#like i remember resolving to follow politics closely few years ago and the first news

[girlivealwaysbean]

i think growing up is just life repeatedly sucker punching you and saying bitch you thought things were gonna better lmao no you're so naive and stupid for having hope in 20 years the world will be flaming bag of garbage and no matter how hard you work you'll get eliminated at some point

[coeurdastronaute]

The Cover Story, Ch. 1

Greetings! This is a preview of my first chapter that I’m posting exclusively on my patreon. If you like it, I hope you follow along as I work on it there. I appreciate your time and thoughts and would love to hear what you think. 

Without further ado, or perhaps much ado about thing...

Lucy Madani was not going to cry. 

That was a lie. She might cry. She wanted to cry. She was known to cry very easily, but not without reason, and there certainly were more than enough reasons already for her to tear up as she stood on the corner and felt a wave of water from a bus going through a puddle splash her legs and skirt. It was only just after eight in the morning, and she was ready to crawl back into bed, admit defeat graciously, and sleep straight through to tomorrow. 

“I can’t talk right now, Baba,” Lucy muttered into her phone as she resumed her quick walk down the street. 

“You are mad, and we need to talk.” 

“Let me rephrase it. I don’t want to and I also can’t. I’m going to be late for my meeting.”

“Your big interview pitch. I wanted to wish you good luck, but you stormed off.” 

“Yes, that is what one tends to do when their father informs them that he is getting engaged,” she fumed, her anger coming over her once again at the thought as she darted across the street, waving her hand at the honking car. 

She was an adult, she tried to remind herself. A full, grown adult. An adult-adult who barely had a stable job, had heaps of student loans, and still lived with her widowed father. She didn’t throw tantrums and she wasn’t going to cry about any of it. Today was too important for that, and she was going to nail the pitch and finally move on from puff pieces for teen magazines. She was going to make the jump to serious journalist. She was going to be requested, by name. 

Today she was not going to cry. 

At least not on purpose. 

“Will you be home for dinner?” 

Luckily, he knew enough to sound sorry, though it wasn’t enough of a victory for her, only fueling the prickling behind her eyes. 

“No, I’m going over Laila’s. I’ll just stay there. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your time with her.” 

“Lucy joon, please talk to me. I know you’re mad-- you have your mother’s temper, but I think we should talk about this.” 

“I’m going into my meeting. We’ll talk sometime this week,” she offered, shaking her head. “Just… I have to go.” 

She didn’t wait for much of a reply because she knew he was playing low, dragging her mother into it. It only made it worse. Shoes sloshing against the tile of the lobby, she made her way to the elevator and decided firmly, once again, that she was not going to cry. 

Her phone chimed with a handful of well wishes and good luck’s from the group chat and she thanked them quickly before trying to find the meeting information from her calendar, head down and lost in her own world as she stepped into the elevator and right into a stranger. 

“I’m so sorry,” Lucy hurried, looking forward and then following the chest and then long pale neck up a few more inches to an amused smirk and eyes hidden by wayfarer sunglasses. 

“Not a problem. I was in the way.” 

The stranger ran her hand through a mop of curly copper hair atop her head, faded on the sides and shaggy on top, decidedly better put together than any tiktok boy’s. Her small smile pulled at bow-shaped lips and left dimples on both cheeks, and there were too many freckles to even begin counting. Lucy gulped before moving to the side and slinking to the back corner. 

Of course she would get into an elevator with the hottest woman she’d ever seen. Of course she would nearly plow her over in her hurry. Of course she would be sweet and smile like that and have an adorably shaped chin and face. Of course Lucy would do all of that while looking like something the cat dragged in after a bad night. 

But luck wasn’t with her today, and she was unable to hide too long, as no one else got on behind her and she heaved the heaviest sigh before looking down at her ruined stockings, spattered with mud and whatever else was festering in that puddle. Her skirt was soaked still and dripping and she was beginning to really feel it sinking into her skin. Phone clutched tightly in her hand, she felt the weight of it all and didn’t know what to do with it. 

From under her brow she looked up to study the back of the stranger, their long legs and black jeans, their primly tucked in black t-shirt that stretched slightly across her shoulders, and the softest looking hair in the most beautiful shade of red she’d ever seen. 

The elevator ascended approximately three floors before she started crying. Alligator tears slipped down her cheeks before she could do anything to stop them. And then the stranger cleared their throat and quietly turned around to verify what was happening, was actually happening, only making it worse. 

But she didn’t say anything, just turned back around, and with the smallest movement stretched an arm forward to hold the elevator between floors, and quickly, Lucy turned herself around and faced the wall. She took a few steadying breaths and wiped her cheeks, mentally preparing to leave everything else behind and focus on the moment-- when she would be selling herself to one of the largest companies of all time to be the writer of the profile of their Director of Creative Design before they went public. She’d prepared. She was ready. Nothing else mattered and she was a goddamn adult. 

The stranger, the kind, hot stranger pushed her sunglasses up into the messy curly hair and offered a smaller smile than before, the communal ‘it’ll be okay’ without saying anything. Lucy didn’t register much of it, just stared at the grey-green of her eyes, forgetting all else, and especially that she was a goddamn adult who desperately needed a payday to move out of her father’s place and away from whoever was moving into her mother’s side of the bed. 

“I’m not usually,” she began, but bit her tongue because she didn’t want to lie. She was usually like this, just occasionally less muddy. “Thank you.” 

“We can stay a few more minutes if you’d like. I don’t really want to go to work today.” 

For the first time all day, Lucy smiled genuinely and felt lighter. It was that quick and that easy. 

“It’s okay. I’m ready.” 

A curt nod led to a stretch again and the elevator started once more. Lucy leaned across and pressed the button for her floor, catching a whiff of a distinctly woodsy smell, like sandalwood perhaps? There was a hit of lavender? Maybe cedar? It was wonderful. She wanted to breathe in more of it, but retreated before she was the girl who cried and sniffed people in the elevator. 

The silence was oddly comfortable for a few more seconds until it dinged and she took the step out. The stranger politely held the door and offered one final smile, complete with just one dimple this time. 

“Good luck,” she winked before pulling back, hands clasped loosely in front of her before the doors closed forever. 

It couldn’t get better than that, Lucy decided, staring at the elevator doors and steadying herself once again. But she was hoping it couldn’t get worse either. 

XXXXXXXXXXX

Quinn Sullivan wanted to die. 

Not really die, but she might have taken a good coma. Just for like a week maybe. Or six months. Something long enough to beat out this hangover she was sporting, courtesy of her very thoughtful best friend, and if she was lucky, long enough to survive the offering and release of the new game. Maybe a year-long coma? Was that too much to ask for, honestly? Maybe the universe could toss her a bone, just this once, especially after the previous year of her life. 

But in lieu of a swift and merciful death and/or coma, she was just going to have to survive the giant hangover that was currently attacking her body. All she needed was a quiet day and an extra large piece of leftover pizza she was certain was waiting in the staff fridge somewhere. Maybe some birthday cake--

And then a five-five wrecking ball of a human barreled into her chest. 

The rest of her ride up, Quinn thought about the weird trip it’d been, and if she should have done something different. And then she beat herself up for winking. Who winked? Why did she wink? She’d never done it before. But she earned a smile from a cute girl, and there was a tiny flutter at the base of her rib cage, one she hadn’t noticed in a long, long time. She pressed her fingertips there for the rest of the ride to her floor. 

With a groan, she put her sunglasses back on as the elevator dinged to her floor and took a deep breath to prepare for her day, not allowing her brain to trace out an entire life with the cute, crying stranger where they bought peaches at the farmer’s market on Saturday’s and danced in the kitchen. Romance was dead and dreaming was forbidden. 

“Aspirin is already on your desk,” Jenny greeted her cheerfully. “With an egg sandwich and some fruit.”

“No leftover pizza?” Quinn didn’t pout, but she might have for that.

“Trust me, this will fix you up much better. I went to a state school, remember, MIT?” 

“We partied…” Quinn trailed off as she pushed open the door to her office. 

She hadn’t partied, but she was certain people had to have partied. It was college, and though it was many moons ago, she certainly couldn’t remember hangovers feeling like this. Maybe this is what almost thirty felt like. That thought didn’t help with the headache.

“All-night coding sessions don’t count. Eat the food. I’ll hold the wolves at bay as long as I can, but Chris and the Exlust team are adamant you have the meeting today to resolve story issues.” 

Quinn tossed back the aspirin before she even sat down. Maybe Jenny was her universal compensation. The shades were already drawn so her normally bright office was much more tolerable. Even the eggs didn’t make her stomach swirl, and she was grateful her assistant learned something useful while studying biomedical engineering.. 

“I just need like an hour to work something out. I had an idea last night--”

“Before or after the sangria?” 

“During. Definitely during, but still. I just need to work through it and then they can tear me to shreds. Can you add to my calendar a warning to never drink again?” 

Quinn was fairly certain she’d texted her assistant that at some point in the morning. Probably before the shower, but after the first cup of coffee. 

“Gladly,” Jenny smiled softly. “You doing okay? It’s been a while since you tied one on like this.” 

“I’m fine. Just celebrating with Darcy. No more sad drinking, I believe was the rule you came up with and I follow all of your rules.” 

With a roll of the eyes, files were placed on her desk and her assistant retreated to the ringing phones, which when the door was held open, were actual torture devices to Quinn’s brain. 

“Sadie wants your afternoon free. I think it’s another reporter.” 

“She’s relentless.” 

“Maybe you’re impossible?” 

“It’s genetic then,” Quinn sighed, munching on a grape and tugging open a notebook. “One hour, please?” 

“I got you, boss.” 

“Thanks.” 

Never quite sure how Jenny did it, Quinn chose not to ask any questions. But when she asked for an hour, she got it. And despite the headache and laziness in her muscles, the food and aspirin did help so that by the end of her allotted time, she felt like she had captured the breakthrough that appeared to her the night before. 

Before she could admire her work though, her team filed in and she was prepared to start her day, finally, even with the nagging idea of a reporter nipping at her thoughts through it all. 

Somewhere between her breakfast and lunch, Quinn felt better. She fired off a few texts to see how Darcy was handling it and received only pictures of a half obscured but obviously still in bed face and chuckled to herself. It was a slower day, and she wasn’t about to waste it with a hangover. She should give Jenny a raise, she decided, because the woman could cure hangovers. Maybe submit her for the Nobel for Science. 

“Sadie is here,” her assistant buzzed and Quinn lost all forms of motivation. 

Her head hit her desk dramatically as the door opened and her sister walked in. Slightly shorter, but older by two years, Sadie was nearly everything Quinn could never manage to be despite her best intentions. She had the MBA from Harvard and the doting husband that came with it, a cute brownstone near White Hill and the park, and her first baby on the way. But even past her resume, Sadie Sullivan-Hawkins was personable and charismatic. She was adored and shrewd, capable of disarming anyone and eviscerating the others. It all came so easy to her, to have people around, to talk and be listened to, to be loved. She was a shark in business, and at the same time warm and put people at ease. 

Quinn could barely tie her shoes and Sadie was running a marathon in life. 

“Want to talk about it?” Sadie smiled as she took the seat across from Quinn’s desk. 

“About what?” 

“Why you’re getting drunk with Darcy on a Tuesday?” 

“She got the job at Taylor and Vine. We were celebrating.” 

“So not about Chloe’s announcement in the Times?” 

Quinn played dumb, typing gibberish into her phone because she didn’t want to look at her sister’s kind and caring face. If she looked, then she’d have more feelings, and for the life of her, she just wanted the incessant tinnitus of the break up to disappear completely. 

“Nope, I caught that this morning though, so I was in the right physical and mental place to really wallow. I don’t care about her.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“I have these notes to get done for the Shadow Operation team before our meeting with design. I’m fine. My ex can marry whoever she wants-- God knows she didn’t want to marry me. Good luck to the next sap.”

This made her sister chuckle, and Quinn smiled quietly to herself. There was still a bitterness there that she couldn’t get rid of. It was masking potentially the worst hurt imaginable. She preferred the bite of the bitter though. Easier to navigate. 

“I have someone I want you to meet with.” 

“Oh, fuck off Sadie,” Quinn moaned, knowing full well what was about to happen. “I’m not talking to anyone. You’re the face of this outfit. That’s what you told me.” 

“You’ve run off three other reporters. Our public offering is going to underperform if there is no faith in the heart of our company,” she explained, sitting up a little straighter. “And that’s you. I might crunch the numbers and keep the lights on, but you are what people are buying.”

“Then you tell them about me. I don’t even have to be there.”

“If only that were true, my job would be a lot easier.” 

At a stalemate, the sisters stared at each other for a few moments before Sadie broke, making a face as she smiled towards her lap, running her hand over the smallest bump barely showing. Quinn shook her head and looked away. Anywhere else was better than the damn disapproving look leveled at her now. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Quinn finally muttered. “I don’t want to-- I can’t--”

“Chloe was an idiot. She broke your heart. Now, you barely exist, but I know that you’re still you. And we need this.” 

“I can’t. I really can’t. I wish you’d get it.” 

It hurt too much all over again. In a weird way, Quinn missed the feeling of the hangover because at least that was a useful ache. The dull throbbing in her chest and bones just felt hollow and haunting. 

“We have a meeting with her. I’ve already walked her through the contracts and final edits, as well as shown her around. Please just rip the bandaid off and get it over with. She’s good. I’ve read a few of her pieces and Donna recommended her to me.” 

Sadie had their mother’s eyes. It drove Quinn crazy, that she looked like she didn’t belong in her own family. It also meant it felt like her mom was staring at her and reminding her to do her chores. She rubbed the back of her neck, letting her head lull to the side. 

“I’ll… I’ll try.” 

“Yes! I knew it. Thank you. Seriously, Q. It’s going to be great. This is going to--”

“I said I’ll try. I didn’t say I’d do it.” 

“It’ll be great,” Sadie ignored the warning, hopping up from her chair and moving to the door to beckon the reporter in. “Come in and meet the genius of the whole outfit.” 

Quinn rubbed her face with her hands, digging her fingers into the corners of her eyes under her glasses before steadying herself. She could do it for her sister, she reminded herself, and that stupid niece or nephew she was incubating. 

Maybe it would be as simple as ripping off a band-aid. Maybe she could just let a stranger rifle through her entire life and being, except that she wasn’t sure there was anything there anymore. Everything felt like she was going through the motions, and it was terrifying to Quinn to let someone see that she was barely stitched together. How could she explain that there was nothing behind door number one? Let alone number two or number three. 

“Quinn, this is Lucy Madani. She’s a freelancer hired by New York Magazine. She did a great piece on the Attorney General last month and her article on the director who went on to win Cannes went viral.” 

There was still mud on her skirt, but her stockings had been disbanded, gone forever, but it was unmistakable the stranger from the elevator standing in her office. That felt like an entire lifetime ago, and yet Quinn tried to swallow. 

“You have longer hair, in the pictures I found of you online,” Lucy offered, overcoming her surprise much quicker. She stuck out her hand over Quinn’s desk and waited for her to shake it. 

She was a reporter. A reporter who cried in the elevator. A reporter Quinn had, if she were being honest, checked out. But foremost, she was a reporter. She wanted to dive into the deepest parts of Quinn’s brain for profit, mutual benefit and all. It sounded dreadful. 

The universe did not owe her anything, Quinn remembered, but the perpetual mocking was getting a little over the top. 

“Quinn Sullivan,” she shook the hand presented and tried to breathe. Lucy’s hand was warm and felt soft. She wasn’t sure how to let go. “How’s it going?” 

Fuck! Her mind blared as she dropped the reporter’s hand and mentally beat herself to a pulp. Who talked like that? And still, she could not answer, winked?

“It’s been a day,” she smiled, nodding to herself as she accepted the seat Quinn offered. “Your sister has sung your praises all morning though. I feel like I could write about your without even meeting you.”

“Great. Let’s do that.” 

Sadie laughed but gave Quinn a stern look. 

“I’m going to go grab you some passes and copies of the contracts,” Sadie smiled graciously at Lucy before turning to her sister. “Listen to her pitch.” 

“Seems it’s been decided,” she muttered to herself before plastering on a smile. 

“Don’t have too much fun. I’ll be right back.” 

And with that she truly was gone, and Quinn was left in her office with the reporter who had pretty eyes. They felt like syrup-- warm and deep brown, gooey and sticky. Her face was longer, her nose thin and long, her lips full and bitten-- and Quinn snapped herself out of her perusal and felt her chest warm too much. No, the universe didn’t owe her anything, and the punishment for thinking it did was sitting across from her in a muddy skirt and gentle smile.

For just a moment, Quinn held her breath and willed a coma..

[melanielocke]

Conceal don't Feel - Two

Love is an Open Door

Taglist: @alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite @a-dream-dirty-and-bruised @alastair-appreciation-month @writeordie-4 @amchara

AO3

Previous chapter: One: Do You Wanna Build a Snowman

Next chapter: For the First Time in Forever (to be posted)

Cordelia had never been so disappointed in her entire life. She’d been promised a guest, someone closer to her and Alastair’s age, someone who could end her days of loneliness and be her friend. Father had told her about it himself on one of his better days, he’d invited someone of her generation to come help Alastair. She knew the guest would be there mainly for her brother, of course, but Alastair hated being around people and she was sure whoever the guest was would have plenty of time to spend with her instead. She’d longed for someone to end her loneliness for such a long time she had started fantasizing about the person who would be staying until she’d gotten some admittedly unrealistic expectations. Instead, Charles Fairchild had arrived.

He wasn’t as close to her age as had been promised. Instead, he was eight years older than her, which she guessed was technically her generation, but he found himself far too mature to spend time with silly little girls like her. Not to mention, of course, that he was here for Alastair, and Alastair alone. With Father sick so often and Mother filling in, Alastair needed someone to teach him how to be a king. Somehow, her brother tolerated Charles’ presence whereas he still told Cordelia to go away and leave him alone whenever she approached him. After a few weeks she learned Charles had a younger brother around Cordelia’s age, but of course he hadn’t been invited.

With a groan, she returned to her practice with cortana. It was all she had these days, all she cared about. Even if she was all alone and her brother had barely spoken to her in years, she had been gifted the family sword, both a great honor and responsibility. She wondered sometimes why Alastair had chosen to gift her cortana, as it was tradition the sword went to the heir to the throne.

‘I knew it was important to you,’ was all he’d said when she’d asked, but for Cordelia that wasn’t a satisfactory answer. Giving her a powerful sword that was rightfully his because he knew it was important to her implied he loved her, yet nothing else Alastair did or said showed he even cared about her a little bit. If he loved her, he would spend time with her, not hide in his room and yell at her to go away.

Nowadays, he would only ever spend times with Charles, because of course while Cordelia wasn’t good enough for him, Charles was everything. They deserved each other, Cordelia had decided. They were both boring and stupid and could only ever talk about politics. The only time Charles paid Cordelia any mind was when he told her a princess shouldn’t be eating so much chocolate and maybe she should try losing some weight. He had a point, princesses were supposed to be slim and small and Cordelia wasn’t, but he didn’t have to be so rude about it. She didn’t understand why Alastair followed Charles around like some lost puppy. He used to shut the world out, and it seemed like he’d opened the door, but right after Charles had entered it had shut down with full force once more.

She wished she could let it go, and forget about her brother, but she couldn’t. She still remembered the fun they used to have when they were little, how he’d looked out for her and helped her build the most amazing snowmen. It had all happened so sudden, one day they were playing in the snow together, the next he wouldn’t leave his room and refused to even speak to her. Perhaps there was an explanation, something that would make it all make sense. But then why was Charles the exception, and what did Alastair see in him?

***

When Charles arrived in Arendelle, Alastair redoubled his resolve to get this power under control, to never let it show. Letting Thomas see had been a mistake. He’d trusted Thomas, had cared for him, and now they would never see each other again and how could he be sure Thomas hadn’t shared his secret? He had no reason to assume Charles would even accept the way he was. He could never know.

‘The palace of Arendelle is beautiful,’ Charles said. ‘A different style from the palace of the southern isles. Not that that is still in use, it has been turned into a museum. A real shame.’

Charles made no effort to hide the disdain in his voice as he said the word museum.

‘Why?’ Alastair asked.

‘Because there’s no monarchy anymore,’ Charles said. ‘My mother was the Queen of the Southern Isles until two years ago. She ended the monarchy and was elected as president instead. She thought it unfitting for an elected leader to live in a grand palace, so she decided it should be a museum instead to preserve our country’s history.’

Alastair stared at Charles with wide eyes. ‘That’s a possibility? I could just end the monarchy and have elections for a leader? And whoever has good ideas on how to improve the country could just sign up?’

He imagined all sorts of people would be willing to give it a try, and Alastair had never wanted the throne anyway. He had no idea how he’d be king and meet with cabinet members and foreign officials and never show the ice that rested inside of him.

Charles chuckled, as if he’d just said something ridiculous.

‘Perhaps not,’ he said quietly, already feeling stupid.

‘Being a Crown Prince is an honor, Alastair, a great privilege. Who in their right mind would give that up? Why would you not want to be king?’

Alastair sighed. ‘I guess you’re right. It’s just a lot of responsibility, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.’

‘That’s alright. That’s why I’m here. I might not be a prince anymore, but I have a lot of experience being one and later I helped with my mother’s presidential campaign and presidency. I know how to run a country.’

His friendship with Charles might have been a bit rocky at first, but Alastair soon learnt to trust him more. It was a bit like with Thomas, when Charles was near Alastair felt calmer and could control the ice.

Charles was knowledgeable and took his time to educate Alastair on everything he thought was important for a future king. He was often willing to make time for Alastair, even when it was not convenient for him, and Alastair thought as long as Charles was here, everything was going to be alright.

‘What will you do, when you return to the southern isles?’ Alastair asked him one day.

‘Run for president myself,’ Charles said. ‘It’s not the same as being king, but there’s still much good I can do for the southern isles. My mother has done a good job, but I fear she is too sentimental. I can make my country strong again, that is all I ever wanted.

Don’t worry, I won’t be leaving anytime soon. You still need plenty of my help, and I think together we can set up some better trade routes, build an alliance and find new ways in which we can help each other. I think both Arendelle and the Southern Isles could benefit from a closer relationship.’

Alastair was intrigued. Alliances with foreign kingdoms were what he feared the most of being king. He wasn’t charming, too blunt and straight forward to flatter, but perhaps with Charles he could get started on a good alliance without those skills. ‘Of course. Whatever you need.’

***

Cordelia was beyond excited. Alastair had asked her to join him for a picnic on the palace grounds this afternoon. This would be her chance to get her brother back and a picnic was a decent start. Perhaps someday coming winter they could build a snowman again. Cordelia firmly believed you were never too old to build a snowman.

She picked out her nicest dress, eternally grateful it still fit as she was always growing out of her clothes, and went out to meet Alastair in the gardens. For once he wasn’t with Charles, which was nice because Cordelia did not want to talk about politics all afternoon. She had more important things to discuss.

‘I’m glad you came,’ Alastair said.

He was tense, Cordelia could tell. It was hard to read his moods with Alastair, he rarely showed any emotion, but she had learnt to recognize the slight tension in his shoulders, his stiff demeanor, as if he was forcing himself to speak. She wondered why he would be tense.

‘Of course I came,’ Cordelia said. ‘As far as I know you’re still my only brother.’

‘I’m sorry, for the past years,’ Alastair said. ‘I know you must have been very alone.’

Cordelia nodded. ‘Yes. I know you have to study and prepare for being king and all, but why can’t we at least open the gates every once in a while? Maybe invite some girls my age, or even Charles’ younger brother?’

She knew spending a lot of time with a boy her age would be considered inappropriate, but that was still preferable to keeping the company of the portraits on the wall. She had so little experience with social interaction she didn’t even know how to speak to someone her age, and Father expected her to get married when she was older. How was she supposed to do that when she never met anyone? There was no way she was marrying Charles.

‘I’m sorry,’ Alastair said quietly. ‘We can’t do that.’

‘Father could invite Charles,’ Cordelia protested. ‘Surely we can invite someone else. I still don’t have a lady in waiting.’

‘That’ll have to wait, Layla. I’m sorry. I wish it were different.’

Alastair had called her Layla since she was a little girl, after a girl in a story their mother used to tell them, and it was a bit of a weak spot of hers. Still, she was determined not to let it go, because nothing Alastair said made any sense.

‘But why?’ Cordelia asked. ‘What are you so afraid of?’

‘I’m not afraid of anything,’ Alastair bit at her.

There was that temper she remembered from his childhood. It was good to see he still felt anything at all, but Cordelia did not want to make him angry the first time she’d spoken to him in years. Perhaps she should be a little more tactful about this instead of forcing answers out of him. One thing she knew for sure though, there was something Alastair knew and she didn’t. Perhaps more than one thing, Alastair always seemed to know much more than he let on. It was infuriating.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said and she hoped he would believe her apology was sincere. ‘I just wish I could have friends too.’

‘Maybe when you’re older,’ Alastair said. ‘I’ll do what I can, alright? But no promises.’

Cordelia decided to accept that for now. ‘Your life must have been very boring too. I mean, you have company, but it’s Charles. That might actually be worse than being alone.’

Alastair rolled his eyes. ‘He’s not boring. He’s a politician, and a very good one. He knows everything there is about being king, even if he won’t be one himself anymore. It is very generous of him to come here and help me.’

Cordelia made a face. ‘I don’t like him. Most of the time he ignores me, which honestly is fine, but he also tells me I eat way too much chocolate and need to lose weight.’

Her weight had become a bit of an insecurity lately. She was at the end of her growth spurt and quite tall, which she liked, she was even taller than Alastair, but while she’d stopped growing in length, she kept getting wider and had to throw out dresses all the time. Her mother had told her this was normal for girls her age, but Cordelia was pretty sure most girls her age were much thinner than she was, and princesses were expected to be small and skinny.

If Charles was to be believed, it was because of all the sweets she ate, and reminding her of it was hurtful, not to mention he was always rude and condescending about it, as if she couldn’t possibly know what was good for her.

‘I’m sorry, I’ll ask him not to bother you,’ Alastair promised. ‘But I really need him here, alright? I will be king one day, and I desperately need his help.’

Cordelia snorted. ‘Maybe if you wanted to learn how to be a better king, you could actually go outside and spend time with the people of Arendelle instead of hiding here in the castle.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Alastair said stiffly.

He was worried. Cordelia couldn’t tell what it was, but she was determined to find out.

‘Are you scared to leave the palace?’ Cordelia asked. ‘I read a book some time back about someone who was scared to leave their house. It was very intriguing.’

‘I’m not scared, Cordelia,’ Alastair hissed, but something about his stiff mannerism revealed otherwise.

She nodded. ‘Alright, so you have a fear of going outside like that character in the book. Maybe there’s a doctor somewhere who can help you overcome your fear since I have no idea how it’s done and I imagine dragging you outside might make it worse. But that’s alright, I could go out and into the city for you and report back what I learn. We could be a great team, like we used to be.’

‘No, Cordelia, that’s not… I’m not afraid.’ He stopped abruptly, twisting his fingers together.

Alastair was wearing a pair of fancy black gloves. Now that she noticed, he always wore gloves. Perhaps if he was scared of going outside, he was also scared of dirt? The palace was cleaned, of course, but some rooms weren’t cleaned as often because of the limited staff and would collect dust. She did remember her brother had always been rather neat, that had to be it.

‘We’re done here,’ Alastair said. ‘Goodbye.’

He stood up and walked away. They hadn’t even eaten anything yet. Cordelia ran after him.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back inside. I changed my mind, I don’t want to have a picnic with you.’

Cordelia didn’t understand. He’d invited her, he’d wanted to spend time with her. Had she done something wrong to change his mind? It didn’t make any sense, she might have been a little pushy, but he had to understand it was for his own good, right?

‘Why? Am I suddenly not good enough for you anymore?’ Cordelia yelled, grabbing his shoulder.

‘Leave me alone, Cordelia,’ Alastair hissed. ‘I mean it.’

Cordelia was taken back by the sudden vehemence in his voice.

‘Fine, go back inside to stupid Charles and his stupid lessons!’ she yelled after him as he walked inside.

He didn’t look back, not even once. As if she was nothing. Great, that was her one chance to win back her brother, to improve her situation here somewhat. Now she had no idea what to do.

She returned to the picnic site and collapsed onto the blanket she’d laid out for the two of them. She stuffed some chocolate into her mouth. Chocolate she’d specifically requested for Alastair, because she knew he liked anything sweet, and loved chocolate most of all. Cordelia did too, curse stupid Charles and his stupid comments about her eating habits. She was the princess, she could eat as much chocolate as she wanted. She needed some way to cope with being alone all the time and if Charles thought it was bad for her maybe he should go find her a friend. As it was, she returned to days of loneliness and practicing with cortana. What else was she supposed to do?

***

‘Your father didn’t show up to our meeting again,’ Charles said. ‘We were supposed to discuss your progress weekly, but most of the time he isn’t there. Do you know if he’s alright?’

‘He’s just sick,’ Alastair said, terrified Charles would find out about his father’s drinking. ‘No one knows what’s wrong with him, but it’s been getting worse. Mother has taken over most of his tasks so he can rest. Thanks to you, I can start helping out too. I’ve been working on my correspondence, and I was wondering if you could double check my letter to the Duke of Weselton?’

Charles nodded. ‘I’ll look at your letter. I am sorry to hear about your father’s illness, Alastair, I know it’s been hard on you. How’s your sister under all this?’

Alastair sighed. A couple of months ago, he’d thought he was making progress. Around Charles he felt so much better, he felt as if the ice wasn’t even there unless he called for it. He had thought maybe he could give his sister another chance and he’d invited her to a picnic. If everything had gone well and he’d felt in control around her, he could have told her the truth there, and show her what he was capable of. But when he’d met with Cordelia, everything came back in full force and he’d have to fight with every bit of his willpower to repress his fear and keep the ice inside of him. Cordelia was still mad about his sudden departure, but he’d had no other choice if he wanted to keep her safe. When he’d gotten back to his bedroom, he’d lost control and caused a snowstorm. While he thought his control had improved since Charles had come, the size of any outburst that slipped through had grown.

He was lucky Cordelia hadn’t seen it and at least now that Father was drunk all the time, he wouldn’t notice and put Alastair in chains. He knew it was all his fault though, his father wouldn’t have started drinking if it weren’t for him.

‘I think it’s difficult for her,’ Alastair said. ‘She mentioned you made some comments about her eating habits the other day. I know you mean well, but she doesn’t like it.’

‘I’m just concerned for her. It’s unhealthy to eat so much chocolate,’ Charles insisted. ‘She’ll thank me when she doesn’t have to throw out another of her custom made gowns.’

Alastair didn’t think it was fair to shame her for growing out of clothes when he did the same. He’d started his growth spurt lately and most of his suits had become too short. They weren’t thrown away either, they were sold second hand, as were Cordelia’s old gowns.

‘I think she’s insecure about how she looks,’ Alastair said. ‘And she has plenty to worry about, I don’t think she should be worrying about her weight on top of that. Your comments aren’t helping her.’

He didn’t understand why his control was so much worse around Cordelia. A long time ago, he’d hurt her, and he was terrified it would happen again. Perhaps that was different with Charles. With Charles he could not feel, like he was supposed to.

The problem, of course, was that with Charles he did feel. Just like he had with Thomas. It had not appeared as fast as it had with Thomas, but it was so much stronger now that he’d gotten to know Charles, had spent nearly a year with him.

He wanted Charles. Loved him, even. Alastair didn’t understand why he felt this way. Years ago, he’d met his cousin Jem who’d told him how he loved both Will and Tessa romantically. Alastair couldn’t imagine loving more than one person at the same time, nor could he imagine loving a woman, but perhaps some men longed for the love of other men instead of women.

Perhaps being in love was what calmed his moods, as long as he wasn’t scared. Right now, he wasn’t, not yet. He knew it was unlikely Charles felt the same way. That was alright, because he still wanted to be near him and then everything would be fine.

‘You know, I always found it unusual how empty this castle is,’ Charles said one day. ‘No one else ever stays, your parents always travel to meet foreign leaders and never invite anyone over. There aren’t half as many cleaners and servants as there were in my old palace.’

‘We minimized the staff,’ Alastair said. ‘It seems wasteful to spend money on staff when that could be spent on improving the kingdom.’

‘You don’t even have friends,’ Charles said. ‘No other noblemen visit, ever. You don’t have any companions, nor a page. You sleep alone. It’s odd.’

Alastair frowned. ‘How is it odd that I sleep alone?’

‘When I was still a prince, I had a page. A boy around my age, who shared my bed at night. It was normal at home, for noblemen and women to have a page or lady in waiting share their bed. A good way to make sure your virtue remains intact and you do not share your bed with a woman you are not married to.’

Alastair wasn’t sure that would be effective. Who was to say nothing improper happened between the nobleman and the person who shared their bed?

‘There’s no one here I could lose my virtue to,’ Alastair said. ‘But I know what you mean, my mother does share her bed with Risa, her lady in waiting. My father doesn’t though, he sleeps alone.’

No one could find out he was a drunk. No one would believe in him as a king anymore, and therefore it was up to Alastair to keep anyone from finding out, just like he had to keep everyone from finding out about the ice inside of him.

‘I imagine you don’t have a page anymore at home?’ Alastair asked.

‘We had a fall out shortly before my mother gave up the crown,’ Charles said in a tone that indicated he did not want to talk about it.

Charles did not bring the topic up again for some time, not until he was complaining about his younger brother one day.

‘He’s been campaigning for the right for men to love other men,’ Charles said with a sigh. ‘And for women to love women. Here I was thinking he’d never give up on being silly and going out partying, but this is worse.’

Alastair tilted his head. ‘Why? Is he not fighting for a good cause?’

‘He will make everything much harder for me, for our family,’ Charles said. ‘People are shunning him, of course. They’re wondering, why is he campaigning for this, what does it mean about him? And my brother does not have the good sense to hide he likes both men and women.’

So Charles’ brother was like his cousin Jem, then? Alastair had not met Matthew Fairchild, but it was difficult to hear Charles talk like this. He felt a familiar tingling in his fingers, a warning he might lose control. Something he had not yet felt around Charles.

‘That is very brave of him,’ Alastair said.

‘I prefer to think of it as foolish,’ Charles said. ‘The people won’t accept him, he won’t change a thing. He’ll just make everything harder for himself, and for me. People will watch us more closely. No one batted an eye when Daniel, my former page, shared my bed for years.’

Alastair gasped. ‘You mean to say you love men?’

‘Unfortunately I do. It’s not easy for someone like me. I have to keep it a secret, or I risk losing everything. No one would vote for a man like me to be president. But with the proper precautions, I’ve been quite successful at hiding my affections and desires while still indulging in them. I wish my brother understood that.’

Alastair put his hand on Charles’ and felt the tingling fade. It wasn’t gone, not entirely, but he wouldn’t lose control. ‘Does your brother know about you?’

‘No. I never wanted him to. You’re the first person I’ve told after Daniel, I know I can trust you to keep my secret.’

