#like it’s so hard to explain but I just can’t use the upper echelons of my brain power

[skiitter]

Not to be dramatic but changing my meds back in February has completely fucked with my ability and skill as a writer and it’s killing me :)

[sidespart]

The Fall of King Romulus Part 9

Summary: Twin Princes Remus and Romulus are cursed at birth with Honesty and Obedience. When Romulus, who cannot disobey any order, is told to kill his brother the next time he lays eyes on him, he changes his name to Roman and runs away. Roman joins up with a misfit group of adventures and plans to never return to his homeland. But the fae have other plans for him… Warnings (for whole fic not necessarily individual chapters): Violence, mind whammying/memory altering, curse of obedience related consent issues, references to sex, references to war related injuries/PTSD, references to child abuse/neglect (YMMV on that one but just in case), antagonstic-but-not-exactly villian!Janus, Extremly-moraly-dubious-but-not-exacty-unsympathetic-Remus

Feedback appreciated.

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Prologue Chapter 1   Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Roman kept his back straight and his gaze cold and aloof as he watched his proclamation sink in.

It was a simple thing, to be Romulus again.

Virgil and Patton had been sent to fight and die by their Kings. Roman had listened to Logan rant, many times, about his distain of the noble classes and their control over the common men. Whatever affection they had for Roman – it wouldn’t extend to Romulus.

They would leave.

“Well yes,” Logan said, sounding annoyed “I was getting to that.”

“What?!” Roman shrieked.

“Not require our services?” Virgil stared at him incredulously, “Didn’t we hire you?”

“Logan, you knew?” Patton said admiringly, “You’re so smart!”

“Oh, he did not.” Roman grumbled.

“Well.” Logan shuffled his feet, not looking directly at him, “The Marquis de Ornella called you Romulus. And you attempted to call him by his first name, so I assumed you knew each other- a noble connection was not out of the question.”

“Ha!” Roman pointed at him, vindicated “But you didn’t guess I was a prince, did you?”

“Well, no-” Logan looked on the verge of pouting.

“What services are we even providing? In this scenario?”

“-but If I had had time to do more research then- “

“You know what! That’s a great idea.” Patton smiled brightly, “I think we could all use a little cool down time – Logan why don’t you go back to the library and read up on Nothalevaele”.

“Notaleveale.” Logan corrected.

Patton frowned. “It’s not -aleveale? I swear that’s what he said.”

“It’s not Nothalevaele it’s Notaleveale”.

“Then what is it?”

Roman stuffed most of his good hand into his mouth to muffle a scream.

“Seriously.” Virgil smirked at him even as he leant over to adjust Roman’s pillow. “You just can’t get service like this anywhere else.”

Roman glared at him.

“He-” Virgil jerked his head at Logan, utterly unbothered by Roman’s glare – “shouldn’t go to the library alone.”

Patton nodded seriously and gave Vigil a wide smile.

Virgil glared back.

Patton raised both eyebrows.

Virgil folded his arms.

“No one needs to go anywhere – I told you I’m leaving.” Roman complained.

They ignored him.

Eventually whatever silent argument the two men were having ended with Virgil rolling his eyes and throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“Go find your bag.” He told Logan, who nodded jerkily and all but fled the room.

Roman flopped back against the pillows with a thump, too tired to maintain his princely posture any longer. “He can go by himself, can’t he,” he muttered sulkily, “we’re not actually kids.”

Virgil and Patton exchanged another glance before Virgil turned away to the bedside table, fussing with his pots and potions.

“We’re not sure how many guards got a look at our faces before we got out of the bathhouse.” Patton told him, “Better not to risk traveling alone.”

“Oh.” Roman replied, his voice small.

He remembered the bathhouse. The screams from above. Virgil’s panic-stricken face as he glanced between them and the stairs. Logan with a blade at his throat.

He swallowed hard and cast his eyes down, picked idly at a loose thread of the blanket.

“We should be back before the bandages needs changing, but if you smell anything or see any new pus there’s some ointment left in this one.” Virgil held up a blue-green jar for Patton to see, “Just wash it out first with boiled water.”

“Pus!” Roman squeaked, looking up.

“Your hand was pretty screwed up.” Virgil told him gruffly, “The infection’s what gave you the fever. You need to drink more willow tea, at least one cup every hour – we’ll have to pick up some more salve whilst we’re out.” This last part he directed at Patton, who dutifully rummaged in their stack of bags and handed over their coin purse.

It looked worryingly empty. Roman remembered the extra nights they had booked at the inn – nights which they clearly hadn’t even ended up using - and winced.

“We should look for some road food too, Virgil continued “and a map if we’re really going nor – Oh!” He looked at Roman, eyes wide “Er – about the tea, I mean, you need to drink it every hour but only If you -want to? I mean you definitely should but” he waved his hands as if trying to physically shape the instruction into something optional. “You get it.”

Roman bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and tried to ignore the fondness bubbling up inside him. He had hardly even noticed the order.

“How long was I asleep?” He asked.

“Nearly two days.” Patton said softly. “You really scared us for a minute there kiddo.”

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled, “And- thank you. For taking care of me.”

“Aw Roman! You don’t have to be sorry for anything!” Patton said, “Or thank us – that’s what family’s for.”

“You’re not my family.” Roman said quietly, thinking of his father’s cool detachment and a castle full of empty rooms.

Virgil snorted. “Yeah whatever. Listen you gotta – you should eat. And sleep some more. And we are going to have to talk about all this when we’re back, okay Ro – er, Romulus?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Jeez do we have to call you that now?”

“I think it’s a nice name.” Patton interjected “It’s very umm. Regal.”

“Surely ‘Princey’ still works as a nickname?" Logan asked, returning to the room. He threw a pale green coat at Virgil, who made a face but obediently shrugged it on, pulling an orange knit cap down over the pointed tips of his ears.

Almost as an afterthought, he licked is thumb and rubbed at the dark kohl under each eye. He smirked down at Roman. “You ran away from being a prince and called yourself ‘Princey’?

“You called me that.” Roman said sulkily, deciding not to tell Virgil that he’d only succeeded in smearing the make-up.

“Umm.” Logan stood at the head of the bed. Roman braced himself for another round of interrogation, twisting the blanket between his hands. “I suspect I should apologise for– I was just trying to test my hypothesis before started making outlandish accusations. Obviously, I didn’t realise how long you have been dealing with- I mean, it’s actually quite impressive you maintained your sanity for this long given that-”

“Okay! Less talking!” Virgil declared, as Romans knuckles started to turn white. The elf slung one arm around Logan’s shoulders, propelling him towards the door.

“I was only trying to-”

“Later.”

The door closed behind them with a resounding thud.

“So” Patton said after a moment, casually reaching out with one thumb to wipe away the tears collecting in the bard’s eyes, “Would you like food first or a nap?”

***

The library of Steveange was the crowning jewel of the city. A towering hexagonal building that sat upon the cities highest peak, directly across from the gates to the royal palace.

Which meant the journey was almost all uphill.

Typical.

Virgil huffed, breathing heavily as he stomped his way through the streets, Logan practically trotting to keep up with his long strides.

Prince Romulus of Notaleveale.

Honestly, what the fuck.

At least it explained the whole armed guards thing.

Except actually it explained nothing because if you found a runaway member of the royal family, why in the hell would you then tie them up in a bathhouse basement?

Unless they were traitors working against the royal family – but then why go after a runaway prince at all? Ransom? They hadn’t exactly looked strapped for cash….

And why a bathhouse? Why not one the extremely defensible manor houses that were scattered throughout the upper echelons of the city??

Virgil let out a growl of frustration and came to a stop.

Roman’s injuries had been too systematic to have come from a fight. The northerners had tortured him.

And now he wanted to go back there?

It didn’t make any sense…unless of course the kidnappers had ordered him to go back…

Virgil took a deep breath and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to banish that thought. If he started thinking about the curse again he was going to lose it; end up in a spiral of what had they done and what had they missed and HOW were they supposed to protect him if-

“Virgil? Do you need me to count for seven?”

He forced his eyes open to meet Logan’s worried face and let out the breath he’d been holding in a rush.

“I’m good.” He told the younger man unconvincingly.

“We could go back-” Logan started, but Virgil shook his head.

As much as he bristled at being managed, he didn’t think Patton had been wrong to split the group.

Roman – or whatever they were calling him now– was barley recovered. He’d looked so small, propped up against the pillows without a lute or sword or smile between himself and the world.

Small and scared. And puffing himself up like a songbird trying to look big for a cat.

The four of them yelling for answers at once was only going to freak him out more. Patton had a much better chance getting information out of him one on one.

Still…

“You think we’re going got get anything useful out of this trip?” he asked Logan bluntly.

“The library of Stevenage is one of the greatest collections of written knowledge on the entire continent and in times of uncertainty, knowledge is our greatest weapon... and our greatest defence.” Logan told him, a serious look in his eye.

“Right.” Virgil nodded absently, “Do you think they’ve got a copy of ‘curse breaking for idiots?”

***

Roman woke up for the second time that day with a throbbing headache on top of his other aches and pains. He spent a few minutes cursing himself for not taking up Patton’s offer of willow tea before he’d gone back to sleep and then swung his legs out of the bed.

He needed to get up. He needed to relieve himself and wash and eat and and-

And figure out what to do next.

He needed to know if Remus was safe. If he was on the throne or locked up somewhere or worse.

Which meant going home.

Which meant getting away from his friends.

No one else was going to get hurt because of him and his petty little problems.

Nodding decisively to himself he sprung to his feet. And then swiftly sat back down as the world tilted alarmingly around him.

“Roman?” There was a polite knock at the door and Patton stuck his head in.

“Hey kiddo!” the big man smiled at him, “Are you hungry?”

Roman felt his heart rate speed up and tried to summon some of Romulus’ cool detachment. Patton knew about his curse.  If anyone learned about his curse, they would try to exploit it. They would use it to hurt his family, to hurt-

Roman bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop the flow of anxiety. This was Patton.

Roman was more likely to be a burden to him then an opportunity.

Before he could manage to come up with a suitable greeting his stomach growled, loudly, making him blush and Patton laugh.

“Shall I bring something up? Or do you want to come sit at the table?”

“…Table.” Roman mumbled, keeping his eyes locked somewhere in the vicinity of Patton’s left ear. Even though he knew, in his head and in his heart, that Patton wasn’t going to hurt him - he still felt oddly vulnerable with his secret sitting between them. Attempting eye contact made something inside him twist uncomfortably.

His mother had always said Romulus was shy.

If Patton noticed his odd behaviour he didn’t mention it, nor did he insist on carrying Roman down the stairs or otherwise manhandling him.  Instead he hovered at his elbow as he made his way from the room, keeping up a running commentary of the house as they descended the stairs.

The room that Roman had been staying in was the attic. Immediately outside the door was a set of stairs so steep they may as well have been a ladder. Patton must have been perched out here, Roman thought guilty, giving him space but close enough to hear him get up. At the base of these stairs was a short landing where most of the items normally stored in the attic were now haphazardly stacked.

“That’s Mama’s room.” Patton nodded at a closed door, as he gingerly ducked under a rolled-up carpet which was wedged against the wall. “And that’s the store cupboard”. At the base of the next steep flight was a hallway Roman recognised: kitchen at one end, main door at the other. There was another door opposite the stairs that he hadn’t noticed on his first visit, with a moon and stars motif painted at eye level.

“That’s her work room.” Patton told him, seeing Romans curious glance, “She’s asked us to stay out of there- it’s where she sees customers.”

Customers. Roman filed that thought away. He had almost forgotten they were in a witch’s house.

Patton took him straight through the kitchen, where a back door led into a narrow garden. The herb bed was surprisingly neat, given the haphazard nature of the house, with small labels pinned neatly next to each plant. At the far end were two wooden structures. “Storage shed.” Patton pointed, “Outhouse. Do you need help using it?”

Roman shook his head vehemently - clung to Patton’s arm briefly when the movement made him dizzy – and stomped to the outhouse to relieve himself.

After a few steps though he stopped.

Patton knew about the curse. And Patton wouldn’t hurt him so-

He could ask.

“Pat?“

“Yeah?” Patton – or at least his ear – looked concerned.

“I. um. My arm is…”

Virgil had instructed him to keep his arm still in his sling until the herbs had done their work and clearly, they hadn’t happened yet. The thing was still pinned across his chest.

Not that he couldn’t navigate the outhouse one handed if he had too. But his balance wasn’t exactly great at the moment and tripping in there was one humiliation he would have liked to avoid.

But then again, it’s not like his hand was any use. He would really just be freeing up the use of his elbow and why was even bothering Patton with something so stupid and embarrassing an-

“Roman. Hold your… hold your whole body however you like.”

He nodded jerkily as his shoulder relaxed for the first time since waking up, letting his arm drop a little lower.

He didn’t look at Patton as he made his escape to the outhouse.

***

When he returned Patton had pulled a tin bathtub from who-knows-where onto the slab of paving stone by the kitchen door and was testing the water’s temperature with his elbow.

“Virgil left us some potions.” He told Roman as he approached – “This is another one to help healing and this-” he held up a red tinted bottle “-should give us bubbles!”

Roman stared at the bath almost hungrily. Hot water was a luxury under normal circumstances and between the travel, the bath house and the fever he knew he must reek of sweat and dirt. Surely, he deserved a little pampering before the journey North?

“It’s still too hot.” Patton warned him before he could launch himself into the water. Instead, the other man gestured to a pretty wrought iron table and two chairs set against the left side fence. He produced bread and jam alongside a mug of tea, advising him to eat slowly as went to grab another bucket of water from the cauldron simmering away in Tay’s kitchen.

Although Patton had been careful not to make an order, Roman still made sure he followed his instructions carefully. He had no desire to make himself sick. Or to make more work for the other man.

He pulled his bread apart into small bites and ate them one at a time, watching Patton critically as he limped his way back to the table.

“Did you get hurt…in the bathhouse?”

“…A few bruises.” Patton told him honestly, spreading a thick layer of jam on his own bread, “Nothing too bad”

“I’m sorry.” Roman said again, pulling his remaining bread into smaller and smaller pieces.

“Ro-man!” Patton said cheerfully – “you don’t need to apologise! It was those Ornelly guys that hit me not you!”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

Roman hunched and cursed himself. Sorry sorry sorry. Couldn’t he say anything useful?

“Roman hey – can you look at me please?”

It took more effort than he would have liked, but Roman did. Patton’s eyes were big and blue and very, very kind. Roman jerked his gaze away immediately.

“None of us blame you for what happened. Okay?”

“You got hurt because of me.” Roman blurted. “Logan nearly died- “

“I told you, that was on the Ornellans, not you-“

“Who were there specifically because of me! That excuse doesn’t work Pat I-“

He cut himself off, eyes glued to the floor once more. Hadn’t he just decided he didn’t want to cause any more trouble?

“Sorry.”

He heard Patton sigh and tried not to flinch, but when the other man spoke his voice was still gentle. “How many bubbles do you want?”

***

Whenever Virgil got upset, he always wanted space. It was something Patton found difficult, as his instinct was to smother the other man with affection until he smiled again, but experience had given him the patience to wait until his friend was ready.

When Logan got upset, he always claimed he needed space – but what he really wanted was an audience. He needed to talk through the problem, often at length, and know that someone was listening, even if he didn’t always want their advice.

Roman though – Roman liked attention. Roman liked fuss and pampering and his favourite food and to know, demonstrably, that someone was worried about him.

It didn’t mean he was great at asking for it. Patton remembered vividly his insistence on hopping half a mile on a twisted ankle before Patton had all but begged him to accept a piggyback.

He also remembered a time after a poorly received show when Roman had spent the evening sulking, sighing loudly and dramatically and slumping against each of them in turn until Patton had laughingly pulled him into a hug. Oh my god Vigil had snarked were you not hugged enough as a child?

It had been funny. At the time. Sort of.

Not so much now.

Since lying back against the tub’s rim would aggravate the wounds on his back, Roman was hunched forward in the tub, his bandaged arm hanging over the edge.

“Did I ever tell you how Virgil and I met?” Patton asked, settling on his knees next to the tub.

Roman twitched. There was a tactic agreement amongst the four of them not to discuss their pasts. This was more than fine with Patton, who was much more concerned with making new, happy memories then revisiting old ones, but he didn’t blame Roman and Logan for being curious.

Whenever the pair were on watch together, conversation often turned to whispered debate over the southern pair’s origin. Whilst he felt a bit bad for pretending to be asleep, Patton quite enjoyed their speculation.

His favourite was the circus performer theory. Virgil would probably has made a good acrobat.

“It was in the war.” he continued, scooping up some of the water and wetting Roman’s hair.

“I um. I volunteered you know? All the boys in my town did. I think we thought- well I know I thought it was the right thing to do. Finaley’ed was the enemy after all, we had to keep our families safe.”

He chuckled sadly, focusing on making sure every strand of Roman’s hair was damp before gently capturing a handful of bubbles and placing them on the other man’s head.

“Made you a crown.” he giggled.

Roman turned just enough to peak at him incredulously through one eye and Patton winced.

“Right. Sorry.”

Roman turned away again but Patton though he saw him suppressing a smile. Score!

“Um anyway” – he poured a measure of oil from one of Virgil’s bottles and rubbed it between his fingers before leaning over to begin massaging Roman’s scalp – “It was okay at first. I was in a regiment with all my friends, it was a bit of an adventure honestly.”

“And then there was this Major. He came to inspect us before we got done training and he – he said I was good. That I should get a chance to really make a difference in the war.”

He dragged his fingers through Roman’s hair, gently detangling the strands.

“He put me in a new regiment. All big guys. Like me. And they- they gave us this – I’m not even sure what it was. My buddy Micha used to say it was ground up swamp frogs but I don’t know.”

He started scooping up water again, rinsing some of the bubbles and oil from Roman’s hair.

“It made us…strong. Angry. Scary. Berserk well– that was the point. I don’t. um.” Some of the water sloshed over his cupped palms and Patton realised he was shivering.

“I killed a lot of people…. I mean I definitely made a difference to them.” He finished bitterly.

“…s’not your fault.” Patton glanced up to see Roman had twisted to look at him, was doing his best to maintain eye contact despite Patton’s confession. Patton smiled at him. Roman really was a sweet kid.

“It’s what I signed up for kiddo. Just faster.”

He sighed, nudging Roman gently to turn around so that he could finish rinsing his hair. “I’m not. I’m not saying it’s the same as what you’ve gone through. I know it isn’t. Just – I get it. A little. What it’s like not having any control.”

For a moment they sat in silence, the only sound the trickle of water as Patton continued lifting handfuls to Roman’s scalp.

Then the bard let out a shuddering breath and said: “My major’s name was Julius.”

“Oh?” Patton whispered.

“He was my dad’s friend. He was supposed to find a way to break the curse, but he didn’t. Then he just…started helping me figure out how to live with it. He was helping me. He was supposed to be…”

Roman took a deep breath “He’s the reason I-ack.” He broke off, coughing. Patton reached forward to hold him up, alarmed.

“Ro?”

“I’m okay.” But he didn’t look it, red faced and scowling. “I-” he gripped Patton’s arm looking right into his eyes. “I can’t tell you.”

Patton nodded slowly, understanding. “You can’t – not because you don’t want to.”

Roman nodded.

Patton frowned. “Can I – could I order you too? I could undo what Virgil said about your arm right?”

Roman sighed shaking his head. “The curse is. It’s fickle. But words are important -if you don’t know what you’re contradicting it’s almost impossible and Julius he – he was very good at giving orders.”

“Right.” Patton frowned. “What if I guess? Like Logan figured out the curse?”

“You can try.” Roman laughed bitterly.

“Hmm okay – was he the reason you left home?”

Roman span around so quickly water splashed over the side of the tub. “Patton! How’d you know?”

“Well gee kiddo! The frog pills didn’t rattle too many cells loose!” Patton laughed tapping the side of his head. Then frowned. “Well, I hope not…”

Roman winced. “Patton I – I’m sorry about what happened to you.”

“Well.” Patton smiled sadly, “Likewise Ro-Romulus.”

The other man sighed, sinking low in the tub again. “I liked being Roman.” he blurted out suddenly, a look of abject misery on his face.

“Then – why stop?” Patton whispered.

“I-” He frowned. “I would like to not be naked for this conversation.”

“That’s fair.” Patton nodded and helped him to his feet.

***

By the time Roman was up, towelled off and dressed in one of Patton’s old shirts that he had long ago claimed as a sleep shirt, he looked about ready to pass out again. Patton left him sitting at the table to finish drying in the sunshine whilst he dashed upstairs to change the sheets on the attic bed. When he returned with the laundry pile, he found that Mittens had emerged and settled himself on the bard’s– the prince’s – lap.

Roman looked up at him guilty - “Your allergies.”

“It’s easier outside.” Patton waved him off. Mittens had been the key to them finding Roman, as far as Patton on was concerned, the cat’s comfort was worth a few sneezes.

He took a seat at the table and nudged the remaining bread towards Roman, who took it hungrily, eating with much more enthusiasm than before the bath.

“So you were saying...” Patton prompted.

Roman pouted at him, cheeks stuffed with bread.

“’u first.” he swallowed, “You never got to how you met Virgil. Was he in the berserkers – in the special regiment too?”

“Oh, no.” Patton shook his head vehemently. “Virgil wasn’t like me. He was a conscript – for the other side.”

An exceptionally fat bumble bee had found Tay’s herb garden and was repeatedly bouncing off the side of some chives. Patton focused on the bewildered looking insect rather than Roman’s face and his finished the story.

“A small group of us had got separated from the rest. It was quite deep in the forest, away from the main battle. We were meant to find their camp and pick them off there, but we couldn’t find them. And then we couldn’t find the way back.”

The bee, finally free of the chives, crashed headfirst into a Rosemary bush.

“It was like… like my blood was on fire. We hadn’t been so long without it before. And then...”

“And then?”

“We stumbled on a group of them. Of Finaley’ii soldiers. And there was a fight.” Patton closed his eyes. Screams and sobs and blood on his sword and in his eyes and Micha gasping uselessly around the arrow in his throat “I don’t remember it much. But when it was over it was like I…woke up.”

He smiled.

“And there he was. Virgil. Pointing s crossbow right at my face.”

“He what!” Roman yelped and Patton laughed.

“Well, we were on opposite sides kiddo and I had just…well. The thing was, it was only us left then. No one was ordering to kill each other and so we just…didn’t. Neither of us was in any big rush to find our armies again so….”

“Virgil asked me to help him find his mom, so we headed east. We couldn’t find her, so he said he’d help me find my town and we went west. That was gone too.”

