had much preferred being in his village’s guard and patrolling the county to being a stationary captain. This led into how to prepare for long journeys far from humanity, and then a mild argument about horses. Geralt was offended by Yetzii’s insistence that horses should be bred for their lines, instead of for their traits; Yetzii was skeptical of the fact that the size of a horse’s heart was the defining factor of its speed, arguing that lungs and bone-structure were more important.

A noble boy, perhaps sixteen, drifted over and began asking questions that seemed to boil down to, “My tutor said that’s wrong.” Both Geralt and Yetzii immediately dropped the argument to speak to the boy seriously about how to choose, care for, and ride a good horse. A young lady of about thirteen took up a position close to the three of them, straining her ears to hear them while pretending not to.

It wasn’t long before Geralt and Yetzii had accumulated most of the attendants below the age of twenty, and were answering their questions about fighting, hunting, and survival. Yetzii was polite and deferential; Geralt spoke bluntly. So many curious faces, so many wide eyes--it felt like he was talking to his Witcher brothers.

Somehow, that didn’t hurt.

“I wish I could hunt trolls,” sighed a boy with lanky limbs.

Geralt frowned and said, “You’ve got the bones for it. Heavy laundry every other day, laps, and wrestling will get you started.”

The group went silent, gaping at him. Geralt stared back, then looked up to find Jaskier. He really had forgotten these children were nobles. He needed to get out of there.

“Do you think I could hunt trolls?” a young woman asked, her eyes bright with hope.

“You’re tall enough for it,” Geralt replied cautiously. “You’re almost done growing, but I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to.”

The young woman beamed at him, and Geralt felt very uncomfortable.

“Mr. Pankratz, sir,” piped up a pudgy child with a cloud of golden curls for hair, “I don’t think I’ll ever be tall. Could I still fight monsters?”

Geralt nodded. “Yes. Other warriors in training may tell you not to, but they don’t know your limits,” he said. It was so peculiar. He felt like… like he was saying Vesemir’s words in his own voice. He looked at all of the children, and added, “Any of you can be warriors. And warriors don’t always hunt monsters in dark places.” Something Vesemir had told him when he was small popped into his head, and he said it aloud, not quite seeing the children: “Sometimes Witchers kill. Sometimes Witchers talk. It doesn’t matter if you do one or the other more: you’re still a Witcher.”

“What does that mean?” asked the lanky boy.

“It means…” Geralt frowned, trying to put his words into order. “It means, no matter what your fighting looks like--whether you kill monsters or negotiate with kings--you’re still a warrior. We fight with what we have. A sword, a pen, medicine, knowledge; none of these are more important than the others. It’s what you use them for that matters.”

There was a moment of silence in the little group. All eyes were fixed on him, including Yetzii. He tried to think of how to escape, but before he could, Jaskier appeared, beaming and bubbling. Geralt had never felt such relief as he turned to Jaskier, who told those assembled, “Hello, everyone! Very sorry to interrupt, but the queen wishes to meet Geralt. We’ll be staying a few days, you’ll have plenty of time to talk to him.” Jaskier winked at Geralt with an evil smile; Geralt rolled his eyes, but followed his bard willingly.

“Their parents are annoyed,” Jaskier murmured teasingly as they approached the royal dais. “You’re far too interesting for them.”

Geralt snorted. “If they actually taught their little ones useful skills instead of drilling them on how to blow their noses, they wouldn’t be interested,” he muttered, and smiled just a little when Jaskier laughed. He liked Jaskier’s laugh. When did it go from painful to pleasant?

The queen, Jaskier’s cousin, was just as beautiful as him, but not nearly as theatrical. Her eyes were blue, but more washed-out. One of her ladies-in-waiting had lined her eyes with coal, but it was not nearly as neat and delicate as Jaskier’s. Her hair was a sandy blond, well-maintained and shining like gold, but Jaskier’s hair was shinier.

He bowed without giving anything away on his face.

“Queen Chrysanthemum, may I introduce Witcher Geralt,” Jaskier intoned gravely. Geralt shot him an annoyed look. Jaskier never made it easy to greet royalty. “He’s my friend.”

Geralt bowed again and muttered, “An honor to meet you, your Majesty.”

Queen Chrysanthemum smiled prettily. “The honor is mine, Witcher Geralt,” she replied. Then her eyes twinkled and her smile turned crafty. “We were all wondering what kind of man Julian would settle on,” she teased.

Geralt tensed, but it was embarrassment, not anger. He was used to this.

Apparently, Jaskier was not.

He turned red as a tomato, and spluttered a bit before objecting weakly, “I haven’t settled on anyone! When I do, you’ll know, because she will be the most beautiful woman the world has ever seen!” He avoided Geralt’s eyes firmly, even though all the Witcher did was raise an eyebrow and repress a teasing insult. How odd.

The queen snickered. “Yes, yes, I understand, Julian.” She turned to the matronly noblewoman sitting beside her and flicked her fingers subtly; the woman rose, curtseyed, and walked away, joining a circle of other noblewomen. Geralt’s stomach dropped as Queen Chrysanthemum smiled at him again and said, “Sit with me a moment, Witcher.”

Geralt did so, stiffly. For some reason, Jaskier seemed reluctant to leave, but also reluctant to sit. He shifted his weight, fiddled with his cuffs, bit his lip, and then nodded sharply, before turning and marching to one of the refreshment tables. Geralt shook his head. Jaskier was always very odd around his family.

“You don’t seem surprised by him,” the queen remarked, beckoning with her fan for a servant to bring them drinks.

“I’ve known him nearly fifteen years,” Geralt replied. “If he wanted to surprise me, he’d stop singing.”

That startled a laugh out of her, as she accepted a glass of wine from the servant. Geralt followed suit, but did not drink from it. He’d already had too much ale; his tongue was loose and his mind was too relaxed.

“Tell me, how did you meet?” she inquired. “I know Julian, his penchant for dramatics is devastating. Did you really defeat Filivandrel?”

“With words, yes,” Geralt answered, feeling that pinch of irritation again. That fucking song. He hated it. “There was no dramatic battle. Still, humans have no need to fear him anymore.”

Queen Chrysanthemum nodded sagely. “I thought as much. Julian has never once had the courage to face a fight willingly.” She must have seen Geralt’s confusion, because she smiled and explained, “He hated hunting rabbits, for the gods’ sakes. Anything scarier than a bee, he ran away from. We used to laugh about it.”

Geralt remembered the times when Jaskier had thrown himself into a fight to help him, had acted as bait or a distraction even in near-certain death situations, had stared down a griffin and run it through with Geralt’s own sword. Jaskier had never run away. Jaskier wasn’t courageous, but he was braver than any other human--if foolishness counted as bravery. Geralt ran his thumb over the hem of his “fashionable” surcoat; the money used to purchase the fabric, tailoring, and embroidery had come from Jaskier talking down an enraged nagani, negotiating with good will and good humour until she laughed and agreed to his terms. 

Why would anyone think Jaskier had no courage?

“He’s changed,” Geralt murmured, instead of snapping at her for being so condescending.

“Pankratzes never change,” Chrysanthemum replied dismissively. “I’m a Pankratz too, and I haven’t changed one bit since I married. His parents and siblings conform to tradition so easily you’d think they were actors. You can ask a Pankratz any question and know exactly what he’ll answer with.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said.

“At least he gave you the ring,” Chrysanthemum said, nodding at Geralt’s hand. “So many women he could have married, even at his age, but never one could wear that.”

Geralt frowned again. ‘His age’? Jaskier was barely thirty-six. That wasn’t an old age. “It’s a nice ring,” he allowed, because he could not imagine arguing that Jaskier was available for marriage.

Chrysanthemum smirked and answered, “Yes, it is. It’s been in the family since the Conjunction.”

Geralt almost told her that was impossible, a ring that old would be completely destroyed, surely. He looked at it, perfectly fitted to his sausage-sized fingers, and wondered why Jaskier would give him a family ring. “Hmm,” he said again, making a mental note to ask Jaskier about it. Then he decided to change the subject. “Which side of the family are you related to Jaskier on?”

A sly smile preceded her answer. “His mother was my first cousin,” she explained. “She was amazingly beautiful, and men from every social class asked her to marry them. She chose our third cousin twice removed, instead. Probably because she’s always loved the sea more than people.”

Geralt hummed encouragingly. The queen took the hint, and continued. “She was an odd one before she had Julian. Always singing at feasts and dancing at fetes. When I was small, I thought she was the most magical person in the world. Her mere presence could make one smile. Mother told me it was strange--that her own father was one of the Seelie court.”

“Should you be saying this in public?” Geralt cut in, glancing around sharply. There were five people close enough that he knew they could hear the queen, and eight more who probably could if they tried. Jaskier was near the back of the hall, laughing with some servants.

Chrysanthemum scoffed. “Everyone knows the stories. That’s probably why he’s so strange, too. Do you know, he refuses to claim the title of Count unless he’s visiting me?”

“Can’t imagine why,” Geralt muttered, and drank his wine.

Soon, the king announced that his dear wife was tired, and they should all go to their beds. Geralt stood, bowed to the royal couple, and made his way to Jaskier.

“You spoke to her for a while,” Jaskier said as soon as they were in earshot of each other. “What were you talking about?”

Geralt shrugged. “Gossip,” he grunted. When he heard Jaskier’s heart speed up, Geralt shook his head. “I didn’t find it important.”

Jaskier beamed at him. “Oh, well, if that’s the case,” he said, and changed the subject. “Chryssie told me that we can have the Celadon Suite. You’ll love it, Geralt, there is not a single corner that isn’t brightly lit and everything is so soft--”

Geralt listened to Jaskier’s chatter, focused more on his voice than his words, as they walked surely down a hall to the guest suites. A Seelie grandfather… no, not for Jaskier. The Seelie court were kind, mischievous, and tended to stay in Skellige. The ones he’d met had all said they preferred their own monsters over the main Continent’s, thank you very much.

The Celadon Suite was, frankly, much too green for Geralt’s taste; but it looked well against Jaskier’s teal-trimmed dusky blue outfit. There was a small receiving room with a dining table and two seating areas; the bedrooms, large and lush and leaden with silence; one bathing room tiled with white marble, the bathtub large enough for Geralt and his brothers to lounge in; and a small balcony off of the bigger bedroom. Geralt chose the smaller one immediately.

“Oh! Oh, Geralt!”

The Witcher turned, and Jaskier grabbed his arm. He’d taken off the circlet, and unbuttoned his doublet, but Geralt’s nostrils flared as he caught a scent that was not as carefree as Jaskier’s appearance.

“We should eat and drink water before sleeping,” Jaskier said, faking a smile. “Don’t want to throw up at breakfast!”

Geralt nodded, reluctantly, and followed Jaskier to the dining table.

They were both silent for a moment, looking at each other. Geralt relaxed slightly, taking in Jaskier’s familiar face, his reassuringly broad shoulders, the little curls of hair over his ears and his collarbone. This was Jaskier. His bard. His traveling companion. There was no need to be on high alert with him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, “What did she tell you?”

Geralt tapped his finger on the table for a moment, sorting his words. “She told me the ring you gave me is very old, and has always been in your family. She told me you were a coward when you were young. She said Pankratzes never change. And she implied that your grandfather on your mother’s side was of the Seelie Court. I don’t believe those last three for a moment. But I would like to know more about this ring.” Geralt set his hand on the table, palm down, and they both looked at the ring.

It was so small. A simple bronze band, a piece of agate, and six little pearls. Not that interesting. But it felt like... like being brought into Jaskier’s family, if only for a day or so. Having something so steeped in history pressed against his skin at all times felt like he was being asked to join that history.

But he was a Witcher, and human families were not for him.

Jaskier shrugged. “Mother said it would fit the hand of the person it was meant to,” he said, softly. “I don’t really remember the rest of her explanation. I was… lonely. So I decided it must mean that it would fit my very best friend.” He lifted his gaze to Geralt’s, and smiled. A real smile, one full of affection and happiness, so warm and enveloping that Geralt felt uncomfortable. “And it does! So you can’t say you aren’t my friend, because obviously you are!”

Geralt opened his mouth to deny it, then huffed in frustration and shook his head. Jaskier reached out and tucked his fingers between Geralt’s, interlocking their hands like cogs in a machine. The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitched. It always amused him that their hands were the same lengths, but Geralt’s was blockier, meant for work, and Jaskier’s hand was perfectly shaped to play any instrument. It was also interesting how Geralt’s wax-pale skin contrasted with Jaskier’s peachy hue, tanned ever so slightly.

He just liked looking at their hands.

Jaskier hummed a bar from a new song he was writing, and carefully wiggled his hand so that he could slide it under Geralt’s fingers, joining their hands. The Witcher didn’t mind. It felt nice, oddly.

“I… might have drunk too much,” he muttered, but he couldn’t look away from the tiny valley formed by their fingers. 

“Mm, me, too,” Jaskier murmured.

They sat in silence for even longer, watching the light from the lamps cast warm flickers on their clasped hands. It was so calm.

Idly, Geralt picked up Jaskier’s wilting flower circlet and draped it over their hands. Jaskier smiled.

“I’ll be yours, and you’ll be mine,” the bard whispered.

“Hmm. Friends and comrades,” the Witcher murmured back. “Joined in battle.”

“Bound by time.”

“Forever yours--”

“--Forever mine.”

Geralt’s medallion might have stirred, but probably not.

Jaskier pushed their hands upwards, so that their palms touched. “This isn’t for anyone else to know,” he whispered.

Geralt squeezed his hand back. “No,” he breathed. “This is ours.”

[monabela]

hello! it seems to be @aphrarepairweek2021 and I'm not one to ignore that! here's some... domestic denfin stuff for day 1, language. I've gone for a pretty liberal approach to the prompts this year, but that's mostly so that all my fics will fit into the same universe :> (it is also the same universe as two of last year's rarepairweek fics! I'll make a tag for it) (that is also the reason I had to call sve berwald and not torbjörn like I usually do ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) they will all be standalone little fics but take place in the same au, over the same sort of time period!

--

in major scale

pairings/characters: Denmark (Søren)/Finland (Tuomi), Estonia (Eduard), Sweden (Berwald), Hungary (Erzsébet) + past SuFin mentioned word count: 2219 summary: Tuomi admires how much Søren cares about other people. It inspires him to do the same.

--

A series of thumps and clomps heralds Søren’s arrival home. Tuomi looks up with amusement when the door of his little home studio in the back of their house bursts open.

“Tuomi!” Søren shouts. He brings with him the smell of recent rain and early spring blossoms.

Eduard, who is sitting behind Tuomi at his keyboard and wearing headphones, very nearly tumbles off his stool in shock.

“Søren!” Tuomi just returns, while his brother rights himself and glares. “You seem unusually excited.”

Eduard snorts, which makes Søren grin. ‘Unusually excited’ means something different when applied to him than most other people.

“Guess what!” he says, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. His socked feet are both tapping on the ground, with no rhythm to it. Tuomi is sure he couldn’t say what’s got into him; as far as he knows, Søren was just looking after his young nephews for the afternoon.

“Your brother didn’t hide the sugar well enough,” he guesses.

“No, that’s—well, he didn’t, but that’s not my point. Berwald’s gettin’ married!” Now, he waves his arms around wildly. “My brother’s gettin’ married, Tuomi! I’m so proud of him.”

Turning slightly, Tuomi exchanges an amused look with his own brother, who has taken his headphones off and is leaning forward over his keyboard, elbows planted over the keys.

“Now, Søren,” Eduard starts, using his haughtiest voice, which is very haughty. It’s an odd talent.

“Don’t you dare,” he interrupts, though he’s still grinning, “bring up the time he and Tuomi were plannin’ on gettin’ hitched, ‘cause that was ages ago and ain’t relevant anymore.”

“Alright, alright.” Eduard holds up his hands placatingly, and Tuomi just snickers. Søren’s right, he thinks; it’s been over fifteen years since then, and although the whole thing where he took up with the brother of the man who was nearly his husband was awkward at first, for all that it happened several years later, he’s since become good friends with Berwald again. It’s probably better this way.

“That’s great, Søren!” he just says. “And you’re gonna be the best man, I assume?”

“Of course!” His dark blue eyes crinkle at the corners, scrunching up his many freckles in laugh lines and dimples. Tuomi really admires how much Søren cares about other people, even if sometimes it comes at the expense of himself. Tuomi can always remedy that, after all.

“That means you’re gonna have to help with a bunch of organizing, isn’t it?”

“Don’t sound do skeptical of me, Eduard!” Pushing away from the door, Søren lightly strums the strings of an uncovered acoustic guitar sitting in its stand before taking a large step towards Tuomi and bending down to kiss him over the microphone between them, Tuomi angling his own electric guitar out of the way. He smells like sea wind and hair gel, and does taste distinctly sugary behind the smile his lips are still curved into.

Tuomi mutters, “I think you’ll do great. Berwald’s lucky to have you.”

“I hope so. Y’know, the boys are excited as anythin’.” Now, he practically melts, draping his long limbs over Tuomi and his guitar. He always does this when he as much as thinks about his nephews, Berwald’s young sons. Tuomi and Søren are very much the fun uncles. It is a title they both wear with pride.

Patting his jeans-clad ass affectionately, Tuomi pushes his nose into Søren’s wild coppery hair.

“Yeah? They’ve given their blessing, then?”

“Already fightin’ over who gets to be ringbearer.”

“Cute.”

The door of the studio opens.

“Whoa! Am I interrupting?” shouts Tuomi’s half-sister, bursting in.

Eduard, now leaning his head in his hands, says, “Please save me.”

“Berwald’s gettin’ married!” Søren shouts, into Tuomi’s ear. He gets along with Erzsébet far too well.

“Tuomi’s ex?” she yells back, and Eduard promptly loses it. He doubles over his keyboard in hiccupping laughter, shaking and pressing almost all the keys in a horrifyingly discordant tone. Søren looks betrayed in a very comical way. He crosses his arms as he turns to Erzsébet, folding his hands into the sleeves of his red knit sweater. Berwald made that one.

“She not wrong,” Tuomi tells him, holding back laughter of his own. Now even more comically betrayed, Søren turns back to him, with his dark eyebrows raised high and ready to deliver a quasi-outraged speech, but Erzsébet forestalls him.

“You need to make a song for the wedding!”

“Yes!” Tuomi perks up, almost poking Søren in the hip with the neck of his guitar.

“A song?” the man echoes, looking between all three of them. Eduard is now only playing a couple of notes at the same time, thankfully, and he straightens up fully to explain their family tradition.

“We always do it for weddings. It has to be something they’d like, and something the couple can dance to.”

“And then we give it funny lyrics,” Tuomi finishes, “about the person getting married. But we always make sure it’s good.”

“Well, I ain’t surprised about that part, ya snobs.” Søren shakes his head affectionately. He has absolutely no feel for music, but that just means that he appreciates things that most other people wouldn’t give their time of day.

It also means that he somehow considers Tuomi’s very musically inclined family to be elitist about music, which Tuomi thinks is dumb, but he’s not one to argue. He’ll leave that to his brother; it’s very amusing. As a matter of fact, Eduard is already narrowing his eyes at Søren, but doesn’t say anything before he continues.

“I don’t know if Berwald would like that, honestly. It’s not really something we do.”

“Come on, everyone likes music!” Erzsébet enthuses, walking further inside and skirting around Søren and Tuomi in the small space to lean an elbow on Eduard’s shoulder.

“Sure, he likes it, but, I mean—we ain’t like you guys, is all.”

No one is quite like his family, Tuomi thinks, but he appreciates that all the more these days. Søren is the most generous, openminded person he knows, and has broadened his worldview amazingly in the time they’ve been together. Not that his family isn’t openminded; they’re just less inclined to explore than Søren is.

Still, “Music is a universal language, isn’t it?” Tuomi asks him, bumping his shoulder into Søren’s upper arm. He inclines his head in agreement. “It doesn’t even have to have lyrics if you think Berwald wouldn’t like it. Or his fiancé, of course,” he adds, because he doesn’t know the man that well but knows he, like Berwald, doesn’t really appreciate being made fun of, even in good humor.

This is, again, unlike Søren, which is probably why it didn’t work out with his brother and does work with him.

Well, it’s part of it.

Erzsébet, the lyricist of the family, gasps dramatically at the mention of not having lyrics to go with the song, and coughs. She should really quit smoking. Eduard pats her back awkwardly, getting a face full of long brown hair for his efforts.

“And then?” Søren’s asking, but his head is still tilted thoughtfully, as if he’s considering it.

“Well, then it can be for a dance! Consider it a wedding gift from me.”

“His ex,” Erzsébet murmurs, recovered, and Eduard starts giggling again.

“His brother-in-law.” Tuomi blindly throws a guitar pick at her over his shoulder, which, going by the plink and following yelp, hits Eduard’s glasses instead.

Huh. That’s pretty impressive.

“Well, someone will have to teach him how to dance first—”

They all look away.

“—but that sounds awesome, actually! Would you guys be willing to play it?” In his excitement, Søren has leaned very close to Tuomi again, vision filling with his grin and his many, many freckles, and Tuomi can’t help but kiss the corner of his mouth.

“I’d love to.”

His siblings make agreeing noises.

“Right! Well, should I—what’re you guys workin’ on, actually?” Søren gazes around the small space as if hoping to glean clues. Which clues, Tuomi is not sure. He can’t really read music, after all.

“Just tinkering a bit,” Tuomi says. Eduard plays the first few chords of the most recent wedding song they’d written, several years ago already. Erzsébet slaps the cymbal of her drum set in apparent agreement, reaching behind her.

“Hey, I wrote some lyrics, actually,” she says. “I think they’re pretty good.”

It’s been years since they actually made original music that they deemed good enough to send out into the world, but their songs are still getting decent amounts of listeners on Spotify, which is nice; it’s mostly a hobby for all three of them, after all. Lately, though, Eduard and Tuomi have started seriously considering making some new material, and Erzsébet seems to be on board. She promises to send the lyrics to both of them. Although she, like both of her half-brothers and much to Søren’s amazement, plays several instruments, she doesn’t have much talent for composing.

Tuomi tried to teach Søren guitar once. It was fun, but very unsuccessful. He does like the drums.

That’s probably why he gets along with Erzsébet so well.

Deciding that today is probably not going to be very productive, all four of them go into the house instead, and Tuomi makes coffee while Søren hands out some cupcakes that he made yesterday, because Søren very much believes that food is a universal language. He isn’t wrong, if you ask Tuomi, but that’s mostly because Søren is very good at making food, unlike Tuomi.

They’ve all got their talents, he supposes, and it’s how they use them in combination that matters. Even if he’s been banned from using the oven for anything more than frozen pizza.

Eduard, of course, asks for the recipe, because Eduard didn’t get that memo about talents and has too many of them.

Tuomi’s siblings don’t actually stay around for very long after that, both promising to think about the wedding song for Berwald. It is mostly an empty promise on Erzsébet’s part, but that’s okay. Eduard walks away while muttering about waltzes, which Tuomi appreciates, because Berwald seems like a man—is a man, he knows this—who appreciates a bit of tradition, and he’s never tried to compose an instrumental, mostly classical song before.

“You’re adorable, you know,” he tells Søren, who’s standing behind him in the hallway of their house after having seen his siblings off. Søren just grins, rocking back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back and looking much younger than he is.

“I’m just happy for my brother.”

“I know.” Tuomi reaches up to flick some errant hair out of the way. “It’s really cute.”

He gets excited about the smallest things, Søren. Random dogs on the street and odd world records and warm coats and almost everything that’s even a little bit nice. It’d get annoying, Tuomi’s sure, if he weren’t so sincere about it all the time. He got very excited about their civil union as well, which was honestly mostly practical. Tuomi had almost wanted to get married, just to see his reaction to it, but he’d decided years before that marriage wasn’t for him, and remains glad that he stuck by that belief, in the end.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Søren suddenly asks, blue eyes searching Tuomi’s face.