Alastair felt special to be entrusted with such a secret, and could it mean Charles returned his feelings? Had Charles told him because he hoped Alastair might want to be with him?

‘When I’m king, I will do what your brother has been campaigning for, I will change the laws and allow two men or two women to be together,’ Alastair promised. ‘Get married, even.’

Charles waved his hand dismissively. ‘Don’t be silly, Alastair.’

His heart sank, the tingling increased. He had to tell Charles about his affections, or else everything would become snow and ice.

‘But I’m like you,’ Alastair said. ‘I like men. And I don’t want to hide forever. What’s even the point in being king if I can’t change such things?’

‘They’ll cast you out, Alastair,’ Charles said. ‘Don’t waste your birthright on something the people will never accept. Best to keep your affections a secret. You’re a prince, you can pick any boy you like to be your page or companion and share your bed. No one would suspect a thing.’

Charles put his hand on Alastair’s shoulder, a bit too long for it to be called friendly, right?

‘What about you?’ Alastair asked. ‘I feel choosing a page to be my love would be unfair. Like, would he even get a say in that? It wouldn’t be like that with you.’

Charles smiled and cupped his cheek with his hand. It was smooth, the hand of someone who had not done manual labor. ‘You’re in love with me, aren’t you?’ he said, his voice gentle.

Alastair rubbed his hands together, forcing the tingling to stop. He felt frost underneath his gloves, but it was still hidden. Conceal, don’t feel.

‘Yes,’ he whispered.

‘I suspected as much,’ Charles said. ‘I like you too, Alastair. You’re smart and beautiful, and you will be a great king someday. But this has to be a secret. You understand that, don’t you? I will be with you, but only as long as you can keep your affections concealed.’

Alastair nodded. ‘Of course.’

Then Charles kissed him, and it was like fire, a sudden heat that melted his frozen heart, that stopped the tingling in his fingers, that calmed the storm inside of him. Perhaps love was the answer after all.

Alastair and Charles explored much more than just kissing together. Charles came to share his bed, claiming it was improper how Alastair slept alone all night. No one suspected a thing, but then of course, there was no one who could suspect. It was the first time in years where Alastair felt he might be happy. Even if he was still too dangerous to be around his sister. He tried once more. No promises this time, he just sought her out in her room to see if they could talk. The storm returned almost immediately and Alastair realized his sister would never be safe if he went near her. The only one he could be around was Charles.

It was amazing at first. Long nights together, Charles touching him, making love to him. He’d never known being touched by someone could feel so good, nor that it would melt the ice inside his heart. Charles knew exactly what he was doing and what he wanted, and Alastair was happy to oblige.

It was wonderful outside of the bedroom too. He loved how Charles would gently touch his shoulder, his wrist as he guided him through their lessons. But it didn’t take long for the secrecy of it all to start to weigh on him. Charles’ younger brother had fled farther south for his own safety, confirming Charles’ beliefs it was better to keep their love a secret. Alastair was scared the same might happen to him, but what could possibly be worse than people finding out he was a monster with ice in his heart?

Perhaps it would be better to leave, to flee into the woods and snow touched mountains and make his home there. The cold didn’t bother him, he would survive. But Charles could not come with him there, and so he stayed. Even while Charles mocked his ideas, told him he was still too young to understand what it was to rule a kingdom and treated him like was a child despite being old enough to be Charles’ lover.

Once he’d been in control around Charles, but not anymore. He wasn’t sure why it had gotten worse, why he was so scared Charles would leave him, that he wasn’t good enough anymore. He redoubled his resolve, made sure to read everything Charles asked him to, be everything his lover needed him to be. Charles was all he had, he didn’t think he could survive being abandoned. They stayed like this for several years. Alastair never took his gloves, not even when they had sex, and never explained why. Charles thought it was odd, but had come to accept it.

Even when he lost control, the gloves kept it in for a little longer, offered a bit of protection, and the time to get away before the storm began. Whenever he didn’t trust himself anymore, he went to his own private bathroom, a place even Charles wasn’t allowed to enter. Now that Charles shared his bed, his bedroom wasn’t a safe place to lose control anymore and he couldn’t exactly ask Charles to leave. So instead, this bathroom had frozen several times over, and whenever he was going to lose control he just told Charles he needed to use the bathroom. At this point, all the pipes had broken, so nothing could be used, but everything had been cut off from the water network long ago and his outbursts didn’t affect the other bathrooms. Charles had not uncovered his secret, and although it was difficult to keep it from him, it was for the best.

***

Cordelia took her father’s hand. ‘Where are you going? Are you sure you’re well enough to travel?’

‘I’m feeling much better, Cordelia dear,’ he said with a smile. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back before you know it.’

Cordelia wasn’t sure where exactly her parents would be traveling. It wasn’t the first time he left, of course, to meet with foreign nobles, but this time he would be going on a much longer journey, and it had been a while since he’d traveled anywhere. He’d been too sick and Mother had written letters to keep up relations instead.

‘Can’t I come with you?’ Cordelia asked.

‘Not this time,’ her father said. ‘But I promise on my next journey you can come with me. It’s almost time for you to be presented to the world. But this is something I have to do myself, I’m afraid.’

The idea of being presented to the world sounded good, but perhaps that would be a bit much all at once. Perhaps it would be nicer to start with a smaller group of people who could be her friends.

‘What if the people won’t like me?’ Cordelia asked.

‘Of course they will. You are beautiful, compassionate and nurturing, what’s not to like?’

Cordelia could always count on her father to tell her she was beautiful, even if not long ago she’d had to throw out nearly all of her gowns because she’d gained too much weight to fit into them.

‘I’ll still be here, azizam,’ her mother said, which surprised her.

‘Oh, I thought you were going too,’ Cordelia said.

‘I was, but Alastair insisted he was not ready to take over while I was gone and needed me to stay,’ her mother explained. ‘I know that’s not true and Alastair is more than ready, but I thought staying would put his mind at ease.’

Cordelia supposed that should make her less lonely, but her mother spent all her time on filling in for her father and she wasn’t sure where that left her. She knew everyone was keeping something from her, but she couldn’t figure out what and it was frustrating. She’d tried asking her father, who had told her not to worry, that everything would be alright in the end. Then she’d asked her mother, who’d told her that her brother was going through a difficult time, without offering any explanation. Apparently, boys his age often went through times like this, except in Alastair’s case that had been years now. Not that Cordelia knew any other boys Alastair’s age to compare his behavior to, but that was hardly her fault.

It turned out her father wasn’t back before she knew it. It took months to even get word from him. Of course, it was a long journey by ship and it made sense they did not hear anything at first, but after a couple of months Cordelia began to worry. They should have heard something by now, what could have become of him?

‘He’ll be alright, Cordelia,’ her mother had said. ‘We’ll hear from him soon enough. He must have decided to stay longer than intended and it would take time for a letter to reach us.’

But Cordelia could tell her mother was worried too, more so with every passing day during which they did not hear from Elias. Several months after he’d first left, a messenger came.

‘I am terribly sorry to bring you this news, Your Majesty,’ the messenger said, addressing her mother. ‘The King’s ship went down in the southern seas. There were no survivors.’

Cordelia had been in shock at first. Then she’d burst into tears. Mother had cried too, although a bit more concealed. Alastair though, had not shown a thing. He’d taken the news quietly, asked a few questions, and then retreated to his room. As if he didn’t feel a thing, as if he didn’t care.

The funeral was a quiet ceremony, and Alastair didn’t attend. She had been forced to ask Charles where he was and why he hadn’t come to his own father’s funeral. Charles didn’t know the answer either, said something about Alastair being upset and indisposed, but she could tell it didn’t make sense to him either.

Determined not to let him slip away from her like he always did, she went to his room after the funeral, knocking on the door. No response. When she was younger, Alastair would yell at her to go away, he would get angry that she had the nerve to bother him. As awful as that was, his silence was worse.

‘Please, Alastair,’ she said. ‘I know you’re in there. I don’t know why you didn’t come to the funeral, and maybe it was just too hard… But people asked about you, where you’ve been. And I want to be there for you. Just let me in, and we can talk about.’

‘Leave me alone, Cordelia!’ she heard from the other side of the door. He didn’t open it. ‘I don’t care Father is dead, that’s why I didn’t go the funeral. You shouldn’t either.’

It was not the answer she’d expected, although it wasn’t the first time it had seemed like Alastair did not love Father. Sometimes she wondered if Alastair could feel anything at all. She guessed not. There was ice inside his heart, and Cordelia did not know how to reach him anymore. Perhaps it didn’t matter.

With Father gone, her mother was Queen-Regent for now, taking on all of Father’s duties with some help from Alastair here and there until his coronation. Her mother was pregnant, and Cordelia didn’t think it would be good for her to spend so much time working while expecting a child. At least the pregnancy meant that once the baby was here, she would have someone to play with.

In four months, Alastair would turn twenty one and would be crowned king. He only ever spent time preparing for his coronation and his reign, Charles always hovering around him. It was impossible to catch him alone.

Of course, a coronation brought opportunities. Alastair couldn’t be crowned in a small, private ceremony, people from all over the country and even beyond would be invited. Cordelia would finally have a chance to meet actual real life people.

***

Alastair did not attend his father’s funeral. He’d expected knowing his father was gone would bring relief. No more hiding the empty bottles, no more covering up his sickness. No risk Cordelia would find out. Most of all, no risk Father would decide he was too dangerous and would chain him in the dungeons. He had never forgotten that day and even now he still had nightmares. Father had always been cruel to him, and he thought his death would set Alastair free. Instead, he felt empty, he felt a horrible guilt for hating a man who was now dead. He felt the snow and ice tingling against his fingers, seeking release. He pushed it back down with all he had. Conceal, don’t feel, that was what his father had taught him. No emotion, push it all down. Alright then, he would not feel. He would not mourn Father, would not care that he was gone. He would not attend the funeral and pay his respects, it was too dangerous anyway, and Father did not deserve that.

He knew people would ask why, where he’d been, and he made something up about being too sick and overcome with grief to attend. It was a lie. Even without the risk of exposing his ice, he would not have wanted to attend. He hated his father, and he couldn’t bear to listen to people speak on what a great king he’d been. Worse, what a great father he’d been. And there was no one he could talk to. Charles didn’t know what Father was really like, he believed in the lie of his illness. Cordelia was the same, worse even, for she adored Father, she always had. He’d considered telling her the truth, but that would be selfish. It would break her heart, and for what? And Mother had loved Father. Now that he was gone, she wanted to remember the good parts. She was having another baby, and was devastated the baby would never meet his father. Lucky child, he thought. That almost sounded like he resented the baby for getting the safe and carefree childhood he had never had, but that wasn’t true. He was almost glad Father was gone for their sake, and he hoped the baby would grow up happy and loved and protected, even if Alastair could provide none of that himself. It was too dangerous and he would never forgive himself if anything happened to the baby because of him.

***

‘Alastair, are you in there?’

No response. Sona had gotten used to that at this point. She had grown more worried every day. Alastair was to be king in a couple of months, but he had barely left his private quarters since Elias’ death. The only person he spoke to was Charles, and even then Charles had confided in her that he felt Alastair pull away from him. That he wasn’t sure Alastair was ready to be king.

She’d thought, perhaps, as his mother she could reach him. Charles didn’t know about the ice despite them being very close. But with her and Cordelia, all Alastair did was push them away.

He had seemed happy, at least, when she’d told him of her pregnancy, excited to meet the new baby. Mostly, he’d been terrified though and Sona thought perhaps Alastair was scared he’d hurt the baby. She didn’t know what to do anymore. She had to protect her baby, of course, but Alastair was her child too and she didn’t know how to reach him.

Sona knocked on the bedroom door once more. He couldn’t hide in there forever. It was Charles who opened, wearing a dressing robe. Sona knew Charles had been sleeping in Alastair’s bedroom for the past years. It was a way, apparently, to make sure Alastair’s virtue was intact for marriage. Not that Alastair had shown any interest in getting married and with his ice, Sona feared it was too dangerous. She wasn’t sure how Alastair had managed to keep his ice from Charles while sharing a bed, but that was impressive, right?

It pained her, she wanted nothing more than for Alastair to be happy, but she didn’t know how. She’d considered going back to Tessa, had asked Elias to reconsider, but he’d refused. ‘Alastair belongs here,’ Elias used to say. ‘That witch will only take him away from us.’

And now he was to be crowned king and it was too late. At least Charles had been good for him, right? Sona had noticed the way Alastair lit up around Charles, the way he seemed so eager to please him.

‘Your Majesty,’ Charles addressed her. ‘If I knew you were coming, I would have dressed for the occasion.’

‘I am sorry,’ Sona said. ‘Did I wake you? I didn’t realize you tucked in early, I’ve always been a late sleeper myself. I was just looking for Alastair, is he here?’

‘No, he must have left when I was asleep. Usually he goes to the bathroom, his own private one. Even I am not allowed in there. He’s very attached to his privacy.’

Sona knew about the bathroom, the place he went to when he lost control. It was good for him to have such a place right? Somewhere it didn’t matter if the ice became too much for him, because no one would get hurt.

Sona forced a smile. ‘Thank you Charles. I think I’ll look for him there.’

‘I don’t think he’d like that.’

‘He’s my son, and I am worried about him.’

‘He’s been showing progress in his lessons lately,’ Charles said. ‘I do not think you have to worry.’

Sona just nodded, and closed the door. Charles was smart, responsible, and he knew politics, but sometimes she felt he didn’t know Alastair, didn’t understand him. Risa hated Charles, acted as if he’d stolen Alastair away from them, but Sona felt that was a bit too simplistic. It was a difficult situation for everyone, and they were all doing the best they could. Alastair had chosen to spend his time around Charles, and if that was what made him feel better, who was she to judge?

Sona knocked on the bathroom door. No response.

‘Alastair, I’m coming in!’ she called.

She didn’t like invading his privacy, but at least he’d be forced to acknowledge he was in there if he wanted to stop her. He didn’t say anything. Perhaps he wasn’t in the bathroom after all, but it couldn’t hurt to check.

She pulled on the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. Had Alastair locked himself in there? When she pulled a little harder, it broke open and Sona realized why she’d been unable to open the door. It was frozen. Everything in the bathroom was frozen, about half a meter of snow lying on the floor. It was a good thing the door opened to the outside, or she would not have gotten it open at all.

Alastair was lying on the snow, covered in a thin summer blanket. The cold had never bothered him, but he had always liked to hold a blanket when he slept. When he was little, he would sleep with a thin summer blanket in the coldest days of winter, perfectly content.

Should she wake him? He seemed peaceful, at least, now that he was asleep. But he had lost control in here before falling asleep, and she wanted to know what had happened. He hadn’t responded well to his father’s death, and she knew Elias and Alastair had never had the best relationship, but instead of grieving with her and Cordelia, he’d shut them out even more. Sona didn’t think he was alright.

Before she could make a decision, Alastair opened his eyes and pushed himself into a sitting position. Sona wrapped her arms around herself, it was freezing cold in here. That couldn’t be good for the baby, but she was determined to talk to her son.

‘What happened, azizam?’ she asked.

‘I’m sorry, maman,’ he said. ‘I lost control.’

‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘What happened?’

‘I was with Charles,’ he said. ‘He told me he’d been writing with the Duke of Weselton.’

Sona frowned. ‘What’s wrong with that? He’s one of our closest trading partners. Charles has not sabotaged our relationship with Weselton, has he?’

‘No, not like that. You see, the Duke has a daughter around my age and no other heir, and Charles wants to marry her. She will be here for the coronation, and Charles intends to propose there. He thinks the Duke is a powerful ally for him as well as for us. And the laws in Weselton are pretty backward, so if the Duke dies his daughter’s husband will inherit the title, the lands, everything.’

Sona knew Charles liked power, of course. Risa hated him for it, thought he couldn’t be trusted, but Sona couldn’t help but see that even if Charles was a little too power hungry for his own good, Alastair adored him. But if he took the title and became Duke of Weselton, why would that upset Alastair so much? Wouldn’t he be happy for his friend?

‘What does any of that have to do with you?’

Alastair sighed. ‘I know, it’s stupid. But he’ll leave me alone if he marries her. He’d go live in Weselton in the Duke’s palace. He cannot stay here anymore. He’s all I have, I couldn’t bear it if he left.’

Sona took his hand. It was ice cold. ‘You always knew he would return home someday, right? Charles was here to teach you and prepare you, and he has done that. You are ready to be king, joon-am. I know controlling the ice is hard, but you’re smart and compassionate and you will do fine if he’s not there.’

Secretly Sona thought perhaps Alastair would do even better without Charles there. She knew Alastair was kinder, and she feared perhaps it came from a place of self loathing but Alastair was not the kind of king who’d put his own needs before anyone else’s.

Alastair nodded weakly. ‘But I’d be all alone. When Charles and I first became friends, it was the first time I could control myself. As long as it was going well, I mean. I did sometimes lose control when he was upset with me, but he never saw. I don’t know what I’ll do when he’s gone.’

Alastair was crying. The tears froze into snowflakes before they even reached his cheeks. Watching her son cry had always been one of the strangest thing, as if he started snowing. It was heartbreaking to watch, and Sona wished she could hug him, but she knew Alastair wouldn’t let her. He was far too scared he’d hurt the baby.

‘You’re going to be alright,’ Sona said. ‘You’re lonely, I know that. Cordelia is too. But the coronation offers opportunities. Perhaps you’ll meet someone else who helps calm your moods and your ice. You could invite someone to stay, if you want, open the gates.’

Alastair shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous. Charles is the only one I can trust. I tried, maman. I tried with Cordelia, but every time I go near her I am so scared I’ll hurt her and then the ice takes over.’

‘Perhaps we should return to Tessa,’ Sona suggested.

‘No. The coronation is too close. This curse, it can’t be controlled. Best to be alone, and do what’s right for Arendelle.’

Sona guessed if Alastair wouldn’t return to the village, she’d try to send an invitation for the coronation. Perhaps Tessa could come here and help figure out why Alastair couldn’t control the ice. It was the least she could do for her son.

[tessiete]

If you still take prompts: Rumors of the Duchess of Mandalore (bc patriarchal bs and misogynistic beliefs about female leaders) potentially getting married reaches Coruscant and Obi-Wan copes as well as can be expected. Cue sad boi sadness with maybe fluff at the end? Or go full angst I’m ok with either

I AM! I am still taking prompts, and I know this took a while to get around to because I’m also sloooooow at filling them. But here we are, dear anon. I hope you enjoy this little snippet! <3

THE GRAVITATIONAL DEFLECTION OF LIGHT

There is some silly, selfish part of him that he never outgrew, and like a weed in his gut it twists and writhes when he hears that the Duchess Kryze is to marry.

And suddenly, he finds himself thinking of her more often, and more frequently during situations where his attention would best be put to use elsewhere. In council, he is forced to ask Master Windu to repeat a question he’d failed to hear, his mind being drawn by the gleam of light off the Senate dome on the horizon. During a sparring match, he takes a hit he’d never have missed except that Anakin threatens to deliver him a close shave at the end of his saber, and he’s struck dumb by the memory of her hand upon his cheek. There are peace lilies in a vase in the Archives, and pure beskar changes hands in a deal he’s meant to disrupt at a Separatist camp, but by far the most egregious lapse comes in the midst of relief efforts in a small village on Taskeed. He is caught, for a moment, by the sight of a woman with blonde hair and a young boy on her hip turning away from him. His focus slips. A blaze of light flashes more quickly than he can see, and by the time he hears the retort of a blaster rifle he is already on the ground.

The clones close ranks around him. Cody kneels, calling in a medevac even as Obi-Wan tries to rise. 

“No, sir, stay down,” he says, laying one hand against his shoulder. Obi-Wan winces at the contact. His muscles strain at the effort, the nerves at the site of his injury ruptured and ragged.

“Cody,” he chokes out. “There’s a hostile.”

His second is a merciful man and makes no comment on the idiocy of that statement. Instead, he bites open a pain tab, and shoves it between Obi-Wan’s teeth. Then, so rapidly he has no time to protest, he removes his belt, and tears apart the fabric at Obi-Wan’s waist, sprinkling sulfa powder over the gory wound, and pressing a bacta patch down to cover it.

There is no more blaster fire to mark their passage back to the ship, but the wound is too serious to treat on board The Negotiator. He is sent back to Coruscant as a consequence of his foolishness.

There, he is dipped in bacta, where he doesn’t dream, and he spends the next week of his convalescence thinking of her.

It had never been this bad during their first separation. The months following her ascension to the duchy had been painful, that he cannot deny, and he spent hours in his room lonely, and self-pitying, but he had been a child then and he can forgive himself now of the folly of youthful indiscretions. There followed more than a decade between them and he had gone days, weeks - upon the outbreak of war even months - without thinking of her at all.

But with one touch of her hand, he’s fallen again, his resolve crumbling into dust as though his indifference to her were only a veneer grown thin and brittle with being stretched over so much time.

The Duchess of Mandalore is to marry.

Why should that matter to him? They are friends. Hardly that, and nothing more. And it was he who had defined those terms. So why should he be restless, and anxious, and fretted up like some craftsman’s handiwork at the thought of it? It is silly. It is demeaning - to her, and to him.

And yet...he wants to know.

Who is she to marry? And when? How did they meet? Is he a Mandalorian, like her? Or did she meet him here? Did they meet at the Senate while he walked in the Temple only a few klicks away? Have they much in common? Do his political aims match hers? Does he long for peace like she does? Will he stand by her side in upholding it? Would he die for it? Would he die for her? Does she love him?

She must, he thinks. She must love him. She would not choose him, otherwise.

And that, perhaps, is the cruelest thought of all.

He is confined to medbay with nothing to occupy his time but his holopad, his dispatch reports, and her when he sees a news story flash on his screen.

At Last! The Lily is Plucked

He cannot help himself as he reads about a chance meeting, a whirlwind romance, and plenty of private assignations held at various hotels and restaurants across Capital City. There are holos, too, and reels. He sees her leaving the Bal Silvestre on the arm of Corellian senator, Garm Bel Iblis.

Senator Bel Iblis is older than her, and seems a bit unkempt, his long hair pulled half back in a simple style. Obi-Wan knows of him by reputation, and heard him called a rake. His politics brand him a maverick, and a rogue, and he has been known, once or twice, to engage in backdoor negotiations in order to ensure a vote swings one way or another in his favour. Beside him, while he stands smug in his dark brocade, she shines. She is spotless. Luminous. They are not well matched.

He scours the net for more, and because he is looking, he finds it. There are many articles - hundreds. Some map out timelines of their courtship (they met years ago, apparently, at some gala held while Obi-Wan was still helping Anakin with Basic), some tell the history of their previous romantic entanglements (he was engaged to a woman now dead. She was once rumoured to be promised to a Vizsla. Obi-Wan’s name is not mentioned). Some merely provide pictures of their exploits, and comment on their mutual friends, making conjecture after conjecture about how their romance came to be, and what must happen next now that the flame has been rekindled. It is torturous. And tedious. And soon, Obi-Wan loses track of the details that appear in one article, and again in every other.

But one thing remains clear to him: Satine Kryze is going to be married. She has forever slipped his reach.

A reach, he pathetically reminds himself, he never intended to extend. All this self-flagellation is for naught. He is being ridiculous. 

So he thumbs off his pad, turns out the lights, and tries to sleep with the image of Satine, smiling and resplendent flickering in his mind. The next morning, feeling no better for the little rest he managed to steal, he deletes the history of his pad, and determines to feel absolutely nothing at all about Satine Kryze.

Then Padme comes to the Council and requests a padawan be sent to Mandalore’s aid.

It is Ahsoka who goes. Of course it is. He takes small solace in the fact that it had not been he who suggested her, but since she was assigned, he feels well within his rights to enquire about the Duchess upon her return.

“She seemed fine,” Ahsoka tells him. He has invited her for tea following her report to the Council, hoping he might, in his hospitality, coax a few more personal details from his grand-padawan. “I mean, there was a moment where Almec - that’s the Prime Minister, or rather was - anyway, there was a moment where he had her in a shock collar, but like I said, the cadets and I managed to sort it out.”

“Right,” he concedes. “As you said.”

A moment passes between them. Obi-Wan sips his tea, struggling to swallow as the fist around his throat grows tighter and tighter. Ahsoka, blissful in the aftermath of a successful solo mission, grabs another biscuit and a strip of perami gammon. 

“And tell me,” he ventures. “What of her - her consort? Any word of him? Where was he during this mess?”

“Her consort?”

“Her husband.”

Ahsoka scrunches her nose, and cocks a brow at Obi-Wan’s wild inquiry.

“She had a nephew,” she says. “But no one ever said anything about a consort.”

“Ah,” he says. “Perhaps he was occupied elsewhere.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, amicable and amenable to letting the whole thing slide. He only hopes she won’t think it significant enough to mention to Anakin later. His curiosity won’t be as easily sated with tea and deflection.

--

He is not a lucky man.

Anakin comes blazing into his room with an ambitious stride, and a grin that speaks of imminent mischief.

“Heard you were asking Ahsoka about the Duchess’ consort,” he says, throwing his cloak over the back of a chair and dropping to lounge across Obi-Wan’s low couch.

“I was asking about her mission,” he corrects. He turns his back to set some water to boil, knowing that such an entrance by his padawan indicates a visit of extended duration. “And the key players, therein. Purely professional.”

“Purely.” Anakin smirks.

The subject is dropped when Anakin is diverted by the service being laid before him, and the inclusion of several of his favourite confections.

“Noorian memba tarts!” he cries. “Where did you even find these?”

“An old recipe,” Obi-Wan says. “But I remember you enjoyed them when we dined on Belasco and thought I’d try my hand at it.”

It is not a bad effort either, judging by Anakin’s display of enthusiasm. He eats the first with some degree of etiquette, but the fourth, fifth, and sixth are gone with no display of decency or shame whatsoever.

Obi-Wan sips his tea. He is thinking of Tahl while Anakin is thinking of the sweetness on his tongue, and making excuses for his absence the previous night.

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan, but I was unavoidably delayed after the Senate recessed for the evening. I had to - to assist a delegate with a personal matter.”

Obi-Wan says nothing, but remembers how Qui-Gon, too, used to invent reasons to disappear unchecked. He invents nothing. He only cleaves to his duty, while time and fate conspire to keep him absent anyway. 

Anakin must hear something in his silence, because his expression loses the tension of equivocation, and he falls to studying Obi-Wan’s face.

“I was only teasing, master,” he says. “Before. I didn’t think to ask Ahsoka anything about the Duchess. She spent most of her time with the nephew, but he seemed a bright kid. Close to Satine. I can ask her to ask him if he knows anything -”

“Absolutely not,” says Obi-Wan. The words are soft, but definite. He rises swiftly to clear the detritus of their meal. “Thank you, Anakin, but Duchess Kryze is only a friend. I merely inquired out of a desire to assure myself that the report issued to the Council lacked nothing in the thoroughness of its presentation. I should hate to think that such a personal association might be overlooked as an avenue for effecting harm.”

“Oh.”

“But I thank you in any case. Ahsoka’s report was well done, and you should be very proud of your padawan,” he says. “As I am of you.”

He turns to Anakin then, smiling and benign. His padawan meets his look with a vaguely skeptical one of his own, before patting him on the shoulder, and shrugging back into his cloak.

“Alright, master,” he says. “I’ll let her know how thorough she was.”

“Goodbye, Anakin.”

“Goodbye,” his friend replies. Then, just as he crosses the threshold of the door and moves into the open hall, he looks back. “Oh,” he says. “There’s a quick supply run being made to Mandalore for relief in light of Ahsoka’s investigation. Scheduled for tomorrow, but unfortunately, I’m needed back at the Senate. I meant to ask - you wouldn’t mind making the trip for me, would you? You don’t even need to get off the ship.”

---

There is nothing he can say to Anakin, so of course, as contrived and embarrassing as the whole thing is, he goes. And he does get off the ship.

Satine is there to meet him.

“Master Kenobi,” she says, extending her hand. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

He drops a brief, and reverential kiss then lets her go. 

“Cleaning up after my padawan and his padawan, it seems,” he says. “Apparently, a master’s work is never over. Congratulations on your recent engagement, Duchess. I hope you’ll both be very happy.”

The look which passes over Satine’s face is one he cannot decipher. He thinks she looks in equal parts shocked that he has heard, disgusted by his presumption in speaking of it, embarrassed by his boldness, and wearied by his presence. But she doesn’t deny it, so he makes his excuses to leave.

“Excuse me, Duchess,” he says. “But this was only meant to be a very brief visit, and I should prepare for departure.”

“Can you not stay for midmeal?” she asks, and he hesitates upon the precipice of her invitation. “Surely you don’t mean to tease me with a visit as brief as this? And surely your men would enjoy some rest and repast before you go?”

The troopers at his back shift, and he can feel their eagerness undulate in the Force. It would be cruel to deny them for the preservation of his own fragmented dignity, so he relents.

“Of course, your grace,” he says. “We would be most honoured.”

“Captain,” she says to the Protector at her right. “Have these men fed and watered immediately. The kitchens and my staff are at their disposal.”

He clicks his heels, and disappears, while she steps forward, and wraps her arm around Obi-Wan’s as though completely uncaring of any beau or consort or husband who might see.

“You, my dear master,” she murmurs slyly by his ear. “Are to be attended elsewhere, at my discretion.”

He does nothing to resist as she pulls him along.

Soon, they are at the Palace. Soon, they are sat at a small table in her private quarters, drinking Mandalorian kava, and eating freshly baked land’shun. Soon, they are alone.

She sets her drink aside, and dusts her hands on a fine silk napkin before broaching the subject trapped between them.

“Now, what is this about my nuptials?” she asks. Her blue eyes are steady upon his own, and he feels his palms slick with sweat. She is radiant. She is regal. There is no holo or reel or word that could do justice to the beauty of this woman in the flesh, and he feels that insidious root of jealousy writhe with agony.

“Satine -” he begins.

“No, no,” she protests, seeming to anticipate his deflection before he has begun. “I should like to hear why you think I ought to accept your congratulations, and why you felt you ought to offer them personally, in particular. Mandalore seems a rather dull trip for a High General to make.”

“I came in Anakin’s stead, actually,” he replies pertly. Another sip of kava lends some sophistication to this claim.

“Of course,” she says, but she does not look away. He can feel her gaze upon him. He can feel her glittering in the Force. She is laughing.

And he cannot bear it.

“Forgive me, your grace,” he says, rising to his feet. He sets the cup upon a saucer where it clatters inelegantly against the pot of sucre next to it, overturning the dish and sending the crystals spilling across the table. “Forgive me,” he says again. 

She lunges forward to right the pot, and still his hand beneath her own. For a moment, he doesn’t breathe. Then, he pulls away.

“I read about it on the net,” he says. “I saw the holos, and the reels. I only wanted to see you one last time, to see...I wanted to see that you were happy. That’s all.”

“Oh, Ben,” she says, his name like a sigh upon the breeze.

“It is nothing,” he says. “A foolishness all my own. I am sorry if I have troubled you, and I offer you my sincerest congratulations.”

He bows, though when he raises his head, his eyes do not rise with it, so he does not see the look of sorrow upon her face. Still, he imagines it as pity, and moves to make his escape. She is faster than he is. 

“No,” she says, standing between him and the door. “I will not accept your congratulations, and I will not accept your departure on such callous terms as these.”

“Duchess -”

“Ben,” she counters, leaning on the name. “I am not engaged. I am not married. And I do not intend to be, no matter how devoted to the idea of it you are.”

“I - devoted?” he asks, his voice rising to the height of his indignation. “I am devoted to no such thing. I have only - only been reconciled to it for weeks, thinking only of you and your happiness.”

“And your own misery, too, I’d wager.”

He chokes on his denial because he knows it is too big a lie to fit through his lips, and stares at her in dismay. She is smiling. Force, he thinks. She is incandescent. Like she has swallowed a star, and he can’t look away. He would that he could be consumed by her too, and finally, he gives in.

“Yes,” he says in an admission of guilt so great it brings relief. “I was miserable. I am, I think, an infinitely miserable person.”

“You are,” she agrees. “But I am not getting married, I am not engaged, and I am only as in love as I ever have been. And if you are foolish enough to forget that, then you are deserving of every misery you heap on yourself.”

“Have pity,” he begs.

“None,” she says.

“Have mercy,” he pleads.

“For you?” she says. “Always.”

They fall together like gravity and sunlight, and for a moment, whole galaxies bend to their will.

[yukeri]

[YURI&Co. Headquarters]

THIS PIECE CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE AND ARGUING - Starring: Hong Yumin, CEO Na Deokhyun - Synopsis: Yumin, feeling as if she has nothing left to lose, makes one last attempt to save her career. - Year: 2019 - Length: 1,867 w.

Yumin stood in the elevator nervously wringing her white linen top. Just go in and make your demands. Don’t take no for an answer.

A chime signaled she’d reached her destination, and the following robotic voice confirmed it. She could feel the temperature drop as she stepped out of the elevator and into the frozen tundra that is the CEO’s floor. But it didn’t discourage her; it’s no secret that the CEO is very sensitive to warmth and keeps his office floor cool. It also serves as a cheap ploy to subconsciously intimidate any industry adversaries coming to meet with him and make them more susceptible to his coercion, but it won’t work on her. Hong Yumin was on a mission that she had been psyching herself up for over the past several days. Nothing could destroy her resolve.

She strolled up to his secretary. “Hi, Jeongho,” she said as sweetly as she could without cringing, “Is the CEO busy?”

He glanced at the man's schedule; “Uh, not right now,” he said hesitantly, “But he has a meeting in 10 minutes.”

This is your chance.

“Sorry, do you have an appointment? I don’t see one--”

“That’s all the time I need,” Yumin said, strutting right past Jeongho and approaching the CEO’s office. She could hear the secretary’s stuttering protests as she reached the door. She paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and entered the breach.

I did it, she thought as she closed the door behind her. Yumin slowly turned around. She had only seen the eggshell walls and cement flooring of the CEO’s office on two occasions: the day she signed her contract with Tastemaker and about a week ago when TM Girls was disbanded. Such a rush of emotions came over her that she almost forgot why she had committed this career-threatening faux pas in the first place. Flustered, she swallowed her feelings and greeted the CEO politely: “Good afternoon, CEO.”

“Yumin-ah...good afternoon,” the CEO replied curiously, looking up from his thick-rimmed glasses. He glanced at his iPad confirming what he already knew, “According to my schedule, you don’t have an appointment with me.” Yumin stood visibly trembling as he looked her up and down. “So either my secretary just lost his job, or you’ve lost your mind,” he said with a dry chuckle.

Then he stared at her with that look, his eyes fixed upon her and his eyebrows raised. The look was not openly nefarious as he is the CEO and must keep the appearance of approachability even behind closed doors, but to anyone who knew him that look was just as effective as a gorgon's stare.