“The whole town?” Roman as looking at him with sorrowful eyes.

“That’s the problems with wars kiddo – they don’t stay in one place.”

“What about your family?”

Patton shrugged. Mittens hopped down from Roman’s lap and began to stalk the errant bee.

“Maybe they got away. I hope so.” He glanced at Roman again. “Virgil was the one who suggested we keep going west. Get away entirely, see if we could find any refugees, look for our families.” He smiled fondly. “He’s always been the brave one, not me.”

“And – and did you?” Roman asked. He was bent forward, eyes fixed on Patton’s own.

“No.” Patton sighed. “I like to think they’re safe and sound somewhere. Set up a new house, found new people to care for. Like I did. But… “

He trailed off. But most likely they were dead. Like Patton should be.

“What if…if you knew where they were.” Roman said quietly, “Would you go see them- check on them?”

Patton rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the multitude of scars that littered the right side. “I don’t know.” He told Roman honestly. “I would like to know if they were okay but…I don’t know if they’d want to see me.”

Roman nodded.

On the other side of the garden, there was a sudden yowling from the rosemary bush. Mittens came charging towards them with his tail fluffed up and circled Roman’s chair twice before leaping onto the fence.

Patton giggled – “Well that’s what you get for trying to fight a bee you silly cat!”

“I think my brothers in danger.” Roman said in a rush.

Patton blinked.

“Your brother?”

He was back to staring down. Both fists clenched tightly together. “I left him. Back home. I thought I-” he coughed again. “I thought he would be safe but now I’m not sure.”

“In danger from what kiddo?”

“From Julius.” Roman breathed. “I saw him. Or. Or I think I did.”

Slowly, haltingly, Roman told him about meeting the Marquis. About the bathhouse basement and the northern soldiers and the figure he called the grey man who had slipped in and out of Julius’ face.

Patton did his best to keep his own face clam as Roman casually described being forced to hurt himself, even as his own knuckles turned white from his grip on the chairs’ arm.

“He said he had sent Lucius to the inn after some – some escaped prisoner? And he found me. But Lucius knew about the curse and he never did before so- “

“Roman?” Patton interrupted. “Sorry - can I give you a hug?”

“Oh!” Roman blinked at him, blushing slightly, “If you – if you want to?”

“I really do.” Patton scrambled to his feet, wrapping the younger man in his arms and feeling Roman sag against him. He resisted the urge to squeeze, mindful of his injuries. “You’re safe now.” He whispered. “I gottcha.”

Roman giggled wetly against his chest. “Julius. He said he’d assumed I’d died.” He mumbled.  “But now that he knows I’m around? He’ll try again Pat I know he will. I- “

He drew back, looking up at Patton with tear filled eyes. “I can’t risk you all getting hurt because of me.”

“That’s not your decision to make Roman.” Patton told him softly. “We think you’re worth the risk.”

“But I’m not Roman.” He whimpered. He hadn’t relinquished his grip on Patton, who began to run his hand soothingly up and down the prince’s back.

“Well, if we’re being technical, I’m not Patton.” Patton rested his head on top of Roman’s own. “Me and Vigil picked new names after we left the war and I – I like being Patton.”

There was a pause. Roman squeezed a little tighter.

“I like Patton too.”

Patton laughed; some tension he hadn’t realised he was holding draining away. When Roman drew back this time, he had a shaky smile on his face.

“So.” He stepped back, wiping his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I need to…go back north. Check on my brother. Avoid Julius and Lucius and anyone connected with Romulus. You sure that’s worth the risk?”

“Yep!” Patton said instantly. “And we need to break the curse!”

“I guess.” Roman shrugged. “I really do think it’s impossible Pat’.”

“Eh.” Patton waved a hand dismissively “That’s never stopped Logan before.”

When Roman laughed then, he almost sounded like himself.

If you enjoyed this chapter please hit ~ reblog ~

[horribletestsubject]

Fic I just wrote based on These Two art pieces that I’ve drawn and THIS POST by @body-utensil-travels-terrain

———

You’ve spent your life being told you couldn’t. Now there’s a voice telling you that you can.

You remember it distinctly. You were fourteen at the time, just really starting to figure out what you wanted to do with your life (it certainly isn’t what society expected from you— but then, society doesn’t expect someone like you anyway, does it?) when you first heard her voice over the radio in your living room. The words she said resonated with you, the promise and ambition that she spoke with. It was almost like she was talking directly to you.

You do your research. You study hard. You tinker away at things in your garage, supplementing your studies in your own way. And five years later, after you’ve graduated, you put in your application.

A letter arrives a few weeks later, emblazoned with the circular symbol you’ve kept in your mind’s eye all this time, and bold lettering on the front— Aperture Science Innovators. It’s addressed to you. You open it, and your fingers tighten around the smooth paper— “congratulations” it says. You’ve been accepted. At the bottom is Her signature. You trace over it with your fingers. Delicately, as gently as you’d handle an irreplaceable machine part.

Two weeks later your bags are packed and you’re boarding a flight to Detroit. The attendant greets you. You hold up your boarding pass and get on. You land a few hours later. Getting a cab would be too complicated— people don’t like to take the time to read, and most can’t speak the way you do. So you walk to the train station, it’s not too far. Just an hour or two. You’ve walked further before.

Flat fields flow by endlessly as the train rattles down its tracks. You lean your head against the window, watching the hues of gold rush by, blurring on into infinity.

The sun is gone when you pull up outside a strange little town, surrounded by chain link fence. You fish through your bag for the packet you’d been sent— and pull out the temporary ID you’d been given. You show it to the gate guard. He lets you in. A man is waiting to show you your dormitory. You shake your head at his offer of a tour— you’ll explore the place yourself tomorrow. There are a few days before you’re actually needed for orientation.

The room is small and plain. A bed, desk, and dresser, and a small closet. That’s alright. You don’t need much. You hang up your few articles of clothing and tuck your shoes next to the door. The bed isn’t soft, but it isn’t hard. You fall asleep quickly, exhausted from your travels.

The next few days are spent wandering. Visiting the little shops, the stations. Peering into labs where you can. Climbing over fences (they could never keep you out) before quickly retreating as a security guard passed. You don’t want to get in trouble before your internship even begins. You wonder if you’ll see her. But you only hear her voice in announcements as you trigger motion sensors throughout the complex.

When work actually starts, it’s tedious. Getting coffee. Taking documents to the shredder and the incinerator. You don’t usually see the labs. Or, well, much of anything. It’s just a lot of running here and there, back and forth at your superiors’ beck and call. It’s tiring. But you do it— after all, you want to be here, you want to do this— and you never give up.

It’s a few months before you see her— before your internship takes you to the main complex. Now you’re checking inventory, sorting mail, sorting records (and chucking the casualty lists into the incinerator as instructed). Occasionally they’ll call you in to fix the coffee maker or the refrigerator.

You hear her voice once, muffled— she’s talking to someone, to a group it seems, just outside the room you’re in. You look over your shoulder and catch a glimpse. Rosy cheeks and bright-red lips, wavy dark hair flowing around her shoulder, a smile on her face (manufactured, you can tell with just this glance that she’s concealing so very much), a bright red scarf tied around her neck.

Your eyes lock for just a second, and the corner of her mouth creases, dimpling her cheeks. Your heart races— that, that was a hint of a true smile. Warmth flushes your own cheeks and you tear your gaze away. Suddenly shy— much shyer than you’ve ever been before.

It doesn’t make sense to you. Not yet. Not until you start seeing her more. Not until her smiles become more frequent and pointed. Not until her gaze lingers on you a little longer than before each time. The fluttery feeling doesn’t go away— and you’re determined more than ever to reach her.

Of course, it happens sooner and easier than you think. She starts requesting you specifically to bring her her coffee. You take a red pen and draw a little smiley face next to her name before giving it to her. When you come up to her office, there’s a sticky note left on the monitor, in that oh-so-hard to read yet absolutely beautiful cursive of hers. At the end of it is a smiley face, so much more elegant and less childish than yours. You keep the note. On her next cup, you add a heart to the dot of the ‘i’ in her name. You start responding to her notes with little notes of your own, your rounded, sometimes scratchy handwriting a stark contrast.

The notes are never there when you get back. You like to think she kept them. You’re pretty sure she did.

A year after you arrive, your internship is over, and you’re up for a promotion— junior mechanic. Probably still more of the same, but you’ll be getting a salary now (not that you really have any use for it since Aperture provides your housing) and you’ll have a permanent place. But you’ll see her less. You’ll miss that, of course— but you’re finally moving beyond your station, moving up in the company.

The day before your internship ends, you get another note. “Wanna get coffee together tomorrow?” Your heart leaps. You scribble out your answer just beneath her writing.

You’re sitting across from her at the cafe table. The cafe serves the same stuff as the cafeteria, but it’s decorated more quaintly, and always costs more for some reason. Maybe because there’s sunlight coming through the windows.

“So, headed up the ladder,” she begins after the two of you sip your drinks (well, she sips her drink, you’re too caught up in the crimson of her lips). “I guess I won’t be seeing as much of you now.”

There’s something behind her cheery voice, a sadness that you’ve caught glimpses of before, a wistfulness deeper than her words. You look up, catching her gaze for a moment and nod in response.

“Well, this is nice. Maybe we should do this more often. Once a week, at least? Or you could come over to my place. We could spend time together. As friends, or something.” With that, she gives you a wink. Your cheeks flush bright red.

You catch the implication right away. Your hero, your inspiration— and now here you are sitting across from her at a cafe while she all but outright asks you out.

You thought you’d be excited for things to grow beyond the notes and the gestures. But you feel different than that. After the initial jolt, the initial flutter, you look back over at her and you see the chasm yawning out between the two of you. The mountain she’s perched on, the valley you’re standing in. Your scratchy print against her elegant cursive, your short, bitten nails against her sharp manicure, your messy ponytail against her shiny waves. You look down at your simple intern’s badge, then over at her emblazoned one. She doesn’t even have a title listed— everyone knows who she is.

You’re miles apart, even if you might have seemed to be closer.

You stand up, your throat knotting up as you shake your head. You can’t look at her now, but you can practically feel the disappointment in her face as she murmurs “oh.” You want to explain but you can’t, your thoughts racing a mile a minute. The last thing you want is to turn Her, your idol, the one who makes your heart flutter, the reason you came here in the first place, down.

But you can’t do this now. Not yet. Not until you’ve reached the top of the mountain. Not until you’re close enough for her to reach out her hand and pull you the rest of the way up.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” she says.

You pause, halfway to the door. You turn back just enough so that you can glimpse her, and give a tiny nod.

After that you throw yourself into your work. Up to senior mechanic, then technician, then engineer— you’re working on Aperture’s new technology now, its most important projects. But you’re still not close enough. Into the test chambers you go at the CEO’s behest, defying death and physics at breakneck speeds, trusting in the tech you’ve helped create to ensure your survival.

Sometimes you look up and see her watching from the observation room, the tell-tale flash of red. You don’t look too long.

The CEO falls ill. He leaves a disturbing message. You try not to think too much of it— you’re almost there.

Your superior fails a test. You’re not surprised. Not hurt, not sad. It just happens and now you’re in the upper echelon. Now you’re at the top— now, you can reach out to her again. Tell her you’ve changed your mind. You can be equals now.

You go to her office. She isn’t there to answer the door. “Don’t you remember Mr. Johnson’s last request?” They say to you. You tried to block it out, but you remember.

You use your pass on a high security door. It opens. Your name is emblazoned too now. Just like hers was.

Before you is a massive operating system. On the screen reads a message: “transfer complete. transfer successful. writing data : do not disconnect subject.”

She’s lying inside a tube-like compartment. A transparent coffin. Wires hooked up to her. Eyes closed. Lips still ruby red.

You reach out and touch the glass. There’s no response. There won’t be a response.

This technology is untested. This is the first human-AI interfacing project Aperture has conducted. There’s only a fifty percent chance it will work, and even if it does, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s gone. You’ll never clasp her small hands inside your own calloused ones, tuck your head against her shoulder, press your lips against hers.

You’ve finally reached the top of the mountain. Finally reached her. But it was too late. When you crested the summit, she was already gone, and there was only a spatter of crimson left behind to show that she was ever there at all.

[writefightandflightclub]

A cut above the rest (Poe Dameron x reader)

Author’s note: I JUST REALISED THAT REBELS MUST STILL GET HAIR CUTS AND OMFGJDJDJJRJDJ CAN YOU IMAGINE CUTTING POE DAMERON’S HAIR? IT WOULD BE A FUCKING SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCE.

Summary: five times you cut Poe Dameron’s hair.

You can skip the Prologue at the beginning if you prefer and go right ahead to “Haircut One”.

Warnings: it’s pure fluff and mild angst, sweetie.

(GIF by @youngavengervic​ THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE)

Prologue (skippable- start below at “Haircut One” if you so wish)

Poe: “Oh, Sorry.”

A man appears in your makeshift salon. You look up from your datapad and your cup of steaming caf.

You: “You are?”

Poe: “Poe. Poe Dameron.”

He reaches out to shake your hand in greeting, since he’s introducing himself.

You: “Uh, I mean, why are you sorry?”

Poe: “Because I disturbed you.”

You: “I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you, Commander.”

Poe: “You have?”

You: “You didn’t, by the way.”

Poe: “What?”

You: “I saw your hair from across the base.”

Poe: “Uh-huh. Wait.”

He grabs your shoulders.

Poe: “Shall we start over? I’m here for a haircut.”

You: “I know! That’s what I’ve been saying.”

Poe: “Is it? Right. So is the droid around?”

You: “The droid’s around but how about a human touch?”

You reach below your waistband.

Poe: “Woah, ma’am, I’m flattered but...”

Your hand emerges from your apron with a pair of scissors.

Poe: “Oh.”

You: “I’m Y/N. Y/N YL/N. Do you want a haircut then?”

Poe: “Sure.”

Haircut One

Poe sits in your salon chair and you stand behind him, running warm water into your makeshift, upcycled cockpit basin. You press your palms to the top of his shoulders, tipping him back gently until his head comes to rest on the supportive tubing, the back of his hair dipping into the water. You prop his head up with an open palm as you douse his luxurious hair in warm water and a sweet smelling concoction. He closes his eyes and you look down at his wet curls, pulled back from his face, the thick brush of his lashes and his strong features. Boy, he’s handsome. And you hear he knows it.

You suddenly feel a little self-conscious that you are massaging his beautiful head, especially when it begins to illicit a satisfied hum from him. You bet there are a lot of people on base who have dreamed about running their fingers through the Commander’s hair.

You hope he’s enjoying it, being able to take a rare moment away from his duties, have someone take care of him for a change. From this angle though, you can see his fists are still clenched on the arms of the chair, his brows still tense.

“Just relax, Commander,” you say soothingly.

“I will if you will.”

“Huh?”

“Call me Poe.” he explains, with a warm smile.

“Ok, Poe.”

You keep massaging his scalp, your fingers weaving in his hair, around his temples, his neck. Maybe you wash his hair a little too long, partly because you really want to see his fists unclench, which they eventually do. Partly because you do not mind this view of him blissed out under your fingertips. At all.

“Ok.” You tap his shoulders again, softly, guiding him up and wrapping a cloth around his hair before any drips can sneak their way down beneath the collar of his shirt.

He lets out another satisfied hum. “Thank you, that was nice.”

“It was.” you agree. Oh planets, did you actually just say that? Nope, no way out of it. You think you catch amusement blooming across his face but, kindly, he does his best to hide it.

You tousle his hair until it’s damp, then urge him quickly over to the salon chair in a vague attempt to leave your embarrassment behind. You wheel your stool up close to him.  

You begin to rotate around his head, fondling his hair with your fingers, pulling at sections with your fingers laced into his curls. You concentrate hard on looking at his hair and not right into his eyes, especially as you place your hands on either side of his face, checking the symmetry, only arms-length away. You are equally careful that your hip doesn’t press too earnestly against his shoulder as you stand to clip the strands you can’t reach seated.

You snip conscientiously away at his tresses, very aware that his eyes meet yours with interest whenever you are in front of him, even through the mirror when you’re not.

Finally, he asks, charmingly enough to just about get away with it: “Would it be unprofessional if I said you were pretty?”

Typical flyboy. Still, butterflies bloom in the pit of your stomach. And you can’t help but smile brightly.

“Well. You might not want to risk it while I’m holding sharp implements.” You toss him a good-humoured look, just a hint of flirtation in it.

He smiles warmly, fluttering his eyelashes innocently at you. “Noted. I’ll tell you later.”

There are those butterflies again. Damn, he’s cute. You finish him up and brush the stray hairs from his shoulders and his neck with your palms. Finally, you hold the mirror up to the back of his head, awaiting his verdict.

“How do you think I look?”

“In my professional opinion?”

“Of course.” his eyes glint with humour.

“Emphatically not bad.”

“I’ll take that.” He thanks you, picks up his leather jacket, throws it on. Then he winks at you and strolls out. You can’t help but smile to yourself as you sweep up.

Haircut Two

Maker, you are pleased to have him back in your chair again. It seems like it has been some time, and his hair is looking particularly overgrown. Washing his hair is a ritual you could certainly get used to. You enjoy the way he melts more readily into the chair this time.

A little more prepared and relaxed than last time yourself, you make the usual small talk, but he responds quickly, turning the questions back on you before you can even think. 

“So, how did you end up becoming a rebel hairdresser?”

Is that even a thing? You scrunch your nose. Does he really wanna know?

“I wanted to be a pilot.” you laugh, cringing slightly, combing through his hair.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but this isn’t a common route into the profession.” He jokes warmly.

Your shoulders shake in gentle laughter.

You hum, thinking. “Yeah. I didn’t have the resources to go to flight school. So, I trained as a hairdresser. I was good at it, and would you believe...” you flick your tongue out over your lip as you trim the hair around his ears. He turns his head to listen more intently and you reposition him with a firm hand, again. “I told you to stop moving.”

“Sorry”, he smirks.

“Well, I caught the attention of the senate, over on Hadnor, a fringe group of dissenters in the diplomatic unit who were loyal to the Resistance.”

He is about to turn his head towards you again. He’s such an attentive person, you are learning- it’s only natural to him. “Stay still.” you remind him with a chuckle. “Well, they needed someone to pose as a hairdresser to the elite and gain access to the secrets of the upper echelons. I wanted to help.”

“Espionage? You were a spy?” he asks, clearly shocked, but he doesn’t look at you this time.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice tighter, thinner. “I spent 10 years making monsters look beautiful and learning their secrets, trying to advance the Resistance from within... and trying not to get caught.”

“Then what happened?”He is almost afraid to ask.

“I got caught.” There is a pause before you continue. “Three years passed, then I got out.” your voice is heavy, the glaring omission of what they did to you in those three years not something he wants to push.

“I’m sorry.” He turns towards you again and you move his head back wordlessly.

You tug in a steadying breath. “It’s fine. I just wish I could be more useful around here but I...” you shrug “Let’s just say my skills were cutting hair and spying, and I’m not ready yet to go back to spying.”

“Haircuts are useful.”

He’s kind. He has a good heart.

“Really, they are. If my hair grew over my eyes how would I fly my X-Wing?”

“You fly an X-Wing?” you tease, sarcastically. “That’s never come up.”

You fish out a lock of hair that has fallen under his collar, your fingers brushing his neck, his collarbone. He shivers from the contact.

“What about your dream of being a pilot?” he turns his head towards you.

“Poe, if you turn your head to look at me one more time...” you chide.

But you meet his eyes and find them impossibly soft. “I just like looking at you.”

You are taken aback. “Yeah well,” you dismiss, not quite knowing how to react, “I’m sure you like having two ears even more. Eyes front, Dameron.”

“Yes, maam.” he turns his head, a smile ghosting at the corner of his lips.

You try to take a few deep breaths until your heart stops hammering.

Haircut three

The next time you have him in your chair, he’s in a playful mood. Ok, an even more playful mood.

“Same again?” you ask him.

His face turns thoughtful, ridiculous. “I want a sexy haircut. What will make me look sexy?”

He raises a suggestive eyebrow at you. Unf. He’s sexy already. “You know, I think you’re covered.” you admit.

“Yeah?” Oh, he looks a little too pleased with himself now; what have you done?

For once he keeps his eyes front, head still. “Stop looking at me.” he teases, with a deliciously warm smile, mock indignant.  

“I’m cutting your hair, I have to look at you.” you giggle, the sound music to his ears.

“Not like that, you don’t.” he bites his lip, faux pornographic, grunting for effect.

“I think I’m being misrepresented here.” you laugh heartily, from your belly, resting the crook of your arm on his shoulder as you fold forward with mirth.

It has been a long time since you felt this light.

You let him flirt with you this time. You even flirt back.

But maybe that was cruel, because when he slips his jacket back on and asks you bashfully, adorably, if you’d like to grab a drink with him sometime, and you say no, his face sags with disappointment. His pretty eyes look wounded.

And it baffles you why you would say no to this sweet, warm, funny, brave, and handsome man. But your “no, I’m sorry, I...” slips out before you can think it through. It comes out before you realise quite what you’ve done.

Years of espionage, years of pretending to be someone else, had meant that there was never a “you” for anyone to get close to. And there was never anyone you could trust even if there had been.

Still, as he masks his disappointment and walks out of the salon, you realise suddenly, that maybe you want that person to be him.

It’s a shame, then, that you’ve blown it.

Haircut four

The next time, you are surprised to see him. Not only because of how you left it, but also because word on base travels fast.

He hadn’t had a good day. The mission hadn’t panned out. He’d lost people. 

He catches you sweeping, just as you’re about to shut things down for the night. You can see instantly that his face is full of distress. His body sags like a fire-gutted building.

“Poe?” you greet him, concerned, and he doesn’t respond. That concerns you further.

Instead, he just shuffles his feet on the floor like he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing here.

“Sorry, I should just go...”

“Wait.” you grab his wrist. “What do you need?”

“I came here to.. Can you...” he isn’t going to continue but your eyes encourage him. “Can you wash my hair?”

Comfort. He wants comfort, you realise. You’ll happily, readily give it to him. 

“Sure I can. Sure. Sit down right now. Lie back.”

You do everything you can to soothe him, make him feel calm.

As your hands move through his hair, the warm water, the scents, and -you think- your touch, comforting him, you gently probe. “Do you... want to talk about it?”

He’s silent for a moment. Then he sits up abruptly, water dripping down on to his neck, over his face- not that he cares. You wonder if maybe he’s crying, but amidst all of the water you can barely tell.