“What? Oh, no, of course not. Berwald’s a good man, and he deserves to be happy.” He shrugs. “I know he’s always wanted the whole… Domestic thing.”

“Guy’s had a plan for a wedding since he was twelve or something,” Søren confirms, grinning. “Only took him thirty years and a couple kids.”

Tuomi knows; he was shown the plan, sixteen years ago, but he decides not to mention that. It’d been quite intimidating at the time; he’d only been 22 and much more interested in… Well, practically anything besides marriage.

Søren slings an arm across his shoulders, squeezing him tightly to his lanky form, and starts walking them both back to the kitchen.

“You’d know, I guess,” he muses, then pulls a face. Tuomi laughs.

“That one was your fault!”

“I know, I know. Don’t remind me.”

Tuomi stops walking, tilting his head up at Søren.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asks. Turning back, Søren blinks at him.

“Obviously not,” he says, but he bites the inside of his cheek and furrows his dark brows, so there’s evidently something more there.

There’s another thing Tuomi had to be taught by Søren; reading body language. It’s not his fault his family is so unexpressive!

“But?” he prompts.

“I just hope I can do well for him.” Søren shrugs. “He’s my big brother, y’know, and I do kinda feel like I ruined his first chance of marriage sometimes. I know that’s dumb,” he adds hastily.

Tuomi mumbles, “Yeah, that was definitely me.” And then, “Like you say, he’s your big brother. He loves you. Speaking as someone with two older siblings, they might razz you a bit—”

“That’s just your siblings, Tuomi,” Søren interrupts, but the grin is back on his face and just as bright as before. “But I get what you’re saying. Thanks.”

Tuomi boots him with his shoulder, and he laughs, clomping ahead. Tuomi follows, quickly.

Before he eats all the other cupcakes.

[noonmutter]

Toppled

It had all been so beautiful. Serene. Familiar, though he’d never seen trees that contained galaxies before, nor towered so far above his head without becoming invisible at the top. They were meant to be seen, to be witnessed, to be known.  It felt like a homecoming, so many smiling people he’d never seen and in some cases could barely comprehend; the creaking, groaning language of the tree-people who had names that felt at once simple and impossibly complex was oddly soothing. And all of them, even the tree-people, felt like old friends, simply people he hadn’t seen in ages, though they all knew he had just arrived.

The bridges were made to be enjoyed, the lamp posts were constructed to be admired, the cradles were built to be comfortable. The wildseeds had drawn him in immediately, and he’d had the chance to touch one and feel the energies slumbering within. He could never explain that sensation, only apply one word to it: potential. It was like placing his hand on potential. The urge to see it fully realized was sudden and overwhelming. This was what had called him, and he’d never been so certain of anything in his life as he was of that.

It had been such a wonder. He knew he would remember it all his days the instant it came into focus.

Now it felt like a prison, the way a canopy seemed to seal in the undergrowth of a rainforest. There was open sky, but he couldn’t use it, his wings wouldn’t come to him, his talons wouldn’t grow. The very ground beneath him hungered for the energies he tried to call, and he felt as though they were being sapped from him, or at least denied him out of spite. Spite was definitely in abundance in Ardenweald, the night fae loved the stuff.

But the fangs came to him, and the brands at his shoulders erupted with Elune’s fury when he tapped into his rage, and that was the important thing. Leon couldn’t fly. But he could fight.

So he fought.

There were so many of them. Armored in skeletons and spines, sickly blue fire erupting from the eye sockets of their helms, twisted voices spewing hatred from their fanged mouths. Some of them were denizens of the weald, once glorious and lovely and now driven to serve a dark and terrible will. Cutting them down had felt like a sin.

Others...They were the things of nightmare--and not in a vague, metaphorical sense. Not hyperbole. They looked exactly like the stag in his nightmares. It was uncanny. He hadn’t been certain if that was by design or not--if perhaps Ardenweald was actually a bad place instead of a good one and he had been cast down--and from the moment he stumbled across a pack of them, he hadn’t known enough peace to ruminate on it.

Running for his life in Shadowmoon Valley years ago was a merry prance through a park in Spring compared to this, a pleasant memory of a romp gone a bit wonky. Fel fire burned less than the exhaustion of constant battle, constant self-preservation, constant failed attempts to hide or heal. And gods, but he wished he could stop trying to gasp for breath, knowing it made no difference whether he did it or not. Suffocation might have been a blessing after everything.

He’d never known pain like this. His entire body hurt. Like poison deep in his flesh, renewing with every throb caused by his pulse. His muscles ached from slice after slice and his throat was scorched with the scalding, raw sting of swallowing his own bile. Their weapons hurt, they were made to hurt; not to kill, but to cause suffering first and death second.

But he’d left a trail of shattered bones and scattered charcoal in his wake, and he had no chance to clear it, no knowledge of the terrain in order to veer away from it. He couldn’t buy himself any time. And mortal as he was, Leon was out of energy. His limbs were shaking from simple fatigue every time he slowed down, but he couldn’t keep running forever.

“Give in.”

There it was again. Damn it. Damn it, always that one calling to him, and oh how he loathed it. It stole the voice of his father and mother and twisted them together and it sounded like it was sneering every time it used them to drive knives into his countless wounds. It had been amused that his reaction was neither fear nor sadness, but cold, animalistic fury.

“You are alive. You are useful. If you die? No longer useful. And an annoyance to me either way.”

Leon half-ran, half-tumbled into a cave he barely saw in his conscious mind. He knew before he’d even come to a stop that it was not safe there, that he’d trapped himself. But his legs were no longer responsive.

He collapsed as the cave mouth darkened and dizziness overtook him.

“I knew you would see it my way,” slithered across his ears, and three more bone-things came pouring into the cave after him. Leon had time to thank whoever was watching for letting him pass out before they closed in.

[romioneficfest]

Soul Searching

Title: Soul Searching

Prompt/Summary: Hermione admits she was wrong.

Rating: K

Name:

Brief Summary: Hermione admits the way she went about House Elf rights when she was younger wasn’t quite how she should have handled things.

Content Warning: None

Notes: This is very AU and contains an in-depth discussion of house-elf rights.

“You know, Ron,” she said quietly, “you were right and I was wrong.”

Blimey, the Hermione Granger he knew never admitted she was wrong! Ron looked at her with trepidation.

“Um, uh, are you a pod person that’s taken over my girlfriend’s body?” They had watched a Muggle movie called The Invasion of the Body-Snatchers a couple days ago.

Hermione rolled her eyes and ignored him.

“I stand by my position that house-elves have a right to freedom,” she explained, “But I was wrong to try and hide those hats in the Gryffindor common room and trick the school house-elves into picking them up. And you were right to call me out on it. It was underhanded and very patronizing of me. I never asked them what they wanted, not even once. I fell short of my high ideals of equality and fairness and justice and…No wonder they were all so offended!”

Ron’s mouth closed with an audible snap.

“Don’t feel too bad, sweetheart,” He said gently. “Everyone fucks up. And I reckon we’ve both got a lot to learn about house-elves. I didn’t even see how rough they had it until you pointed it out!”

The words seemed to calm her down. A small hand slipped into his as they walked along the beach of Shell Cottage. The setting sun blazed and glowed the scarlet and gold of Gryffindor, like a phoenix soaring over the horizon.

“House-elves are oppressed,” Hermione mused. “and any legitimate movement for social change has to center their struggle and prioritize their right to self-determination. But I was wrong…I should have known better than to think I knew better than them. I see now that I have no right to tell them what their liberation should look like, or what their relationship to their traditional occupation should be.”

She sighed, and placed her hands over her temples. “As a witch and member of the very class that oppresses them, I was way out of line. And I honestly don’t know how to fix it.”

“Hermione, we’ve been over this before,” Ron said patiently. “you can’t be right all the time. None of us can. You wouldn’t be human if you could! And sometimes, there are no easy answers. Life isn’t a textbook, you know, it doesn’t come with an answer key at the back. Even the house-elves can’t seem to agree what’s best for them. And to be honest, we wizards and witches are so loud we kind of drown them out.”

They were silent for a while. Ron and Hermione were both haunted by Dobby’s near-death at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. But the elf had largely recovered from his injuries, thanks to the devoted care of Harry and surprisingly, Winky. Winky and Dobby had hated each other for a long time, due to their vastly different stances on house-elf rights. Still, Dobby was a hero of the War and highly respected by his people. Her friendship with Dobby helped Winky sober up and get over being dismissed by Mr. Crouch. Ron still didn’t get what she’d seen in the crusty old geezer, but he was glad to see she’d finally moved on with her life.

Hermione gave a watery smile. “Dobby and Winky’s political stances are not as opposed as they seem. Both of them support better working conditions for their people, and neither of them condone actual abuse at the hands of humans. It’s just that Winky has a lot of pride in her people’s traditional occupation of domestic labor. And we have to admit that labor has value and is important! Essential, even. Most of the wizarding world runs on it.”

“I mean, only rich people can afford house-elves,” Ron said, “my family hasn’t had one in like, centuries. But Hogwarts would be shot without them, that’s for sure. And I’m pretty sure the Malfoys would starve to death without them.”

“Isn’t it odd that much of the wizarding world can be so dependent on another race of beings and yet so contemptuous of them?” Hermione wondered. “The Death Eaters didn’t emerge in a vacuum. The systems of oppression that produced them are still with us in the form of violence against house-elves, Muggle-borns, werewolves, and goblins.”

His girlfriend used a lot of big words, especially when discussing her grand social theories about the world. But Ron always got the gist of what she was saying. He’d been around her long enough.

“Hermione,” Ron said in a low voice. “You got seven Os on all your NEWTS! Seven Os. That’s kind of a big deal. You could be anything you want. But you always said you wanted to do some good in the world. So why don’t you make SPEW a full-time thing and fight for the rights of these people? I think you’d be good at it. You’ve just gotta be sure you involve them and stay in touch with what they want.”

She looked up at him, startled.

“You don’t think it would be stupid?”

“Of course not! I became an Auror for you, remember? And I’d work double-time to support you if that’s what it took.”

He couldn’t really blame his girlfriend for doubting him on this stuff. Sometimes, he still wondered what she saw in a boor like him. Ron felt twinges of shame for the things he’d said about SPEW before the war. Auror training taught him that hatred and bigotry were powerful sources of Dark magic. Voldemort’s soul had been a shitty, rotten, maggot-filled cesspool of both. No wonder the twisted old snake had wanted to tear it apart.

George had offered him a post at the joke shop, but in the end, Ron couldn’t bring himself to replace Fred. He just couldn’t. Losing Fred had felt like losing a limb. Ron let the pain fuel him for his next round with the Death Eaters. He clenched his teeth and fists so hard his knuckles turned white.

“I swear, Hermione,” he growled, “I won’t rest until every single Death Eater and all the fuckers who sucked up to them are brought to justice.”

Hermione glowed, her face shining bright like moonbeams and starlight and all that mushy and dramatic bullshit he didn’t get. “I know you won’t.”

She curled into him. His face was very warm, and he could feel it turning as red as his hair. Ron swallowed hard and held her against his chest, feeling like one of the gallant knights in the stories his mum used to tell him. It was a damn fine feeling, he decided.

“I think I’m going to take your advice. My parents want me to apply for a post in the Ministry, but I think it’s as much my destiny to be an activist as it’s yours to be an Auror.”

The stars sparkled above them like a diamond in a wedding ring.

“I have a confession to make,” Hermione whispered.

“Oh, yeah?”

“When we were at school, I had a crush on you for so long that I was afraid of what would happen when we finally got together. My greatest fear was that we didn’t share the same values, and that it would drive us apart. I don’t have that fear anymore.”

“I was afraid of fucking us up, too,” he admitted quietly.

“You know, there’s a Muggle saying I once read in a book,” Hermione said. “Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.”

Ron thought of the final battle of Hogwarts, when he’d been the one to remember the house-elves and warn them to leave the kitchen for their safety. They all fought valiantly at Harry’s side to protect the school and defeat Voldemort. His girlfriend was a tough witch to impress, but he knew he’d got through to her that night. He thought of how proud he and Hermione were of Harry, who’d fulfilled the prophecy and become the first DADA Professor in many decades to last more than one year in the post.

“Well, sweetheart, that sure does sound like us.”

Hermione beamed brightly up at him and snuggled closer. “Thank you, Ron. Thank you for supporting me in the cause we both believe in.”

The sun slipped over the horizon, and the blue water splashed onto the powdery white sand of the beach. Hermione’s face turned up like a flower in spring, and she raised her lips to his. Ron felt his mind go blank at the taste of her cherry-red mouth. He didn’t want to ruin it by talking, so he lifted her clean off the ground, just as he’d done for their first kiss. Hermione’s bushy brown hair tumbled across his face, smelling all sweet and fresh like new parchment and freshly mowed grass and the perfume he’d bought her long ago. And she giggled into the kiss. Ron had wanted this for half his bloody life, but he knew then he would never get enough.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 10: The Cellar

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Nadya, Adrian, and Kamilah head to the Awakening Ball: the most exclusive event in American vampire society. For the first time Nadya finds herself in the company of others like herself – others who know.

[READ IT ON AO3]

“Adrian. Stop.”

“You remembered your second glasses just in case?”

“Yes.”

“Adrian. I mean it.”

“And this time I know better. No chocolate fountain.”

“Please — Kamilah, make him stop.”

“What? I’m just —”

Having had enough, Kamilah reaches out and cuffs Adrian around the ear without so much as a twitch in her eye. “You’re just acting like a bloody hen. No more. Nadya’s a grown woman fully capable of taking care of herself. She doesn’t need you hovering over her this entire weekend.”

Nadya flushes scarlet but mouths a ‘Thanks’ that Kamilah doesn’t acknowledge. Adrian steps back and clears his throat.

“I’m sorry. I simply…” While he struggles to find the words Nadya can’t help but feel bad for him. He really was only being a friend… right?

“Lily always had to do this kind of stuff, too.” She reminds him with a half-smile. He flinches slightly and looks into her eyes — there’s a pain there she hadn’t noticed before.

“I know.”

Oh. He feels responsible in some way — she understands, now. And god if it doesn’t make her a little weepy. But at the risk of Kamilah bringing up her lunch she just tucks her arm in with Adrian’s and squeezes against the cold like his presence is enough to warm her.

“Thanks. But I got it. Okay?”

He pauses before smiling back. “Okay.”

Whether or not he intended it to be that way his fussing has helped in one respect; it’s taken Nadya’s mind off of the rest of the gathering travelers on the station platform. The humans are easy to pick out: they’re the ones wearing coats and frocks and other things to keep them warm against the way winter lingers on spring nights. The vampires are otherwise unaffected by the cold and chat among themselves while their breaths send fog up into the air.

There are far more people — undead and otherwise — waiting for the train to Upstate New York than Nadya would have believed. She looks around and tries to place some of the faces; wondering if she’s passed any of them on the subway or at a bodega or just on the street. People living normal days and normal lives except they’re actually a part of this dark, hidden world she’s brought herself into.

“Wait a sec — I thought the only vampires in New York were part of your Clans.”

Kamilah nods. “Yes, that is true. However the Awakening Ball has attracted many different guests over the decades. Those who used to live here now spread across the world, not to mention friends of Marcel’s through the centuries.”

“Are any here members of your Clans?”

Kamilah inclines her head towards a small group standing in close quarters. All young and dressed in clothes that could pay a year of Nadya’s old rent; each face more beautiful than the last. “Lacroix will no doubt be making a fashionably late entrance, but the same is not to be said for her Clan.”

“A few of mine are over there.” Adrian gestures to three young men smartly dressed. Upon closer inspection Nadya can’t tell the difference between them.

“Seriously, you’ve Turned triplets?”

“Vietnam was a hard time for many,” is the only answer he gives — opens up a whole world of questions Nadya doesn’t feel comfortable asking.

Finally the station announcer comes on the speaker overhead; announces the train’s arrival and the usual safety measures. Nadya’s dreams of sleek modernity are quickly dashed as an old steam-powered locomotive chugs and chokes its way along the track. It’s a beautiful piece of machinery to be sure but she had been hoping for something along the lines of Amtrak luxury and not… well.

As the train pulls to an ear-splitting stop the groups on the platform begin to divide. Coats and their owners heading towards the dark, oil-black cars with rust along the edges at the back and the pretty vampires to the painted and well-maintained front cars.

She looks up to Adrian to find his face fallen. “Damn. I forgot about the cars.”

“How could you not? You’ve never brought a mortal before.” Kamilah gestures to the humans at the back. “Tradition dictates the human guests be seated separately from us.”

It makes Nadya grimace. “Why?” But the shrug she gets in response doesn’t really answer a thing. “Well, I mean, do I have to?” She hates how whiny, petulant she sounds. But the surprise of it sort of catches her on the bad end.

Adrian picks up their suitcases by the handles. “I’ll join you in coach.”

“Adrian —” Kamilah starts, a protest on her lips, but he’s having none of it.

“We can’t leave her on her own!”

“If we don’t get going we’re gonna be the ones left,” Nadya takes her bag herself and ushers them forward, “it’s whatever, let it go.”

Before Adrian can protest further she urges Kamilah to push him towards the classier cars where the line of vampires boarding dwindles. A shadow passes over the woman’s face, something Nadya wants to ask about when she meets up with them later, then she feels the chill of Kamilah’s hand in hers.

“Good luck.” She whispers, and nudges Nadya onward.

There’s no tickets for the conductor to check; he simply lets her board. The seats may not be luxury but they aren’t assigned so Nadya, the last to step on, awkwardly tucks her suitcase between her legs and shuffles to an aisle seat. The man she sits beside huffs at the intrusion and turns away from her bodily.

Didn’t matter the destination; train passengers would be train passengers.

The whistle’s cry carries on the wind and the train lurches forward. Too bad it forgets Nadya’s stomach back on the platform.

Half an hour in she settles in properly; moves to grab her phone and earbuds to settle in with her playlist, when she notices a weight around her wrist that hadn’t been there before. Nadya holds her arm up to the dim overhead light to see a sterling silver bracelet hanging loosely on her wrist. Links polished; it’s a thing of beauty down to the compass-like charm swaying with the motion of the locomotive.

Then there’s a tap on her shoulder that startles Nadya to the present — to the same conductor from before who looks between her and her bracelet with grim confusion.

“I’ll have to ask you to come with me, madam.”

His voice rings clear over the soft conversation of the rest of the car. Heads turn their way and some even stand in their seats to watch them. Nadya wants to sink into the ugly upholstery and die.

“Uh… w-why?”

“Please, if you will? And bring your things.”

She’s never worked harder to avoid eye contact in her life — wishes she knew someone, anyone who would speak up for her. “I — I don’t understand. I belong here, I promise.”

The conductor just isn’t having it. “I think you’ll find that isn’t the case. Now. Madam.” He’s not asking anymore. With embarrassment and shame burning in her cheeks Nadya stands and grabs her bag. Her seatmate doesn’t hide his grin of victory and quickly sticks up his boots on the emptied seat.

Nadya follows the conductor as he hastily leads her forward from car to car. Trips over her bag a few times and tries not to catch herself on any protruding limbs as they keep going and going and going. “Uhm, please — if you’ll just let me explain — or tell me where we’re going!” But the conductor might as well be a mime for all he says.

They stop in a bay between cars; different than the last few by a long shot. Though a glass pane she sees velvet booth-style seats and lush carpeting instead of plain walkways. A woman in a server’s uniform expertly balances a tray and three bottles of champagne against the train’s motion.

Before Nadya can ask the conductor slides open the door with a gold latch and gestures for her to enter.

“Oh — but that’s vampires only.” She pushes up her glasses.

“I’m aware, madam,” he gestures again, practically pushes her inside, “vampires and guests of importance. Claimed humans included.”

The door shuts behind her. The car residents either don’t notice or don’t care about her arrival, and she flounders in panic before catching sight of a familiar pantsuit standing at a bar.

“K-Kamilah!” She rushes forward, ducks wildly to avoid being decapitated by a tray full of what look like wine glasses of blood, where Kamilah awaits her with a satisfied smile. “I—I was sitting and then… then I don’t know! The man, he —”

A slender finger presses against her lips; silences Nadya’s breathless attempts at explaining herself. The chill of their entwined fingers sends shivers down her spine and Kamilah holds up her wrist and the bracelet with a coy smile.

“He was doing his job, Nadya. Now stop fretting.” She nods mutely. In return Kamilah brushes her hair out of her eyes.

“You, erm, that bracelet…”

The vampire lets it go, lets her keep the charm. “Adrian, bless his soul, has never been one to plan ahead. I imagine it’s why he needed an assistant in the first place. Come, grab the bottle.” Kamilah requests one more empty glass from the bartender and takes the three in her hand. Nadya grabs the bottle and hurries to follow. “Claimed mortals — that is to say ones with a Clan brand or some affiliate sigil — are allowed to sit where they please.”

“So that’s your Clan symbol?”

“Yes.”

“And you carry that bracelet around everywhere?”

She stops abruptly in front of the entrance to the next car up. Keeps her back turned to Nadya and she has to strain to hear her response over the conversations around them.

“No. I don’t.”

When Adrian looks up to see them both his face lights up. He helps Nadya put her case in an overhead bin and all together they toast to the trip with the wine Kamilah pours. Nadya braces herself but the sweet taste catches her by surprise. Judging by the twinkle in the brown eyes across from her… it’s not a coincidence.

How is this my life? Seriously and truly, with the utmost sincerity, how. is. this. my. life? Probably not the smartest or more eloquent reaction to the sight of the large castle estate but Nadya’s not taking it back for anything in the entire world.

“What do you think?” Adrian leans in and matches her smile tooth for tooth.

“I can’t believe he freakin’ brought it here from France.”

“There was a lot about the Old World they wanted to bring with them. Everyone kept telling Marcel he couldn’t, so naturally…”

“He did?”

Together they laugh through the front gardens and into the castle itself. Stewards and maids all dressed in the same era-appropriate fashion take bags, direct queries, and bring all the guests into a queue where they receive their apartment numbers and key cards to go with them.

Nadya turns hers over with interest. “Is it weird I was expecting old antique keys or something?” But Adrian is equally puzzled.

“Seeing as I was, too, not at all.”

Kamilah rejoins them soon after — having taken off to catch up with some monk or priest or other at the station — and Nadya’s momentarily left speechless by the flushed smile she’s pretty sure she’s only ever dreamed of.

Adrian hands her key card off. “He wasn’t at the last Ball, was he?”

“No,” Kamilah laughs — Nadya’s pretty sure she’s landed in heaven, “I haven’t seen Kusumi in centuries. It was happenstance that he was on the West Coast at this time of year. We have quite a bit to catch up on but there’s always tonight for that.”

The vampires walk around like they have this place memorized down to the cellar. Nadya follows hastily; tries to both take in everything around her and not get left behind. “Wait — the Ball’s tonight?”

“No — but La Soirée is.”

She doesn’t know if either vampire had to pull any strings to get her roomed with them or if it was one of those things that came with the perks of Kamilah’s bracelet; and while her good old-fashioned lower-middle class upbringing guilts her into wishing she could foot some of the cost she knows that’s just not possible.

There’s two bedrooms joined by a small communal living space in their guest apartment. Before anyone even says a word Kamilah grabs both her and Adrian’s cases and places them in one room; leaving Nadya to take the other. She’s not exactly bothered by it but the idea of sharing a bedroom with Kamilah — however temporary — does make her heart race.

While Kamilah busies herself with the careful removal of her dress from its box Adrian hunts down a glass decanter and two tumblers. Based on the dark red and viscous contents Nadya does not want to try some. Instead makes herself comfortable with her shoes kicked off and legs folded crossed on Adrian’s bed.