Just like that, Yumin froze. She felt all that hard-earned conviction drain from her body and immediately realized the grave mistake she had made. Stop freaking out! You got this, Yumin’s inner motivation coach called out trying to preserve the last ounces of confidence she had left. You’re already here; you might as well speak! She opened her mouth, not particularly sure as to whether coherent words or her breakfast would come out, “Yes-- I mean, no. I don’t have a-- er, an appointment.” Alright, looks like we’re getting somewhere. She started regaining her confidence and spoke again with a voice significantly less shaky; “But please, if I could have a moment of your time--”

Suddenly, Yumin heard the subtle tones of the CEO’s phone. She looked down at the cellphone on his desk, then back at him as he pressed the tip of his AirPod. “Hello,” he answered, “Oh, Kyungsoo-ya! How’s filming going?”

Then it hit her: all the emotions she'd swallowed. The years of anxiety facing the possibility that she might never debut; the anger from the relentless hiatuses she had no choice but to endure; the devastation when she was told for the second time that the group she cherished more than anything in the world was no more. They were all festering inside her and had amalgamated into a feeling she rarely experienced: pure rage.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Yumin thought. The CEO jerked his head up to look at her with an expression of plain shock. Oh, wait...no, she said that. To the CEO.

Before he could utter another word, Yumin’s hand had snatched the phone off his desk and ended the call with whoever was on the line. She clutched the CEO’s phone in her hand as he stared at her in disbelief. Yumin didn’t back down; she stared right back.

“Okay, I’m listening,” he said flatly, breaking the silence.

Yumin took another deep breath and finally spoke her mind, “The only reason I signed a contract with this company was because you guaranteed that I would debut within 6-8 months. That was over two years ago; I--”

The CEO groaned and rolled his eyes as he reclined in his chair, his folded hands on his chest and his eyes fixed on her. Sorry, am I boring you?! I can’t believe this smug bastard...

His phone began to vibrate in her hand, but she swiftly declined the call. “I-- I am tired,” she said in a tone louder than what she had intended. “I’m tired of getting calls from my grandparents asking me to come back home because I have no future here; I’m tired of training trainees half my age that debut before I do; I’m tired of being the oldest trainee I know that isn’t anywhere near a debut; and I’m tired of putting my faith in old men who so easily crush the dreams of young, hardworking trainees because they’ve never had to experience this disappointment in their life.”

The CEO glared at her with his eyebrows furrowed, clearly offended. She decided it would be better to switch up her argument: “Look, when I left JYP...I was devastated. I worked so hard and all I got in return was a cancelled debut. Looking back, I can see that if I had debuted then I would’ve left the group almost immediately. I wasn’t ready; I would’ve been torn to shreds for my lack of ability. But I am a thousand times better than I was all those years ago because of Tastemaker. I was an alright rapper when I got here; now I’m the rap instructor. I can out-rap any trainee under this label, male or female. I was a good dancer before, and now I can out-dance our choreographer-- her words, not mine.”

The CEO chuckled lightly at her claim before she continued, “I have leadership quality, an attractive personality, and great visuals...but what good is having those attributes if no one sees them?” The CEO nodded thoughtfully.

Now we’re here, she thought, the hardest part. She took one final deep breath and gave her ultimatum, “I’ll always be thankful to you...and to Tastemaker for making me better...but if you don’t plan on debuting me, then...then just let me go. This way, we can stop wasting each other’s time.”

There. Yumin had said her piece and now it was time to listen.

The CEO cleared his throat and began to speak: “Wow…how dare you speak to me this way?! You have absolutely no idea why I make the decisions I make, and I will not be told what to do by some little bitch who thinks she’s talented because she can rhyme two words together.” Yumin was speechless; she could see what could’ve been a successful career flashing before her eyes...now it’s all gone. She felt her heart sink as tears welled up in her eyes. “Give me my phone!” He snarled at her, snatching his phone from her extended hands; “By the time I’m done calling every agency and talent scout in my address book, you won’t be able to open a fucking YouTube channel! You’ll have to go back to your grandparents’ and become a turnip farmer, shoveling shit to make a living.” He pulled her contract from his drawer, “You want me to ‘let you go’? So be it.” He pulled out a lighter from his pocket and set it ablaze. Yumin could only watch and cry as her dreams literally went up in smoke. The CEO threw the remnants of her contract in the garbage, “Now get the fuck out of my office,” he hissed, “You’re done.”

But no, he did not say that. In fact, he did not say anything. The CEO simply glared at her without a word and all Yumin could do was glare back. Say something, dammit! She thought. Yell, scream, something.

After what seemed like hours of deafening silence, he finally spoke, “Wow...that was impressive,” he stated flatly while opening his iPad. “Tell me, Yumin, do you remember Moon Yuri?” She was still reeling from the thought of what could’ve happened, but responded, “Uh...yes. Wasn’t he involved in THE FUN FACTORY?”

“Correct,” the CEO replied while checking some emails and notifications, “That call that you declined a few minutes ago? That was him. ” He gestured towards the phone that was still in her hand; she’d almost forgotten she had taken it. “Moon has made a request to establish his own label within the company. I just needed him to confirm some last-minute details.”

Yumin clearly didn’t understand, so the CEO attempted to clarify as he reviewed some charts and graphs, “Yuri is planning to debut a new girl group next year and he’s looking for 6-7 girls to be in it. Tastemaker isn’t planning on debuting any other groups as of right now, so any Tastemaker trainee may audition for him. Whoever is accepted will have their contract transferred to his label. No hassle.” Yumin finally realized what he was saying.

“But-- when is the audition?” “That was one of the details he needed to confirm. I’d say about a month or two?” “And...I can audition?” “I recommended you personally,” he said, making eye contact with her for a moment before taking out a pen and flipping through some important-looking documents. “I was in the middle of drafting a memo with all the details.”

Yumin stared into space, feeling like a complete idiot. If I had just waited a little longer...

“Um, may I have my phone back?” the CEO asked politely, but sternly, “I do have some important calls to make.” Yumin snapped out of her trance and hurriedly rested the CEO’s iPhone on his desk. The CEO continued to split his attention between the graphs on his iPad, the documents on his desk, and now the iPhone which was connecting to no doubt some other big name in the industry.

Yumin didn't know what to say. “CEO...I’m--” The CEO started chatting with someone on the other line. She averted her gaze as she pondered what to do next, eventually deciding to leave. She turned and walked towards the door. “Oh, Yumin-ah,” he innocently called out just as she was about to exit the room. She turned back to him, “Yes, sir?”

“Don’t pull this shit again,” he calmly ordered, “Because next time you won’t be so lucky.”

Slightly unnerved, Yumin nodded in agreement and exited the CEO’s office with another chance. Fourth time’s the charm, I hope.

[ravenforce]

Stark Legacy 4

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Carol Danvers x Wanda Maximoff x Maria Hill x Reader but Maria Hill x Reader centric for this chapter.

Summary: Four times Maria Hill finds the reader super cute but tells herself three girlfriends enough, and the one time she doesn’t hold back.

Word Count: 4884

A/N: Well, I didn’t plan for this to go almost 5k but here we are. And this is my first time writing, Maria Hill x Reader, so have mercy on me. I hope I gave it justice, and that you guys have fun reading this one as much as I had fun writing it. Let me know what you guys think. xx

Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 5 | 6

***

Happy startled from where he was lounging in the living room when he heard several footsteps coming from the hallway. He was already aiming his gun at the door when Carol walked in along with Nat, Maria, and Wanda. They looked unfazed in the face of a loaded gun.

“Hey, ladies?” It sounded more like a question than a greeting. He unloaded his gun, put it back down the centre table before walking to the bar where the girls sat. Nat was behind the counter already pouring drinks for Carol and Wanda. Maria, on the other hand, walked directly to the balcony to make a phone call to cancel the crew she called for awhile ago.

The room is tensed, Happy can sense it. Before he could question what’s wrong, Maria walked back in, and asked, “Did you know that Stark’s built a new iron suit?”

Ah! Now Happy understood what the tense silence meant. “Is she even gonna tell us?” Carol asked after turning her stool around to face him.

“Well -”

Wanda gasped before he can even say anything else. “What do you mean she’s just out testing her suit?” Happy looked at her with a straight face. He never got used to the young witch being on his head.

“Do you mean the suit’s not finished yet?” Nat looked like she’s trying to decide whether she’s uncomfortable, worried, or pissed. “Did you know what she did?”

Before Happy could answer though, the sound of your metal boots landing on the balcony made everyone turn towards you.

“Stop terrorizing the poor man, Tasha.” You walked slowly inside the penthouse, your suit retreating back inside your body. It was a design Tony planned for the next Iron suit that he never got to incorporate. You walked back to the couch and sat facing everyone at the bar.

“Did Fury know about this?” Maria asked as politely as she could while asserting her power as Deputy Director.

“No.” You answered simply. Before she can pose any question, you continued. “I’m not S.H.I.E.L.D, nor an Avenger. I don’t need to ask permission to anyone to do anything.”

Carol and Maria frowned a little with your blatant disregard of authority. Wanda kept quiet, knowing that you are right. They don’t have dominion over you. Still, behind the counter, Nat tried to hide her chuckle but knew she failed when everyone turned their attention to her. At that point, instead of reigning in her reaction, she started giggling uncontrollably. Carol looked at her like she just grew another head.

Maria having a slight idea as to why Nat is laughing, ignored her and turned back towards you. “May I speak to you in private?” she asked. You’re starting to like how badass Deputy Director Hill is well-mannered. You smiled before standing up and following her in your brand new study.

Nat watched you walk away with Maria. She has a feeling you will live up to the Stark attitude. Instead of getting a little pissed, she’s secretly happy to have Stark energy back in their lives. Sure, it was a little rough getting Tony to work along with everyone else but they made it, and she misses him every day since.

Happy sidled up to the smiling black widow, watching you and Maria speak inside the study with your door wide open. “It’s just like old times,” she whispered.

Happy chuckled, remembering how hard it was for Tony to even sign a contract with S.H.I.E.L.D at first, and how allergic he was to asking permission and being told what to do. “Yeah, just like old times.”

***

It wasn’t like old times. Maria learned that when she found you sitting on one of the benches outside HQ with a cup of coffee from Starbucks, and reading a paperback an hour earlier than you were expected. To say that she was surprised was an understatement. She expected you to be late for the meeting, the same way Tony was when they were trying to get him to sign his contract with S.H.I.E.L.D and the Avengers.

You looked up at her and immediately greeted her with a warm smile. “Good morning, Deputy Director.”

She eyed you curiously. “Good morning, you’re early.”

You smiled in a way that the artificial skin around your eyes crinkled adorably, and Maria is mesmerized. “Well -” you reached for the tumbler and handed it to her. She took it gratefully. “I never liked being late.”

It’s interesting to know that no matter how alike you and Tony are, there are still things that set you two apart. Maria is quite intrigued to find out what else makes you different. Maria gave you a small smile. “Shall we go inside?”

You meticulously put a bookmark on the page you were reading (because only demons use dog ears as a bookmark) before putting it inside your backpack.

“Lead the way, ma’am,” you said cheekily. Maria’s heart skipped a beat at that.

***

Maria mentally prepared for a long meeting with you and Fury but to yet another surprise, the meeting only lasted for an hour. After explaining your suit, Fury wasted no time in whipping out a contract that will sign you as a training agent with S.H.I.E.L.D for the moment. In the past, Tony made a huge fuss about being put in the lowest rank, they both expected you to do the same but no. You just asked Fury to hand the contract over so you can go through it. With your newly installed AI, you were able to scan the contract and understand it’s content within 2 minutes.

You procured a pen out of the pocket of your trouser and signed expertly on the side of each piece of paper. Fury was surprised but of course, none of it can be seen across his always impassive face. You slid him the side contract, and he caught it expertly.

“Very well -” He neatly put the contract inside a folder with your name labelled in front. “ - Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D, Agent Stark.”

You grinned at the title. Maria bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smiling as well. Something about you is infectious it seems. “Thank you, Director.”

“Don’t give Agent Hill too much trouble,” Fury said before exiting the conference room.

“No promises, Director.” You said looking at Maria from across the table.

She rolled her eyes at you playfully. “I’m surprised you agreed to the contract easily.”

You laughed heartily, causing butterflies to erupt on Maria’s stomach, then a somber expression took over your face. You looked at the pen in your hand, you turned it over to look at your brother’s name carved on it. “Growing up, Tony and I were inseparable. Even with a few years ahead of me, everyone still manages to think we were twins because we like the same things, think almost the same way.”

You smiled remembering your childhood with Tony but it didn’t reach your eyes. “I know Tony’s a bit of work, and a pain in the ass when it comes to following orders but no matter how alike we were -” You looked up at Maria before continuing. “I’m not my brother, I’m not Tony.”

“I’m sorry -” She felt bad for comparing, she started to apologize but you cut her off.

“It’s okay. It’s a common mistake.”

You said it without resentment, just a fact. Even in the past, you never felt resentment over being compared to him in almost all occasions. You think it’s an honor to be even considered Tony’s equal but with him forever gone, people are bound to keep comparing and you’re not gonna live your second life living in his shadow. It’s not something he would want you to do. So you will point it out until people learn the difference between the two of you.

Maria nodded. She realized in that raw moment that regardless of your ball-jointed shell, and inhumanly perfect skin, you are still fully human inside; and she resolved to treat you like one better.

***

One of the perks of signing the contract with S.H.I.E.L.D was that Fury didn’t revoke your privilege to stay at the Tower with Happy. In return though, you are to report daily at the headquarters and will be closely working under Agent Hill. You frankly didn’t mind, Maria has been very professional since the day she and Happy found you in Tony’s last secret lab. You know that she’s very smart, and damn good leader. It also helps to point out that she’s very easy in the eyes. 

Yes, your soul may be housed in a robotic shell but you are still very much gay. Not that you think you have a chance with Deputy Director Hill, no. Happy has filled you in thoroughly about what you’ve missed, one of them being that the most badass women of the Avengers are actually dating Agent Hill. 

Now, how on earth do you think you’d ever had a chance to board that ship? The answer is you do not. Had you been your normal human self, it wouldn’t be a problem but you are not your normal human self. And you loathe to admit it - even to yourself - but having a fully robotic body is giving you insecurities you never had before.

So you do the what a Stark would in an event that they can’t get what they want: compartmentalize. Box the heavy feelings and drop it at the bottom of the ocean. So, the next day, you were more than ready to meet Agent Hill (or her girlfriends) without feeling flustered. 

“Good morning, Agent Stark.” Maria’s sudden greeting from the gym door startled you enough to cause you to punch a hole through the punching bag. Maria chuckled when she heard you curse under your breath. 

You looked up at her as she casually walks inside the room, wearing her tight training gear. So much for not being ruffled by feelings, you thought to yourself. “Good morning, ma’am. I can pay for the bag,” you said sheepishly. 

Maria stood a few feet away from you outside the mat. She turned around to put her gym bag down. “Don’t worry about it, we have so many of that in the stock room,” she answered before stepping away from her bag and bending down to start her stretching. She kept her back towards you, giving your full access to her tight ass, and you had to quickly avert your eyes to keep your system from overheating. 

“Agent Stark, I detect a spike to your shell temperature,” Edward, your newly programmed AI, spoke through the gym speaker. You internally pleaded for the ground to open up and swallow you whole. You thought it was a good idea to cast Edward to the gym system so he could play you some music while working out. Now, you know it was stupid especially after you looked back towards Maria who’s now smirking at you. 

Maria walked towards you and put a hand on your cheek. “Calm down, Agent Stark. We haven’t even started yet,” she whispered. Training daily was not a problem you said. Not going to be ruffled by gay feelings you said.

***

On days where you don’t have training, Maria always asks you to shadow her for the day while she does her job as deputy director. It’s in those days that Maria finds more reason to like you. On your first week, she found out that you’re even better with people than your brother. People used to always gravitate towards Tony because he was a force of nature that sucks in people in his orbit. You, on the other hand, is the calm after Tony’s storm, and people gravitate towards you because of your charming and dependable personality.

On the second week, she found out that while Tony likes reminding people that he’s a genius billionaire, you like keeping it on the down-low. It’s common knowledge that you are as much as a genius as Tony was but Maria appreciates your humility. In that same week, she also learned that you are a caretaker.

“Good morning, Agent Hill.” You greeted way too cheerfully. Maria turned towards you and was surprised to see you extending both your hands with coffee and pastry. She cocked her perfectly sculpted eyebrows at you. You smiled at her silent question. “You’re always here early. I’m assuming haven’t had breakfast yet. If you don’t want them, you can give them away.”

A pained looked briefly passes over Maria’s face like the thought of giving your gifts away pained her. “You’re right, I haven’t had breakfast yet. I didn’t wanna make too much fuss in the kitchen and risk waking Carol, and Wanda.” She took a bite of the still-hot Bearclaw. “Hmm. This is so good. Thank you.”

You smiled as you watch her eat up. “You said, you didn’t wanna wake Carol and Wanda. Where’s Tasha?”

Maria noted that you’re the only person at S.H.I.E.L.D that calls her girlfriend Tasha. “She always wakes up early but she’s hopeless in the kitchen.” Maria smiled fondly at the thought of Natasha. Then she looked up at you with mirth in her eyes. “Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

You two started giggling together.

***

The pastry and coffee became a habit. A part of it was you being obsessed with consistency but a bigger part of it was because you care about the woman. You’ve seen how busy she could be with training recruits, doing reports and paper works, coordinating missions, and attending meetings with Fury that she forgets to eat. So, every day like clockwork, no matter what happens or no matter where she is, you find a way to get Maria something to eat.

Just like how you found a way to send her, her daily fix of pastry and coffee while she was at the Avengers compound. Maria was on the balcony speaking with one of her agents when Happy waltz in.

“Happy! My man!” Sam yelled enthusiastically when he saw the man came in with boxes of doughnuts, a smaller paper bag, and a cup of coffee. “Is that for us?”

Happy greeted everyone before putting the doughnuts on the centre table. He made sure to put the smaller paper bag and coffee on a separate table. In Sam’s excitement over the prospect of food, he failed to get the message that the other package wasn’t for sharing.

“Uhm -” Happy tried to stop him but Sam already opened the small paper bag containing Maria’s Bearclaw.

“Oooh! Bear-” He didn’t manage to finish cooing over the pastry before Maria appeared before him with her standard S.H.I.E.L.D gun on his face. He let out an embarrassing yelp.

“Put my breakfast down Wilson or I’ll put you down myself.”

Sam gulped at the seriousness in Maria’s voice. He slowly put the bag down back on the side table and promptly put his hands up in surrender. “Damn, Hill. It’s just bread.”

It was all it took before Carol, Wanda, and Nat started laughing so hard. Sam turned towards his teammates and glared. Wanda recovered first and wiped the happy tears from her eyes. “It’s not just bread, Sam. It’s from her crush,” she said a little breathlessly from the laughing fit.

Sam turned to Maria who’s already sat down and nibbling quietly on her food with a faint blush on her cheeks. “You have a crush on Happy?” He asked incredulously.

Happy threw a pillow on the back of this head. “Ow! What?”

“It’s not from me, idiot.”

“It’s from Stark,” Carol said.

Sam turned towards Maria again. “You have a crush on Y/N?”

“Like I’m the only one,” Maria fired back. Making Sam turn towards the three, who are now turning bright red on their seat as well.

Sam and Bucky chuckled. “Well, hot damn.”

***

Exactly two months after starting your training with Maria, Fury decided you’re fit for more than just desk duty. No one was actually surprised at the decision. Aside from being more agile, more adaptable than any other recruit, you have also proven that you are just as smart as your brother was. Hence, making you as good as a tactician as he was.

On the day of your first mission, Maria came to work a little later than usual and she was surprised to only find her pastries but no you, sitting on her desk and waiting for her. She looked around to check if you’re in just loitering around other tables. You have, after all, been quite popular with the other agents. What with your insanely human-built, and charming personality.

“Agent Colson,” she called out when she saw the man passing by.

“Good morning, Agent Hill.” He greeted cordially. She was just about to ask you when Colson beat her to the subject. “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing Agent Stark, I’m one man short for today’s emergency mission.”

Maria was surprised but managed to give the man a tight smile. “Of course not,” she said shaking her head a little. “May I speak with Agent Stark before you leave though?”

“Of course, she’s probably out at the cockpit preparing with Daisy.”

***

Lo and behold, you are indeed in the cockpit, sitting on one of the metal crates. Your smile faltered a bit when you see the unreadable look on Maria’s face.

“What’s with the long face, Agent Hill?” You teased lightly. Agent Johnson kicked your foot in warning before walking away to give you two a little privacy.

“Nothing.” Her reply was short and clipped like she’s holding back on saying more. “Just -”

“Just?” You cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Just remember your training out there.” She shoved her hands at the back pocket of her dark jeans. “Don’t lose your head.”

It’s not like she doesn’t trust you to complete the mission. It’s not like she doesn’t trust Agent Colson’s team to have your back. They’re one of the finest agents in the organization but it still worries her that you’re going out there without her, or without one of her girlfriends at least. She will have to talk to Fury about it, she thought.

“I didn’t think you care so much, Agent Hill.”

You just couldn’t help teasing her especially when she looks like she’s struggling whether to admit to it or not with herself. Before she can answer though, Agent Johnson came back to tell you it’s time to take off. You nodded before jumping off the crate you’re seating on. Maria watched you leave before the quinjet closes, you turned back to her and winked. You caught a glimpse of her shaking her head to hide the faint blush on her cheeks.

***

The mission was fairly easy. It’s just supposed to be a recon mission. Get in, get intel, get out but like real life, not everything goes as planned. Right at the start, you were antsy, the place was way too quiet to be safe. It was even more suspicious when your team was able to get the intel you came for without meeting any hostile, nor any resistance.

“It’s a trap,” you whispered where your team are huddled in front of the computer. “Let’s pretend we hadn’t caught up to their plan.”

“What are you thinking?” Agent Grant asked while he types away on the keyboard.

“They’re going to ambush us on the way out,” you answered.

Everyone looked at each other. Agent Grant pulled the USB off the computer and turned towards you. “You should take this.” He pushed the device to your hand. “Just in case.”

You frowned. “Hold on a sec.” You snatched the device and slot it in your arm. Within a second, you pulled it back and gave it back to Agent Grant. He looked at you questioningly.

“I can’t hold on to that. They can shoot me, damage my operating system, deactivate me, and capture me.” Everyone got the message. “But I made a copy of what’s inside, just in case.”

“Okay. Let’s get this over with.” Everyone nodded. “Move out.”

***

As calculated, the ambush happened just before you can close the building. They’re waiting for you right in the open, with their annoying HYDRA uniform, and heavy artillery. No warning came before they started openly firing at your team.

You hear Agent Johnson barking orders in your comms. “Spread out, wait for my signal.”

You and Agent May run to the right, while Agent Johnson and Grant run to left and took cover on the thick trunk of the trees surrounding the vicinity. “They’re bound to run out of ammo. That’s our cue,” Agent Johnson spoke through the comms again.

Like clockwork, the gunfire stopped and the HYDRA soldier scrambled to reload their guns. Right on cue, the four of your stepped out of the shadow and started attacking the soldiers in close combat. You can see by the way they were uncoordinated that they weren’t expecting to be engaged that way. You took it as an opportunity to send powerful combination moves to immobilize as many hostiles as possible.

The fight lasted for at least an hour or more. Everyone took a moment to catch their breaths.

“Everyone okay?” Agent Johnson confirmed. The fight visibly took a lot from the team that they can only nod at the question.

“I think we better move out before more of these bad boys crawl out from where they came from,” you suggested. Nobody needed to be told twice. Nobody has any more energy left to fight a fresh wave of hostiles. Even you were running on your secondary battery pack.

***

A collective sigh of relief was heard once the quinjet was safely flying in autopilot. Everyone was already out of their tactical uniform when you emerged from the pit. Agent May smiled when she saw you walk in.

“Change out of your suit and try to relax a little,” she suggested. You started retracting your Phantom suit back to your body when Agent Johnson gasped.

“Agent Stark are you alright?” Agent Grant stood up to check you up. You were confused until you followed their line of sight.

“Oh.” Was all you could say when you saw the corrugated blade lodge a little off your left ribcage.

“Oh?” Your team asked in unison.

You sat down beside Agent Johnson. “What can we do?” She asked. By the hitch in her voice, you know she’s going frantic.

“Nothing as of the moment but I’m okay -” You said a little slower than you normally would, and your eyes started dropping. “-I have run diagnostic. It’s not a threat but it’s draining my batteries fast.”

Everyone calmed a little bit when they remembered you’re not entirely human anymore. “Okay. You should rest. We still have a few hours in the air,” Agent May suggested.

“I already sent a message for Happy. He will know how to handle me.”

***

True to your words, Happy was there when the quinjet landed. “Thank you,” he said to the team before rolling you away with the technical team. Maria arrived at the lab shortly after Happy got you in the table.

“What can I do to help, Happy?”

The man didn’t startle. Instead, he shoved a bunch of wires in her hands before going to the computers and started typing away.

“Can you attached those to Y/N’s body, please?”

Maria did as she was instructed to. After a few minutes, with the cables secure in various parts of your body, the lab light dimmed while the one at the exam table lit up. A program booted on the computer.

“Hello. I’m Edward, I’m Y/N Stark’s personal AI. What can I do for you?”

“Run diagnostics on Y/N.” Happy commanded the AI with practised precision.

“It appears that Ms Stark has suffered a stab wound on her left ribcage. No internal wirings or hardware has been compromised. Except for Battery Pack A.”

“Suggested course of action?”

“Replace battery pack A, and initiate skin repair protocol.”

Happy nodded solemnly while checking his work tablet. Maria standing on the side, just watching everything unfold.

“Edward, I just connected you to this lab. Run an inventory of supplies and equipment.”

After literally five seconds. “Inventory complete.”

Happy smiled thinking how you did well in programming Edward. “Do we have what you need to start Y/N’s repairs?”

“Yes.”

“Then initiate.”

“Copy that, Harold.”

***

The replacement of your battery pack and the repair on your skin only took 45 minutes. All of which was done by the industrial robots from Stark Industries. Happy and Maria looked on intently as machines whirred around you.

“Repairs complete,” Edward informed the pair both Maria and Happy who sighed their relief quietly.

“How long before she wakes, Edward?” Maria asked.

“In about 5 hours tops, Agent Hill. The protocol includes putting her on stasis as she fully charges all four of her batteries.”

“In that case, I’m going to get us something to eat first. This is stressful.” Happy declared while already almost halfway to the door.

***

Five hours, and a box of pizza later, you opened your eyes. You turn your head away from the light and saw Happy sleeping on the sofa in the lab. You smiled softly to yourself, happy to still have the man by your side.

“Hey.” You turned to your other side, surprised to see Maria sitting by your bedside and holding a book on robotics.

“Hey,” you choked out. There’s that unreadable expression on Maria’s face again. Lucky for you, you didn’t have to ask her any more about it before Maria closed the book in her hand and threw herself in your arms.

“Hey, I’m here. I’m okay.” You tried to assure her but Maria only tightened her hold on you.

“You scared me,” she mumbled against your chest.

You were inclined to make a joke about being invincible but by the looks of it, Maria wouldn’t appreciate it. So, you stopped deflecting to protect yourself from catching pesky feelings. You wrapped your hands around her a little tighter.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

[fatalism-and-villainy]

Guarded Curiosity

for @coldwind-shiningstars, a fic featuring their OC - Wen Qing/Li Xiaofan, 3.1k, pre-relationship academic flirting. Thank you Novy for letting me borrow your OC and I hope I got her right!

Wen Qing was hardly in any sort of position optimal for hearing gossip – indeed, she had never had the opportunity nor inclination to be a sophisticated and well-connected lady who traded in rumours. But the reputation of the new mistress of the Unclean Realm had not failed to reach her ears. It was, in this particular case, a matter of vocation. The new Nie-furen was apparently extraordinarily sharp-minded and inclined towards matters of science and philosophy, and had produced numerous writings on the subjects with voracious speed and energy. She was also said to have amassed an impressive circle of female companions, among them the most forward-thinking minds in cultivation theory.

There were plenty who might have denounced such behaviour in a wife, but Nie-furen was apparently, for all her intellect, a polite and unassuming personality, and well-attuned to the affairs of the household; as such, naysayers had little to find fault with.

But Wen Qing knew little of this when she first heard the name Li Xiaofan. For her, it was merely a name in the footnotes of a recent medical publication, read with a furrowed brow over her morning congee, that had compelled her to track down the individual in question. It was to her deep surprise to learn that this woman was the wife of Nie Huaisang, and that she was in search of intellectual companions of a demographic very similar to Wen Qing. Wen Qing’s connections had then swiftly obtained her an invitation to the Unclean Realm.

As such, Wen Qing found herself, neutrally dressed in pale gray, before a small audience of women assembled in Li Xiaofan’s own study. Li Xiaofan herself sat in the centre of their semicircle. She was unexpectedly slight and unremarkable compared to the others, who seemed to be subtly competing with one another in finery; she even wore very few of the adornments fitting for a sect leader’s wife, contenting herself solely with a simple bronze headpiece, jade earrings, and a few rings. What did stand out about her were her eyes – exceptionally steady in their gaze, and betraying nothing of the thoughts behind them.

Wen Qing was unaccustomed to this sort of public scrutiny, especially within this conclave of female camaraderie, wherein the rules seemed to be deeply and imperceptibly etched into the setting. Nonetheless, she steeled herself and, smoothing out the stack of paper in her hands, began to read.

The reception was… not quite chaos, although something adjacent to it. There was a brief period of silence when Wen Qing finished reading, and then a woman sporting large, opulent green earrings asked a question to which Wen Qing had barely time to respond before another woman intervened with another question, clearly designed to undermine the first. It was little time before a cryptic and impassioned debate had broken out that seemed at something of a remove from the topic at hand, and much more based in the simmering conflicts and resentments of the group.

Wen Qing knew well enough when to keep her tongue. But she felt rather at a loss as to what to do, still standing before her preoccupied audience. She was tapping restlessly at the stack of paper she held, and considering taking the risk of clearing her throat so as at least to issue some kind of concluding thanks or acknowledgment, when she heard a voice speak disconcertingly close to her.

“Excuse me, guniang.”

Wen Qing had trained herself out of flinching years ago; she merely let the little shock pass through her, soundlessly as lightning blinking across the sky. She turned to find that Li Xiaofan had materialized behind her, having approached silently amidst the heated and calamitous debate. Her face wore the same placid, unforthcoming expression as it had since Wen Qing had set foot in the room.

“Nie-furen.” Wen Qing inclined her head. “I thank you for your hospitality, and for allowing me to speak today.”

“The privilege was ours,” the other woman replied. “But, guniang, may I trouble you to have a look at your notes?”

“My notes?” repeated Wen Qing.

“I only wished to see if you had diagrams handy.” Li Xiaofan’s voice was mannerly, near-apologetic, and yet also firm in resolve. She betrayed none of the imperiousness that ladies of the household often did, but she was clearly not struggling to fit into her role either.

“Of course.” Wen Qing offered the stack of papers. “They are interspersed throughout the written argument – you may peruse them as you like.”

Li Xiaofan stretched out both her hands, as if formally accepting a gift. There really was an unexpected elegance to her movements.

Flicking through the pages, a tiny frown came over Li Xiaofan’s face. She paused on one page for a moment, and then nodded to herself. “Yes, it’s what I thought.” She looked up again. “Forgive me for pointing it out, guniang, but I’m afraid there is a potential flaw in this diagram. I thought so as I was listening, but I needed to look for myself.”

“A flaw?” Wen Qing was disconcerted, not only at her own mistake, but at the level of attentiveness on the part of the other woman. Especially in light of the cacophony of feedback from her companions, it had been difficult to tell if she had been listening at all, let alone following along with such precision.

Wen Qing narrowed her eyes, taking another look at Li Xiaofan. Her tone in raising the issue had continued to be near-deferential, but there was a strange expression emanating from the exactitude of her gaze and the set of her mouth – possibly something like satisfaction.

Wen Qing could not suppress a spark of interest.

“A flaw,” she repeated, moving in to look at the diagram over Li Xiaofan’s shoulder. “Please, explain it to me.”

***

Before his death, certain people, especially those of a more sentimental nature, had hoped for Nie Mingjue to marry, commenting that a woman’s touch would make the Unclean Realm more hospitable. But no such hope had been attached to his younger brother, whose aesthetic tastes were well known (and widely panned).

“Yes, my husband has quite the passion for flower arrangements,” Li Xiaofan said, reaching out to delicately caress one of the roses at the side of the stone path. “He truly has transformed the place – or so I’m told. Of course, I never visited before our courtship.”

“It looks lovely,” Wen Qing volunteered. Serviceable enough, as a response.

“Do you like flowers, Wen-guniang?” Her companion asked. “I suppose you must, for their medicinal purposes.”

“I don’t have such a one-track mind. I will confess to a weakness for their beauty as well.”

Li Xiaofan relinquished the rose blossom. “Do you consider appreciation of beauty to be a weakness?”

“Not inherently,” Wen Qing replied. “But surely one must admit it has that potential.”

“I see.” Li Xiaofan resumed walking, and Wen Qing hastened to match her pace. “For the record, I am less interested in flowers for their aesthetics, myself – although you could find a few among my companions who have made that their area of study. I have recently developed a pet interest in grafting.”

“Grafting?”

“Indeed. I have been conducting some experiments – I can show you the plants in question later, and my notes, if you are interested.”

“Most certainly.” Wen Qing gestured at the flower boxes lining the walkway. “Are any of these your creations, then?”

“Oh, no!” Li Xiaofan gave a little laugh. “I would never dare to tinker with my husband’s roses. He is rather particular about them.”

“I see.” Wen Qing paused. “It seems you and Nie-zongzhu keep your interests separate.”

Li Xiaofan eyed her with a furtive scrutiny. “My husband has his own pursuits, and I have mine. This is how ideal marriages are conducted, I think.”

Wen Qing inclined her head in concession. “I wouldn’t know, of course.”

“Naturally. Did you ever intend to get married?”

Wen Qing stopped for a moment to properly look her in the eye. “No,” she said honestly. “Marriage was always a means to an end – a possibility, for the protection of me and mine. Nothing more.” For a-Ning, especially – and it was so disconcerting, to be making decisions without a care for a-Ning. He was strong now, strong beyond comprehension – she had to remember that. “Now, I have so few ties, marriage would be only a pursuit of pleasure. And I sense… well. It would bring little of that, for me.”

That exacting gaze was still resting on her, not faltering for a moment. It was remarkable, how much more calculating Li XIaofan’s eyes were, up close like this. “You have no interest in comfort and security for your own sake?”

“I believe I am capable of creating them myself.” Wen Qing hesitated for a moment. It had been a long time since she had been in a formal conversation that required this kind of guardedness. “But the first, I’ll admit, has never really enticed me. I prefer my work to leisure. And the second – well, how guaranteed can such a thing be?”

“We think alike, then,” said Li Xiaofan. “My husband is a lover of leisure – although his mind is frequently at work. As for me, my work is soothing to me. He coaxes me to lay it aside every now and then, and I coax him to put his observations to use. As such, we work together quite efficiently.”