Quickly, you grab a towel and roll it, pass it around his neck, at least to catch some of the water. Coming to kneel in front of his chair, you place your hand firmly over his, giving it a squeeze. He responds by running his fingers over the ridges of your knuckles, his focus intent, eyes downcast, solemn.

“Poe...”

He starts to speak, but not about what you expect.

“Why did you say no?”

“What?”

He is quick to backtrack. “You know what, never mind, this was stupid. I should.. I just need to be alone.”

And he unrolls the towel and turns to sweep out.

“Wait!”

He pauses in his tracks but he doesn’t turn back to you.

“I... I don’t know why I said no, Poe. I.. I wanted to say yes.”

“You wanted to say yes?” he repeats. Then he nods to himself, and continues his path to the door.

You sigh heavily, think about chasing after him for a moment. But then you simply mop up the pools of water he left behind him and close up.

Haircut five

He steps into the salon looking a lot more like himself, you are pleased to see. A steady smile on his face, a brightness to his eyes, more energy to his gait.

“It’s too soon for a haircut, Poe. You’ll be bald if I...”

“I know.” His eyes are playful.

“What’s going on?” you ask, intrigued and mystified.

“Come with me.” he grins “I wanna give you a flying lesson.”

Your jaw drops. “What? Don’t be ridiculous!”

“I know you want to say yes.” his eyes dance with enthusiasm.

“Poe...” you try to protest. Although you are half-smiling, he can tell you’re still hesitant.

“You can trust me.” he promises, taking both your hands in his. “Just let me make this dream come true for you. Then the next. And the next.”

You want to cry with how sweet, how precious he is.

“I don’t know...” you tease. “You? Flying?! Are you any good at that?”

He pulls his hair back from his forehead. “No hair in my eyes, thanks to my favourite hairdresser. And I’m pretty sexy.”

“How is that relevant?”

He snakes his hands around your waist, bringing his face close to yours.

“Oh, it’ll be relevant.” he says seductively, pumping his eyebrows.

You look up at him, this ridiculous man with hope all over his face.

And you might just have to say yes.

[gumnut-logic]

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Always in a hurry, damit. Language warning on this one.

For @soniabigcheese cos she did it.

-o-o-o-

All three brothers sat down on the lounge, Scott directly next to Virgil and Gordon one seat over.

They were hovering.

He shunted the reason why aside.

Staring up at his holographic brother, he found himself missing John in the flesh. Instinct wanted to draw his family close and keep them safe from whatever the hell was going on, but John, as always, was far, far above them.

Alone.

“Can I tell him now?”

Well, maybe not quite alone.

“Eos!”

“It’s not fair to Virgil. You tell me to be honest and open and yet you treat your brother like this? Not very consistent at all.”

Virgil stared at John and his brother suddenly appeared uncomfortable.

Turquoise eyes darted to Virgil’s left...and back.

On Virgil’s right, Gordon sat up straight. “What is going on?”

Already barely composed, Virgil continued to stare up at John as the astronaut fidgeted before sighing and letting his shoulders drop. His eyes darted once again to Virgil’s left and the engineer knew who was truly hiding something.

Honestly, he had had his suspicions. Scott had been acting weird since London and the roof.

Hovering.

Was it logical to avoid looking at his eldest brother? As if not seeing eye to eye could avoid discovering something he knew he really didn’t want to know.

But he did.

“What did you find out?” The words were pushed through his larynx and his vocal cords creaked.

“Virgil-“

He spun where he sat. “For fuck’s sake, Scott, what is it?!”

Shocked silence as blue eyes widened. One advantage of being the sensible and stable one was when you did crack, it had impact.

Calmer. “What are you hiding from me?”

Young and flippant. “It’s quite simple really-“

“Eos!” John’s tone was sharp enough to cut cahelium.

Virgil turned back to his holographic brother. “No, John. Let her speak.”

“Virgil-“

He cut his brother off. “Eos, report!”

“Okay.” Her high-pitched voice was almost eager with glee. “I found something. It was quite a challenge. Triple layer encryption, hidden, not even on a hard-wired network. I had to sneak in on a mobile connection and decode onsite.” She was obviously quite proud of herself. “John was impressed.”

John obviously wasn’t quite as impressed right now, his arms folded across his chest, his expression both sad and pissed off at the same time.

Virgil forced what little calm he had left. “What did you find, Eos?”

“Notes. From a meeting. Not very legible. Her handwriting is atrocious.”

“Whose?”

“Councillor Wainwright. Honestly, her phone is a mess.”

“You hacked a World Security Council phone?”

“Hmph. Hacked is such a human concept. I simply visited.”

He refused to look at Scott. Refused. “What did you find?”

“A photo of notes. A short list of International Rescue’s vulnerabilities.”

“Vulnerabilities?” Gordon was definitely stoking a fire. Virgil was unsure whether the note-taker or a couple of brothers were going to be the ones roasted. “What vulnerabilities?”

A photograph of scrawled notes appeared beside John. Paper was rare and obviously used for security reasons, but to then photograph it and turn it digital…someone was an idiot.

Virgil frowned at the barely legible handwriting. The letters ‘IR’ were scribbled at the top, Five Tracy names scrawled below, each crossed out except for Virgil. Scott’s and Gordon’s name had the word military in capital letters next to them. ‘Space’ was written next to John and Gordon.

Further down the page, almost at random in relation to the rest of the scribble, was the word ‘Vulnerabilities’. Underneath was a list. A very short list.

1.     Popular opinion

2.     Political standing

3.     Virgil Tracy

Something else was scrawled next to his name, but it was illegible having been crossed out quite vehemently.

Virgil swallowed. “Who wrote this?”

It was John who spoke up, his voice wary and a little hesitant. “Handwriting matches Wainwright’s.”

“Why?”

“It’s bullshit, Virgil.” Finally, Scott said something.

Virgil turned to face him. “Yet, you hid it from me.” The hovering. The visit to Jack.

Jack.

“You told Jack.”

“Of course, I told Jack.” Scott threw himself to his feet, obviously unable to contain himself any longer. “It’s a threat from the government. Our own government, Virgil.”

John cut in. “No, it is from one councillor.”

“One bitch.” Gordon was on his feet now, echoing his eldest brother with his furious energy, unable to keep still. “Wainwright obviously has an agenda. An agenda that doesn’t care about those sixty-three people!”

Virgil flinched.

“We have no proof that Wainwright is connected to today’s incident.”

“Circumstances disagree, John.” Gordon was glaring up at his holographic brother. “I find it hard to believe that Thunderbird Two’s scanners being messed with and the resultant media shitstorm is not related to this. Too much of a coincidence. They’re targeting Virg to take us down!”

“Gordon!” Scott’s voice cut across the room.

Virgil let it all wash over him. He was being used, he was a vulnerability, but that wasn’t the important thing.

Not important.

Not important.

He pushed himself to his feet. Gravity seemed more of an opponent than usual. He straightened up, looking up at his holographic brother as if he was some deity offering answers.

“Why?”

“You’re not a vulnerability, Virgil.” John’s voice was soft and concerned.

Virgil had no patience for it and waved it away. “No, why are they doing this? Why does someone, Wainwright or whoever, want us out of the picture?”

“Because they want to replace us.” Eos’ voice was far too chirpy and bright for the topic of conversation.

“Eos, tact.”

“What? Oh. Sorry. Please let me rephrase.” A moment that allowed John’s lips to thin just that touch more, the tightly strung muscles in his shoulders prominent enough to stand out in relief despite his uniform. “There is a possibility that the World Security Council is seeking expressions of interest from business entities interested in providing first responder services for the government.”

Virgil blinked.

Beside him, Scott shifted. “What? John? Explain.” Virgil didn’t have to look at Scott to know the frown would be cavernous.

Their space brother sighed. “Eos has tracked a number of gaps in calendars, meetings that didn’t happen, several coincidences that are far too coincidental to be genuine. Lady Creighton-Ward Senior contacted me about half an hour ago with some information that confirmed my suspicions.” There was something in John’s expression.

Scott frowned. “What aren’t you telling me?”

John looked down a moment as if steeling himself. “You know Lady Penelope identified several upper echelon GDF suspects following the Janus incident.” His eyes latched onto Scott’s as if in challenge. “What you don’t know is that we have had them under surveillance since that time.”

“We?” Scott’s tone was cold.

“IR security.” John’s tone was unapologetic. “Kayo, Lady Penelope and myself. There were things we needed to know.”

“And I didn’t?”

“Not at the time.” John shrugged, but Virgil could see it was forced nonchalance. There would be discussions later, but to be honest, Virgil hadn’t expected anything less.

Virgil ignored Scott. “Who is involved?”

“Wainwright, General Strond and the CEO of Robotics Industries, Jim Lucas. Eos has only just now collected enough data to confirm the connection. Lady Creighton-Ward’s advice backed up the conclusion.”

Scott was a pent-up explosion waiting to happen beside him.

Virgil just felt numb. He held out a hand. “So, these people want us replaced. They’ve found our...weaknesses...” Gordon literally snarled beside him. “...and they have succeeded in shutting us down. The question remains...why?!” And if that last syllable came out louder and a little more desperate, so be it.

John shrugged. “As Parker said, ‘Power’.” His brother frowned and looked off to his left, a hand poking hidden buttons. “And, I suspect, control. We are free agents, not under any direct chain of command. We are an unpredictable variable. You do realise how much power we can wield, Virgil?”

Virgil let his shoulders drop. Power, other than to help people, really wasn’t something he cared about, but John was right. The IR logo inspired a lot.

Or it used to.

He sat back down on the sofa and rubbed his face with his hands.

His military brothers remained standing. Gordon started pacing, the aquanaut’s furious energy spilling over onto the floorboards.

Scott looked like he wanted to stab someone.

Virgil was busy not thinking about the sixty-three people he had killed just because some asshole wanted to control-

“So, what do we do?” Gordon was standing almost on Scott’s toes. “We can’t just sit here.”

“I’m aware of that, Gordon.”

“Then what’s the plan?” Russet-brown eyes stared up at their eldest brother and Virgil found himself hoping to god that the commander had an answer.

“We shutdown, lick our wounds and bide our time.” Gordon opened his mouth and Scott held up his hand. “For now.” It was firm and declared no argument.

Gordon let out a disgusted sound, but deflated.

Scott turned back to John. “Thunderbird Five, you will send me a full report...immediately.”

“FAB.”

“Gordon, contact Brandy. Enquire with caution, but find out if WASP has any information on the topic. We do not want to alert those involved that we know what we know. Be subtle.”

Gordon grunted. “I can be subtle.”

Scott’s mutter was non-committal. “Virgil, you need rest-“

“No. I’ll be in the hangars repairing Two.” He stood up and turned towards the elevator.

“Virgil-“

“NO!” Both his hands were up, defensive. “No, Scott, I’m...I’m just going to fix my ‘bird.” He didn’t give his brother any more time to protest, spinning on his heels and stalking out of the room.

He didn’t bother to look back.

-o-o-o-

Next

[revengeoftheantichrist]

What Kind of Man

Warnings: Period Typical Sexism, Obsession, drug use

AO3  <<<Previous

Chapter 3: Hook, Line and Sinker

Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men had a reputation. It was arguably one of the best boys’ schools in Europe. Producing politicians, poets and playwrights. One could rub shoulders with royals and nobility, all in the same classroom. The boys of Hawthorne also had a reputation. They were known for their intellect and excellent sportsmanship. Yet Hawthorne was mostly famous for the libertine lifestyle their boys lived. Michael Langdon was their poster boy. There was no other man in the world that emulated the libertine life more than he did. Almost every girl in the local village had a story. Hawthorne’s Grand Tour, like its education, was legendary. There was no better way to pursue life’s pleasures than travelling through Europe’s cultural epicentres, all in the guise of the well-rounded education that every respectable young man should have. The boys spent their years at the school looking forward to it, each new year wanting it to be bigger and better than those that came before them. The school’s unofficial motto was ‘work hard, play hard’; and god did those boys play. The expectations for this year were high as Michael Langdon was head boy. He had a reputation, in order to maintain it, he would have to deliver the most grand and exciting tour of all. And deliver he did. Nights in Paris were spent reclined in opium dens. The drug filled haze encouraging rambunctious behaviour. Michael wouldn’t remember the names of the men and women that spent the night in his arms. The days were spent hungover, shopping or in museums. Michael liked to show off his amazing French, wooing the natives of the city. Geneva was spent indulging in chocolate, fondue and absinthe. Some nights Michael had to be carried back to the lodgings, having indulged far too much in the ‘green fairy’ to even keep himself up. He took a liking to the opera singers in Florence, the wine flowed free and so did Michael’s morals. Not a care in the world for what others thought of him, he was here to indulge and indulge he did. Venice was known as the crown jewel of the tour; this was the city that all gentlemen boasted about in conversation. This was going to be the best city and Michael had to impress. //// Michaels roommate in Venice was Gabriel Y/LN, a boy he’d known since they started at Hawthorne, yet knew nothing about outside the school walls; he didn’t care to. As they both started to unpack for the week, Michael noticed a picture frame on Gabriel’s desk. “What’s that on your desk?” asked Michael. “Hmm? Oh this?” Gabriel replied, picking up the picture frame. “It’s a picture of my dear little sister, Y/N.” “why do you carry around a picture of your sister?” Michael laughed; the boys rarely spoke of female relatives. “I bring it with me to remind me to actually do some work, I think she’d be much better suited to a full-time education than me, clever girl really,” laughed Gabriel. Its was even rarer for the boys to speak highly of their female relatives. Michael took the picture and studied the girl. Images of people smiling were rare, so he was surprised to see her soft lips turned up in a smile. Her hair was styled perfectly around her face, adding to the softness of the image. She was different from the girls that he spent his nights with. The image instilled a hunger in him that he could not explain, for now he would be insatiable. She was not as easily obtainable as the women before. The people around Michael would fall at his feet if they had to, but the girl in the picture seemed like a different story, a challenge of sorts. He couldn’t simply walk up to her and whisk her away, he’d have to work for it, pull every possible string he could to even look at her in person. Michael loved a challenge, there was nothing in the world he couldn’t have; as unattainable this girl would seem, he would have her, whether she liked it or not. “I’m sure your sisters spoken for, there must be plenty of suitors in that village of yours,” Michael said, handing the frame back to Gabriel. “you’d think so,” sighed Gabriel. “My father is a picky man and wont just marry her off to anyone. He wants a secure future for her, he thinks the boys in the village can’t provide for her. I agree with him, she’s my only sister and I want her to be well. But she doesn’t help herself either,” explained Gabriel. “what do you mean by that?” “well, a lot of the potential matches think she too well read. She can do all the tasks expected of a young lady. Like her embroidery, its quite well known in the local area. It could rival the artwork in these museums, it’s so complex and beautiful. But she has quite the sharp tongue and well, I guess gentlemen do not want any arguments in the home, or a wife with more common sense than them,” Gabriel finished. “Oh, I’m sure she’ll find someone,” said Michael. This was perfect. A girl that was unspoken for was easier to get a hold of than one that was spoken for. Michael knew exactly what strings he had to pull; use the friendship he had with Gabriel, build a rapport with her father and come across as the perfect match. It would be a long game but one he was willing to play. For the rest of the trip, he looked for women with the same hair colour, or similar features. If he was intoxicated enough, their faces would blur, and he could imagine her in their place. Too busy in all the exciting activities, Gabriel did not notice that the picture of his sister had gone missing. This was a craving like no other, he would do anything he could to satiate himself, even if it was temporary. //// The boys’ return to Hawthorne was a grand affair. It was a party hosted by alumni, to welcome the boys into their ranks. A chance to boast about their trip and secure jobs and positions in the upper echelons of society. Michael didn’t need to worry about job security, he had been a count since he was 16. His father, Count Lucien Langdon, had died before he was born. His uncle Nathaniel ‘Tate’ Langdon had taken over the estate, until his untimely death when Michael was 16, leaving him with everything. Michael did not undermine the importance of the event. As all past Alumni were invited, Gabriel and Y/Ns father would also be there. This was Michaels chance to make an impression and show him that he was better than every other motherfucker in the room. As the boys were being welcomed back by their fathers and uncles, Michael stood in the background for he had no one here to greet him, to welcome him home. Before he could spend too long wallowing, Gabriel called him over. “Father, may I introduce you to Count Michael Langdon, head boy and my dormmate for the past few years,” said Gabriel. Michael extended his hand for a firm handshake, “Pleasure to finally meet you sir, I am Count Michael Langdon, but for tonight I am a close friend of your son.” Michael made eye contact with him and knew he had him. The rest of the evening would be spent drinking, sharing stories and discussing current affairs with Gabriel’s father. “so, Michael,” started Mr. Y/LN, “any siblings?” Michael put his drink down and replied, “no, unfortunately I am an only child. My father passed just before my birth, and my uncle died childless. I am aware that Gabriel has a younger sister.” “ah, so you’ve heard of my Y/N. Yes, she’s not much younger than you, she’s reached a marriable age now and maybe I can find a suitable gentleman tonight. But I won’t bore you with such trivialities, I’m sure you’ve been betrothed since birth.” Michael smiled. ‘Perfect’, he thought to himself. “a common misconception actually, unfortunately I lost my parents before any such arrangement could be made. These days many are not willing to tie their daughters to a young man without a proper guardian,” explained Michael. Mr. Y/LNs eyes widened in shock and curiosity and Michaels grin grew.

Hook, line and sinker. //// This was easier than Michael thought. I didn’t take many more meetings for Gabriel’s father to suggest Michael and Y/Ns union. Michael would be the knight in shining armour that would ensure a secure future for the young lady. Her brother was overjoyed that a man that he considered a dear friend would marry his sister. The union also opened up business opportunities for the Y/LN family, with the Langdon name backing them up in any future venture, they’d be mad to refuse. He hadn’t met her yet. She was always busy with some other engagement when he was in the area. She never really left the village. He had met her friend in London, making sure to leave a good enough impression that would get back to her. He had caught one glimpse of her, six moths before the wedding; Michael had gone to hand deliver the white fabric for the wedding dress. She had passed by him in the village square, chatting away with some friends, not even sparing him a glance. He inhaled as she walked past; she smelled of honey and jasmine, sweet and intoxicating. That one look was all it took for the fire to ignite in Michaels belly. He thought of her that night, as he used his hands to satisfy himself, wishing they were hers. //// The weather was perfect on the day of his wedding. Storms and clouds were what Michael enjoyed. He did not enjoy churches, but it was a small concession to make in the grand scheme of things. He watched as the doors opened, he felt the hesitation from the veiled figure that was drifting towards him. She still hadn’t looked at him when she reached the alter; did she not know that men and women would kill to even get a glimpse of him? He lifted her veil, her eyes finally drifting up to his. He heard her breath hitch and watched her eyes widen. That was the reaction he was hoping for. He finally took her in, her face illuminated by a sliver of sunlight that had broken through the clouds. The picture he had stolen did her no justice, no camera or artist could capture when he saw. He was just as captivated as she was with him, albeit with a little more control. Her hands were soft and warm as he removed her glove to place the ring; he had dreamed of these hands for 18 months, resisting the urge to kiss her palms and fingertips in front of the whole village. The ceremony ended with a customary kiss; the feel of her soft lips sparked thoughts that would make the angels in the stained glass turn away in disgust.

Finally

He had her and he was not going to let go.

Next>>>

[likecastle]

Witcher Noir AU, pt 15

More Witcher noir AU! Previous parts here.

This one’s a little long, folks! Whew, so many twists and turns! But it’s going somewhere, I promise!

Yennefer tells her driver to take them home—her home. Geralt glances up at her, surprised, but she looks back at him impassively.

“I can’t,” Geralt says. “I’ve got to—”

“Is that any way to return the favor I just did you?” Yennefer asks archly.

“Thank you,” Geralt replies pointedly. “But, Yen, Cirilla’s out there somewhere, and if I don’t—”

“You’ve spent the last several years pretending that child doesn’t exist,” Yennefer cuts in. “You don’t get to use her as an excuse to play the martyr now that it’s convenient to you.”

Geralt recoils as if she’s struck him. The shame cuts deeper than any blow from Stregobor’s men. Yennefer knows why he walked away, back then. Cirilla was better off without someone like him in her life. Even now, he isn’t sure he’s the best person for her, but he’s the only one she’s got. “She wasn’t in danger then,” he grinds out.

“Well, you’ll be no good to her now if you’re half dead.” Yennefer looks aloof, but Geralt recognizes the subtle working of her jaw as a sign of profound fury. “You need a doctor, or you’ll be in no fit state to help anyone.”

Geralt glares down at his fists where they’re clenched in his lap. He’s been through worse, he wants to point out, but doesn’t.

“I’m with Yennefer on this one,” Jaskier volunteers cautiously, and Geralt shoots him a mutinous glance. Instead of having the desired effect, the look seems to spur Jaskier on. “Really,” he continues, “I know you can’t see yourself, but you look a fright.”

Between the dust and dirt of the warehouse and his own sweat and blood from the interrogation, Geralt has to admit he’s seen better days. He hurts all over, but that’s nothing new. His own comfort is nothing compared to Cirilla’s safety.

Jaskier’s voice softens slightly as he says, “You don’t want meet Cirilla for the first time in years looking like you just lost a prizefight in a gutter, do you? You’ll scare the daylights out of her.”

Geralt has to admit that it’s been long enough that Cirilla might not even remember him, and the last thing he wants to do is frighten her. And Yennefer is right, he’ll be of no use to her if he can’t defend her when they do meet. “Fine,” Geralt mutters, unable to bring himself to look at either of them.

“I’m so glad we’re all agreed,” Yennefer says, her sarcastic tone making it perfectly clear she would’ve had her way regardless of what either of them thought about it.

They ride the rest of the way to Yennefer’s place in relative silence. Jaskier makes a few attempts at small talk, but Yennefer quashes each overture succinctly. Geralt watches Jaskier slowly deflate under Yennefer’s disapproval, until, finally, Jaskier slumps back against the seat with a defeated air and resigns himself to staring out the window. He’s never seen the singer look so dejected—but then, Geralt reminds himself, he doesn’t really know Jaskier at all.

When they reach Yennefer’s brownstone, she orders Geralt up to one of her guest rooms and goes to call the doctor. Jaskier follows Geralt upstairs and leans on the door frame, apparently unwilling to come all the way in.

“Looks like Yennefer’s done well for herself,” Jaskier says, glancing at a painting Geralt happens to know is the original, a very convincing copy of which hangs in one of the city’s art museums.