“So… what’s La Soirée?”

“It’s the party before the party.” Adrian hands Kamilah her glass and they both take grateful drinks. “It’s not an official thing; Marcel doesn’t host it. But a couple decades back someone decided to gather up everyone who was already at the estate and mingle.”

The word makes Kamilah snort. She wipes a drop of blood from the corner of her lips. “Such a tame description.”

“I’m just trying to explain it.”

“Not well.”

Nadya clears her throat and makes them both remember her presence. “Don’t give me the PG version. Out with it.”

With her hands on her hips Kamilah rounds to face her. “La Soirée is, for all intents and purposes, an orgy for the vampire guests. For many of us it’s a time to rekindle old friendships and business partnerships with those we haven’t seen in many years. That, and the excitement of the newly Turned tends to go to their heads and they need a place to release tensions in order to keep calm at the following Ball.”

“But,” cuts in Adrian, “there’s also a party for the mortal guests. Marcel’s cellar was decorated for it specifically.”

Only Nadya’s not really listening to him. She’s still trying to process vampire orgy because it’s not something one hears every day. And there’s a lot to unpack in a statement like that — especially when you know the vampires who would be at said vampire orgy quite well.

The mental image that flashes through her mind makes Nadya shiver bodily.

“What was that about?”

Nadya looks to Adrian with utter terror in her eyes. “You’re going to this thing… isn’t the Baron gonna be there? Or—eugh—Lester?”

She’s pretty sure she watches Adrian’s entire immortal life flash before his eyes.

“No,” Kamilah answers for him, “or rather I should say their presence is likely but their participation is less so. Signing up for such an affair doesn’t automatically mean you have to participate… or be participated with.”

So that explains why she’s pulling lingerie out of her bag. Nadya didn’t really take her as someone who would get into that kind of thing but maybe she’s only refusing to process the thought of her crush in an orgy. A vampire orgy.

God, if Lily were here she’d be losing it.

Finally, once the initial shock wears off, Nadya reaches across the bed and pats Adrian on the shoulder. “Well I think this’ll be good for you, at least.”

“Try telling him that…” mutters Kamilah under her breath. Adrian, meanwhile, blanches.

“And that’s supposed to mean what exactly?”

“You’re going, right? Kamilah, tell him he’s going.”

“I’m inclined to agree with Nadya on this one. It would be good for you to… loosen up.”

Adrian stands. Makes like he’s just going for another drink but he’s starting to do his business-pacing and Nadya can practically see the different emotions he’s trying to respond with. “Firstly — none of your business. None. Neither of you! Secondly — no, I don’t even know what to say secondly.”

He leaves the room before either of them can say anything else. Surely he doesn’t mean to slam the door but combined with his vampire speed that’s definitely how it comes across. Kamilah just chuckles to herself. Nadya, however; well she does feel a little bad.

She finds him sitting in one of the ornate high-backed living room chairs. Sipping another tumbler-full, his fingers drumming against his leg. Maybe even the hint of a blush. He looks up when the door opens but doesn’t stop Nadya from taking the seat across.

“I don’t want to discuss it. I wasn’t planning on attending La Soirée.”

She shrugs. “Okay.”

“Frankly I’m surprised you’re so—so accepting of this.”

“What,” she pretends to be offended, “because I’m a mere mortal?”

The look Adrian gives her is at the very least amused. “More like because you’re surprisingly okay with Kamilah going.”

Nadya freezes in place. Her quip; gone. Any laughter; poof. She’s pretty sure she had a good line about Adrian being ‘wound tight’ but that’s nothing more than a fleeting dream because — “Why would I have a problem with that?”

There’s a lot to say in the way he stares at her. No words; Adrian doesn’t need words. Unfortunately one of the downsides of getting to know someone almost intimately well is that they tend to get similarly close with you.

But he’s not wrong. That’s the worst part. He’s not wrong at all. And when she really thinks about Kamilah being involved in all that there’s nothing but unease in her stomach. It only took five seconds of being in Kamilah’s presence to know she was practically a goddess walking the earth. Living with her? Seeing her fresh from sleep or just after a swim in the moonlight? She’s more than her beauty and Nadya’s seen it.

Seen it. Never said anything about it.

When she comes back to herself Adrian’s carding his hand through her hair. The one secret thing she missed about Lily that she only half regrets telling him. He means well but it just makes her miss her best friend more.

“For what it’s worth I’ve known Kamilah for a long time — so I know how hard it is for her to open up to people. And… why she’s the way she is.” Whatever that is he doesn’t say. Nadya knows better than to ask by now. Maybe one day she’ll know them both well enough to not have to ask. To simply be a confidante regardless. “And she’s taken a liking to you in her own special way.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Don’t give up hope, that’s what he won’t say. Don’t stop trying. It’s nice having the blessing of someone who knows Kamilah as well as Adrian but doesn’t help her much in the long run.

As she’d packed without a nighttime party in mind — the more they tell her, too, the more she’s pretty sure it’s more a rave than a casual chit-chat over drinks — it takes Nadya longer to scramble up something to wear. But as with all things Lily’s voice echoes right in the back of her mind that a little bit of eyeliner makes a world of difference.

“Nadya? Are you almost ready?” Adrian’s knuckles tap on her closed door and the knob turns.

“Yup! Coming!” He enters just as she blinks in her last contact. For a moment he’s silent; it makes the internal panic grow inside her until she’s got both hands on her cheeks. I’m wearing a bra, right? Right.

“W-What? Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Then he smiles. “I think the last time I saw you without your glasses was your first day. Someone you’re trying to impress?”

She rolls her eyes and pushes past him. Doesn’t know what Kamilah must have said to convince Adrian to join her at La Soirée but he’s obviously going; all of his suits are made to fit but she’s never seen the sleek black number he’s constantly adjusting at the moment. Without a tie the collar of his silk shirt is open two buttons down and damn, son would be Lily’s phrase and she would be very very right.

Nadya looks around for Kamilah but the vampire is nowhere to be found. She untucks her hair from behind her ears with a huff.

“She went down without us. She said you were taking too long.” Adrian teases. She gives a quick pat to check for her room key as they leave the apartment towards the stairs. “Since you don’t know your way around I was going to show you the way to the cellars before meeting up with her.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

The feeling of being escorted to a party by a chaperon aside, Nadya tries not to psych herself out as they descend further into the castle’s depths. Adrian nods his head at fellow vampires — all dressed in some form of seductive, sultry clothes — and points out the humans they’re following. She doesn’t feel so out of place at some but the way everyone chats and talks together makes her feel very out of the loop.

He stops in front of a closed door, the final stairwell on the other side. The distant thud of bass music can be heard beyond. “This is your stop.”

She swallows. “Are you sure I should go to this thing? I’m totally fine with Netflix and room service upstairs.”

But Adrian’s having none of it and gently pushes her forward with a hand on her lower back. “Go make friends. It’ll make tomorrow easier on you, I promise. Or, when in doubt, just get smashed and use the hangover as an excuse to not remember anyone’s name.”

“Adrian Rai —”

When she turns, however, he’s gone. Vanished in a blur of motion.

A couple descends down the stairs together in sync and out of sheer habit Nadya steps aside to let them enter first.

“You comin’, gorgeous?” asks one in a thick Scottish brogue. His arm is wrapped around his partner’s hip and their cheekbones shimmer with rainbow highlight. Beyond that they look like they could be going out for a night at the opera.

Nadya swallows and nods; follows as they hold out the door for her.

The Scot’s partner flashes her a wink and a grin. “First Awakening Ball, pet?”

“How could you tell?”

“I’ve a knack for it. Trust me — this is the most fun you’ll have all weekend.”

“Aye,” the Scot nods enthusiastically — the music starts to grow louder around them, “the Ball itself is fun and all but Marcel’s a stickler for tradition. Can’t grind up against a fellow in a hoop skirt.”

“Trust me; he speaks from experience.”

They introduce themselves as Brandon and his Scottish partner Greer just before they enter the Cellar; tell her to stick with them since they were fresh meat at “the Y2K party that henceforth shall not be spoken of” and they know what it’s like to not fit in with the rest.

The music floods Nadya’s senses but she can’t pinpoint an exact source or DJ amid the flashing lights and various noises of revelry. It’s definitely a rave; they had that on-point. But the temporary nature of it all shows in the bottles on the walls gathering dust and the old-world feel of the concrete floor. It looks less like something planned and more like someone just happened to have a killer playlist and party supplies and wanted to try something out.

Brandon pulls one of the bottles from the wall and suddenly Greer has three wine glasses in hand. They coax her to drink cheerfully — “this thing isn’t nearly half as fun sober” says Greer — but meet her glass for glass. And they’re not wrong. The party gets significantly more enjoyable once the wine sets in and she feels more fluid.

They dance a little — mostly the boys up on one another exchanging sloppy kisses that make Nadya wonder what stage the vampire orgy is at right then — and when the most human of human songs comes on Nadya can’t help but get into the groove.

“Two hops this time! Right foot let’s stomp YEAH! Left foot let’s stomp YEAH! Cha-cha real smooth.”

Red-faced with delight, Nadya is pulled down beside Brandon with a laugh while Greer magically appears at his partner’s side with a silver tray full of canapes. He feeds Brandon from hand to mouth; Nadya watching shamelessly as he sucks the seasoning from the man’s fingers with erotic delight. When he offers her one as well she throws caution to the wind and takes it between her teeth — strictly platonically.

“So how’d a little sugarplum like you end up on the invite list? Who holds your pretty pink leash?” Brandon asks; makes Nadya choke on her next sip of sweet wine.

“P-Pardon?”

Greer rolls his eyes. “Who’re you here with; is what he’s asking. Fucking slut.” It’s an insult he says with the same affection as one might compliment a spouse.

“Oh, right. I’m here with my boss.”

“Your kinky boss?”

“No, just my boss.” But that does make her wonder; make her look around at the other party-goers enjoying themselves. “Is that, uh, the sex thing; is that the whole theme of this? Everyone here is a… sex pet?”

She’s not judging them in the slightest but it does make things a little more complicated. Not that she’s sure Adrian wouldn’t keep her at his side even if it was a thing they had to pretend. But it wasn’t exactly what she signed up for.

Brandon pats her leg, practically falls over on the couch to do so. “No no, sweetheart. Ignore him — he took a few pills before we came downstairs. Some are for sure but there are a thousand and one reasons and lifestyles people have that give them cause to be here. If you say you’re just here as a work thing then hey — enjoy the amenities.”

“What about, uhm…” She gestures between them with her glass.

“We’re here with Bran’s sister.”

“She’s my twin, though it’s a bit harder to tell these days since she was Turned when we were nineteen.”

Does she look surprised? She’s trying her best not to look surprised. “Huh. That’s, well, erm…”

“Weird, yeah, but I’m not really into the immortality thing so she brings us along to fun stuff like this and I’m covered for forgetting anniversaries.” They laugh and exchange a sweeter kiss than the others. Greer mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like “no you’re not” but she pretends not to hear.

The night seems endless. They drink, they laugh, they get up and dance and find more drinks in hand once they recover. She tries her best not to think of a world outside of the cellar walls; not of what Kamilah and Adrian might be getting up to, not of how Lily might be doing, and not of the dark things that haunt the streets.

Her new friends make it easier — every time they see Nadya’s eyes go distant they pull her towards some new thing or person that she simply must learn about.

It feels late in her bones but when she manages to ask the time over her clumsy tongue to someone with a watch the fact takes her by surprise: 15:37 isn’t an acceptable time to be this drunk at all.

The woman seems bemused at Nadya’s panic and pats her shoulder, offers her a glass of water that soothes the needles of wine left in her throat. “We’re running on the midnight hours here, remember?”

But the spell has been broken and it’s all Nadya’s fault. Or that’s how she thinks — how she struggles any thoughts at all. The cellar’s next hour is spent emptying in packs of threes and fours; of people kissing cheeks (and lips if they miss) with promises to see one another that night.

A Frenchly-dressed maid at the bottom of the stairwell hands out aspirins and bottles of water like after-party favors.

Greer’s not made any effort to return to sobriety but Brandon doesn’t mind. Gets aspirin onto his partner’s tongue through kisses and wipes the sweat from his brow with a shimmery hand.

“You take these—” he makes sure to close Nadya’s fist around five little miracle pills, “—and make sure you get your pert little arse upstairs and straight to bed. I won’t abide not seeing your lovely smile at the Ball. Am I clear?”

Nadya pockets the tablets and takes a long drink from her water. “Crystal.”

“Sure you don’t want us to take you back up to your room?”

“Na-dy-a’s ro—om!” Greer giggles like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard.

“I appreciate it but I’m good. He doesn’t look like he’ll make it much farther anyway.” She kisses their cheeks and steals another bottle for the trip without shame.

What must have once been a beautiful and sun-lit hall now hangs shaded and in gloom. The heavy drapes are secured with golden clasps; steadfast soldiers in the vampire’s war against the daylight. She debates peeking through one but doubts the headache brewing in her temples would appreciate it very much.

Nadya’s not lost. Can’t be lost if you don’t know where you’re going. But when will she get the chance to explore a place like this again? She won’t go anywhere closed off — and there’s nothing wrong with taking the long way back.

Most of the ornamental double doors are closed. Some are roped off with velvet the same color as the drapes. But it’s enough to look at the splendor. Every third hallway she comes across Nadya remembers to take an aspirin.

Upon closer inspection she notices some rooms have plaques beside them. Gold plating on wood dark and shiny with lacquer. She doesn’t recognize any of the names; the Dupont Conservatory, the Augustine Chapel.

Up a flight of stairs there’s only one door without a velvet barricade. Briefly Nadya catches her reflection in the golden tint of the Banner Westbrook Memorial Library plaque and hastily rubs away a smear of something purple and shimmery from the corner of her lips.

“Take that as a sign,” she tells her reflection, and when she nods it agrees that it’s time for her to get on to bed.

A turn of her heel and three steps back towards the stairwell later she hears a voice.

“My queen…”

Since her life became a horror movie Nadya promised herself one thing: should anything remotely horror movie-like occur she would refuse to play into it and bolt for safety. That’s what the damsels in those kinds of movies never do. And that’s how they end up dead, gotten, or whatever terrible fate awaited them.

So she knows she should run.

She knows there’s safety just beyond; up the stairs and behind the apartment door. She’s certainly freaked out enough to keep it all in mind.

“It isn’t like you to meddle in the affairs of mortals.”

“Think not of it as meddling; but rather securing an investment for the long-term.”

Again the voice comes from nowhere and this time it’s got a friend. A friend that sounds an awful lot like Kamilah — which means she really needs to book it. But something stops the logic and reason from willing her body to move; to act. Keeps her there like a statue.

When the voice speaks this time Nadya swears it’s coming from two places at once. Both behind the closed library door and deep inside her mind.

“I have been forced to act on the notions of unfit monarchs before. What makes a King; power, subjects? I’ll tell you…”

With a shaky breath and a hot tear rolling down her cheek Nadya turns to look at the doors. Hears the voice as if the speaker stands right there, invisible but real. She wants to scream, to run, to lunge forward and rip the doors open. She just doesn’t know why.

“Only one thing makes a King: his conviction. The rest will follow. As you, my Queen, my Soldier, my subjects — will follow.”

Then a bang. A gunshot without the bullet, the smell of burning powder in the air. Nadya’s feet carry her away from the doors, away from the ringing in her ears, away from the voice that echoes a hollow laughter through the shadowy halls.

[falseroar]

Silver and Peppermint (Part 3)

((Part 3 of a fantasy AU, where Monster Hunter Abe and his reluctant partner, the DA, are trying to track down a murderous werewolf. Tonight, though, Abe is alone on a stakeout, keeping an eye one of the suspects and potential victim.

Links to Part 1, Part 2, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, and the Epilogue.))

Keep his partner alive, and keep the wolf from taking a bite out of anyone else.

Such lofty goals kept him awake as he sat hidden inside a hotel across the street from Franklin’s house that night, careful to stay out of sight even as he peered down at the street below and watched everyone who came and went. He had planned on scoping out Garroway’s place like he told the DA he would, but he couldn’t complain too much.

It was a swank hotel, from the wide-open lobby with marble and glass everywhere to the room itself, with its massive king-sized bed, more space than he knew what to do with, and not even a hint of bedbugs, putting it miles above the normal flea-ridden motel room he called home. Of course, it helped that it was on the city’s dime, once he explained to the Mayor its prime location for keeping an eye on a potential victim and/or werewolf. This was the sort of place that demanded reservations months in advance probably, but one call from Damien put Abe in just the right room to have a view of the whole street along with Franklin’s place before he could correct him on who was supposed to be staking out which house.

He could only hope room service was included in that deal, as he reached out and, without taking his eyes off the street, forked another piece of lobster.

Only for it to hit the plate with a clatter when he saw something move in the alleyway, something canine.

Having scoped out the exits in advance, it took Abe seconds to dash down the service stairs and out a staff door, just in time to see the tail go around the corner at the far end of the alley. After a second of consideration, he went the other way, across the front of the house and to the alley on the other side, expecting at any second to see it coming around from the other direction.

Except he turned the corner first with no sign of the creature, heart hammering as he feared he had lost his only chance—

Only to stop short when the beam of his flashlight caught the wolf standing in the back alley that ran between the rows of high walls on either side, blocking the house’s view of the alley and the trash cans that waited here to be emptied in the morning.

The light washed out the wolf’s fur and caught its eyes as the pupils shrank to mere dots, and for a moment they stood there, frozen and staring at each other.

It wasn’t as big as Abe expected.

Even a regular wolf is huge, more than large enough to make mistaking it for any stray dog off the street laughable, but this one seemed to shrink in on itself, cowering away from the light even as one paw wasn’t touching the ground, held in such a way to suggest it was injured.

One large, spade-like paw that, in this light, could have just as easily made the prints he saw around that stiff this morning.

It’s smart, he realized. And a limp is easy enough to fake. It’s just trying to get your guard down long enough to rip out your throat.

A whine escaped from the canine’s throat as he raised his gun and the District Attorney’s words came back to him:

“Don’t you think we need to put some effort into finding the culprit instead of shooting anything in the right shape?”

And he hesitated.

A scream pierced the air and both he and the wolf looked before springing into action. The wolf took off running away from him, and despite the visible limp in one of its limbs it was still going more than fast enough that his shot missed in the dark, the silver bullet hitting one of the trashcans and the wall behind it instead.

He swore and took off running himself, in the direction of the scream.

In retrospect, he was lucky he didn’t get shot, running up on the small band of policemen gathered around a pair of near hysterical people, one of whom he recognized as the same young woman who tipped him and the DA off about the fourth victim’s identity. All three of the cops had their weapons drawn, but he could see the light reflecting off their guns shaking as they turned at the sound of his footsteps.

“Easy, easy,” he called ahead as he stepped into the light cast from the streetlight overhead, a broad circle in which the small group cowered directly in the center of. “Wait, aren’t you guys supposed to be keeping an eye on the theater gal’s house?”

They were, but they had ended up here, nearly an entire block away, when they spotted the young woman (Lenore, she volunteered eventually when it became apparent Abe never bothered to learn the name the first time around) and the young man she was with running hell for leather, absolutely hysterical. They followed suit, realizing that: one, this was clearly an emergency situation; and two, no one among them was stupid enough to actually split the group up no matter how they tried to work it out.

One officer freely admitted that, when they caught up with them only to hear they were being chased by a monster, they were ready to write both Lenore and the man off as just having spooked themselves walking home in the dark with all of the stories and rumors going around in their heads. Until they heard the growl, and saw the wolf for themselves.

“Never seen anything like it,” one of the other cops said with a shudder. “Those eyes, they didn’t belong on an animal like that, and you wouldn’t be looking far down to meet them if it were standing in front of you.”

“What happened, where did it go?” Abe asked, already turning his flashlight out toward the street as if it might still be there.

“It just…looked at us, for so long,” the young man with Lenore said. “Pacing all around, always staying out of the light but close enough we could see those eyes.”

“We all had our guns up,” the third cop added. “But it kept moving, and I thought, we only have so many silver bullets between the three of us, if I miss—”

“And that’s when the wolf growled,” another cop picked up when that one trailed off. “Like it knew what we were thinking and then all of a sudden it disappeared. There’s nothing but silence, and then the sound of it running straight at us, but we couldn’t tell where from.”

“I screamed,” the young man admitted. “God, I thought I was about to die, but then we heard a gunshot off in the distance and the wolf just…stopped. We couldn’t see or hear it anymore, but…”

But as Abe’s light went around the area, it was clear there were no wolves to be seen. It did catch the massive paw print left in the dirt near the edge of the sidewalk, and more than one person present shuddered at how close it had gotten.

“What were you two even doing out there?” Abe demanded, once he had accompanied the civilians to the police station and told the police to check in on Franklin and Garroway to make sure both were still kicking. “There’s a curfew! And you, you know what that thing did to your boyfriend!”

“Marcus wasn’t my boyfriend,” Lenore said, her voice tinged more with regret at the denial than anything else. “And we wouldn’t have left the apartment if we thought we were safe there, but that thing was at the back door and nearly had it caved in before we got out.”

It took some questioning, but Abe gradually gathered that the young man in question was Stephen, Marcus’s roommate and the one to last see him. After talking to the police earlier today, he and Lenore had decided to go through Marcus’s belongings to see if there was anything that might point to the identity of his murderer, Lenore confessing that she doubted she would be able to sleep tonight anyways and Stephen not wanting to do it alone. About two hours and several glasses of wine in, they heard something snuffling around outside, and it’s when Stephen looked out the window and saw the massive wolf outside that it started to force its way in. At that point they decided to take their chances on the street, hoping a neighbor might let them in and give them safety in more numbers.

“Did you find anything?” Abe asked, deciding not to point out that numbers would have meant little at that point. It took a lot to kill a werewolf, and he had seen one tear its way through an entire village in one night, leaving victims in the double digits behind.

“He’d taken some work stuff home with him, which we weren’t supposed to do,” Lenore admitted. “But he wouldn’t have been the only one to do that. There’s just so much to go through before the company can even start to break ground, between keeping up with building codes, applying for permits, accounting, just all the piles of paperwork and bureaucracy, and with all the new contracts from the city we’ve all been struggling to keep up.”

“Other than that, it was fairly normal stuff for Marcus,” Stephen said. “About the only thing he tried to hide was his journal, and there was nothing in there about—About anyone who might have had a grudge against the guy.”

He stopped and fell silent, sharing an embarrassed look with Lenore that suggested they had found plenty of other things in the journal, but Abe asked, “This work stuff, can me and my Part—er, the DA take a look at in the morning? Until then, you two stay here, got it?”

Neither were about to argue with him on either point, and Lenore said they would go back to the apartment as soon as it was safe to do so, Stephen adding in a glum voice that he would have to see how much damage was done anyways.

That was about the only lead to come out of the night. The rest of it was a complete wash, from the realization that between his own actions and the police, both Garroway and Franklin had been left completely unwatched for long enough that either one of them could have been killed or stepped out for a little wolf-walking of their own. Both were at home and answered the door when the cops came back, which meant both were now also aware their homes were being watched if they didn’t know already. There wasn’t even a murder to narrow down the list of suspects.

He supposed he should have been grateful for that last one, but Abe was still in a foul mood by the time he walked up to the mayor’s office that morning, steaming cup of coffee in hand and no patience at all for the swarm of press outside, no doubt mugging the Mayor with questions on his way in for the day. Abe stood at a distance, watching the frenzy with half-focused eyes as he thought back to the events of the last night and dreading when he would have to explain them to the Mayor and, possibly worse, his own partner.

He raised the cup to his mouth, but before that rich, steamy brew could even touch his lips someone jostled him, hard enough to send the cup splattering across the ground.