Wen Qing nodded along. The particular balancing mechanisms of marriage were still quite foreign to her. In the past, she had often been unnerved by married women outside her family. Their bound hair and their assured poise signaled a seamless adoption of the rites of the household - and, secretly, subliminally, the rites of the bedchamber. The women made her dread such a conference of knowledge upon herself, and yet provoked an inexplicable curiosity in her as well. But Wen Qing had also known the dangers of curiosity when unguarded.

This ritual no longer gave her the same trepidation, but it jarred her to be reminded that Li Xiaofan was in such a different class of women from her. Though it was difficult to imagine her and Nie Huaisang engaged in any kind of relations.

All the same, it was perhaps a comfort to be navigating this creeping intimacy with an attached woman. One who had her own house and husband, who needed nothing from Wen Qing except her intellectual prowess, and whose other designs on her were solely in the province of wanting.

Wanting what, exactly? Wen Qing turned her head ever so slightly to take in a sidelong glance at the other woman. Li Xiaofan’s face betrayed no intention, her small, puckered mouth completely impassive. Certainly, given her views on marriage, she did not seem the sentimental type – whatever passions this woman was capable of, they did not seem to be based in flights of fancy. Wen Qing could not help wondering what it would take to break that carefully controlled neutrality of expression.

“Wen-guniang?” Li Xiaofan lifted her eyebrows. The expression was undeniably striking on her.

Wen Qing felt like shaking herself. “Ah, forgive me. I am not usually so distracted – I have had a long journey.”

“Of course.”

“It is admirable that you have achieved such a partnership,” Wen Qing continued, more confidently. “All couples should hope to be so well-balanced.”

“Indeed. You were concerned with such balance today, were you not? With your articulation of the interactions of the Zang-fu. It was surprisingly metaphorical.”

Wen Qing inclined her head. “That presentation was considerably more philosophical than my usual inclinations. I suppose recent circumstances have prompted me to think more… abstractly.”

“You specialized in acupuncture, correct?”

“Largely. I also pursued some more… experimental lines of thought.”

LI Xiaofan quirked her lips, but made no more insistent inquiry. “I see.”

Wen Qing hastened on. “In truth, it was your remarks on moxibustion that compelled me here.”

“Oh, that?” Li Xiaofan swept her robes up as they progressed up a small series of steps that opened out into a courtyard. “I’m surprised it had such far-reaching influence, really. Medicine is more of a side project for me. I am certain Wen-guniang’s insights would make me seem quite foolish in comparison.”

She had not quite mastered the composure of a great lady, Wen Qing thought. Such a performance of modesty ought to be utterly free of contempt, and buoyed by a certain warmth and grace that underlined the speaker’s being ultimately above the judgment of the other. Li Xiaofan had not quite grasped the cadence of such a response yet, it seemed – the tone came down in some muddled place between smug and perfunctory. It was quite an intriguing chink in her armour.

“Nie-furen is too kind,” Wen Qing replied smoothly. “Of course, I’m aware of the focus of much of your work. But at what age did you take an interest in medicine?”

“Early,” replied Li Xiaofan. “I did not get a chance to study it formally until shortly after my marriage. But I have always been interested in the workings of the physical body.”

Naturally. Li Xiaofan’s origins would not have permitted her to devote herself to extensive scholarship. Such a mercantile family would have been much more concerned with producing a marriageable daughter than a scholarly one. But she had clearly had a fierce drive for knowledge, if the rumours were to be believed.  

“The workings of the physical body,” Wen Qing repeated. “And do your companions share such an interest?” She winced internally. Heavens, this woman made her clumsy.

“Some of them,” the other woman replied evenly. “Though sometimes through the aim of achieving transcendence – and through more unconventional means.”

Wen Qing paused. “Do you mean dual cultivation?”

Li Xiaofan turned her head to meet Wen Qing’s gaze. Her eyes betrayed a glint. “Not quite.”

“More than two?”

A little smile blossomed in the corner of her mouth. “Precisely.”

A new sensation was taking root inside Wen Qing, something like exhilaration – if exhilaration was the proper word for a kind of momentary vindication that brought a palpably physical, almost dizzying effect. Amidst the towering walls and century-old stonework, she was in uncharted waters.

“There is something so charming about the contrast of flower and stone,” Wen Qing commented. “It’s the kind of artistic touch that, I’m told, the Unclean Realm has been lacking in the past.”

Li Xiaofan cast another amused, knowing look at her. “You are fond of diverting the discussion, aren’t you?”

“So are you.”

“Not at all.” Li Xiaofan began to move again, taking long, quick strides. “I am not one for evasion. I am merely patient.”

Wen Qing quickened her pace as well. “So patient that I imagine you intend to keep me here for at least several weeks before my work reaches a level that you deem publishable.”

“Keep you here?” Li Xiaofan laughed, a soft and light sound that seemed unsuited to the tone of their conversation. “Do you imagine this as a prison, Wen-guniang?”

“Of course not.” Wen Qing lowered her head in an appropriately demure gesture, but maintained the steady conviction in her voice. “I only meant that Nie-furen has famously high standards.”

Li Xiaofan was gazing straight ahead as they walked, a kind of playfulness in her refusal to meet Wen Qing’s eyes. “I have made you no invitation as yet.”

“You would hardly have personally corrected me if you thought my work beneath your notice. And your companions seemed sufficiently engaged by it.”

“That particular cohort is very easily stirred up,” Li Xiaofan countered. “But yes, I believe the two of us have considerable potential together.”

“The two of us?” Wen Qing stopped. “Are you imagining a more extensive collaboration than mere supervision?”

Li Xiaofan paused, slightly ahead of her, and turned back to lock eyes with her again. “Yes,” she said simply. “I would like to work with you.”

She retraced her steps, drawing closer to Wen Qing. “I have assembled a collection of intellectually curious minds together to create an environment that, I think, facilitates innovation. Within it, certain individuals are more closely bonded, more suited to one another. Just imagine the way in which each zang is paired to its own fu, and they exist in concert with the other pairings by way of the Wuxing.”

“I hardly think that metaphor applies here.”

Li Xiaofan cocked an eyebrow inquisitively. It truly was astonishing how malleable her affect was, how much it had shifted from their first meeting.

Wen Qing explained, stumblingly, “A zang can hardly abandon its paired fu for another on a whim.”

The other woman chuckled, ducking her head down. “Is that your objection? Metaphors are flexible, Wen-guniang. You have been more broadly thinking through certain means of coexistence through this framework, yes? Surely we can agree that the complexities of human choice and connection transcend the mere workings of our bodies.”

“Perhaps.”

“Evading again,” said Li Xiaofan. She had such a subtle array of different amusements at her disposal, thought Wen Qing.

“Nonetheless I will accept your offer,” Wen Qing said.

“The offer I still haven’t formally issued?” Li Xiaofan smiled, close-mouthed and ladylike, but there was a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “I should warn you though, Wen-guniang – I won’t be able to favour you extensively or openly at first. You should know that many of these women… well, they are unaware of your origins. And they dislike seeing an upstart rise so quickly.”

“I understand.”

“Don’t worry, of course – your secret will be quite safe with me, Wen-guiniang. Or should I say -?”

“Lai.”

“Lai-guniang,” Li Xiaofan continued evenly. “That said, this cohort is not the nest of vipers you are presumably imagining.” She turned her head to the side, her eyes knowingly appraising Wen Qing. “There are many women here who share your interests, and could be of much help to you in navigating the customs here. I could point you towards them later.”

“You are most kind, Nie-furen.”

It was only after the niceties had left her mouth that Wen Qing realized that she had sealed their agreement, its parameters still uncertain. Li Xiaofan had drawn close, suddenly, and all the heat in the courtyard seemed to emanate from the space between their bodies.

“I am pleased you came, Lai-guniang. We will have much to discuss.”

[dettiot]

Fic: late-night interruption 7/?

late-night interruption Author: dettiot Rating: G (for now) Summary: When Obi-Wan receives a late-night comm from Sabé, he’s not sure what to expect. But what he learns will change many lives . . . and the fate of the Republic.

Notes: This chapter is a bit of an emotional roller-coaster, so I apologize for the way the tone veers all over the place. But then, there's a lot of really emotional stuff happening!

Also, I made a small change to Chapter 5, since I realized that Kamino did have representation in the Senate.

Also available on AO3!

XXX

The moment he saw Ahsoka, Anakin felt a missing piece fall into place. Even though she hadn’t been here for the birth of the twins, at least he would be able to tell her the news and convince her to come to Coruscant. He wanted Ahsoka here--he wanted his whole family together. 

With a wide grin, Anakin spoke before Obi-Wan could. “It sure is, Snips. I’m a father!”

Ahsoka blinked, looking very confused. “What?” 

Anakin was sure his face was going to crack with how widely he was smiling. “I’m married to Padmé and she just gave birth to twins!” 

“Anakin! We don’t know what the encryption is like on this line,” Obi-Wan scolded. 

“I don’t care!” Anakin said, spreading his arms wide. 

“So it is a good time,” Ahsoka said, laughing. “And don’t worry, Obi-Wan, this line is secure.” 

Obi-Wan still looked worried, so Anakin clapped a hand on his back. “C’mon, Master. It’s Ahsoka.” 

“Congratulations, Skyguy,” Ahsoka said, smiling at him for a moment. “I wish I was there.” 

“Then hop in a ship and get here. The twins want to meet their Aunt Ahsoka,” Anakin said. 

“I wish I could,” Ahsoka said, her smile fading a little. “But--there is something I need to discuss with you. Both of you.” 

For a moment, Anakin allowed himself to feel his annoyance and disappointment. To feel frustrated Ahsoka wasn’t contacting them just to talk, to let him know she was all right. Although she hadn’t stayed in touch since she left the Jedi Order, Anakin had been able to keep tabs on her through their Force bond--as well as keeping watch on the Holonet for any news about any mysterious young Togruta females. 

But the fact that she was contacting them now meant whatever she needed to talk to them about, it was important. Very important.  

Sighing, Anakin looked at Obi-Wan. “Let’s go into Padmé’s office and use her holo.” 

With a nod, Obi-Wan followed him down the hallway. It only took Anakin a moment to transfer the call from Obi-Wan’s portable holo to Padmé’s larger unit. 

“It’s good to hear from you, Ahsoka,” Obi-Wan said with a soft smile. “What’s going on?” 

Ahsoka took a deep breath. “I’m on Kalevala. I’m involved with one of the groups fighting for control of Mandalore.” 

As soon as Ahsoka said ‘Kalevala’, Anakin could feel Obi-Wan strengthen his shields. He gave his former Master a look, silently encouraging him to not shut him out. Obi-Wan met his eyes after a moment, then lowered his shields a little. 

That action allowed him to feel the churning emotions in Obi-Wan. But when he spoke, he sounded composed. “I wouldn’t have guessed you would become involved in Mandalorian politics.” 

She gave a small shrug. “Someone needed my help and I wanted to help.” 

“Of course you did, Snips,” Anakin said. “Are you okay?”

“I am, Anakin, but . . . some information has been presented by an ally and now that it’s been verified, it needs to be shared with the Jedi and the Republic,” Ahsoka said. 

Tilting his head, Anakin stretched out. He could tell Ahsoka was hiding something from them. And he didn’t blame her for having secrets, but he wanted her to know she could tell them--she could tell him--anything.

“What kind of information?” Obi-Wan asked. 

“It’s from the Kaminoans,” Ahsoka said. “Indirectly from them. They passed this info to a member of the Council of Neutral Systems, who brought it to the Mandalorian faction I’m working with.” 

The Kaminoans? The people responsible for creating the clone army? Anakin looked at Obi-Wan, who was already stroking his beard. “What did they say?” Anakin asked, looking back at Ahsoka.

The way Ahsoka straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin told Anakin he wasn’t going to like this. 

“There was a secret order given to the Kaminoans to implant an inhibitor chip in each clone,” Ahsoka said. “A chip that was designed to give the clones orders that they couldn’t override.” 

Anakin stared at Ahsoka. “What?” 

“Do you have proof from the Kaminoans?” Obi-Wan asked after a moment of silence. Anakin could sense the shock and surprise in his former Master, but also how his mind was already working, searching for signs of a trap. 

“Yes. We have medical scans showing the location of the chip in each clone--and information about how they can be removed.” 

“Who . . .” Anakin began to ask, only to answer his own question. “Someone who wanted to use the clones against the Republic.” 

Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “Someone like . . . a Sith Lord.” 

“A Sith?” Ahsoka asked, her eyes widening. “Have you found them?” 

“We have received some information that could indicate who it is,” Obi-Wan said. 

It was all Anakin could do not to blurt out an explanation to Ahsoka. To tell her about the vision he had shared with Obi-Wan, about their suspicions. If only to let him start working through his own feelings about the possibility. But Obi-Wan gave him a look and turned back to Ahsoka. 

“We need your information as soon as possible, Ahsoka. Can you and the people you’re working with get to Coruscant?” 

Ahsoka looked off to the side--to someone who was staying clear of the range of her holo projector, Anakin realized--then looked back at them and nodded. “Yes.”

“Very well--when you arrive, come to Senator Amidala’s apartment,” Obi-Wan instructed Ahsoka. 

“All right, Master,” Ahsoka said, bowing her head a little. “May the Force be with you.” 

“May it be with all of us,” Obi-Wan acknowledged. 

Before Ahsoka could end the comm, Anakin leaned in. “Be careful, Ahsoka. Remember: the twins want to meet you.” 

Her toothy grin reminded him of the Padawan he had met for the first time not so very long ago in years, but it felt much, much longer. “I will, Master. Send Padmé my best.” 

And with that, Ahsoka’s image vanished, leaving Anakin alone with Obi-Wan. 

“Do you think the Chancellor was responsible for this control chip?” Anakin asked Obi-Wan, keeping his voice low. 

“Who else would have the ability to do so?” Obi-Wan asked, his arms crossed over his chest as he stroked his beard.

Anakin ran his hands through his hair, then slumped down in one of the chairs. He felt so overwhelmed, between the birth of the twins, the strange vision of Palpatine fighting Master Yoda, and now Ahsoka’s news. He felt his emotions swinging from one extreme to another, and he just couldn’t think . . . 

A hand rested on his shoulder. “Easy there,” Obi-Wan said gently. “Breathe, Anakin.” 

“I--I can’t believe--I want the twins to be safe--and Padmé--” Anakin stuttered, his breath catching every few words. 

“I know,” Obi-Wan said. “Everything is happening so fast. But--but we must stay calm, as best as we are able, and find the truth.”

Heeding Obi-Wan’s words, Anakin closed his eyes and breathed slowly, trying to bring his heart rate down. 

“That’s it,” Obi-Wan said, a cheerful note in his voice. “Now, I am very ready to meet your children. Have you and Padmé discussed names?” 

Leaning back to look up at Obi-Wan, Anakin blinked. “What? Shouldn’t we . . . I don’t know, go talk to the Council right now or something?” 

“Without Ahsoka’s proof, we only have our vision,” Obi-Wan pointed out. “I’d rather wait until we have something more concrete . . . and . . .”

When Obi-Wan trailed off, Anakin quirked an eyebrow. “And?” 

“And I think we could both use a reminder of just what is riding on our being right,” Obi-Wan said slowly. “I have a feeling . . . that we need to take our time. To be prepared. To do what is best for the galaxy.” 

His stomach twisted with something--not fear, not worry. Something darker, more foreboding. But even though Obi-Wan’s words were serious and full of foreboding, his sense in the Force was quiet and resolved. 

And even though everything was confusing and uncertain, Anakin found that he agreed with Obi-Wan. He wanted to be prepared for whatever lay ahead. And the best way to be prepared, he thought, was to spend as much time with his children as possible. Soaking up their light, savoring every moment he could spend with them. 

Just in case. 

Doing his best to smile, Anakin rose to his feet. “Padmé and I spent all our time arguing whether we were having a boy or a girl. We didn’t spend a lot of time discussing names. And that turned into an argument, too.” 

Obi-Wan’s smile was bright and fast as lightning. “I assume ‘Obi-Wan’ wasn’t on the list. It’s a mouthful of a name for a small baby.” 

Anakin felt himself relax a little and fall into humor. “True. And also, it’d be a lot to put on a baby--living up to your example.” 

“Oh, I’m sure your child would easily surpass me,” Obi-Wan said as he headed towards the hallway. 

“Not likely,” Anakin said quietly as he followed Obi-Wan into the hall.

XXX

Padmé supposed she should be wondering what was taking Anakin so long to bring Obi-Wan in to meet the twins. But honestly, she was sure they were fine. And she liked the idea of having the twins to herself for a little bit longer. 

After Healer Gahan had helped her with the aftermath of the birth, and Sabé had cleaned her up, she had sent the healer home and told Sabé to go to bed. Because all Padmé wanted to do was lie in her bed and hold her babies. Her beautiful, smart, perfect babies. 

She couldn’t believe both she and Anakin had been right--they were having a boy and a girl. And she could already see signs of both of them in the twins. Their son had Anakin’s blue eyes but a smile and spirit that reminded Padmé of herself. Meanwhile, their daughter was definitely taking after her in looks, with thin wisps of dark hair clinging to her scalp. But to Padmé’s great amusement, their daughter had Anakin’s stubborn expression down pat, when she was only an hour old. 

They were just so precious. Before their arrival, the baby she was carrying seemed abstract, more of an idea than a tiny little person. But now, holding both of them in her arms, they were so real. 

And Padmé realized her priorities were changing. Right in this moment, caring for the whole galaxy, keeping it safe--the only reason to do that was to keep the twins happy and safe. 

Smiling sadly, Padmé kissed each child’s forehead. “From now on, everything I do will be for you,” she whispered. 

A part of her almost wanted to rebel. To argue that the fate of trillions of people was more important than two tiny babies. But for only the second time in her life, Padmé was going to listen to her heart instead of her head. 

The first time, she had married Anakin. And now, she would give her children the galaxy they deserved. 

A soft tap at the door made her look up as Anakin looked at her. “Angel?” 

“Come in, love,” she said, shifting a little. “What kept you--where’s Obi-Wan?”

“Right here,” said her husband’s brother-in-everything-but-name, stepping out from behind Anakin. “I’m ready to see the twins. And help you pick out names, of course.” 

Chuckling a little, Padmé gestured them both to come inside with a nod of her head. “Yes, we do need names for these darlings.” 

With his long legs, Anakin covered the gap between them and scooped up their daughter. “We talked a little about names,” he reminded her, before biting his lip. “I . . . I still really like Leia.” 

Padmé stroked their son’s head as she thought it over. She could guess how much this meant to Anakin, to have his children born free. And one of the few things about Tatooine he talked about was the legends and stories his mother had told him. And the being known as Leia--fierce, strong, loyal--had made a deep impression on Anakin. 

And now that Padmé had met her, she knew it was a name worthy of their daughter. 

“I think Leia is perfect,” Padmé told him with a soft smile. 

Anakin’s whole face lit up with his smile, and he bent down and kissed her. “Leia Skywalker,” he said as he straightened up and looked into her face. 

Their daughter--Leia--let out a bit of a grunt and Padmé laughed a little. “Leia Amidala Skywalker, please.” 

“Of course--how do you like that?” Anakin asked Leia, smiling down at her. “Leia Amidala Skywalker?” 

From the way Anakin’s face softened and he drew Leia close, Padmé could tell that their baby approved of her name. 

Turning to Obi-Wan, Padmé smiled at him. “That’s one down. But I might need your help, to convince Anakin about the name I want to use.” 

Obi-Wan smiled. “Which is?” 

“Luke,” Padmé said. 

“It’s a nice name, but . . .” Anakin said. 

“But what?” Obi-Wan asked. 

Anakin looked at Padmé for a moment, then sighed. “It just sounds . . . kinda soft.” 

Obi-Wan gestured to the boy in Padmé’s arms. “May I?” 

There weren’t many people Padmé would be willing to hand over one of her newborn children to--but Obi-Wan was definitely one of them. She carefully handed the boy over to Obi-Wan, who looked down at him. 

“Luke means ‘bright one’,” Obi-Wan said softly, gazing down at the newborn in his arms. Then he slowly lifted his head and looked at Anakin. “I can’t think of a better name for your son.” 

“That’s what it means?” Anakin asked Padmé, who nodded and smiled. 

“That’s why I liked it,” she explained. “It seemed . . . right.” 

Anakin stepped over towards Obi-Wan and looked down at their son in his former master’s arms, then smiled slowly. “You’re right. That’s his name.” 

Obi-Wan smiled. “Luke Amidala Skywalker?” 

Something didn’t feel quite right about that name. Padmé looked at Anakin and could sense what he wanted, even though she wasn’t Force-Sensitive. She gave him a small smile, and Anakin turned to Obi-Wan.

“Actually, I think it’s Luke Kenobi Skywalker.” 

In all the time she had known Obi-Wan, she had rarely seen his calm, peaceful expression crack. Even in the heat of battle, he stayed composed. Padmé could only guess what both her husband and Obi-Wan had been going through over the last several hours, about the revelations and surprises, but it still made her eyes widen at how Obi-Wan reacted to Anakin’s words. 

He blinked, his mouth opening for a moment, before he swallowed. “But--but Leia--I thought you were going to use both of your last names--” 

Anakin smiled. “Luke likes his name, though.” 

“And Amidala-Skywalker is a mouthful,” Padmé pointed out. “Amidala can be Leia’s middle name. Just like Kenobi will be Luke’s.” 

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, looking down at Luke. “Oh.” 

“Much better than calling him Obi-Wan, right?” Anakin said, gently nudging him. “Here, let’s switch. Meet Leia.” 

It was all Padmé could do not to laugh at how her husband was handling Obi-Wan. He was probably enjoying this even more than she was. Within a moment, Anakin had swapped Leia for Luke, and come to sit down beside her on the bed. 

“Thank you, love,” she said, kissing Anakin’s cheek before smiling down at Luke. “Hello, darling.” 

“You coulda told me what Luke meant,” Anakin said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. 

“I’m sure I did,” Padmé told him with an arched eyebrow. “Perhaps you weren’t listening.” 

She knew he was about to protest that he always listened to her, when Obi-Wan said, “Oh, no.” 

Looking up, Padmé tilted her head. “Is Leia all right?” 

Because Obi-Wan was staring down at her with a surprised, shocked, yet resigned expression on his face. 

Anakin looked back and forth between Leia and Obi-Wan, and then he started to laugh. 

“What is it?” Padmé asked, frowning. 

“I’m going to be training another Skywalker,” Obi-Wan said before looking at Anakin. “This is all your fault.” 

Anakin was too busy laughing to reply, but Padmé felt her arms tightening around Luke. “She’s Force-Sensitive?” 

“Do stop that, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, before stepping closer to Padmé and easing Leia into her arms. “Both Luke and Leia are very strong with the Force, Padmé.” 

“Oh,” Padmé said, looking down at her tiny babies. Of course, she knew this was a possibility--almost a probability, given Anakin’s abilities. And Anakin himself had said the baby was unbelievably strong during her pregnancy. But now that her children were here, the idea of them being taken away . . . living at the Jedi Temple . . . barely knowing her . . . 

Thankfully, Anakin’s laughter abruptly ceased and his arms wrapped around her. “Angel--don’t worry--”

“I can’t help it,” she said, looking at Anakin and biting her lower lip. “Ani--we’re going to lose them--” 

“No, we won’t,” Anakin said, brimming with the same stubborn determination and fire that made her fall in love with him. 

But his determination wasn’t enough, she knew. Not in this--not when the truth of their marriage became known to the Order. What better way to punish Anakin--to punish her--than to take their children away? 

Swallowing, Padmé tried to hold herself together, even as she pulled the twins closer to her. “You can’t promise that, Anakin. They’re so strong--they will have to be trained--even if I don’t want it--” 

“You don’t?” Anakin asked, sounding shocked. 

“I don’t know!” she said, feeling tears slip from her eyes. “But if they’re not trained, it will be dangerous--and what if they resent us for not training them, for denying them the chance to be Jedi?” 

“Padmé,” Anakin breathed out, pulling her against him. “It’s okay.” 

Burying her face against his neck, Padmé breathed in and out. Luke and Leia squirmed a little against her, but stayed quiet. Anakin rubbed his hands over her and pressed a kiss to her temple. 

“They’re only an hour old, angel,” he told her. “We have time. And no matter what happens, Luke and Leia love you. I can tell, Padmé.” 

“They do, Padmé,” Obi-Wan said, reminding her of how she had just fallen apart in front of him. Pulling back from Anakin, Padmé hoped her face wasn’t too flushed from her tears. 

“You’re right, I know,” she said, feeling her voice tremble a little. Anakin stroked her hair, giving her that special smile that was hers and hers alone. 

She took another few breaths and loosened her hold on the twins a little. “I’m sorry.” 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Obi-Wan said, his voice soft and gentle. “There is so much happening, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed.”

Something in his voice made her wonder what was going on beyond this room. She looked at Anakin, whose jaw grew tight. 

“What is it?” she asked, looking back and forth between the two of them. “What’s happened?” 

“Nothing you need to worry about--you need to rest,” Anakin said, but Obi-Wan talked over him. 

“There is something, but it can wait, Senator.” 

As much as she hated being told to wait, Padmé couldn’t deny that she was exhausted. And so were Anakin and Obi-Wan, she could tell. So perhaps some rest would be the best course of action. Especially with two newborns depending on her. 

“All right,” Padmé said reluctantly.

“We’re waiting for some intel,” Anakin said, still stroking her hair. “Once we’ve got it, I’ll talk to you. But the good news is, Ahsoka is the one bringing the information.”

That was good news. Having Ahsoka here would definitely make Anakin happy. And . . . and maybe there would be time for Ahsoka to help her with her mixed feelings about her babies being Force-sensitive.

“In fact, it might be wise for us to include a few other Senators in our discussion,” Obi-Wan said. “Along with Masters Yoda and Windu.” 

At the mention of the two leading Jedi of the Republic, Padmé felt her heart flutter with nerves. Whatever this matter was, it had to be of critical importance to involve both the Senate and the Jedi Order. But Padmé only nodded and said, “I can alert a few Senators in the morning--colleagues who could pay me a visit without much notice being taken.” 

Obi-Wan nodded, then looked at Anakin. A silent conversation was held between them, then Anakin looked back to Padmé. “I’m going to help Obi-Wan get settled in a guest room, and then I’ll be back to help with the twins, all right?” 

“All right,” Padmé agreed. She gave Obi-Wan a smile. “Good night.” 

He gave her a small bow. “Good night.” His face softened a little and she guessed he was saying a silent good night to each of the twins, which made her smile more. 

And then it was her and her babies again. For as long as Padmé could make that last.

XXX

Usually, Darth Sidious simply eliminated any opposition to his work and his actions. He was not quite ready to lose the Kaminoans, though. That meant they received mercy. 

Gagging, the Kaminoan representative kneeled, their hands fluttering along the column of their throat. It was an interesting challenge, using the Force to choke a Kaminoan. But all too soon, he mastered the challenge and savored the sound of the Kaminoan’s gasps for breath. 

“Do you see now how unwise your actions are, Senator?” Sidious asked, relishing the fear drowning the pale creature at his feet. 

“Y-yes--yes!” the Senator said as Sidious lightened his grip for a moment. 

“Good,” he said, giving one final squeeze before releasing the mewling creature. “Now, let us discuss the tales you have been telling. How you have been agitating for clone rights.” 

The Senator from Kamino wheezed before pushing themselves upright. “If clones had rights, the Senate would approve an expansion of the Grand Army of the Republic.”

“Meanwhile, your people could sell even more systems on clone armies,” Sidious hissed. “There will be no armies in this Republic but the one under my control. Remember that, Senator.” 

Their Force sense was as calm as a pond as they nodded their head. Their mouth narrowed in a silent wince of pain at the movement of their neck. But when they spoke, their voice was even. “Yes, my lord.” 

End, Chapter 7

[bubble-tea-bunny]

where the grass is greener

[sebastian x reader]

author’s note: just a quick thing i wrote over the last couple days, idk where the sudden inspo came from but enjoy <3

word count: 4,532

The twinkling lights of Zuzu City are the stars of some faraway galaxy, and Sebastian wishes he were an astronaut.

He’s yearning for the great beyond, and that’s the natural course of things, isn’t it? To look past the edges of the world within reach, and hope to one day explore the unknown, a search for life, for the future, for a place to call home. The rolling hills of the valley never seem more restrictive or suffocating than when he stands here, high on a cliff, elevated enough to view the bustling city. For a while now he has felt an urge deep in his gut to go there and experience a life so different from his own as it is currently, with the noise and the vastness. The mountains are walls keeping him contained and in the hours that bleed into days that bleed into weeks, he resolves that he’ll break past them when he’s older, and he’ll set course for his goal, for those glittering skyscrapers. What should he name his space shuttle?

Winters in Pelican Town are a special kind of cold, colder than normal due to the basin-like structure with the mountains on either side. The cold crawls in, settling at ground level, and the heat rises and seeps out. Pelican Town, sitting right in the middle, is forced to deal with the remaining chill.  

This morning, the tip of Sebastian’s nose is flushed red from the harsh winter wind. His preference for not wearing scarves leaves him with nothing with which to shield the sensitive skin of his face. It may reasonably be believed, then, that this is cause to hasten his trek to the town center, but his decision to take the long way into town serves evidence to the contrary.

An old man had once owned the large farm to the west, but since his passing, the weeds have festered, and the few buildings on the property are in various states of disrepair. Sebastian walks by on occasion, observing the debris and decay. In winter, the weeds have rotted away and left the wide field barren save for rocks and stray logs. But by spring, they’d be back, and perhaps the new bursts of color from the trees still standing there will lessen the eyesore the steading has become.

Some nights Sebastian comes here to sit with himself and think because he knows he won’t be disturbed. No one comes this way anymore. He likes to sit on the edge of the porch and observe the expanse before him. The small house behind him has darkened windows, once illuminated with a soft yellow glow in the late hours. If Sebastian were to pull open the door (which would require some tools, given that it’s been boarded up, though acquiring them wouldn’t be an issue given his mom’s profession) and glance inside, there would only be cobwebs and silence.

The ponds on the property are frozen and snow clings to dead tree branches and Sebastian can see it all even without the aid of lights, for there are hardly any in this tiny town. Instead, the moon is the main source, a gentle white glow washing over the farm. Sebastian takes a long drag from his cigarette and exhales steadily. The cloud of smoke looks like a puff of air similarly breathed out in cold weather like this, except without the numbness he loves to find in the stick between his fingers. His brows furrow and he glances down, flicking off the ash. It lands on his jeans. Is he just tired all the time, or has he been carrying a pack of sleeping aids in his pocket?

Tired of this place… Sebastian huffs, is faintly amused, is exhausted.

Spring arrives and with it, another year bundled together with another bout of wishful thinking. Sam’s sitting by his desk, one leg crossed over the other and strumming lazily at his guitar. Sebastian sprawls out on the bed, staring at the ceiling and focusing on the sensation of the blood rushing to his head. They’ve been looking into securing a small gig in the city, nothing too big, but something to get their name out there. It stirs Sebastian’s thoughts of moving to Zuzu City permanently, and he loses himself in them as Sam experiments with riffs for the opening of their newest song.

A wrong note is plucked and Sam curses under his breath, then with a heavy sigh he sits up straight to stretch out his spine. During this momentary break, he seems to remember something, for once he relaxes, he grabs Sebastian’s attention.

“Hey, did you hear?”

Sebastian hums and he isn’t certain whether it’s meant to be a hum of question (Hear what?) or of half-hearted approval (That progression sounded good). Perhaps it’s neither, merely a signal to show he’s actually awake, listening for whatever Sam has to say.

“Someone’s moving onto the farm this week.”

Upon this revelation, Sebastian feels a mild irritation. He’d enjoyed having time to himself on that property. It offered an isolation he couldn’t get anywhere else in town, since he was basically the only person to bother passing through. The only ones to know about his late night visits to the abandoned farmstead are Sam and Abigail, but they don’t interrupt him when he’s there, understanding his need for space. Now, however, Sebastian would have to return to the train tracks.

“So the old man did have relatives after all,” he comments quietly.

The reason nothing had been done to the property is that no one in Pelican Town had the authority. After the previous owner’s death, the land had come into the possession of his family. The news had been passed along to said family a while ago, but there wasn’t a response, nor did anyone even come to appraise the farm with the intention of selling it. So there it remained, untouched for months, long enough that some grew skeptical that anyone would ever come to reclaim it.

Sam chuckles. “Guess so. But you have to wonder why now.”

“Yeah…”

If Zuzu City is a galaxy, you’re an asteroid drifting away from that system into the vacuum of space, floating aimlessly until you’re pulled into the orbit of another. And perhaps it is your aspirations and dreams of what you hope to find in this sleepy town that reside within the shooting star Sebastian sees pass overhead a few nights later, outshining the rest who hang in place.

Though if Sebastian’s honest, he has no idea what dreams might involve the valley and the town. It might be a great place for tourists to visit, sure, to bask in the quiet and the freshness, a temporary change of pace from the city. But for him, the quiet is too overbearing to stay here, and he wants to get away. He’d like to switch places with you. You, for some reason, have growing interest in the country life, and he has always had vested interest in the city life. A fair trade, right?

You’ve got quite the fixer-upper to take care of, that’s for certain. However, the sheer amount of work it will require to get the farmstead in an acceptable state doesn’t appear to deter you. You make many trips into town to buy supplies, and Sebastian has seen you when you stopped by his mom’s shop, the two of you working out blueprints for adding a new water well here or a chicken coop there.

The first time he spotted you had been in passing as he ascended the stairs from his room with the plan to get lunch from the kitchen (his first meal of the day). He heard the front door open and close and his mom’s friendly greeting, and he turned to see you walk right up to the counter she stood behind.

You didn’t look like someone from the city. He wouldn’t have guessed that you were if he hadn’t been told previously by Sam, who’d heard it from his mom, who’d heard it from Pierre. You wore a yellow t-shirt beneath light blue overalls (scuffs and dirt marks already marred the denim), the bottoms of which were rolled up neatly, and a pair of dirtied work boots. A red backpack sat on your shoulders and you had your hair pulled back into a messy ponytail.

He briefly listened to your conversation, and you sounded bubbly, excited as you shared your ideas for repairing the farm. And he still might not understand why you had the dreams you did of leaving the city and coming to Stardew Valley, but they’re yours, and you’re making them real, and he’d never fault anyone for that.

Day by day, new life is breathed into the steading you’ve come to call your own. The rocks and logs have been cleared out and you’ve set aside a small section to grow crops. There’s a fenced off area designated to be the site of a new chicken coop, with work beginning tomorrow. You even have a dog now, a stray Marnie came across and brought to your doorstep. Her name’s Daisy. She follows you into town sometimes.

Sebastian sees you often but hasn’t talked to you, other than a curt hello during your first meeting. The short of it is that he doesn’t have much interest in being your friend. He likes his small friend group, and when he isn’t hanging out with them, he’s perfectly content to be alone in his room. Maru brings up over dinner how nice you are, having stopped by the clinic earlier to drop off a basket of strawberries. Then she turns to him and mentions how he really should talk to you because You’ll like her, she’s sweet! But instead of convincing him, it does the opposite and only continues to dissuade him, and he merely sighs, shrugging noncommittally.