“It wasn’t always like this,” Geralt replies, remembering a time when she was living week-to-week in a cold water flat above a pawn broker’s. But Yennefer wouldn’t thank him for sharing her personal history to a near stranger. And anyway, it’s true. Yennefer has done well for herself. She’s built her business from nothing, surviving on her wits alone at times when nobody else had her back. She has everything she ever wanted—or, well, almost everything.

To distract himself from his thoughts, Geralt struggles out of his jacket. Pain flares in his ribs, the bruising there not helped by his rough treatment at the police station. When he goes to loosen the knot of his tie, he hisses as it jostles his throat, still tender from where Stregobor’s goon hit him.

“Let me,” Jaskier says, and before Geralt can protest, he’s stepped into the room and is crowding into Geralt’s space, nimble fingers working at his tie.

This close, Geralt can still smell the faint tang of his own aftershave on Jaskier’s skin, comingled with the scent of sweat and dust. He tries not to let it work on him, thought it’s hard to resist. But more than he wants to kiss Jaskier, he wants to know he can trust him. So he hasn’t told you who he really is? Stregobor had said, with obvious pleasure. Geralt hates himself for letting Stregobor put the question into his head, but now that it’s there, Geralt can’t stop thinking about it.

“There,” Jaskier says, finally undoing the knot. He tugs gently, and Geralt’s tie slithers out of his collar, sending a shiver up his spine. Jaskier undoes the top button of Geralt’s shirt and lets out a low breath at the mottled skin there. “That’s going to be quite a bruise.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees. And then, because he can’t help himself, he adds, “You don’t seem too much worse for wear.”

“Who, me?” Jaskier takes a half step back, self-consciously smoothing down his tousled hair. He tries for a roguish smile, but the expression falls flat. “I’m sure this will come as a surprise to you,” he says with a lightness that doesn’t reach his eyes, “but not all threats are physical.”

Geralt frowns. “What does that mean?”

Jaskier turns away from him, refolding Geralt’s jacket so it lies neatly over the back of a chair and dropping his tie into one of the pockets. “I didn’t tell him anything, I promise.” He looks up sharply, his blue eyes fierce as he meets Geralt’s gaze. “I don’t care what else you think of me, but please believe that I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Geralt feels another pang of shame that he ever doubted Jaskier, even for a second. Jaskier’s trusted Geralt much further than he should—much further than Geralt deserves—and Geralt’s made a poor return on his faith, getting Jaskier into trouble and mistrusting him based on nothing more than the word of a known liar. But as Jaskier’s words sink in, that twist of guilt is replaced with a cool feeling of dread. “What do you mean,” he repeats slowly, “not all threats are physical?”

Jaskier is silent for a moment, smoothing his hand over Geralt’s jacket again, then sets about straightening objects on the table that are in no need of tidying. He can’t seem to stop himself from moving, like the position of the ashtray on the table is all that’s keeping him from making a break for it. Finally, he lets out a deep breath. “First of all, you should know that Jaskier’s only a stage name.”

It’s not quite the damning admission Geralt was expecting. “OK . . .”

“I picked it so that my family wouldn’t— You see, they’re, well—” Jaskier swallows. “I presume you’ve heard of Cintran Oil?”

Geralt blinks. “Yeah . . .” It’s only the largest oil company in the country.

Jaskier waves a hand. “Well, that’s them.”

Geralt decides it’s time to sit down, dropping down hard on the edge of the bed. Geralt’s read about the Pankratz family, of course. Countless buildings in the city bear the family’s name, from skyscrapers to churches to wings of art museums. One of the Pankratz brothers runs one of the city’s largest banks, as Geralt recalls, and he’s pretty sure another is highly placed in the government, one way or another. It’s hard to imagine Jaskier as part of the upper echelons of polite society. And, yet, perhaps it’s not quite so difficult after all. “So the secret Stregobor threatened you with is that you’re . . . rich?”

“Oh, lord, no!” Jaskier barks out a giddy laugh. “My family disowned me ages ago. Not a penny to my name, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to abandon your dreams of being a kept man.” He gives Geralt a tight smile.

“Then I don’t . . .”

Jaskier bites his lip. “They may not want anything to do with me—and believe me, the feeling is mutual—but that doesn’t mean that even the slightest whiff of scandal wouldn’t reflect poorly on them. I’ve managed to keep my distance from them for this long by making certain . . . arrangements—mostly using a stage name and staying out of any kind of trouble that might stick in the papers.” Jaskier draws in a sharp breath and lets it out slowly. “But if it gets out that I’m mixed up in something this—a murder, organized crime—it could do real damage.”

“If they disowned you,” Geralt asks, “what should it matter to you?”

“You don’t understand what they’re like.” Jaskier shakes his head. “After I first left, they had me followed. They bribed people in my life to inform on me, people I was—close to.” Jaskier’s bright eyes are uncharacteristically dull. “It got to the point that I didn’t know who I could trust, who I could . . . be myself around. It, ah, wasn’t good, for a while there. I thought I would—

“But,” he continues, and the smile he gives Geralt is pure force of will, “around that time, a man approached me and told me he could arrange things so that my family wouldn’t bother me again. He’d give me new documentation, set me up in a new place where they wouldn’t ever find me. All I had to do was tell him things—about the people I saw at the club, conversations I overheard between Calanthe’s guests. Nothing that would put me in any danger, he said. So I made a deal.” He looks at Geralt now with an expression he can’t quite fathom, some mixture of defiance and regret. “It was easy, really. And it meant I could live on my own terms for the first time in—well, ever.”

Geralt considers Jaskier, weighing his words carefully. This does explain a few things about Jaskier’s initial reaction, when Geralt showed up at the club that first day. “Do you know who he was, this man?”

Jaskier shrugs. “He called himself Sigi Reuven, but I always assumed that wasn’t his real name. To tell the truth, at the time, I didn’t even care whose side he was on. I just knew that I couldn’t go on the way I’d been living, and he was offering me a way out.”

“And you’re still in contact with him?”

“Less now that the war’s over, but yes. Every few weeks, we’ll meet up at a park or a café, and I’ll give him my latest update. It’s not much. Honestly, I doubt I’ve ever told him a single thing of any value, but . . . anyway, now you know.”

“And Stregobor,” Geralt says, “he knew about this Reuven character?”

Jaskier nods. “And about my family, although that’s more of an open secret. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t know about that already. I was rather . . . infamous, in my younger days.” A rueful smile twists his lips. “But anyway, yes. Stregobor started by threatening to tell my parents where I was, what I’d gotten mixed up in, how disappointed they’d be if I besmirched the family name.” He rolls his eyes. “And then, when that didn’t work, he let it slip that he knew how I’d gotten away from them in the first place, and what would happen if it came out I’d been—well, spying, I suppose you’d call it. But, Geralt, I—” Jaskier tries once again to smile at Geralt, but the expression falters this time. “I don’t care what Stregobor does to me, or Sigi, either. Whatever happens, it’s worth it if you and Ciri are safe. I couldn’t—I would never—”

There are tears brimming in Jaskier’s eyes, though he’s trying his damnedest to blink them back.

“Hey,” Geralt says. Jaskier looks at him with a wild, aching sort of desperation, and though the distance separating them is only a few feet, it feels vast. “C’mere.” Jaskier comes to stand beside the bed, and Geralt takes one of Jaskier’s hands in his own, presses their joined hands to his lips. “I won’t let that happen.”

He knows better than to make promises he can’t keep, but he wants to keep it, desperately, and that’s got to count for something.

*

part sixteen

[border-spam]

AU Troy Character Timeline

Right, so I saw an incredible breakdown of Troy’s mental journey/state of ego last night ( that I’ll see if I can get permission to post at some point ) that really kicked my confidence into overdrive for writing out a definitive timeline for the version of him I write about in drabbles/fics etc as it was so amazingly similar. This isn’t complete, it couldn’t be because man I have a lot of stuff for this guy, but I hope it’s interesting for people maybe looking for a somewhat logical bunch of HC content that works well with the info we were given ingame. 

Writing this was like doing a jigsaw puzzle. Except ten pieces are missing, and you have 2 dominos and a Mrs Cupcake card instead. If you like any of this, feel free to use it. I’ll eventually expand on it in my own works.

Pre Pandora Era - 28  years pre BL3

Severe self esteem / image issues from very early childhood. Leda’s death left Typhon both terrified of Tyreen and desperately paranoid about her safety, leaving Troy to feel far less valued and loved as he found himself constantly failing to compete for attention from his remaining parent. 

Typhon never outright called Troy a freak, but he overheard plenty of discussions with his mother and with Tyreen explaining why he was so sick all the time, why he looked the way he did, why he was broken. He never discussed these, they festered in the back of his mind for the rest of his life. 

Strived from an early age to be useful, being useful gave him the belief he was valued, and a “Great job kid!” from his father felt good enough that it could almost replace feeling loved.

Misses his mother intensely from the day she died, for the rest of his life. Had no one else to have platonic intimacy with bar his sister, which never felt as freely given as with his mother. 

Developed an extremely crippled sense of social behavior and rules. The only people the Twins could interact with till they landed on Pandora ( which I HC was between 18 -19 ) were each other, and their Father. 

Left alone on a giant empty planet with no one to tell them no, or instill an understanding of social rules to them regarding others, left them with only a feeling of personal value for each other. This is an extremely dangerous state of mind for any person who will need to function in a social structure, especially a person in power. 

Had it hammered into them over and over by their father that the galaxy outside their home was filled with murderers. Animals. Bandit filth. Not like them, not like their parents, horrible, vicious things that would kill them the second they could. 

Internalised that to the point where it was a crucial part of their development of self as children. The twins would genuinely struggle to comprehend any other human they met was a person, because they were told their whole developing lives that no one they would meet bar their father would be.

 Pre COV - 8 years pre BL3

Lands on Pandora with Tyreen. Woefully underprepared and worried sick, didn’t want to leave Nekro but had no other choice but to go with his sister or die. Misses his father immediately, but avoids talking about it, knowing it will cause an argument.

Disliked that their father had kept them on Nekro intensely, but not enough to hate him the way Tyreen did. This never changed and the regret for leaving him only rotted inside him over the years. 

Very excited to finally meet new people, but his social skills are learned through watching old echos and while he can mimic them, he doesn’t understand social intricacies as well as he’d hoped. This sabotages their first few attempts to communicate with Pandoran non bandit natives. 

Comes across as weird. Stutters, not good with eye contact, awkward in body language and very unnatural in appearance. Extremely tall (6″7), very thin and sickly looking with sallow skin and dark under eyes. His missing arm and quarter of his shoulder draw far more attention than he had ever expected and he becomes instantly self conscious of the damage to his right side, strongly disliking how it’s pointed out every time they try and interact with one of these idiots.  

The twins only had the clothes they had travelled in and at this point they are pretty much rags patched together over nearly 2 decades. Didn’t understand how much appearances were going to matter, Troy had been sure he’d be able to “Mingle with the locals no problem.”, and now feels like he’s letting his sister down by failing to perform the way he’d been so sure of. They move onto the bandit clans once they get laughed out of the first small town they try to impress.

Their first few interactions with bandits have very bad results. They both get mocked a lot, Troy gets insulted even more. This is the first time in his life he’s met other men bar his father and the harsh reality that he is not like other men is really starting to hit hard. He’s monstrously tall, he has no muscle, he’s bony and sick and the bandits make very clear to him that he’s a freak.

Unable to defend himself verbally to people that don’t seem to speak a coherent language, he feels impotent and emasculated. Troy’s gift with words has always been his strong point, something he was proud of, and the bandits barely even understand what he’s saying. Any interest he’d had towards them as other people gets quashed. They clearly aren’t the same as he and Ty, they are beneath them. Savages. They aren’t people after all. His dad was right.

This is the point where he fully switches to seeing almost all others as non-persons. They aren’t people, they aren’t what he and Tyreen are, or they wouldn’t act like this in response to the twins. Any possible empathy he could have developed over time is aborted at this point, and he begins to craft the God King persona he understands he will need to disguise his shortcomings under if he’s going to be in the public’s eye.

Begins to create it piece by piece. Designs their outfits, designs his tattoos and mods, his monstrous arm, their name. 

The Calypso twins are born, and the COV with them.

Early COV Era - 7 years pre BL3

As he learns how to communicate with bandits and craft a persona for Tyreen that they will be drawn to, the COV starts to form. While the huge majority of their followers are people they see as not even being the same species as them, they do also begin to fill the higher ranks with people they are meeting over time that they see as having value. 

People with skills in categories they don’t, engineers, media experts, accountants, are drawn to the COV for the same reasons as the bandits. Opportunity, just a different sort.

Joining in the early days means having the twin’s ears, and those who have excellent ideas, or bring talent to the upper echelon that the twin's don’t have themselves, eventually end up as high priests and Saints. Department leaders (eg: Mouthpiece ). These are the kind of people he sees as people, though still not on par with himself or his sister in value. These are the few he would be capable of having functional conversations with, building simple relationships. 

He has found value in his ability to be very useful within the COV. Leading the Media and Propaganda department has given him a huge amount of power, even if he still physically feels extremely frail. 

He’s settled into living in Tyreen’s shadow, she’s the star, but he’s the puppeteer, and he’s happy for it to be that way for the most part. While she can sometimes step out of line or treat him like he’s not equal, he’s quick to remind her of her place during these outbursts, and their relationship is relatively stable.

Troy is fiercely loyal and surprisingly gentle with people he has a bond with. Despite his desperation to have meaningful connections, to be cared for and liked as himself, they don’t stay around him long.

No matter how hard he tries to give them what he thinks they want, they eventually leave, and he doesn’t understand that they are distancing themself because of how he treats other people, not them.

Troy’s complete inability to view the vast majority of people as people means he has a total lack of empathy towards almost everyone else, and this is a terrifying thing to experience first hand. He doesn’t understand this is why his “friends” leave, why they stop being friendly with him, or request to be transferred to another district.  

“Why did you do that to them..?” - “Huh? Ohhhh, relax haha, it’s just a bandit.” - “What do you mean, just a bandit, they felt that Troy, what’s wrong with you?’ - "The hell? No, it’s a b.a.n.d.i.t. It’s not like us, it’s not like you, it’s just.. you know, a bandit! Doesn’t matter what I do to em.” -shrug- - “-horrified silence-”

He blames himself each time this happens and damages his already fractured self esteem further. He can’t comprehend that his actions are the problem, because he simply has no way to understand his actions are bad. 

Each time someone close to him leaves, it’s another hit to his already crumbling self worth. He has absolutely no strong bonds with anyone bar his sister, who at times seems to barely like him, and he is genuinely desperate for validation and care from someone who likes Troy, not Calypso, not the God he pretends to be.

Every time another one of his “friends” vanishes, another of his little connections to his own humanity breaks. He gets angrier, and sadder, the God King a little more snarling and quicker to snap. It’s a sore point Tyreen tends to dig in during arguments too.

She doesn’t need anyone else, but she’s seen the near manic excitement and happiness he has when he connects with another person over a shared interest or they show actual genuine kindness towards him and not his title. If that person then becomes upset with his lack of empathy, or scared of it and abandons him, it’s another open wound on the already dying soul inside him that’s barely still breathing.

He has a complete and defined understanding of right and wrong, but those rules only apply to people, and his social development from infant to adult left his comprehension of other people so stunted, he cannot fathom that the vast majority of others are people. 

God King Calypso is a fucking nightmare to anyone bar the select view he sees as “people like him”. A feral, cackling monster, as likely to airdrop a million dollars onto a tiny village and record the reaction, as he is to rip a bandits arms off during a raid and live steam them bleeding out. All the same to him. Just background NPCs in his game. Placeholder actors in his life. They don’t matter. All that does matter is how they make him feel, or how they further his sister’s goals.

Every year that passes by leaves the God King more polished and defined, more in control a persona, while inside its impenetrable shell Troy DeLeon is slowly being suffocated by the weight of his own sins, without having the ability to understand he had been sinning at all.

God King Era - 4 years pre Bl3

By this point, Troy’s isolation is now deadly. He is a deity, worshipped by billions, with absolutely no points of human contact in his life to anchor himself to reality. No one to help him understand how to apply his sense of right and wrong to his followers, only his sister, who is even more toxic and vicious than he is.

Every day since starting the COV, he’s distanced himself further from the worshippers, the bandits, the acolytes. They are screaming war meat now, they are chips to barter with, numbers on a viewer count, flesh to tear into when he wants to feel something.

His relationship with Tyreen is crumbling. She’s quicker now to imply he’s not as important, he’s not the Siren. She’s called him a parasite in front of a merger board, a burden during a discussion with department heads. Each new crack at his inner ego only strengthens the persona further. Makes it more attention seeking, more willing to lash out at others, more vicious.

His “friends"are long gone, either fled from the behemoth the COV now is, or far away in other districts, planets, cities. The people he is close with now in working relationships are held at arms length. He doesn’t let anyone near him anymore, he’s afraid they will leave too if he does. 

The isolation pushes him further into the God King persona every day. If he’s Troy Calypso, he doesn’t NEED anyone else. The further he sinks into it, the more aggressive, the more twisted his actions become, but he doesn't see it that way. This is what his followers want, so it must be fine. Why wouldn’t it be fine to ravenously tear into heretics on livestream if 8 billion people are tuning in to watch?

He’s becoming cruel, he’s becoming vicious, but the man he was before he reached Pandora is still whispering that Tyreen is treating him wrong. That this isn’t how it was meant to be, that he’s not weak or a burden.

But listening to that voice means also having to listen to the one telling him he’s warped into something disgusting that his mother would be so let down by, that his father was right about him being a broken monstrosity. He continues to ignore it, and he loses himself further every day.

The deeper he recedes into the God King, the more he starts having nightmares, the more those whispers in the back of his mind get louder. He does what he can to ignore them, but sometimes something will set him off.

An argument with Tyreen, a momentary feeling of regret for leaving his home, a pang of loneliness. He often can’t sleep, and he knows if he starts to wonder why, clarity for the horrors he’s done could crush him.

Drugs, sex, bloodlust, he tries anything to take his mind off the intrusive thoughts that grow day by day. That he’s a failure. He’s a freak. He’s a cold blooded murder, but every now and then he’ll wake up in a cold sweat and hate himself so much that he wishes he’d never been born. 

The feeling passes very quickly as the God King shifts back into place and swallows it down, but while it’s there it’s horrific. He see’s himself from other people’s eyes for just a moment and god what has he turned into. What has he done. He’s a fucking monster.

The man he had been is so damaged under the mantle of this vicious God he’s wearing as a skin that it’s barely alive anymore, and it’s what begs him to kill it in those fleeting moments where he sees past his own facade, where he just for a second realises how many people he has hurt.

He tore his throat out a couple of years before the start of the game story in a moment of lucidity after being sleep deprived for days on end. Tyreen reached him in time when his implanted vitals tracker each twin keeps for the other alerted her to his condition, but it was close enough that he was bedridden for days after her energy transfer closed the wound.

She had been furious with him and made sure it was was kept hushed, the rest of the clergy believing he was on reprieve. Only the twins know the truth of what happened.

He never takes the collars off anymore now, the scars are still there. Convincing Tyreen that it had had happened during a nightmare when he’d left his prosthetic on by mistake was easy. Convincing himself to try and forget he’d been lucid and how it still feels like the right thing to do, is not. 

By the point the story begins, Troy is in a constant state of exhaustion, and knows deep down everything he has been through and done to others was for nothing. Tyreen doesn’t care about him the way he does her. She may never have, or she changed, he doesn’t know anymore. 

What he does know, is that he won't ever be a real God, and that the only reason he’s still alive is because he is useful. 

Maybe he should never have tried so hard to be useful.

 Phew.

I guess in a nutshell, my Troy’s greatest downfall is the God King persona.

As long as that shit is active, as long as it’s being worshipped, he’s never going to snap into reality. The reality that other people are there, that he’s been hurt so badly as a person, it’s all impossible long as he is being treated as, and believes, he is a God. 

The manic moments of clarity he has in the later stages of the COV rule are few and far between, but they eat him alive as he can’t understand why he suddenly feels so terrible, why he’s filled with such consuming remorse.

Peel the God King off the broken man underneath it and you leave him bare, confused, scared. You make him have to deal with reality, with people, with himself. That’s when you get him to show regret, and understand what he’s done, and understand what Ty has done to him.

That’s the redemption.

When he realises the game he was playing was real for billions, and suffers for it. It ends where it ends as my Troy ain’t dyin’ :P I’ll get to my rewrite eventually.  I hope to keep exploring these ideas in the future. Just desperately wish I’d as much to work with for Tyreen as I do Troy. GB YOU HEAR THAT? YOU HEAR THATTTT??

[one-leaf-grimoire]

“triad”

Chapter 3: the wager

Why do I do this to myself. Here’s a link to the Ao3 chapter.

Ch Summary: The election of the 29th Wizard King continues. MC (Lisa? Idk what to call her at this point) finally has the attention of all 9 captains, and she’s going to hold it until the votes have to be cast. Who will be the first to obtain the required 5 votes?

No one dares speak for the next few moments, the weight of my words finally sinking in slowly but surely. Then, the first person to move is William, who hasn't looked up from the table since he gave up his candidacy. He doesn't say anything, and his face barely betrays any emotion but... interest. But it's the first movement after I made my move, a movement that's opened the door for more.

Several people start talking at once, faltering once they realize that they're all talking over each other before starting up again. The only people not talking are Yami and William. William just stares at me, while Yami just closes his eyes and starts to laugh, adding to the growing dihn.

"You?"

"Ka ka, you really just said that to a room full of captains?"

"Wah! That was just out of left field!"

"Did you and Julius talk about this beforehand?"

"Hold on, hold on! Let me explain myself!"

I hold up a hand and, to my delight, they immediately fall silent. I raise an eyebrow at the weirdly-quick response, then let a smile grow on my lips. Maybe they're just afraid to offend me because I'm a widow now or something... but I'm going to spin this as hard as I can. "See? It seems like you all already hold a little bit of respect for me. After all, most of us have been comrades for years and years, right?"

A few of them nod. Charlotte doesn't speak again, but is obviously sizing up my every move. Jack leans back in his chair, tapping his long nails on the arm. Kaiser fiddles with his mustache, distracted, but doesn't take his eyes off me.

"So... how long have you had this in mind?" Fuegoleon is the next one to speak, leaning forward slightly on the table, his one flickering arm of fire reflecting off the shiny wood surface. His eyes are hardened, almost... pained? I hope I didn't actually hurt his feelings or something, but I can't blame him for being shocked by my declaration that I was serious about this. Because, at the end of the day, it wasn't premeditated. Not... technically.