“Watch where you’re going!” he roared before realizing that it was the District Attorney standing next to him, shaking one hand before pulling out yet another handkerchief to get the burning hot coffee off.

“Apologies,” they said without a hint of remorse. “Can I make it up to you? It looks like Damien may be here a while, and he’s…generally not in a good mood immediately after talking to the press.”

“Shouldn’t you be up there with him, answering questions about the investigation?” he asked.

“All three of us will be in the center of that mob if they notice us,” they answered. “All the more reason to not let that happen. Let me pick you up a new coffee, and then I’ll show you the side entrance Damien should have used if he wasn’t nice enough to put up with all of that noise.”

Abe considered giving them a hard time about the coffee, maybe making enough noise that they would be spotted by the press to get back at the DA (and maybe to give his own name a bit of a boost; after all, he would be looking for more work once this case was through), but he saw that under the shade cast by the brim of the fedora they’d donned today, a fashion choice he was entirely behind, the District Attorney’s eyes were shot with red and shadowed by bags that suggested they had about as much sleep last night as he did.

“I guess I could let you do that,” Abe said before stooping down to pick up the wasted coffee cup and toss it in a nearby bin. The color of the coffee did look a little off on the ground, even though he had once again asked for black coffee. Maybe they would have a better brew this time around.

“This the same place?” they asked outside of the coffee shop.

“Yeah, I don’t know a lot of coffee joints around here yet,” Abe said and they nodded once before pushing open the door and walking straight up to the counter where a barista was wiping up a spill.

“Well, look who it is,” the barista said when he spotted them. “Here for your regular again already?”

“…Sure. And, let me guess, a black coffee, strongest brew you’ve got,” they said, glancing at Abe for confirmation before giving the barista a bill.

While they watched the barista make the coffees, Abe looked around and noted that it was still early enough that most of the morning commuters had apparently not set out yet in search of the drink to get them through the day.

“It must get busy around here in the morning,” he commented, if only to break the awkward silence as they waited. “I’m surprised you’ve only got two people working this early.”

“Two? I wish,” the barista said as he added what appeared to be at least three shots of peppermint flavoring to the attorney’s drink. “I’m the only one here until 11 because someone had to call out again.”

Abe frowned. “What? But you’re not the guy who took my order a couple of minutes ago.”

“Uh, no, I think I’d remember seeing you again,” the barista answered, leaving Abe to wonder what that was supposed to mean. “A couple of minutes ago I was in the back because one of the boxes fell and spilled stirrers all over the floor, but I didn’t hear the bell ring for anyone coming in. Either way, there shouldn’t have been anyone else behind the counters.”

“I’ll be right back,” the District Attorney said, pausing at the door to look up at the bell in question with a frown before heading out.

“Look, if this is some kind of joke,” Abe started, but the barista just shook his head.

“Seriously, man, are you sure you have the right place? Because as far as I know this place isn’t haunted with any ghost baristas,” he answered, and then paused to look around before adding in a louder voice, “Because if there were, I’m sure they would have been pulling their weight before now. Right?”

He waited and then shrugged when no answer came before placing the two cups on the counter.

Abe wrinkled his nose at the scent of peppermint coming up from the other cup, and as if in response to his thought the District Attorney walked back in, straightening their collar and slightly out of breath as if they had been running.

“None of the other store owners nearby saw this other barista,” they said by way of explanation. “And there’s no sign of any random coffee servers hanging around.”

“Thanks for checking,” Abe said and handed them their coffee. They took a deep inhale, but he swore their eyes were on his cup before they relaxed. His mind went back to the spilled off-color coffee on the sidewalk and pried off the lid of his drink, but there didn’t appear to be anything unusual about the black tar of a liquid inside. “He could have laced my drink.”

“Excuse you,” the barista said. “I don’t add anything to anyone’s drink unless they’re paying for it.”

“Not you, the other guy,” Abe snapped and the barista rolled his eyes before going back to putting out the pastries for the coming rush. “Why else would someone go to all the trouble of pretending to work here? And how?”

He wasn’t concerned about the why. After all, this was hardly the first time someone had tried to do him in even just within the past month. And he hadn’t exactly been quiet about throwing around the three suspects’ names yesterday. But how could someone have known he would come here of all places, and at just the right time to miss the real barista?

“Maybe they were just that prepared.” The District Attorney only shrugged as they led the way toward the door, where they remembered to reach up and, with a bit of a stretch, pull the paper straw wrapper from around the bell’s clapper. It gave a cheery ring as they pulled the door open, but the sound didn’t cover their voice as they muttered, “And maybe they had some help of their own.”

Seeing Abe hesitate on his coffee, they took a sip of their own and said, “It’s fine, I watched him make them. Plus, I know that barista, he wouldn’t try anything like that.”

“I had a partner who said the same thing about his tailor, and I know how that turned out,” Abe muttered, but he took a sip of the coffee anyways.

He would need something to help him get through the meeting with the Mayor, who when they arrived was clearly straining to hold his tongue as he told him, again, how important it was to solve this case like Abe didn’t already know. Unlike yesterday’s meeting, the Mayor stood and paced around his office with nervous energy, the cane in his hands going back and forth like he didn’t know how to keep them still as he spoke.

“We’re doing everything we can, Damien,” the District Attorney said in an attempt to reassure him. “Our three suspects—”

“Are tangentially related, at best,” he snapped, before looking down at the ground as if ashamed by his outburst. “I’m sorry, but you know we need more than guesses. You know what’s at stake—What happened to your hand, my friend?”

The District Attorney glanced down at their palm and Abe had just a brief glimpse of a blistering burn on their palm before they turned it away from both men’s sight and said, “Spilled some coffee.”

Without waiting for either one to help, they wrapped their handkerchief around it, using their teeth to finish the knot.

“Anything else?” they asked, ignoring both of their expressions. “If not, Abe and I should get going.”

“No, I don’t think so,” the Mayor said, but his eyes were studying his attorney’s face with concern, and on their way out, Abe heard him add, “Take care. Please.”

((Thank you for reading!

Link to Part 4.

Tagging: @silver-owl413 @skyewardlight ​ @withjust-a-bite @blackaquokat  @catgirlwarrior  @neverisadork  @luna1350 @oh-so-creepy  @purpstraw @weirdfoxalley @95fangirl  @lilalovesinternet-l @thepoolofthedead  @a-bit-dapper @randomartdudette  @geekymushroom @cactipresident @hotcocoachia @purple-anxiety-blog @shyinspiredartist @avispate ))

[doedreamss]

The Cowboy and the Mustang (Part Four)

links: part one, part two, part three

Ship: Hangman Adam Page x Jane (FOC)

Summary: Adam, Jane and Avery head to the nearby BLM holding facility to look at the mustang Adam promised Avery as well as a few one of Adam’s friend called him about, thinking he might make some good ranch horses out of them.  Adam gets suspicious while at the lot, but ultimately decides to trust his friend.  Jane and Adam continue to struggle and dance with the confession weighing on both their hearts.  The one that’d make everything just that much realer.

Rating: R (maybe?  There’s vague mentions of sexual stuff but I don’t think there’s anything too descriptive)

Length: 6,549 words

Available below the cut or on AO3 HERE

“I’m getting a horse! I’m getting a horse!  I’m getting a horse!”

Singsong from the backseat, little Avery had been squealing about her surprise nonstop from the second Adam told her.  She’d rushed through getting ready for the morning, squealing with all the glee a young girl could have.  Adam had joked that he should have promised her a horse a lot sooner, considering how well-behaved she was being as she helped her grandmother clean up the dishes and zoomed off to brush her teeth.  Not a complaint came from her mouth at anything Adam asked.  The only time she’d been mildly upset was when she found out the horse wouldn’t come home with them today – they needed to get into town and get the tree and had plans to spend the day decorating and baking. They’d bring the horses home later.

Jane glanced in the review mirror at Avery’s happy face and found herself smiling again.  Avery wasn’t as suspicious of Jane as she’d been before, especially now that she’d jumped in on a few facetime and phone conversations over the past few months she and Adam had together.  At some point Adam had told her Avery had asked if Jane was his girlfriend, and when she said she was, Avery had nodded matter-of-factly and told him that was good.

At least Adam’s daughter liked her.  It’d take time for them to get any closer.  The girl was used to only having her dad and her grandma and no one else. Jane was lucky she was already good with kids since her sister had so many little rugrats she’d always loved babysitting when she’d been back home.  She knew they’d get there eventually, but there was always a nagging feeling of worry hanging at the back of her mind.

What if she and Avery got extremely close and it turned out Adam and Jane couldn’t handle the long-distance thing anymore?  The girl’s mother had walked out when Avery was such a young age that she didn’t even remember her.  It didn’t seem fair that she’d look to Jane as a maternal figure only to lose her, too. But what else were they supposed to do? Adam promised he explained their situation to Avery as best he could, and Jane knew the girl was smart as a whip… still, she dropped her eyes from Avery’s beaming face and felt her heart sink.

“Here we are,” Adam said, breaking into Jane’s thoughts at the right time, before they could devolve into worry and negativity.  She glanced out the window at the large tall-fenced corrals and the herds of horses inside them.  The pens were dirt – or mud and slush now, thanks to the cold Montana winter and recent snowfall – and while large enough to accommodate the herds living in them, they still seemed fairy crammed in Jane’s opinion.

This was her first time going to an off-range BLM holding facility.  Most of the horses were older, more likely to be difficult to gentle than the younger stock pulled from the range.  They spent their lives on holding facilities like these, trucked across the United States wherever space was available, hoping someone might come by, take pity and adopt them out.  They couldn’t be released back on the range where they’d been born and raised, free spirits, so they became the governments property.

“Fork Springs isn’t a big facility,” Adam mentioned as he slowed the truck into the large gravel area that doubled as a parking lot and easy-loading zone for trailers.  “They hold up to a hundred or so head at a time and get whatever is left over after the roundups.  There hasn’t been a local roundup off the mountain in the last few years,” he explained, gesturing toward the far away Montana mountains where herds of wild horses still roamed.  “The population has stayed down, so they haven’t had the jurisdiction.”

“Where do these horses come from?”  Jane asked, watching the herds of horses in the muddy corrals.

“Wyoming mostly, but they’ll truck them in from other facilities that are overcrowded, too.  I used to be good friends with the man who ran the place, but he retired about a year out and things are hit and miss with the new manager.”

Adam stopped the truck and parked, and Avery exploded out with all the energy of an excitable child, racing for the corrals with her curly, long blond hair snapping behind her. Adam called after her, holding the beanie she’d forgotten to tug over her head, but it was hopeless, she wasn’t stopping for anyone.  Jane grinned and shrugged at Adam, who sighed and shook his head, playfully exasperated but very clearly happy to see Avery so excitable.

“Daddy where’s my horse at?” Avery asked as they walked up, her little arms looped around a middle fence pole and her feet resting on the bottom one.  She was peering into the fence at the herd peering curiously back.

“She isn’t in this pen. Come on, I’ll show you.”  He gently ruffled her hair before he tugged her beanie on, over her ears and started walking them along the fence line.  

“These are the stallions they gelded after they pulled them off the range.”  He nodded toward the herd and Jane noticed a few had their hides decorated in scars earned by years of skirmishing.  Others looked a little younger and their coats were less marred, likely fresh bachelors who hadn’t even managed to earn their own herd before they were driven in to the traps by the BLM helicopter.  They passed another pen of what Adam claimed were the older horses, who had swayed backs from years and years of carrying and birthing foals, or who limped and favored aching limbs.  They’d make good pet ponies for young children if someone had the patience for them, but that was about it.  These, he said, were likely the ones who’d live out the rest of their lives on these holding facilities, trucked around in the hopes that someone would take pity and buy them.  

An old grey mare, her coat nearly pure white, perked dark-lined ears at them and watched with calm, gentle eyes.  Her tail twitched back and forth, and she raised her head a little higher before rumbling a gentle whicker at them.

“That one,” Adam said, glancing over at Jane and seeing how intently she was watching the mare, “is actually Lucky’s mom.”

“Really?  How do you know?”  Jane frowned and looked at the old, sway-backed mare who was still watching them quietly, her coat damp from the earlier drizzle of snow that’d melted the minute it touched her hide.

“She was pulled in off the same range Lucky was, and one of the hikers that often hiked out there to photograph the wild horses seemed to think so.  There’re people that follow these herds for fun and try to keep up with the bloodlines.  It ain’t so easy sometimes knowing who the father is, unless he’s strong enough to keep his herd to himself and not lose sight of any of his girls, but it’s easy to link the mares.  They shared a couple pictures with me they’d taken a couple years back when Lucky was a colt.  I’ll show them to you when we get home.”

Jane wished she could take that mare away from this place.  She was clearly older and had lived years and years out in the wild, roaming free.  Now she was looking at a future stuck in a dirt and mud corral, shuffled around state to state.  She wouldn’t make a good riding horse with her back swayed out, and she had likely been too wild too long to be easy to tame… but Jane wished she could buy her anyways.  She deserved to live the rest of her life in a pasture, where she had grass beneath her hooves and trees to shelter her.  Hell, Jane wished she could take them all and turn them loose on acres and acres of land, giving them the feeling of being free again for however long they had left instead of stuck in hard-dirt pens with too many other horses to count.

They kept walking on to the pen where Avery’s filly would be.

“Here she is,” Adam said as they stopped at a corral filled with mares and young horses.  This is where they tried to sort the pregnant mares, he said, or the ones with foals who didn’t get adopted for whatever reason.

A little bay roan filly with a big star in the middle of her forehead watched from the safety of the herd, her half-grown mane laying awkwardly on her neck.  She was a cute little thing and Jane was willing to bet she’d be gorgeous when she matured.  Roans always had a way of growing their coats out intriguingly and often seemed to change shade throughout the season as they grew their fluffy winter coats in.  Right now, she had a rich, chocolate bay head, inky black legs and the softest silver-bay body flecked in bay and black roan spots.

“She’s beautiful, Adam.” Jane said with wonder in her voice as she leaned on the fence.

Adam grinned.  “Isn’t she?  Looks sound, too.  I know the stallion who sired her, he’s still out on the range and he’s thrown a few good mustangs I’ve had success training in the past.”

Avery hadn’t said anything yet.  She was hanging on the fence, staring.  The smile had slipped off her face.  Adam and Jane exchanged worried glances and then looked down at her.

“What do you think sweetheart?  Do you like her?”  Adam asked, kneeling to peer at Avery’s eye-level at the filly looking dead-on ahead at them.

“Which one is her mommy?” Avery’s small voice asked.

Adam’s eyes shot up to Jane’s and then to the herd.  “She doesn’t have one, sweetie.  Gentry said she got separated in the mix-up.  Before they realized what’d happened, her mom got adopted and was shipped off the yard, but she didn’t.”

“Oh,” Avery said and tilted her head, eyes still on the filly.  “Didn’t the people who took her mama want her?”

“They didn’t.”  Adam said, opening his mouth as if to explain why and then closing it with a sigh, clearly deciding it wouldn’t help Avery to know why they’d decided they didn’t want the filly.  Jane guessed they felt they had no use for a young horse.

The filly took two slow, small steps forward, pulling herself from the herd and eyeing them with curious, bright eyes.  She was a bold one, lifting her chin and jerking her head, blowing a huff of soft, white clouds into the air.  Her ears flicked back toward the herd, toward the few who were curiously lingering at her hind, and then forward again at the crowd watching her.

“She’s like me.  She doesn’t have a mommy.”

Adam met Jane’s eyes for a moment, and she saw the hurt there.  It was the one thing he couldn’t protect Avery from or make up for.  His eyes dropped to Avery’s profile and he reached out, gently rubbing his wide palm along his daughters back.

After another moment’s pause, Avery’s lips split into a wide smile.  She turned to look at her daddy and leaped, arms around his neck, squeezing tight.  Adam wobbled at the sudden weight thrown at him but steadied and squeezed his arm tight around her.  He smiled up at Jane, then concentrated as Avery turned her head and whispered in his ear. That smile pushed higher into his cheeks and he stood upright quickly, bringing Avery up with him, to her delighted squeals and giggles.  When the sunlight hit his eyes, Jane saw happy tears gathered in them.  She wasn’t sure what Avery had said, but she assumed it wouldn’t be farfetched to know it was drenched in gratitude.  Adam reached out to squeeze Jane’s hand as he set Avery down on her own two feet.

“Adam!”  A man’s voice.  Jane and Adam looked to see a man dressed in cowboy attire making his way toward them. He was smiling.

“Gentry, hey!”  Adam grinned and reached to clasp hands with his in a firm shake.  They pulled in for a quick hug, clapping each other on the back.  Adam turned to catch Jane’s eye.  “Jane, this is my friend Gentry.  He’s a handler here at the facility and lets me know when horses come in that he thinks I’ll be able to make something of.  Gentry,” he glanced at his friend and nodded towards Jane. “This is my girlfriend, Jane.”

“Finally, I get to meet the girl that stole Adam off the market.”  Gentry grinned kindly at her.  Warm.  He was likely around Adam’s age, and while not as handsome as Adam (in her opinion), he still was attractive.  Medium-length brown hair was pushed down beneath his Stetson, but the shade from the band couldn’t hide the brilliance of his green eyes, or the faint bit of freckles over his nose and cheeks.  “Good for me, too bad for the ladies.”  He winked playfully as he took her hand and brought it up to kiss her knuckles.

“Uncle Gentry!”  Avery cried out and launched at him.  Gentry laughed and took his hand from Jane’s to wrap both arms around her.  “I’m getting a horse!  That’s my horse!”

“Which one?”  He asked, hoisting her up and looking out at the corral. Avery pointed madly toward the pretty little roan.

“That one Uncle Gentry!”

“She’s beautiful,” Gentry said with an appreciative whistle, “got a name for her yet?”

“You don’t just name a horse Uncle Gentry,” Avery said with a huff and a roll of her eyes, “they tell you their name when they’re good and ready.”

Adam’s eyes slid to Jane’s and they shared a smile.

“Well now I think I’ve heard that from someone else before.”  Gentry said as he set Avery down and grinned over at Adam.  “C’mon, you need to see these colts.  You’ll make fine ranch horses out of them.”

Gentry led them to another pen with a young-looking crowd of horses.  A thoughtful, slightly confused frown worked its way over Adam’s face as he leaned his forearm on the fence and used it to support his body.  The other pinched his hip, and he tilted his head, tongue briefly sweeping his lips as he thought.

“What is it?”  Jane asked as she came up to his side, glancing over the herd he was eyeballing.  They looked like good horses to her.  Strong, healthy, and at the right age to begin their training.  Adam could turn any one of these colts into sturdy cattle pony and dependable ranch horse.  He was looking at them like something was wrong.

“Huh?”  He blinked and looked at her, then back at the horses. His shoulders rolled into a shrug as Gentry peered curiously at him.  “Nah, it’s pry nothing.  They just… look mighty healthy to be with the rejects and mix-ups.  Normally I wouldn’t expect to get a colt that nice except on auction day with a fresh roundup and I’d be competing with other bidders, too.”

“Yeah,” Gentry agreed with a nod, “strangest thing.”

“Where did you say they came in from?”  Adam asked, eyes still on the colts.

“Oregon.”  Gentry said, “they had a round-up and these guys were left over, but their facility was too full to hold them.  I reminded the new boss here you’ve got an eye for good horses and might be able to just buy them quick off our hands.  That’s why I called you about them being here.  We just shipped them in yesterday.”

“Huh,” Adam made a small noise and glanced back at the pen before pushing off it and nodding.  “They are a handsome lot.  How many is the boss gonna let me take?”

“You know Adam, we’re a little pressed for hay and it’s dead of winter, getting all four of them off our hands along with that filly would do us a lot of good here.”

“Alright,” Adam nodded and sucked the back of his teeth as he looked back at the herd.  Four heads lifted and curiously watched the crowd that’d been standing, talking outside their pen.  Their breaths streamed out in soft clouds of fog in the December cold. Jane had shoved her gloved hands into her pocket and was tucked into the scarf wrapped around her neck.  Adam glanced at her and a flash of a smile eased the tension in his expression before he clapped his hands and reached to grab Avery’s shoulders, pulling her in close.  She looked up at her dad with a smile.

“I promised these ladies a pit stop for hot chocolate and a tree from the tree lot and a night full of Christmas decorating and cookie baking, so draw up the paperwork for all four and the filly, I’ll come back with the trailer tomorrow and load them up.”

Gentry broke into a smile.   “Will do Adam.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”  He reached out to shake Adam’s hand and tipped his cowboy hat at Jane. “Nice to meet you Jane.  And you, little lady,” he beamed at Avery who smiled happy up at him, “I’ll keep your filly company all night until she can come home with you tomorrow, alright?”

“Thank you, Uncle Gentry!” Avery beamed and leaped toward him for a hug, which Gentry happily obliged, wrapping his arms around and squeezing her before letting her go and standing up straight.  He tipped his hat again and turned off to head back toward the warmth of the main office while Adam, Jane and Avery made for the cab of the truck.  Avery waved an exuberant goodbye at her little filly and babbled about her the entire drive back into town.

The rest of the day followed with holiday cheer like something out of a holiday film.  Jane and Adam walked hand-in hand, their others holding warm to-go cups of hot chocolate, following Avery around the tree lot as she bounced and stopped and surveyed trees and jogged off to the next one. They shared little smiles, and, at one point, Adam jerked to a sudden stop that made Jane nearly spill her hot chocolate.

“Adam?”  Jane said, confused at why he’d stopped in his tracks and looked at him, then saw his smile as he wiggled his eyebrows and gestured upward.

He’d stopped them under mistletoe.

Adam had pulled her in gently and laid a little kiss across her mouth, just starting to deepen it when they’d both heard a hard clearing of a little throat.  They’d looked down to see Avery in her puffy jacket and beanie cap staring up at them as if she couldn’t believe them.

“We are on an important mission here people!”  She’d scolded them with all the ferocity of a little girl on the mission for her perfect tree, “we don’t have time for kissing!”

“Sorry ma’am,” Adam said apologetically and stepped away from Jane.  His already inward-dipped brows did a little more-so, the expression asking for pity from his exasperated daughter.  “We won’t do it again.  Cross my heart, hope to die.”

Eventually, Avery decided on the perfect, fluffy tree with thick sturdy branches she felt would stand up to the ornament hooks better.  Adam nodded agreement and went to find an attendant who he could pay and then get to help him tie the tree atop his truck.  Getting it inside his little ranch home had been fun, just the two of them with Avery shouting out directions and how they’d need to turn it to get it carefully inside.  They’d done it, even if Jane had been damp with sweat and out of breath when it finally was settled where they agreed it’d look best.

After a small break for lunch they’d decorated the tree and wrapped twinkling lights around it, plugging it in and smiling as it lit up and twinkled on the myriad of ornaments. Avery had fun showing Jane all the ones she’d made and the ones that were her favorite.  There was one of Adam on a horse with baby Avery sitting in the saddle in front of him.  He was grinning ear-to-ear, and so was she.  Jane held it for a minute and smiled fondly, then looked to see Adam’s blue eyes were softly on hers too.

What he had with Avery was so special.  Jane was touched he cared for her enough that he wanted her to be a part of it too.

Hours later, after decorating the rest of the house, baking cookies and getting burgers, fries and milkshakes from the local hamburger shop for dinner, Adam gently poked Jane and nodded toward the other couch in the living room.  They’d been watching a Christmas movie and in the soft light of it playing, Avery lay fast asleep, tuckered out from such a long, exciting day. She hadn’t stopped talking about her filly and everything they were going to do together.  She even decided on the exact color of tack she was going to want, from halters to lead-ropes to winter coats to saddle pads: wintergreen.