Sam and Abigail have taken a liking to you too. They wave you over on a Friday night at the saloon, and you join them in the game room. You excuse yourself from a conversation with Gus and walk over, but once you see Sebastian, you slow down, standing by the doorway. Grinning politely, you lift a hand to wave and give a quiet hello. Evidently you’ve been able to sense Sebastian’s disinterest in you, having kept a similar distance as he at any other time. But tonight, given Sam and Abigail’s invitation, such a distance would be impossible to maintain.

The two of them tell you to relax, and Abigail assures with a laugh Don’t worry, Sebastian doesn’t bite! and you chuckle good-naturedly but Sebastian can surmise you are nervous. For Sam and Abigail’s sakes, he will be a good sport and be friendly. He’s not so childish as to carry on as if you aren’t there. So with a smile, he grabs another pool stick for you.

“We can reset the game,” he informs you as you gently take the stick. “Sam was getting his ass kicked; I was expecting him to ask for a do-over soon anyway.”

“Wha—I was not!”

After that, Sebastian is considerably less averse to speaking with you if you happen to run into each other. He’s still curt, and never tries to carry on a conversation longer than the basic hello’s and how-are-you’s. You don’t push or pry either, to get him to open up, and he appreciates that. You understand he likes his space, and you let him have it.

Ultimately, it’s Sam who encourages him to get to know you better, and he won’t take no for an answer. She’s got plenty of stories to tell about the city, he remarks. I’m sure she’d be happy to share them if you asked.

Sebastian begrudgingly agrees to have an actual conversation with you the next time he’s able to, and he already knows he can’t lie and pretend that he has because you’re friends with Sam, and Sam will inevitably ask if you and he have talked lately. Though ironically, after this, Sebastian doesn’t see you a lot. The end of the season has you scrambling to harvest and ship the remaining crops, and your farm has grown quickly since you’ve been here, which means you’re out in the field most days.

It isn’t until the final day of summer that Sebastian gets the chance. The appearance of the moonlight jellies has everyone out on the beach this evening. Multiple lanterns have been placed on the water to provide better illumination, both for the purpose of viewing the jellyfish and to ensure no one accidentally slips off the edge of the docks. You’re one of the last to arrive, looking tired but satisfied as you speak with Elliott. You make your rounds saying hi and sheepishly brushing off comments on your diligence in preparing the farm for the next season.

Conversations die down to quiet murmurs as the ethereal glow of the jellyfish illuminates the water. Sebastian notices you in his peripherals coming to a stop a few feet away, sitting down and letting your feet dangle over the edge. He hesitates momentarily, but takes a deep breath, resolving himself to just do it, and, sticking his hands in his pockets, he walks towards you.

His boots thud quietly on the wood but if you notice, you don’t react. Not until he talks.

“No Daisy tonight?”

You blink and glance up to see him standing next to you, at a far enough distance that you don’t need to crane your head back painfully to meet his eyes. At his question, you smile lopsidedly and shake your head.

“No, she was too tired to come. She’s been working hard all day.” Usually Daisy accompanies you to the beach, running up and down the shore while you get comfortable on the docks, fishing rod and bag of bait in hand.

Sebastian smiles too, then points at the space to your left. “Mind if I join you?”

“Oh, of course!” You scoot over slightly as Sebastian sits down. The jellyfish are closer now.

“I was thinking of bringing her tomorrow,” you continue the original topic regarding your dog. “To take in that crisp fall air.” The humidity of summer had been fading this past week, leaving in its wake a colder, fresher breeze.

“I bet she’d really like that.” Sebastian might not have much to say, but what he does, he finds himself saying with ease. Perhaps it’s due to to the relief of tension now that he’s finally talked to you past a few courteous remarks, that he’s no longer anticipating the moment because it has already come to pass. And suddenly the prospect of talking to you more doesn’t seem so bad, despite his initial reservations.

“I hope so,” you respond quietly. You flash him a quick smile, then you both turn your attention on the ocean.

The approaching jellyfish are soundless, and with everyone silent, all that can be heard is the gentle lapping of the waves on the support beams of the docks. Spots of light move beneath the surface, the blurry forms of moonlight jellies venturing closer. They pass beneath your dangling feet and the lanterns on the water are poor competition for these creatures.

Sebastian feels you tap on his shoulder a couple of times to grab his attention, and he glances at you. But you draw his attention back to the jellyfish, pointing at one in the distance. Whereas most of the jellies are blue, as is their natural coloring, you’ve spotted a lone green jellyfish. Sebastian smiles and whispers you have a good eye. He’s not sure if anyone else has noticed, but he doesn’t bother to speak up, the silence so full of awe and wonder that he doesn’t want to break it.

The jellyfish congregate near the docks, as if to say goodbye, then slowly they drift back out to sea, and maybe the galaxy called Pelican Town has its own twinkling lights right here.

Green leaves fade to brown in the following days. They detach from the branches and float to the ground, and they’re the satisfying crunch beneath Sebastian’s shoes. The temperature has dropped quickly, and many townsfolk are bundling up to fend off the impending winter chill. The Stardew Valley fair comes and goes, and Sebastian doesn’t understand quite how to appraise the grange displays, but from the passing comments he overhears from Lewis, you put up an impressive arrangement for your first year. However, you don’t win, coming second to Pierre (it was close though).

Sebastian waits to the side as all the participants are given ribbons. You saunter over to him afterward, red ribbon in hand, and Sebastian pulls out his hands from the pocket of his hoodies to clap a few times. You smile shyly and rub the back of your neck, muttering a thanks.

“Hey, not bad for your first go of it,” he commends.

You shrug as you glance down at the ribbon. “I’ll win next year,” you resolve, and he doesn’t doubt it one bit.

The next event on everyone’s minds the second the sun sets on the valley fair is that of Spirit’s Eve. Sam, in particular, has begun to brainstorm costume ideas, first only for himself until he proposes a group costume—for him, Abigail, Sebastian, and you. He starts rattling off movies and games from which to draw inspiration, and Sebastian guesses he was meant to give his approval (or disapproval) for each idea, but Sam is listing them so quickly, excited as he is, that Sebastian hardly gets the opportunity to speak up. But he’s fine with simply listening.

“We really should have a costume contest,” Sam murmurs, voice low in a way that Sebastian isn’t sure if he’s talking to himself. “I wonder if I could ask the mayor to have one this year…”

Sebastian chuckles before he sits up and stands from Sam’s bed. He stretches his arms above his head and glances out the window: it’s completely dark out. The daylight is minimal this time of year, so this fact isn’t satisfactory evidence for the time of night. Rather, it’s the glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand that alerts Sebastian that it’s time to leave, for it’s growing late.

“I think I’m gonna head out,” he announces once Sam’s rambling has quieted down.

Sam nods and stands up as well to walk Sebastian to the front door, but pauses with his hand on the doorknob of his room as he twists around.

“You wouldn’t be taking the long way to your house, would you?”

Sebastian tilts his head. Walking past the farm? He hasn’t done that since you moved in. “I wasn’t planning to. Why?”

“Well it’s just my mom patched up one of [Name]’s shirts and asked if I could give it to her when I see her, but I figure if you’re going to pass by tonight…”

Sebastian nods. “Sure.”

With a smile, Sam picks up a folded long-sleeve from his desk and hands it to Sebastian. “Thanks, man.”

It feels strange to make his way towards the bus stop instead of the park on his way back. He hadn’t taken this route for almost a year, having never been one of the people to pay a visit to your farm. He’s not sure why he never did. Perhaps he didn’t want to be a bother. You’d always given him his space, and he figured it would only be right for him to do the same in return. Though unlike him, you never shy away from visitors, always glad to greet whoever comes over for a quick chat. So perhaps you won’t mind. Hopefully. The last thing he wants is to be in your way.

He’s unsure if you’ll even be awake at this time because you work a lot, and it leaves you exhausted. You don’t tend to stay up late. But as he approaches your farm, he not only spots the light shining through the windows, he sees you sitting on the edge of the porch, right where he has sat so many times prior.

He calls out your name to grab your attention and you look over, smiling when you see him.

“What’s up?" you ask as he comes closer, and your smile widens when he holds out your shirt. “Oh, Jodi’s fixed it! That was fast… I’ll have to bake her a cake to say thanks.” Then you turn to Sebastian and thank him for dropping it off.

But he’s not in a rush to leave, and he inquires what it is you’re doing staying out here so late. You shrug. Just basking in the quiet I guess… and taking it all in. You motion to the field, and Sebastian understands why you’re content to sit and observe the fruits of your labor. He hardly recognizes the expanse, so different from the way it was just a year ago. You’ve poured your love into it and it shows.

“You deserve to be proud of it.”

You smile and the lack of lights conceals the reddening of your cheeks at the compliment. Momentarily your eyes are downcast at the ground, but then they slide back up to observe Sebastian standing there. You take the thermos next to you and hold it out.

“Hot chocolate. Want some?”

He glances at the thermos but shakes his head no thanks, and you retract your hand. The nights are increasingly colder as winter nears, and even if he’s wearing a hoodie and jeans, you’re certain that he’s feeling the brunt of the weather. You speak up again.

“Okay. But it is cold and, well…” You grab the edge of the large, fluffy blanket around your shoulders and stretch out your arm to extend it. “There’s room for two.”

Sebastian catches on to your efforts to ensure he doesn’t freeze, and while he isn’t bothered to stand in the chill for a few minutes, he appreciates your gestures and agrees to this one, closing the gap between you in a several short steps and settling down on the porch. You drop the blanket around his shoulders as well, and both of you look out on the farmstead. In place of weeds and stray rocks are crops and pastures for the animals you’ve started raising. You’ve mentioned before they can be a handful given how many there are when there’s just one of you, but you’re happy to have them. And Daisy helps with the herding at the end of the day, so it could be worse!

The silence is comfortable, but Sebastian finally breaks it.

“Why’d you leave?”

You glance at him, confused as to what he’s referring to. He elaborates.

“The city.” He turns his eyes from the field to you. “What made you want to come to the valley? I mean… it’s so quiet, too quiet sometimes. I’ve always wanted to move to Zuzu City. I want to get away from here. But you did the exact opposite.”

This is the most he has ever opened up to you, and it surprises him how easily it slips out. But it’s too late to take back the words now, as they hang in the air between you, and his breath catches in his throat because, frankly, he’s embarrassed. He’s never this quick to share his feelings, his thoughts, his one wish to leave this sleepy town and not look back. And he’s worried what you’ll say, what you’ll think, of the candidness springing up from nowhere.

You don’t respond immediately, which fuels his concerns even more, but he realizes it’s the time spent putting your own words together carefully, as you smile gently, a reassurance that it’s okay to talk about these things. You’ll listen to whatever he has to say, and you’ll still be there even if he says nothing.

With a deep sigh, you face forward again to survey the farm. And you explain to Sebastian that you’d been in the city your whole life. Before your grandfather passed away, he left you a letter with explicit instructions only to open it when you grew tired of the hustle and bustle, of the fast pace of the city and the same thing day-in, day-out at your corporate job. I thought I could handle it, you muse, but I just cracked one day. One boring day… I can’t even remember if it was a Wednesday or a Friday because they all felt the same. You chuckle dryly.

Sebastian is watching you closely, patiently waiting for you to continue. You’ve followed his lead and opened up, and he has found himself intensely curious to discover more about you.

You take another deep breath, acutely aware of the crisp air that floods your lungs. “In the letter, he called the valley the place where he truly belonged. And I thought maybe it would be the same for me.” You stay quiet after this for several moments, both of you contemplating what you’ve said, but then you perk up and look at him. “Of course, if you want to go to Zuzu City, if you truly feel you’ll thrive there, then go. I’m not trying to dissuade you.”

It’s Sebastian’s turn to give you a smile of reassurance. He has taken no offense to the story you shared. He understands where you come from. People are different, have different desires and goals. But he’s not ready to turn the conversation on himself, still wanting to focus on you, if only for a minute or three longer.

“Is it the same for you?” he inquires quietly. “Do you feel this is where you truly belong?”

It’s a reasonable follow-up to your story, yet it still gives you pause and you mull it over. Even before you speak, Sebastian can already see the answer in the softening features of your face, as you stare at the field you have worked so hard to turn into something worthwhile. He’s not sure what you’re thinking, but he’d like to have penny for your thoughts because your eyes slide towards him now, and they are fond and your smile is soft and he wonders if it means anything.

“Yes,” you state finally. “I think it is.”

You watch each other, and the corner of Sebastian’s lips lifts in a small smile, unable to be contained after witnessing yours. His chest tightens and he wonders if all this—the town and the valley and him and you—if maybe it means everything. Because the air seems fresher and the moon seems brighter and he finds he doesn’t want to lift off in his space shuttle if it takes him farther away from you. So maybe he’ll stay on the ground just a little longer.

He drops his gaze to the thermos you hold. “I’ll take some of that hot chocolate if you’re still offering.”

You laugh and nod, twisting off the lid. “Yeah, here, hold on…”

The autumn evening is beautiful, and for once, the valley feels like home.

[snkpolls]

SnK Episode 62 Poll Results (for Anime Only Watchers)

The poll closed with 73 responses. Thank you to everyone who participated!

Please note that these are the results for the Anime Only Watchers’ poll. If you wish to see the results for the Manga Readers’ poll, click here.

Anime only watchers, beware of spoilers if you venture over to the manga readers’ poll results.

--

RATE THE EPISODE 68 Responses

Again, the response to last week’s episode was notably positive, with 98.5% of responses giving it a score of 3 or higher. Marley and Me is still going strong! 

Gave a 3 because while I don't give a rats ass about the Warriors or their "tragic" sob story, the animation and voice acting was on par

It was way better than the first two of the season I liked it a lot!!

I think it was one of the best episodes not only in this season, but in the entire show. It shows deepness of the characters in Attack on Titan and shows as the other side in such an amazing way. It was brilliant. 

I think the episode was pretty good

WHICH OF THE FOLLOWING MOMENTS WAS YOUR FAVORITE? 68 Responses

Eren’s formal reveal as the amputee soldier took the biggest piece of the pie, with 45.6% of respondents enjoying that scene the most. Trailing behind that is Reiner’s tragic suicide attempt with 10.3% of the vote, followed closely behind by RBA’s side of Shiganshina at 8.8%.

Flashbacks were important. And eren intro was epic

Reiner standing up looking like an undead zombie after getting clobbered by Annie and then stating "Reiner is dead...I will be Marcel" was just...Wow. Just loved seeing the wall breach from RBA's perspective. Reiner gains more dimensions and complexity with each episode and I'm here for it! Bless MAPPA :-)

WE GOT THE FULL ED LAST WEEK. AFTER SEEING IT IN ITS ENTIRETY, HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT IT NOW? 66 Responses

Although just over 59% of responses gave the ED a decidedly positive grade (with praise going towards both imagery and the song), almost 20% of responses simply thought it was “okay”. A relatively equal amount of responses alternated between liking the animation and disliking the song and vice versa. Only a few seemed to dislike both. 

Didn't watch/care

ON A SCALE OF 1 TO 5, HOW MUCH DID YOU ENJOY THE SEQUENCE INTRODUCING ALL OF MARLEY’S TITANS? 67 Responses

The sequence introducing all of Marley’s Titans has gotten rave reviews, with 97% of responses rating it positively. Truth be told, I’d given it a 5 myself, if I could… But I can’t, I’m just a mysterious voice, detailing the results of this poll.

OUT OF ALL THE TITANS THE MARLEY MILITARY HAD 9 YEARS AGO, WHICH ONE WOULD YOU WANT TO HAVE? 67 Responses

For the question regarding possible inheritance of the Titans, we’ve gotten a rather colorful pie chart! Annie’s Female Titan is clearly leading with just under a third of those who took the poll picking it out as their favorite option. Reiner’s Armored is taking second place with almost 21%, followed by Zeke’s Beast at almost 18%. Bertholdt’s Colossal and the Series Mascot is, surprisingly, at just under 12%, with Pieck, unsurprisingly, bringing up the rear.

WHICH OG WARRIOR CANDIDATE WOULD YOU WANT TO ADOPT? 64 Responses

When it comes to possibly adopting a warrior candidate, we’ve gotten even more pie flavors! Reiner is at number one with just over 20%, with Pieck and Annie going into second place, both with just under 19%. Bertholdt’s in third place, with a little over 14%. Marcel and Zeke bring up the rear and it seems like no one wants to adopt poor little Porco. Just over 20% seem to not want to participate in this little scheme for various reasons.

A LOT OF THE SHIGANSHINA BREACH HAS REUSED QIT ANIMATION FROM PAST EPISODE - THOUGHTS? 67 Responses

When it came to the fact that a lot of the Shiganshina Breach Animation was reused for the episode, most seemed to respond either positively or indifferently. Just over 58% thought just that the old animation flowed decently with MAPPA’s new style, while 16.4% didn’t really care. Almost 12% expressed nostalgia for WIT’s style of animation and 9% noted that while they weren’t fans of this move, they understood the reason for it. Whoever was left noted that they either really preferred MAPPA’s new style or really didn’t like this move from MAPPA, as a whole.

KAJI YUKI HAS LOWERED HIS VOICE A BIT TO DEPICT AN OLDER EREN. THOUGHTS? 67 Responses

A bit of a lopsided result for this one. 71.6% of all responses noted that they enjoyed Yuki Kaji’s move of lowering his voice to depict an older Eren. 16.4% states that they didn’t care and the rest either expressed further “enthusiasm” for this move with one person noting that they preferred younger Eren’s voice range. 

:c

I didn’t even notice

WE’VE LOST COUNT ON HOW MANY TIMES WE’VE SEEN MARCEL GET EATEN. BUT OF THE OPTIONS BELOW, WHO DID IT BEST? 67 Responses

When it came to seeing Marcel biting the dust numerous times, it turned out that we have plenty of options and styles to choose from. 37.3% said that they preferred MAPPA’s depiction of the event, with just under a third preferring Isayama’s newer depiction. Bringing up the rear with 22.4% were those who preferred WIT’s depiction and 7.5% who like Isayama’s older depiction the best.

DO YOU THINK THAT REINER WAS CORRECT, THAT MARLEY WOULD HAVE HAD ALL OF RBA EATEN IF THEY HAD FOUND YMIR AND RETURNED HOME IMMEDIATELY? 65 Responses

In what is perhaps the most divisive question of the poll, it would seem like those who thought Marley wouldn’t have had all of RBA eaten if they had found Ymir and returned home immediately came out on top, with almost 57% arguing they would have either threatened the kids before keeping them around or became understanding from the get-go. 43.1% dissented and thought Marley would have, in fact, done so. 

Don't think so because we only saw 1 other warrior candidate and when the warriors failed in the Shinganshina arc they didn't pass on Reiner or Zeke's powers.

Marley = maybe. Zeke = would have been understanding

Maybe just eat Ymir

WHAT’S THE FORECAST FOR TONIGHT? 66 Responses

For the question about tonight’s (or rather, the night when the fanbase took the poll) weather, we’ve received a multitude of responses. From the most popular to the least, we’ve had people predicting a cloudy night, a snowy night, clear skies, a rainy night and finally, a stormy night. On the other hand, just over 18% didn’t seem to care. 

Call if hail at you’ll be late for muster

freckled Jesus getting crucified, RIP Marco

Fuckkkkk Berttttt

Hangman

it's gonna rain titans

Meh, don't care about Bertolt

REINER GRADUATED 2ND FROM THE TOP IN THE 104TH, BUT DID YOU EXPECT HIM TO BE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SELECTED WARRIOR CANDIDATES? 65 Responses

Reiner’s surprisingly poor performance during his years as a Warrior candidate surprised most of those who took our poll, with 40% expressing just that. Almost 37% thought this development made him more relatable as a character, with the rest either noting that they either didn’t care or that this portrayed the 104th in a somewhat poorer light (lol). 

I feel like his traumatic experience of watching someone he grew up with die and his resolve to become more reliable and strong pushed him to reach the point that he did considering he also outranked both Annie and Bertolt.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THE FACT THAT REINER IS HALF-MARLEYAN? 66 Responses

When it came to the fact that Reiner turned out to be half-Marleyan, almost 38% thought the said fact gave more depth to Reiner’s character. Just over 24% thought it made him even more tragic and 18.2% hope that said detail will have more significance in the future. The rest stated that they didn’t care. 

I think it's sad for Reiner, but a nice twist. I was wondering what happens to half Eldian/Marleyans so it was nice to see the result from a more cultural and political standpoint.

GALLIARD’S FIRST NAME IS ACTUALLY “PORCO.” THOUGHTS? 66 Responses

For the reveal of Galliard’s first name actually being “Porco”, we’ve had 45.5% of responses understanding why the big man himself decided to go by his last name instead. 13.6% asked what Isayama was thinking when giving him that name. The rest either expressed further sympathy for the boy or thought it was a decent name for character. 

I can't stop thinking of him as Porky Pig now. He had such a cool surname too xD

DO YOU THINK THAT THE RIFT BETWEEN REINER AND PORCO CAN BE RESOLVED? 66 Responses

When it came to deciphering the rift between Reiner and Porco, a bit over 40% thought that the rift would never be able to “go away”, with Porco disliking Reiner for various reasons. Almost a third dissented and thought that it would be possible, provided Porco either learned of Marcel’s actions or kept working with Reiner for longer periods of time. The rest weren’t sure exactly. 

It seemed like the rift wasn't really prominent in episode 2, so maybe it's already resolved.

IN THAT SAME VEIN, DO YOU BELIEVE PORCO’S COLD FEELINGS TOWARD REINER ARE UNDERSTANDABLE AND/OR JUSTIFIED? REMEMBER: HE DOESN’T KNOW ABOUT MARCEL’S ACTIONS. 65 Responses

When it came to a similar question, most (67.7%) thought Porco’s cold feelings towards Reiner were understandable, but not justified. 20% thought they were, in fact, both understandable and justifiable. 10.8% thought they were neither and there was one sole person who stated that they didn’t care.

REINER AND ANNIE WERE REALLY ROUGH ON EACH OTHER. WHAT DID YOU THINK OF THAT? 66 Responses

Reiner seems to have even poorer relations with Annie and this episode surely confirms it. Almost 50% were surprised to find out just how poor said relations were. A third stated that they believed the two still cared about each other, just well, “deep down”. A little over 15% predicted this hatred, on the other hand. 

Annie went full "Levi on Eren" on Reiner. I knew they had a tense relationship, this just confirmed my suspicions. I don't think they hate each other.

HOW DID YOU FEEL GETTING TO SEE MORE BERTOLT AFTER HIS UNTIMELY DEATH LAST SEASON? 66 Responses

Seeing Bertolt again in the story was generally treated positively by most, with almost 44% stating that they enjoyed his extra screen time. A bit over 20% stated that they really missed him and were sad to see him, knowing what happens in the future. On the other hand, a little over 21% openly expressed their dislike for the character. Just over 12% simply stated that they didn’t care. 

Dude had it rough, at least the suffering is over now.

i barely care about him... he's just there. he adds nothing to the show compared to other warriors. his personality is way too boring and bland. 

This doesn't make me sympathize with him in any way shape or form

I'm so glad to see Bertholdt... Mappa did him cute as a kid and hot all grown up.

ANNIE AND KENNY: WHAT DID YOU THINK OF THIS UNLIKELY ENCOUNTER? 66 Responses

When it came to seeing Kenny and Annie’s unlikely encounter, the responses were rather distinctive. A little under a third thought it was random, but enjoyable. Others stated that they were just happy to see more Kenny or Annie. Some noted that Annie’s survival rate when taking on the Ackermans is impressive. Finally, just under 11% noted that they didn’t care for it. 

I thought they did it as fan-service bc Kenny = popular

It was a bit too short to be impactful in my opinion.

I wish we saw more Kenny

WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS AFTER LEARNING THAT REINER IS THE ONE WHO PUSHED FOR THE ASSAULT ON WALL ROSE AFTER TRAINING WITH THE 104TH FOR 3 YEARS? 66 Responses

Upon learning about Reiner’s push for attacking Wall Rose after 3 years of living with the 104th, the fanbase came out to be rather divided. Whereas a bit over a half expressed at least some sympathy for him, the rest were sharp in their critique. A few stated that they didn’t care, however.

HOW DID YOU FEEL SEEING REINER ON THE EDGE OF SUICIDE? 66 Responses

Seeing Reiner on the verge of suicide brought out a lot of sympathy for the man himself, with people expressing degrees of sympathy for him. A little under a third simply noted that this is a dark story. However, a few also stated that they didn’t feel much sympathy for him due to his previous actions. 

besides the fact that this whole episode was dark, this particular scene made the episode more and more uncomfortable and depressing :( can someone please hug him and tell him that everything is gonna be fine?

WHAT WAS YOUR REACTION TO THE REVEAL THAT EREN WAS THE AMPUTEE SOLDIER FROM THE LAST EPISODE? 66 Responses

The reveal that Eren was the amputee soldier from the previous episode is another one of this series’ twists and turns. Sadly, a third of the responses had already been spoiled about it. On the other hand, another third or so seemed to have an inkling and were happy to see a confirmation in this one. Just over 21% were simply in shock. 

I knew from his voice 

He's learnt to control his regeneration o.0 I wonder what else he has learnt. Also guessed last episode.

EREN OBSERVES THAT FALCO MAY BE TRYING TO PROTECT “A GIRL” FROM INHERITING THE ARMOR - IMPLYING FALCO MAY HAVE FEELINGS FOR GABI. WHAT DO YOU MAKE OF THAT? 66 Responses

When it came to Love Doctor Eren Yeager, more than 50% thought that this development showed his maturation over the course of the story (and 4 years, specifically). Some thought that it didn’t really mean anything, while others looked to a bit more romantic answer. Finally, some thought he was being influenced by the memories of his father or his father’s Attack Titan predecessor.

Don't know if Eren was implying that or if he was trying to gain intel.

BE HONEST - DOES EREN WORK THE HOBO LOOK? 66 Responses

When it came down to seeing Eren’s new design, the majority actually seemed to be more interested in seeing his “manbun” one, as seen in the trailer. Almost 20% thought it was his coolest design to date! The rest either seemed to prefer one of his earlier designs or thought that he looked kinda gross. And some people were just thirsty. 

Cool change. Doesn't look "better", but does make him look more serious/battle-scarred.

ADDITIONAL THOUGHTS ON THE EPISODE?

i was super confused at first, but after a lot more research im completely caught up w the story and very excited for whats to come!

Would've enjoyed even more REINER

Definitely ready for more. I always assumed our old team has been lurking on this side of the wall ever since ep 1 (call me crazy, but was that my mans Jean who bought the newspaper??) anywaY, I can’t wait for the reveal/ambush WhatevEr it is they got planned. You know Armin’s behind this shit. Let’s get ittttt

I need to see Levi already!! I feel like I’m going through withdrawal

The artwork was really nice, same with the animation. I thought the bit with Annie and Reiner was too intense though I felt kinda sick watching it. Also, they showed the scene in the trailer where Reiner is talking to Eren when they were in training and also when he was trying to commit suicide but the audio was different from the visual so I'm curious now if Reiner like tries to have Eren kill him but Eren and co want to interrogate him??? So he's like "why won't you let me die?". Also, I like Falco even more now, seems like a great and important character.

Seeing the Titans normally animated makes the cgi hurt more :(

it gave a lot of clarity cant lie

Reiner's backstory with his dad broke my heart. I thought he took it well. For Marcel to die afterwards and the warriors to be pushed down that path was terrible. I also love how Annie was really against attacking the Eldians, and voiced her disgust, and it felt organic. It didn't feel like it was forced in to show viewer thoughts. The episode made me appreciate Annie's maturity from a young age and emotional depth, and the fact that this was achieved with Reiner as the main focus makes it amore impressive.

mappa > wit. no doubt. the cinematography was a m a z i n g. it was very aesthetically pleasing to watch. 

Why did the smiling titan ignore Bertholt?

WHERE DO YOU PRIMARILY DISCUSS THE SERIES? 65 Responses

Thank you again to everyone who participated! We’ll see you again after next episode. 

[steves-on-a-plane]

Run. (Pt 3.)

Run.

Part One /Part Two / Words: 2469 Pairing: Tony Stark & Reader   Timeline: Iron Man [2008] Other Info: Run AU   Summary: A lot can change in three months. Reader finds this out the hard way as she readies herself the afternoon of her wedding. Among all the guest who arrived and the congratulations being given there’s only one person she wishes was standing before her, but no one’s seen or heard from him in three months. A/N: Okay I was going to wait till next Wednesday to drop this one but it's actually my favorite Chapter so far, is I’m sending it! Next update will be Wednesday May 20th!!! 

May 2008

“Don’t worry Dear, everyone is nervous on their Wedding Day.” Your mother assured you. She reached up and adjusted the veil that felt like it was pinned to your scalp. The teeth of the veil’s comb, along with several bobby pins holding the hairpiece in place, were supposed to ensure that it didn’t fall off. Instead it felt like a crown of thorns.

“And rain is supposed to be good luck!” Your Mother said, casting her eyes outside to the thunderous rain. “You look so beautiful.” Your mother whispered, her gaze returning to you. She was blissfully unaware of how the white wedding dress that had been tailored to fit you perfectly, now felt suffocating.

“Mom, could you go check on, Serina?” You managed to ask despite an unusual dryness in your throat. “I’ve been getting ready all morning and it’s making me more nervous not knowing where she is.”

“Oh. Okay.” Your mother nodded. “You know, it might be easier if you had help more often. Especially with a second one on the way.” She’d been dropping little hints like this all week leading up to the wedding. Truthfully, both of your parents had made it clear that they thought you and Michael should move back home after the wedding. The wedding they had been waiting eleven years for.

A lot can change in three months. You thought to yourself as you glared at your cellphone across the room. It was only three months ago that you packed up Serina, drove to Malibu, and contemplated running away. It had been three months since Tony left for his weapons demonstration and never came home. It had only been a month since you’d told Michael you were pregnant. It had been your idea to get married. He’d asked a few times over the years and you always turned him down and you’d always had reasonable excuses at the ready. The timing wasn’t right, or you needed to save money to pay for some larger expense. He was elated the day you finally suggested “making things official”.

Your cellphone chimed. You rolled your eyes. It was most likely just another well-meaning congratulatory text from a friend or extended family member who couldn’t be in attendance on your “special” day. None of it mattered because the one person who meant the world to you wasn’t around at all anymore. No one even knew if he was alive.

You hardened your resolve and decided to sneak a peek at your cellphone. You’d have to get used to hearing “Congratulations!” and ‘You Must be so happy!” in person all day long anyway. One little text message couldn’t have hurt more than hundreds of words would.  You didn’t have the number saved in your contacts, but you weren’t always diligent about updating them. You thought nothing of opening the message from the unknown sender and when you did, you

saw something that could have made your heart stop. It might have been the combined effort of the message, the pain and pressure from the veil on your head and the constricting dress, but your knees buckled, and you sank to the floor.

Run?

It would have been impossible for anyone else to know what the word meant. You’d certainly never told anyone, and you doubted Tony had. He’d never been much for sharing anything, especially his personal business. A rational person may have imagined several scenarios in which the person who’d sent that texted wasn’t Tony Stark, but in your heart you knew it had to be him.

“[Y/N]? What are you doing on the floor?” Your mother gasped. She had returned with Serina trailing closely behind her.

“Hmm?” You looked up at her, trying to explain yourself. “Oh I just…it’s really hot in this room.”

“Well then open a window.” Your mother sighed. She crossed the room, the heels of her shoes click-clicking across the hardwood floor as she did. She cracked the window just enough for fresh air to get in but not enough for the rain water to spill inside. “I’m going to head back downstairs to let them know you’re almost ready, alright?”

“Yeah sure.” You agreed hastily.

“Mama, you look pretty.” Serina said once you were alone together. She was wearing a red dress, her current favorite color. She adored the swishing noise the fabric made whenever she moved. She smiled at you widely, her cheeks baring just the slightest of dimples on either side.

“You look pretty too, Rina.” You told her. “You came here with Daddy, right?” You asked her. She nodded her head. Did he bring any of your toys with you?”

“No.” She shook her head. Her smile fading. “Daddy said weddings aren’t the place for toys.”

“He’s probably right.” You nodded, making an exaggerate face that you knew would make her giggle. “Would you like to come for a walk with me, just a quick one? But we’ll have to be quiet, because we don’t want anyone to see mommy in her wedding dress okay?”

“Okay!” She agreed. “Oops. I mean okay.” She added in a whisper. You looked around the room for anything you couldn’t live without. In the end you grabbed your purse, shrugged on the hoodie you’d worn to the wedding venue and your cellphone.

Run. You texted the mystery number back and set the ringtone volume to vibrate.

You led Serina down the back stairwell of the wedding venue. To her credit your daughter tried to move as quietly as an eight-year-old in a noisy nylon and tulle dress could. The cellphone in your hand buzzed.

“I’m outside, I’ll be the guy in the limo.” The new text message read. You stopped your daughter at the bottom of the back staircase.

“Ok, Rina, it’s raining outside and I don’t want to ruin your fancy dress. So, I’m going to put Mama’s jacket on you okay?” She nodded, remembering that she’s supposed to be quiet. One arm at a time, you helped Serina into your hoodie, making sure to roll up the sleeves so she could still use her hands. You then pulled the hood up over her head. “Ready to go?” You asked at last. She nodded. “Okay.” You held one of her small hands and led her out the back door.

Once outside you had to squint through the hazy mist surrounding the rain drops. The sun was going down which only made it harder to see. It took several seconds for your eyes to adjust, but finally you saw a familiar frame standing outside of a limousine.

“Rina?” You called out to your daughter quietly.

“Yes Mama?” She tried to look up at you but the hood obscured your vision.

“I’m gonna put you in the car, so you’re not out in the rain okay? Then I’m going to talk to someone and we’ll both join you in the car, okay.”

“Okay, Mama. It’s cold out here.” She shivered.

“It will be warm on the car.” You promised, picking her up.

“[Y/N]?” A familiar voice almost sent you toppling to the ground once more. You never thought you’d hear that voice again. You walked past Tony with a finger over your mouth and nodded at Serina. Letting him know you didn’t want to talk until you put her in the car. Tony nodded and waited for you to put her inside.

“Happy!” Serina exclaimed, recognizing Tony’s driver. She crawled across the limo and tapped excitedly on the glass divider. You placed your purse safe inside the limo and watched as Happy lowered the divider. He nodded at you with a familiar grin. You smiled back before shutting the door and finally turning your attention to Tony.

“How long before they notice you’re…” Tony didn’t finish his sentence. The second the limo door was shut you’d turned and shoved him, hard. The lack of traction in his expensive shoes and the muddy terrain caused the billionaire to fall fast and hard on the ground. “It’s nice to see you too.” He gasped from the ground.

“Where the hell have you been?” You shouted over the rain.

“I’m sorry Sweetheart!” Tony grumbled getting to his feet. “Next time I get kidnapped by terrorist I’ll be sure to ask them if it’s okay with you first.”