"Not long at all. If you think this was something I've been plotting for a while, I'm sorry to disappoint you." I fold my hands neatly on the table, glad that I seem to be staying calm for now. "It wasn't until... well..." How do I explain that I talked to Julius in the afterlife? That's going to sound fake... So, I decide to lie. "Right before the operation with the Royal Knights. I... I told him that, if something were to happen to him, I would be willing to step up and take his place, and he agreed." That part isn't a complete lie, because he did answer "good" when I told him. "Trust me, I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't think it was in the Kingdom's best interest."

"The Kingdom's best interest..." Nozel coldly repeats my last phrase. "Care to explain why you think it is?"

"Why yes, no need to be so harsh, Nozel." I keep my smile on my face, remembering how Julius always managed to be kind to people who were pissing him off. Nozel is far from the worst people I've ever met, but his sudden hostility is off-putting, especially since he seems to be dragging Fuegoleon along with him. "I don't doubt that you or Fuegoleon would do great, but this is a tricky situation."

Fuegoleon's eyes narrow even more. "How so?"

"Well, just look around-" I point out the window. "The Kingdom is in shambles. We're more fragmented than ever before, and that makes us vulnerable to attack. I wouldn't be surprised if the Diamond or Spade Kingdoms started an invasion campaign within the next few months. We need someone who can hold this all together, and provide the most important strength we can get... continuity." I can tell I have their attentions now, so I don't let go of my audience while I have this chance.

"On average, the Wizard King rules for 17 years. Julius only got 8, not even half of what's normal. This kind of transition is rough, so the prime candidate to succeed him is someone who worked closely with him, who understands Julius's kingdom better than anyone else. And that person is me."

"So? Anyone could do that," Dorothy finally decides to speak up, a little smile on her face. I have a feeling that she's just throwing her opinion into the fray for fun. "We're all part of the upper echelon of power here, don't you think we all have a good understanding?"

"Good point!" I hold up my hands sheepishly. "But that's the thing- Now more than ever, we shouldn't remove a Captain from their post."

"What? Why not? For continuity?" Nozel asks before I can explain further. "The Wizard King has always been promoted from Captain. It's been that way for years."

"Yes, yes, I know! But think about it," I insist. "We need experienced captains in charge of their squads right now, changing anything that important right now could cause problems down the road. We need stability in our squads if we're to have stability in our Kingdom, so removing a Captain would be irresponsible."

"Irresponsible? That's a bit bold of you." Kaiser chuckles, shaking his head. "Even if you're right about this attack, do you think you'd be approved by the King?"

Uh oh. I was afraid they would bring this up. My history with Augustus is... rocky, to say the least. "Are you saying that just because I'm a commoner, Kaiser?"

He shrugs. "No... well, that's definitely a factor to bring up-"

"Well, I am a commoner. But I'm a commoner that has a more intimate understanding of this Kingdom than any of you do." I don't mean for my words to come out so harshly, but he hit a nerve that's pretty close to my heart."

Ka ka, intimate, is that because-"

Jack makes the wise decision to shut up when I shoot him a glare.

"You've all seen my magic, right?" Everyone nods one after the other, all staring at me with the same look in their eyes. For a moment, that look makes me want to shrink down into my chair and disappear under the table.

It's like... they're afraid. Not afraid of me, but afraid for me.

"Then you know... I can use Julius's time magic, because of this magic mark on my head." I point to the mark, my voice soft and metered despite the waves of emotion tumbling within me. "That's not the only thing of his I have... because of my Dyad spell, I have a shard of his soul within me. And along with that, his memories. The last part of him left on this earth... I'm the one who carries it."

Well... it's not the only thing of his left. Under the table, I let my hand drift up and ghost over my stomach softly, protectively at the reminder that I carry another shard of his life there.

"I know I'm just a commoner, part foreigner, someone who was even kicked out of the Magic Knights. But despite all that, Julius trusted me with everything he had. So... make me the Wizard King. I'm the one who can lead this Kingdom back to our peak."

There's really not much else I can say. The second phase of my plan will have to commence after the first vote... which, if everything goes according to plan, will not result in my victory. In fact, it won't result in anyone's victory. That's the wager I'm making, and there's just a few moments left before I have to spring back into action.

"Well, if we're ready, we'll vote." Marx finally steps in to keep things in order before more people can challenge me. "I'll conduct the election, since I'm er- impartial." He shoots me a glance, but I know he's just as powerless as me in this situation. "You ready?"

"But first-" I look over to see Nozel pointing at me. "You can't be in here."

My mouth nearly flops open at the order. "C-Captain Nozel, she's a candidate, she has as much right to be here as you-" 

"I don't want anyone other than those casting the votes and you to be in here-" Nozel cuts him off, his voice like ice. It takes everything I have to keep from wincing- his words hurt just like the icicle I just referred to. "I wouldn't want to do anything to corrupt the legitimacy of this decision."

I finally let my displeasure show on my face. Nozel is pushing me to my limit. "Excuse me, bt-"

"Nozel, don't make trouble." We're both interrupted by Fuegoleon, who has closed his eyes, giving in. "I just want to get this over with."

Nozel sniffs in a long breath before nodding. "Fine."

"Yeah, after all, braid boy-" Yami finally speaks up, smirking around his cigarette. "You'll probably have to call her King soon. Now's not the time to burn bridges, hehe."

Everyone stares at him as if he grew a second head. Oough... that's not a good sign. "...Y-Yami..." Charlotte whispers, her eyes wide. "You want to vote for her?"

For some reason, that statement from Charlotte hurts more than anything anyone else has said today. Just a few weeks ago, she and her were shopping together for my wedding dress, and I was teasing her about her crush on Yami. But... even she won't give me the benefit of the doubt? So... the captains are just that hostile to the thought of an outsider becoming Wizard King. Well, if that's really the case, it makes me want it even more. 

"Why not? She made a good case." Yami leans back in his chair, a shit-eating grin on his face. "It'll be fun, anyway."

I give him a small smile, but Marx butts in before I can say anything else. "Alright, alright, if that's settled, we'll begin the voting." Marx produces a paper and pen before taking a deep breath. "We'll go clockwise around the table... starting with you, Fuegoleon."

I quickly give the table a once-over, seeing what order the voting will happen in. Ooh! This is good... All the important votes are earlier on...

"Fuegoleon?"

"I vote for myself."

"Nozel?"

"Also myself."

"Yami?"

"Forehead girl."

"Please use proper names. Dorothy?"

"Nozel!"

"Kaiser?"

"Lord Fuegoleon."

"William?"

"...."

"...William?"

William closes his eyes.

"Abstain."

"Huh? You can't do that!" Yami points at him accusingly. "You're going to mess up our quota!"

"Quorum," Marx corrects, staring at William with concern. "Captain... are you sure about this?"

William nods. "Yes. Please."

"...alright, then." Marx gulps nervously before marking something down on his paper. "Julius didn't leave instructions behind for this situation... so we'll move on as usual. The winner will still have to get 5 votes. So-" He looks up. "Rill?"

"Ahhhhh.... er..... umm.... Fuegol-"

"Got it. Jack?"

"Fuegoleon, I guess, ka ka."

"And Charlotte."

Charlotte stares at the table as if it's the most interesting thing she's ever seen. "...Nozel."

"Alright then, the results..." Marx holds up the paper, and I turn in my seat to see it a little clearer.

Alright... I expected at least two votes, but this should be okay...

One vote for me. Three for Nozel. And 4 for Fuegoleon.

That was close...

"So, what now?" Nozel asks, glancing at Fuegoleon, who is smiling a little to himself. This isn't good. One slip up and he'll get the last vote he needs.

"Now, we discuss it more, and vote again," Marx answers, holding up Julius's will again. "The winner has to get five votes."

"I have an idea!" I blurt out, putting a smile on my face as I suddenly stand up, catching everyone's attention. "Why don't we take a break... let's all go off on our own to figure out our strategies and get votes, hmmm?"

"We don't have that kind of time," Fuegoleon reminds me. "Remember? We're all supposed to be helping with the cleanup-"

"I told you, didn't I? I sent orders to all your squads before I called this meeting," I retort. "They'll be fine for the rest of the day."

"Damn. See? She's on top of it-" Yami chuckles and points at me.

"Right... do you even have that kind of authority, though?" Kaiser asks me. "I mean... they are our squads."

"Of course I do." I give him a smile despite how his words are slowly but surely pissing me off. So entitled... "Who do you think has been holding this place together these past few days? Now-" I back up towards the door, giving them a wave. "I'm going to walk around and think about all this. You know where to find me."

Without another word, I turn and push open the door, and walk off down the hallway, a little smile on my face.

Good... now...

"Wait! Hold on!"

I turn to see Marx running up, and a few other Captains leave the room and walk off out of sight. "Look..." He skids to a stop, a worried expression coming onto his face. "I get what you're trying to do here, and honestly, I'm all for it. I think I could work better with you than any of them, after all."

"Oh, how nice of you Marx." I pat him on the shoulder, but to my surprise he winces. "What, is there some other problem? Enlighten me."

"... just... listen to yourself."

... huh?

Marx's eyes turn from concerned to just... sad. I recognize this look, it's the same look all the Captains gave me earlier.

"Marx... don't tell me you're afraid for my well-being or something."

"Well, I am!" Marx bursts out. "Listen! I've known you for 8 years! Every time something bad happens, you shut down like this, you avoid the problem... but it's never been this bad. I haven't seen you cry, not once."

"Cry? Marx-" I cross my arms, gritting my teeth a little. 

Don't think about it don't think about it-

"Do you think I should go in there and cry? Do you think that will convince them to vote for me?" I demand. "I'm just trying to make the best of a bad situation-"

"Well, you're freaking everyone out."

We both turn to see Yami saunter up. All playfulness is gone from his eyes. "All I'm saying is that you're acting awfully ambitious for someone who's husband just kicked it."

"Yami, you voted for me," I remind him.

"Yeah, because I think you should be the Wizard King. But I don't think you should keep acting like nothing happened." Yami's eyes crinkle with concern. "I don't want to see you isolate yourself from this... it has to hurt, right?"

...

I didn't realize it before, but I've been clenching my fists so tight that my nails start to leave a mark.

"...of course it hurts."

I suck in a deep breath. Then another. And another.

...J-Julius...

The moment passes.

"But if I acknowledge it now... I'll fall apart. So... I won't. Not until I've achieved my goal."

Then, Julius... I'll go visit you. I promise.

I don't let either of them say another word, I just turn and walk away. They both let me go. Once out of sight, I reach up and wipe away a tear that somehow managed to escape the tight, dark prison I confined it in before.

Keep pushing forward.

I look up, feeling determined once again.

It's time to get those three crucial votes.

A wager has been made, but will MC be able to pay it off? Find out next time in Chapter 4: the three votes

[fic-for-fic-sake]

Lay Me Down

Pairing: Ex Bucky x reader

A/N: I was listening to Sam Smith’s “Lay Me Down” on the metro the other day and legit cried because that song is so sad and the way he sings it is just so gut wrenching. So I decided I would hurt myself and make this fic about it. So like prepare for angst. 

Yes, I do. I believe. That one day I will be, where I was. Right there, right next to you.

Anguish. Complete and utterly wrecked. Torn apart and left to bleed. This is how you felt when Bucky Barnes left you. What happened between you two couldn’t be qualified as a break-up because that meant that both parties had to be present. No. Instead you came in one morning to find Bucky gone and a note was all he had left you. Saying he couldn’t be with you because he couldn’t put you through it. Couldn’t bare to destroy you the way he had been destroyed by Hydra. 

His note had said that you were too good for him, and that he had to leave. He said he was being selfish by being with you. That was the last time you heard from him. In the two months since, it had been absolute radio silence and you had been an inconsolable mess. After he left you hardly did anything anymore. Feeling like he took a rather large piece of your heart with him when he left. 

And it’s hard. These days just seem so dark. The moon and the stars are nothing without you.

Wanda had tried to work her magic on you but you didn’t want it. You wanted to feel all of the pain. That was all you had left of Bucky anyway. You punched, kicked, scratched, clawed, ran, screamed, and bled your way back to some sense of normalcy. Two months of ‘emotional leave’ as Tony had so aptly called it. Today was the day you were going back into the field. You were seated on the Quinjet, somewhere over Central Europe, almost at the drop zone. Tony had said you were supposed to meet your contact, some random SHIELD agent, and you two were headed to a charity gala to collect intel. 

Well, the contact was late and Vienna was already abuzz with too many glamorous people to count. With an exasperated sigh you looked at the looming Staatsoper opera house in front of you and took the plunge to head inside. As you walked past dignitaries and the upper echelon of society you couldn’t help but be proud of the few envious gazes that landed on you. The silver gown you were wearing clung to you like a second skin. Sequins shone brilliantly in the light and the way the fabric parted like water to reveal a teasing leg slit had your body feeling more alive than it had in awhile. 

Trying not to catch too many eyes you headed straight for the bar. Your contact had your information and knew what you looked like, they could find you. All that mattered right now was downing at least two glasses of liquid courage to make it through the night. Then you could get to your hotel room for the night and try not to think about the emptiness in your chest. 

Catching the bartenders eye you gestured for a glass of champagne and he was more than happy to oblige. You went to take the glass with an outstretched hand when you felt a cool palm press against your back. A beautifully sculpted hand reached for your glass instead and took a sip of the amber liquid. 

“Allow me.” Said a voice you hadn’t heard in two months, Bucky. His touch sent a jolt of electricity through your body and you could feel your skin react in a way it only ever did with him. 

Your touch, your skin, where do I begin?

Gasps, paints, moans. Beautiful sacred sounds decorate the otherwise desolate room that you and Bucky are in. Some shitty motel in Chile but neither of you care. Too caught up in seeking out the pleasures only the other can provide to think much of the dilapidated furniture that surrounds you. The rickety bed springs only add to the cacophony of sounds that you and Bucky make. He manages to draw yet another orgasm out of you and your skin is on fire the way he’s touching you. You swear you could orgasm off of his touch alone and he knows as much. 

No words can explain the way I’m missing you.

Just like that, all the resolve you had built in those two months comes crashing down around you. A small whimper escapes your lips as you look at him for the first time. His beard is long gone and his hair is cut short. Your hands twitch by your sides as you resist the urge to run your fingers through it, as you resist the urge to do a lot of things. His ice blue eyes search yours, trying to gauge your reaction. It’s not hard to see your resolve breaking behind your eyes, you never were good at hiding your emotions, especially with him. 

Without saying a word he leads you to where everyone has gathered to dance. A waltz, how fitting. The close proximity dance required trust in your partner, it was emphasized that you needed to have the /perfect/ partner. You bristled at the thought. 

“What are you doing here?” You choked out in a whisper as Bucky wrapped a delicate arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. 

“Stark sent me. Said I’d know my contact when I saw them.” He replied into your ear. His hot breath causing goosebumps to appear. 

Horse hair violin bows striked the strings as the intricate dance began. Every second that passed the more you felt like you were suffocating. All the air escaped your lungs and you gasped for breath. Your heart felt like it was being ripped out all over again. Like you had finally managed to sew it back together with some rough sutures and Bucky came in and tore them apart again. 

The empty cavern in your chest that once housed your heart caved in on itself and sent a wave of anguish through you. After your dance you made your way around talking to this person or that, getting as much information as you could. But it was all hard to retain with Bucky always lingering a little too close for comfort. The scent of autumn air and woodsmoke was choking you. 

Eventually, and not breathing so much as a word to one another, you made it to the hotel and thankfully there were two beds. You hightailed it towards the bathroom and shut the door behind you. You turned on the shower and waited for it to become as loud as possible before you let yourself become overwhelmed by sorrow. 

Deny this emptiness, this hole that I’m inside. These tears, they tell their own story

Your lungs burned from the oxygen they were being deprived of. Your head was pounding from the force of your crying. Your eyes felt weak and bloodshot and your throat seared from the screams you let out. With leadened limbs, you peeled yourself off of the cool tile floor and turned off the shower. You changed and by the time you came back into the main room the light was off and Bucky was in his bed, back to you. Fitting. 

You awoke a little while later to the sound of panicked screaming to your left. You turned around and saw Bucky’s body thrashing at the covers, trying to fight the manifestations of his nightmares. You felt your heart sink in on itself for the second time that night. Even though Bucky left you, and even though he hadn’t bothered to speak to you in two months. You still loved him. Just the thought of him facing his night terrors alone absolutely wrecked you. All you wanted to do was crawl into bed with him and tell him you were here, that you would always be here. 

Can I lay by your side? Next to you. And make sure you’re alright. I’ll take care of you. I don’t want to be here if I can’t be with you tonight.

You felt hot tears prick at the corner of your eyes. The agony of watching him suffer was too much to bare. To hell with radio silence. Fuck not seeing him for two months. Screw your battered heart, Bucky was in pain and all that mattered to you was helping him. 

You threw off your bedsheets and walked over to his bed. You reached out a shaky hand and tentatively ghosted your fingers along his bicep, feeling the sweat underneath. He seemed to calm down if only marginally. You used that to your advantage and got up on the bed. 

I’m reaching out to you, can you hear my call?

“Shhh, baby, baby I’m here.” You cajoled in a soft voice, hand more confident on his arm now. With languid strokes you tried to soothe him. When his thrashing ceased you fully laid down next to him and brought his body close to yours. Enveloping him in your warmth. 

 Harsh pants turned into labored breathing as Bucky calmed down in your arms. You smoothed his cropped hair with your fingers, feeling your own heart break further in the process. You knew you couldn’t hold him forever. Knew that tomorrow would eventually come and he wouldn’t remember this. You weren’t even sure you wanted him to. You just wanted him to be okay, that’s all you ever wanted. 

Ever so slowly, you untwined yourself from Bucky and began to leave the warmth that his bed and body provided. You had one foot on the floor when you felt his hand tighten its grip on yours. You turned around and his blue eyes bored into your own. Such an intense burning gaze, glassy eyes showed tears that had shed, you gasped. 

“Please, stay.” He rasped, voice hoarse from screams and sleep. Maybe it was because your body was just so spent, from the last two hours or the last two months you didn’t know. Or maybe it was because this was James Buchanan Barnes, the love of your life, you obliged his request. You let yourself be enveloped by his warmth and let yourself pretend that the two of you were still together, if only for tonight. 

Can I lay by your side? Next to you. And make sure you’re alright? I’ll take care of you. I don’t want to be here if I can’t be with you tonight.

[jsheltonsays]

My opinion doesn’t matter, but who cares?

Let’s be clear: Fuck 2020. 

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s continue.

It’s so easy to be a nihilist in this day and age, yeah? We’re so dominated by what we find on social media that it’s basically a second nature to discredit everything else we might see or hear no matter how logical or reasonable it may seem. 

Literally, it’s a mindset of “Fuck the facts and your reality, I’ll substitute it with my own.” The 2016 U.S. Presidential Election is literal proof of this as well as what came in the aftermath. 

What makes it all the more painful is how easily we’ve all become divided over the years. How the capability to think and reason was taken from us and substituted with whatever we find on social media. God knows I’ve been guilty of that on occasion as well. 

For example, look online. Right now it’s #Trump2020 vs. #BlackLivesMatter vs. #WearYourMask vs. #SaveTheChildren. A fatal four-way of different ideologies with three of them not realizing they can coexist. Black lives do matter. That’s not a crime movement, it isn’t about subjugating the white male, or anything like that - White people are privileged. If you can’t see that that’s not talking about nice homes and swank digs, then you must educate yourself. 

Wearing your mask isn’t about Liberal mind control or some dumb shit. We’re in the middle of a fucking pandemic, and I’m sorry, but if wearing a mask so I don’t get sick makes me a scared little bitch, then so be it. I hate being sick and if I can avoid it, then all the better. 

Then we have talks of pedophilia rings among the world’s upper echelon as human trafficking is a very real, very fucked up problem we have in this day and age. It’s a noble thing to take note of, no doubts about that. But there’s always that handful of people who say, “The government is distracting you with a pandemic while the real problem is the pedo rings among the rich and powerful.

Child sex trafficking is a fucking scary problem in the world. End quote. Nothing will change that. But when it comes to the pandemic, over 180,000 dead in America. The stats, as far as we’re concerned, don’t lie. I usually let guys smarter than me handle the numbers - not Facebook. Therefore I’m inclined to believe the CDC before I believe random assholes on social media or an inept Orange Julius Caesar who endorses demon semen and injecting bleach. 

So yes, raise awareness for the victims of trafficking, do your part, and don’t fucking let up. But also, wear your mask regardless of whether you believe it’s real or not - I kind of hate getting sick. At the same time, stand up and be an ally for our black neighbors, because they need it now more than ever. Their lives matter. 

Of course, all lives do matter. That’s a given. But a lot of white people really don’t act like it when they move to discredit black men and women and their plights. So how can you say all lives matter when you don’t do shit for your black neighbors? Thus, when it comes down to it, “All Lives Matter” is just some inept bullshit. Until black lives actually matter, then “All Lives Matter” is just vacant lip service. 

Go on, prove me wrong. 

It’s the same with other bullshit such as the “Antifa is terrorism!” talk. As far as I’m concern, any group who is against fascism gets a pass from me. The real America that my ancestors fought and died for wouldn’t stand for such foolish cock-knockery. 

And Blue Lives Matter? Look - I believe that good cops should be lumped in with the bad cops. I don’t subscribe to the #ACAB schtick. I don’t. But with the laziness and conduct that an overwhelmingly large amount of cops have conducted themselves by, it’s hard to fathom why anybody would stand up for that. So many people have been slaughtered by police ineptitude, crippled by their indifference, that I cannot in good conscience endorse them and feed into that behavior. 

For that matter I’d explain why #DefundThePolice would work by way of allocating the funds to other aspects of community services and help while retaining the good police officers, but there’s an overwhelming amount of people out there who think that defund and disband are the same thing. 

They aren’t.

But what I say doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fit with the stupid fucking narrative. So yeah, I can’t help but be a nihilist. We suck and we will be the end of us. We aren’t great. And the cult around Trump will ensure that nothing will fucking get done about it. 

Fuck this.

[wearesorcerer]

For the d&d meme: 2 and 3

YAY! AN ASK! (Ahem.)

|| 2.) Your favorite character that someone else has played. ||

This one is kinda hard. Not counting Collectivists (it’s Moxie) or one’s I’ve not witnessed in play, I’ma have to say Mikey.