Adam smiled and gently patted Jane’s knee, standing up and walking toward Avery.  He scooped her gentle into his arms and she murmured, groggily waking up as her sleeping position was disturbed.  “Easy baby girl,” Adam cooed gently as he turned to walk her down the hall, “I’m putting you to bed.”

Jane watched them go and smiled, reaching for the remote to pause the movie.  She checked her phone, but her mind wasn’t on anything she read on the bright screen.  When Adam came back, she glanced up at him.  He was halfway across the living room back to the couch they’d been cuddled up on when she couldn’t hold it back any longer.

“What is it?”

“What’s what?”  He asked, turning to fall back into his spot on the couch, pulling her under his muscled arm.

“What bothered you about those horses?”  She’d been dying to know all day.

Adam huffed, a bit of a darker look crossing his blue eyes.  It was the same one he’d worn when he and Gentry talked about buying all of them.

“It just doesn’t seem logical.  They look too healthy to have been trucked from Oregon in this weather, and you know how freeze brands are sort of like a code that tells you which range the horses were pulled off?”

“Yeah,” Jane trailed off, her frown growing.  The freeze brand the BLM burned into the mustang’s neck when they rounded them up were an identification code so that horse could always be traced back to that range. Adam’s tone was leading her toward something he seemed very, very serious about.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen an Oregon freeze brand, but those brands didn’t look like what I remember them looking like.”

“Did they look like any you recognized?”

He shook his head slowly, “No, they didn’t.  It’s got me wondering what range they came from, when, and why.  And whether or not they were illegally pulled when a round-up wasn’t authorized.”

Jane’s stomach fell. Wild horse advocates constantly butted heads with the BLM, when the politician’s pockets were lined with cash from big cattle companies who benefited from the wild horse’s population being downsized. Political positions often with the ability to bend the rules in one’s own favor if that person was corrupt enough. Even a tiny government holding facility like Fork Springs was more than capable of doing some dirty work behind the scenes.  Sometimes owners of slaughterhouses made under-the-table deals with those corrupt individuals in charge of these kinds of lots, buying up their horses for cheap and shipping them out of the United States.

She hoped something like that wasn’t happening here and tried to think rationally.  Gentry.  Adam’s friend.  Adam had told her he’d been best friends with Gentry since they’d met on the first day of kindergarten.  Gentry was a handler at the BLM facility, and Adam said he always kept him in mind when something nice came to the lot.

���But you trust Gentry, right?”  She said gently, “he wouldn’t do anything wrong?”

Adam’s frown deepened and he shook his head, blowing a terse sigh.  “I guess not.  That’s what I keep trying to tell myself, anyways.”  His troubled eyes looked down at her, curled up against his chest.  Jane reached a lazy hand upward, gently pinching and curling one of his long blond curls.  “I guess I should just be happy I’m lucking out with four nice looking mustangs. That guy who bought those five today might want them when I’m done.  Guaranteed money.”

Jane could tell by his tone he was trying to convince himself of everything good he was saying.  His gut was warring with him.  Jane had a feeling a man like Adam knew the importance of trusting those near instinctual reactions.  But he nodded and sighed again, seeming to let himself sink in with what he’d said, and clapped his hand gently on her hip.  He smiled down at her.

“Ready for bed, darlin’?”

There was something so simple and wonderful about the domesticity of that moment that Jane’s heart fluttered, and her voice caught in her throat.  She beamed at Adam and nodded.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

And Jane enjoyed how it felt to help talk Adam through something troubling him in person, where she could play with his hair and look up in his handsome face as he thought. She enjoyed walking down the hallway, turning off lights behind them, passing Avery’s room quietly where she was still sleeping and going to his bedroom.  She enjoyed slipping from her clothes and noticing how his eyes caught on her and he slowed down his own stripping, watching her reveal bare inch after bare inch.  She enjoyed how, as she grabbed for her pajamas, Adam suddenly came around and put a heavy hand on her arm, pushing her clothes back down.  He dipped in and kissed her, hands crawling greedy up her naked body.

They made love until they were a sweaty, trembling, panting tangle of limbs, kicking off the comforters to try and cool down.  A quick clean-up later and they were back in one another’s arms, curled up underneath the comforter, and Jane had never felt more secure.  She was someone who questioned the outcome of nearly everything and stuck to rigid plans she plotted years ahead.  How had Adam flung her off-track to the point she didn’t have a plan for the first time in her life, yet when she was with him, everything felt perfectly right?  Like this was supposed to be her forever.

It didn’t make sense.

“You seem restless darlin’, you alright?”  Adam’s sleepy voice asked husky at her back and Jane nodded.

“Yeah, I’m okay, it’s just taking me a little bit to get to sleep.”

“Alright,” he sighed, and a long-drawn-out pause until his next words told her he was easily falling asleep and trying to fight back out of it.  “Do you not want to go to bed yet?”  He mumbled against her ear.  As if he could stay awake.  Even now Jane sensed his breathing calmly slowing and knew without looking at him that his eyes were closed.

“I do,” Jane said and forced herself to yawn.  “Go to sleep and stop talking to me so I can fall asleep.”

Adam’s body moved gently with a chuckle that was a heavy breath through his nose.  “Alright darlin.  Goodnight.  I love you.”

Jane went rigid, her eyes popping wide open.  Adam, on the contrary, drifted completely off to sleep, his breaths shallow and rhythmic. What?  Her heart was pounding in her chest and blood rushed fast through her ears.  It felt like she’d been struck by lightning.

He’d told her he loved her.

But had he meant to? Or was it just one of those things that he was so tired, he hadn’t really known what he was saying?  Should she wake him up and ask?  No… no… she couldn’t do that.  She’d just see how he acted in the morning…

The thought of Adam being in love with her made her heart race and that piece of her that loved him want to scream and jump up and down on the bed with excitement.  But the other thought, the rational mind that always reminded her why their future was already troubling told her it’d just make things even more complicated.

Jane slipped off to sleep some time later, her mind still not made up on what side she should decide to act with.

 * * * * * * * * * *

 “Yeah, just until the 28th.  I can get them then.”

Jane was slowly coming to consciousness and heard Adam’s voice talking quietly outside the cracked-open bedroom door.

“Are you serious Gentry?”  His voice rose a little bit.  There was a long pause while Gentry talked on the other line.  Jane could just hear the faint echo of his voice.  When Adam spoke next, he’d lowered his voice again to a volume that was clearly meant not to disturb her.  “Fine.  Alright. I’ll drive up the feed for them today.”

He ended the call and stepped quietly back in the room, closing the door slow behind him.  When he turned around, he saw Jane’s eyes were open on him.

“Morning darlin’,” he said and walked over to gently kiss her temple.  Jane scooted over on the mattress so he could sit.

“Why was Gentry calling you so early?”  Jane asked, glancing the clock.  “Oh my god, is it really already passed ten?  Why did you let me sleep in so late?”  Her eyes swung accusatory back at Adam.

“You robbed yourself of sleep all semester, especially towards the end there.  Your body needs the rest and you’re on vacation.”  He said sternly and his concern and care for her touched her.  Still, she wanted to be able to experience every second of this trip, not lose it to sleep.  Jane wanted to get up at the crack of dawn with Adam and stomp through the fresh fallen snow from the night before to care for the horses.  She wanted to make breakfast with him and be there when Avery woke up and came wandering out into the kitchen, lured by the smell of bacon frying in the pan.  She wanted to lean up and kiss Adam on the lips and say: I love you too.

All she had to do was tell him right now, while he gently laid his hand on the curve of her hip atop the duvet and was looking at her with kind blue eyes.  All she had to do was say it.  I love you.

She sucked in a sharp breath and cleared her throat.

“You avoided my question,” she said, the coward, “you didn’t tell me why Gentry was calling you.”

“Oh,” Adam said and nodded, “well, that’s ‘cause I called him.  I don’t want to get the horses until the 28th.”

“The 28th? That’s so far away.”  Jane frowned, sitting up a little bit.

“Well, you, me and Avery will be taking off on the 19th, weather permitting, and come back on the 27th, weather permitting.  I don’t want my mama to have to feed any more horses than what I’ve got now while she looks after them for me.  It’s easier to keep them out at the holding facility until I’m back to take on the extra load of caring for five young, wild mustangs and getting them used to their new way of life.”

“Wait,” Jane shook her head, “what do you mean we’re going to be taking off?”

Adam looked at her and a slow smile worked its way across his mouth.

“I did something a little bad, but I’m hoping you’ll forgive me.”

“What did you do?” Jane was lost, staring at him, unable to think of a single awful thing Adam could have done.

“I stole your dad’s number off your phone and talk to him last night while you and Avery were decorating cookies and I was doing the evening feed in the barn.”

“You… talked to my dad?”

“Yeah, I asked him if he’d welcome two strangers for Christmas if I brought his daughter with us.”

A disbelieving smile worked its way across her mouth.

“What?  Adam… are you serious?”

“Absolutely, darlin’. I know how important it is for you to be with your family for the holidays, and I know you say things would be easier if your mom got to meet me and know me, that maybe she wouldn’t be so hard on you.  Well… this is our chance to see, I guess.”  He looked briefly terrified, considering the very subject of trying to please her mother.  “I figured it’d look good if I went out of my way to bring you home for the holidays… and I also figured Avery’s a cute little thing most days, so I’d bring her along for added bonus points.”  A grin had worked its way over his mouth.  “The single dad thing gets me sympathy sometimes, you know?”

“Oh,” Jane said, grinning as she leaned into him and looped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him down over the top of her.  “You’re exploiting single parenthood for brownie points with my family, huh?”

“I think it’s a sound strategy,” Adam chuckled against her lips before placing a kiss against them.

“Wait, what about your mom? She’s going to be all alone?”

Adam shook his head. “She spends all day at the church as part of a group that cooks for the people in the community that can’t feed their own or don’t have anyone to spend the holiday with.  I talked to her about it already and she’s right as rain.  She thinks it’ll be nice for Avery to spend a Christmas with other kids her age, too.”

Jane was beaming.  She couldn’t help it.  Tears pricked at her eyes, touched by his thoughtfulness. Jane tugged him down harder and smeared her lips against his.  She broke apart only when she needed air, their breaths mixing as their chests heaved. Their eyes met, both still caught in that wild, passionate light.

This was it.  This was the moment she should tell him. Screw that she didn’t know where she’d get a job with her degree that’d be anywhere nearby.  Billings was four hours away, but she’d take it.  She’d take it just to be that close to him.  Four hours was better than nothing.  She’d been stupid to think it was too far.  Maybe one day they’d suddenly think of something brilliant, some way it’d work for them to be together permanently.  Until then… Jane couldn’t let him go.  She wasn’t sure she could stand the heartbreak.

She took a breath, ready to say those three little words.

Adam’s phone starting ringing and he jerked in surprise, glancing down at the screen beside him on the bed.  “Sorry, it’s my mom, give me a second?”  Adam popped up, answering the call and stepping out of the room.  His voice faded down the hallway as he walked further away, telling her something about swinging by once he delivered feed out to the wild horse facility.  That was a couple hours’ drive there and a couple hours’ drive back.

Jane pushed the comforters off her legs and slowly stood, stumbling into the bathroom to freshen up a little before she wandered out into the living area.  Avery was sitting on the living room floor, playing with little horse figurines.  She smiled at Jane when Jane entered the room and Jane smiled back.

“Want to come play with me?” Avery asked, holding out one of the horses.

“Sure,” Jane smiled and walked around the couch to sit down on the floor and play with Avery’s little horse toys.  The narrative had changed since the last time they played and now the pretty bay roan statue, though she was a few shades off the real thing and didn’t have the pretty star on her head, had taken on the role of Avery’s filly.  Today was her first day being introduced to the herd and she was nervous and hoping everyone liked her.  Jane fell easily into the rolls assigned to her by Adam’s daughter, but glanced up when Adam entered the room.

“Jane, can I talk to you for a second?”  Adam nodded toward the kitchen and Jane nodded, setting the horse down she’d been making a fake, deep voice for and smiling at Avery before she went.

“I have to deliver feed up to Gentry for the horses then swing by and look at my mom’s sink.  She says the water pressure is off.  Would you be alright watching Avery?”

This would be the first time Jane and Avery would be alone.  Jane sucked in a breath and felt her nerves rise.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Adam said gently, “you two can come along with me, too.”

“No,” Jane said, shaking her head.  She had a feeling Adam didn’t want to be delayed on these errands and he was still suspicious of those mustangs at the facility.  It would help him if she stepped up and showed she could do this part of the relationship too.  “I can watch her.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, I am. We’ll be great.  You go take care of business and maybe I’ll have something cooking up for you when you get home.”

“You know the way straight to my heart, woman.”  He growled playfully and reached out, hand squeezing the curve of her ass as he pulled her in and laid a kiss to her lips.  A playful little smack into the fat had her yelping softly and staring in playful offense at his wicked grin.

“Call me if you need anything, alright?”  He said, brow quirking.

Jane nodded.  “Of course.”

But she knew she wasn’t going to need to bother him.  She knew Avery well enough now.  It just seemed scary because it was the first time she was the lone adult in charge of her boyfriend’s daughter.  They’d be just fine until Adam came back home.  Plus, Jane realized it’d be great distraction from her thoughts. The moment had been taken from when she was ready to risk it all and confess that she loved him, and it was clear he didn’t remember saying it the night before, which meant it could have been an accident.  Jane hoped she wasn’t seeing something there that wasn’t, like because she was in love with him, she was convincing herself he was in love with her.  It was better to wait.  Especially because they were going to be meeting her family.  This was going to be the first time she ever brought someone home she was dating.  It was all so… serious.

She took a breath and smiled, leaning up to peck him gently on the cheek.

“Drive safe out there, cowboy.  Your girls will be here waiting for you to get home.”

[pi-cat000]

MSA time travel idea (part 21)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV.2

Part 22: here

“We’ll be fine,” Vivi reassures Arthur for a third time, spinning to face him, backing up past the assortment of haphazardly constructed ‘keep out’ and ‘danger!’ signage. Behind her looms the cave’s gaping entrance.

“We’ve been through a ton of caves. The worst thing that could happen? We, maybe, get swarmed by some bats,” She continues upon seeing Arthur’s continued hesitation.

“Ah, how about a cave in?” He points out leerily, eyeing jagged stone formations framing the entryway.

“No seismic activity in the area, I checked,” Vivi declares, whirling to march forward, glancing back to call, “You boys coming or what.”

Mystery bounds off after Vivi, leaving him to shoot an apprehensive glance at Lewis. The larger man shrugs, putting a comforting hand across Arthur's shoulder blades, “If this has you really worried we can always wait out here while Vivi takes her supernatural readings.”

Arthur sighs, tempted to take him up on offer, “No. It’s fine. Probably best not to let Vivi go spelunking with only Mystery as back up.”

“Probably,” Lewis laughs, patting his shoulder once then stepping forward, “Just stick behind me. I’m sure this will be just as boring as all the other caves we’ve walked through.”

“Yeah. ‘Boring’…Sure. That’s not the word I’d use but, whatever, let’s go with boring,” Arthur grumbles, shadowing Lewis up to the entrance. The ground underfoot transitions sharply from spotted green to dead twigs and dusty rock.

“Creepy,” Arthur eyes the unnaturally straight line, cutting the cave off from its surroundings. Lewis snorts, amused by his muttering-at least someone is having a good time-walking into the dark like this isn’t the most unnerving place they’ve been to so far.

Just inside the dimly lit opening, he spots Vivi, who’s wrestling with a wrought iron canister holding what appeared to be old-style wooden torches.

“Hey guys, check these out! Mood lighting! ” She calls with apparent gusto. Better make that two people having a good time.

“Lewis. You still have those matches on you, right? I think there’s still oil on these.”

Lewis trades his box of matches for the wooden torch, holding it out while Vivi grapples around attempting to light it. Arthur is surprised the old torch has lasted this long. They can’t have been the only ones dumb enough to explore a ‘haunted’ cave at night. Surely, some other idiot would have used them up before now.

“Can’t we just use the flashlights?” Arthur comments in conjunction with Vivi’s resounding "YES" of triumph. The stone walls around them come to life with a flickering orange glow. High, arched ceilings, almost two stories tall, provide an abundance of space. Arthur can now see several meters down a long tunnel before darkness overtakes it again. He shivers, peering at the many cracks and holes dotting the roof and walls. Everything is coated in a thin layer of green moss which catches the torchlight, giving a green tint. In other words, it looks freaky and unnatural.

“Well, this just went up several points on the Creepy-O-Meter,” He laments, resigning himself to an evening of jumping at pebbles coming loose from the ceiling, gusts of wind, and his own shadow.

“I know! It’s great isn’t it?” Vivi twists, grinning ridiculously, now holding a torch in each hand.

“Watch where you wave those Viv,” Lewis dodges back and avoids a face full of fire, reaching out and plucking the nearest torch from Vivi, “You almost got my hair with that one.”

“Whoops sorry,” A sheepish Vivi shoots Lewis an apologetic glance before carefully lifting her remaining torch to get a better look at the cavernous structures around them. A few seconds of fascinated gawking pass, while both his friends take in their strange new environment.

“You have to admit, this is a lot cooler than a graveyard or an old house,” Vivi voices in awe, moving deeper into the tunnel. She’s got an energetic spring to her step mirrored by Mystery trotting at her heels.  No attention is afforded to the spooky shadows, shrinking away from the torchlight, rushing to close in behind them. It’s admirable.

“Maybe there’ll be an actual ghost this time and not a dude playing dress up?” Lewis adds, glancing about, holding his torch higher, “Definitely has the ambience for it.”

Arthur shuffles closer to Vivi, so he’s sandwiched between the two of them. This way he’ll have plenty of warning when the freaky cave monster leaps out to get them.

“One can only hope,” Vivi laments loudly. Her voice echoes, bouncing along the slimy green walls until it’s swallowed up by the dark. Arthur shudders. Is it just him or does it feel like the cave is listening?

“Ah. Objection,” He interjects, lowering his voice, so it doesn’t jump around like Vivi’s, “A dude in a sheet is plenty scary, thanks. No need for anything esle.”

Lewis laughs from behind, also lowering his voice to a whisper, “Like weird-scary or scary-scary?”

Arthur throws a half-serious glare over his shoulder, retorting, “Both.”

Further conversation is put on pause when they hit a fork in the otherwise straightforward tunnel. The two passageways are significantly smaller, a foot higher than Lewis, and narrower, twisting away from the central shaft. Both are equally uninviting, ghostly, glowing a poisonous green in the torchlight. His shadowed silhouette, elongated in the firelight, appears to shift unnaturally, skittering away into the gloom. Arthur blinks, focusing attention on the spot. There’s nothing there but ordinary rock.

“Let’s split up,” Vivi’s announcement draws Arthur’s concentration away from studying the walls for shadow creatures.

“What?”

Lewis is nodding along, considering both passageways seriously.

“No way,” Arthur waves his arms to catch their attention, wincing at his own volume, then whispering, “Splitting up is a terrible idea. When has splitting up ever worked well for anyone.”

“If we split up we’ll cover more ground and get through the cave system faster,” Vivi points out, already searching through her small rucksack.

“Just remember to take lots of photos. Here have my spare EMF meter,” She shoves the ‘totally legit’ ghost detection devise, an audio recorder, and notepad into Lewis’s free hand, “Don’t forget to actually press record this time when stuff happens, and write a note, so we know to cross check it later.”

"Sure," Lewis pockets the equipment with a laugh,

Arthur slaps a hand over his eyes, groaning. Why are his friends a pair of walking clichés?

“Lewis. You go with Arthur. He’ll need the moral support more than I will.”

“Hey,” His protest is half-hearted.

“I’ll take Mystery down that tunnel. Let’s meet up in, say, an hour and report our findings.”

Vivi walks purposefully forward before pausing to add, “Oh and if it gets too maze-like come back here, so you don’t get lost,” Another step, “And don’t fall down any holes.”  

“We’ll be fine,” Lewis reassures, amused, slinging an arm out and catching Arthur before he can duck away, “Arthur’s got my back.”

Arthur suffers the semi-headlock with crossed arms and a stony expression. It’s not that he really believes they’ll run into trouble it’s more a matter of principle at this point. All it does is make Vivi snort in good humour then hide a grin behind her hand.

“See you boys in an hour,” A cheery wave and Vivi marches away, looking for all the world like a person having the time of their life.

“You okay there Arthur,” Lewis loosens his arm, glancing down. There is genuine concern in his tone now, eyes scanning Arthur for signs of discomfort. Arthur forcibly shelves his exasperation. No need to bring down the mood. Not when this is the first time in weeks he’s been exclusively in either Lewis or Vivi’s company.

A long exhale, and he ducks to disentangle himself from the larger man’s arm,  “Yeah. Come on. Let’s go poke around a dark, damp, tunnel some more.” He injects as much enthusiasm as he can muster, but it ends up more sarcastic.

Lewis hits him with a knowing smile, offering, “Here I’ll go first.”

His friend takes a confident step forward, holding the torch high to provide them with maximum visibility. Arthur follows close behind, trying not to get too freaked out at the way the cave walls seem to shift unnaturally in the uneven light. It’s just his overactive mind seeing familiar patterns where there were none. That was all. 

Down the gloomy stone tunnel, they go, flickering fire illuminating Lewis’s silhouette and the narrow walls enclosing them. Nervously, Arthur picks up his pace, tailing as close to Lewis’s back as he can get. Occasionally, he bumps into the other man when Lewis stops abruptly to examine part to the scenery. Lewis doesn’t appear to mind, being more interested in sporadic wooden support beams which arise from time to time. Everything is pretty much identical until the narrow tunnel opens suddenly to reveal a spacious cavern.

It’s huge. Dotted with wicked sharp stalagmites and stalactites which both hang from the ceiling and raise up from the ground like clawed fingers, it dwarfs them both.

Lewis immediately steps out of the tunnel onto a narrow ledge extending into empty space, transfixed by the stunning view. Arthur makes to follow. Distracted, he stumbles, hand brushing against the cave walls for support. Pain shoots through the limb, and Arthur stops, staring at the appendage, confused. Had he cut himself? He doesn’t appear to be injured.

“Hey, Arthur! Come check out this view!”

Lewis is now standing near the end of the wedge-shaped platform, peering down at the steep drop. Cautiously, Arthur inches out after him, eyeing the pointed rock formations far below.  The way they catch and reflect the torchlight is almost menacing.

Would be such a shame if someone were to fall.

His left leg twitches, and he almost stumbles right into Lewis. Arthur finds himself unfocussed, and he hesitates behind the larger man. What is he doing again? Why is Lewis so close all of a sudden?

His arm is completely numb. It’s tuned an unnatural sickly green colour. The same colour as the walls. That's not normal. A twitch. Arthur watches, confused when his limb jerks up. A second too late he realises that he’s not the one moving it. In an action almost too quick to follow the arm lashes out.

“Lew…” The words of warning are choked off. Lewis turns, too slow to prevent the shove but quick enough that Arthur sees his shocked, betrayed expression. Lewis tumbles backward, face frozen in confusion.

A surprised yell.

Gravity rips Lewis from where he seems to hover mid-air, dragging him down.

He drops.

His friend’s panicked horror is the last of him Arthur sees. A wet thump. The yell is cut abruptly.

Silence.  

“Ouch. Right through the chest. That’s never fun,” The foreign words vibrate in Arthur's chest, accompanied by an unpleasant laugh.

Down, far below on the cavern floor, is Lewis. Unmoving. Arthur wants to scream. He needs to scream, but his jaw is locked shut. Part of his vision goes dark. With his remaining good eye, he can see his arm moving, squirming about like it’s got a mind of its own.

No. No. No. This isn’t him.  IT’S NOT HIM!!!

A jaw filled with rows of shiny white teeth clamps down on the writhing appendage. A flash of bright red. His arm is twisting, being ripped away. The force of the impact spins him around, putting him face-to-face with a giant canine creature. Red. There’s lots of red. His vision is failing. A warm haze gathers over his thoughts, mercifully pulling him from reality.