“I fucking missed you.” You confessed. The cold rain hitting your face was now mixing with warm salty tears. “I needed you.”

“I know. I know.” He replied. “But I’m here now.”

He opened his arms to you, but seemed slightly hesitant, like he thought you may push him again. You leaned forward, almost folding into him. Tony’s arms encircled you as you breathed in the familiar scent of his leathery cologne. You shivered slightly as the wind picked up around you.

“C’mon we can talk in the car. Unless you’re staying or you want to push me in the mud again.” Tony opened the car door for you and waited for an answer.

“Pushing you in the mud again is tempting, but I’m freezing.” You climbed into the limo. Happy was listening politely to Serina as she told him all about the different kinds of unicorns.

“Happy do we have blankets or towels or something in here?” Tony asked, poking his head inside the car.

“Uncle Tony!” Serina shouted when she heard his voice and saw his face.

“Hey there Serina Ballerina!” Tony clambered into the limo to catch the eight-year-old who was about to launch herself at him.

“Uncle Tony, Mama said you were going away for a really long time. Maybe forever!” She told him. “Are you going away forever?” She asked him.

“Not anymore, Baby Girl.” He promised. While Tony bonded with his favorite tiny human, you followed Happy’s instructions to find the blankets stored under one of the seats. Tony shut the limo door and Happy began driving the getaway car.

“Rina, come here and sit down.” You patted an empty spot on the leathery bench next to you.

“But I want to tell Uncle Tony about all the things that he missed while he was gone!” Serina pouted. Despite her protesting, she dropped down next to you and let you drape a blanket around her. “Like Pebbles.”

“Pebbles?” Tony repeated. “Did your dad finally let you get a pet while I was gone?”

“No!” Serina laughed. “Pebbles is Mama’s new baby.”

“Baby?” Tony looked to you with his eyebrows shooting up to the ceiling. “That’s new.”

“Where are we going anyway?” You asked, looking out the window.

“Airport.” He said as if it should have been obvious. Tony took the second blanket from you and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Rina, it’s a long way to the airport.” You told her. “Why don’t you lay down and take a nap.”

“No!” Serina shouted suddenly. “Last time, I went to sleep and Uncle Tony was there but then I woke up and he was gone!”

“That must have been scary, huh, Serina Ballerina?” Tony frowned. He moved so that he was sitting next to her. “How about you rest your head in my lap. I’ll hold your hand the entire time that way you know I’m not going anywhere.” Serina looked up at Tony and her face scrunched up as she concentrated on his offer.

“Okay.” She accepted. She laid her head on one of Tony’s thighs and tucked one hand under her cheek. She then held up her free hand expectedly. Tony made sure she was covered up with her blanket before wrapping his fingers around her open palm.

“So, Pebbles?” Tony brought the subject back around with his usual level of tact.

“I’m three months along.” You said, allowing Tony to draw his own conclusions.

“Three months. So right around the time that we…” Tony glanced down at the child pretending to sleep in his lap and decided not to finish his sentence. “You should have pushed me in the mud again.” He told you.

“No, it wasn’t your fault.” You told him, looking back out the window again.

“It was at least half.” He disagreed.

“I should text Michael.” You announced. “They’ll have noticed us missing by now.”

“What are you going to say to him?” Tony wanted to know.

“Just that we’re safe and I’ll call him in the morning. I’ll tell my parents to same.” You reached for your phone and started sending out messages to the people that you thought you should.

“I’m sorry, [Y/N].” Tony blurted out. He finally removed his sunglasses, which were still speckled with raindrops. You looked up from your phone and for the first time, you got an image in your head of what the three of you must have looked like. You with your veil and your wedding dress soaked to the bone. Tony in his second favorite suit caked with mud, his eyes red with tears. And Serina, laying in Tony’s lap. Her hair already frizzy. Tony dragged a hand over his face.

“If I wouldn’t have known I would have come here first before the press conference.” He lamented.

“Press conference?” You asked. “How long have you been back? Days? Weeks?”

“In the US?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, doing some quick math in his head. “About Fourteen hours. Pepper and Happy picked me up at an Air Force base around four am and the press conference was at eight or nine. Then Pepper mention the wedding and we hopped on a plane. Which by the way,” Tony removed the hand covering his face so that he could look directly at you. “Who gets married at six pm on a Monday?”

“Architects whose firms are closed on Tuesdays.” You snapped.

“Who the fuck marries an architect whose business is closed on a weekday!” Tony hissed, barely audible. “And another thing, I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t marry this guy, ever.”

“Yeah, well you said you’d always be there.” You argued. “I was pregnant and you were missing and I felt alone. And then that video came out...” Your voice cracked and more tears threated to come out. You took a deep breath and steadied yourself. You reached out and lightly brushed a hand against his cheek. “You’ve got a scar there. It’s faint, barely noticeable. I know you lived it, but seeing you like that, Tony? I was scared. I needed someone to protect me.”

“Well as the mother of my…favorite niece.” Tony’s eyes briefly flashed to Serina before looking back at a you. “I hope you’ll extend me the same curtesy. Give me eleven years to prove that I can make you feel safe again.” Tony held out his free hand to you. “Starting right now. Take my hand so you know I’m still gonna be here when you wake up.”

[usagi-mitsu]

This is something I never thought I would ever write – or would have even considered writing down even a few hours ago. But I feel like this needs to be addressed and I hope you all can forgive me for venting my feelings – about art, the reader/author relationship, art-theft, and the following consequence: deleted art.

And… this is also some kind of diary entry for me, to never forget.

About three to four hours ago, an artist who I truly admire, closed their account on Wattpad. Wattpad is not my personally preferred platform, simply because I’m not sure it’s ok for them to monetize an authors content the way they do – and that is a topic for a whole different discussion. But they had pulled their stuff from fanfiction.net a few years prior and (if it even was their account) even from AO3.

The last message they posted on Wattpad reads as follows:

“DUE TO PEOPLE CONSTANTLY TRYING TO STEAL MY FICS AND CLAIM THEM AS THEIR OWN, I HAVE REMOVED THEM ALL FROM THIS PLATFORM. VERY SORRY TO THOSE WHO HAVE READ AND ENJOYED THEM BUT ALREADY MULTIPLE TIMES MY WRITING HAS BEEN STOLEN AND IM DONE.”

 The author I’m talking about was called “Lusterrdust” on Wattpad and wrote the very popular Skyrim Romance Mod fanfiction about their Dragonborn Niamh and the mods main character Bishop. Their first story “Ranger of the Woods” covered the whole of the mod in about 52-53 chapters and told it beautifully: From when Niamh and Bishop first met in Riverwood (?), to them fighting side by side, him leaving her to go fight Alduin alone, them reuniting a few months later, the journey to Solstheim, the battle with Miraak and finally a small wedding far away from the public. The second story was called “Saviour of Tamriel” and was set about four years after the first one, with Niamh yearning to be a mother, while the Aldmeri Dominion was planning on slowly expanding it’s … well … dominion across the continent, with Niamh and the High King Ulfric receiving death threats, her actually getting pregnant and Bishop trying to keep his family as safe as possible. A meeting with the emperor Titus Mede was on the way and I think Niamh and Bishop were about to drop their baby boy Julian off with the greybeards to keep him safe, since the Dominion had already put a hefty price on the not even three month old infant.

 The reason for why I write this, why this is affecting me like this, is that Lusterrdust was the first author I ever interacted with: I wrote comments when I read the story and I left my impressions and came back to read it again and again. I even dropped theories in the comments, even though I knew the story was not yet one and when I left my ideas and theories at the end of one of the last chapters, they even asked me, if they could use my idea. And my comments were not there anymore, since I offered them to delete them – just so that nobody else would be spoiled by my … inspirational rants at the end of each chapter. (Which is why I assume Niamh and Bishop were in Ivarstead at the end of the last chapter – it was my suggestion to place the baby with the Greybeards. Who better to look after a baby, than a bunch of super powerful elderly men and an elder dragon..?

But aside from having a baby at the worst possible time, aside from Niamh and Bishop still trying to learn how to communicate with her being the Dragonborn and therefore a person of public and political interest, aside from a potential alliance with Titus Mede and a hopefully good ending for them all.. there was so much more: There was the sub-plot with Breezehome being remodelled to be an orphanage, Niamhs brother having been brainwashed by the dark brotherhood, Lydia and Farkas having a third baby, Vilkas being with a Mere (elven woman), the implication of Ulfric slowly growing old and openly admitting to wanting Niamh to be his High Queen …

There was so much yet to explore.

But the author stopped updating in 2018, when their grandfather died. Which was ok. And everything was still ok to this day. At least for me: Even though they did not publish any new content, I still had all those many chapters to read again and again in my own time, whenever I got to it.

And it inspired me. It inspired me so much, that I went ahead and dove head first into Elder Scrolls Lore. A few years back, I could name all the Daedric Princes (Sanguine is the god of tits and wine – change my mind) and tell you which of Tamriels nine gods ruled over which dominion and why the fight between the Elves of Summerset and the other peoples of Tamriel was utter religious bullshit.

It even inspired me to think about my own Dragonborn, a nord woman called Kahira van Rae, and what she would do in a situation like Niamhs. A train of thoughts, that lead to me having RP sessions with my friends via WhatsApp and hour long talks about the politics of fictional lands. It even made me call my new character in the next fandom I’d dive into “Shia Tamriel”. In honour of a story and fandom I had come to love deeply.

And while it has been some time since I last checked in with these stories, I never forgot them. I did keep on coming back, enjoying them again and again. And every time I read them, I discovered something new.

These two stories were important to me.

The author was important to me.

 And now, all of those things are gone, because someone apparently copied their work and posted them as their own.

And that’s what really gets me.

Some random person out there on the internet thought it was ok, to simply copy-paste another persons hard work and put their name on it.

And let me put this as simply as possible:

THAT IS NOT OK! NOT IN ANY WAY!

 Because of your selfishness, a few hundred people will never get to know the end of Niamhs story.

Because of your selfishness, a few hundred people will never get to reread the story.

Because of your selfishness, an author was hurt and annoyed so badly they decided to pull all their content.

You should be ashamed.

You stole someone’s precious art that they decided to share with the world and let me be clear – just because they shared their art, you are not allowed to simply make it your own!

 Copyright is an iffy topic in fandom culture, with different countries having different rules and different companies going after fan works in highly differing intensities. But it should be common curtesy to not simply steal another persons art! Be it literal artworks as in pictures or edited videos or cosplay ideas or written art like fanfiction!

If something inspires you, that’s great! But you always ask consent before doing anything with the art! And if asking consent is an entirely new concept to you, I’d like to ask you kindly to go educate yourself on it. It will not only pop up in fandom culture.

 To conclude this…

I’m just sad at this point. I remembered the story two nights ago and I jumped right back into it at some random point and read it. I even put up with Wattpads shenanigans like forcing me to log in to keep on reading or requiring me to download the app so that they can show me stupid 30 second long ads in between reading.

I know that the world is not ending because of this.

I am well aware of the fact, that it was just a story.

And I truly support the authors decision.

 But until they pulled all the content, until they deleted their account, I had always hoped to maybe one day read more about Niamh and Bishop. And Bragor and Julian. About their Ulfric and Ralof, Lydia and Farkas and their children. I had hopes to discover their Titus Mede and how they were going to resolve the conflict between Skyrim, the empire and the Dominion

But now I cannot even go back and reread the sassy exchanges between Casavir and Bishop. I will never again be able to experience Bishops anguish when Niamh receives an almost mortal wound. I’ll never again know the inner thoughts of the Dragonborn, who thought she was barren, getting told that she is pregnant.

 I think the author did the right thing. It saddens me nonetheless.

 So let me end this here with one last plea to everyone in every fandom out there:

Do not steal art.

 Thank you for reading.

[admiralty-xfd]

a light in the darkness

I got this as a prompt from @monikafilefan​ but it turned into something much bigger than I anticipated. Thanks Monika, I’m sure this isn’t what you expected but I hope you like it 💕

Prompts: #1 “We’re not just friends and you fucking know it.” and #20 “I think you’re just afraid to be happy”

She can still feel it, like a ghost presence: Mulder’s hand beneath hers, how warm and inviting it had been against the cold countertop, how he’d squeezed back reassuringly as if to tell her it’s okay, Scully. This is all going to work out eventually. Somehow he’d known, and it was as if nothing in the world had mattered to either of them in that moment but each other; not the neglected breakfast plates with hardening egg yolk, the buzzing of cell phones, the ding-clank of the cash register drawer.

She was still unsure where they stood. But she’d reached out to him, made a move. A small move, yes, but powerful. In the bright light of morning some things had become clear. When she held his hand, she was home again.

“It’s nice just being with you again,” she’d told him. “Together.”

He’d looked at her, questions in his eyes. “...Are we together?”

It hadn’t been the first time he’d asked her that question over the past few months. It reminded her of all those years ago when they were hiding from the FBI, how he'd asked her over and over to marry him and she'd politely declined, over and over. Even then she hadn't known why. It was just a feeling; it hadn't felt right.

Are we together?

Sitting next to him in that diner she hadn’t known the answer. She wanted it to be true, but was it yet? Were they, really?

“Come home with me, Scully,” he’d urged her, despite her silence.

It’s time to go home, Dana.

She’d agreed to follow him home, like so many times she’d followed him before. Now night has fallen, and once again they are standing here together in a situation she isn’t sure she’s ready for. She wants to be ready so badly but she’s afraid, so afraid.

Of what? Of what, now?

She wishes she knew. She wishes things were simple between them. She wants it all to be uncomplicated but it isn’t.

He stands in their bedroom in sweatpants and a white T-shirt, holding a pillow. She knows he plans to head downstairs to sleep on the couch, to be a gentleman, to not be presumptuous. But she can’t do this. She can’t let him sleep on the couch tonight for so many reasons but primarily because it reminds her: of Mulder, deep in his darkness, oblivious to her presence in their bed. Of how she’d waited for him to come back to her. How she’d waited for them both to come up for air.

How she’d waited for the moment she would be enough for him.

She’d known even then it hadn’t been simply his illness that had torn them apart. But she’d said it over and over again to herself over the years like a mantra, turned it over in her mind again and again, endogenous depression, because it was easier to turn to a clinical explanation than to admit the truth: that they had simply failed each other.

“Don’t go sleep on the couch,” she says. “I will.” She reaches her hand out for the pillow.

Even as the words escape her mouth she knows they sound ridiculous. She and Mulder have slept in the bed together, even recently. They’ve had sex all over the house, even recently.

But things are different now. This time she has nowhere else to go. Suddenly she’s living with him again, suddenly she’s home, and she never had the opportunity to make that choice. Everything is happening so fast, too fast, the irony being that she knows it’s taking fucking forever.

He shakes his head, refusing her offer. “Not a chance.”

She sighs. “What do you want, then?”

“Me? What do I want?” He gestures towards himself. “I want you to come home, Scully. Really come home. I want you to sleep next to me in our bed again.” He looks at her with those eyes she always tries so hard not to let melt her resolve. “I want us to be happy together again.”

She’s stunned speechless; not for what he’s revealed but that he’s revealed it at all. She marvels once again at this new Mulder’s ability to communicate so openly. He’s much better at it than she is lately. She wishes she had the courage to speak her truth. She wishes she had his strength.

“But this isn’t about what I want and we both know it,” he says softly.

The fact that he wants her back isn’t a surprise to her. He’s made it clear over and over again for some time now. It’s up to her to move them forward.

“I don’t know how to explain how I’m feeling, Mulder,” she begins. She wants to communicate with him so desperately but she’s rusty. She’s been rusty for twenty-five years. “It’s just that... everything that’s happened between us since our separation has been happening because it had to. Getting back on the X-Files, spending all this time together…” she trails off because his face is beginning to fall. She doesn’t mean to hurt him. She’s loved every minute of it. It’s just not the way she’d imagined their reconciliation, whenever she’d had the presence of mind to imagine it.

He looks at her awkwardly, expectantly. She can tell he wants to understand, and she wants to tell him to stay here, to just crawl into bed with her and never, ever leave. But it still doesn’t feel right.

I don’t see there’s a choice.

There hasn’t been a choice, not really. Not for the two of them. It feels like there never seems to be. Getting back together with him can’t happen due to simple circumstance. She and Mulder have been forced into each other’s orbits by circumstance their entire partnership.

No, for this to be real it must be their choice. Both of their choice.

“Look, Scully, I get it,” he says somewhat sadly. “I know you’re not here right now because you want to be. You were dragged back onto the X-Files when I know it’s the last thing you want to be doing. And the fact that it took your house blowing up to get you back in our bedroom feels significant.”

“Mulder--”

He puts his hand up and she can tell he isn’t angry, just exhausted. This new Mulder doesn’t get angry. “Forget about it, okay? I’ll see you in the morning.”

She grabs his arm to stop him. “Please, don’t go, Mulder. Don’t be upset. I don’t want to fight.”

He has a look in his eyes that physically pains her. He hasn’t done anything wrong; in fact, he’s doing everything right. Everything. He’s practically perfect and it’s making all of this harder, not easier.

“I want you here, Scully,” he says. “I’ll always want you here. But you have to want it, too.”

He steps closer to her, so close she can feel his breath.

“Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?” he asks quietly. “How many nights I’ve laid in our bed and reached out to find you and you weren’t there?”

She fights back tears thinking of him all alone in their house, futilely attempting to fill the void that she’d left. How many times she’d done the same, and considered making the drive to Farr’s Corner in the middle of the night just to slide into bed with him and feel his arms around her, so desperate she’d been for the warmth of his embrace.

“I do know,” she says, barely keeping it together. “I wanted to come back so many times, Mulder.”

“Then why didn’t you?” he asks.

She looks up at him beneath lashes beaded with tears. “You know why.”

His face softens because he does know why, and she can tell they’re both remembering a night not so long ago on a pull-out sofa. How the time and place had been ancillary; letting him in again had been an inevitability.

She’d joked to herself that she’d done her time already, so many years, on and off; that she could do the celibacy thing again if she had to. She’d tried dating other men but it never went anywhere. She’d missed sex with Mulder too much; immeasurably.

Physical intimacy was something they’d withheld from each other for countless reasons over the years, even since they’d met. When she’d finally allowed herself the luxury of reveling in his arms it was as if she’d been reborn; as if life finally meant what it was supposed to mean. Finding intimacy with him had felt fated. But it seemed that comfort was always ripped from their grasp. First, when Mulder had been taken away from her before they’d even begun to get comfortable. And when he was returned to her months later, they were parted yet again with an abruptness that shook her to her very core. Strengthening her walls and preparing for the worst had been her only survival tactic.

After being finally reunited after Mulder’s trial, for many years after that it seemed time stood still for them. They were no longer alone. They’d had each other, only each other, and it had felt like that was the only thing that mattered.

That feeling didn’t last, however. Be it circumstance, or timing, or simply fate throwing them yet another curveball, the solace they’d found in each other wasn’t sustainable. Preparing for the worst wasn’t an approach either of them could give up easily; it had become the norm for them, not the exception. Their foundation had crumbled, and she now knew it was because it had never gotten a chance to form properly in the first place.

After she left, there were times she’d been tempted to just drive over, no words, and let him make her feel something again. But she knew that could never happen. She couldn’t play with his head that way, or his heart; she didn’t want to lead him on. And there was absolutely no way she would risk Mulder’s mental health over a momentary lapse in judgment and a brief window of pleasure. There was so much more to them than sex; it just wasn’t who she was; it wasn’t who they were.

Perhaps the only thing she and Mulder had discussed with any regularity during their interim was his health; how he was feeling, if he was taking his medications. She’d always been satisfied he was staying afloat, but had kept her distance.

Distance kept her safe.

“Being around you would have meant giving in,” she admits, “and giving in would have been dangerous. For us, but especially  for you, Mulder,” she continues. “I was so worried about you, as your doctor, as— as your friend…” She trips over the words.

She’s tried this line with him before. She hasn’t forgotten the look he gave her when the words tumbled out of her mouth the last time.

Dangerous ground… As your doctor, and as your friend…

“And...?” he urges, frustrated. She knows he wants her to say it. As your wife. Their marriage certificate is ten feet away in a locked safe she still knows the combination to. But it hurts; it hurts to say it aloud.

“And… yes, Mulder. Friends,” she says instead. It’s a challenge and she knows it. She wants to tell him everything she feels, she wants to, but something is holding her back. “I don’t know what else to call us right now.”

“Stop that, Scully! Just stop!” He isn’t yelling, he’s frustrated. He has that face that looks like he’d cry if he’d only let himself. “This is us, Scully. Us.” He gestures between them. “Why does there always have to be a qualifier, a rational explanation? Some label for you and me that isn’t just you and me? ”

He moves into her, taking her face in his hands and pressing his lips against hers in a soft but desperate way that reminds her instantly of an underground holding cell near Mount Weather. She lets him; lets his tongue enter her mouth and claim her as his. It reminds her of a time when it really was just him and her against the world. Even if only for a moment, she wants to remember how it was.

He pulls her in close and she flattens her palms against his chest, wanting him so badly, needing him with a throbbing ache she can feel deep down inside as he intensifies their kiss, his tongue meeting hers, a current of desire thrumming between them in eager anticipation of reunion.

She moves her hands upwards, sliding them across his shoulders until they’re threading the soft hair at his nape. It’s damp and he smells freshly-showered, although his jaw is rough and unshaven. He’s right, she thinks. As always, her head is getting in the way again. This thing between them is most certainly something that cannot be programmed, categorized, or easily referenced. It never has been. He is everything to her, all of the things, but in this instant he feels like her husband above all else.

Mulder pulls away, breathless. His large hands encircle her tiny waist and he holds her tight against him.

“That’s what this is, Scully,” he breathes against her lips. “That’s all it’s ever been. You and me.”

You and me.

He pulls back, eyes closed, and holds his forehead against hers. “I’m so tired of waiting. We’re not just friends and you fucking know it.”

She doesn’t know what to do. Of course they’re not just friends. None of this would be complicated if they were ‘just friends.’

“I know, Mulder,” she says quietly. He holds her upper arms firmly, their heads locked together. “Of course I know.”

He nods against her and exhales. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to push.”

“You’re not pushing, Mulder. It’s not you, it’s…” How can she make him understand when she barely understands herself? That this isn’t about him anymore, it’s not even about them anymore, not really. This is only about her own hangups, her own confusion, her own guilt. It is she alone who is holding them back this time.

He won’t understand, he can’t. Not until she can understand herself.

His eyes close again and so do hers. “This isn’t a game to me. It’s our lives, our life. Together. You and me, Scully.”

She nods. It isn’t a game to her either, so much as it’s a puzzle: yet another puzzle for them to solve. All the pieces are here, it’s just a matter of snapping the pieces into the right positions.

He takes her face in his hands again, each time like he’s throwing her a life preserver. “You’ve been my constant for so long and lately everything feels so… un-constant. I’m just tired... of inconstancy.”

She wants to put an end to their suffering, but things aren’t that simple. “I’m tired too, Mulder,” she says. “But what I’m tired of is the darkness. I wonder every day, all the time, whether it’s going to end. How it’s going to end.”

He sighs, shakes his head. “You may not think so, Scully, but I wonder the same thing. All the time.”

There’s only one way this could all end, and she’s known it for twenty five years: right by his side. But just because she loves him, there are no guarantees. Just because he loves her, it doesn’t mean this won’t all turn to shit again.

“I love you so much, Mulder, you have to know that,” she whispers. Tears prick her eyes. It’s not unusual or revelatory for her to say it. They say it all the time. They said it while they were apart. “I’m just… afraid.”

There it is. Her deepest fear: that she will let him down again. That, once again, the foundation of whatever this is they are rebuilding could crumble like a house of cards at any moment.

“Of what, Scully? What are you afraid of?” he whispers.

She shakes her head. She’s said too much already. It hurts to think of the answer.

“Please, tell me,” he says.

Still, she says nothing. She’s trying, she really is, but Dana Scully has her limits.

“I think maybe you’re just afraid to be happy, Scully,” he says. “Is that it?”

She says nothing. He’s right, as usual. She curses his brilliant profiling mind, his ability to see through her so completely. The fact that her efforts at hiding from him are completely useless, even now.

This is the answer, the real answer. This is why she’s having so much trouble letting him back in. Her heart aches with the truth. She is afraid to be happy. She’s absolutely terrified. Happiness for them only means sadness is right around the corner, every time, without fail.

And she always fails.

“I think you’re right,” she admits, after a long silence.

He looks at her sadly, sympathetically. She knows the look well; the one that means he’d do anything to take her pain away. To make it his instead. But she doesn’t want there to be any pain anymore, for either of them. And that’s the problem. Because there always is. There always will be.

She reaches out to take his hand like she did in the diner. It’s the only thing that feels right anymore, the only thing that makes anything okay. “I don’t know what I want right now, Mulder,” she says, helpless. “But I do know... I don’t want you to go.”

He looks at her tenderly and steps to her, kisses the top of her head. Tossing the pillow behind her onto the bed, he reaches out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Then I’ll stay, Scully,” he says simply.

He inches forward slowly, perhaps giving her an out, but she pulls him into her by his neck and their lips meet again softly, gently. She reaches down to lift the bottom of his shirt up, only breaking contact as he lifts his arms to allow her to remove it. As she does, a powerful scent of home radiates through the air; the powerful scent of him.

She steps back and gazes at his body, her hands delicately tracing over his pectorals, his feather-soft chest hair, her thumb circling a nipple. Every time she’s able to admire his body lately she’s in awe of how well he’s taken care of himself, how apparent his return to health is. How she can see it with her own eyes.

He leans down to press soft kisses to her neck, one hand reaching behind her to squeeze the flesh of her ass beneath the T shirt she’s wearing. One of his; always one of his, lately. She wants him around her all the time, it seems. His other hand cups a breast, gently, and she gasps softly, pushing his hand away. Her breasts have been sensitive lately for some reason.

Just the proximity of him, his taste and his scent and his nearness is creating a flood of desire between her legs. She runs her hand along his shaft, standing proudly against her belly, waiting, wanting.

She wants him, too.

Without any more prelude she pulls her shirt up and over her head, sits down on the bed and pulls him down with her, feels his heavy weight settle atop her, their hot skin clashing, bronze against alabaster. He kisses her everywhere and she closes her eyes, letting him love her. His strong arms lift her as if she weighed nothing, shifting her back onto the pillows.

It isn't long before she can't wait any more. She grips him firmly in her hand as he guides himself home and as he fills her something clicks into place like it always has.

“I do want you, Mulder…” she breathes into his ear, surrounded by the thick heat of him. He begins to thrust slowly, purposefully. Passionately. “I need you.”

His reply is throaty and desperate. “I’m right here, Scully.”

She shifts her body a bit to feel him above her; his weight, the whole of him. He threads his hands behind her head and looks deeply into her eyes, and it is not fast or vigorous, it is languid and measured, eternity passing in moments, like it always has been with the two of them.

She lifts her pelvis to meet each thrust; his velvety heat plunging within and withdrawing slickly. She’s wet, so wet, and he’s so hard. All these years later; how does she make him this hard, he make her so wet? How do they still fit so perfectly together?

Her little pink friend she’d been forced to relinquish back at the warehouse could certainly do magic, but there is nothing like the magic of him.

Her Mulder.

She looks up at a vast sea of stars through the skylight above him, his breath in her ear, over and over, and she breathes into his as if they were sharing a set of lungs. She wants to breathe next to him forever.

Even amongst her emotional turmoil she can feel the build of her orgasm, a wave in the distance of the stormy sea of her mind. She’s always considered herself lucky she can come this way; blessed, even. All her previous lovers had to work so hard but not Mulder. Never Mulder.

She hears his steady breathing in her ear, his strong hands wrapped around the base of her skull. The slick draw and pull of their love as he moves within her, and his eyes: the ones she’s always lost herself in but truly, the only place she will ever find herself.

There is a flash behind her eyes, and in front of her eyes, behind him in the blackness, the stars shine through. He moans her name and with this sound she is sent through the roof, over the moon, hurtling through the atmosphere. She grips his muscular shoulders and exhales a single breath. One long, steady breath, an eternity in his arms.

Then suddenly, inexplicably, and perhaps with unfortunate timing she hears the voice of Ahab, adrift at sea, full of regret.

The length of one breath, one heartbeat.

And with this breath she experiences a moment of clarity.

She’d been so focused on looking away from the darkness they’d fought for years, the external forces at work doing everything they could to take away their happiness, that she hadn’t realized the truth: that the darkness was, after everything, only in them.

It had been of their own making: creeping in more and more each time she looked the other direction. Each time they’d refused to communicate their fears to each other. Each time she’d said she was fine when she wasn’t. And she’d done everything she could to pretend it wasn’t there.

What had driven her away, truly? It wasn’t Mulder’s obsessive nature, or even his illness. It wasn’t the circumstances that had gutted them.

It was them, all along. The darkness was them.

She’d given up instead of facing that darkness. Without realizing it, she’d become someone different than the person she used to be. How can she justify the months she'd spent ignoring all the signs of their deterioration, all the signs that had been present for years? How can she admit that instead of simply existing within a thousand yard stare she should have done something about it, she should have saved them?

Why had it been so difficult to trust in their happiness, to let it flourish? To let it overcome their darkness?

Lying here in his arms now, she realizes there’s still a darkness inside her, too. Maybe she needs to figure out how to release it. Maybe it’s the only way she can get herself back.

Maybe it’s the only way to get them back.

She clings to Mulder tightly, her constant, her touchstone. He stills inside her, carefully laying down next to her and rolling her into him. She drapes a leg over his hip and enjoys the feeling, the closeness she’s been denying the both of them for so long.

Perhaps the darkness ends when they decide it ends. Perhaps it can look for them, but they do not have to answer the call. It has to be their choice, together.

Perhaps it always has been.

Let it try.

She’d been ill-equipped to understand what he’d truly meant by that. And they’d been ill-equipped at the time to follow through on that promise.

Things are different now, she can feel it. He is different. And for the first time in years she truly wonders… is she?

Is she adrift like Ahab, doomed to carry regret and heartache into her next life? Or has she finally found her way again?

Mulder pulls the covers up over them and holds her close in his embrace, kisses her forehead. After several moments pass, another eternity, he speaks once again.

“Scully?” he asks gently, so gently.

“Yes?”

“Are we… together?”

She wants to be, so much. She wants him back as badly as he wants her. But now she needs to figure out how to move past her own darkness. It has to be right this time, it has to be perfect.

It has to be forever.

Almost, she wants to tell him, but it sounds like a tease. She isn’t interested in teasing him. She takes his hand, brings it to her lips. They have yet another silent conversation. Soon, I promise, she says with her eyes. I’ll wait forever, his own eyes reply. And she knows he will.

He reaches out to turn off the lamp on his nightstand. The room is plunged into darkness but he is her light. He is right here, beside her. He will be right here beside her again tomorrow, and again the next day. She knows it.

And soon, on the final day, the last moment she can pretend they aren’t bound to each other permanently, she tells him she is ready, softly into his ear. In a sanctuary full of people praying for a miracle, he is her own.

No more waiting, she whispers. I’m finished with our darkness forever.

He draws back from her declaration, pensive, thoughtful. She can feel him thinking the same way he can always feel her as he nods.

“I’ve always wondered how this was going to end,” he says with the finality she’s wanted for years. The numbing embrace of the status quo no more; he’s ready, too.

An end to the darkness. A beginning to their happiness. It’s what she asked him for all those years ago, and they are finally ready to see it through. It’s taken her so long, far too long to realize the truth but she knows it now, clearly. A to B to C. It’s the only truth she needs.

He nods, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips that only she could discern, and lights another candle. The flame burns brighter than it ever has before.

[hailing-stars]

I wrote this fic almost a year ago, one of my first irondad one-shots and my writing has improved so much lmao, but I didn’t have a tumblr back then, so I thought it was worth posting here. also May dates doc ock which happens in the comics but was still uncomfortable to write lol 

summary - something nefarious 

“I didn’t,” he said, then frowned. “I don’t. I’m just… distracted.”

Mr. Stark’s raised eyebrow demanded an answer.

“…Umm,” said Peter. He picked the first non-college thought that popped into his head. “Well Aunt May has this new boyfriend.”

“And you hate him.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Sounds about right,” said Mr. Stark, with a sigh, as Peter checked his phone.

OR

Peter gets beat up by May's new boyfriend, because May's new boyfriend is Doc Ock and Peter is nosey.

Tony just wants to work on a car with his Spidey son and send him to college in one piece.

read on ao3 or after the undercut

Peter stared at the car parts scattered across the floor. He tried to remember enough to start assembling, or to at least make a little bit of progress before Mr. Stark looked away from whatever he was working on and saw no changes were made. It was useless. He couldn’t concentrate. Not on that. Not during that particular moment.

His thoughts belonged elsewhere, anywhere else, actually, but mostly not there. On the car. Completing the car meant completing a lie, or more importantly, led Peter closer to the moment he’d have to confess to Mr. Stark that he wouldn’t be attending MIT in the fall and therefore wouldn’t need this particular graduation present.

Peter had trouble deciding what would upset Mr. Stark more, his choice of school or that attending NYU rendered his gift useless.

“Every college man needs a car,” he had told him, then proceeded to try and rush off to get him a brand-new Audi. Peter’s lucky to have both May and Pepper. They were there to force him into a compromise

.May picked out some rundown car at a junk lot, and Mr. Stark would help him fix it up.

This compromise meant every Saturday that summer belonged to the workshop. He didn’t mind that part. Spending time with Mr. Stark was one of his favorite things to do. Especially there, in the workshop, where new Iron Man suits were born. If Peter were really going away to Massachusetts for school next fall, which he definitely wasn’t, he would miss him, almost as much as May.

The thought crossed his mind that he might end up missing Mr. Stark after all. Peter isn’t completely above pretending to be at MIT while he really hung around New York. It sounded a lot better and like a lot less drama than giving him the bad news.

“You were right,” said Mr. Stark. His voice dripped with sarcasm as he stood over where Peter worked, or pretended to work, on the floor. “Clearly you don’t need my help.”

“I didn’t,” he said, then frowned. “I don’t. I’m just… distracted.”

Mr. Stark’s raised eyebrow demanded an answer.

“…Umm,” said Peter. He picked the first non-college thought that popped into his head. “Well Aunt May has this new boyfriend.”

“And you hate him.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Sounds about right,” said Mr. Stark, with a sigh, as Peter checked his phone.

“Oh shit,” he said, and struggled to get to his feet. He sprinted to the other side of the workshop, grabbed his bookbag from the floor, then sprinted back to Mr. Stark. “I’m going to be late. I’m supposed to be meeting him tonight.”

He waited for the blow to come. A sarcastic comment. An ill-received joke. Peter prepared to defend himself for hating the man without ever meeting him, but the blow never came. This is something that, maybe, Mr. Stark understood, too. Peter didn’t need a reason to dislike any of May’s boyfriends, although he felt like he had plenty from overheard bits of conversations on the phone.

His name was reason enough. Doctor Otto.

Peter looked up once he adjusted the strap of his bookbag, and followed Mr. Stark’s gaze over to the car, if it could even be called a car at that point, sitting in the middle of the room.