Mikey was a friend’s bareknuckle boxer Fighter (because this was 3.5 and he was taking after his Bard father, who wasn’t Lawful). The character was woefully suboptimal, but did an excellent job of becoming one of the two hearts of our fairly large party (the other was the idiot halfling rogue/sorcerer; long story) and got lucky in fights for quite a while, so we all naturally gravitated towards the character’s generic charisma (no, I have no idea what his actual stat was).

Unfortunately for us, he got coup de graced on a side quest we were doing because half of the players couldn’t attend a session and the DM decided to have us investigate goblins or orcs or something. The chieftain knocked him unconscious, then took the opportunity to cleave him in twain. T_T

|| 3.) Your favorite side quest. ||

I don’t actually have a favorite, so instead I’m going to tell you about the most memorable. Same campaign. This one overtook the main plot. Be warned: it’s long. It’s also why I don’t care for side quests.

This was our DM’s first time running a homemade campaign and his second time DMing ever (the first was the semester before, when he ran the module The Standing Stone; it ended in a hilarious near-TPK). We started in a tavern (like you do) not knowing each other (like you do). Thanks to the halfling’s backstory, we all got drawn into a barroom brawl against a local criminal. That pretty much formed our party and got us hired to investigate a cult of Nerull that had taken up in a nearby abandoned temple (of Pelor, IIRC).

During the boss fight against a couple of higher-up cultists (I forget how many, but one had swords or something), one of the enemy casters decided that it would be a good idea to place a necrotic cyst on the halfling.

There are EVER so many reasons why this was a terrible idea.

Necrotic cyst is a 2nd-level spell from Libris Mortis (pg. 68) on the Cleric and Sorcerer/Wizard lists (meaning we’re fighting 3rd- to 4th-level casters). On a successful melee touch (spell) attack, the target has to make a Fort (Con) save; failure means they get implanted with the eponymous cyst. Depending on where they were touched, they might not even know they bear it. The cyst does two things:

Makes the target more susceptible to necromantic stuff. -2 on saves against Necromancy spells and effects, but also +1d6 damage from the natural weapons of undead.

Enables the use of other spells. There are nine other necrotic spells in Libris Mortis which rely on existing cysts. This was the main problem.

Before I get into why those other spells were the main problem, I need to explain a few things about the metagame.

The DM was a touch...conservative, shall we say, with what he would and would not allow source-wise. Despite this, he had a penchant for picking up the latest splatbooks (non-setting specific and Eberron) and taking material from them. As a player, he mostly played Fighters and was not (at that time) big on mages; thus, he didn’t have a good grasp of what spells were and were not especially powerful based on (sometimes foreseeable) consequences.

The halfling was intended to be a dual-wand wielding sneak-a-sniper, so went Rogue/Sorcerer. Because of what this build required, he put many of his early levels into Sorcerer instead of Rogue when we needed a party Rogue, yet somehow managed not to cast much of anything. In the end, he was terrible at literally everything except lying.

Naturally, the enemy caster succeeded at planting the cyst on the halfling. I’m not sure why the caster felt the halfling (not just a halfling, but a halfling child) was the best choice for harboring a cyst that’s designed to screw with the enemy long-term and we had plenty of other party members who could have served for such a host, but whatever. The halfling failed his save and BAM! We’re in trouble.

Like I said, necrotic cyst enables nine other spells -- almost like a Cleric domain, as the others span 1st through 9th levels (no cantrips). However, they all require the caster to possess a “mother cyst” (a flavorful feat tax; eh).

The 1st-level spell is yet another detect something spell, but it only detects necrotic cysts. Meh, but it means that we can’t go anywhere near these cultists without them knowing we’re there.

It was probably the 3rd-level spell, necrotic bloat, that was the reason we felt the need to get rid of the cyst in the first place: the caster deals Level x d6 damage (so 5d6 to 6d6) to the target and half of that damage is “Vile” (horribly evil, can only be healed within the area of a consecrate or hallow spell).

I say this because we were never told (or I forgot if we were told; this was 14ish years ago) why the halfling was reduced to something like 1 HP, but the halfling was basically out of commission entirely as we struggled to figure out what we could do.

That was months of out-of-game time.

First, we turned to my character’s mother, a Dwarven Cleric; she was unable to do much, sadly.

Then we heard about an enclave of elven druids who might be able to remove the cyst. They were on the other side of the mountains, so it would be a long journey to get to them and it wasn’t assured that they could (or would) help us.

So we journeyed.

And were constantly waylaid by undead. Lots of undead. Lots of weird undead. (The DM had fun dragging up monsters from Monster Manual III, which I’d written off at that point. He did this largely because I had, but slightly because he had a hard-on for Eberron shit.)

We did manage to get to the enclave of elves and had them remove the cyst. The halfling’s player felt like they got to do basically nothing the entire time, another player switched out characters twice (one was boring due to how he made it, the other died; the third one developed mysanthropy [became a wererat] resulting in awesomeness), a third player spot rotated at least three times, and we had traded the quite fun Mikey for the Paladin no one liked, so we were not having fun.

It was after the enclave that we (well, I) realized something: we were being scryed upon. Our DM finally told us about necrotic scrying.

As it turns out, the 2nd-level cyst spell functions almost identically to scrying, but only on subjects with necrotic cysts (it also has a few other, largely meaningless drawbacks). Scrying is a monster of a spell, which is why it’s a 4th level spell by default on the Druid and Sorcerer/Wizard spell lists (that’s 7th class level for the prepared casters and 8th for Sorcerers); Clerics treat it as a 5th-level spell (10th class level), Bards as 3rd (because they maxed at 6th-level spells in 3.x, so they got it at the same time as Wizards). A caster with scrying can manipulate events from far, far away with little effort; it’s the spell for a BBEG for many campaigns. Making it a 2nd-level spell just makes it scarier.

It was at this point that I yelled at the DM:

If you give a continent-spanning cult of evil an easy means of scrying, you’ve given its upper echelons full access to the ACTUAL spell.

The ordinary spell scrying relies on familiarity; it’s one of the few instances of sympathetic magic in the game. By enabling someone an easier way to scry on one character and putting that someone into a large organization in a low-rung position, you’ve given the higher-ups a means of seeing the rest of the party and thus the ability to scry on them through normal means.

Meaning that the cyst became obsolete not long after the first casting of necrotic scrying.

Meaning the undead continued to bother us every night (and somehow never get seen on watches) even after we got the cyst removed.

The next step was to look up a means of blocking scrying. Our other caster having left the party long, long ago (player went to grad school) and our halfling being utterly useless, we had to track down a magic item to shield us from scrying.

So the DM made us negotiate with a dragon to get one out of its hoard.

The dragon could have easily killed us, for the record. It was astonishing that we were able to get the thing at all. Somehow, we got some like two other items, one of which was a cape of the mountebank...

...that the halfling promptly stole that night while everyone slept and used to abandon the party.

It was only after this point that we managed to get back to the main plot. We had been playing for a little over a year, may have been at fifth level at that point (it might have taken longer), and had next to no magic items (other than the anti-scrying device and maybe something else we got from the hoard). We got maybe two sessions after that before getting TPKed.

[noreasonjustbored]

Undercover With Danger

“Why do I have to take Charlotte?”

“Yeah why can’t Henry take Jasper?” I wondered.

“Because Jasper is an idiot!” Ray exclaimed.

“Really Ray?” I deadpanned.

“Okay he isn’t dumb he just isn’t smart either.”

“Huh?” Henry asked chuckling.

“Oh you know what I mean! Charlotte is the smart one, we all know this.”

“Facts.” I pipe up from next to Henry.

Ray turned to address me “Charlotte you are clever and know how to think on your feet. Henry will need you in order not to completely screw up this case.”

I sigh resigned, “True. No offense Hen.”

“Uh, full offense Char!” Henry exclaimed.

I simply shrug in response. “So when do we do this thing?”

“Tonight. Schowz is working on hacking in the system right now and putting your aliases on the list.”

“Okay so what do we do in the meantime?” I inquired towards Ray.

“You and Henry come up with your backstory and a general game plan for the evening. I’m going to go check on Schowz’s progress.”

“Can do.” Henry said as Ray starting walking away.

“Alright Char what are you thinking?”

“Well this mission is reconnaissance only. We need to find out as much information as possible without detection.”

“I think our best bet is to be a couple.”

“What? Why?” I wondered nervously.

“Because folks don’t pay much attention to people that only have eyes for each other. It’s too much work to try and vie for their attention.”

“Okay you make a good point. Since we are posing as a couple, what’s our story in case anyone asks? I was thinking that we keep it simple. We were friends first who realized that we liked each other and now we’re dating.”

“Boring. What about the romance, the drama? How about we tell people that I met you while you were on a date with another guy. Then I poached you by being my handsome and charming self.”

“Number one, that would never happen.”

“Hey!”

“Number two, it’s easier to stick as close to the truth as possible when lying. Only change details when absolutely necessary.”

“Fine. So what’s the plan?”

“Alright, since we are just trying to get information this go round I say we follow the lead of the other guests. This is a charity gala so we’ll just blend in with the crowd while scoping the place out for any suspicious activity.”

“Ok, perfect. You don’t think we’ll have to dance do you?”

“Yeah definitely, why?”

“Wellll” Henry stated in that high pitched tone that let me know he was about to throw a wrench in our plans.

I sighed despondly, “What’s the problem?”

Clearing his throat Henry stated, “I can’t dance.”

“Didn’t you take ballroom classes a few years ago for your Aunt Sarah’s wedding?

“Yeah when I was like twelve Char, I don’t remember any of that!”

“Okay, okay calm your muffins dude.”

“All you really have to do is put your hand on my back and hold the other one while we step side to side. We don’t need to get fancy.”

“I can do that. No problem.”

“Cool. I have to go home and get dressed. This event starts in a few hours.”

“Oh yeah that’s right, I need to go pick up my suit from the cleaners. I’ll meet you back here and then we’ll leave together alright?”

“Got it. Later Hen” I said while walking towards the elevators.”

“See ya.”

Stepping inside the metal box nonchalantly I waited until the doors closed before having an internal freak out.

Oh my gosh I can’t believe we have to act like we’re in a relationship. I don’t know if I can do this. We will probably have to touch a lot in order to be convincing. I’m not sure if I can handle that. And look like we’re in love? I can barely look Henry in the eyes these days. His mere presence beside me makes me nervous. What am I going to do?

Similarly, in the Man Cave, Henry was pacing back and forth going faster and faster with each turn he made.

Ok Henry, You can do this do this. It’s just Charlotte we’re talking about here. But isn’t that the problem? The fact that it is Charlotte. It’s not that I can’t pretend to be attracted to her. I AM attracted to her. That’s my real issue. What if she figures out that I’m not really pretending? I don’t want to ruin our friendship. Ugh. Is it too late to take Jasper?

—————————————————————

After getting dressed and doing her makeup Charlotte was looking impeccable. She wore a slinky gold dress that had a slit up to her thigh on the left side paired with sky high strappy black heels. Her hair was styled in loose waves and she had shimmering gold eyeshadow and highlight to complement her outfit. She made her way down via the tubes because she figured the elevator had a good chance at ruining her hairstyle. She had taken almost a whole hour straightening her hair and curling it to perfection. She couldn’t have all her efforts be futile.

At the same time she came down Henry was walking from the back while adjusting his tie. When he looked up, the tube lifted to reveal Charlotte in all her glory. Henry paused what he was doing completely. He stopped walking and his hand stayed wrapped around the fabric at his neck but he ceased all action. He just Froze.

Charlotte looked at him questionably while walking in his direction.

“Um are you good?” she asked while moving his hand away and fixing his tie herself.

Taking a large gulp of air Henry nodded.

“Ok are you ready to go?”

Henry just nodded again while staring at her in awe. Charlotte continues to look at him skeptically and then Ray came out of the sprocket door.

“Hey guys, wow you clean up nicely. You should blend in perfectly. Do you have a strategy set?”

Henry just nodded in response while still glancing at Charlotte every few seconds.

“Then off you go. You don’t want to be late. Here are your tickets.” Ray said while handing them to Charlotte who had a clutch that she placed them in.

“Don’t forget that these guys are dangerous, try not to engage with them if possible. Just observe.”

“We got it Ray” Charlotte responded.

“You look breathtaking” Henry blurted out accidentally while staring at Charlotte.

“Why thanks Kid, you don’t look too bad yourself.” Ray jokes.

Henry looks around awkwardly as he rubs his hand over the back of his neck.

Moving past that weird moment swiftly, “Good luck guys.” Ray says encouragingly.

—————————————————————

After making it through security without incident we walk on the outskirts of the party. Observing the area, I saw that there are lots of rich people here dressed in expensive gowns and tuxedos. The upper echelon of Swellview are definitely all in attendance.

“What should we do first” I ask Char while guiding her though the crowd with my hand on the small of her back.

“Let’s mingle a little and then hit the dance floor so that we can talk with less chance of being overheard.”

“Good idea. Stay here. I’ll go get us some drinks” I stated and walked towards the refreshments.

Charlotte nodded in understanding while discreetly glancing around.

After grabbing us both a glass of punch I turn around to see Charlotte is exactly where I left her. I smile softly but then the expression drops from my face. It’s quickly replaced with a frown when I realized that she is laughing at something a handsome brunette is saying to her. Well more like whispering to her because the party is pretty loud.

I hasten my pace and step over to Char.

“Here’s your drink babe.” I say while wrapping my now free hand around her waist and pulling her closer to my side.

“Who’s this?” I question.

“Hey Harry, this is Jordan. He’s a reporter here covering the event for the local paper.”

“Oh nice to meet you man” I say while giving him a menacing glare and squeezing his hand a touch too hard during our handshake.

“You too” Jordan states while flexing his hand.

I smirk in trimph.

“Anyway, it was great taking to you Charlene. You guys enjoy yourself.” He says and promptly makes his exit, still shaking out his hand.

Char hits me lightly with her clutch. “What was that Harry?” she asks through clenched teeth.

“Nothing. You guys seemed a little cozy and I didn’t want to blow our cover. You do remember that you’re supposed to be MY date right?”

“Of course I do but Jordan actually gave me some helpful information.”

“Let dance and you can tell me all about it” I say while taking her punch and placing both our glasses on a table nearest us.

Taking her hand in mine gently I lead her to the dance floor. Tingles radiate through my whole arm from the simple contact.

As I place my hand on her hip, Char places one hand on my shoulder while our hands stay connected.

As we sway back and forth I Iean down to her and inquire, “So what did Jordan tell you?”

Charlotte started to explain something but I couldn’t really hear her over the music. It seemed as if it had gotten louder over the last couple of minutes.

“What?” I asked while leaning down again trying to hear her.

Charlotte drops my hand and joins hers with the other one around my shoulder in order to lean up and whisper in my ear while we continue to dance.

“He was telling me about the history of this fundraiser basically. He said that these fundraisers hosted by the Santini family are used to raise money for schools in Haiti. But isn’t it funny how we don’t see any proof that the schools are actually being built? Based on the numbers that are reported as raised, they should have built AT LEAST three schools over the past five years.”

“How do you know they haven’t built them?” I questioned her theory.

“I don’t. But isn’t it weird that they don’t show any pictures of the completed schools on their program flyers? Or that they don’t have any videos showing the facilities? Or even pictures showing Haitian children outside any of these buildings in their school uniforms?”

“It is kind of strange that all that’s shown are building blueprints and not an actual finished product. So where is all that money going? You have a point there.” I acquiesced.

“Of course I do. I’m rarely wrong. Anyway, how are we gonna prove this is even happening? Or better yet, NOT happening.”

“Well we are gonna need evidence. Maybe Captain Man and I can sneak-“ I stopped talking as I saw the head of the Santini crime family leave a back hallway that I hadn’t noticed when first scoping the place.

“Sneak where?” Charlotte asked while breaking my concentration.

“Hm?” I wondered while looking down at her.

“Oh. It doesn’t matter. Look over by that hallway” I say while dancing us 180 degrees so that she is facing the direction I just was.

“That’s Damien Santini, I haven’t seen him all night. Did he just arrive?” Char wondered.

“No he just left that back passage” I say as Damien walks towards the front of the room, occasionally stopping to mingle and schmooze.

“I have an idea.” I tell Charlotte. “Just follow my lead.”

“Uh okay” she says while looking at me curiously.

We dance for a few more minutes, all the while making our way closer to that hallway.

Once we are right next to the entrance of the hallway I scan the room for any stray eyes in our direction.

Fortunately everyone’s attention is on the stage where Damien is walking up the stairs about to make his keynote address. While everyone is distracted I step into the corridor, pulling Char along with me. Walking down for awhile we turn a corner and keep going until we see a door.

Figuring that it could be Damien’s office Char pulls a lock picking kit from her purse.

“Who are you?” I ask her in an excited tone as she kneels down to deal with the door.

I continue to keep a look out when I hear a click and glance down.

Charlotte is standing back up with a self satisfied smirk on her pretty face. “You don’t know everything about me Hen.” She replies smartly while yanking me into the room after her.

I stay near the door but close it until there is only a crack that I can see out of.

“Char I’ll keep an eye out, you’re the one who knows what we are looking for.”

“Got it.” She mumbles while looking through the desks drawers.

After searching for a second I hear Charlotte exclaim, “Ah ha!”

“Did you find something?” I ask her.

“Yeah, exactly what we need to take the Santinis down” she replied while snapping pictures of various documents on her phone.

“Well hurry up, I’m not trying to have my kneecaps broken if we get caught down here.”

“You’re so dramatic Hen. But there shouldn’t be any need for that because I am...done.” She says while snapping the last photograph.

“Okay then, just clean up and we’ll get back to the party” I reply.

I peek out of the gap in the door and see that the coast is still clear.

“Come on, come on while luck is still on our side.” I address her urgently.

“Get your panties out of a bunch, I’m coming” Charlotte quipped.

I check the hallway once more before we both step out the office. Char softly closes the door behind us and then we start back towards the gala.

Letting out a surprised gasp Char quickly spins around and heads back towards the office.

“What are you doing?” I whisper-scream.

“I forgot to lock the door” she whispers back while reopening it and turning the lock from the inside.

I nod in understanding while walking towards the end of the hallway and taking a glance around the corner. There are two security guards making their way in our direction.

I jog back to Charlotte who is now walking towards me again after reclosing the door.

“I just need you to trust me right now and don’t ask any questions” I whisper furiously before I smash my lips against hers and back her up against the wall.

Her small sound of protest was muffled against my mouth and I feel her freeze for about three seconds. Then she must register the approaching voices because she starts to respond in earnest.

She pulls me closer by my shirt collar before wrapping her arms around my neck and running her fingers through my hair.

I groan low in my throat in response to her lightly scratching my scalp. She then starts tugging on the strands of hair at the nape of my neck.

I step closer and continue to passionately kiss her when Charlotte lifts her left leg and wraps it around my hip, pulling me impossibly closer.

I groan again and nip her lower lip before licking the seam of her mouth. Before she can grant me entrance we both hear a booming voice yell, “Hey what are you two doing?!” causing us to break apart in surprise.

Somehow we had gotten so lost in each other that we forgot the whole reason we were kissing in the first place.

“Uh sorry man we were just uhhh...” I stammered confusedly, my mind still in a haze from that kiss.

The other security guard glances at the office door a few feet away and then looks back at Char and I suspiciously.

“We were just trying to get away from the crowd and have a moment to ourselves. We’re sorry.” Charlotte address the first guard.

The second guard briskly walks towards the office door and turns the knob. When the door doesn’t open, a look of relief crosses his face.

“Well this is a restricted area. You can’t be back here, no matter how sexually frustrated you are”, Guard Number One sneers at us.

I step in front of Char protectively in response to his tone, hoping that I wasn’t going to have to fight these guys.

“Cut them some slack Nico” Guard Two says while walking back to us and clapping his hand on the shoulder of Goon One.

“Weren’t you young and in love once?” Guard Two inquires.

“No.”

“Okay then.” he addresses his friend.

Turning to us he says, “You guys are free to go. Just don’t wander into places you don’t belong again.”

“You got it chief” I say while grabbing Charlotte’s hand and lacing our fingers together. I start pulling her around the corner when I hear the two security guys start bickering behind us.

“Tony! You really just gonna let them go scot-free like that?”

“What was I supposed to do Nico? Chain them to a radiator in the basement?”

“No but we probably could have asked more questions.”

“Yeah yeah yeah. They were harmless. Harmless and horny.”

They both started laughing at that and the sound fades into the background as we reenter the party.

No one noticed our return because they were still engrossed in Damien’s speech which seemed as if it was just wrapping up.

Leaning down to her because even in heels she was still short, I whispered to Char, “That was close wasn’t it?” my lips brushing her ear with every word.

I feel through our connected hands a small shiver run through Charlotte before she turns to me.

“Yeah. Too close.”

I was about to respond when the room erupted into applause as Mr. Santini exited the stage.

The crowd started to slowly disperse and we followed a few people who were trickling out of the building.

Once outside I handed the valet our confirmation.

As we waited for the car I tugged Char to me and then gently cupped her face with my hand. Bending down, I stop a few inches from her face and wait for her to make the next move. She stretches up and pecks my lip softly. She applies gentle pressure and I respond eagerly. Thinking about the fact that Char is now kissing me because she wants to and not because we were about to be busted, causes me to smile against her lips.

Disconnecting our mouths I look into her eyes and grin goofily. “I’d say that this was a successful mission. In more ways than one” I tease.

She rolls her eyes.

“Oh I know you aren’t talking Mr. You Look Breathtaking” Char mocks in a deep tone.

A red flush creeps up my cheeks.

“Wasn’t sure you caught that.” I reply flustered.

“And I don’t sound like that” I mumble under my breath.”

“It’s okay Hen, I find it cute when you drool all over me.”

“Good, because it’s going to be happening often. Very often.”

“I know” she states matter-of-factly.

The car pulls up and the valet tries to hand me the keys but Charlotte snatched them before I could even lift my hand.

“Thank you” she tells the worker as she struts over to the driver side and confidently enters the car.

Handing over a tip to the valet, I recount the events of the night to myself. I pull open the passenger side door and get in.

I’m definitely glad that Jasper wasn’t my date.

[jcmorrigan]

Sun-Kissed

The F/O? Giovanni Potage from Epithet Erased. The S/I? Rachel Scribere - mundie, writer of much fanfiction, independent contractor supervillainous minion who has also given up on adulting. (Most of those things apply to me IRL!) I really hope this intro hasn’t become repetitive, because it’s the best way I have to kick these things off. Anyway, this was inspired by me realizing we hadn’t kissed in the confession oneshot and then realizing it was an opportunity rather than a misstep. Also, if you saw the necklace prompt I sent to @selfshipimagines...yes, this is why I thought of it, which is why it’s here.