“Ah Shit,” He hears himself swear over the oppressive throbbing in his head and the growls of the monster above.

“...And STOP...”

The world freezes. Arthur freezes. It’s like someone’s hit the pause button on reality. Suspended, frozen halfway between falling to his knees and standing, Arthur hangs in place. Vaguely, he recognises Mystery looming over him, also frozen, green-hued arm between his teeth. Arthur’s disembodied arm.

“Sloppy. Very sloppy.”

The voice doesn’t echo like sound should in this stone, cavernous environment. It’s detached. Footsteps dull and artificial, mismatched on the rock floor, draw closer. A shadowed figure walks around from behind. Arthur, still immobile, tracks the progress of a lanky man, sporting spiked yellow hair, a familiar orange vest and flat running shoes. Aside from the sickly, off green, skin tone, it looks like him. Another him.

The doppelganger moves up to examine Mystery and the arm dangling from his jaws, shaking its head in disappointment, “Should have known there was something weird about the dog. It’s always the pets.”

Arthur doesn’t care for whatever this creature is saying because, down below, just behind him, is Lewis body.  He’d just pushed Lewis off the cliff.

“To think, that could have been me, stuck in some rotting limb. Ugh. Gross.”

He killed Lewis.

NOTE: It’s the obligatory flashback episode. It only took 30 000 + words, but Arthur finally remembers. Hope I did The Cave scene justice. 

Part 22: here

[sabraeal]

Merry & Bright: Chapter 7

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

He should be over this.

(Doc makes him pull off the highway somewhere near Florence, South Carolina; she’s got an actual travel itinerary that Yuzuri helped her program into some app that includes mandatory stretch breaks because she’s concerned about good circulatory health, and – god, that really shouldn’t be doing anything for him, but it does, it does, and he’s a real idiot thinking that this is a good idea –

“It’s an overlook,” she tells him proudly as they park, smile stretching far too wide for the amount of time they’ve been in a cramped car with a week’s worth of stuff and a Christmas’s worth of gifts. “A stretch and a view!”

He swallows down a protest that it hasn’t even been two hours since they grabbed lunch – some little place that served fish in Switzerland, the only one where the whole menu wasn’t deep fried – and heaves himself out of the car, only to find that it’s – it’s not as easy as it should be.

“Yowch,” he mutters, rubbing at his back. He’s been a total knot of stress since they started north, he’s aware, but –

But god, his back is reminding him of every hit he ever took, and when he throws his arms up, bending back, he has a real moment of worry that it’s going to take an uncomfortable drive and an emergency room bill to get him upright. He’s only twenty-five, he shouldn’t be worrying about this shit.

“Obi?” she chirps, skipping over to him with a concerned look on her face. “Are you okay?”

A choir of angels sing Hosanna when his back relents, letting him snap upright. “Yeah, just fine. Had to, uh, get a kink out. You know how it is.”

Doc gives him a skeptical look, and – listen, he knows she won’t do anything but tut at him and fish out some all-organic Icy/Hot or whatever she’s got hiding in their pharmacy bag, but she’ll also tell Yuzuri, and he knows, he knows that will mean he’ll get a half dozen :3 :3 :3 texts followed by something like, gotta keep that back healthy if ur gonna rob that cradle already, and he doesn’t need that. Not this trip.

“Okay,” she says finally, mouth in a thoughtful pout. “But let me know if you need anything.”

He just manages to close his lips around, for us to turn south already. “Sure thing, Doc. I’ll be the first in line for your tender ministrations the second I have an excuse.”)

It would’ve been a hit to his pride to have turned around before he ever got here, before he even attempted to walk through the door, but Obi would have taken it if it meant dread wouldn’t be his constant companion.

That’s what he’d thought being in this house would be; just constant dread, like realizing he’s in the wrong bathroom, or watching his favorite movie as a kid again as an adult, wondering if it would still hold up. Just a week of waiting for the other shoe to drop, and wondering if it would right in front of Doc.

He’d survived it though, cookie in his mouth and arm slung around Doc’s shoulders, with nothing worse than a flash of hesitation before walking straight back into his childhood.

But now, with Todd and Kelly Ann trailing behind him and the stern set of Gayle’s mouth looming in front of him --

It’s different. Like being right back in high school, black cocert T-shirt for a band that broke up before he was born and jeans ripped at the knees, just waiting to find out how he’s been a disappointment today.  The past is a ghost he can’t shake, something that clings to him even when he tries to step out from under it’s shadow.

Doesn’t help that there’s so many people waiting to see him fail to do it, either.

“Obi!” Doc springs up from the floor, all coltish limbs, practically tripping over herself. God, this is really what he’s into now; messy hair and thick tights, barely able to keep her balance with her shoes off, someone who watched vegan cheese not melt and still could say something nice about it.

She tucks herself against his side, head fitting against the girdle of his shoulder like it was meant to be there and –

And he doesn’t even regret it. Who the fuck cares about girls with Barbie heels and legs for days; Doc can barely keep her hair in a barrette and he just – wants it. Wants the way he hooks her hair back around her ear to be real.

She stares up at him, all eyes. “You’re --?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, letting his fingers linger on the hollow behind her ear just a second too long before adjusting his hold on her, his arm draping over the line of her shoulders like it belongs there. “Everything’s as sorted as it’s gonna get.”

The worry won’t shake from her, not like he wants it to. There’s no way he’s going to be able to relax in this house, not with memory waiting to ambush him around every corner, but he just – doesn’t want her to worry about it either, about whether everyone here likes him enough, or is recognizing his accomplishments, or – whatever it is she’s looking for. He doesn’t know how to tell her that it’s fine, that he’s done enough to know that forgiveness doesn’t grow on trees, and there may not be enough for what he’s done.

He drags his gaze away, trying to escape the worry, the guilt – only to find the same on Gayle’s face, that tight-lipped concern that makes him want to squirm right out from the microscope he’s under.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to survive it for long.

“Laila!” Kelly Ann rounds the couch, hands on her hips. “You’ve been letting Shirayuki play too, haven’t you? You can’t be all the animals.”

“I let her be the baby,” the girl says, unconcerned, making giraffes escape their pen to play with penguins.

“Laila --”

“It’s fine!” Doc is quick to assure her. “The baby had fun watching all the animals play.”

The distraction may have gotten Doc’s look off him, but Gayle isn’t deterred, not the slightest bit.

“Well, I was just about to start in on dinner,” she says, gaze shifting behind him. “Todd, Obi, do you boys think you could see your way to helping out an old woman?”

Todd’s not standing anywhere near close to him, but Obi knows he tenses like he does, knows that they both looks like cats with their backs up –

“Oh, Gayle!” Doc lurches under his arm, like she’s torn between staying right where she is and shoving herself forward. “Please, let me help! Todd just got here.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Gayle huffs, waving her off. “You’re a guest, and Todd’s used to being put to work. Besides you should save up your strength – I’ll have you in the kitchen tomorrow, anyway.”

“Some guest,” Todd laughs. “Can’t work tonight but you’ll be putting her through her paces in the morning?”

“You know how it is around here,” Gayle tells him airily. “Two days and then you’re family.”

God, his chest shouldn’t ache like this. “It’s fine, Doc,” he says, rubbing her arm before he steps away. “What could go wrong in a room full of knives?”

She looks anything but convinced. “But --”

“Oh, leave them to it,” Kelly Ann says with a roll of her eyes. “Take advantage of the reprieve now – you’ll wish you had it in three days, once Gayle’s got you.”

“I don’t --”

“Come on, you can help me,” she says, catching Doc by the shoulders. “I have so much Doc McStuffins to watch.”

Laila shrieks, hands slamming on the floor as she turns to look at her mom. “I love Doc McStuffins.”

“Fancy that,” Kelly Ann deadpans, mouth twitching at the corners.

“Go ahead,” Obi murmurs to Doc when she hesitates. “I’ll live.”

She gives him a long look, then nods. “Sounds great.”

Obi’s not quite sure what possesses Gayle to put knives in their hands, but here they are, Todd on one side of the island and Obi on the other, butcher block cutting boards abutting each other as they dice vegetables. She’s even gone and turned her back on them, humming along with the Christmas songs on the radio, water steaming up from the sink as she hand-cleans her kitchen aid attachments, made back when Eisenhower was probably president.

“Truck still treating you right, Todd?” Gayle asks, lifting her voice over the stream.

“Yeah, yeah,” he calls back, shooting an uncertain glance at Obi. “Haven’t had any trouble with it since the last time.”

“Well, Bob’s already talked to Jesse,” she presses, like always. “He says he’ll look at it when he comes.”

“Aw, Gayle,” Todd sighs, suffering. “He shouldn’t have said anything. It’s fine. All Jesse’ll do is tell me I don’t take care of it right --”

“He would know,” Gayle reminds him.

“—And he’ll give me, you know, a talk.” Todd huffs. “Probably try to say something about women being engines on top of that.”

“Jesse still works at the garage?” Obi asks, know the moment he says it that it’s – dumb. It’s been six years, no one’s who he remembers except in the worst ways.

“Didn’t we tell you?” Gayle cocks her head at him. “Jesse owns his own now. Went into business with that friend of his. You remember – Scott?”

“Shane,” Todd and Obi supply at the same time. Todd glares.

“Right, Shane.” Gayle smiles. “They’ve been doing well.”

“You’d know that if you stuck around,” Todd mutters, just loud enough for Obi to hear him, and for Gayle to not.

“You done with those onions, Obi?” she asks, bright.

“Yeah, got them all chopped up here.” He points at a bowl that’s seen more of his tears than the past six years all together. “You need them somewhere.”

She drops a metal bowl between them and shoves a few handful of onions in. “Why don’t you boys mix that up and start putting the meatballs on the tray to bake. I’ll get the rest of this in the sauce.”

They give each other a wary look, but they drop their knives, mixing meat and veg and breadcrumbs up until it’s even –

“And now that you boys can’t get away,” Gayle says, hands coming down hard on the island. “Let me tell you how things are going to be.”

“What?” Todd says, the same time Obi manages an, “Erk?”

“I know you both have never seen eye-to-eye –“ Todd opens his mouth to protests, and Gayle holds up a hand – “don’t care whose fault y’all think it is, or why. That’s between you boys, ‘less you make it involve me.”

They both nod.

“That being said, you’re gonna get along this Christmas,” she tells them, firm. “You’re men, not boys, and I won’t have you ruining the whole thing for everyone just because you think you have bad blood between you.”

“But --”

“And Lord help me, if I catch either of you sniping at each other in my hearing, I will put you both into the dog house.”

Obi coughs, nervous. “Well, the Baron’s got some nice digs --”

“Not the Baron’s,” she clarifies with frightening calm. “Millie’s.”

Obi grimaces, remembering the dilapidated old thing for a dog he’d been too late to see.

“We took that down, three years back,” Todd protests, “you can’t --”

“Then I will make you put a tent in its place and share it until you both can act like civilized people.” Her hands fist on her hips. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes ma’am,” they both chorus.

“Good,” she says, firm. She turns back to the sink, like the last three minutes of threats have all just been a figment of their imagination. “Now remember, those meatballs are supposed to be tablespoon-sized, boys.”

It’s a blessing that kids’ shows don’t have any sort of continuity at Laila’s age; Shirayuki doubts that she’d be able to say a single thing about what’s been happening on the screen for the last hour, let alone tracking some sort of – of plot. It’s been hard enough to not to find some excuse to put herself in the kitchen, to make sure that Obi isn’t just suffering his slights silently, trying not to make a circus out of it for Gayle –

A hand presses firmly against her knee.

“You’re shaking the couch,” Kelly Ann tells her, voice pitched low. “Worrying about it won’t make it go any better for him.”

She knows that, she does, but not thinking about it won’t help either, and she feels like she owes him a little bit of suffering, if she’s making him face it alone –

“Besides.” Kelly Ann settles back, her arm sprawling over the back of the couch. “Gayle’s raised Todd half his life. Don’t think she doesn’t know what his sniping looks like.”

That…is a good point.

“Don’t want to interrupt your girl time.”

Shirayuki startles, twisting up on her knees to see Obi leaning in the doorway, mouth rucked up in a smirk.

“You’re not interrupting,” she assures him, a little too breathless. “Just -- watching some stuff?”

“Doc McStuffins,” Laila corrects huffily. “Not stuff.”

“Right, well.” Obi shrugs his shoulder. “When you’re done with that, Gayle says it’s time for dinner.”

Laila’s head whips around, eyes narrowed. “What’s for dinner?”

“Worms,” he says easily. “She said it was your favorite --”

“Ewwwww.” She looks at Kelly Ann. “Mommy, I don’t want to --”

“It’s meatballs and pasta,” Kelly Ann sighs. “Not worms.”

Laila glares at Obi. “But why would he say --?”

“He’s teasing, Laila-girl.” Kelly Ann glances back at him as well. “That’s what he likes to do best.”

“Well, I do like pasta and meatballs,” Laila tells him magnanimously, getting to her feet. “We can have dinner now.”

Obi gets that look in his eye, but Shirayuki is much, much to far away to whisper don’t and have him hear. “Thank you for your permission, your majesty.”

Without a single hint of irony, Laila lifts her chin, imperious as any royal. “You’re welcome.”

For once, Obi seems speechless, just watching the tiny girl sweep past. Kelly Ann barely muffles a snort.

“You should know better,” she tells him, patting his cheek as she walks by. “You don’t need to encourage little girls to be princesses.”

Shirayuki means to grab him in the hall, before dinner, but with Laila and Kelly Ann just ahead of them, there’s no privacy, no good way to pull him aside and ask – ask –

If he’s okay. If this is all getting to be a little too much for him, now that there seems to be an endless stream of disapproving siblings added to this already full emotional powder keg. If –

If it’s all right that she knows about Shannon. If this is a thing she’s supposed to talk about, or – or if she should forget she ever heard anything. Families have secrets, she knows that; every one has things they all know but pretend they don’t, just to keep the peace, but --

But she’s not used to being a part of that, not when it was always just her and Oma and Opa, and –

And it’s not until she sees it – dining room table with the leaves in, covered in a tablecloth and festive runner, dishes steaming where they sit on the table – that she realizes how long it’s been since she’s done this. Since she’s had a family dinner.

Obi’s elbow jostles her in the doorway. “Can’t eat with your eyes, Doc. C’mon, let’s go sit.”

She stumbles in, feet numb, sliding into a chair next to him. There’s been dinners out, of course, times she and Obi have cooked for Yuzuri and Suzu and Ryuu, times she’s been at Shidan’s house at dinner time and been fed a little of what everyone’s having, the team dinners that involve either pizza or barbeque being shipped in from across town, but –

That’s not this. That’s not – that’s not family stuff.

It’s like she has two left hands, both of them too dumb and clumsy to do anything but clutch at the napkin in her lap. She doesn’t trust herself to touch anything, not when she can feel them shaking in her lap, when the thorny prickle of tears sits in her throat.

“Hey.” Obi’s familiar warmth bumps into her side. “Would you like some pasta, Doc?”

It’s a relief to look at him, to see the warm smile on his face and concern in his eyes, and just nod.

He doesn’t say anything else, just grabs the serving bowl full of penne and starts rolling a few onto her plate.

“That fine, D--?” He hesitates, knuckles whitening on the serving spoon. With a quick glance up, he angles a little more toward her and corrects, “--Babe?”

He...really does not need to drop his voice like that, if he’s going to -- to call her that here. There’s a child, for goodness sake.

She glances quickly across the table, and there’s Todd, watching them with an expression far too smug for her liking.

“Um, yeah,” she manages, hoping everyone thinks her blush is from how warm the room is, and not -- not anything untoward. “Thanks, um...” She can feel Todd’s eyes on her, interested, and -- and what would Obi’s girlfriend call him --?

She panics. “...Sexy?”

The sauce ladle clanks noisily against her plate, but Obi catches the handle before it can topple over into her pasta.

“Good,” he coughs, setting it safely away from him. It’s always hard to tell with Obi, but she could swear there’s pink dusting over his cheekbones. “Glad to be of service.”

Shirayuki ducks her head, trying to focus on the food in front of her. If she’s cutting her meatballs into precise quarters, she can’t be -- be blushing over Obi, and as long as there’s food in her mouth she doesn’t have to talk or look at anyone --

Laila clears her throat, pointed. “Aren’t we gonna do grace?”

Shirayuki jolts, dropping her fork to her plate, and – and there’s not a single adult at the table who isn’t wearing an identical grimace of guilt. There’s forkfuls of pasta already en route to mouths, drinks raised to lips, hands tearing off bits of steaming garlic bread. Even Bob is trying to subtly swallow a mouthful of meatball, which at least makes the penne hanging out of Obi’s mouth less of a transgression.

All eyes shift, looking towards the authority at the table, and Gayle sighs.

“Now, honey,” she says, smoothing her napkin over her lap. “You know that when we have guests, we don’t make anyone say it.”

“But I wanna do it,” Laila whines, shrinking in her seat.

Kelly Ann sighs. “Laila --”

“I don’t mind,” Shirayuki offers, setting her fork aside, trying not to drip sauce onto the tablecloth. “Please don’t feel like you can’t on my account.”

“Me either.” Obi grins down at Laila, giving her a wink. “Take it away, kid.”

Their only warning is the cock-eyed grin she gives, before she launches into, “Good food, good meat, good God let’s eat!”

“Laila --”

“AMEN,” she tacks on, shoving a meatball straight into her mouth and grinning at her mother.

Kelly Ann is fit to be tied, hands on her hips, cheeks blown out with all the scolding she’s fit between them –

Bob breaks first.

His shoulder shake, his eyes screw shut, and for a good second Shirayuki’s afraid he’ll fly apart like a motor under too much strain, until –

Until his laugh bursts out of him, so hard he’s hitting his hand against the table, like he needs to tap out.

“Dad,” Kelly Ann gasps, scandalized, but it’s too late, now that Bob’s broken the seal, none of them can keep it in.

Shirayuki has to bury her face behind a napkin, trying to cover up the tears running out of her eyes, trying to avoid the glares Kelly Ann is trying to send all of them.

“That’s a good one,” Obi tells Laila, and then shoves in his own mouthful.

Kelly Ann glares. “Don’t encourage her.”

Obi shrugs, shooting her a bolder grin than Shirayuki would dare.

“So,” Todd interjects, stabbing his pasta with a bit more force than necessary. “How’d you two meet? I haven’t heard the story.”

Obi has never looked happier to have his mouth full. Shirayuki sighs. “We met sophomore year. I transferred in a month into the first semester. Obi and I shared a coffee shop.”

Because he was following me, is the part of the story she leaves out.

“Transferring a month in?” Todd takes a drink. “Sounds like a story.”

Her fingers ache where the edge of the fork digs into them. “I --”

She doesn’t know how to do this, how to make black fingernails and Rohypnol and weeks of fruitless litigation into dinner-talk, into a nice little package that somehow leads to – to this. To a long term boyfriend and romantic moments and family dinners.

Especially since it didn’t.

It’s easy to leave out the worst parts of things between her and Obi, to leave out what remains of Zen in those first few years, but she doesn’t know how to invent something wholesale that isn’t just…a complete lie.

Because that’s important, somehow. That she doesn’t lie. That even with all the pretending, Obi’s family knows her.

And they can’t do that, not if she makes up some story about -- about switching majors, or moving closer to home, or whatever reason someone could have that isn’t potential sexual assault.

But she doesn’t have to.

“It is,” Obi says, with the sort of finality that says the topic is done.

She’d expect Todd to pick, to pry, but his gaze shift to her, assessing, and instead says, “So y’all live in Florida?”

“For now,” Obi says, letting her pick at her meal. “We’re doing our PhD down there, but I think the eventual plan is Boston.”

-- It’s just disappointing. Zen sighs, and she knows she deserves it, deserves his frustration. It just feels like you aren’t even planning on coming back, sometimes --

She nearly bites her tongue. “I mean, maybe. That’s – a good place to start looking.”

Obi’s head snaps toward her, a question in his eyes, but she looks down, finding her side salad engrossing.

“You live close by to each other?” Todd asks, so innocent.

“Oh, we – we share an apartment,” she says, not even thinking. Todd’s eyes take on a triumphant gleam, and she knows she’s given him exactly what he wanted.

His gaze darts to Gayle. “Oh, so you live together?”

Obi’s mouth pulls flat, but with a look at Laila, he keeps it shut.

“Did you hear that?” Todd presses, when Gayle doesn’t even blink. “Obi and Shirayuki live together.”

“Todd,” she says, turning the most unimpressed, motherly look on him. “Of course they do! You know expensive rent is.” She turns a bright smile to the both of them, radiating approval. “And I must say, they keep the place looking lovely. Don’t they, Bob?”

“Well, we didn’t get the grand tour,” Bob allows, reaching for the garlic bread, “but they got quite a cozy nest for themselves, from what I’ve seen.”

“Doc’s got a gift,” Obi tells them, sending her a wink. “If it was me, the whole place would be in black.”

Gayle rolls her eyes heavenward. “Don’t we know it.”

That sends a laugh around the table -- all except Todd, who throws himself against the back of his chair, arms folded, and lets out an annoyed huff.

“What about you, Toddy?” Obi’s grin takes on a sharp slant. “Bringing home anyone special, lately?”

Shirayuki’s half-afraid dinner is about to come to blows -- by his look, Todd does not have a special someone, and Obi clearly knew better than to ask -- but she’s saved by a timely buzz against her stomach.

“My phone!” she gasps, pulling it out from the pocket of her hoodie. “I’m so sorry! I forgot to turn it off.”

Gayle smiles. “Happens to everyone, baby girl.”

It’s not fair that -- that Obi’s family knows how to do this to her, how to make her feel warm, melty, like she’s really one of them --

She looks down, if only to blink away the sting in her eyes, and she sees big blue one staring up at her.

“Oh!” She smiles, flashing the screen at Obi. “It’s Ryuu. He just was asking if we were going to call tonight. Kirito is driving him crazy, I think.”

Obi coughs out a laugh. “Poor kid. We did warn him.”

“Ryuu?” Gayle prompts.

“He’s someone else in our program,” she says, at the same time Obi offers proudly, “He’s a kid prodigy.”

Shirayuki glances up at him. She’d been playing it safe, not giving any information Obi doesn’t offer, if she doesn’t have to, but --

But one look at him, at the pride radiating from his face, and she knows -- Ryuu isn’t someone he has to hide. That he wants to hide.

“He’s sixteen now, and starting his PhD with us,” she explains. “He was our TA, my first year at Clarines.”

“He’s not great with people,” Obi offers, “but we’re getting there with the whole…being a regular kid thing. Our boss has a nephew his age, and that’s sort of…made him normal out, a bit. You know, get used to other kids/”

“He’s a really sweet boy,” Shirayuki tells them, aware she might be -- be gushing, just a bit. “He likes to snapchat flowers to me when he’s doing fieldwork. Here, I saved a couple.”

She hands her phone down the table, and Obi pulls out his own.

“Hold up, I think I got a few of his videos too.” He flicks through his phone, engrossed. “Kirito -- his friend -- has been teaching him how to skateboard, and they’ve been recording some of it -- ah, here it is.”

He sets his phone in front of her too, eager and -- and Gayle just looks at them, eyes shining.

“Well,” she says, soft. “Doesn’t that sound nice.”

Bob reaches over, squeezing her hand. She springs to life at that, patting at her pockets.

“Let me just find my glasses,” she tells them, smile so wide it nearly splits her face. “And I’ll get a look at your boy.”

[peridot-gladioli]

Daredevil Fan-fiction (First Draft)

(AN: This is a Daredevil Prompt Meme fill for the prompt: past Elektra/Matt, eventual Foggy/Matt: Elektra had Matt's child after their Columbia liaison.