“At this rate it’s never gonna be finished by fall.”

“Sorry Mr. Stark,” said Peter. “I’ll come back tomorrow?”

“Nope, tomorrow I’m spending the day with Pepper,” he said, then pointed at him. “Next Saturday I’m helping you, and cut it out with the Mr. Stark, alright? I told you. It’s Tony. You’re an adult now. Use your big boy words.”  

“Sure thing, Mr. Stark.”

Peter was almost out the door when he heard Mr. Stark grumble, “Smartass.”

*

He was, as predicted, late for dinner. He opened the apartment door to one of the most traumatizing sights he’d ever seen in his eighteen years of life. May and Doctor Otto were standing uncomfortably close, but worse of all, they were breaking apart, as if they’d been closer, as if they’d been kissing.

His eyes settled over the man, but Peter’s feet stayed planted in the foyer, letting the door fall shut behind him. Doctor Otto was tall, with dark hair and fit. His button up shirt stuck too close to his skin, but that wasn’t the most unsettling observation Peter made that night. It was the look in his eyes. Possibly, it was the same look Peter gave him as he sized him up, as the both of them were making up their minds about each other there in his aunt’s apartment.

The apartment they used to share with his uncle Ben.

“You must be Peter,” said Otto. He broke out of the kitchen and started across the apartment towards him.

“Obviously.”

Otto looked taken back for a half-second, then quickly recovered and pretended he hadn’t heard the tone. Behind him, May glared and mouthed at him to be nice.

“I’m Otto,” he said. His grip was loose and flimsy, like a fish out of water or a man who’s trying too hard to pretend to be unassuming. Peter knew better than to fall for that. “May told me so much about you.”

“Really?” said Peter. “I haven’t heard very much about you at all actually…”

“Peter,” said May, marching across the kitchen and joining them in the foyer. She stood by Otto, on his side, and hooked her arm through his. “He’s joking.” She looked at Peter. “You’re joking, but the joke’s over now.”

The couple walked back into the kitchen, arms still linked, and Peter swallowed misplaced stomach acid. His feet felt like dead weights as he followed them to the kitchen table. He didn’t know how he would make it through dinner without puking, but he should at least try it. He should at least try to be polite even if Otto made his skin crawl and his stomach turn, just so May wouldn’t kill him once he left. If he ever left.

He looked so comfortable on May’s side of the dinner table, where Ben used to sit, Peter wasn’t so sure they would ever get rid of him.

He stayed polite by keeping his responses as short as possible. He nodded when he could, he forced himself to smile, and occasionally, would make a noise that implied he was paying attention and actually, he was. Otto went on and on about his research with radioactive substances, maybe trying to impress him, but after spending so much time with Mr. Stark, it was hard to be impressed by someone so mediocre.

“I’ve heard you’re pretty into science yourself,” said Otto. There was a stray lasagna noodle hanging on his chin, and Peter had a hard time looking anywhere else. “I’ll have to get your opinion on my work sometime.”

“Oh,” said Peter. He looked down at his plate and pushed a few noodles around with his fork. “I doubt I would have the time for that. I intern for Mr. Stark, and he keeps me pretty busy.”

May narrowed her eyes at Peter, who stared right back. Otto was her boyfriend. It didn’t mean he was obligated to spend time with him.

“I’m sure he does,” said Otto, and Peter smiled for the first time since coming home, enjoying the bit of jealousy laced into his voice.

That night, Peter laid in bed and stared at his ceiling. The more his brain turned and turned and turned with all that talking about radioactive substances, about wanting to work with them, about AIs that would allow him to do it, the more it didn’t sound right. AIs were dangerous in the wrong hands. Peter didn’t think they should be trusted in the same hands that had trouble keeping food on his plate or in his mouth.

He didn’t sleep until he resolved to start an investigation, and to not give it up until he found something so incriminating May would break up with him.

Peter had a simple plan.

He set his alarm early, at least for an otherwise lazy Sunday morning, and stayed in his room. He pretended to be asleep until he heard the shower water running. He slipped out of bed and made his footsteps light as he crept into May’s bedroom. Her phone sat on the nightstand, and once in his hands, it was an easy hack. Something so simple and learned so easily by spending enough time around Mr. Stark, who was quick to teach Peter anything he wanted to know. He scrolled with his thumb until he found Otto’s contact information, grinning when he finally came across what he’d been looking for, an address.

He sent it to his phone, wiped the message history and returned it to its original position on the nightstand.

By the time May came out of the bathroom, Peter sat at the kitchen table, watching YouTube videos on his phone and eating a bowl of cereal. The empty box laid sideways on the table.

“Good morning, May,” he said, as she walked past him.

She headed to the coffee pot, or at least she had started in that direction. She backtracked several steps to stand in the kitchen entryway, observing him with her hands on her hips, until Peter was forced to acknowledge her.

“No.”

“No to what?”

“To whatever you’re up to,” she said. “I know that look, and I know what it means.”

“But I’m not even doing anything.”

“Does what you’re not doing have anything to do with Otto, by any chance?” she asked. Peter blinked at her, and she pulled on her we’re-about-to-have-a-serious-discussion face while she pulled out the chair next to him. “Did you know all those nights you spend going off, having your little Avengers missions, I sit here in this kitchen, by myself, worrying to death about you? Every single time. It never gets less scary, but it always ends the same way. Do you know how?”

“Umm…” said Peter. He had a feeling he knew, but he felt like answering would be walking into a trap.

“With you coming through that door complaining,” she said. “Mr. Stark is so over-protective. He’s paranoid! He won’t let me anything –“

“-My voice isn’t that high.”

“The point,” said May. “Is that you are doing the same thing, with me, now.”

Peter dropped his spoon, and looked at her, really looked at her. She made a good point. He hated that, because this situation was clearly different. Relationships were definitely more dangerous than his missions with the Avengers.

“I miss Ben too, but I have to start dating again sometime, you know?”

“I know,” said Peter. “Does it have to be this guy, though?”

May rolled her eyes, stood up and headed to her beloved coffee pot. “Give him a chance, Peter.”

“Okay.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. Peter would give him a chance, just as soon as he investigated and only if he couldn’t find anything on him. He hoped he would. His aunt deserved someone better than the idiot who talked only about himself all evening with a noodle hanging off his chin.

His investigation started later on that same day.

*

Peter sat cross-legged on the top of Otto’s apartment building while he ate his dinner, a slightly cold sandwich from Delmar’s. He picked it up on the way over, with the intention of being able to eat it when he got home, but this stake-out was taking longer than he expected. It only served to prove Peter’s suspicions. Otto was up to something nefarious. Obviously. There was no other reason for him to be away from his apartment all day long when he told May he was spending the day grocery shopping and doing laundry.

He waited hours on that rooftop, watching the city below him and listening to all its sounds, only to finally tire out and head back home empty handed. Without any evidence. He hadn’t been entirely sure what he expected to find there, anyway.

Peter crawled through his bedroom window, then heard it. He ditched his suit for regular clothes and discovered the reason Otto hadn’t returned home to his apartment. He was here. On the couch with May. Watching a movie with his arm around her.

“Oh hey, Peter,” said May. She paused the movie, and both pairs of eyes stared him down. “I didn’t know you were home. Do you want to watch this with us?”

“He probably doesn’t have the time,” said Otto. It was lighthearted, but it grated at Peter’s nerves.

He dismissed himself. Politely. He could foreign politeness just as well as Otto could pretend to be meek.

Peter paced in his room. Back and forth, back and forth, thinking fast and frantic. He stopped when his thoughts did, when his he lifted his head from staring at the floor and his eyes fell over to his desk drawer. A new idea, like a spark, sent him barreling to his knees in front of the drawer. He yanked it open and searched through it, pulling out papers and graded homework from years before as it did.

But it was useless. They were all gone. A tracker would have been perfect, would have done his job for him, but they weren’t anymore left. Not in his drawer, or in his suit.

There was one more option but asking Mr. Stark for more trackers invited his questions. He collapsed on his bed, realizing he didn’t have much of a choice, and put his scheme against Otto off until Saturday.

It rolled around fast, and Mr. Stark hadn’t been kidding when he told him he’d be helping him this time around. Within five minutes of his arrival at the workshop, the two of them were side-by-side, shoulders nearly touching, face-up underneath the frame of the car. He passed him tools, explained to him what did what, and what to screw and where. It was almost like having a dad again, and it pushed Otto and the tracker to the very back of his brain.

He just wanted to enjoy the moment.

But when there wasn’t May and her boyfriend to worry about, his mind reverted back to worrying over the moment he confessed to Mr. Stark MIT wasn’t happening.

Thinking about not going ached like regret. He wasn’t just disappointing Mr. Stark, but himself. As fall got closer and closer, he realized more and more MIT was the perfect place for him. He didn’t understand how Mr. Stark knew that long before Peter, but none of it mattered. It didn’t change anything. He still couldn’t go.

He already declined the offer, and there were two very good reasons that went into that decision. The first was Queens. His city still needed Spider-Man. The second was more important. He couldn’t leave May. Who else would investigate and stalk her boyfriends, or eat Thai food on the couch while watching trash reality TV?

A nudge on his shoulder broke him out of his thoughts.

“Let’s take a break,” said Mr. Stark. They both scooted out from under the car and sat up. Mr. Stark threw a rag at him. Peter used it immediately, wiping off the black smudges he felt on his cheeks, then his hands. “How’s the situation with May and the new boyfriend?”

“His name is Otto,” said Peter. “He’s a tool.”

“Otto, huh? No wonder why you don’t like him,” Mr. Stark stood and walked over to a stool where his phone sat, leaving Peter to sit on the floor, using his hands as props to support the rest of his body.

Peter stared at the back of Mr. Stark’s head while he strolled through his phone. He figured it was now or never. To ask about those trackers, not for the college confession. He still had a couple of weeks until he would need to disclose that information, and he planned to procrastinate as long as possible. He found his voice, though it wavered when his request was said out loud, causing Mr. Stark to turn around and look away from the phone in his hand.

“Why? What for?”

“To track… someone,” said Peter.

Mr. Stark tilted his head at him. Forget being trapped under buildings. He was eighteen years old and one look from him turned him back into a guilty first-grader. It ruled out the possible scheme of pretending to be in Massachusetts in the fall. He’d never be able to pull that off.

“I got that,” he said. “Who?”

“No one important.”

He made a face like he didn’t believe him but walked away and returned with a handful of the tiny trackers despite his unanswered questions. He passed them to Peter, who had to stand to collect them. He shoved them in the smallest pocket of his bookbag.

“So, what is it this time?” he asked. “Man who thinks he’s a bird? Another lizard guy?”

“Nothing that like.”

He made the same face. It was every bit pinched as it was disbelieving, as if there were questions beating down a wall in his mind. Old Mr. Stark didn’t have that wall. He wouldn’t sat him down and demanded to know exactly what the trackers were used for. New Mr. Stark, who was inspired either by Pepper or a therapist, maybe both, let it go. He asked questions. He pried, but he didn’t stop him from making his own mistakes.

Sometimes Peter missed the old version. He felt less guilty about lying to helicopter Mr. Stark.

“If you’re ever in over your head,” he said. He twirled a screw-driver in his hand. “I’m just a phone call away.”

Peter looked at him, really looked at him and saw the scruff, dirt and grime instead of the billionaire wearing a suit and sunglasses. It was the workshop effect. Everything became a little more real, a little more transparent under the grease and dust, and under the dim lighting, Mr. Stark was just someone who worried too much about the people he loved.

And also, someone who was getting better and better at heaping on the guilt without even trying to do it.

The golden opportunity to put a tracker on Otto presented itself later on that same evening. Him and May were close on the couch, in their usual positions, as Peter stomped through the living room, still covered in the grease and dust of the workshop and swallowing another bout of stomach acid. They didn’t notice him, so he didn’t even try to be discrete when he slipped a tracker inside the seams of Otto’s coat.

He shouldn’t have left it out in the open like that. Just hanging on a kitchen chair.

After that, all he needed to do was wait, and he didn’t even have to do that for very long.

Otto excused himself from their movie night unusually early. As soon as Peter heard the apartment door shut, he pulled his mask on and watched the blue dot which represented Otto move across the map. It didn’t go to the dodgy apartment building where he lived. It went to the labs where he worked. Awfully late to be going to work. Unless that was his angle. To access the lab when the rest of the employees weren’t around and couldn’t see what he was doing.

Only one way to find out.

He suited up and followed the beacon to the labs. He was done pretending to be polite, so slamming through one of the windows and shattering glass everywhere as he tumbled into the building didn’t seem like an imposition. No alarm sounded, either, which was an added bonus.

The last thing he needed was for him to be tipped off about Spider-Man’s arrival.

He followed faint noises to find Otto, and when he got to the room he was in, he crawled up the wall and stuck to the ceiling, watching upside down as Otto maneuvered around the lab, unaware of his presence. Nothing seemed special. Nothing seemed to catch Peter’s eyes, until Otto walked over to a place in the lab he wouldn’t have known to look if he hadn’t gone over there.

He strapped himself into a harness, and from that harness, gained four new arms. Mechanical ones, with claws at the ends of them, and they were snapping. It concerned Peter that all four of them were extending upward, in his direction, but in retrospect it probably should’ve concerned him a little bit more. It just took one sudden movement, one metal tentacle shooting up fast and abrupt inches from where Peter hung to send him somersaulting to the ground.

He stuck the landing with his shoulders stuck out for balance, and looked up, looked into the eyes of Otto Octavius and saw the same something nefarious he saw the first time he met him. Granted, it was hard to take seriously with four mechanical claws floating around and snapping at him.

“What are you supposed to be?” asked Peter. Maybe Mr. Stark wasn’t too far off with his guesses that had to do with animals. “An octopus?”

“Glad you could finally find the time to join me, Peter.”

“Wait, what –“

“You’re really not that great at keeping secrets,” said Otto. His eyes drifted off to the equipment to his left, then back to Peter. “So, I’m sure you’ll understand this isn’t personal. I just can’t have you running off and telling Iron Man about all this.”

It was over before it started. While Peter was busy looking at all the things Otto didn’t want to Mr. Stark to find out about. He didn’t know what they were, or what they did, or why it would mean trouble for him if Iron Man discovered it, but that didn’t stop him from attacking.

Fast and abrupt just like the first time. He managed to dodge the first, but the second caught him in his belly and swatted him against the wall. He crashed to the floor, awkward and ungraceful, and thanks to his upgraded hearing, could hear the bone in his leg snapping before he even felt it. But the pain did come and distracted him from the third metal arm that lifted him up and pinned him against the wall.

It was Otto’s real hands that punched him, hit him hard in the stomach, on the face, but all Peter felt was the pain in his leg. He kept his focus there when the punching stopped, when Otto’s hands came up around his neck and cut off his air supply.

He was about to get killed by a man who couldn’t eat without getting food on his face.

That’s when he heard it. The gloriously familiar sound Iron Man made when he hovered, followed by his voice.

“Get your grubby tentacles off my kid, kraken.”

Peter was dropped to the floor, on his pitifully broken leg, but he felt better than fine. For all the aches and pains, even the stabbing one in his leg, he knew this was a fight that wouldn’t last long, either. There was no stomach acid as he watched Otto attempt to smack Iron Man around with those ridiculous metal arms. Mr. Stark wasn’t distracted, was ready for it and simply blasted him away with his repulsor beam. He flew across the room, crashed into the wall the same way Peter had and thudded to the floor.

Mr. Stark wasn’t done, though, even if Otto was no longer in any condition to fight. He didn’t stop until every single one of the metal arms were disbanded, snapped in half or otherwise disposed, and it isn’t until Otto is knocked unconscious that Mr. Stark lands next to Peter.

“Mr. Ssstark –“ said Peter. “I - I didn’t call.”

“Yeah, well, you’re just lucky you weren’t the only one tracking someone tonight, kid,” he said. He kneeled down next to him. “What’s the damage?”

“Leg’s broken.”

He felt the pain then, all at once, as if saying it out loud made it present. He gasped, and Mr. Stark winced. He turned his head, leveled another glare at Otto, and for a second, Peter thought he might go back over there, kick him while he’s down and unconscious, but the moment passed. Mr. Stark wrapped his arm around Peter’s shoulder’s, and very carefully, put his other arm under his legs, eventually scooping him off the ground.

Any energy he usually would have spent protesting being carried is focused towards the pain radiating throughout his body. He shut his eyes and hoped to pass out while they went soaring into the night’s sky.

*

They put him on painkillers.

Mr. Stark’s medical team were quick about that one, and the drugs were fast. They were both speedy and strong. He didn’t remember much about the process of having his leg set and casted, but he did remember voices murmuring up above him. He couldn’t quite hold on to them, but they were talking, amazed, about his healing abilities. It would take just a couple of days for his leg to be back to normal, and less than that for the bruises to disappear.

Until then, however, he was laid up on Mr. Stark’s couch. His leg was propped up, in a blue cast and there were lots of pillows supporting his back, so he could sit up without effort. Everything came back into focus. The blurriness in his head cleared up as the pain started to trickle back in. Then he remembered.

He had just one concern.

“I need to call May,” said Peter, and to his shock, a voice answered back.

“Already done.”

He slowly, carefully, turned his head and saw Mr. Stark in the recliner, staring at him.

“Don’t worry,” he told him. “I broke the news to her about the octopus, too.”

“Is he –“

“-He’s alive,” said Mr. Stark. “Uh, he just won’t be doing very much for a while, and he definitely won’t be calling your aunt back.”

Relief flooded through muscles that should’ve ached. Mission accomplished, but it didn’t feel as good as he thought it would. It sort of sucked, actually. That May started dating again just to get stuck with Otto. That her happiness got delayed again. It only served to reinforce his already made-up about staying in the city for school.

He looked at Mr. Stark. It was the perfect time for the truth about college. While he was drugged out and the consequences didn’t seem as bad, and while he was bruised and broken to the point Mr. Stark would feel guilty if he started to yell.  

“I have to tell you something,” said Peter.

Mr. Stark looked up from his phone and didn’t miss a beat. “I already know you think you’re not going to MIT, Peter.”

Maybe it was still the drugs, but he didn’t quite catch what was said, or at least the implication behind what was said.

“W-what?”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he said. “And I knew you would end up getting cold feet, so I paid someone at the admissions office to keep an eye out for your acceptance status. When you declined, idiot move by the way, I just had the evidence destroyed and sent in the deposit for your first semester instead.”

It was said so simply. As if it were completely normal behavior to employ spies at a university, and as if semesters at MIT were cheap. This was helicopter Mr. Stark. He never really left. He just tried to change during the moments that really mattered, or the ones that didn’t. Peter couldn’t figure out which way it went, but either way, he felt the only appropriate reaction was anger. Only as much anger as the medication would allow, though.

He still felt pretty fuzzy.

“…you can’t just do that,” said Peter. “You can’t just accept on my behalf and force me to go.”

“Sure I can, I already did.” said Mr. Stark. He leaned back in the recliner. “Tell me that you really don’t want to go. Convince me, and I’ll pull my deposit and put it towards a school closer to home.”

Peter didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He, apparently, wasn’t capable of lying even without the drugs, so he didn’t see a point in trying. All that was left was the truth.

“I can’t leave May, or Queens.”

“Your aunt is more than capable of protecting herself,” said Mr. Stark. “And you know she wouldn’t want you to sit out of college her behalf. She would never forgive herself, and besides, I’ll still be here.”

“Spider-Man –“

“-will take a break.”

Peter didn’t attempt anymore arguments. There wasn’t any Mr. Stark wouldn’t easily counter, and there wasn’t any energy left in him to try it. He was going to MIT in the fall. It was inevitable now, and different, because he could blame Mr. Stark for it every time he felt like it was selfish. It was a better gift than paying his tuition, really. That he could go to the college he wanted and push all the guilt on Mr. Stark for manipulating the situation.

He’d still feel bad about leaving Aunt May, of course, but he figured Mr. Stark was right. She would feel bad if he didn’t go, and he’d end up feeling terrible either way.

The conversation was officially over, so Mr. Stark provided him with more painkillers, a cold-pack for his swelling eyes, a glass of water and a demand for him to get some rest. The pills made him sleep, and when he woke up, he felt better. Still hurt, but better than the night before. Well enough even to get up and try to move around on the crutches.

He found Mr. Stark in the workshop and stopped, sudden and shocked, at the shiny car sitting in the middle of the room.

“Mr. Stark,” said Peter. He leaned on the crutches, putting his full weight there instead of his good leg. “How long was I asleep?”

“Just the night,” said Mr. Stark. “And half the day. Why?”

“What is that?”  

“Your car,” he said. “Don’t you recognize it?”

“No. This… this can’t be the same car.”

The car they’d be working on was rusty and falling apart despite all their effort. This one looked new and fast.

“Maybe I put some custom parts in it,” he said. There were a few seconds of silence. “Maybe I put a lot of custom parts in it.”

“May’s going to flip.”

“She’s not going to be thrilled about those bruises, either, genius, but I figured it’ll be better if we get it over with all at the same time.”

Peter nodded, and Mr. Stark was correct. She wasn’t thrilled with his broken leg, or his black-eyes and bruises. He had returned to the couch in the penthouse living room when she arrived. She sat next to him, looking him over, and apologized.

“I should’ve known,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Peter.”

Hearing her apologize hurt worse than any of his injuries. This one was Peter’s fault. Otto turned out to be crazy only by chance. He only stumbled into some scheme he didn’t even understand, and next time, he knew that wouldn’t be the case. That eventually May would date someone normal, who wasn’t Ben, and he’d have to accept that, from miles away in Massachusetts.

Thanks to Mr. Stark’s meddling he didn’t have much time left in Queens. Just a few weeks.  

“I’m sorry too,” said Peter. “I promise I won’t go all Mr. Stark on you next time you date someone… unless there really is –“

May narrowed her eyes.

“I promise I won’t stalk your next boyfriend.”

“That’s all I can ask for,” said May. She looked around the big, empty living room. “Where’s Tony? He said he had something to show me…”

Peter happily directed her to the workshop, happy for once someone else was in trouble and not him. That he had nothing to do with the under authorized upgrades on his graduation present. He watched her disappeared into the elevator, preferring the couch over front seats to seeing May berate Mr. Stark about the car. He needed the rest to heal, and anyway, he was pretty sure he’d be able to hear the shouting that he knew was coming.

[marvelousbirthdays]

Happy Birthday, lucifersbouncingballs

October 16-WinterShock with Darcy being connected to Bucky through the 1940s - either she got sent back to that time and then back or she started there, for @lucifersbouncingballs

Bucky Barnes is not having a good week. He's been drafted into a war he doesn't want to fight, his best friend is back in Brooklyn, probably getting beaten up, and now he's being called to Colonel Phillip’s tent. That can't be good. 

His commanding officer is waiting for him outside, bristling. "This is highly irregular, Barnes, and I want it sorted out."

Bucky salutes in response, confused, and at the colonel's impatient gesture, goes in. There, standing at the desk, is the prettiest dame he's ever seen. She looks a little battered and her clothes are odd, but her face breaks into a smile when he enters.

"At last, someone I recognise! Bucky, help a girl out here would you and explain what’s going on.”

Bucky frowns. He hasn’t heard his nickname since shipping out — most folks here call him Sarge — but despite her familiarity with him, he has no idea who this woman is. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

At his question, her brows furrow. “Is that some sort of joke? Payback for how I kicked your ass at Twister last -” Her gaze falls on his left arm and she pales.

“I know your sister,” she says at last. “Has Becky ever mentioned me to you? Darcy Lewis?”

“Not that I recall, no.”

In the awkward silence, Phillips pushes through the flap. “Well, Barnes? Can you vouch for her?”

He’s about to say no, but they’re in the middle of a war. He knows — or at least suspects — what will happen to her if tells the truth. Besides, she knows his sister. Apparently. “Yeah,” he says instead. “She’s a friend of my sister. Don’t know what she’s doing here, though.”

The woman scowls, and it must say something about how long he’s been in the field that he finds that charming, too. “I’m as lost as you are. One second I’m at work in New York, working in a machine Stark swore up and down wasn’t functional, the next moment I’m here being interrogated by you lot.”

“Stark?” Colonel Phillips asks. “You work at Stark Industries?”

“Yeah, though my boss -”

“That would explain it,” Phillips mutters. “Man has the curiosity of an alley cat and the common sense of a gerbil. This sort of stunt sounds like something he would do.” He looks at the woman, who seems more calm now that she doesn’t seem to be at risk of being shot as a spy. “Now what are we to do with you? You understand that we can’t let you wander off, and Stark left for England. He won’t be back for a while.”

“A while?” She purses her lips, then sighs, as if coming to a decision. “Put me to work, then. I’ll go stir-crazy without anything to do”

“What do you do?”

“I’m an ...  administrative assistant. I transcribe, compile, and file the notes of others. I’ve been doing this for scientific research, but they’re pretty transferable skills.”

After some hemming and hawing, Phillips agrees to let her stay, ordering Bucky to show her around and shooing them out of his tent. Once they are outside and far away enough from curious ears, Darcy halts him with a hand on his arm. “Bucky, you really don’t know me?”

“How can I? I don’t think we’ve met before.” He knows all his baby sister’s friends, and this bombshell wasn’t one of them. Of course, if he was still thinking of her as his baby sister though Becky was in her twenties, it was possible that he’d missed one of her friends growing up as well. How else would she know his sister’s name?

“Becky and I aren’t close, if that helps,” Darcy says, and though something about this whole thing doesn’t quite seem right, he pushes his doubts away. After the week he’s had, he could do worse than showing a pretty girl around.

“Nice to meet you, Darcy,” he says, tipping his uniform cap at her. “Welcome to Europe.”

She tucks her hand into the crook of his arm and smiles up at him. “It’s not how I thought this weekend would go, but thanks all the same.”

She ends up being quartered with an Agent Carter, who Darcy seems to hold in high regard from the very start, much to his and Agent Carter’s confusion. Once the shine wears off, the two women strike up a firm friendship and can be found working side by side in total accord or laughing together in a way that makes the men near them distinctly uncomfortable.

Her spare moments, however, are spent with Bucky. Between her work and his training, they have precious few moments alone together. They spend them getting to know each other, bonding over a shared love of music and stories of dragging reckless friends out of trouble. From the knowledge she seems to have of his childhood, Bucky cannot help but conclude that she is his sister’s friend, though try as he might he cannot remember her.

It’s a few months before he musters up the courage to ask her about how exactly she arrived at camp.

“There’s not much to tell. I was headed out to dinner when my boss asked me to get something from a machine in the lab before I left. I checked with Stark, he said go ahead, the machine wasn’t working anyway. I’m in there, trying to work the component loose, when there’s a shower of blue sparks and I lose my balance and ended up here — wherever here is.”

She doesn’t make it a question. Phillips still doesn’t trust her, and while Bucky has passed that point long ago, it’s easier to stay away from those answers. “What was the machine for?” he asks instead.

She rests her head against his shoulder and he slips an arm around her as she answers. “I don’t know, to be honest, but my boss says it goes along similar lines to our work and we are looking at - at transportation, you could call it.” There’s probably more to it than that. Sometimes the things Darcy says (or almost says) range from unusual to downright impossible — but either Bucky is getting used to it or she is getting better at holding her tongue.

“I wonder if anyone found it,” she adds after a moment. “If it was common, I wouldn’t have had to go reuse that one.”

“You are working in logistics,” he points out. “Doesn’t that also include storage?”

She twists to look up at him. “You know, that’s a good point. Now I understand Officer Bryant’s storage system, it should be easy enough to find it.”

He follows her to the tent set up for general storage. It’s not the armoury, which is far more heavily guarded, nor the ration supply, which is watched over by the cook’s helpers. The Warrant Officer there gives him a suspicious look, but is familiar enough with Darcy that they are allowed in.

Darcy snags a clipboard from a stack of boxes by the entrance and pores over it, muttering under her breath. “Stack M,” she declares at last, and leads the way to the stack in question.

Bucky helps her pull the top box down and open the box below. After some digging around, Darcy pulls out a piece of metal, holding it up to Bucky with a look of triumph. “Here it is!”

“Are you sure?” It looks like nothing more than a piece of shrapnel, albeit with a few more wires.

“Yeah, though it wasn’t twisted like this when I was trying to get it out. This bit was over here.” As she speaks, she is tugging at part of the metal that seems to be hinged. With one final tug, it pops into place and Darcy stumbles backwards, disappearing into a shower of blue sparks.

His startled cry alerts the guard outside, but though they search the cramped storage tent high and low, there is no sign of Darcy.