***

It began with Giovanni refusing to use a Dungeons & Dragons board and its associated miniatures for their intended purpose. He had scribbled the names of locales in our next planned heist over it, drawing out the floor plan, and I’m not exactly sure where he got miniatures customized to look like me and the rest of the official Blasters in his squad, but there we were, positioned across the D&D board on the table in the abandoned library that served as our “evil lair.”

           I came upon him there, in the Casual Friday wear of his worn gray sweater and a pair of beaten-up jeans, maneuvering the mini-minions around the board with intense concentration. “Composer,” he greeted without looking up. “What do you think is a more badass way of entering a building? Blowing up the ceiling and dropping in from above on parachutes, or tunneling in from underneath with a massive drill?”

           “Do we have a massive drill?” I asked, taking my place across from him at the table.

           “Not YET,” he said in the tone that indicated we could very possibly be in possession of one within a few weeks.

           “If you can get one,” I told him slyly, “then use it. WAY cooler than dropping in. Probably safer, actually.”

           “Good call, Composer! You get to take an extra percentage of the loot for your cut when we pull this off!”

           I never liked taking more than my share. Really, being an independent-contractor Banzai affiliate (who the upper echelons of the organization didn’t exactly…know about) was the only way to survive financially in this climate. All the same, if Giovanni didn’t bring back quota, he was more screwed than usual. I aimed for a balance. And tried not to let on just how much more I was making than him by hawking jewelry.

           Speaking of which, the reason I’d entered the room was concerning a rather special piece I’d lifted recently. Nothing that would go for any sum whatsoever. Something valuable in a different way.

           Now, how to bring that up?

           “Soooo,” I began, “you know how we’re…dating now?”

           “Why wouldn’t I?”

           Right. That wasn’t my smoothest opener. In my defense, we were still pretty new as an item. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d spilled his guts to me on a display bed in a mall department store with a broken leg –

           Okay, that’s kind of a “You had to be there” incident.

           The point is, we were only recently official, and I wanted to do a little something to commemorate that. Especially since we hadn’t hit a few rather…important landmarks. Like the first kiss. That hadn’t even happened on confession night, and it was rather tearing me apart, were I to be perfectly honest. I might have had a selfish agenda in taking the piece that currently rested in my jeans pocket – yes, I wanted him to have something nice, but also, maybe this would lead to the big moment.

           “Well,” I babbled, “I was just thinking that…we’re on the grid now, and…and that means we…that I should probably start…doing things a little differently, since you’re…special…and I’m…also special…and…”

           On the job, I can improvise. When writing fiction or accounts, I’m a wordsmith. When trying to talk to someone who made my heart flutter, I just couldn’t get to the fucking point.

           Or look directly at him, for that matter. It was kind of like looking into the sun.

           “…and I mean, I know we’re still starting out, and still figuring out boundaries like if kissing’s gonna be a thing, and I’ll admit I’m kinda new to this in general, but – “

           “WHAAAAAT?”

           I couldn’t help but look at him then – with the usual results, feeling like my circulation speed had suddenly spiked. He looked absolutely flummoxed. Angry, even. Like I’d told him he’d shown up five minutes late to the doorbuster craft sale where satin was on a massive discount (an incident I reference because I had seen this exact scenario take place and had to drive an incredibly peeved Giovanni home from while reminding him that we could just obtain it through less-than-legal means).

           “What do you MEAN we’re still figuring out kissing?” he ranted. “I’ve kissed you, right? It was great! I wouldn’t be so NEGLIGENT as to forget that!”

           Oh. So he knew. As of this moment, it had occurred to him. I could see right through him. I just shook my head wordlessly.

           “We HAVEN’T?” he said in awe. “Okay, I am FIXING that!” He pounded his fist on the table; the tiny Spike fell over, and he glanced at the miniature sheepishly before righting it with a whispered “Sorry. Won’t happen again.” Then he looked back to me. “But we SERIOUSLY haven’t kissed yet?”

           “…No,” I admitted. Which wasn’t exactly what I’d come there to say, but I would have been lying to say I hadn’t wanted to get to that discussion point sooner rather than later.

           “Well, we’re fixing that!” he declared. “Right here! Right now!”

           I very nearly exploded. I tried my best to keep calm. “You…sure? I mean, I kind of wondered if maybe you were putting it off because you didn’t actually wanna – “

           “No! We are DOING this! And it’s gonna be GREAT!” He’d risen, advancing to me. “I’m gonna be the best guy you’ve ever kissed!”

           Without even thinking, I teasingly replied, “That’s not a high bar.”

           Giovanni stopped in his tracks as I rose to try and meet his height. “What, you’re saying you’ve only dated bad kissers or something?”

           “Well, no,” I admitted, wondering just how far down this hole I should go. Honesty is the best policy, right? “I’ve just…never kissed ANYONE before. Which isn’t a big deal! It’s just – “

           He looked like I’d just slapped him across the face: eyes wide, jaw dropped. “You’ve NEVER – “ He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No. Not here. Not like this.”

           “What?”

           “This is your FIRST FREAKING KISS!” He waved both hands in the air to emphasize his point. “I’m not just gonna plant one on you in the middle of the lair! No, you’re getting the best first kiss of your life – “

           “I’m pretty sure I can only get one first kiss in my life – “

           “And it’s gonna be somewhere SPECIAL, God DAMN it!”

           I closed my hand around the jewelry waiting in my pocket. He was going to make me wait to hand it over, wasn’t he? “What…did you have in mind?”

           Within moments, he’d (gently yet firmly) seized my free hand, beginning to lead me out of the library. “We’re gonna hit up all your favorite places in Sweet Jazz City until we find the one with the right atmosphere!”

           “Don’t you have a heist to – “

           “IT CAN WAIT!”

           Well, I wasn’t about to say no to that.

           The first place we tried was the actual public library that was still open, as that was one of my regular haunts. (Books you didn’t have to steal! What an innovation!) I found myself being led into the midst of the YA fantasy section, meaning that Giovanni really did know me far too well.

           “And here we are in your natural habitat!” he said proudly. “So…does this feel…you know, romantic?”

           “It’s good,” I said with a smile.

           Which was a mistake. “Good?” he repeated, one lower lid twitching. “GOOOOOD? This can’t happen unless it’s GREAT!”

           “No, no, it’s – “ Wait, why was I protesting? He and I were basically on the same page. I was just trying to be polite. “Okay. Really, it’ll be great no matter where it happens, but this feels a little…weird. Not exactly romance central.”

           “Good!” Giovanni insisted. “This is gonna be your first freaking kiss, remember? You gotta stand up for this kind of thing!”

           “Yeah, but it’ll seriously be – “

           “AND LET ME LIVE WITH THE BURDEN OF UNDERWHELMING YOU ON YOUR FIRST KISS?”

           “…Okay, I cave.”

           He seized my hand again; “Let’s head out! I know EXACTLY where we’re going this time!”

           We ended up in the middle of the craft store, of course. “Will you look at this?” he said, arms outstretched. “We’ve had so many good memories here.”

           “We have,” I agreed.

           “This is our place!” he said gleefully. “Our stomping grounds! Where you and I belong! So…yarn aisle or acrylic paint aisle?”

           I bit my lip.

           “…This isn’t it either, is it? C’moooooon, Composer, I said you gotta stand up about this and make it perfect, and I mean it!”

           “I’m just – I’m trying to be polite, okay?” I argued.

           “Well, we’re the bad guys! We might be secretly NICE, but we’re sure as hell not POLITE!”

           I wasn’t sure how to argue that point, as much as I knew it didn’t really make sense at all. “Can we pick somewhere that’s not…aisles?” I asked. “You know…rows of shelving. The library was the same problem. It’s just not the right aesthetic.”

           “Got it! No shelves! Onward!”

           The next place he picked out was the fountain in the square, and I had to admit that was a pretty impressive locale, aesthetic-wise. “Now, THIS is Romance Central!” he proclaimed proudly as he led me toward the structure. “Can you see anyone not kissing here? No. You can’t. Because it’s perfect.”

           It seemed good on paper, but the closer we got to the fountain itself, the more I began to get nervous. The square was full of heavy foot traffic at this time of day. There were hundreds of people who would potentially be…watching. And I was beginning to almost feel stage fright. Like I had to get this right, or the whole city would mock me.

           “Yeah,” I said nervously. “Definitely a fan favorite kissing spot.”

           How was I going to bring up –

           “Wait a minute. No. No!” He rounded on me, glaring. “We can’t just pick EVERYONE ELSE’S kissing spot! It’s gotta be our own! …Unless you really want here – “

           “No,” I said hurriedly. “Look, it’s hard to explain, but this isn’t it either.”

           “All right! Fourth time’s the charm!”

           We ended up in the zoo, and when I saw which exhibit Giovanni had led me toward, I couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Ta-daaaa!” he said as he gestured to the wide, open pen of lazy mammals. “Your favorite place in town, am I right?”

           Oh, how could I tell him this one?

           He read it on my face. With a sigh, he asked, “How did I mess up now?”

           “You’re not messing up!” I told him immediately. “It’s just…the bear exhibit isn’t my favorite place in town. It’s Molly’s.”

           Giovanni froze, blinking, wide-eyed.

           “You got me mixed up with your kid,” I teased, nudging his shoulder.

           “…Right,” he muttered. “Which animal was yours again?”

           “Giraffes and/or sharks.”

           “So you wanna – “

           “Not really.”

           “Okay. Next!”

           When I figured out he was leading me to the opera hall next, I practically collapsed laughing. “Gio…oh my God…”

           “Don’t tell me.”

           “This isn’t my favorite spot in town either. You know whose it is?”

           “Don’t say it – “

           “This is Sylvie’s,” I snorted. “You wanna tell me again how he’s NOT one of our kids?”

           “Shut up,” Giovanni muttered as he did an about-face to lead me away from the opera house.

           As we entered the park close to sundown, I admitted, “Gio, part of the reason this hasn’t been working is that I’m kinda freaked out by all the people. I just don’t want everyone to…watch this. It makes it feel like I gotta do this right, and I don’t even know if I’m any good at kissing.”

           “Sure you are!” Giovanni replied. “How could you NOT be? Trust me, I know these things. But if you want privacy, then dammit, I’m gonna get you privacy! Follow me to the love destination!”

           I had to admit this location had promise. It was further into the park, a wooded area next to a small brook framed with granite boulders. As we settled to sit in a gap between the rocks, the evening sun glittered off the surface of the water like a disco ball.

           “Much better,” I told Giovanni, shifting my legs to the optimal position for comfort.

           “So?” he asked. “Feelin’ it? Is this the place?”

           “I think this is the place.” And I meant it. The impending twilight filtering through the leaves felt rather ethereal. The brook’s soft yet constant babble provided some pleasant white noise.

           “Okay.” His voice cracked, and for the first time, I finally realized he was probably nervous, just like me. “So…we’re here. And it’s perfect. So…we can do this.”

           “We can,” I agreed.

           Neither of us wanted to be the one to move first. We just wanted it to happen on its own. But that wouldn’t happen unless somebody took initiative.

           Fuck it.

           “If you’re ready,” I told him, “I’m gonna just…I’m gonna do it.”

           “Do your worst, Composer.”

           At which point, he made the stupidest face I’ve ever seen him make in my life, bar none. Eyes shut, lips comically protruded forward – and I wondered how many people he’d actually kissed, though I wasn’t about to ask that.

           Okay. This shouldn’t be hard. Just put my mouth on his mouth. Easy. We didn’t even have to involve tongues yet. Like a sputtering car engine, I moved ever closer, bringing myself to the connection point –

           And he slapped his hand over his mouth before I could get there.

           “Is this too fast?” I asked. “Because we don’t have to do this – I mean, I know, some people just don’t do the kissing thing, and I think I’m one of those people who does, but – “

           “It’s not that!” he said, muffled and miffed. “You know I’ve seen every slasher movie in the book, right?”            “Uh…what does that have to do with – “

           “You think I haven’t seen this EXACT SCENARIO before?” he snapped from behind his hand. “Guy takes girl to the park, down by the river, for a romantic kiss. Guy whips out knife. Guy murders girl. Girl’s body gets dumped in the river. Guy goes on to commit series of increasingly more disturbing mutilations. And I am NOT going down that road!”

           I did a double take. “Gio…you know you could just…not kill me. You’re not a serial killer, you know.”

           “I know, but it still feels WRONG! We aren’t doing this here!”

           His hand was off his mouth and back over mine, leading me up and out of the park.

           “Where are we going now?” I asked as we headed back through the twilight.

           “I’m still working that out – “ He then froze in his tracks. “Of COURSE! It’s PERFECT! Okay, I have it this time, and I really mean that! Come on!”

           He picked up the pace, nearly pulling me over into a fall. He slowed a bit after remembering that my top running speed could be outdone by certain tortoises in the world.

           I wasn’t sure where this was going at all, at first. We headed into the outer edge of town, almost to the city limits, but not yet where the buildings’ height truly diminished into suburbia. Giovanni scoped out the apartment buildings here, trying to pick out one of sufficient height. I wondered if he was going where I thought he was going with this.

           “You know,” he remarked, “it’s kind of a good thing this didn’t happen until after the sun went down. …WHICH WAS MY PLAN, OF COURSE! All those other locations were just fakeouts to get your guard down until I showed you the REAL main attraction!”

           As much as I knew that wasn’t the case, I had a good feeling about this one. “You really are an evil genius.”

           “Now come on!” He tugged my hand sharply to hurry me toward the building he’d targeted.

           By then, the sky was completely dark, giving me an extremely auspicious feeling about this. We hustled around back of the building, where Giovanni sought out the fire escape ladder. Of course, pulled up one story so that there would have to be an actual escape from the top down for anyone to reach it. Creep prevention and all.

           Well, this building was about to meet a couple of creeps.

           “Now, this is just standard procedure,” Giovanni bragged. “Any villain worth his salt can scale one of these without even trying. You’re still new to the biz, so I don’t blame you if you still need practice at it, but I’m an old pro by this point. Watch and learn!”

           Oh, I already knew where this was going. Still, I couldn’t stop him and I knew this.

           He bent, surveyed, sprang. He managed to catch the edge of the lowest balcony with his hands, then, completely lacking the necessary upper body strength to climb the rest of the way, just sort of dangled there, struggling and grunting to pull himself onto the metal surface.

           “Not that you need help with that or anything,” I told him, “but if I was offering – “

           “I mean, it’ll probably boost your ego if I pretend I need you to help me out here, and your ego is terribly malnourished, so go ahead. Even though I completely have this under control. Wait, what are you going to – “

           Trying not to blush at the proximity, I bent just enough that I could hook one hand under each sole of his shoes. Then, I posed, “Ready?”

           “Uh…yeah…”

           I rose, bringing his feet up, and that gave him the necessary leverage to scramble up onto the balcony. Even though it had just been hand-to-foot contact with a layer of rubber between, I still felt that had been incredibly intimate, somehow.

           Then remembered I was going to have the same problem. “So, um, I’m NOT going to be able to get up there on my own – “

           He’d already turned around, lying on his stomach so he could look down to me. “Don’t worry about it. Just jump.”

           “I’m not even sure I can actually jump.”

           “Just go for it!”

           Feeling rather foolish in advance, I bent my knees, ready to completely underwhelm. I jumped as high as I could (which is nowhere near as high as you want it to be), flinging up both arms on instinct.

           He caught one forearm in each hand, his own arms extended down to me, and after a rather painful dangle, he managed to reel me up to the point where he could wrap both arms around my upper body, bracing against the balcony to rather gracelessly drag me up to the same level.

           Which felt even more intimate.

           “Thanks,” I said once we were both on terra firma. Or metal firma, I guess.

           He clapped me on the back – which is not something I let most people do. “Don’t sweat it. Now let’s go!”

           It was smoother sailing from there – just trying to climb the rest of the ladders as quietly as possible, the night punctuated by the clinking of our shoes on the rungs. Giovanni was ahead, and so he got to the summit first, yelling down an enthusiastic “Come on, come on!” as I hustled to finish the course.

           It was exactly as I’d suspected. As I emerged atop the apartments’ roof, I gasped at the sight of the Sweet Jazz City skyline lit up like a treasure trove against the dark of the night.

           A sudden shift caught my attention; Giovanni had put his hand behind his back. I realized he’d been extending it to help me the rest of the way, but when I’d gotten there myself and gotten distracted by the shiny stuff, he tried to make it look like he hadn’t been doing that.

           “It’s perfect,” I told him. “…You’re…perfect.”

           “I know,” he said proudly. “That’s why we work, after all, since you’re only slightly less perfect.”

           Which was really his way of saying we were even keel, if you knew how to read the subtext, even if I did still think he was far too good for me to deserve.

           “Let’s get closer,” I suggested, approaching the edge where we could really see the lights.

           There we were, side by side, taking in the glittering panorama. And suddenly realizing that we still had to actually do something about it. Well, it wasn’t obligated, but it was the entire reason for this, and we did both want it – it was just still so difficult to initiate somehow.

           Giovanni cleared his throat; “So…I’m going to assume you’re ready for the big moment.”

           “Yeah,” I said, feeling my hands begin to tremble. “As I’ll ever be. So if you wanna…start it this time…”

           I turned toward him, looking up into his eyes. The low light played with the shadows that blanketed him, and I could pick out every feature on him from memory. God, he was adorable. If we were fully illuminated, his rose-pink eyes with their gold flecks would probably be sparkling as brightly as the skyline.

           I wondered if he really, truly looked at me the same way I looked at him. His expression seemed to be flustered enough to indicate it, but…why would he?

           I guess I really did need to listen to him and work on my own self-worth.

           He placed both hands on the sides of my face, sliding both thumb-pads over the cheekbones. And then started leaning in.

           This time, it was me who slapped my hand over my own mouth.

           He looked as though he’d been wounded. “Was…this not it either? Is this not what you wanted? Just tell me what needs to change, and I’ll – “

           “It’s me,” I muttered. “I’m just stupid nervous. This is literally the first time I’ve done this, and…it’s gonna be bad.”

           “No, it’s not! Even if you were bad, I’d totally be good enough to make up for it!”

           “I have no bar to even measure this,” I said softly. “Do I have to…do anything? What if I smack you in the face? I’m going to smack you in the face.”

           “Do you really think that’s gonna matter?”

           I wasn’t sure how to answer that.

           “Composer, you might totally suck at kissing. That’s fine. It’ll still be…it’s you, okay? So it’s not really gonna matter! You know I’m gonna love it, even if it’s awful!”

           “But you made a whole big deal out of everything being perfect – “

           “That was for you, Composer! And…I…wanted to have a safety net in case I’m the one who sucks. Maybe. Not that I would. But – “

           That was when it really hit home, what he was trying to say. “You won’t suck at it, Gio. You can’t. Because you’re you. Which is exactly what you’ve been trying to tell me.”

           He was silent a moment before saying, “Reverse psychology. I don’t REALLY think – “

           “I know what you think, you dork.” I slid my hand away. “Now kiss me already.”

           “But about that smacking faces thing,” he brought up. “Let’s just coordinate that before we get into it. You tilt left, I tilt right?”

           “Good c – “ I blinked. “No, because if you mirror it, we’d be going the same way. So we either need to both go left or both go right.”

           “…Right’s good?”

           “Right’s good.”

           I resolved to hold still, to not move outside my assigned head-tilt, but I broke that resolution – I advanced slightly to meet him, raising my heels just slightly to bridge the height gap. My eyes shut –

           And we hit foreheads before our lips could ever touch, which I suppose was to be expected.

           “Did you go left or right?” I asked, just about laughing.

           “I thought I was going right…”

           That turned out to be the perfect icebreaker. What relationship needs to be too serious, after all? I felt more spontaneous now, laying my arms over his shoulders, clasping my hands behind his head, as we gave it one more shot.

           It struck this strange balance between unexpectedly mundane and unexpectedly divine. Had I really been so worked up about this? Just pressing one set of lips to another? Who decided to give this such cultural weight, anyway? This hadn’t been anything to worry about.

           Except for the sensation that someone had slammed one paddle of an AED to my heart to get it to beat double-time with a sudden jolt.

           And then it was over. Too soon.

           “So?” Giovanni asked excitedly. “Was that perfect or was it perfect?”

           I eased my eyes open. “It was,” I told him. “I kinda expected it would be longer, honestly, but for a first, it was – “

           “You know, there’s no rule saying we can’t do it again.”

           “…You bring up a VERY good point.”

           We re-adjusted, replacing arms to put each other in more of an embrace. Then we went for seconds, pressing together just that much longer. I realized we hadn’t really talked about the concept of tongues, but we seemed to be on the same page regarding them – keep them were they were, for now. Still, we repositioned, trying to leech a little more affection off each other, almost biting –

           “OW!”

           I pulled back suddenly; Giovanni let me out of his arms, watching me press a finger to my lower lip.

           “Heheh…” He knew what had happened, as had I, and he nervously buried a hand in the hair at the back of his head. “Sorry ‘bout that. Got kinda caught up in the moment there…”

           His upper row of teeth had bitten down onto my lip. Gently enough not to draw blood, but he did have those rather pointed fangs, and they certainly were sharp.

           Normally, I didn’t have a very high pain tolerance. That was why I was surprised, myself, when I said, “Actually…I kinda liked it.”

           He reached peak flustering, muttering something about that also being part of his plan.

           “By the way,” I said, emboldened by our current promotion in affection, “I got you something. Funny story! I had actually wanted to give this to you all the way back in the lair, but then we started out on the whole sidequest. Anyway, remember how when we became official, you gave me a very important hoodie?”

           “Yeah,” Giovanni recalled. “The one you’re wearing. Lookin’ good, by the way.” He snapped me finger-guns at it.

           Did I forget to mention that I had been wearing a pink-and-plaid hoodie? Did you get this whole way not picturing me in one? Well, now you know I was wearing one the whole time, so you can brush that mental image up.

           “Well, it’s not fair that you steal me something and I don’t steal you something back, is it?” I reached into my pocket, feeling that both necklaces were still there. “Are you ready?”

           “What did you do, Composer?”            I retrieved the pendants, quickly detangling their silver chains. “This might actually be really silly. But I got us matching necklaces. Technically, they’re friendship necklaces, but I thought that we ARE best friends, just best friends who also date, and…” I held up one in each hand. The charms reflected the shapes of the sun and moon. “So this one’s mine,” I said, drawing the moon back to myself. “Because I’m the dark and depressing one. But you always make me smile and fill my life with sunshine, so…”

           I offered the sun pendant toward Giovanni. At first, he stared blankly at it, and I worried I hadn’t picked the proper gift. After all, I’d never seen him really accessorize or talk about doing so aside from his self-described edgy and gangster black nail polish.