Post-DD Season 2; AU---Canon Divergence; AU from Season 02; Not Defenders Compliant; Not DD Season 3 Compliant.)

Chapter One

Afterwards. Two weeks and two days after Matt had last spoken to Karen, two weeks and four days after he and Stick had stood in a snowy graveyard and buried Elektra, and five weeks after the dissolution of Nelson and Murdock (although that was still on-going, untwining two lives from each other—the lease on the office, the business account, the start-up loans, the half-dozen pre-Castle clients who still owed on their bills—not being as simple as walking away from Foggy and his box of stuff: who knew?)

Daredevil still went out at night but, in the daytime, Matt Murdock curled up on his couch under a blanket and tried to remember how living worked. Only alive when he was Daredevil? No, not even.

The Hand had scattered and gone to ground, the Punisher had disappeared; purse-snatchers and attempted rapists were hardly enough of a challenge to get his adrenalin flowing. It was like he was sleep-walking through his fights. And he knew that inattention made it more likely for even an unskilled opponent to get in that lucky shot, even with Melvin’s body armour, but he could not really bring himself to care.

January. Bleakest month. The holiday season over (for the first time in eleven years, Foggy had not dragged Matt off to Christmas with the Nelsons; for the first time in eleven years, he and Foggy had not seen in the New Year tipsily leaning into one another for the countdown; for the first time in eleven years, Foggy had not smacked an exuberant kiss against his cheek at the stroke of midnight) and spring was too far away.

Grey skies and short days did not make much of a difference to Matt, but the cold ate into his senses, and layers of coats, gloves, and scarfs insulated him from his usual feedback of the world as well as from the cold. Snow muffled both scent and sound and ice underfoot made it hard even for him to get around without accident. The despair of the occasional howling storm—blizzard or ice-storm—certainly did not help.

Matt was no stranger to loss or grief or depression and guilt was a permanent partner but now, in the space afterwards, the past six months stood out in all the clarity of hindsight: The Many Mistakes of Matthew Michael Murdock.

He had been wrong. Over and over again. And his mistakes had gotten Foggy shot, Claire attacked at work (and her friend killed), Karen dragged from her home and held hostage, and Elektra killed. Even Brett Mahoney had been beaten up because of him. It was an impressive tally.

He had been wrong to get Claire involved with those kids he rescued from the Hand. He should have known that if they were important enough to be used for whatever ritual required drugging them and draining their blood, the Hand would try to get them back, putting not only Claire and her colleagues but every patient at Metro General at risk—and Met Gen patients that night had included Foggy. He deserved her cutting ties and walking away—just as Claire deserved freedom from all the bullshit that clung to and followed him.

He had been wrong to date Karen—especially with Elektra back in New York, messing with his head and his heart and turning him all around as effectively as she had done when he had been nineteen. Karen deserved better and he had deserved the sharp sting of her palm against his cheek when he had finally come clean to her about Daredevil and about the woman she had found in his bed and about his disappearances. Karen deserved the space from him she asked for as she rebuilt her life and career for at least the second time he knew of.

He had wronged Karen with Elektra: it had been emotional, if not physical, infidelity (and, his guilt said, were you really being physically faithful as you sat around with Elektra in your underwear, touching each other’s scars?). He had wronged Karen with all the things he told Elektra she meant to him and only she could understand—he had never given Karen a chance to understand, hiding his abilities and his violence from her.

He had wronged Elektra—after a lifetime of being manipulated and controlled by Stick and the Chaste, he had attempted to save her, redeem her, free her, by manipulation and control, telling her who she was and how she ought to be and condemning her when she wasn’t who he wanted her to be (“Why do you see the speck in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the beam in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ while all the time there is a beam in your own? You hypocrite!”)

He had wronged Foggy with making him an accessory after the fact to Daredevil; with secrets and lies; with the whole mess of the Castle case, especially effectively abandoning him to it; with flaking out on him and their responsibilities due to Elektra—just as he had done back in college, dear God; probably he had wronged Foggy by letting the other man befriend him back when they were still in their teens, though Foggy’s warmth and friendship had felt inescapable, like a gravity well or a magnet drawing iron filings.

He had wronged Foggy, too, with all the things he told Elektra about who he was and how only she got him.

In this Purgatorial space—working out his redemption by suffering, trying to make amends and trying do right by others by severing the ties that would drag them down with him and get them tainted, hurt, and killed by the poison and the violence he carried with him—he realised, at last, that Foggy’s friend was as important a part of him as Elektra’s lover. The fever and passion and excitement of the months he spent as one, did not negate the warmth and comfort and peace of the years he spent as the other. He was both. He needed both. Because if the loss of Elektra was an ugly gaping wound that would not stop bleeding, then missing Foggy was the loss of a limb or a sense.

In Foggy’s absence, he remembered the man who had taken care of him, who had run around Hell’s Kitchen trying to find him before the police did after Castle shot him. In Foggy’s absence, he remembered the friend who had tried to support him and understand him, even while he could not empathise with Matt’s need for violence. In Foggy’s absence, he remembered the friend who somehow forgave him for secrets and lies, and who left, but came back as soon as he had calmed down. In Foggy’s absence, he remembered the friend who had taken down Fisk with him—and put himself in danger. In Foggy’s absence, he heard Fisk saying “Franklin Percy Nelson” and the fear actually penetrated the clouds of depression and the numbness of too much pain.

Elektra was dead.

But Foggy was absent.

Stick had been right. Matt Murdock got people hurt and he got people killed and no matter how much it hurt him, he had to cut them loose, for their sakes. They were better off without him.

Foggy deserved the corner office and the good salary and assistants and recognition of his skills and Foggy deserved Marci (if she made him happy). Foggy deserved all the happiness.

Foggy had never deserved a “best friend” who was afraid to love him and could never acknowledge how much he meant to him and who had no experience or knowledge of how to be a friend. Matt had never deserved Foggy. And now Foggy was going to have his best life without the millstone of Matt Murdock tied around his neck.

But oh, God.

Matt had forgotten what loneliness felt like. Even those horrible few days after Foggy had found out about Daredevil, when they weren’t talking, had not felt like this.

The weeks After Elektra the first time (after Roscoe Sweeney, after coming face-to-face with his own violence and anger and their limits, after feeling as though he had lost his father all over again) had not felt like this. Because After Elektra had been Foggy, had been calm and comfort and encouragement and Foggy-hugs… Foggy had made him feel almost like his dad had made him feel. Like his dad putting a cool, damp washcloth on his forehead when he had been a kid and was ill.

Like someone holding his hand after a nightmare.

(Foggy had literally done that a few nights as Matt dreamed all over again of finding his dad’s body, the absence of breath or heartbeat, the smell of Old Spice and blood and gunpowder; or dreamed of smashing Sweeney’s face in until he killed him, blood and adrenalin lingering in his nostrils, hearing and smelling Elektra’s excitement beside him.)

Now, as then, Matt slept in the daytime—and as much and whenever he could—escaping into sleep, because he did not always dream about Karen or Elektra or Foggy, and even when he did, sometimes they were dreams of how things used to be and he dreamed he was happy, even if they were agony to wake from.

He tried to remember to eat once a day so he didn’t feel nauseous or pass out. (Though that was hard as he had no appetite.)

But there was no one to sit with him when the nightmares came and no one bringing him food that was easy or tempting.

He put on the suit and patrolled at night.

He tried to express his emotions through his fists: his anger, his grief. His love. His loss.

He wished he could cry but tears would not come.

He loved Elektra, passionately. Loved her still. Prayed for her. Bargained with God for her soul. Grieved for her, ached for her.

But he missed Foggy.

He missed Karen.

For the first time since Stick had taught him to compensate for his blindness, his life was defined by absence, defined by lack and he was lost.

He was pulled from his fugue on the couch by the buzzer. Someone being insistent on his buzzer. He got up and dragged his blanket over to it, answered, was surprised to find the guy on the other end actually did want Matt Murdock and wasn’t trying random apartments to get into the building.

Someone had sent him a Registered Mail package.

He let the—older, smoker, early stage bronchitis—man in, uncaring of whether or not it was true. Opened his door uncaring of the sweatpants and hoodie he had been getting in and out of every day for a week, uncaring that he had no idea about the state of his hair (his facial scruff was approaching full-on beard, he knew); the Matt Murdock who cared about these things was somewhere behind the fog.

He scribbled something with the stylus on the touch screen of the delivery guy’s scanner, took a sealed cardboard document wallet in return, shut the door and wandered back to the couch while pulling the seal-tab open and dipping his hand inside. Two envelopes within the outer one: a small padded one and a Legal-size open end. High grade paper: laid bond—rag, not wood-pulp.

Curious, he opened the Legal envelope first, fingertips finding the first line of braille on even higher-grade paper: The Last Will and Testament of Elektra Maria Natchios.

He nearly dropped the whole lot. May have staggered on his feet a little.

That cut through the fog.

Who would send him a copy of Elektra’s will? Why?

And the pain, like a knife to the chest, of the sharp reminder that she was dead. It did not reawaken his grief--that was a still-unhealed wound, raw and bloody and weeping--but it was a harsh touch against that wound. An added pain that made him shrink away.

He collapsed onto the couch, setting the paperwork in his lap, fingertips skimming the legal preamble of the will… And Evander Matthews, being my only child, a minor…

His mind exploded. Too many tracks, too many trains of thought.

Elektra had a child? Elektra had been a mother? Had she just left this child—boy—Evander—with staff in some property of hers, or boarding school, the way she had joked back in college about doing with their children?

Elektra had a son and she had killed a teenage boy without a second thought.

Did Stick know? When he dragged her into his war, when he had tried to have her killed, did he know he would be orphaning some young boy?

Jesus. Did the Hand know? Was the child of a Black Sky… something? To them? Would they be seeking this child out for their dark purposes?

Would Stick try to use this boy as he had used Elektra, or try to kill him, as he had killed that other boy, the one he said was a Black Sky?

Over Matt’s dead body…

And who was the father? Matthews? A coincidence, surely.

Why send Matt a copy of this will?

He felt down the right edge of the document and found what he was looking for—index tabs, presumably marking out the sections relevant to him. Followed the first one, and yes, there was his name… named as Guardian to this Evander.

He wanted to shake Elektra and explain that usually you told someone you had a child and asked them if they were willing to take care of him, before you named them as Guardian in your will.

And the next clause named him as one of the trustees of Evander’s trust fund.

And then left him money—fifty thousand US dollars, cash, plus stock investments worth as much again. A hundred thousand bucks. Dear God.

And property—the deeds to a house in the Hamptons. Jesus.

When did Elektra do all this? Why did Elektra do all this?

He put the will aside and felt for the padded envelope, nearly laughing when his fingers discovered “OPEN THIS FIRST” written on it in heavily indented ballpoint pen. The sort of thing that would have been instantly visible but which he had not noticed because he had not felt more than the edges of the envelopes before opening one.

Inside the padded envelope, a piece of cardstock—a password and bank details written on it, a safety deposit box key taped to it—and a thumb drive.

He got up, fetched his laptop, booted it up for the first time in days, inserted the thumb-drive and entered the password when prompted.

One file, audio, his laptop informed him.

Open.

“Hello, Matthew,” Elektra said.

Close.

He couldn’t catch his breath. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He could not sit here and listen to Elektra’s voice. Especially not talking about… this. Her son. (His son?) Her will. Why she wanted him to be Evander’s guardian. Why she left him money and stock and a house and a child. Not when he would never hear Elektra’s living voice again.

He needed a drink. He needed his questions answered. He needed Elektra here, with him, telling him this stuff in person and not leaving him to read it in a legal document and hear it in an audio file after her death.

He needed Foggy: his sharp mind, his generous heart, his clarity of vision. Foggy could help him make sense of this. But he had lost that right. He had driven Foggy away and Foggy had gone—and he had to remember that it was what was best for Foggy.

Matt was being selfish.

There was still something else he could do. The safety deposit box, the key, the address of a bank branch in Manhattan.

Probably not a good idea to go dressed like this.

So. Shower. Shave. Suit and tie.

Find out what else Elektra had left him. (Oh God.)

He could do that.

[ayearofpike]

The Last Vampire 5: Evil Thirst

Pocket Books, 1996 179 pages, 18 chapters ISBN 0-671-55050-0 LOC: CPB Box no. 654 vol. 9 OCLC: 34952388 Released June 4, 1996 (per B&N)

Sita has not heard from her new friend and her baby, and is worried that her daughter might have already carried out her evil scheme. There is a way she can find out, though: a local anthropologist claims to have a document written by a teacher in ancient Egypt that foretold the next coming of a Christ figure, to be born on the day that Sita’s friend had her baby. It adds fuel to the fire that this might be for real when Sita realizes the teacher was her friend, back when she first left India, and Sita knows of her abilities. Maybe together, Sita and the group that has formed around this ancient text can save the baby. Or maybe not.

For what should have been a straight-up  sequel, this book certainly throws in a new story all of a sudden. We’re following Kalika, we’re wondering what’s going to happen to this immaculate conception baby, and now there’s Egyptians. As per usual, it seems that Pike can’t ever leave a thread of research unexplored in multiple books. We got the Egypt thing in The Visitor and The Lost Mind, so I guess it was just something he was learning about and excited to share.

I remember, at the time, being excited that these last three Sita books were coming out in such quick succession. Finally, I said to myself, he’s got a plan of where to take this story and will finish it up and get on with his other work. And TLV4 certainly lived up to that promise. But I got to the end of this one and thought: OK, that’s wrapped this up. Where could he possibly take it from here? (Answer: we’ll find out next time.) Unpopular opinion: I thought The Hunger Games could have been done (and stronger) in one book. So I wasn’t super thrilled when Pike all but closed the story here and BUT WAIT there’s one more coming this fall!

That’s not to say that this was a bad story, necessarily. We start with Sita and Seymour (who of course isn’t leaving her again) in line for a lecture on this ancient text, three months after the confrontation with Kalika on the pier. You might remember that Sita had told her friend to call in a month, so naturally she’s upset and anxious that she hasn’t heard from her. She hasn’t told Seymour how she brought him back to life — as far as he’s concerned, he passed out in the cold water and woke up in the mountains. But they go in to the lecture, pausing to meet the anthropologist’s adult son, who gives Sita a ladyboner for only the second time in recent memory. 

The lecture is a lot like stuff we’ve seen. The anthropologist (whose last name is Seter; this will be important later) talks a little bit about how he found the document and what it says in regards to a messiah, but mostly he answers questions. Sita has a couple of pointed questions about the calendar system and the gods mentioned in the text, which has her intended effect of getting Doc and Son to meet with her after the lecture. She says she wants to see the whole thing, and to convince them to let her into its presence she claims to have another document written by this ancient teacher. Of course there is no such thing; Sita didn’t even know this one existed, and she hung out with the teacher literally the whole time she was a teacher. But she’s still a vampire, and so she’s able to hypnotize the boys into believing her and letting her follow them to their facility in Palm Springs, where the scroll is kept.

There are like 20 True Believers at the place, and Sita’s been eavesdropping across the traffic and knows they have weapons to protect the Next Coming from the Dark Mother. She also knows they are suspicious of her, so she tries not to alarm them. Though she does touch a five-thousand-year-old papyrus scroll with her bare hands while she reads her teacher’s handwriting. Yes, it looks real. She promises to show them her imaginary scroll later, then goes out to the desert and meditates on what she saw. This allows for a nifty device where Sita can remember how she met her teacher, some hundred years after she was turned, and how even before she started having visions and healing people Sita knew she was special.

She goes home in the morning and immediately the phone rings. Of course it’s Kalika, taunting Sita about her wild goose chase after this scroll and warning again that she won’t be stopped in her search for the baby. Sita picks up enough background audio to get an idea of where Kalika might be staying, and Seymour thinks maybe this was intentional. He saw Kalika open up B-Baller and wants to get the fuck out, but Sita knows that this might be an opportunity to get rid of her, if she can get the True Believer Militia to take her out. To get Seymour on board, she finally tells him the truth of his death and rebirth. But before they call in the heavy artillery, they have to find Kalika, so they track down buildings that match Sita’s audio clues and find Kalika living in the first one they check. Lucky? Or on purpose?

Sita and Seymour take off for San Francisco to corner Doc and Son after another lecture, with articles that show the danger of the Dark Mother. OK, so a lot of them are murders caused by Eddie, and there’s also the Matrix/Blade chase and the nuclear explosion. The only thing she has in her file that Kalika actually did is a story about a dead b-baller who had his throat ripped apart. Still, it’s enough for Doc and Son to believe that there’s a dangerous force in Los Angeles and they’d better try to take it out. They send a strike force into Kalika’s apartment, twenty people with assault rifles and body armor, in a pincer formation through the door and both balconies, but she murders them like so many ants. Sita races over to try and stop the carnage, but Kalika hits her with a still-dying body and chucks her off the eighteenth-story balcony into the pool, because Pike.

By the time she gets back to the observation window, it’s too late. Kalika has killed the snipers posted there, and basically made Doc shit his pants and give up everything about the ancient Egyptian document. (Lucky for Son, he wasn’t in the room.) They blast back to the True Believer facility, and sure enough the basement is a wreck and there are scraps of parchment everywhere. Sita reads about the coming strife in the early months of the Next Coming and where he’ll encounter it, about war between worshippers of Set and worshippers of Isis, and on a separate piece of papyrus (of a different texture) about the coming of the Dark Mother, Kali Ma. So everything she understands is true.

But she still doesn’t understand where this document came from. She meditates on her relationship with the teacher some more, and remembers how she didn’t cast Sita out upon discovering her vampiric nature. She thinks about how the teacher slowly turned into a miracle healer, with herbal remedies and some kind of auric repair service, before being discovered by the region’s queen and being asked to interpret a dream. The teacher interprets it to the queen’s satisfaction (and her high priest’s consternation) and is then kept on to work in the palace. Surely there will be no conflict of interest.

Sita next finds herself in B-Baller’s mom’s house again, where she learns that he was diagnosed with end-stage leukemia and given three months to live. New information that might change how she views her daughter’s nature. She still doesn’t know where to look for the next step, though, so she decides to check back at the ice-cream truck where she found Book 4′s deus ex machina, just in case there’s another one. And sure enough, the homeless dude is there, and he wants to play blackjack, which gives Sita just enough clues to go along with the ancient document and realize: New Friend and Baby are at Lake Tahoe. Yes, somehow this ancient Egyptian was able to predict that there would be a casino there, where you could play blackjack, and the storage and dealing device they’d use to hold cards at the tables would be called a “shoe.” Shhh, just go with it.

We get another flashback chapter, where Sita tells us about the queen going whole-hog in reversing the state religion from Set-worship to Isis-worship (as alluded to in the document), and Sita having to protect her teacher friend from countless assassination attempts. They happen as the high priest of Set is a master of Seedling, forcing others to do his will, and his will is to have minions go kill the usurper. (Which ... I fuckin’ told you, this is Cold One II.) This ultimately leads to Sita facing off against the high priest out in the desert. She feels like, hey, no sweat, I’ve been a vampire at least as long as Edward Cullen, I can take this dude. But what she didn’t realize is that the high priest has invoked an ancient lizard through the use of mind-melding and identical twins (which, like ... you know) and is stronger than she realizes. Plus he has power over the elements. He melts her sword, stabs her with a poisoned dagger, and manipulates the sand to lock around her limbs, then leaves her in the desert to be eaten by flies while he returns to town and takes over. At high noon, sure enough, there’s a massive earthquake that knocks Sita free of her bonds, and when she gets back to town ... there is no town. There’s just a hole. So she figured the high priest lost control and ended up killing everyone, including himself.

The remaining four Freedom Fighters drive to Tahoe and quickly triangulate on the house where New Friend is hiding. But they’re too late — Kalika has been there, and grabbed the baby, and is boating out across the lake with him. Sita manages to sink the boat, but Kalika and the baby make it to an island. She swims out there and corners them, but before she can make Kalika do anything Doc’s Son arrives to help. Or does he? Quick as anything he’s got a knife to Sita’s throat ... a knife that looks oddly familiar. 

Remember the last name and how I said it would be important? Seter. Set-er. Set worshipper. Now, I’ve left out the part about how this dude was adopted by Doc as an older teenager, which might throw a wrench into the foreshadowing of the name. Like, would a high school senior really change his name even if he was taken in by a caring old man? I’m not sure I’m all the way on board with this, even if it was needed to make him seem more connected to the cause by giving him the same name up front.

So he takes Sita’s gun and blasts the unholy fuck out of Kalika, then cuts Sita’s throat with the poisoned dagger and stabs it into her back, and then he boats off with the baby, who only now starts crying. Sita figures it’s all over, she misread the scroll and now humanity is totally fucked. Only Kalika works her way over to Sita and feeds her the blood pouring from her exposed heart, giving enough to heal her mother before she dies. When Sita makes it back to shore, she finds Doc dying of heart failure, unable to believe that his adopted son would have betrayed him so hard to the point of having a heart attack. She also finds Seymour bleeding out from a shotgun blast to the stomach. (I really don’t know if Pike knows how a shotgun works, if he thinks you can shoot one nine or ten times without reloading.) There’s no more Jeebus Baby blood, so she has to turn him. And that’s the last we hear from Seymour in this book.

Sita has more important things to do, like finding Jeebus Baby and Lizard Priest. And she thinks she knows where they’ll be: at the place where New Friend had relations with a giant blue star. She starts thinking about New Friend, which makes the star show up, and once more Sita is floating as a transparent ghost vampire or whatever the hell. She spots Lizard Priest below, and he’s waiting for someone: a spaceship full of lizards that is made of some kind of ethereal stuff. Sita realizes that her only chance is to go into the spaceship and possess one of the lizard aliens. She’s in the strongest and ugliest one when the ship lands and the aliens start taunting the baby. But Sita forces the alien to look into the baby’s eyes, and the mesmer of the baby protects her from being subjugated by Seedling, and she grabs the lizard’s knife and stabs Lizard Priest in the eye. And suddenly the spectral aliens disappear, and Sita has Lizard Priest’s knife embedded in his eye. She does the other one and grabs the baby, and then slits his throat for good measure. There’s a whoosh as the spectral aliens take off, and Sita and the baby start back to the car.

And that’s the end of The Last Vampire 5: Evil Thirst! So you see what I mean by ending the story? Sure, they have to drive back to Lake Tahoe or whatever and return the baby to his mom, and Seymour’s a vampire now at long last, but ... is any of it necessary? Is it even germane to the part of the story that will come next? I honestly don’t remember, but I think probably not? We’ll find out next time, as the Pocket editions of the Sita stories come to a close.

[dekkyswriting]

Fairies Tell No Lies

The shrill ringing of my phone startled me from my novel. Faux leather creaked as I shifted and groaned in my black office chair. My hand slapped on my L-shaped wooden office desk as it searched for the landline, finally snagging it after a few seconds of flapping around.

“Mark Bishop, magical handyman,” I said into the receiver, deftly hiding the irritation in my voice. “What can I do for ya?”

“Hello,” A gruff man’s voice said on the other end of the line “The city’s got a job for you Mr. Bishop. There’s some shady shit goin’ on over at the the Spring Heights Cemetery, we need you to check it out.”

“Yeah sure, what’s your name and where’s the address,” I asked, my free hand sifting through my desk’s disparately organized piles of bills and notes for a pen and a post-it

“Captain Johnson of supernatural investigations. Your address is the eleven-twenty two Mulberry Avenue. The security guard will let you in and your rates forwarded to your account upon completion. No officers will be present.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right over.”