There’s a lot of paperwork to fill out, but Bucky can’t bear to do it and Colonel Phillips is more worried about possible German movements near the Italian town of Azzano. One missing woman — who they never properly documented in the first place — well, they have bigger problems.

~~~~~ Seventy years later

His memories are still patchy, but images of the days before Zola are far more welcome than what came afterward. One day as he settles into living at the Tower, he catches sight of a brunette crossing the road below and a little voice at the back of his mind says Darcy. He is halfway to the elevator before reality comes crashing back.

As if the sighting was a key to those precious few months, more and more memories of Darcy start to surface. Her laugh, her biting wit, the little sway she put into her hips when she knew he was looking…

Steve decides he’s moping and at the next charity gala, resolves to introduce him to the entire population of Stark Tower, to ‘bring him out of his shell’. This tends to involve Steve springing strangers on Bucky while he’s having a perfectly lovely time interacting with the buffet table.

“Buck, this is Dr Foster and her assistant, who moved into the Tower last week.”

Carefully balancing his over-full plate, Bucky turns to face the new arrivals. “Nice to meetcha,” he says distantly, still calculating whether another spring roll would fit or cause a minor foodslide catastrophe. The women murmur polite greetings and Bucky almost drops his plate, because one of them is Darcy, blue eyes sparkling in amusement at the mountain of canapes he has amassed.

Despite the amusement, there is no recognition in that gaze, nothing but polite curiosity, and they soon move on to other conversation partners. Ones that are not alternating between shock, elation, and disappointment in equal measure, the sheer force of the emotions rendering him speechless.

Steve looks at him cautiously after they have gone. “You alright there, Buck?”

“That was Darcy,” Bucky manages to get out.

“Yes, that’s what she said. Interesting name —” Steve stops as realisation sets in. “Like your girl in Europe.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not like her. It is her. Except she doesn’t know me.”

“But how can she be here?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know how she ended up in the backwoods of Europe to begin with. She turned up one day, blaming Stark.”

“Stark —  you think Tony did something?”

“We assumed Howard at the time, but now — yes.” Bucky stuffs another dumpling in his mouth and chews mechanically, but the pile of food he has amassed is no longer so appetising. “I thought she was it, y’know? Right until she disappeared. Then we got caught at Azzano and none of it mattered any more.”

Steve claps him on the shoulder. “If it’s really her, then maybe this is a second chance. Even if she doesn’t remember you.”

“So?”

“So be yourself. Show her you’re the one.” Steve grins. “Be charming.”

Bucky thinks back to afternoons sneaking out of camp or finding a quiet corner of the mess hall, and a slow smile blossoms across his face. “I can do that.”

[megabadbunny]

In Lovers’ Meeting (3/?)

The Doctor glared at her. Rose glared back. Jackie fanned herself as she watched them both, unimpressed.

A rewrite; dedicated to the absolutely wonderful @davinasgirlfriend​ . <3

* * *

- Chapter 3 -

The card-reader denied her ID. Typical; leave it to Oliver to update that sort of thing as soon as humanly possible. It was every bit as impressive as it was infuriating.

Swearing under her breath, Rose shoved the card back in her jacket-pocket and pulled out the sonic screwdriver instead. It felt more than a little wrong, using one of the Doctor’s most trusted implements to take care of this—especially given that it was a dead Doctor’s instrument, even if he technically had never really died, since that universe had technically never existed, or however that worked—but hopefully the Doctor would understand.

(The real Doctor, that was; she didn’t want to think about how the new Doctor would feel.)

A whir of the sonic and the door slid open, revealing a darkened lab filled with dozens upon dozens of projects in various states of assemblage, deconstruction, and dissection; Rose strode past all of them straight to the back room, where the Dimension Cannon sat, exactly as she’d left it days ago. With one last glance around to make absolutely certain no one was watching (no matter how much it felt like it), Rose flipped a few switches and the Cannon powered on, whining to life in the cold, dark room.

Rose entered the initialization sequence with trembling fingers. This would work. It would. It had to.

The Cannon’s whine gave way to a dull groan, flooding the room with sound until the walls and the floors and the soles of Rose’s boots buzzed and hummed with it. If she’d turned on the overhead lights, Rose knew they would be flickering right about now, drained by the massive amount of power required to operate the Cannon. She flipped on the sonic again, this time to bypass Oliver and Christa’s authorization codes and bring the Cannon to full power. The Cannon’s pilot lights glowed an eerie yellow-green in the semi-darkness, blinking here, flashing there. Rose waited and watched it all with breathless anticipation.

Blinking in greeting, the display invited Rose to step into the transportation chamber and enter coordinates. She complied, clambering into the chamber and typing in coordinates, her jaw set and her gaze grim. But she hesitated, after, her fingers hovering over the return key. The moment suspended in time, growing sluggish with each passing tick of the clock.

He would only be upset for a little bit, the nearly-Doctor. Maybe he wouldn’t even have time to notice she was gone—it wasn’t like Rose would leave him waiting for years on end. Rose would hop back as soon as she could—it would be easy enough, with the TARDIS—and she would give him the chance to come with her and the Doctor, if he wanted. Because as angry as she was, at the Doctor, at him, he still deserved a choice. The same choice she had deserved.

She bit her lip. Maybe she should wait, grab him first. Just in case.

(Maybe she shouldn’t do this at all.)

Deep breaths. Rose steadied herself. Reminded herself of the years of work and research, the months of construction, the weeks full of jumps, the hours of post-jumping sickness early in the trials, the late nights and early mornings and lost weekends that followed after. She remembered all of the terrible things she had seen, the things she had done, the people she couldn’t help, the worlds she couldn’t save—

All that time, she could have slid back into a normal life—could have, maybe even should have—and she chose this instead.

Or tried to choose, she thought with a grimace.

Certainty resurged through her veins and she smacked the return key with a vengeance.

 **

 (The Cannon didn’t work. Because of course it didn’t.)

 **

 At least the meltdown was polite enough to wait until she was far away from the expensive lab equipment.

(Why don’t you try counting, Rose? she remembered her first UNIT counselor advising her, along with a host of other exercises designed to dispel negative emotions. Try thinking of your happy place. Try punching a pillow or a punching-bag, and imagine your enemy’s face is there. Try finding your inner peace, he’d say, accompanied by a condescending paternal gaze thrown warmly over his oversized, outdated glasses that looked like something a 70’s serial killer might have worn. Needless to say, it didn’t take Rose long to switch counselors; her current therapist, a brisk and no-nonsense former military surgeon, urged her to find ways to investigate and resolve those negative emotions instead. Cognitive restructuring, she would say sharply, in her thick New Zealand accent. Deep relaxation. Support-network engagement. Open communication. Mindfulness, the counselor would urge, and much to Rose’s surprise, when she tried these techniques, they often helped.)

Approximately .002 seconds into her meditative cooldown, Rose punched through the washroom mirror.

(Why had she expected the Cannon to work? He’d told her he was closing up the last gaps between universes. He’d told her. And that was the one sort of thing he wouldn’t lie about.)

Probably she should stop while she was ahead, or at least not as far behind as she could have been, but instead, Rose drew back her fist and punched again. And again. And again. Tears gummed up her eyelashes and pain screamed at her from far away, punctuated by the sharp screech of shattering glass and cracking tile, but she forced her stiffening fingers to hold their shape and punched her fist into the mirror over and over and over, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, smash, until Rose drew her hand back to find a ragged-edged hole in the glass and her hand glistening with blood.

Rose bit back on a strangled cry, breath escaping her lungs in bursts. Pain blossomed through her hand, bleeding to the forefront of her consciousness, and she doubled over with the intensity of it, gasping as her hand swelled and throbbed with hurt. Idiot, idiot, idiot her pulse shrieked, in time with the lights flickering overhead.

Shaking, Rose flipped on the faucet and forced her hand beneath the cold water. Fresh hurt seared through her hand and she shouted in pain, cursing as she gingerly removed debris from her torn knuckles. Two of her fingers were turning purple already, stiff and swollen and tender to move. Sprained, Rose thought, and cursed herself for her stupidity.

Mouth tensing in pain as she gently dabbed her hand dry, Rose took a few extra moments to calm herself, allowing the pain to wash over her, breathing in and out through quivering lungs. In, out. In, out. Her uninjured hand flew up to her chest, pressing against the key that hung from a chain round her neck; hidden beneath her shirts, it laid heavy and solid and cool against her overheated skin, and she traced her thumb along its jagged-toothed edge, willing herself to calm, to let this moment pass.

In, out. In, and out.

She would get through this. She would.

Glancing up at the mirror, at the disjointed fractures of her reflection spiraling downward into the hollow left by her fist, she thought grimly about how she finally looked every bit as horrible as she felt. Great. Just great.

What the hell was she supposed to do now?

“Probably fix your damn fingers,” Rose muttered to her reflection, which didn’t disagree. All right. So that was step one. She could worry about steps two through forever later.

After a brief detour to the lab’s emergency first-aid cabinet, where she gulped down some paracetamol and grabbed a few key supplies, Rose made her way over to her office, a tiny room tucked away in an unobtrusive corner of the laboratory. Plonking down on her desk amidst a scuffle of loose files and stacks of neglected paperwork, she got to work splinting her fingers, wincing as she wound medical tape over gauze and bruises and blood, forcing herself to remember to breathe.

In, out.

One last circuit of the medical tape and Rose tore the stuff free from the roll with her teeth, tucking it securely in place. She closed her eyes, just breathing.

In, out.

Footsteps sounded gently in the near distance—quiet, but not quiet enough to ping the sense that someone was sneaking up on her, probably some labbie come to chase her off, what with her shiny new persona non grata status and all—but Rose paid the noise little mind.

In, out.

(Idiot.)

“Thought I mind find you in here,” said a familiar voice, slicing through her thoughts, and Rose opened her eyes to find Jackie standing in front of her, hands planted on hips, brow wrinkled in worry. “Or I was afraid of it, more like.”

Jackie flipped the lightswitch behind her and Rose blinked sterile white light out of her eyes. “Shouldn’t you be tucking Tony in bed right about now?” Rose asked tiredly, shifting her injured hand out of sight.

“Pete’s got it sorted. Not that it matters, the nursery let him have soda, so he’ll be up all hours of the night anyway,” Jackie sighed, shaking her head. “But I had a funny little feeling I should turn back round and take care of my other child right about now. Call it a mum’s intuition.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, Mum. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Right, so that’s why you’re hiding in your office in the dark?”

“Yep,” said Rose flatly.

Jacked tutted under her breath. “It’s not gonna do you any good, you know. You can’t avoid things forever.”

“I just needed a moment to myself, that’s all.”

“But you will give him a chance, though? The new Doctor.”

“Yeah,” replied Rose, her voice clipped. “Sure.”

“Don’t suppose it means anything that he gave up so much to be with you.”

Rose chuckled halfheartedly. “You’re taking his side, now? Maybe things have changed after all.”

“Listen, I may not know what a crisis-thing is, but I do know I’m glad he came here and brought you with him,” Jackie told her. “Cos he could’ve stayed over in the other universe, easy as pie, and you’d’ve stayed, too. But he didn’t. You’ve always been so willing to give up everything for him—your family, your friends, your home, your life—”

“That was my choice, Mum—”

“—so really, it’s only fair he’d do the same, ain’t it? High time he gave up everything for you, for a change.”

“It’s not like that.”

Jackie huffed. “Looks an awful lot like that to me. This Doctor, he said goodbye to that magic ship of his and everything, just for you, to stay here with you. Didn’t he?”

“He didn’t, though. He would never.”

“How do you know? Maybe this new one would.”

Rose grunted noncommittally, scrubbing her noninjured hand over her face. Jackie cocked her head, mouth pursed thin as she took a moment to gauge Rose properly. “What’s wrong, love?” she asked, her tone suddenly soft, maternal. “I mean, what’s really wrong?”

Rose shrugged. It doesn’t matter. Maybe if she thought it hard enough, it would become true. How was that for cognitive restructuring?

“You’re acting all angry at that new Doctor, but it’s not him at all, is it?”

Rose did not reply.

With a sigh, Jackie shucked her jacket, setting it aside. “It’s the other him, yeah?” she asked gently. “The one that sent you away.”

Pressure burned in Rose’s sinuses and she twisted her mouth, willing the tears back.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jackie sighed, drawing Rose into a hug. Her embrace was warm, imbued with that special brand of soft maternal warmth, and Rose had to fight harder not to cry because of it. She hugged her mother limply, and Jackie squeezed tighter in response, like she could smoosh all the bad feelings away.

“It’s his loss,” said Jackie, gently. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” Rose didn’t have the energy to argue.

“I’m so sorry, Rose,” Jackie said, squeezing again for good measure. The hug was almost unbearably hot, but Rose couldn’t bring herself to pull away. “I really am. I know how hard you worked to get back. And it weren’t right, the way the other Doctor sent you away like that, without even hardly a word from you. I know it hurts. Believe me—I know. But in a way—well, in a way, wasn’t it sort of a good thing?”

“Downright charitable,” Rose muttered.

“This way, you get the best of both worlds. Him, and everything else. Or a version of him, anyway. And isn’t it nice, that you get to keep your family, now? Isn’t it nice that you’ll get to spend more time with your dad, see your brother grow up, keep all your friends, all that?”

Rose couldn’t muster a reply; hot guilt and cold anger and tired resignation all roiled restlessly in her mind and none of them offered anything useful to say.

“I would have missed you horribly,” said Jackie, her voice unusually small. “Wouldn’t you have missed me at all?”

“Of course I would’ve, Mum.”

“Yeah. So why don’t you talk to me about it all, then? Tell Mum what’s eating you, love.”

With a deep breath, Rose stepped back and opened her mouth to reply—she didn’t really feel like talking about it, didn’t really feel like talking at all, but her therapist’s words echoed in her ears (Support-network engagement, Rose. Open communication, Rose) and she knew, however grudgingly, that she should at least try; she owed her mum that much—but her words were cut off by the sudden shrill squeal of an alarm blaring overhead.

“Warning: Code Blue,” a pleasant female voice announced through the intercom as emergency lights flashed from the ceiling. “Code Blue. Status level Four. Please implement standard quarantine protocol. All personnel must proceed in a swift, calm, and orderly manner to their nearest quarantine station. Warning: Code Blue…”

“What’s that?” asked Jackie.

“Code Blue,” Rose echoed. “Something to do with Medical, I think.”

“Oh! Must be the thing upstairs, then.”

“What thing?”

“When I was on my way in, there were all these people crowded round the cafeteria,” Jackie explained. “I just thought it was alcohol poisoning—dunno if you’ve seen the news at all, but the emergency lines are absolutely swamped with reports of it, absolutely everyone’s pissed, s’like the stars came back and no one can hold their liquor anymore...”

She kept talking, but Rose hadn’t registered any of the words that left her mouth after cafeteria. Fog filled her head, obscuring any thoughts of anything that wasn’t her conversation with the Doctor outside the lift, trying to rid herself of him, telling him to do whatever he liked, with the unspoken addendum that as long as it was nowhere near her, he could go wherever he wanted.

Including the cafeteria—

Rose pushed past Jackie, ignoring how her mum shouted after her in confusion. A low whine droned in her ears as she stalked her way to the lab door, growing louder and louder and louder until it drowned out all other sound.

What if—?

Panic seized her and the lab door was sliding open and god, had it always been so interminably slow? Rose slid through the gap and made her way to the lift, striding, jogging, then sprinting as her heart pounded painfully in her throat. She slammed the lift button several times before remembering that, of course, emergency protocol meant lifts were down. She bolted over to the stairwell instead, throwing open the doors and darting up the stairs two and three at a time, shoving past the few personnel she encountered along the way.

“They said to go calmly,” one agent irritably called after her and on any other day she might agree, maybe stop to apologize or at least throw a Sorry! over her shoulder, but her throat was too thick and her chest was too tight and what had happened upstairs, what had happened in the cafeteria, what if he’d been there when it happened, what if it had happened to him, what if his new human body couldn’t handle whatever it was and now he was—what if—what if what if what if what if—

“Rose!” shouted Jackie, chasing after her. “What’s wrong?”

Do what you like, it’s no difference to me.

Rose barreled straight into an abandoned caretaker’s trolley, knocking supplies to the floor in a flurry of mops and spray-bottles. She left them rolling across the floor and kept running. Seconds later, she’d arrived at the lunchroom, and what she saw stole the last of her breath away. A bunch of hastily-installed plastic quarantine sheeting obscured much of the view inside the cafeteria’s glass doors, but the blobs of telltale bright yellow moving slowly round inside told her enough.

Oh, god. Oh god.

Rose flipped out the sonic and unlocked the doors without a second thought, pulling aside the plastic sheeting to see HAZMAT-suited agents covering every inch of the place. Agents with plastic-bagged oversized cameras photographed the scene while others scraped samples off tables and walls and counters and chairs, entering data into their tablets and laptops. Several operatives trawled the area with black light instruments, meticulously searching for any sign of biological fluids; others stood in groups of two and three, talking in low tones, their voices quiet in that special sort of too-casual way that suggests a conversation one doesn’t want attention drawn toward.

But then Rose’s gaze found the far corner of the room, and her stomach lurched awfully at the sight of it. There, nearly hidden by HAZMAT-suited medical officers in a disjointed row of highlighter-neon-yellow, sat a stretcher, a covered body lying still and unmoving atop it. And a memory swam up in Rose’s mind, of another stretcher and another body, in a cold dark room, with the TARDIS dying nearby…

Her blood turned to ice in her veins. All sound filtered from the room, leaving behind a strange buzzing in her ears instead. Rose’s feet carried her forward on impulse, leading her to the body. It wasn’t until one of the HAZMAT suits stepped in her path, blocking her view, that she realized how far she’d made it into the room, how everyone had stopped to stare at her.

“Excuse me,” Rose said in something of a daze, fishing out her now-defunct UNIT ID. “Agent Tyler, Special Sciences Division. I just have to check…”

“Sorry, Agent Tyler,” said the officer, stepping in her path once again as she tried to duck around him. “It’s essential personnel only. I can’t let you through.”

“It’s all right!” Jackie piped up, following after Rose with a hand pressed to her chest, wheezing as if she were winded from the run. “Jackie Tyler here, Director Tyler’s wife. She’s with me—”

“Just tell me if you’ve got an ID on the body,” Rose pleaded.

“That information is classified.”

“Please,” she choked out.

“Agent Tyler—”

“Look, I know you’ve got your protocols, but I’ve got to make sure, I’ve just got to know if it’s—please, I have to know, it’ll only take me a second—please—”

“For Christ’s sake, what are you doing, just letting them stand there?” barked out another HAZMAT suit, gesturing impatiently. “This is an active hazard area. Get them to decontamination! And would someone please lock the bloody lunchroom doors?” he snapped as the officer grabbed Rose and Jackie each by the arm to haul them away.

“No, wait!” cried Rose as the officer dragged them back amidst Jackie’s indignant shouts of “Well, that’s nice!” But the officer only pulled them further and further away from the stretcher and the body atop it. “You don’t understand,” Rose pleaded, “I’ve got to check, I have to make sure it isn’t him, I’ve got to—”

But the agent had already managed to tow them to the storage room at the back of the cafeteria, tossing Rose and hauling Jackie inside. Normally stocked to the brim with canned and packaged foodstuffs and paper goods, the storage room was now empty, save the decontamination station rigged up inside; the portable shower stood dark and ominous next to large dispensers of suspiciously unlabeled chemicals that Rose knew would not be intended to touch human skin under absolutely any other circumstances. Rose briefly wondered what on earth they could be dealing with here, just how terribly bad it must be, but shook her head; she didn’t have time to care about that right now. Right now, she had to make sure that corpse wasn’t the Doctor. Nothing else mattered.

“All right,” the HAZMAT-suited officer huffed, turning round to close the doors. “Now that that’s all out of the way—”

“Out of the way my arse,” shouted Jackie. “We’ve got rights, you know!”

“Oh, believe me, Jackie, I know—”

Rose lunged forward, slamming the agent bodily against the doors as she wrenched his arm up his back. “I need to know if that’s my friend lying dead out there,” she spat out over the sound of the agent hissing in pain. “So you can let me check, or I can break your arm. Which’ll it be?”

“Listen, you’ve got it all wrong—”

“Not what I want to hear,” said Rose, twisting the agent’s arm higher still.

“Doesn’t matter if you want to hear it or not, it’s still—blimey, Rose! Go easy, would you? It’s a brand new arm and I’d like to go more than a day without breaking it!”

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in, but once they did, Rose dropped the officer’s arm, her pulse thundering in her ears. She tore off the HAZMAT helmet and threw it to the floor, grabbing the agent by the shoulder so she could whip him round.

Sure enough, it was the new Doctor staring down at her, his eyes wide in bewilderment and his hair absolutely mussed.

Relief surged through her. He was all right. The Doctor was all right. (Only sort-of the Doctor bubbled up faintly in the back of her head, but she ignored it in favor of springing forward to envelope the Doctor in a bone-squeezing hug.)

“Stupid git,” she said breathlessly.

With a pleased little hum, the Doctor hugged her back. “Nice to see you, too. Well-worth the insults and the dislocated shoulder.”

“Shut up,” said Rose, but she didn’t let go, couldn’t do it quite yet, not until she was absolutely certain this was really him and her stupid imagination wasn’t playing tricks on her again. She resisted the urge to bury her face against his chest while her breathing calmed down, but only just. She settled for hugging him harder, instead.

“So why’re you in a suit?” Jackie demanded.

Rose shook herself, willing herself to calm down. Her mother’s presence and the plastic suit digging uncomfortably into her cheek was a timely reminder that no matter how glad she was that the almost-Doctor was alive and well, ultimately, that’s all he was—the almost-Doctor. Not a Time Lord in a brown suit in the TARDIS, but a human bloke, in a blue suit and yellow HAZMAT gear, squeezing her in a hug that was just a little too tight and a lot too full of stiff pointy plastic. He wasn’t the Doctor, no matter how relieved she was to see him, no matter how much her body wanted to believe it, clinging to him like one magnet drawn to another. This wasn’t exactly right. He wasn’t exactly him.

Rose pried herself away so she could swat him on the arm. “Why’d you scare me like that?” she demanded. “And yeah, why are you wearing a suit? Where’d you even get a suit? What’s going on out there?”

“Well,” said the Doctor, frowning and rubbing his arm where Rose struck it, “In order—it wasn’t intentional, it was the only way to get in, I stole it, and you’ve got a mystery medical hazard on your hands resulting in three dead bodies and no clue on what got them. That answer your questions, or are you going to opt for more surprise violence?”

Jackie’s eyes widened. “Three bodies? We only saw one.”

“She was just the first. There are two other scenes just like this elsewhere in the building.”

Rose swore under her breath. Four years of intensive training, teaching her to spot anything that looked out of the ordinary, even in the most innocuous of ways, yet here she’d been, so wrapped up in her own stupid self-pitying thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed anything was amiss, much less that three people were on the brink of death. And now they were gone, nothing she or anyone else could do about it. Gone, just like that. Forever.

(Was it anyone she knew, she wondered? If she hadn’t allowed herself to drown so completely in her own petty nonsense, would she have spotted the problems in time? Was there a chance she could have done something, anything, to help them…?)

Drinking in deep lungfuls of air, Rose centered herself. This wasn’t about her. It was about the three lives lost, the possibility of losing more. Besides, the Doctor was here, or someone enough like him, anyway. That meant the situation, as horrible as it was, was manageable.

Right?

“What happened?” she asked, her voice hard.

“Near as anyone can tell, we’re dealing with some sort of contagion.”

“Any idea what it is?”

The Doctor shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line. “Could be naturally-occurring, could be a manufactured bioweapon. All I know is that it’s bad. Really, really bad. Fast-acting, fast-spreading, alters the bodily fluids on a molecular level, resulting in suffocation due to fluid-filled lungs and a fever hot enough to cook the victim from the inside out.”

“Oh Jesus,” Jackie breathed, wincing. She fanned herself with her hand, as if the idea was enough to make her faint. “That’s awful.”

“It certainly is. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. And from what I’ve overheard, no one else here has seen anything like it, either—”

“It’s probably got something to do with those labs downstairs,” Jackie sniffed. “Lord knows what you lot get up to in there, making viruses into weapons and things.”

“It doesn’t sound like any UNIT projects I know of,” Rose replied, frowning. “And Pete and I keep a pretty close eye on that sort of thing.”

The Doctor nodded. “We should really look into UNIT’s secure servers just to be certain, in the event that any less-scrupulous employees might be hiding something we should know about. Right now, the prevailing theory amongst the medical team is that we’re dealing with a mutation of the Black Plague, but—”

“Do you think that could be it?” asked Rose.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It just isn’t.”

“Okay, but…” Rose started to say, and stopped.

The Doctor watched her expectantly.

Rose hesitated. She didn’t want to hurt this new Doctor’s feelings just for the hell of it, she really didn’t. But if there was any chance that the UNIT medical team could be right...well, what was more important right now, sparing the sort-of Doctor’s ego, or finding an immediate solution?

(Besides—wouldn’t the real Doctor have figured something out, by now?)

“Is there any chance it could be the Plague, and you’re just overlooking something, or, I don’t know, maybe forgetting?” Rose asked, and the Doctor’s expression cooled. “Maybe all the memories didn’t transfer properly, or—”

“Nope,” the Doctor said cheerfully, his words only a little strained. “Doesn’t work like that. I know everything I knew before and I remember everything I remembered before. Same memories, same knowledge, same reasoning, same feelings, same everything up in the ol’ noodle.”

“Okay, sure, but just—”

“It was me then, and it’s me now,” the Doctor interrupted just a little too brightly, and good grief, even the way his dimple twinged in his cheek was exactly the same as before. “Not a Xerox machine; isn’t as if information was lost in the transfer. I’m not a clone, not a duplicate, not a copy, just me. The only thing that’s changed is the packaging. All right? Does that make sense? Do you understand that?”

Rose laughed nastily. “Well it must be you after all, seeing as you’re still talking to me like I’m some stupid ape too thick to understand anything. At least some things never change, right?”

The Doctor glared at her. Rose glared back. Jackie fanned herself as she watched them both, unimpressed.

He huffed in impatience. “The Black Plague, or Bubonic plague, is an infectious disease caused by the bacterium Yersinia pestis, commonly present in fleas that prey on ground rodents,” he began, his gaze locked on hers. “The most well-known symptom is a series of fluid filled ‘buboes’ located in the neck, the underarms, and the groin, in addition to acute fever, vomiting of blood, and sometimes acral gangrene in the extremities. One can also expect the sudden appearance of a rash, likely caused by the bite of the flea or fleas carrying the Yersinia pestis bacterium. Symptoms typically develop within two to seven days of exposure to the infected rodents, and, if untreated, worsen over time.

“Now,” the Doctor continued, speaking more rapidly the longer he went on despite his chipper tone, “the lack of buboes or rashes present on the victims, in addition to the absence of rodents in the immediately surrounding area, and no reports of rodent outbreaks in the general area, as well as the fact that none of the victims appeared to be presenting symptoms in the two to seven days leading up to their deaths, all suggest that no, this is not, in fact, the Plague, or any permutation thereof. The only symptoms that match are the presence of fever, the vomiting of blood—though it’s worth noting that it appears to be less of a vomiting action, more of an involuntary expulsion post-mortem—and the appearance of black cutaneous and subcutaneous tissues, but anyone with a working set of eyes and nostrils can tell you that the black tissues and disgorged blood are not discolored from the Plague’s trademark necrosis or septicemia, but rather something else altogether. Furthermore, while the Plague has managed to survive in some regions worldwide, its occurrence in this era is quite rare, and its symptoms have barely evolved over time, so unless this universe’s version of the Plague has inexplicably jumped forward a few dozen millennia in its evolutionary timeline apropos of no discernable evolutionary trigger whatsoever, the Plague does not explain the immediate onset of symptoms, nor the total discoloration of the eyes, a symptom present in each victim thus far. Ergo, no, we’re not dealing with the Plague, and just because it’s the most popular theory doesn’t mean it’s correct, and while it’s understandable that your panicking medical team is grasping for a familiar explanation, it’s becoming rapidly apparent that there isn’t one, and just because I don’t know what our mystery contagion is yet, that doesn’t mean I won’t figure it out very shortly. All of which I managed to calculate within precisely 5.26 seconds of hearing the posited diagnosis, precisely the same as I would have done before, in my other body, in the other universe.”

The Doctor drew a deep breath. “Now, does that satisfy your explanatory criteria, or shall I continue wasting time?”

“No, we’re good,” Rose replied. “I appreciate the explanation, though. It’s much better than simply being told to play along, no questions asked.”

“So if it’s not the Plague, then what is it?” asked Jackie before the Doctor had a chance to retort.

He frowned. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “Truthfully, I don’t know much about what our killer is, only what it isn’t. I’d really need the sonic to get a good reading on things—oh, I hadn’t even thought of that yet, the sonic,” the Doctor sighed morosely, scratching the back of his neck. “Suppose I’ll have to build myself a new one. I wonder where a fellow can find a half-decent subminiature electroacoustic transducer in this universe—”

Rose fished the sonic screwdriver out of her jacket and presented it to him.

Eyes landing on the sonic, the Doctor fell silent. His gaze flickered from the screwdriver to Rose’s face, back to the screwdriver and up to her face again. Rose forced herself not to flinch beneath his scrutiny.

“How did you get ahold of that?” the Doctor asked slowly. “And why, for that matter?”

“It’s not what you think it is. Or at least, it’s not whose you think it is.”

The Doctor arched an eyebrow in a way that clearly suggested her remark raised more questions than answers.

“Look, do you want it or not?” Rose asked impatiently.

Still eyeing Rose with a healthy dose of wariness, the Doctor took the sonic from her. “Just how many questions have you dodged today, hm?” he asked. “Have you given a straight answer to anyone, about anything?”

Rose didn’t blink. “That’s sort of rich, coming from you.”

The Doctor looked like he wanted to argue, but if so, he must have thought better of it, because the next thing Rose knew, he was scanning himself with the sonic, guiding it over the lines and planes of his suit and helmet. “Nothing to report here, not yet anyway,” he said, glancing at the readings on the screwdriver. “But even without the sonic, it’s obvious that the contagion is fast-acting. None of the victims reported to sickbay with any symptoms, according to the reports, and Miranda certainly wasn’t presenting any symptoms when I spoke to her, except perhaps a mild fever, maybe a little cough.”

“Miranda?” gasped Jackie. “Oh no, not the nice dinner lady?”

The Doctor nodded.

“Oh, what a shame. She didn’t deserve all that.”

“No, she didn’t.”

Rose watched him curiously. “You knew her?”

“Only barely,” the Doctor murmured, his eyes narrowed in focus. Rose glanced down to see what he was looking at, and—ah. So he’d noticed her hand, then, taking in the splint, the swelling, the bandage-job only just hiding a whole host of bruises and tiny cuts. Leaning forward, the Doctor took her hand in his, inspecting it.

“Oh my god, Rose!” snapped Jackie, aghast, jerking Rose’s hand away from the Doctor (and ignoring Rose’s wince of pain). “When did that happen? What did you do?”

Rose cleared her throat and avoided anyone’s gaze, fidgeting uncomfortably. “So you were saying, erm. Miranda and the others were totally fine, right up until they suddenly died.”

“It would seem that way,” replied the Doctor. He was still looking at her hand, as if maybe he was trying to ascertain, without asking, how her fingers came to be in such a state. He gently eased her hand out of Jackie’s grasp and now her fingers were the subject of the sonic screwdriver’s glare, its light bathing her in a ghostly blue glow. “So we’re either dealing with a totally invisible incubation period, or something that can infect and kill you within moments. Still can’t determine how it’s spreading, though; if it were transmittable via air or food or touch, you’d think we’d have a lot more victims by now, considering how quickly the symptoms seemed to manifest, and how many people our dinner lady would have come into contact with today.”

He gently turned Rose’s hand over, running the sonic over it one last time. “Three small tears in the ligaments of the intermediate phalanges,” he announced. “And for some reason, traces of…”

The Doctor trailed off thoughtfully, glancing up at her. “If I asked you what happened here,” he said, his voice light, “would you tell me?”

Rose thought of the Cannon and swallowed against the lump that had sprung up in her throat. “No.”

Jackie tutted impatiently. “Thought as much,” said the Doctor with a nod, and if Rose didn’t know any better, she’d think his shoulders were slumping a little, as if in resignation. As if that was precisely the answer he’d anticipated.

“So, erm. What else do you know about Miranda, then? Anything relevant?” Rose asked, more to fill the silence than anything.

“Not really. She was nice, though. Gave me some free food. And she’s got a boatload of kids at home, sounded like she was taking care of them all on her own. Does UNIT have anything in place, for stuff like that?”

“Yeah.”

“They’ll be well taken-care-of,” Jackie piped up, coughing into her elbow. “We made sure of it, Rose and me.”

“Sort of feels like the least we can do, considering,” Rose muttered.

“Considering?”

Rose worried the inside of her cheek. “I should’ve known something was off. Should’ve noticed straightaway. But I didn’t.”

“Rose Tyler,” said the Doctor, with a sad but knowing smile, “this is not your fault, in any way, shape, or form. You know that, right?”

Rose shrugged. “I know, but—”

“Nope! No buts,” the Doctor said, cheerful once again as Jackie looped one arm round Rose, rubbing her shoulder supportively. “Even I didn’t pick up on anything, and my senses are considerably more attuned than yours—no offense, that’s just how it is, human body or no—so no one could reasonably expect you to anticipate such an occurrence, much less react in time to prevent it. The whole abysmal business is unfortunate, of course. Horrible, even. But as difficult as it can be to admit it, sometimes bad things just…”

Something to the right of Rose caught his attention and the Doctor trailed off, his brow furrowing in worry. “...happen,” he finished a moment later, the word gone faint at the end.

He cleared his throat. “Jackie,” he said, in a tone that very much suggested he was fighting to stay calm, “I don’t suppose you happened to develop a penchant for black nail polish within the last hour or so, did you?”

“God, no. Why?”

The Doctor gestured to the hand resting on Rose’s shoulder; Rose glanced down at it and frowned. Strange, she didn’t remember her mum complaining of any bruises beneath her fingernails, yet here they were, all of them darkening near the nailbed, almost as if she’d got lazy while painting her nails and abandoned the task halfway through, or a series of blood blisters had erupted beneath the skin and she just hadn’t noticed or said anything. But it must not have hurt, or else Jackie surely would have mentioned it by now. In fact, the only thing Rose really noticed was how warm her mum’s hand felt…

Almost feverish.

“What is that?” Rose asked with a composure she did not feel. “On Mum’s hand, that black stuff—what is it?”

In response, the Doctor nudged Rose aside so he could scan Jackie’s face with the sonic, ignoring her indignant little “Oi!” as he blasted blue-white light directly into her eyes; whatever he read on the sonic caused him to pull back with a look of alarm.

“What’s wrong?” Jackie asked, panicking, glancing over her fingernails. “Have I got the thing? Am I sick?”

“We’ve got to get her to an infirmary,” the Doctor told Rose, and she wondered if she’d ever seen him so pale before. Rose’s blood pressure plummeted like a stone. “Now.”

A knock at the door, loud and violent like a battering-ram, made them all jump. “Stay back!” the Doctor shouted through the door, unzipping his HAZMAT gear to reveal that strange new blue suit of his underneath. Fishing around in his suit-pockets, he pulled out a medical mask, slipping it on over Jackie’s head. “We’ve got infected in here!”

Infected. Rose’s head swam at the word.

No voices replied but a knock sounded again, louder this time, heavier. “Move away from the door!” the Doctor called out, but the knocking only got louder and more insistent. “Not a very good batch of listeners, are they?” the Doctor muttered irritably, securing the medical mask in place; Rose tried to move to help but her earlier panic had returned with a vengeance and her arms were trembly and her legs frozen solid.

Her mother was sick just like the others and the others were dead within moments—

“What about you two, though?” Jackie asked the Doctor. Her voice sounded leathery and strange through the mask. “Are you gonna get sick too?”

“Don’t worry about me—I’m still in the first fifteen hours of my regeneration cycle, bursting with all that residual cellular energy. Remember?” he said, and he flashed his right hand at Rose—his fightin’ hand, Rose recalled. “I only stole the suit in the first place so I could sneak in undetected. Rose, on the other hand...”

He froze, glancing up at her, and swallowed. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Rose nodded dumbly, unable to respond over the rushing in her ears, fear threatening to strangle her. She wasn’t too worried about herself. But her mother...

“All right!” the Doctor shouted over the pound-pound-pounding at the door. “We’re coming out now, give us a moment to collect ourselves, won’t you—?”

He threw open the door to reveal a whole host of HAZMAT-clad operatives waiting outside in the cafeteria. The operatives stared, no longer beating at the doors, but now silent and unmoving, watching Rose and Jackie and the Doctor through dark-fogged visors.

Rose gulped. Maybe it was just the lightheadedness swarming up in her skull, but something about all of this felt very, very strange.

(She couldn’t help but notice the blackish-grey stuff dotting the suits here and there, where she could have sworn it hadn’t, before; she couldn’t stop wondering why they were all so quiet, now, couldn’t stop thinking how much the dark impressions behind each visor loomed like shadowy skulls.)

“Can we help you?” asked the Doctor, nonplussed. “Only we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

“Give it to us,” rasped one of the operatives.

“Right, right, of course,” said the Doctor, glancing from one agent to another to another. “But, erm. Just to make sure we’re on the same page—we’re giving you what, now?”

Wordlessly, one of the agents raised its arm in agonizing slow-motion, pointing inexorably toward Jackie. She shrank back in fear and, unthinking, Rose stepped in front of her.

(But what was wrong with the medical officers? What had happened to them?

They were infected too, weren’t they?

How long did Jackie have, before she became just like them?)

“Interesting,” said the Doctor thoughtfully. “Also, nope!”

With that he seized both women by the hand and yanked them away just as an agent came lumbering towards them, arms slicing through the air where Jackie had stood an instant before. The Doctor sprinted for the lunchroom doors, tugging Rose and Jackie along, but one of the operatives caught Jackie and wrenched her back.

“Rose—!” Jackie cried out and in a blink, all the noise left Rose’s head as her UNIT training screamed in like a freight train. Whipping round, Rose punched the heel of her palm into the agent’s wrist, breaking his arm and his grasp before she shoved her mother away to safety.  The next suit that lunged for Jackie was met with a knee to the groin and an uppercut to the jaw. Swiping a chair, Rose whipped it at another agent, striking him in the face with a satisfying thwack that threw him bodily backward into the rest of his fellows, knocking them all down in a heap of limbs and screeches.

The Doctor looked on in open-mouthed shock. “What the hell was that?” he spluttered as Rose darted back to him, grabbing him by the hand.

“You’re not the only one who’s changed!” she shouted, pulling him and Jackie in a run.

At the lunchroom entrance, Rose threw aside the plastic sheeting and flipped open the lock, pushing the doors open before springing out into the hall. Knowing she had only seconds before the agents caught up to them, Rose cast all about the corridor, searching desperately for anything that would hold them back—

“Here!” called the Doctor, rushing over to the pile of caretaker’s mops and brooms Rose had knocked to the floor in her earlier haste. He tossed a mop her way and she shoved the pole through the door handles just in time for the agents to hurl themselves against the doors with a mighty WHAM. The force of the impact threw Rose and Jackie to the floor, but Rose glanced back to see that even though the doors were bowing outward, the metal-handled mop bucking violently with every hit and slam, the makeshift barricade stayed put.

(But Jackie was trembling and Rose could hear her wheezing now with every breath she took and—)

“Still think it’s the Plague?” asked the Doctor as he helped Jackie off the floor, pulling her toward the lift.

“Were any of the other victims acting like that before they died?” asked Rose, following after them.

“Not that I’m aware of, though it’s worth noting that our friends in there are acting like that after they died.”

“Wait—they’re dead?” asked Jackie weakly. “But how comes they’re moving and talking and everything?”

“Good question! Haven’t got a clue.”

They reached the lift but before Rose had the chance to tell the Doctor it wouldn’t work—emergency protocol—they had to turn round—they had to go back—he whipped out the sonic and the doors split open in front of him, like magic. Wheezing as she hobbled inside, Jackie clutched at her chest, her face pinched in discomfort.

“How do you know they’re dead?” she choked out.

“Fluid in the lungs,” the Doctor explained, sidling in after her and pulling Rose inside. “You could hear it in their voices, I’m sure—I could hear it in their breathing. A ridiculous amount of nonmucosal viscous fluid blocking the primary, secondary, and tertiary bronchii—no human could survive that.”

He punched in the floor command and slammed the doors-close button. “They’re all dead, Jackie. I’m sorry.”

Jackie coughed and winced at the sound of it. Eyes screwed shut, she slumped back against the lift wall, and Rose darted over to her side as she fought for air, forcing it in and out of her lungs with great effort. In, out. In, out. Like she’d done so many times, without even trying, without even thinking. (Like the people out there would never do again. And was it just Rose, or did Jackie’s breathing sound so much wetter than before?)

The lift arrived with a cheerful ding and the next thing Rose knew, Jackie was sliding down the wall with a groan. But she never met the floor; the Doctor stopped her with a hand on each shoulder, looping an arm round her afterward to heave her back upwards. With a grunt, he hauled her out of the lift, half-supporting, half-dragging her toward the infirmary.

“What’s gonna happen to her?” asked Rose, supporting her mother from the other side. “She’s not gonna end up like those others, is she?”

The Doctor glanced at her and his voice was sharp despite his reassuring smile.

“No.”

**********

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