           “But if you don’t want it,” I said hastily, “that’s cool too – “

           The pendant had disappeared from my hand. He had it now. “This is why you’re my fucking favorite minion,” he said, voice trembling. “But you know you’re not the moon because you’re the depressing one, right? It’s because you’re the poetic one who’s always thinking about stuff. Also, I am gonna wear this forever.” He quickly fastened it around his neck. “Put yours on!”

           I attempted to do so, fumbling with the clasp for a while before hearing, “No, no, no, let me get that!” right before a hushed “Teleports behind you,” at which point I realized Giovanni was behind me rather than in front of me, his hands taking the clasp away from me and fastening it expertly.

           And you know what? I couldn’t even complain about him making me feel incapable, like I usually would if someone fastened my necklace for me.

           His hands settled on my shoulders from behind, resting there for an odd length of time. “What’s up?” I asked.

           “So we have lip-kissing down,” he stated. “Are you cool with…other places? Not naughty places. I’m just looking at prime real estate – “

           “Please,” I said without thinking, feeling that defibrillator shot again.

           He lifted my hair out of the way, and I could feel his lips brush the back of my neck.

           “Oh, I am DEFINITELY going to get used to this,” I told him once he let my hair fall.

           “So…um…what happens now?”

           “I mean, I did kinda interrupt the whole plan you were making,” I reminded him. “We should probably go back to that.”

           “Yeah, but it’s nice out here. I don’t wanna go back yet. Dammit, the spot I picked was TOO good and now I don’t wanna leave!”

           “Okay,” I resolved. “So how about we just stay up here and talk about whatever?”

           “Sure. I like whatever.”

           We stood side-by-side, looking out toward the city.

           “So,” I asked, “I know you have some kind of plan for getting us that giant drill. And now I need to know how you intend to do it.”

[thelioncourts]

dinner was made for eating, not for talking

His red tie was constricting around his neck, and it was almost enough to distract him from the sweat seeping through his button-down underneath the suit jacket that was every kind of too hot in July’s sweltering heat.  But both of those things were minor nuisances in comparison to Chad’s droning that Jared had been enduring for the entire fifty-minute drive into Austin.

Scratch that -- those were minor nuisances in comparison to Chad’s droning that Jared had been enduring for the last week.  

Richard had been home since last Saturday, and that apparently wasn’t enough time for Chad to process the concept of ‘Richard Murray’ and ‘married’ in the same sentence.  

“-- I mean, do you know how awkward tonight is going to be?  Having dinner with some twenty-five-year-old making gold digger eyes at my dad while he stares at her super-fake jugs?” Chad repeated one of his many fears for the three-hundredth time.  

“I thought we dropped the idea that she was twenty-five when your dad mentioned her having kids?” Jared reminded him, turning the car into a parking garage.  Chad had a weird thing about valets (“I don’t trust anyone wearing a vest.”  “Not all valets wear vests, Chad.”).  

[Read on AO3]

“Don’t even get me started on the kids,” Chad groaned.  “I don’t need snot-nosed babies running around my house, and I definitely don’t need my dad paying to raise some other dude’s kids.”

There was an echo in the concrete garage as the car doors slammed shut, but it was hard to pay attention to that noise when there were so many other noises inhabiting the world just outside.  Even though they lived less than an hour from the city, they didn’t make it into the heart of Austin all that often.  That was mostly because of Jared’s mom’s overprotectiveness, but they swore it would all change when they were both eighteen (“I can’t believe I’m turning eighteen a whole fucking year before you, Jared.  Don’t expect me to wait around for you to turn twenty-one before I go get wasted legally.”).  But right now, a trip to downtown Austin was a rarity, and spending it at The Driskill was even more of one.  

The Driskill looked like the kind of hotel that would open a movie about a rich kid who had known no other life than that of luxury.  It was arched doorways and windows with intricately carved decoration all around on the outside, and the inside was Romanesque with its tall white pillars and glass-covered ceilings.  The oldest hotel in Austin, The Driskill was not only one of the best-known buildings in all of Texas, it was also home to The Driskill Bar and Grill, one of Austin’s most sought out nighttime restaurants.  Getting in on a Saturday night required three things: 1) a simple, yet efficient, plan 2) several weeks notice 3) money.  Of course, when you were Richard Murray, you only needed number three.  

“This place is crazy,” Jared said with a sort of awe as they fell into the line.

“Nothing but the best for my dad’s wife of a whole two weeks,” Chad commented back with an eyeroll, leg bouncing where they stood.

“Nervous?”

“What?” Chad asked incredulously.  “No.  What do I have to be nervous about?”  They moved up several places in line.  

“Um, I don’t know; there’s the fact that you’re getting ready to meet your dad’s new wife for the first time.”

“I’ve met plenty of his girlfriends over the years, this’ll be a breeze,” Chad said.  

“Yeah, exactly, Chad.  You’ve met plenty of girlfriends, but he’s never gone off and married one of them.”  They were next in line.  “This is serious.”

“I give it six months, tops,” was Chad’s flippant reply and then they were at the front of the line.  

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the host greeted politely, but his eyes were blatant in their search for something of substance.  By the look on his face, he wasn’t impressed by Chad’s spiked hair and loose tie or the sweat beading on Jared’s forehead.  “How can I help you?”

“We’re here with Richard Murray,” Chad said with a comfortability of someone who had grown up saying this exact phrase.  

“Of course,” the host said, expression still unchanged.  “Michael, would you please escort these two to table thirty-three, Mr. Murray’s table?”

The walk to the table exposed an upper-echelon of people and Saturday-night dwellers that they didn’t experience in a town like Georgetown.  There were a few people that looked to be around Jared and Chad’s age, but most of the restaurant attendees were older and held themselves with a confidence of belonging.  Jared couldn’t stop tugging at his tie, at the waist of his pants, at his sleeves during their entire walk across the red colored carpet.  

Richard Murray was sitting alone at a large rounded table with an elegantly draped gold tablecloth draped across it.  He was fiddling, moving his silverware ever so slightly to the left, turning the watch on his wrist, twisting the ring on his finger.  

“She slip your wallet and make a run for it already?” Chad asked, no decency to wait until Michael had returned to the front of the restaurant.  Jared elbowed him.    

“She and her daughter went to hang their jackets.  She said she was also going to give her son a quick call because he had said he may be running a little late.”  Chad took the seat to the left of his father, and Jared took the seat to the left of Chad, leaving three empty chairs sitting there in a daunting way.  “Can you please have your best behavior on tonight?”

Usually, it was impossible to get Chad and his dad to have a serious conversation about anything.  But at this moment, there was a kind of desperation in Richard’s question, the kind only given by parents in a make-or-break situation.

“Yeah,” Chad answered after too long of a pause, and Richard’s shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.  “I’ll try.  But if one of her kids calls you dad or calls me big bro, I’m out of here.”

“I don’t think --”  Richard’s response was cut short by an approaching figure, and Chad and Jared turned to watch.  

She wasn’t overly tall or short, standing average at about 5’7”, maybe 5’9” in the heels she had on.  Her dress was modest -- but obviously expensive; a shimmering beige with a high neckline and three-quarter-length sleeves.  Jared and Chad didn’t know a whole lot about makeup, but she didn’t appear to have much on, just a touch of pink to her cheeks and lips.  Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, falling just at her shoulders in loose waves.  

She was beautiful, and that was as expected.  She was not, however, twenty-five.  

There were the finest of wrinkles by the corners of her eyes, prominent as she smiled at Richard with a fondness beyond their time together, and an aged-elegance in the way she held her body and the way she walked, one not found in fumbling twenty-somethings still learning everything about the world.  There was also the fact that the girl walking by her side, her daughter as Richard had earlier stated, couldn’t be much younger than Chad and Jared.  

“What the fuck….?” Chad trailed, not-so-lightly hitting Jared’s arm.  Rubbing absentmindedly at the place Chad hit, Jared couldn’t stop the laugh out of his throat or the wide grin on his face.  

“This changes everything,” he said, and he laughed a little harder at Chad’s slack-jawed expression.  

“Donna!” Richard started, pushing his chair back from the table to stand.  

“We didn’t get to properly say hello earlier,” Donna responded with that fond smile still in place.  They reached for each other like they had reached for each other for the entirety of their lives.  Their kiss was chaste and sweet, and beyond Chad’s unstoppable blanch at such a public display of affection, it settled a quiet tension in the room.  

“Chad,” Richard said, his hand sliding to the dip of Donna’s waist, pulling her close, “this is Donna.  Donna, this is my son, Chad.”  He waited for Chad to stand and Chad did so, if albeit slowly, still taking in the almost 180° of the situation from its expectations.  

“It’s nice to meet you, Donna,” Chad said.  His voice was quieter than Jared had maybe ever heard it.  

“And this is Chad’s best friend, Jared….Jared, what are you doing here?” Richard asked, but he was smiling and shaking his head as though he has just processed Jared’s presence, nerves quieted some.

“I’m here to make Chad look good, sir,” Jared said, standing up to shake Donna’s hand.  

“Chad and Jared have known each other since they were on tricycles.  You’ll be seeing a lot of him,” Richard explained.

“It’s so nice to meet you both,” Donna started.  “This,” she motioned to the blonde girl at her side, “is my daughter, Mackenzie.  My son is running a bit late, I’m afraid, but he’ll be joining us shortly.”

“It’s nice to meet you all,” Mackenzie said shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.  

They all took their seats, Richard stopping to pull out both Donna and Mackenzie’s chairs for them, and the waiter, David, greeted them and brought out waters for all.  It was Donna who made a noise first, a happy sigh as she folded her napkin over her lap, hands smoothing out its wrinkles and her eyes never leaving Richard.  

“This seems unreal,” she finally said.  Her eyes looked up at the room, the blue of them glittering as they flitted around the sparkling lights above.  

“It really does,” Richard agreed, and his tone matched her own when he spoke.  

“Mr. Murray, I was wondering if you could tell the story.”  It was Mackenzie’s quiet voice that was speaking out and her fingers were still shyly wrapped around her long bangs.  

“Please, call me Richard, Mackenzie.  I don’t want us to start off with formalities.  But what story are you talking about?”

“The story of how you met my mom,” she said, smile more real.  “She’s told me already and it’s the cutest story I’ve ever heard, but I want to hear your version of it too.”

“Mackenzie.”  Donna’s cheeks were flushed and it emphasized a loveliness about her.  “Richard doesn’t want --”

“I would love to tell her that story,” Richard disagreed.  He grabbed Donna’s hand and held it in his own.  “It was the third day of the cruise and this was the first big event that wasn’t just a general welcome.  It was a cocktail hour, and the place was swarming with attorneys everywhere.  Basically the egocentrism was through the roof.”  Donna laughed and Richard looked at her, his eyes telling more than anything else.  “And I was talking to an attorney from Georgia, a Mr. Pierre, when I heard that exact laugh across the room.  After that it all happened so fast.”

Jared heard Chad’s scoff.  “No kidding.”

“Oh, stop that Richard,” Donna started.  Her face was still red.  “That’s not how it happened at all.”

“How did it happen then?”

“I was helping set up for the M.R. Exhibition in the main ballroom and you and Kurt wandered in because you thought it was spa,” Donna said and a fit of laughter was already bubbling out.

“That’s right!” said Richard before continuing the story.  “We thought it was the spa, you told us that the spa was further down, and I asked if you would come be my masseuse.  The cocktail hour was later that night.”  He kissed her hand that was still held in his own.  “But it was your laugh that got me the most.”  

“My dad said you were calling your son earlier,” Chad interjected, and the words drew all attention to him and away from the heaviness of uncomfortable intimacy.  

“Yes, I wanted to give my youngest son a call so I could check up on him, see when he thought he’d get here,” Donna said.  Chad shakily sat his water down.

“Youngest son?” he asked for clarification, eyes darting to Jared who was on the verge of falling into an inappropriately loud fit of laughter at Chad’s continued freakout.   

“I have two sons,” Donna said.  “Josh, my oldest, has long left the nest.  But my other son, Jensen, is just a few years older than you.  He’s joining us, but he got caught in traffic on his way here from Dallas.  Quite a drive for just a dinner, but,” she paused for a moment, smile small and true, “he knows how important this is to me.”

“I do.  I also couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see my beautiful mother and sister, could I?” a voice said from behind Donna and everyone turned or looked up at the figure who had approached quietly during the conversation.  

He was tall.  Not as tall as Jared, but he was tall and slim, with a trim waist and broad shoulders where a perfectly tailored navy jacket pulled and accentuated the lightness of his almost too-green eyes.  But even the green of his eyes couldn’t distract from the gold reflecting from his hair or the warmth of his smile or the smattering of freckles perfectly placed across the bridge of his nose.  

“Jensen!” Mackenzie squealed as she jumped to pull him by his shoulders into a bone-crushing hug.  

“Oh, darling, you made it,” Donna said.  Her voice was filled with a motherly kind of relief, but her face was nothing short of blissful.  “Everyone is here.”

“Well, everyone except Josh, but we only keep him around for his kids anyway,” Jensen said with a grin, leaning down to give Donna a peck on the cheek after he untangled Mackenzie from himself.  

“That’s not true,” Donna admonished with no heat.

“It’s kind of true,” Mackenzie said, and Jensen pulled her into another quick hug.  

“Jensen,” Richard started, standing up and brushing nothing off his pants.  “It’s good to finally meet you.”

“You as well, sir.  My mom has told me a little about you.  All good, I promise,” Jensen replied back, and the two shook hands.  

“This is my son, Chad,” Richard said, kicking at Chad underneath the table to stand, “and his friend, Jared.”

“Nice to meet you guys.  My mom told me you were starting at UTA this fall.”  They all fell into their seats, Jensen sitting comfortably between Mackenzie and Jared.  Jared swallowed the same time Chad shot his father a look.  

“Yeah,” he trailed, and Jared could see the wheels turning in Chad’s head, all trying to catch up with the situation.  Jared could also see that the freckles on Jensen’s face extended over his cheekbones, too.  “Business management and engineering,” he finished, jutting a thumb at Jared in regard to the “engineering” half of his answer.  

The conversations fell into different paths at that moment.  Richard and Donna were unable to take their eyes off of one another, and their conversation was quiet and intimate amongst the noise of the restaurant and its patrons.  Mackenzie fell on her phone as Jensen and Chad talked college, and Jared found himself too quiet in the middle, too scared to look at Jensen for more than a few seconds at a time.  

It wasn’t often that Jared was at a loss for words.  Truth be told, he was a talkative guy and even moreso of one when he was nervous.  He couldn’t count the number of times he had rambled about everything from the importance of the Fourier Transform to confessing his most embarrassing moment -- of which consisted of a rose bush, a pair of tattered Converse hightops, a pitcher of fresh lemonade, and a gardening hoe -- to complete strangers.  But at this very moment, there was no word vomit trying to climb its way out of his throat.  Instead it was sitting like acid on an empty stomach.  

“Wait, you already have your degree?”

Chad’s exclamation was loud enough to jolt Jared back to the present.  Chad was wide-eyed and slack-jawed once again and Jensen’s laugh made that acid-on-an-empty-stomach feeling so intense Jared thought actual vomit as opposed to word vomit might climb out of his throat instead.

“Just graduated in May,” Jensen answered.  

“God,” Chad muttered, and Jared could see it in his eyes that his breaking point had been met.  His head fell into his hands, and Jensen’s laugh was so much more this time, his head falling back to expose the long line of his throat, and his eyes were closed, showcasing a trait he shared with Donna: crinkles by the outer corners.  

“I take it this news hasn’t been the easiest?” Jensen asked after a moment.  His voice was quiet enough that Richard and Donna wouldn’t take notice of the conversation, but Jared mused that he doubted they would anyway with the way they were still staring at one another.  

“You could say that.”

“If it’s any consolation, Mackenzie and I are in the same boat.  It’s been, uh, an unexpected turn of events.”  Jensen was leaning in just a little, continuing to keep the conversation secluded in their corner.  

“At least you’re done with school and moving on with your life,” Chad started.

“Here we go.”  Jared hadn’t meant to mutter.

“Oh, he speaks!” Jensen said with a grin, and he was looking right at Jared.  

“Yeah, dude, now you decide to join in?  You couldn’t have said anything when I was literally dying ten minutes ago?”

“Sorry,” Jared managed to say before internally cringing.  Had his voice always sounded like that?  “I’ve never been taught how to deal with a meeting your best friend’s new stepmom and her kids situation.”  

He could totally do this.  He could totally make conversation.  And a normal conversation at that.

“Four years ago I would’ve said ten words and it would have been an accomplishment in my book.  But now that you’re talking, you’ve got to explain “Here we go” because you sounded about eighty-years-old there.  What’s the story?”

“Chad’s not shut up --”

“Yes, I have!”

“About his delicate ecosystem being disrupted by some twenty-five-year-old and her snot-nosed kids right as he’s getting ready to enter the prime of his life,” Jared explained.  Chad groaned loudly.  

“Wait….is the prime of your life supposed to be college?”

“According to Chad, yeah.”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not sitting right here!”

“Chad,” Richard admonished, his attention diverted from Donna for the first time since they had all arrived, “inside voice.”  

It was then that their waiter returned and conversations were halted as orders were made.  Jared made a lot of observations as everyone ordered.  One was that there was a single meal on this menu that cost as much as Jared’s family spent on food for the whole family when they went out.  The second thing was that Donna’s allure was very apparent when she was talking and Jared found himself wondering if this really could be more than a spontaneous and over-the-top fling.  The third thing was that Chad did, in fact, order that expensive single meal all for himself.  The fourth and fifth things were about Jensen and the way he held his wine glass and the fact that he and Jared ordered the same exact meal.

There was an obvious relief of tension in the air that was hard to miss as well.  Both Richard and Donna seemed more at ease with themselves and with each other now that this hadn’t yet blown up in their faces.  Chad, despite his groaning, seemed relatively unfazed now that the situation was in front of him.  Jared was sure he would get an earful on their drive back, but at least a scene hadn’t been made.  

Attentions were turned to Mackenzie while they waited for food.  She shyly told Richard how she would miss her best friend, but how she didn’t really like anybody else at her school so a new one was exciting.  She also attempted to explain Snapchat when she mentioned how they -- she and Madison -- would always have their Streak.  

“You got a boyfriend back home?” Richard asked and it was enough to turn Mackenzie’s ears pink.

“No!” she exclaimed, and it was the most emotion they had seen from her since Jensen had arrived.  “None of the boys at my old school are cute anyway.”

“I’m sure you’ll meet a nice fellow at your new school, darling,” Donna said.  Then she gestured to Chad and Jared.  “Just look how cute those two are!  And they just graduated from the school you’re going to be attending.”  

“Mom, don’t traumatize them yet.  You have to ease into that kind of public embarrassment,” Jensen told Donna, but his smile was wide and the perfect distraction to keep the rest of the conversation at bay just as their food arrived.  

Chad had eaten the last of the bread that had been sat at the table when they first got there so it was no surprise that the quiet of the table continued for several minutes as everyone began to eat.  

“When do classes start up for you, Jensen?  Are they the same time as UTA?” Richard asked.

“Dad, Jensen is one of those lucky bastards who is already done with school,” Chad said around a mouthful of lobster tail.  

“You make it sound like he he has some sort of “in” on the whole college thing.”  Jared knew he was using his fork to point.  

“I’m done with my B.S., but I’m nowhere near done with school,” Jensen started.  

“So you’re just willingly going back?  Are you crazy?”

“It’s not that bad, Chad,” Richard huffed.

“Especially if you find that one thing you really love,” Donna offered helpfully.

“And I actually think St. Augustine’s classes don’t start until September.  So about two weeks after UTA starts their classes.”

“What is it you’re going for again?”

“My DPT,” Jensen said.  “Full-time, I can get it all done in about two and a half years, maybe three.”

“What’s a DPT?” Jared asked.  Chad hit him in the leg.  

“A doctor of physical therapy, isn’t it exciting?” Donna answered instead, her eyes on Jensen and her voice full of pride.  “And do you want to know the best part?  UTA and St. Augustine are only about ten miles apart.  You all could carpool!”

Chad’s laugh was nervous.  “It might be inconvenient for Jensen here to try and carpool from his apartment.”  

Donna’s confused face made Chad even more nervous.  

“Chad, Jensen’s going to be living with us too.”  

[minetteskvareninova]

Rey: A hypothetic backstory

I know the ReySky hype is real, but I still like the version with her not being related to either Skywalkers or Kenobis better. Besides, it’s not like there’s no story potential here..

Like, imagine this young lady who has lived on Jakku her whole life. She’s part of some sort of tribe, or a scavenger, either way, life is hard for her, and it’s about to get a whole lot harder. This lady, it turns out, is a quite powerful force sensitive. So powerful, in fact, that the forces of the Dark Side notice her at a very young age, and start to tempt/torment her, not unlike Ben Solo/Kylo Ren (and presumably around the same time). We know it wasn’t easy for Kylo, and he, at the very least, had a loving family with some knowledge of the Force and Dark Side. Our girl from the desert? She doesn’t have anyone. No family, no close friends, no village shaman who is secretly a force sensitive or whatever. Maybe she isn’t even from here; her parents crash landed on Jakku, fleeing from some sort of danger (Sith related?), which would explain why she has no support network here. Either way, she is alone in an environment that is tough enough for people who don’t have weird voices in their heads that tempt them into something they don’t even understand. It, sadly, isn’t hard to see why she would’ve turned to drink. At some point, she somehow became pregnant; perhaps she loved and trusted a man she shouldn’t have... Either way, she is alone once again, with only a little girl she never wanted for a company. Voices in her head grow more and more powerful, untill this drunken single mother fighting for her and her child’s life can’t handle it anymore and decides to do the unthinkable - abandon her daughter, girl no older than ten. She sells her to Unkar Plutt and uses the money to leave the planet, following the strange voice. What happens to her next? We don’t know; she might’ve died in following years, or sobered up and joined the Dark Side, training under Snoke or some other powerful darksider. Which would be a nice setup for meeting with her long lost daughter Rey, now a prominent member of the Resistance, who already has connections to the upper echelons of the First Order...

What I am saying is, get over yourself. Skywalker aren’t the only family in the galaxy. You can have a good story with Rey Nobody, you just have to use your imagination...