I let out a tired sigh. Not a single ounce of my body wanted to get up and do work despite my depressing lack of clients that month. The police presence and subsequent lack of direct involvement put my nerves a little on edge and tempted me to outright turn down the job. Ultimately, though, the proposition of covering my rent for the month far outweighed the climax of the novel I had been reading. I returned the thick paperback volume to its place on a wall high bookshelf stacked with fake leather tomes to make my magic talent appear a bit more credible and books to keep myself entertained as I waited for clients to call or visit. The rest of my office consisted of an IKEA desk with a desktop placed off to one side and covered in misshapen stacks of paper and a small sitting room. It was a place I had designed to complement my relatively sparse paper strewn office with a reasonably comfortable couch and armchair set around a circular low white table with a black clock-and-gear pattern across the face. I grabbed my morning brew and retreated back to my marginally smaller office, which consisted of my paper strewn IKEA desk and a shelf full of fake leather ‘tomes’ I’d acquired to give potential clients the idea that I really know what I’m doing, which leads me onto one of the more irritating aspects of my chosen profession: people inherently believe magic makes all things easier.

There are two things people don’t understand about my job. One, magic doesn’t make anything about plumbing easier and two, the five years’ of magic’s existence on this earth hasn’t given anyone nearly enough time to learn everything. Either way, work is work. I grabbed my staff and toolbox and strolled to my car.

Twenty minutes and three wrong turns later, my silver Nissan sedan finally turned into Spring Heights Cemetery, home of over fifty-thousand corpses. The place tried to look picturesque with red brick walls and a wrought iron gate lined with a well-kept garden. In my opinion, the ironic name takes away the entire fantasy.

I stepped out of my car with well worn jeans, work boots, and a grey T-shirt and loaded up with a toolbox filled with a mixture of ‘magical’ implements and mundane tools. To complete my costume, I pulled a shoulder-height maple wood staff carved with some celtic runes out from the back seat. I don’t often use the thing, as I only find it useful for focusing magic in the short term, but it looks cool and adds a bit more authenticity to my shtick.

“I’m Mark Bishop,” I greeted as I approached the guard booth next to the gate. “Here for a call on graveyard problems.”

“Er, hello Mr. Bishop,” The guard responded. He was a skinny guy in a grey guard uniform, and young too. His brass colored name tag read Josh. “You can come in through the pedestrian gate. Just please get rid of our zombie problem.”

“Hold up,” I drew the ‘hold’ on for longer than I should have, “I was called to get rid of a bunch of zombies?”

“Y-yeah?”

“What other details did they leave out?”

“Well, the zombies come out at night and stand in the mist. The government guys think they’re gearing up for an invasion of the city.”

“So you call up a magical handyman instead of someone who’s actually cut out for this work?” I let out an exasperated groan and mentally facepalmed. “Reverent Michael would’ve been a much better fit for this job.”

“I think you’re allowed to turn down the job if you want.” Josh said in confusion.

“No, no. I’ll do it.” I sighed, “This stuff just isn’t totally up my alley. Let me get a few things and I’ll get rid of your problem a day or so.”

I returned to my car and retrieved a Dick’s green folding chair and a red cooler from the trunk. Josh seemed to make a move to protest the new additions to my gear but reluctantly buzzed the pedestrian gate open. I gave Josh a polite wave and strolled in.

Despite the oppressive air of death and silence, the interior of Spring Heights turned out to be about as pretty as a cemetery can get. Closely cut bright green grass matched almost perfectly with the middle-aged oaks and bright flowers which sat upon ornately chiseled granite headstones lined an unmarked single lane road and meter wide sidewalks. At corners of the roads sat small flowerbeds protected by ornate and well-kept black fences. One somewhat pleasant thing about the cemetery were the hills. Spring Heights stuck true to the latter half of it’s name and boasted a suspiciously smooth and high hill close to the center, topped with a wide looping cul-de-sac of expensive mausoleums. Incidentally the best place for me to set up shop until nightfall, the time when the zombies were to come out.

There’s another assumption that a lot of people make about magic: that the power can allow one to make something out of nothing. In my experience, that simply isn’t the case. If anyone was summoning zombies, they were going around and digging up corpses for reanimation using whatever sickly power clung to the graveyard’s interior, and I imagined that someone would have made mention of upturned graves before hiring me. Which likely meant that there were no such zombies around. But that also didn’t mean they couldn’t be something worse than zombies, so I had to organize myself a little defense should that something ever stroll out of the mist.

At least from what I’ve found of magic, the use of circles integral to longer term magic. They represent what I call the three “C’s” of magic: Containment, Circulation, and Control. By focusing on these three aspects while drawing out a circle, even one as simple as a bit of chalk on the ground, one can greatly amplify the amount of power they can control now that they’re using a symbol as a medium for control rather than their bodies as a lot of young and upstart mages tend to do and, if you do it right, they can be self sustaining until the creator chooses to dispel the power, or someone finds an alternative way to break the circle. I needed a circle for protection and I wanted to keep those physically binding energies away from myself, so I chalked up a wide double-layered circle around my gear and lined the space in between with figures representing the capture and containment of magic as well as runes representing an impenetrable defense. In storybooks, that’s where the wizard would have stopped, but magic just isn’t that simple. I then had to fire up the circle, yet another thing that many people don’t understand is integral to magic: time.

I settled into my chair in as close as I could get as a meditative position and focused, sifting through the sickly dark energies of the graveyard for the powers which would be integral to my spell. Energies of the earth. I mentally reached downwards, deep into the earth and far past the graves of those below, pulling up a faint trail of rocklike sturdiness, the assurance that no matter how strong a storm might be, the fortress wall can weather it for centuries before eroding away. I fed the power to my circle, constructing a rock-solid barrier of force mystical brick by mystical brick, the end result being an invisible barrier of pure physical force that should prevent any zombies from getting through my circle, at least for a limited amount of time..

The circle probably took me the better part of an hour to get everything set up, but it was worth it. Any sort of barrier between me and any possible nasties on the other side was a welcome one to have, though the barrier itself would surely dissipate within a day if I didn’t dispel it beforehand. I set my alarm to ring at nightfall settled down with a sandwich and a Sprite, and waited.

I awoke to my phone’s alarm, ringing the comforting sounds of rain and wind chimes. Somehow, I had fallen asleep in the few hours it had taken for the sun to finally set and mist to seep out of the picturesque green grass. Thankfully, I was more than well rested enough to face the inevitable night ahead. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the deep darkness of nightfall.

My ears seemed to adjust with my eyes as the pale light of the moon and stars barely illuminated Spring Heights Cemetery. The formerly bright and plastic surroundings took to a more looming tone. Anywhere else, I would have been able to see reasonably far around the cemetery, yet my gaze hit a wall of mist twenty feet out just past the crest of the hill. Faint silhouettes seemed to shamble around the very edge of the mist. The moment my eyes caught on, the faint moans of air passing through dry, cracked lungs and throats seemed to drift towards my ears. I frowned. My little bubble of magic sat in the middle of Spring Heights, more than far enough away from the gates that no one could possibly hear a cry for help, much less respond to it with the stigma of a zombie infestation. Whoever was controlling the zombies had every reason to surround and and beat down upon my barrier to follow up and tear me from limb to limb. After all, I had no reputation of slinging around copious amounts of power. Nor would any magic user powerful enough to summon and control that many zombies have any reason to believe I could.

Unless there weren’t any zombies in the first place.

The moment realization washed over my mind, I immediately picked up my staff and whispered a deactivation keyphrase. My invisible barrier dropped and I stepped out. The sudden chill of night bit into my skin as I strolled further towards the mist. Yet, no matter how far I traveled, the mist seemed to remain a steady twenty feet away in any direction.

There’s always a saying that third time’s a charm. I take that saying to heart. First, no zombies had attacked me. Second, I couldn’t walk into the mist and none of the silhouettes approached me. Third, I set up a burning torch with the intent of burning away the oppressive mist. Needless to say, that attempt failed. The mist and zombies were definitely illusions.

Now came the difficult part: figuring out who was running the illusion. I was no expert in that particular field of magic, I prefer to stick to my runes and circles, but it was my knowledge that it was a magic that required active focus. The caster worked as a projector of sorts, conjuring and maintaining an absolutely perfect image of the illusion as it was to appear in the eyes of the target. In all honesty, it was a far more impressive feat than a necromancer summoning a bunch of zombies. Not to mention, an illusion the size of a cemetery was nothing a human could possibly pull off.

“What a curious little mortal we have here,” A woman’s voice drifted from over my shoulder. It seemed to be tinged with the rustling of dry autumn leaves blowing across asphalt.

“You’re right about that,” I replied as my gaze shifted about, trying to catch the source of the voice, “I’m very curious as to why a fairy is toying with a graveyard.”

“This matter does not concern you.” The voice turned harsher this time. More leaves rustled on the tinges of her voice.

“I’m afraid I have a stake here, Autumn Fairy.” I gripped my staff tight enough for my knuckles to turn white in order to keep my composure. Fairies are terrifying things, and powerful beyond anything a human I know can do. There would be no fighting in this one.

“What a smart mortal we have here,” The fairy said. Windy laughter floated all around me as a gust of autumn leaves coalesced into a roughly humanoid form of constantly shifting red and orange leaves in the center of my field of vision. The clearest details seemed to be a pale, regal human face topped with red hair the color of autumn and a sharply feminine jawline. “Do tell what your stake in this matter is,” She said.

“I’m not a fool, fairy,” I said flatly, “information like that isn’t a free.”

“Oh?” The fairy let out another windy laugh “And what might that price be?”

“Don’t bother this cemetery for a century,” I shifted my staff to my other hand. “That sort of time should be nothing to an immortal and all-powerful fairy such as yourself.”

“Flattery will gain you nothing but my interest,” The fairy replied. She slowly drifting a circle around me in the way only a predator who knows its prey cannot resist would. “But that information isn’t so pricey.”

“Fine then,” My heart began beating faster. I hoped the beads of sweat popping out on my neck weren’t nearly as visible as they felt. “We’ll do this the fairy way. We bargain your price and seal it with an exchange of titles.”

If any of the rumors were to go by, one had to be careful talking around a fairy. They supposedly are bound to their word and cannot lie, but that doesn’t stop them from twisting words into their favor.

“Those are reasonable terms,” The fairy said. She stopped circling now, but stood closer to me than before. I fought desperately to keep an outward cool. “I will quit my game for a century in exchange for a single mortal favor and his stake in the matter. Enforced by the exchange of titles.” For a moment, I thought I saw a grin flit across her face.

“A century is no more than a second in the eyes of a fairy,” I replied, “I have also given you a single request. My favor will must be a single request and not include a situation where I might be injured, nor will it take longer than one human month.”

“Very well,” The fairy replied. Her face betrayed no emotion. “I, Briacanae, Lady of the Autumn Winds, accept this bargain.”

“I’m Mark Bishop, a magical handyman,” I outstretched my hand. “I accept this deal.”

We shook hands a moment later. Nervous sweat and clammy fingers met the palm of cool autumn breeze. Other than the distinctly intangible touch of Briacanae’s hand, nothing extraordinary happened. No magic, no orange flashes. Simply the understanding that both of us would have to uphold our ends of the deal. For her, because it was impossible to otherwise. For me, because I could be a very dead man if I didn’t comply.

“When you leave, I get a nice payday that’ll cover my rent for the month,” I said after the moment finished, “That’s my stake.”

“At least this mortal is truthful,” The fairy said, her face drifting just inches away from my own. She grinned before darting away and disappearing into the mist.

Morning came a few hours later. I wasted no time in packing up what little gear I had brought with me and cleaning up the physical remains of my defense circle before power walking to the exit of Spring Heights Cemetery, hopefully never to see it again. I found myself greeted by a pair of police officers car and a very irritated and morning-tired security guard.

“Hey there Officers,” I said and waved as I exited through the pedestrian gate. “I took care of that zombie problem for Captain Johnson. Turns out it was a fairy pulling some illusion trick on this place’s night guards.” I made a motion to the grey suited morning guard.

“I’m sure Captain Johnson would love to hear that,” One of the officers replied while brandishing a pair of handcuffs. “You are under arrest for a Class D misdemeanor, trespassing on a gravesite. Drop your voodoo junk and put your hands behind your head.”

I began to raise my hands in protest, but quickly shifted it into an action of compliance. My gear clattered to the ground as a placed my hands behind my head and waited for the cold steel to bite into my wrists.

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So I decided to post again, sort of. I could be pretty healthy for me to actively write on a somewhat-weekly basis. At least for myself. Thanks to @shanyajain29 for throwing me back into the swing.

Image Source

[bunysliper]

(Original image belongs to Helen Owen on instagram. I claim no ownership and mean no harm in borrowing it for this story. To reblog just the photo and not the fic, please reblog from here.)

l’amour est le miel

A ‘Waking Up in Vegas’ verse ficlet

"La vie est une fleur dont l’amour est le miel." 

(Life is a flower of which love is the honey.)  

– Victor Hugo

 She might be exhausted, running on one too many cups of coffee to be healthy, and rethinking every answer she had given on the test, but she is free.

 Finally.

 How had she survived this quarter? Clearly by miracle, because the last few months have been frustrating, draining, and downright brutal. Either way, she is done, and free (except for work at the firm in New York, of course) for the next three and a half months.

 And she is so ready to see her husband.

 It's been weeks since their last visit – abbreviated as it was – and quick phone calls between book signings and study sessions will not cut it anymore. She doesn't even want to wait the four days until she's back in New York. She needs Rick.

 "Hey stranger."

 Pausing mid-stride, Kate searches for the source of the call. Campus is all but deserted at this point, making it easy to spot the yellow cab and the familiar – gorgeous – man leaning against the side of the vehicle. He lifts his eyebrows, a cocky grin carved into his features.

 "Long time, no see," he calls, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Eager like a little boy.

 "I–" she stammers, scrambling down the steps, practically tripping over herself to get to him. He catches her with a laugh, the cab at his back absorbing the impact of their colliding bodies. "Oh my god, what are you doing here?"

 His answer is swallowed by the press of her mouth, the slide of her tongue over his lip, the tangle of her fingers in his hair. His breath mingles with hers, coming in ragged puffs against her lips by the time she releases him.

 "Couldn't wait to see you," he rumbles, dropping his forehead to rest on hers. God, she knows the feeling. "I have a surprise for you."

 Her heart taps a giddy rhythm against her ribs. "Yeah? Are you staying the week to help me pack? My roommate already moved out, you know," she adds, trailing a finger along the collar of his shirt. "So that means we have the apartment to ourselves for real."

 "Mmm, not quite," he starts, thumbing her sides through her shirt. Oh, she can't wait to get him home and into her bed. "Give you a ride and I'll explain on the way?"

 Kate's brow furrows. "The way? To my place? It's not that far, Rick. We can walk."

 She watches a hint of pink creep up his neck. Rick opens his mouth to respond, but the cab driver beats him to it, jolting them apart with the horn.

 "Look, buddy, meter's running. It's your money and all, but I'm burning gas. You coming or what?"

 Rick's head bobs. "We're coming, we're coming." His lips skim her cheekbone before he pulls away and yanks the door open for her. "Trust me, Kate. You'll love this."

 They've barely pulled away from the curb when he drops his surprise on her, handing over a slim piece of printed cardstock tucked into the dark blue book she recognizes from her desk drawer.

 "My passport? Rick…"

 "Look where we're going," he insists, nudging her to open her passport. Her eyes widen at their intended destination, and a protest rises to her lips. There's no way they can just go. She has to go back to her place, she has to take care of getting her stuff back to New York, she has to– "I let myself into your place and packed for you," he continues, sensing her reticence, "things I like and things you like, don't worry. And I arranged for a moving company to handle getting your apartment together and shipping most of your things home while we're gone. We'll take care of doing the final walk-through and turning in our keys when we get back."

 Stunned, she can only stare at him, taking in the brilliant, eager flare in his eyes, the excited lift of his chest. He's insane, showing up to whisk her away after her finals, utterly certifiable. But she adores him just the same.

 "This is insane," she murmurs, palming his cheek. Dipping his head, her husband's lips brush the inside of her wrist, quickening her breath, driving her half-crazy already. "You're nuts."

 "Maybe," he grins against her skin, "but can't I treat my wife to a getaway to celebrate the end of another grueling quarter?"

Kate laughs, brushing her thumb over the skin beneath his eye. "I suppose I'll allow it, but Saint-Tropez? Rick, that's extravagant, especially for a spur of the moment trip."

 His mouth collides with hers, flooding heat through her limbs. She lists into him, settling hard against his side as the cab takes another corner. "There is zero point to being a millionaire if I can't use the money to take care of and spoil the people I love."

 "I know," she says, not wanting him to think she's unhappy or arguing. They've had similar discussions about splurges before, some more heated than others, but that's not what she wants right now. "I just want you to know I will get you back for this someday."

 "I look forward to it," he murmurs, sliding gentle fingers into her hair, tasting her mouth again.

 She nips at his lip, grins against his mouth. "I can't believe you're taking me to France on a whim."

 Her husband chuckles. "You're gonna love it. I showed your mom some pictures of the hotel and she said she would pack a bag for herself, just in case you didn't want to go."

 Laughter bubbles from her lips. "My mom would say that. She'd probably act on it, too. So don't tempt her."

 Rick laughs harder, taking another kiss from her mouth. "Somehow I think your father would take issue with that – his wife running away to the French Riviera with his son-in-law."

 She giggles. "Sounds like a plotline on Temptation Lane. You should pitch it and see if they can use it to bring back your mom's character."

 "Now would that be for your benefit or my mother's?" he teases, thumbing her jawline.

 Leaning into the touch, her lips lift. "Hmm, little of both."

 "That's fair," he agrees, stealing one last kiss before slipping an arm around her, encouraging her to get comfortable for the remainder of the drive to the airport.

  She wakes on the first full day of their stay to sunlight streaming through the tall windows in the living room. Their villa is gorgeous beyond words, modern but homey, the view breathtaking, and as much as she would like to stay pressed against her husband's side, the outside world is calling, enticing her out from under the covers to marvel at her surroundings.

 Rick murmurs as she slips to the edge of the mattress, his fingers clasping in search of her while she pads to the bathroom and then to her suitcase to find clothing for the day. Thankfully, her husband hadn't been exaggerating when he said he'd packed more than just lingerie, and she pulls on a pair of cuffed denim shorts and a tank top over one of the (tiny) bathing suits Rick had included.

 She makes a detour to the bed, brushing a kiss across her husband's brow, tenderness flooding her chest. He gives so much of himself, making time to visit her when she's at school, springing for trips for the two of them, all while working to craft some pretty amazing books. It's no wonder he's worn out (that, and they had thoroughly enjoyed each other the night before). She'll let him rest, even though every cell in her body wants to share this experience with him; there'll be time for that later.

 "Gonna make coffee and head out to the balcony" she whispers, stroking soft fingers over his cheek, pressing a kiss to his mouth. His lips purse under hers, but he doesn't wake. "Come find me."

 She hears the slap of his feet on the tile just as she's close to finishing her second cup of coffee and contemplating a third. Kate twists, leaning back against the railing to watch him lumber through the kitchen, bare chested, pajama pants slung low on his hips, his hair askew.

 "Morning, sleepyhead," she calls, hiding her grin behind her coffee mug when he turns. "You look like you could use some of this."

 Almost against his will, her husband yawns. "God, yes."

 Kate abandons the railing and steps inside to meet him at the kitchenette counter, her fingers seeking the mug she'd left out for him. "I'll take pity on you," she teases, stretching up to kiss him. "I got it."

 "Mmm, I love you."

 "I know you do," Kate says, stealing another kiss before turning to make his coffee the way he likes, refilling her own in the process. "Love you, too."

 His palm skims her back, lands on her hip as his mouth connects with her shoulder. "You were outside?"

 "Yeah," she says, sinking back against him, lifting her coffee to her lips. "It's gorgeous here, Rick. The view? Breathtaking."

 His lips are warm from his first sip of coffee when it touches the curve of her neck. "I agree."

 She grins, bumping her head against his. "So charming, Mr. Castle. I bet you use that line on all your wives."

 "Just the ones I really like," he quips, looping an arm around her waist, holding her tighter. His lips brush the curve of her neck.

 "Funny man." Kate drawls, squirming away from his affection and taking his hand, leading him out to the balcony.

 "Wow," he breathes, taking in the panorama of pink and orange, brilliant green, and sparkling blue. Kate nods, leaning back, fitting her body against him.

 "Look at this place, Rick," she thumbs his hand, glancing up at him.

 His head dips, his kiss gentle, quick. "I was talking about you. But this place is pretty good, too."

 "Smooth," she says, knocking her head against his.

 Rick chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. His arm tightens around her waist, keeping her close and sneaking soft kisses in between sips of coffee.

 "You know, I never actually asked how your final went," he says after the whisper of wind through the trees has been replaced with the hum of life around them.

 Leaning her cheek on his arm, she lifts a shoulder. "Oh, it was fine. I think I passed, which is all I could hope for after a quarter like that."

 Putting their coffee aside, Rick's fingers slip into her hair, pressing gentle circles on her scalp. "Next one'll be better. Your classes won't be nearly as tedious."

 He's right about that. With the completion of general chemistry, she's done with the basic courses and moving on to things more applicable to her major. But even then, she's not entirely sure everything will be better when school starts again. It'll still be stressful, plus–

 "We'll still be on opposite ends of the country."

 Rick's lips find her forehead. "I know, honey. We'll figure out a schedule, though. Better than the one we had this quarter."

 It's not ideal, but what else is she going to do? Ask him to move to California? Move back to New York? Stanford has been her dream school since she was a kid, to transfer halfway through undergrad seems...

 "Kate," he murmurs, lifting her chin. "We'll figure it out. And in the meantime, think of all the getaways we can take to help us get reacquainted at the end of each term."

 Well, he has a point there. They certainly have been enjoying their reunion this time.

 "That's true," she agrees, allowing his pragmatism to pull her from her funk. "I do like our trips. Even the staycations are good."

 Rick nods, knowing he accomplished exactly what he set out to do. "Me too. And that's why I think we shouldn't worry so much about what happens in a few months. Because we will always have this."

 It's cheesy - really cheesy - but somehow it's still sweet and sincere. Her arms wind around his neck, pulling his mouth to hers, opening to him when he kisses her back. Her husband rumbles her name, easing an arm around her waist to lift her onto the railing.

 "Careful, careful," she warns, bracing her feet, holding tighter to his shoulders. Her balance is good, but there's something reckless about perching so high above the ground.

 Rick steadies her, his body a solid wall between her knees. "I got you," he breathes, trailing his lips along her jaw, down her neck.

 Kate sighs, palming the back of his head, giving him better access to her skin. After a moment, she feels the arc of his smile against her collarbone.

 "You picked the blue one," he murmurs, kissing on either side of the bikini strap, slipping a finger underneath the elastic.

 She puffs a laugh. The blue bikini is relatively simple, two triangles and a matching string bottom, but it's still bright and sexy. "Decided to save the others for later; black's such a popular color, I wouldn't want you to lose me in the crowd."

 He grins, ducking his head lower. His lips trail over the hem of her tank top, teasing with dipping lower. "Like that could ever happen."

 "Plus," she continues, sifting her fingers through his hair. Her foot makes a lazy stroke up the back of his thigh. "I don't think you could handle me in the black one right now."

 He grunts, tightening his grip on her waist, cupping her breast through her shirt. "I can handle anything you've got."

 Kate pulls him up, sealing her mouth over his, her lips insistent, greedy. "Show me, then." She arches into his hand, welcomes the heat of his palm through her shirt. "Show me, Rick."

 It comes as no surprise when he lifts her off the railing and carries her inside, taking his sweet time proving it to her. When they do finally make it out to the beach, she's wearing the barely-there black and gold bikini, just to make his head spin.

Prompt from @inmyveinsalways: The fluffy Friday, waking up in Vegas scene you did..I think it needs to be continued 😏😏